You thought maybe it would never happen. Oh sure, you’d bickered before, but it was over silly issues, and you’d always resolved things so quickly it was almost as if it hadn’t happened. Maybe it’s naïve, to think that this relationship is somehow untouchable, too perfect, above falling into the traps your previous one had. You just never anticipated a real fight, and maybe that’s what made that first one so bad; if there’s something you can’t stand, it’s being unprepared.
To be fair, the odds stack early and heavily in favor of this being the day such a thing would happen, so perhaps it shouldn’t have taken you so off-guard. It’s the day after the fun run et cetera, and as “nice” a day as that one was, this one is most assuredly not. Your running shoes apparently weren’t broken in like you thought they were, and five kilometers was enough to give you a nasty blister on your heel. You can also say with fair certainty that some sort of epic war is being staged in your reproductive organs, and of course Jim doesn’t have any Midol at his apartment. You swear you left a bottle there last month, but he insists you didn’t (although he has been known to lose things before, which you don’t bring up but couldn’t help thinking as he shrugged helplessly at you). You two are running late (another fact that only serves to make this day a bad one), so you don’t have time to stop at the Rite Aid on the way to the office to get more, thus the battle rages on as you take a seat behind your counter. You have hours of angry messages to deal with after yesterday’s absence, people who no doubt got extra agitated after listening to the message that Michael made you record. Just as you’re listening to the ranting from a Robert Johnson, who’d left three messages about a mixed up order, Jim instant messages about lunch. It’s only nine-thirty and you don’t have much to say on the topic, but he keeps “talking,” despite your one-word answers and lapses between responses. Finally you just shut your instant messenger off because you’re swamped. He gives you a hurt puppy look and you point at the phone and return a look of your own that’s probably not as apologetic as you hope.
When lunch time finally does arrive – days later, it seems – you want to vent to him about your awful morning, but instead he spends much of the break discussing fantasy football with Kevin. For the life of you you can’t figure out why this is so important (it’s fantasy, as in not real), but you remain quiet and pick half-heartedly at your sandwich. Just as the time nears to get back to work he gives you a bright smile. It’s an expression that never fails to make you grin as well, but today it just doesn’t hold its usual power. Because you’re sure that all you gave him back was a grimace you squeeze his shoulder as you stand and head back to your pile of paperwork.
He’s eager to head out that afternoon and tries to push you to just leave everything you haven’t finished for Monday, but you hate coming in after the weekend with work already waiting so you make him wait, which he proceeds to do like a five year old. You get so irritated with his constant interruptions that you have to actually hold your tongue between your teeth to prevent you from snapping at him. You make your way through your remaining responsibilities as quickly as possible, sure that you’ve made a few mistakes on that last form but past the point of caring.
You stop at Gerrity’s to pick up groceries for that night’s meal – you two had planned to get as many dinners out of the grill as possible before the first cold snap hits. He heads to the butcher’s counter for steaks and you take the cart in order to retrieve salad fixings. You relish the opportunity for a minute alone and attempt to clear away the irritation you’ve been plagued by all day. It’s the weekend, you have no plans but to spend time together vegging – there’s no reason to feel so off anymore. You manage a smile as you snag a bottle of Catalina dressing from the shelf and stroll further down the aisle. He catches back up to you as you stand contemplating the crouton offerings.
“Got the steaks and a couple potatoes,” he announces, holding up a white papered bundle in his left hand and the bag of produce in his right. “Are you set?”
“I’m just trying to pick which croutons to get.”
He smiles. “You know you’re the most indecisive person I’ve ever met, right, Beesly?” he asks in the teasing tone you know so well.
And with that seemingly innocuous comment, your newly-found attitude improvement heads for the hills.
You angrily grab a bag of garlic and cheese croutons and throw them in the cart with a force that will no doubt leave you with mostly crumbs to sprinkle on your salads. Without a word you steer the cart back towards the front of the store at a brisk pace.
“Whoa, hey,” you hear from behind you. He jogs to catch up. “What was that?” he murmurs.
“I decided,” you state, without turning your head.
