* * *
Saturday
I’ve been sick a lot this last month. Exhausted, mostly, but also queasy at times, headachy. I know it’s just the stress of final projects coming due, that frantic last push before it all winds down and I go home. I know that’s all it is. But when Jennifer Watson leaned over in our Illustrator class and whispered, “Maybe you’re pregnant,” I seriously thought I was going to have a panic attack. I hadn’t let myself consider the possibility.
I missed two days of pills back at the beginning of August, but I doubled up like I was supposed to and I didn’t even see Jim that weekend. So it’s not likely I’m pregnant. It’s just stress. I don’t really need to worry for another week anyway, so there’s no point in getting Jim all worked up about it. I already know what he’ll say. He wants a family. If it happens sooner rather than later, he’ll still be happy.
He’ll be such an amazing father, and I already know he’ll dote on me to an embarrassing degree. I’m looking forward to it, really. The back rubs, the foot massages, the midnight runs to Giant for my favorite Ben and Jerry’s. He’ll do all of it and with a smile, and I’m so, so glad for the day I met him. I want it too, all of it.
Just…not yet.
* * *
We left Brooklyn early on Saturday morning, having stayed up half the night getting my room cleaned out and catching up on everything else we’d missed out on in the past two weeks. No amount of phone calls, text messages or emails could replace the simple warmth of his thigh pressed against mine on the couch, the steady rhythm of his breathing beside me at night. I couldn’t get enough, and it was pretty clear he’d missed me too.
I hadn’t been sleeping well, especially in the last couple of weeks with all the deadlines looming, and I fell asleep as soon as we entered New Jersey. I didn’t wake up until he was pulling into the parking lot, and gave him a guilty smile as he reached over to stroke my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Good nap?” he teased.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
“Ah, that’s okay. Gave me a chance to listen to NPR without you chattering all the way through it,” he grinned, skillfully dodging my swat and jumping out of the car to come around and open my door. “Are you sure you’re okay? I think you’re getting sick,” he said critically, taking my hand to help me out.
“Just tired,” I repeated my mantra, and gave him a big mischievous smile. “Did you ever call for them to fix the dishwasher?”
“I did, and I’ll thank you not to look so surprised,” he retorted, pulling my luggage out of the trunk.
“When?” I prodded.
His face fell a little. “Monday,” he admitted grudgingly. “Here, you get this, I’ll get the box.”
* * *
I smiled as I dropped my keys into the Zulu telephone-wire basket he’d bought me in Philly last November. He’d obviously cleaned the apartment before coming to get me. Everything was dusted and tidied, the carpet recently vacuumed, and I laughed a little, amused and touched but somehow not really surprised.
He’d changed a few things since I was here last. He’d moved the bookcase over to the wall under the breakfast bar, and shifted my big double-sized armchair over by the fireplace so it made a cozy reading corner. A watercolor I’d made of the gorge at Nay Aug hung on the wall between the coat closet and the front bathroom. It was still a little strange to see my things so seamlessly intermixed with his own; my pictures on his walls, the afghan my mom crocheted for me hanging over his couch.
Our walls. Our couch.
There was an African violet in an eggplant-colored ceramic planter at the center of the dining room table. It was in full bloom, its clusters of white flowers edged in deep purple. I reached out to finger one of the fuzzy leaves and glanced back at him curiously. “When did you get this?”
“Last week. Those are your welcome-home flowers,” he said, dropping his duffel bag in the entranceway and setting my big box of sketches, paintings and supplies next to it.
“I love African violets.”
He gave me a knowing smile. “Really,” he said lightly.
When had I even told him that? The extent of his obscure knowledge about me was sometimes a little eerie. Then again, I’d surprised even myself with the extent of tiny random details I’d memorized about him over the years. It had become kind of a joke between us. “Stalker,” I’d tease. “Obsessed,” he’d shake his head.
“These are better than cut flowers, ‘cause they won’t die,” he explained, dipping his head down next to my ear as he wrapped his arms around me from behind, swaying side-to-side a little.
I put my hands over his and twisted my head to grin up at him. “What makes you think they won’t die?”
“That was one plant, Pam. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Besides, you see this thumb here? It should be green. Seriously.”
That was true. He had three or four plants in every room and they were all thriving. Good thing, because my luck with green things had always been sort of hit or miss.
I leaned back into him with a contented sigh. “It’s good to be home.”
Technically, though, this hadn’t truly been home for me yet, despite all the time I’d spent here over the last year. We’d moved my things over the weekend before I went to New York, and I’d come to Scranton a few times during the summer, but this was the first time in two years that I didn’t have my own place. It felt a little weird.
“Kinda weird, isn’t it,” he murmured, echoing my thoughts. Another thing he does with uncanny frequency.
“A little,” I admitted.
“But good, right?” His tone was light, but I felt the weight in his question, the soft stroking of his thumb over my engagement ring.
I rubbed his thumb with my own, turned to smile up at him again. “Perfect.”
He squeezed me tight before letting me go. “So what do you want to do on your first day back in exciting Scranton? A little shopping at the mall? Bowling? Lunch at the world-famous Cooper’s seafood house? Take a tour of the Everhart museum?”
“Done that.” I sat down at the kitchen table and stared out at the window of our neighbors across the way. “I think I’d like to just…be home? If that’s not too boring?”
