Smoke billowed forth from the car engine and dissipated into the cool autumn air, and there was nothing Pam could do but stand there and bite her bottom lip. Staring at the engine and willing it to fix itself had done little to help, but by God did she try. She felt like she should know what some of the parts of the engine were, but all she could identify was where to connect the jumper cables. She smiled at the memory of her and her roommate standing in the middle of a Marywood University parking lot, jumping her car through trial and error. If this had been a jumper cable or flat tire situation, she would have been fine and would be proudly able to declare herself "Pam Beesly, empowered woman," but as it was, smoke was coming from the engine and she had taken to calling almost every man in her cell phone contacts.

Jim was hours away (she had been driving to meet him at his brother's place in New York in the first place), her father was hours away, her cousin Greg was on vacation, and she didn't belong to Triple A because she thought it was a waste of money. Now she thought she was an idiot.

She was nearing the end of her contacts list when she came upon someone she knew was near enough to help and would know how to stop her car from falling apart or whatever it was trying to do. But... God, it would be so awkward and weird and it would feel like she was using him... but what choice was there? They had agreed to be friends and this was the sort of thing a friend would do for a friend. Even if they hadn't spoken to each other since the conversation where they decided to stay friends.

The wind nipped at her nose and she decided to retreat back into the car. She locked all the doors and settled into her seat. It was going to get dark soon and the last thing she wanted to do was spend the night sleeping in a broken down car on the side of Interstate 81.

She winced as she pressed the green call button on the phone. She held the phone to her ear and half hoped that nobody would answer, but he picked up on the third ring.

She took a breath. "Hey, uh... hey."

"Pam?" He sounded surprised, but it wasn't like she was expecting him not to be.

"Yeah. Yep. I, uh..."

"What's up? Something wrong?" Of course he wouldn't assume she had called to just chat. She felt predictable and dumb. They weren't friends, and she should have known that.

"Yeah, uh, I was on my way to New York to uh - well, my car broke down and I'm sitting about ten miles from the Gibson exit in my car. No one else can help me and I thought I'd call to see if you could, but if you're busy I totally understand."

"No, I'll come. Just give me like a half hour."

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

He hung up without a good-bye and she snapped her phone shut. She felt like it was probably a mistake and she should have tried to call someone to find out Dwight's phone number, because with Dwight there wouldn't be any awkward conversation. He'd probably even be oddly comforting like the day he found her crying. It had been weird, but in the end it was what she needed - someone to be there while she cried. She admired the part of Dwight that looked out for people and tried to do the right thing, but that part of him always got messed up with the ridiculous part of his personality. But it was no use to muse upon Dwight now. She hadn't called him.

She passed the time by humming to herself and doodling in the pocket notebook she kept in the glove compartment. She was so concentrated on her drawings that she didn't notice the familiar green pick-up truck pull up behind her. Before she knew it, he was at her door, tapping softly on the glass of her window.

She looked up at him through the glass and couldn't believe how much he hadn't changed. The same five o'clock shadow, the same crinkled eyes, the same stupid winter coat she had always hated and wanted to donate to the Salvation Army when he wasn't looking.

She got out of the car and closed the door softly behind her.

"So, what's the problem?" he asked and moved around to the front of the car.

Hello to you too, she thought sadly. It seemed like such a waste to now only talk to him as if he was a mechanic instead of a man she spent most of her formative years with, but if that was how he wanted to play it she wouldn't deny him. He had a right to be upset and she would play the game by his rules if it made him happy. It was sort of like how she let her niece beat her at Monopoly.

"Smoke," she said and shrugged. "I don't know, I don't do the car thing."

"I know," he said quietly as he bent over the engine.

She put her hands in her coat pocket and stared at her shoes. They were cute; Kelly had helped her pick them out of a magazine. Jim had noticed and said they looked nice, but she was sure that he wasn't going to notice them at all, and that was fine because it wasn't his place anymore. Not that he would have noticed them if it was still his place. She frowned and tried not to think about the past - their past - because it made her want to scream and cry about all the wasted years and opportunities. Her new attitude, this Fancy New Beesly thing she had going on, caused her to look back and reflect and frown. She had been so dumb. So scared. Of what she didn't know, but it had always felt like it was hovering nearby so that it could strike her down the instant she decided to form a backbone.