There’s a pause, then a whispered “ooo-kay,” which doesn’t make you feel any better.
Checkout is a silent affair, as is the drive home. In your peripheral vision you see him glancing at you every few moments, but you sit with your arms stiffly at your sides and keep your focus on the road. At his apartment he parks the car but he keeps his hands on the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead.
“Do you still want to do this? Have dinner, I mean?” he asks quietly, uncertainty dripping from his every word. As if you could not decide this on your own, as if you had to be pressed to make another choice.
“Yes,” you answer evenly.
He sighs but says nothing further, gets out of the car and unloads the bags from the back seat. You follow a few steps behind him to his door. Once you’re inside he takes the bags to the kitchen where you immediately begin unpacking them. He heads out his sliding door to his small patio space and begins putzing with the grill without a word, almost looking like he’s running away from you. Well, not running, but definitely briskly walking away. You take a few deep breaths as you search his cabinets for a big bowl, then wash the produce under icy water.
You know he didn’t mean his joke that way – he’s teased you about it many times, and it’s true. You’ve always had a hard time making choices, no matter how big or small the issue. Hell, one only has to study a highlight (or lowlight) reel of the past year to see how true it is. But that’s why it rubs you the wrong way – Jim himself was the subject, and victim, of most of that indecisiveness. You both know it, so keenly it hurts, even though you never talk about that.
He had presented you with a choice last spring, and you had floundered. But it was the first time he had ever expressed his feelings so openly. Yes, you’d known how he felt, on some level, but not to what degree; you hadn’t spent years dissecting his every look, every word, for deeper meaning like he had done with you. He’d expected you to, hoped you had.
So when he came back that was exactly what you’d started doing. That’s why you can’t help but read deeper meaning into his joke. Usually decoding his statements and actions rewarded you with gems: a simple compliment on your outfit bears witness to how beautiful he thinks you are. A chuckle at a joke you tell whispers how charming and funny he finds you, still. A hand on the small of your back as you take a walk says I’m proud to be with you. I love you. I want to take care of you, always.
But reading into his teasing at the grocery store leaves you with an assessment that seems harsh – sure, surging hormones are partially to blame, but to you it screams oh, same old Pam. Always unsure about what she wants. Granted even if that’s what it means it’s meant affectionately, but it’s not fair. You’ve tried so hard to start being someone who makes choices confidently, quickly. You’re getting better all the time, but a change doesn’t come overnight.
You attempt to focus on cutting up the vegetables so that you don’t slice off a finger. Jim comes back in and takes the bundle of steaks off the breakfast bar where you’d set them. “Can you grab me a couple plates to set these on?” he asks in a low tone, as if he’s scared of you now. You feel partly guilty, partly irritated by that reaction, but you give him what he asks for and he half-smiles a thank you, retreating to the patio again.
Once everything’s done you take a seat at his kitchen table together, still in silence. You want him to ask what’s wrong, even though you don’t know what you’ll say in response. “That joke about the croutons really hurt me” seems so irrational and girly, even if it’s true. Maybe it’s just better to pretend nothing happened, because honestly not much happened. When he sprinkles a few extra croutons on his salad, it’s just as you predicted: the bag is mostly dust now. He eyes you and seems to ask with his eyes if this is funny yet, but you can only stare back at your plate, chewing a bite of your baked potato slowly.
“Are you okay?” he finally asks.
“Yeah, I guess.”
He gives you a look that tells you how much he doesn’t believe that. “Come on. What’s the matter?”
“I just had a really bad day.”
“Why?”
You stare at him now. “Did you not see me dealing with all those messages today?”
He nods. “Sorry about that. But at least you had a good day missing the calls.” He smiles genuinely now.
You shrug. “I’d kinda trade it in to not have been so busy today.”
You catch his eyes dropping for a second, looking hurt, before he meets your gaze. “Sorry,” he says again, quietly.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I feel like I should.”
You’re intrigued. “Why?”
He looks caught off guard. “Because I don’t want you to have bad days,” he answers after a moment.
“Oh.”
