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Story Notes:
The title is by Death Cab for Cutie. It's another look at how Pam and Jim's summer could go.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended



It was hard to say when you miss her the most.

The days are hard, you spend an unhealthy amount of time glancing over at her desk and finding an unfamiliar face staring back at you. Dwight will say or do something ridiculous and you quickly turn your head to see if she had caught it, if she was laughing, and only then realize that she isn’t there.

You finally understand what it was like for her while you were in Stamford.

Only it is three times as hard for you, because when you go home, there are more places where she is supposed to be. There are more spots that are achingly empty. You wonder if that's when you miss her most, when you walk into your empty apartment and it is filled with quiet and darkness. Her shoes are normally lying next to your bigger ones, and a sweater is usually thrown casually onto the arm of the couch. Instead there is a sticky note that she had pasted to your fridge, telling you that she would see you soon and that she loved you. She put another one on your bathroom mirror and a third on the pillow on the bed. You had kept them all there, and at night when you miss her like crazy, you run your fingers over her words and remind yourself that it is only for a few months.

It wasn’t like Stamford, you remind yourself. You talk every day and make plans to see each other every weekend. She ends every conversation by telling you that she loves you, and when you take the train up to her sublet in the city, she waits for you on the sidewalk and runs into your arms, throwing herself at you, kissing your face a thousand times and telling you over and over again that she loves you.

But the train rides home are brutal, having to leave her behind and knowing that you won’t see her for at least a week weighs down on you. You’re sullen and cranky those first days after you get back from seeing her, and you countdown the days until you can see her again.

That’s how you break up your week. The first couple of days are spent reliving every minute of the weekend, and the next few days are spent looking forward to the coming weekend. It makes it a little easier to get by, a little easier to glance over at her former desk and not feel your heart drop down a little when she’s not there. You don’t understand how people can have long distance relationships for extended amounts of time. It’s only been a month and already you are going absolutely nuts.

You’re so proud of her, though. She sounds so happy when you talk to her on the phone, excited words spilling out of her mouth at an alarming rate, listing off people and artists and movements that you don’t really understand. And you find yourself looking up artists on Wikipedia so that you understand more about the things that are important to her.

When you see her you surprise her with facts about Picasso or Van Gogh. And the look that she gives you is worth it, the smile on her face and the way that her eyes light up when you take an interest in what she’s doing. You feel that burst of smugness that you always get when you know that you are doing something better than Roy. You used to get them all the time at the beginning of your relationship and you’ve gotten over trying to one up him. Well, mostly.

At the beginning of the summer, you alternated weekends, but that only lasted for the first few weeks, and then she was too busy, so you started coming to her. Not that you minded, two hours was nothing. You would walk across the ocean for her. You can’t help but wonder if she knows that, if she knows the lengths that you will go to for her. You think about these things when you are on the train, bouncing along with headphones shoved in your ears and a smile on your face. In your head you list all the things that you would do for her.

It’s not a short list.

She drags you to exhibits at museums that she’s excited about, and one time you convince her to go see a baseball game with you, and frequently pack lunches in her small apartment and picnic in Central Park.

She looks different here, you think. You are sitting in Central Park on a blanket; she’s laying on her stomach with a sketch book, and every once in a while she glances back at you and smiles lazily. Her curls shine in the bright sunlight, and you can’t place your finger on what looks different about her. You think maybe it’s because you still have the picture of Old Pam in your head when you think about her sometimes, hair back in a barrette and wearing a pastel cardigan sweater.

This Pam, New York Art Student Pam, is about as far as that as you can get. She’s dangling a sandal from her foot, and her hair is hanging in loose curls around her shoulder and she looks about four years younger and a thousand times happier than Old Pam.

You like to think part of Art Student Pam’s happiness is because of you. Old Pam was Roy’s, and this Pam, this delicious, giddy, beautiful Pam is yours.

It’s while you are sitting in the park one day, a book balanced in your hands, Pam’s head on your lap that you finally realize that this is just as romantic and lovely as Toby’s goodbye party was. Maybe even more so.

You don’t have the ring; it’s sitting in your drawer at home. You had planned on proposing when she came back to Scranton, but that seems like too long now. Five minutes seems too long, honestly.

“Hey,” you speak up, and your voice catches slightly and she turns her face up towards you and you can see her brow furrow slightly. “So, uh, I was thinking.” What you were thinking was this was the worst way to start a proposal ever. You shake your head a few times. “I don’t have it with me, but I have a ring. For you.” Her eyes go wide and she’s sitting up suddenly.

“What?” She asks. “You have a ring?”

“I wanted it to be special. That night? In the parking lot with the Ferris wheel and the fireworks? I was going to propose that night, and then Andy sort of stole my thunder. And I know this isn’t how I was going to do it, and I don’t even have the ring on me, and I’m not on one knee. Damn it.” You scramble to your knees, but she’s still sitting and it’s kind of awkward, but you think that asking her to stand up is probably even more awkward.

She’s starting to cry a little, and you don’t know if they are happy tears or you-really-screwed-up-this-time-Jim tears.

“Jim,” she places a hand on your knee, and you see her hand is shaking.

“I love you.” You figure the best thing is just to be honest. About a thousand and two thoughts are zipping through your brain. You try to settle on one, and I love you is all that comes out.

“I love you too,” she whispers.

“I have a ring, back in Scranton. It should be on your finger, but it’s in my drawer. And I want you to marry me. Please?” You are such an idiot, but you figure a polite idiot at least.

“Yes,” she’s grinning and she throws her arms around you and tackles you to the ground and places kisses all over you.

“Beesly, please, we’re in public, show some decorum,” you tease, but you are laughing and crying alternately and it’s hard to take you seriously.

On the train ride home, you bounce along and you feel like you might burst out of your skin. You miss her already, but its better this time; somehow it doesn’t feel so awful leaving her. You think it’s the ring that’s not yet on her finger, but will be soon. She makes you promise four times to remember the ring the next time you come up, which she thinks is going to be the next weekend.

You know better. You’ve already called the office and left a voicemail for the temp covering for Pam that you aren’t going to be in for the next few days. You’re going to go back home and get the ring and come right back up.

It belongs on her finger, and you can’t wait to put it there.


bashert is the author of 37 other stories.
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