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George Kittredge: You're like some marvelous, distant, well, queen, I guess. You're so cool and fine and always so much your own. There's a kind of beautiful purity about you, Tracy, like, like a statue.
Tracy Lord: George...
George Kittredge: Oh, it's grand, Tracy. It's what everybody feels about you. It's what I first worshipped you for from afar.
Tracy Lord: I don't want to be worshipped. I want to be loved.
- The Philadelphia Story

The first few months of your relationship, Jim's obsession with you is kind of exhilarating. Certainly it's better than Roy and his seeming indifference to all things Pam. It's flattering, to say the least, when you're in bed at night and Jim rolls over and says in a husky voice,

"God, you are so...you are so beautiful. You are everything, you know that? Everything." And you quickly place a kiss to his lips because you aren't sure how you're supposed to respond, and you know that you're supposed to say something, but when he says things like that, looks at you like that, your throat would tighten and you knew anything that came out of your mouth would be a cheap imitation.

You do love him. You love him so much sometimes that you think you might actually explode (and sometimes you think about how you could maybe convince Dwight that he's going to explode and you make a note to mention this to Jim). You love him so much that sometimes during work you look over at his desk and your heart starts beating and your palms get sweaty, and God, he's yours. And you have to slip quietly from your desk to the bathroom and take deep breaths and sometimes splash a little water on your face. It was ridiculous. Your brother asks you after a few months of dating Jim if you are happy.

"It's absurd," you tell him. "It's absolutely absurd how happy I am."

Your first real fight is because of Michael, oddly enough, and somehow you think it's appropriate that it's partly due to Dunder-Mifflin that it happens. Everything is partly due to Dunder-Mifflin, and that kills you because you hated that job for so long, and it seems that it somehow has taken a very large, undeniable role in shaping your destiny.

Michael was making you shred about a thousand documents, ones that he swore couldn't be seen by anyone else's eyes but yours, and you swear that all you've been shredding for hours has been pages and pages of Michael writing in loopy handwriting,

"Mrs. Michael Scott. Mrs. Levinson-Scott. Jan Levinson-Scott. Jan Scott." Complete with hearts and a pathetic drawing of Cupid.

So it just happens that when Jim comes to collect you at the end of the day, you are more than a little snappish.

"You ready?" He asks tapping on the counter.

"Oh, you go ahead, I still have a few more things to shred," you say.

"You know you can just throw it out right? I mean, it's not like Michael is going to know," Jim smiles, and he's right, but you're annoyed and if that was the case you've just wasted your whole day standing in front of the shredder, and you have more than a couple paper cuts and your back kind of hurts from bending over and it can't have all been for nothing. You just shrug.

"Come on Beesly," Jim says again. "You know this is just one of Michael's goofy things, like you taking the messages in to him when he's in meetings." Jim rolls his eyes, and you can't help the irritation that bubbles up. There's no reason to be this annoyed with Jim, he's just saying things that you have thought yourself, and you know that you're tired and you should just let it go.

"I'm trying to take my job seriously," you snap.

"Why? It's not a serious job," Jim replies. And you slam down the stack of papers you were holding and wheel around.

"Thanks for your support," you practically hiss, and even as its happening you think to yourself, what are you doing? Why are you reacting like this? But it's too late, you've already snapped and he's backpedaling to see where exactly he pissed you off so much. Jim's eyes widen and he holds up his hands.

"I didn't mean to..." He stammers. "I wasn't trying to be not supportive." He scratches his head in that way that he does when he thinks that he's being like Roy. You've noticed him do it from time to time, and it sort of upsets you. You don't need him to be not like Roy, and you aren't sure what you can do to make him just be Jim and not worry about anything else. But then again you bite you lip when you think that Karen would do it like this, or do it like that, and you know you are both guilty of comparing yourselves to each other's exes.

"You know I think that you're amazing, and this job is beneath you," he says, and there it is, something that's been slightly bothering you lately. While it's nice, so refreshing, that Jim practically worships you, you are wary of him putting you on this pedestal. The problem is that you can't imagine how you'll ever live up to this image that Jim has of you.

Because the truth is that you aren't perfect. Far from it, and while Jim says that he knows you aren't perfect, of course he knows, you don't think that he knows. Back when he was with Karen, and you were feeling particularly bitter at night, you would think that maybe it would be better if he stayed with her. Because then he would always have this idealized version of you. And not the real Pam. Not the Pam who snored sometimes, or kicked in her sleep. Not the Pam who couldn't keep a plant alive to save her life, or the Pam that was capable of screwing up no-bake cheesecake. And certainly not the Pam who hadn't had the courage to say something other than "I can't."

You don't want to wake up one day and realize that both of you are unhappy because you weren't the person he thought you were. There's no way that you can compete with Fantasy Pam.

You know that you should say you're sorry. It's on the tip of your tongue, but somehow what comes out instead is,

"Of course, it's beneath me. You wouldn't know anything about that," and you can't believe that you are being this ridiculous.

"What is with you? This whole thing started because I told you that you could just dump the papers in a trash can and be done with it, you're totally overreacting." Which you are. "And you will readily admit that this job was never what you imagined yourself doing, and I was just pointing out you don't have to kill yourself over a job that's really not worth all that much effort." Which was true.

You don't say anything for a minute, and then finally you grab the stack of paper and you turn on the shredder and it actually feels really good to watch the paper being destroyed, because you are thisclose to crying or screaming, and you aren't exactly sure why.

Jim stands there for a second, his hands shoved in his pockets before he shifts his shoulder bag further up onto his shoulder.