There’s a pause.
“Is there something else I should be sorry for?”
“I guess not.” It’s so passive-aggressive and you hate that, but if he can’t think back to an hour ago maybe he kind of deserves it.
It’s quiet again, then he almost whispers, “Could’ve fooled me.”
And you are shocked by the slight edge in his voice, because if there’s one quality you’d attribute to Jim it’s eternal patience, especially with you. You raise your eyebrows at him, but he is staring fixedly at his steak. This is the first time you’ve heard this in his voice, or the first time in a long time. The last time you’d heard it, it had colored his words when he answered your defenses of Roy. It brings you back to memories you’d rather forget, memories that underline your indecisiveness.
“You want to know what’s wrong?”
“Yes,” he stresses, sounding relieved.
“Why did you say that, at the grocery store?” He looks clueless “That I’m just so indecisive.”
His eyes go wide and he shakes his head. “I was just…it was a joke. About the croutons.”
“I know it was a joke. But sometimes you just…there’s a grain of truth in every joke.”
“Not that one.”
“Really? You’ve never thought I was someone who couldn’t make choices?” The look in his eyes is so fleeting that if you hadn’t been watching him intently you would have missed it, but it answers the question for you. “That’s what I thought,” you say, poking at your remaining steak.
“Pam, come on. You’re making something out of nothing. It was a joke. That’s what we do. We joke. Right?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
And then a silence.
“Clearly it’s not okay,” he says.
“I told you what upset me; you said you were kidding. It’s fine.”
“Uh huh.”
You stand and head behind the breakfast bar, snagging the bottle of Midol you’d purchased and taking two. He watches you and his eyebrows raise, as if to say thank God. You know that look: Jim is a man unlike any other, but apparently even he is susceptible to that guy tendency to chalk up bad moods and hurt feelings to PMS. It feels like a dismissal, but you vow that you won’t push it. You refuse to instigate any “What was that look for?” discussions, because you’ve had too many of those in the past. Besides, that question leads to fights – it never fails. And that is terrifying. You don’t know how to fight with Jim. You never have; you have no idea what’s off limits to say, what crosses the line. You and Roy both knew those things about each other; your fights were almost scripted, they’d been so similar time and again. You purse your lips: this night can be salvaged somehow; this will be your contribution to the cause, to let that look go. Because he’s not wrong, although you don’t like that your feelings are attributed to a “monthly friend.”
You ponder finishing the rest of your dinner, but you just don’t feel hungry anymore so you take your plate to the garbage. Jim is still methodically eating, staring at some mystery place on the wall. After your plate is in the sink you take a beer from the refrigerator and, after a moment’s hesitation, join him at the table again.
“How are your feet after yesterday?” you ask tentatively, hoping this will somehow get them out of this.
“They’re fine.” His tone is still a bit clipped, a bit wary.
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
You pick at your beer bottle label, hoping he’ll take the lead and steer this conversation somewhere else, but he doesn’t.
“Is there something wrong?” you ask in a tone that you hope isn’t sarcastic, because it isn’t meant to be. He half shrugs.
“I don’t know.” He sighs, sits back, rubs a hand over his face. “You’ve just seemed so…upset all day, or mad at me, or something…” He shakes his head. “I thought yesterday was a really good day, and here you are…not thinking that, I guess.”
You resist the urge to ask Jim if he too is suffering a bit of PMS, because you hadn’t really said that and it seems a bit melodramatic. “Yesterday was a good day.”
“Does this have something to do with them knowing now? The camera guys, I mean?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m the one that spilled it. Why would that bother me?”
He shrugs again. “I don’t know. That people know now.”
“Why would people knowing about us bother me?”
“You’re sure it doesn’t?”
And there it is again – that assumption that your first answer isn’t always the right one. You pick at the label more furiously. “Yes. I said yes. Jeez.” You look up to see him watching you. Is it so unbelievable to think that this questioning might bother you?
He sighs, then forces a smile. “Can I get anything right today?”
“Don’t do that.” It’s out before you can stop it.
“Do what?”