“Please,” he waved a hand dismissively, moving over to run water into the coffee pot. “Are you hungry yet? I got stuff for subs. Turkey and ham and those asiago cheese rolls you like?”
“That sounds great, actually.” He tried to wave me off when I jumped up to spread out paper towels and started pulling out condiments, but I nudged him firmly back to the coffee pot and paused for a moment to watch him measure out the grounds.
This is my life now.
Jim, sliding around the kitchen in his socks, literally humming with contentment as he finished starting the coffee and came over to help me assemble sandwiches—Jim is my life now. Every decision I’ll make, every decision I’ve made in the last year, has had him at its heart.
It was like that with Roy, too. Everything I did was aimed at keeping him happy. Every decision I made was ultimately subject to his approval, his needs; his whims, even. I thought I’d never live my life like that again, but in the last year I’ve found myself doing it all over again for Jim.
The difference, this time, is that he does that with me, too. I know I’m first in his mind with everything he does, and that makes me want to put him first, too. For the first time I feel like I’m in a real partnership, and it seems like anything is possible.
“What’s on your mind, Beesly?” Jim folded the paper towel over to wipe off the knife and transferred the sandwiches to paper plates.
I smiled at him, watched his green eyes flicker over my face in a mixture of curiosity, affection and concern, and shook my head. “Nothing. It’s just…really good to be home.”
“I definitely second that.” He cast me one of his happy-mischievous smiles and pulled a bag of my favorite Sun chips out of the pantry, shaking some out onto both our plates. “In fact, I was kind of hoping we’d just hang around here and, um…be home, this weekend?”
I laughed. “How many movies did you rent?”
“Only three.” He ducked into the living room and came back with one hand behind his back. Whipping it back around with a flourish, he declared, “The Illusionist—for you, obviously,” he smirked, because I’m a huge Edward Norton fan, “Elektra—for me,” he admitted, “and The Nightmare Before Christmas, for both of us.”
I had to fight not to grin too widely as I looked up at him. “Jim, we’ve seen all three of these movies.”
“I know.” He smiled. “I put your DVD player in the bedroom.”
“Oh boy,” I murmured.
“I bought new sheets,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
I pushed his plate at him. “Hurry up.”
* * *
Jim put in The Illusionist first, but we were naked even before Eisenheim pulled out the trick with the orange tree less than ten minutes in. Still, I really love that movie and when he caught me watching it over his shoulder he followed my gaze and started to laugh as he rolled off of me. “Seriously, Pam? You’re ignoring me for Paul Giamatti?”
“Certainly not. I’m ignoring you for Ed Norton.”
“He’s prettier than me,” Jim sighed, flinging his arm melodramatically back behind his head.
I reached over to trace his eyebrow with my thumb, and he closed his eyes at my touch, leaning into my hand. “Nobody’s prettier than you, Jim.”
He smiled but didn’t open his eyes. “That’s a lie. But thank you.”
“You are so very pretty, Jim Halpert. Much prettier than Ed Norton. You’re even prettier than that guy in the Mattress King ads—”
“Stop!” He was laughing, but his cheeks were pink. “I’ll settle for prettier than Paul Giamatti?”
“Indeed.” I kissed his lower lip and reached over him for the remote, clicking off the TV. “Now where were we?”
“I was unsuccessfully trying to seduce you.” He slid over on top of me again, running his hands through my hair as he kissed my eyes, cheeks, jawline. “Now you are very pretty,” he murmured.
“Mmm?” was all I could manage.
“ ‘A violet by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye,’ ” he whispered, his lips skating over my neck, lingering over the juncture where my jaw met my ear. “ ‘Fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky.’ ”
Holy god, I’d never thought something as corny as whispering poetry in my ear could actually be such a turn-on, but that was just about the most erotic thing he’d ever done. All my nerve endings tingled deliciously as his lips slid warmly over my throat.
“Browning?” I wondered.
I felt him smile against my skin. “Wordsworth.”
“You’ve been watching Spider-man 2 again, haven’t you,” I lifted my head up, grinned down at him.
He smiled again and moved down a little, tracing my collarbone with the tip of his tongue as his hand snaked down to my thigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he asserted, looking up at me wickedly through his eyelashes, and then he was moving further down and that was the end of our conversation for a while.
* * *
I woke up sometime after dusk, and gently disentangled myself from Jim to go to the bathroom. He was asleep on his stomach and had the sweetest half-smile on his face, like he was dreaming something pleasant.
Definitely good to be home.
There was blood on the tissue when I cleaned up, and I stared at it for a second, filled with relief and regret.
Mostly relief, but definitely some regret.
Not yet.
But maybe…soon.
* * *
Author's Chapter Notes:
So in light of Season 4 coming out and the general happiness of Jam, it seems appropriate to end this on an unapologetic fluff-fest.
Takes place at the end of Pam's time at Pratt.
Enjoy!
Takes place at the end of Pam's time at Pratt.
Enjoy!
Chapter End Notes:
On my way to my orientation for grad school, so this might be it for a while. I really appreciate all the great feedback I've received! You guys have made me really want to get back into writing again. Thanks so much, and I hope this was a satisfying wrap-up till the premiere. As always, please let me know what you thought!
callisto is the author of 22 other stories.
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