"I guess I'm just going to go home," he says, and you can tell by the sound of his voice he's not sure what just happened, and you aren't either, and you want to run after him and tell him you're sorry.

But you stand there shredding Michael's stupid papers instead and it only occurs to you once he's gone that he was your ride.

As you sit outside the office building an hour later, you take deep breaths and try to calm yourself down. You think that you should just call Jim and apologize and he'll come get you, but instead you think about calling Kelly to ask her if she'll drive you home. She lives close enough to work that it wouldn't be that much of an imposition.

You kind of figured out at some point during your shredding that part of you wanted to fight with Jim. Wanted to see what would happen when you showed Jim one of your more unattractive sides. You kind of wanted to tear the world apart a little bit to see where the pieces would fall.

You've always been a Fitzgerald fan, and you loved The Great Gatsby the minute you had read it. But while you thought it were terribly romantic that Gatsby pined over Daisy for so long, and that he never gave up and that everything he did was for her, you recognized that it was never going to end well for old Gatsby. Daisy was never going to be what he wanted her to be. It was impossible.

You don't want to be Jim's Daisy, constantly falling short of his expectations.

You sit out there for maybe ten minutes, your phone in your hand, trying to figure out how things got so out of hand earlier, and knowing full well that it was pretty much all your fault, when you see a car pull into the parking lot. It's Jim, and he parks near you and climbs out, and you think he's beautiful, all limbs and a slight awkwardness that works for him, and he's holding a blanket and a mug of coffee.

"Peace offering?" He says holding them out for you. You take the coffee gratefully, because it might be fall, it's still Scranton, and it's still cold.

"Thanks," you say.

"So, I was your ride home," he says and you nod. He takes that as an invitation to sit down next to you, stretching his legs out and leaning back a little bit. "What was that back there?" You shrug, because you are still trying to figure it out yourself.

"Have you ever read The Great Gatsby?" You ask, and he shakes his head a little. You sigh.

"What does that have to do with Michael's shredding?" He asks.

"It doesn't," you say, and it's true, but it's what's really been bugging you, and you wonder if you'll be able to explain it. You never used to have fights like this with Roy. A fight about money was about money. Your relationship with Jim is a thousand times more intricate and wonderful, and a thousand times more confusing sometimes.

"I don't understand," he frowns a bit.

"I was thinking about that book today. I had a lot of time for thinking on my hands today, all that shredding. But, well, see, there's this woman, Daisy, and Gatsby is in love with her. He's been in love with her for years, and he does all this crazy stuff and makes a ton of money, and he does it all so that she'll be with him." Jim's following, you can see his slight nod. "But the thing is...well, the thing is that Gatsby loved the person that he thought Daisy was, not Daisy." And it clicks in Jim's head. He turns to you, and he takes your hand.

"I'm in love with you," he says. "Not some made up version of Pam. I'm in love with you." But you bite your lip, and he turns your face with his thumb so that you're looking at him. "Pam, listen to me, okay? Because this is important. I absolutely am in love with you. And it's not because I think you're perfect. That flew out the window right around Casino night. And I'm going to get mad at you, and I'm going to be frustrated with you sometimes, because you aren't perfect. Let me tell you something, I was pretty mad at you the drive home, and then for about forty minutes after that. I swear, Bees, you could see smoke coming out of my ears." You laugh a little, and he squeezes your hands. "You know why I love you? Because you sigh in your sleep, and you kill every plant that comes across your path. Because you won't walk under ladders, but swear you aren't superstitious, and you shredded papers all day for Michael because you know it makes him feel important."

"I'm sorry I was acting like such an idiot," you finally say after a minute. "I don't know why I was so mad at you. You didn't do anything. I was just tired and..." you shrug, and he removes his hand from yours to wrap his arm around your shoulder. "I was thinking too much."

"You're forgiven," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Let's go home, okay?"

"Okay," you agree, letting him pull you to your feet. "Hey Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, too, you know?"

"Yeah."

"And you know you have to read Gatsby."

"I'll read it," he promises and you grin.

"You'll actually read it, right? It won't go the way of Angela's Ashes? Because I will quiz you if I need to." Jim laughs, an easy laugh, and it's one of your favorite Jim laughs.

"I'll read it, I swear," he says.

"Okay, good, because I couldn't love someone who didn't love Gatsby."

Jim calls you Daisy sometimes, in a teasing voice, and you roll your eyes and tell him to shut up. He says he still doesn't understand how a fight about shredding Michael's love notes to Jan has to do with a classic piece of literature, but you can't really explain it to him, so you don't really even try.

"The shredding was the catalyst," you explain haughtily, and Jim laughs and throws a pillow at you, which you catch and toss back.

"Fancy words, Beesly," he says as you lie in bed. Your worn and loved copy of The Great Gatsby is on the bedside table next to him, a bookmark stuck near the end. He's almost finished and you've promised not to say anything about it until it's done. He asked you to make up quizzes for him as a joke, but you have a folder full at work that you've done when you were bored.

You're happy. Absurdly so. And Jim still rolls over sometimes, pushing a piece of hair out of your face and telling you that you are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and you still don't know what to say to that. And it still hits you sometimes that he's yours, and he may worship you, but you're pretty sure that if you could you would start a religion based on Jim, and be its founding and only member. And so it's okay.

You aren't Daisy, and he's not Gatsby, and it'll be okay.

But the next time Michael asks you to shred his papers for him, you take the pile and dump it into the garbage can next to your desk and accept Jim's outstretched hand.