“You sound so…put upon. Like I’m just too much to deal with today. I’m sorry I’m moody, but you sound like R—“ You manage to stop yourself, but not in time. Despite never fighting before, you do know one thing – don’t talk about Roy. Jim had never asked you not to, and frankly you weren’t compelled much, but out of courtesy you never share a lot about your life with Roy. You figure he appreciates it, because he never asks. The same works in reverse with Karen. It has just never seemed relevant – you two are forging your own history, adding to the already rich tapestry you’d woven in your friendship, and the past just doesn’t matter anymore. Oh sure, there are times you want to ask things about Karen, about their relationship, but you just don’t. Other girlfriends are fair game, but Karen – as good of a person as she was – is the physical embodiment of what you could have had if only you’d said yes. She is the final obstacle you’d had to overcome, and you aren’t sure there will ever be a time when even her name won’t bring a profound sense of melancholy bubbling to the surface. His eyes narrow.
“Like Roy.” He spits it out, as if it he’d taken a bite of something that tasted awful.
You don’t say anything.
“Well that’s great.”
“I didn’t mean it like…it’s not a comparison thing—”
“Sure sounds like it.”
“Jim, don’t.”
He sets his plate down on the counter with a clatter. You recognize the look on his face immediately; he’d worn it so many times as you’d thoughtlessly confided in him about this or that spat with Roy. “Okay, I ‘won’t.’”
“I was just saying…that…”
“That he was an insensitive jerk to you, and apparently I’m being one too.”
“He wasn’t an insensitive jerk.” You don’t know why your first instinct is to defend Roy, not Jim. Maybe an old habit resurfacing.
He is looking at you in disbelief, then smiles, but without joy. “No. Of course he wasn’t.”
“He wasn’t. I mean, we had problems, but…” You let that statement trail off, unsure of how to finish it. There is a long silence, so long that you think it’s a good time to head to the bathroom, splash some water on your face and regroup. Just as you enter the hallway, you hear him finishing your sentence.
“But aside from him not caring about you, or your thoughts, or your feelings, or your talent, or what you wanted in life, or anything like that, yeah, he was essentially a really good guy.”
It had come out in a rush and freezes you in your tracks. Slowly you turn and take the three steps back into the kitchen and take Jim in. He looks overwhelmed, having just voiced thoughts that had no doubt been locked in his head for years. You are stunned, but feel blood rising to your cheeks, because…why now? And really, was that all the credit he could give you, that you had just mindlessly stayed with an asshole?
“He did care about me,” you whisper.
Jim snaps out of his daze, glances at you, then turns away. “Mmm.”
“He did, Jim.” You reach up to your necklace. “I’m sorry you’re hurt…you know, that I said what I said.”
“Should I not be?”
“I don’t know! I don’t hate Roy like you do. But don’t…drag him through the mud like that. He’s a good person.”
Jim just stares at you. “Are we talking about the same guy that came after me a few months ago? ‘Cause then yeah, he’s a great guy.”
You frown. “He shouldn’t have done that. I agree. But what would you have done if that was you, and you’d heard about…” you wave your hands vaguely, “heard that I’d done that?”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“You mean if I had been with you.”
He nods just slightly.
“That’s not fair. I didn’t…you know I loved him once too.”
His brows furrow. “What is that?”
“What do you mean?”
“You think I don’t know you loved him?” He turns away and angrily empties his plate into the trash “Of course I know. I watched it, I saw you two together. Everyday, Pam.”
“I know you did. And I’m sorry…I’m so sorry that that hurt you.”
An agonizing pause.
“Are you sorry you were with him?”
You don’t know how to answer this. Roy was such an integral part of so much of your life. You’d grown up together, then grown up apart. He’d been key in you becoming who you are, the good and bad. And there were a lot of times when you were happy together. But you are sorry that on that warm May night under a single desk lamp, while you wore that silly dress that was far too fancy to wear to a silly office event and he kissed you in a way that made you feel so alive, you didn’t give Jim the answer he wanted; the answer that rattled around in your head and your heart for days – months – afterward.
