"And no parties," Angela completes her "house rules" lecture with a stern glare in Ryan's direction.

Pam and Ryan are sitting side-by-side on the love seat (which they both attest to be the only comfortable couch in the house, but is so small that they have to sit with their hips touching) like two kids. Or two teenagers, rather.

"They'll be fine," Dwight puts a hand on her shoulder. "It's only a weekend."

"A long weekend," Ryan corrects him, and Pam has to look away to keep from smiling.

"Maybe we shouldn't," Angela looks up at him, her voice panicked and tight. Behind them, Mose makes a strangled noise that sounds like a bark.

"It's Helga's wedding," Dwight pleads. "We can't miss it." Mose nods vehemently in agreement.

"Fine." She rolls her eyes. "Her third," she adds under her breath.

"We'll be back Monday morning," Dwight says to them, gathering up their bags and ushering Angela and Mose out the door before she has a chance to change her mind.

"Eight o'clock sharp!" Pam can hear Angela add as the door closes behind them.

"Well, thank God for that," Ryan lets out a sigh when they hear the engine of Dwight's car start up.

"You know, it was almost like Angela didn't trust us," she muses, finally allowing a smile to steal across her face.

"Who Angela? I'm sure she was mostly concerned for our safety," he says. "Well then, all alone. Want to take off our pants and run around?"

"Hm," she considers, tapping her finger against her chin. "I was more thinking the 'Home Alone' route than the 'Risky Business' one, but be my guest."

"I hope that means what I think it means," he says seriously.

"And what do you think it means?"

"That you're giving me an open invitation to invite strippers over?"

She hits him in the face with a cushion. "What?" he asks, fluffing up the pillow to put behind his head. "Okay, what do you want to do then - put aftershave on and yell about it?"

"You wouldn't want to disappoint Michelle," she grins at him while he's fussing with his hair in the mirror.

"Yeah, I guess not," he says, straightening his collar. "But I think her name's Mary."

"I thought you slept with her last week," Pam narrows her eyes in his direction.

"I did." He turns to her and shrugs. "Try not to have too much fun without me."

"Deal," she rolls her eyes.

Once he's out the door, she hesitates. Like she isn't sure what to do with just herself anymore. She's got a half-finished book on her nightstand, three or four barely touched paintings downstairs, and yet she doesn't feel like doing any of that. What she feels like doing is curling up with Roy, like they used to on Saturday nights, when she would sweet talk him into watching some chick flick by buying them a six-pack (or two) of beer.

She decides to kill some time by taking the long walk down to the mailbox, and by the time she reaches it the sun is beginning to set. There's an envelope inside, one that has her name embossed on the paper. Her name, plus guest. Her stomach drops.

It takes her nearly half of the walk back to the farmhouse before she can bring herself to open it. When she pulls out the invitation, it's identical to her own, and it's from Phyllis. Right, of course. She's unsure of why she was so worried, like she thought that maybe she'd open it and find hers and Roy's names there again? Or was she worried that it could've said Jim's. Either way, she ignores the thought, choosing instead to agonize over whether she can afford a new dress for the event.

Without realizing what she's doing she's standing at her closet door, running the fabric of it through her fingers. She had decided on the walk home that she would sell it. Maybe at least make enough money to afford a cute, practical dress for the wedding. It's not like she needs it anyway, she's never even worn it except to try on. But she can still remember how her mother had looked at her. And how she had hoped to see him look at her.

The dress proves more difficult to pull on solo, but she manages. Even if she nearly pulls her arm out of the socket trying to tie up the back. She draws the line at putting on the veil though, so at least then she can still claim that she isn't completely ridiculous. It's heavier than she remembers, and the white fabric looks different against her now tanned skin.

Dwight doesn't keep beer in the house, but she knows that Ryan does in the mini-fridge in his room, so she goes in a cracks one open, settling in on his bed to watch something. He's got a TV, but since there isn't any cable she leans forward to rifle through his DVD collection.

She considers The Departed, remembering how a lot of people died, but that she couldn't quite remember who. Too depressing, anyway. Somehow she settles on The Notebook, which, yeah okay, now she's the pathetic woman in the wedding dress watching The Notebook - alone. She's not exactly proud, but she puts it in anyway, and when she leans back against the pillows the dress puffs up around her, making it look like she's sitting on a cloud or something.

Sitting on a cloud and drinking a beer. She wonders if maybe that's what Roy's doing.

She thinks she's fine watching the movie, but then there's rain, and a beard, and more rain, and then other things that she hasn't had in a long, long time now, and. She takes a long, slow draw from her bottle and swallows hard.

"Hey." Ryan's standing in the doorway and she sits up so fast that she almost spills beer on the dress.

"Trying to kill me?" she breathes, her hand on her collar.

"Sorry, didn't expect to have to knock in my own room," he laughs. "Nice dress."

"Oh," she crinkles her forehead. "You weren't supposed to be home."

