It's ironic, really.

And if she hadn't been so cold her teeth were chattering; if the light snow hadn't suddenly morphed into a swirl of beautifully translucent confetti whose grace and charm had disappeared as soon as it had begun collecting on her lashes; if darkness hadn't already blanketed the grocery store parking lot at 7:15 p.m. -- were it not for all of those things, she'd have been able to at least laugh at just how horrible the timing is.

But she is trembling from the cold, and the snow is gaining momentum, little white flecks cascading down furiously in the light from the street lamp. ...And yes, it is already dark - so dark that even the dim glow of the streetlight isn't enough; before she can get her bearings, she has to dig in her glove compartment for the flashlight Roy had put in her stocking two years ago.

Ordinarily, she'd have called him to come and pick her up -- but of course, as luck would have it, Roy's out of town for the weekend, gone on a hunting trip with his brother and two other friends.

It's futile and she knows it, but she sucks in a breath anyway, biting her lip as she tries again to start her car. She's rewarded with a grating, cringe-inducing sound that's a clear warning she shouldn't push her luck by doing more damage -- which, given the god awful sound the engine had made, is apparently exactly what she's doing every time she tries to crank the damn thing.

She sits in silence for a few minutes, her breath made visible by the chill in the air as she desperately tries to think of someone to call.

Of course, the answer is immediate: Jim.

It's a possibility she doesn't even allow herself to contemplate, instead focusing her energy on the small pool of people upon whom she might call in this completely unexpected situation.

Her parents live two hours away, so they aren't an option; her brother lives in a different state altogether, so he's not a possibility either. She hasn't talked to her best friend from high school in well over a year, and the few acquaintances she'd made during her brief stint at college had been distant enough not to merit a phone call in an hour of need.

Strangely, she's never felt more alone than she does in this moment.

She sits in her car shivering for close to ten minutes, clutching her phone, its plastic cover hard and unyielding as she absently runs her index finger over the screen, then the number pad.

He's the only person she can think of to call, but...well, they've not even really spoken to each other since the Booze Cruise two days before; it's as if the tension that hung so heavily in the air between them out there on the deck followed them right back into the office.

And she hasn't been able to figure it out, exactly -- what to make of the way he'd stared so intently at her out there as he leaned with one hand resting on the rail, his head tilted, eyes holding hers. Because she could've sworn he was on the verge of saying something -- maybe even doing something. And the honest truth that she tried to ignore was that for a split second, she'd allowed herself to hold eye contact with him.

And she'd been shocked by the overwhelming urge to know what it would be like to feel his mouth against her own. ...So much so that she was very much aware of the fact that, were he to make a move -- lean down toward her, press his lips to hers -- she wouldn't have resisted.

That his expression signified he might well do just that was what sent her running, murmuring weakly, "I'm cold" as she turned and walked away from him, her teeth chattering, knees shaking -- and not from the chill in the air.

Ironically, it was the warmth that followed so quickly after those moments that haunted her most -- the tears in his eyes as he'd struggled to find words for his toast, the way he'd begun with a joke but had quickly shifted his tone. She'd sensed instinctively that he was overwhelmed by it all -- just as she herself was. ...Only she suspected that from his vantage point, the view was far, far different.

Still, she'd instantly known that she'd never forget the look on his face or the timbre of his voice as he'd struggled to get the words out: "Pam is...awesome. My best friend."

For a split second their eyes had met, and she'd almost felt as if her knees were buckling beneath her with the weight of all that lingered behind his faltering, stoic smile...the tears standing out in his eyes seeming to spill right over into her own.

It was too much...just too much to really take in.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to approach him after the toast, hadn't even thanked him for the amazing things he'd said. It was something that nagged at her -- why she couldn't just go to him, throw her arms around his neck as she'd done so many times in the past few years, and say, "Thank you."

As the rest of the night unfolded amid a haze of well-wishers who pressed her close, exclaiming over how happy she and Roy would be, she gradually came to understand just why she could do nothing more than gaze out the ship's window at Jim, who stood once again on that all-too familiar deck, his hands on the railing, head bowed...so clearly alone.

Because the simple fact was that even though Roy's grand gesture should've been foremost on her mind -- should've borne her aloft on the same giddiness that she saw on the faces of those around them -- she felt disconnected, distracted...somewhere else.

...Out on that deck with him, daring to meet his eyes, recognizing all too clearly the things that lingered there: the desire, the frustration...the barely stifled emotion simmering beneath the surface.

**

She snaps out of the memory, her nose and cheeks beginning to ache from the cold.

She shakes her head.

She resolutely scrolls down her phone book until she sees his name, hesitating for a split second. For the second time in as many days, she attributes her trembling hands to the cold, even though she knows better.