But before you can even begin to explain that dichotomy, he’s taken his answer from your silence. His eyes turn hard. “Never mind,” he mutters.
“You didn’t even give me any chance to explain.”
“Just…really. Forget it.”
You wrap your arms around your waist and lean against the wall. “I think we’re a little past just ‘forgetting it,’” you say. Jim grabs a beer of his own, slams the fridge and heads to the couch. He falls onto it and puts a hand through his hair.
“Okay. Explain.” But it’s clear he isn’t interested in whatever you’d say.
“Should I bother? You’ve already assumed…whatever.”
“No. Go ahead.”
“We got together when I was sixteen, Jim. Do you realize how much we’d been through?”
“Obviously.” His tone is neutral, and you are praying that he stops picking this scab.
But he can’t. Obviously.
“High school sweethearts.”
“Don’t do that,” you say again fiercely. “Don’t dismiss what I had with someone else, just because he wasn’t you.”
“You think that’s what I’m doing?”
“Yeah. Aren’t you? You thought I needed saving from him, or…or something. Like I was a damsel in distress. It wasn’t like that. It just…I needed time to figure it out..”
“A lot of it,” he almost whispers. It feels like a slap.
“Obviously,” you parrot back at him. “What do you want me to say?”
“What do I want you to say?”
“Yes.” You hold your arms wide. “What am I not saying that will make you happy?”
He drums his fingers on his knee at a rapid clip. “It’s not on me to tell you what to say.”
“It sure as hell feels like it is, because what I’m coming up with isn’t cutting it.”
“Dammit, Pam.” He looks up at you. “Why can’t you just say that he was wrong for you? Just for once…say it.” His voice cracks on the last two words and he looks out the screen door.
You blink back the sudden tears that have risen. How had this spiraled so quickly to this point? Had a joke in the condiments aisle really led to this? “Because I thought me breaking up with him made that clear! Because I thought me being happy with you made that clear! Because I thought that when I say ‘I love you, Jim,’ that it was clear where I am now! That this?” You point back and forth between the two of you. “I thought us being together was enough! You’re asking me to just write off any of my life that didn’t involve you.” You take a deep breath. “I’d never ask you to say that Karen was a mistake.”
“I will. Karen was wrong for me.” His expression silently adds See? Not hard at all.
“But I don’t need you to! I have faith enough to know that ultimately…that…for whatever reasons you dated her, that you made the choice to be with me, in the end.”
“I did choose that. Yes.”
You can’t read his tone, but your blood boils as he hits that raw nerve again. “Fine, Jim. Yes. You make good choices and I don’t. You know how to decide things and I don’t. Jesus, if that’s what you want to say then say it,” you say loudly. “I can’t choose croutons. I can’t choose internships. I can’t choose men. I can’t do anything.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“Isn’t it?” You stare at him, challenging him. He just stares back. “I get it,” you continue. “I messed up once, and it was huge, and I’m sorry. You punished me enough dating Karen. Don’t keep punishing me now, even if it’s just a joke.”
“I didn’t date Karen to punish you.”
“It felt like it.”
He sighs again. “Come on. You want me to give you the benefit of the doubt with Roy, but you think I stayed with Karen just to make you feel bad? That seems a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. It felt like it. I didn’t know what you were thinking. You hardly talked to me then.”
“What was I supposed to say? I’d been there, Pam. I’d been the one to hear about all that stuff!” You know what that means: You hurt me with that tactic. I wasn’t going to do the same, treat you like just a friend.
“So it was all or nothing, and you chose to give me nothing. For months.”
He laughs mirthlessly. “Wow. Yeah. I guess I chose that. It had nothing to do with you,” he fires back sarcastically. He picks up the remote, then throws it to the end of the couch. “All you had to do was say the word—”
“I did!” you cry, then rub your eyes and sink down the wall. “I did choose, Jim! And I chose you! Maybe not when you wanted, or how you wanted, but I did choose! Why can’t that be enough?!” You can’t think straight, because the comments are too rapid-fire now. You’ve dug up too many issues; everything is getting too broad and all-encompassing, and you know now that no matter how fantastic the last few months of bliss have been, it was a bad idea to never have hashed this out in the beginning. Time had not healed these wounds; it had actually done the reverse. You had both lived with these tiny miseries every day and gotten used to them; having them laid out now, when you’re both finally happy, amplifies their ability to hurt you.