He dug around in his tool box before selecting something Pam couldn't identify. Once, at her insistence, he had tried to teach her what all the tools were, but she couldn't differentiate between wrench types and he got frustrated and gave up. She supposed she couldn't get mad at him for that, because if she had ever tried to explain a monochromatic color scheme, the same thing would probably have happened. She supposed she could get mad at the fact that he probably would never have cared to ask about monochromatic color schemes. But she was done being angry with him, because it didn't have a purpose and something within her felt like she wasn't allowed anymore. That time period had passed. Now was the era of Happy New Beesly, who had a boyfriend who had learned the definition of tertiary colors. Different (brush)strokes for different folks, she guessed.

"So, where you going anyway?" he asked.

The sound of the tools clanking against the engine filled her ears. "New York. To Jim's brother's."

He didn't look up from what he was doing and she assumed that she had made him mad, but when he spoke again his voice was even and calm. "The City, or...?"

"Oxford," she replied. She wondered if the conversation might actually end up a pleasant one. "It's just a little place, but from what I hear it's nice. Quiet."

He turned to look at her. "Anything for you to paint up there?"

"Maybe," she said. "I've seen some pictures. Couple houses I might want to sketch, I dunno."

He nodded and looked back at the engine. "Maybe you should do some charcoals. I saw some at the Everhart and they looked nice. Smudgy. But nice, I guess."

She watched him and wanted to sketch him. The man she forgot. His change hadn't come in the form of a winter coat and she was refreshed. All the same, it was way too little incredibly late, but she hoped he could find someone who wouldn't bother him with dreams of houses with terraces.

"I've done charcoal," she said. She wanted to add "I showed you some of them, actually," but didn't. It wasn't worth it anymore and now there was only one person she wanted to show her work to, anyway.

"It's tough," she said, "because you can think you're doing everything right, but then you accidentally rub the back of your hand against it and you pretty much ruin it."

"Lucky those sketchpads have more than one page," he said lightly, but she knew he didn't miss what she was saying. "Sometimes I guess you just have to throw it away and start over."

"It's better that way," she agreed quietly.

He dropped the tool he had been using into the toolbox and it clanged loudly when it met with its metallic cousins. He examined his work closely, pouring over the engine, searching for flaws. She thought he was like an artist and she wanted to laugh, but didn't. He would probably think she was making fun, but it was the opposite. She just wanted to be able to say, "See? That's how I feel all the time." But that time was over and done with - an unrepairable engine.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and straightened up. He closed the hood gently and put his hands in his pockets before facing her.

"You're all set," he said.

"Thanks, I really appreciate this," she told him.

"It's what friends are for," he said slowly.

She nodded. "Right."

There was a long pause and she was afraid of how it would be filled. She briefly thought of how maybe it had been a mistake to call him, but at the same time... she needed to know, to see. She wanted to know that she had made the absolute right decision, but... how could she have ever thought she had been wrong? Then and Now were so different, so joyfully different. It wasn't even about the relationship in some respects - it was about her, how she had been, how she was now. She was better, made of stronger stuff. Fancy New Beesly. She liked herself - something she wasn't sure she had ever truly done before.

She had been right. She smiled.

"Well, hey," he said, "if you ever end up on the side of the road again, you know who to call."

She laughed lightly. "Definitely. I still refuse to pay for Triple A, so I guess you never know when you'll be needed. Might want to keep the phone lines open, huh?"

"Sure," he said. "I better get going. Have fun in New York."

"Thanks," she replied.

They parted without a good-bye. Without a handshake. Without a hug. Not that she had expected any of that. The time for all of that was over. They weren't friends, she realized. Two people who had been through all that they had could never be friends, not really. They had gone from the most intimate of situations to one of the most impersonal and forced, and she wasn't sure if there was a word for that. "Ex" didn't cover it.

She got into her car and started the engine. It came to life with a gentle rumble and she pulled back onto the road, not bothering to cast a glance back at the pick-up truck still in the breakdown lane.

Fancy New Beesly was on the road again, driving toward the future.