"So this is what you do when I'm not home then?" He goes to the fridge for a beer and sits next to her on the mattress.

"Careful," she shoos him off the hem of the dress. "I'm selling it. I just wanted to... you know, once."

"You're selling it? But, I mean it looks," he swallows a sip of beer. "It looks pretty good."

"Oh thanks," she rolls her eyes. "Isn't that what every girl wants to hear on her wedding day. Besides, I need the money. For this." She tosses the envelope on his lap

"You getting married or something?" he laughs, pulling out the invitation.

"No, but Phyllis is," she tries to say as cheerfully as possible. "Want to be my date?

He groans. "A wedding? Seriously?"

"What, you're going to let the pathetic almost-widow go to a wedding alone?" she says, giving him that look she knows he hates.

He glares back at her for a moment before giving in. "Christ, fine. But you aren't allowed to play that widow card again for at least a month."

She frowns. "So that means you're going to make me do my own dishes now?"

He rolls his eyes. "I don't do your dishes because I'm being nice, I do them because you won't, and because you're disgusting."

She pauses for a moment to consider. "I'm okay with that actually."

"Lucky me." He clinks his beer bottle against hers. "So what are we watching?"

"Something that I'm sure Kelly gave you," she laughs. His eyes train on the screen, and she feels weird all of the sudden. Like she's watching a sex scene with her mother sitting next to her or something.

"Kelly bought me porn?" he quips, finally. "Guess I should've been nicer to her."

She hits him on the shoulder. "Quiet."

"Yes ma'am," he sighs, leaning back against the wall. "This hurts my back."

"Do you need me to look up the definition of 'quiet' for you?" she groans.

"I'll shut up when I'm comfortable," he insists. "So scoot over."

She raises her eyebrows at him, taking an exaggerated look over the edge of the bed. "There's nowhere to scoot."

"Fine then," he smirks at her, fluffing up the skirt of her dress to make a pillow before settling his head in her lap.

"If you squish my dress, so help me God, Howard."

"What?" He looks up at her, upside down sort of. "It'll give it character."

"Fine," she sighs. "Now - quiet."

He manages to watch in silence for a total of about ten minutes before - "Do you miss him?"

She takes a breath. She knows what she should say, what people want to hear, and what she tells her mother when she calls. People want to hear that she's getting better, moving on. That she can appreciate the things she used to have, but that she's still living.

"I miss a lot of things," she says. "I miss him at night, mostly."

It's okay, telling the truth for once. And that he doesn't try and make her feel better about it.

She's not sure when during the movie she closes her eyes, or how long she sleeps there, but when she wakes up it's still dark, and Ryan's head is on the pillow beside hers, his hand on her stomach. Pam tries to sit up without waking him, but the dress makes too much noise when she moves, so.

"What if I told I told you I could help you make the money for your art classes," he says quietly, like he's been awake all this time.

"Sell myself?" she jokes.

"I'm being serious actually." He stretches, moving so that he can reach into his pocket, and puts a plastic bag on her stomach.

"Oh, I've never - I don't smoke." She picks the bag up with the tips of her fingers, like it's fragile.

"I'm not talking about smoking. I'm talking about selling."

She doesn't say anything. Maybe she's still waking up, or dreaming. "I've got a guy that supplies me. It's good money, low risk if you know what you're doing."

"Yeah," she laughs. "Except that I don't know what I'm doing. Come on Ryan, be serious."

"Just think about it, okay?" He looks up at her. "You could keep the dress?"

"Dwight's a police officer," she reminds him, lowering her voice even though he's hundreds of miles away. She wouldn't put it past Angela to have their rooms bugged. "How in the world could you get away with -"

"Yeah, Dwight's also not the sharpest knife, you know. I've been dealing again ever since I moved out of Kelly's. How do you think I pay for school?"

"Student loans?"

"Like I said, just think about it. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

**

And that's how she finds herself the next afternoon, standing outside of some dilapidated house on the outskirts of Wilkesbury.

"This is your guy?" she glares at him and takes a long sip of her iced coffee. "I feel like I'm about to get shot."

"Trust me, he's legit," Ryan puts his hand on the small of her back, leading her towards the house. "He spends most of the time in Canada, that's why the house is shit."

"And tell me again why you can't just get it for me?" she whines. "This is creepy."

"Because this guy likes to know who he's got working for him," Ryan tells her. "It'll be fine, promise."

He presses the intercom on the door.

"Ahoy-hoy?" a static-laced voice asks.

"It's Ryan."

There's a buzzing noise, and then Ryan opens the door. Inside the place doesn't look much better than out there. In fact, it looks like the guy living here is some kind of pack-rat nutjob.

"Back here," Ryan leads her by the arm as she stumbles around a stack of old issues of Tiger Beat. Wait, what?

"Ryan, my boy," Ryan's "guy" stands up to slap his hand. "What's shakin?"