He stands and you almost think he’ll take a timeout, leave for a few – Roy always had, and while you hate comparing the two, you can’t help it sometimes because that’s the extent of your relationship experience. Plus you know that Jim hates these kind of…well, fights. He’d said as much. But instead he comes to join you on the floor and puts an arm around you. You lean into him and cry quietly, repeating “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” as you do. He says nothing, just rubs your back slowly and occasionally kisses the top of your head. Finally you take a shaky breath and look up at him.
“We should’ve…” you begin.
“Yeah.”
You wipe your eyes. “I didn’t know all that was still so…there.”
“I didn’t either.”
It’s silent again.
“Do you really feel like I hold that over you? Everything…before?”
Your immediate instinct is to say no, but if there’s a time to be honest it’s now. “Yeah. In some ways. Maybe just in the back of your head, but yeah.”
He nods slowly and looks at the carpet. “You’re probably right.”
“I do it to myself, too.”
“Don’t.”
You just shrug. After a moment he stands and holds out a hand to you. You get up too and walk with him to the couch. You take opposite sides, because this is still going on and you still need a little space. You reach for a throw pillow and rest your head on it. After a few moments of quiet you look at him. “He wasn’t a bad person, Jim. He’s not amazing like you and our relationship wasn’t amazing like this…” He smiles just slightly at that. “I can see how you’d think he’s…but there were times that were really good too.”
His jaw clenches, then relaxes. “Tell me,” he finally requests. Your eyebrows shoot up.
“What?” You wonder if he’s being masochistic, asking this.
He can’t meet your eyes but he is sincere when he repeats, “Tell me about times when you were happy.”
“Really?”
He nods again. “I never asked before…didn’t want to know…but…yeah. Tell me.”
You reach out and take his hand, and you start talking. And while he never looks thrilled by your tales, he’s attentive. He asks questions, grins occasionally. You fall back into these memories easily, because you’d chosen to value them above the other, darker ones. The whole thing is a release, invisible weights being removed one by one. And after you finish you ask about Karen, things you’d wondered but never voiced, and you see the same release happen to him. It is hard not to be stung by the fondness in his voice, but not much – not as much as you’d predicted, at least.
Late that night you head to bed, after hours of talking and listening. You’re clearly both exhausted and neither of you instigate making love; instead he just pulls you to him and nestles his face in your hair; you feel his steady heartbeat against your cheek. It is more than enough.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Okay, so, wow. I've covered fluffy firsts; I'd be remiss if I didn't try my hand and the dreaded *dun dun DUN* FIRST FIGHT. This was tough, because I put myself in each of their mindsets and man...sustaining that feeling on purpose is probably not healthy. There were a lot of standards I set for myself here, but I'm not gonna bore you with them (plus I get a bit irritated with writers that overexplain the work before it's even read). Just know I did my best to make it real, as I do with all my Pim stories. Oh yeah, and in my mind "Fun Run" took place on a Thursday, as I like to think that's just the type of thing Michael would do - not have it on a Friday. Please don't throw garbage at me.
Special thanks to Dundie All-Star for being my sounding board and making me think about my choices (which I'm fine with). ;) And Mose, hope this isn't too rainbow-and-farty for you. ;)
No Mr. Comments were harmed during the writing of this fan fiction. Title from Bush's "Mouth."
Special thanks to Dundie All-Star for being my sounding board and making me think about my choices (which I'm fine with). ;) And Mose, hope this isn't too rainbow-and-farty for you. ;)
No Mr. Comments were harmed during the writing of this fan fiction. Title from Bush's "Mouth."
Chapter End Notes:
Brought to you by The Little Comment Society For Make Jim Halpert Less Perfect While Still Jimtastic. ;)
