Their first major fight came out of nowhere. Mid-December, on a Friday night when they decided to stay in as opposed to going out, Jim cooked her dinner.
Conversation, naturally, flowed easily and they laughed and talked, recapping the events of that week. They discussed Christmas and New Years plans, and decided to spend Christmas Eve at her parents’ and Christmas Day at his. The fact that it was their first holidays together was not lost on either of them but neither mentioned it.
Finally, a lull in discussion arrived and Jim used that moment to clear the dishes from the table. Pam took a sip of her wine, her eyes casually perusing the room. The cover of the local paper caught her eye.
He didn’t see her grinning but as he turned, he saw Pam lean back in her chair.
“What do you think about the Mitchell Report?” She asked randomly.
Jim cocked an eyebrow in surprise. He had not been expecting that. “The Mitchell Report? Uh . . . What? You know what that is?”
Pam rolled her eyes. “I read the paper. I watch the news. It’s been everywhere. You’re a big baseball fan.” She shrugged, pushed his chair back so he could sit down. “What do you think?”
Jim stared at her in awe. Fancy New Beesly indeed. Not only was she asking him a question about baseball – a sport, for God’s sake – she actually looked like she wanted to hear his answer. Sighing, Jim frowned wryly, shaking his head as he took his seat. “Well, I think it sucks.”
Her brow quirked and he fell in love with her all over again. He had no idea what she was doing, as she never, ever showed interest in his love of sports, but he relished the idea of talking to her about it.
“Elaborate,” Pam said.”
Well, damn. Where to start? “I just think it was a complete disaster. Nearly two years of research and he humiliates all these players based on hearsay? A bunch of cashed checks?”
“Yeah, but you said yourself that steroids in baseball was a major problem.”
“Well, it was.” Jim nodded seriously. “But I just don’t think its right to name names based on a bunch of checks and hearsay from some trainer or clubhouse attendant. If they failed a test or admitted it or were filmed or photographed doing it, sure.” He felt his neck flush. “I mean, Roger Clemens is arguably the best pitcher of all time and there’s no chance he’ll get into the Hall of Fame now. Based on hearsay.” His voice stung of bitterness and he could tell Pam caught on.
She was grinning, widely, wildly, like a Cheshire cat. “You’d make a great sportswriter.” She said it so casually, so nonchalantly; at first he didn’t even comprehend. Not until she stood up and walked over to empty the rest of her wine into the sink.
“Wait – what?”
When she turned back to look at him, she was still smiling, but there was a tint of nervousness to her expression. “You’re passionate about sports, Jim. You could totally write about them for a living.”
He was about to crack that he was a paper salesman for a living when suddenly, she walked out of the room. He stared after her wild-eyed. What was she doing? He could never be a sportswriter. To be a sportswriter, you had to have a degree in journalism. Which meant you had go to school to be a journalist. And Jim wasn’t going back to school. He’d barely made it through the first time. Standing up, Jim sought out Pam, following her down the hall and into his bedroom.
When he realized she was zeroing in on the guitar stashed in the back of his closet, his heart stopped.
That sneaky little . . .
“What are you doing?”
“Getting your guitar.” And she was. Leaning over his shoes and backpacks and miscellaneous crap he’d shoved into the closet and instantly forgotten, she wrapped her small hands around the neck and lifted it up.
Hauling it out, she turns around, grinning, clearly proud of herself. “Play something for me.”
“What are you doing?” He tried to control the tone of his voice, he really did. But he could not. Every ounce of fear – and anger – he felt at this blatant act of sabotage came through loud and clear.
The smile fell. Her face changed. Now she was upset. Hurt. “Why is it such a big deal?”
He shrugged. “It’s private.” His jaw was set. His back stiffened. He felt . . . naked. Exposed. And pissed off. Realization set in that the little sportswriter bit wasn’t random at all. It was completely calculated. He’d thought, nearly two months later, he had gotten away with it. She’d forgotten all about his Second Life avatar, the epitome of everything he’d hope for but never actually admit out loud, and he was safe.
Except he was wrong. She had remembered. And now, clearly, she intended to talk about it.
Hurt had blended into resignation. She’s quiet. The look of sadness that passed briefly across her face almost choked him. “So you don’t want to share that part of your life with me.”
When she put it like that, he felt like a complete ass and was quick to try some damage control. “Come on, Pam, it’s not like that. It’s just – embarrassing.”
“I used to be embarrassed too. When I told people I liked art.” Her eyes were on his. “Sometimes it’s still hard for me to call myself an artist. But you always encouraged me. You’re one of the main reasons I pursued my art in the first place.” Pause. “Why won’t you let me do that for you?”
Because he’d never had to. He’d always been the one offering the moral support and she was always the one who needed it, between having a job she hated, a fiancé who didn’t know how to appreciate her and dreams she refused to realize. But he couldn’t say those things to her. Instead, he just shrugged. “I dunno.”
Her eyes left his face, looked at anything but him. He saw the realization whisper across her face – he wasn’t going to open up anymore. When she brought her eyes back to his, Jim could literally feel her pulling away. “I’m really tired.” She faked a yawn, not even bothering to make it look genuine. “I’m just gonna go home.”
“Its only eight o’clock,” Jim said, watching her gather her coat and purse and head for his door so fast his head spun. She was just going to leave?!
When she turned back to look at him, there were tears in her eyes. He was shocked, sucker-punched in his gut; he had absolutely no defenses when Pam cried. “The time doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “Goodnight, Jim.” There was finality in her voice and that tore at him.
He watched her go, dumbstruck, frozen in place.
The echo of the door clicking quietly shut sounded like alarms to his ears.
Story Notes:
i really credit scrantonbranch's The Jim Paradox over at the NBC boards for giving me the inspiration to write this little ditty.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Friday