"Creed?" she stares at him. Unbelievable.

"Hi there, Pancake," he shoots her a toothy grin. "You my new girl?"

"So it would appear," she shrugs. This is just weird, and, surprisingly, way more obvious than she had thought. The three of them spend the next half hour talking logistics and. as it turns out, Creed is surprisingly competent when it comes to selling drugs - who knew?

She leaves with a few ounces stashed in her purse, "to get your feet wet" Creed said. She mostly just feels like throwing up, but it was easier than she had expected, so.

She turns to Ryan as they walk back to the car. "You could've mentioned it was Creed."

"What, and miss out on that look on your face? No way," Ryan grins. "Plus, before when you were all nervous I thought maybe you'd want to make out."

"Ew," she shoves him. "Shut up. I already feel like this whole thing is going to end badly."

"Trust me, Creed's great. He's basically unknown, and he packs all the bags himself, without a scale. And he's always dead on. That's some hardcore Rain Man shit right there."

"Oh, well now I feel much better," she rolls her eyes. "So, where to first then?"

"First?" he laughs. "So what, we're like a team now?"

"Yeah. You're Robin."

"Okay," he crosses his arms. "I'm comfortable enough with myself to let you be Batman."

"Batman drives the car," she grins.

He rolls his eyes, tossing her the keys to his Civic. "Fine."

"So, where to?" She turns the ignition, feeling suddenly antsy. "The streets? The hood? What?"

"The hood?" he grins at her. "You have no idea what you're talking about, huh?"

"Seriously," she pleads. "Where do you, you know, sell?"

"Let's start with one of my easiest customers," he suggests. "One that I would be more than happy to pass off to you."

"And what makes an easy customer?" she asks, following the directions he's giving her.

"Someone who knows absolutely nothing, but wants to pretend they do," he shrugs. "I could probably sell him a bag of stems and he wouldn't know the difference. Take a left here."

"Maybe I should wait it the car," she says, feeling suddenly nervous now that they're in the driveway and he is unbuckling his seat belt.

"Trust me." He puts his hand over hers on the steering wheel, handing her the purse with his other. "You'll be fine."

He's right, of course. Because only ten seconds after they're ringing the bell she's being suffocated in the arms of Michael Scott. When he finally releases her, his face is red and there are tears in the corners of his eyes.

"Ry-guy!" Michael slaps him across the back, motioning for both of them to come into the house.

"How've you been, Michael?" she asks as he pours them both a glass of tea.

"Ahh-nold Palm-ahh" he corrects her with a flex of his biceps. Well, at least some things never change. "But seriously, I've been great. Fantastic. I'm a Realtor now."

"Wow, that's great." The tea, or Arnold Palmer, or whatever, tastes like gross liquid candy. "How did you get into that?"

"I started dating my Realtor," he explains and she thinks she can see his eyes getting all watery again. "Why, do you need a place? I've got a one-bedroom with 'Pam's Palace' written all over it."

"Oh, no," she exchanges a glance with Ryan. "I'm fine, thanks."

"So, Michael," Ryan finally intercedes, leaning forward. "Can I help you out today?"

"Carol broke up with me," he moans, suddenly breaking down in front of them. "And now I'm a drug addict."

"Michael," Ryan rolls his eyes. "You're not a drug addict."

"But, I was watching this show about people that do crystal meth earlier, and-"

"You don't do crystal meth," Ryan reminds him.

"You're right," he sniffs, composing himself again. "I just need to get mellow, right? They call me mellow yellow. I mean, well, I'm not mellow - I need to get mellow, ifyouknowwhatI'msaying." Now Michael's talking all fast and nervous and he won't stop staring in her direction.

"She knows what you're saying," Ryan answers dryly, just as she says "I know what you're saying." If this were another life, he'd owe her a Coke.

Ryan reaches into her purse, producing two bags of the stuff, and Michael hands him cash.

"Pam's going to be your new contact," he explains, and Michael struggles to hide what she assumes to be disappointment. "Here's her cell."

"Uh, that's not my cell," she whispers, watching him write down the number.

"It is now," he says, handing her one of those pay-as-you-go phones.

"What's wrong with mine?" She crinkles her nose, taking the plastic piece of junk.

"You planning to make deals from your personal cell?" he laughs. "Be my guest. And promise to write from prison, okay?"

"So, you didn't give me your personal cell?" Michael pouts at Ryan. "Is that why you never return my calls when I want to hang?"

"No, Michael," Ryan sighs at him like he's a child. "Don't worry, you have my real number."

"No one from the old office calls me," Michael pouts. "Dwight's always busy, and Jim - Pam, how's Jim?"

For some reason, she feels like she has just gotten the wind knocked out of her, or something a little less dramatic. "Jim? I... haven't talked to him."

"Oh," Michael frowns like he doesn't believe her.

"Well, we should get going." Ryan stands to leave and she follows. Michael follows them out, and they make promises to call him soon.