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Author's Chapter Notes:
I've been struggling, off and on, with this story for about 5 months. Perhaps it hits too close to home, or maybe it's just harder to imagine a universe in which Jim and Pam are not together now that we know they are (very happily) together. But the seed for this story (and Philly Jim) was planted at the end of season 4 with the idea of "what if?" What if Jim and Pam hadn't worked through their communication issues? What if Pratt opened doors to Pam that she never expected? What if Jim held a grudge, acted insecure, regretted some choices? What if season 3 was only the beginning of Fancy New Beesley?

So ... here goes. What if?

(BTW, I don't think Philly Jim is required reading for this one .... but it might fill in some big, gaping holes.)



It’s still hard for me to watch the documentary these days, but not for the reasons most people think. People think it’s because of Jim, because our relationship ended fairly suddenly (to them) and unexpectedly (to everyone) and they think that seeing Jim onscreen fills me with regret and loss, longing and sadness. And I suppose maybe they are partly right. I mean, how could I look at him, look at how much he loved me all along, and not feel somehow … like an idiot? But that’s not really why I don’t watch. Mostly I turn off the TV when I happen across a rerun on cable because it’s painfully obvious to me now that I was always trying so hard to be sure of something. My attempts at certainty – about anything – were so full of effort, like a five year old trying to tie a shoe, tongue out, concentration focused. It’s literally painful to see how transparent I was, how I hadn’t really fooled anyone, even myself. And even when I was as sure as I could be, even when I convinced myself that I was completely happy and felt confident in my decisions, I somehow always managed to disprove myself. Pretty much every time. And that repeated changing of mind, that constant insecurity, is humiliating, whether it’s only you that realizes it or whether thousands of others witness it as well. Of course, when thousands of others witness it, it’s that much worse.

People do it all the time, I know. Have one very sure and resolute view on something only to switch their opinion, either gradually or suddenly. Sometimes it’s religion – someone can be enthusiastically evangelical or boredly agnostic – but then something in them shifts and they no longer are as fervent or as indifferent as they once were, and they are as surprised as anyone at the shift. Maybe it’s politics or friendships or parenting. Sometimes these shifts in opinion happen within one conversation, when a skillful debater convinces you that you’re wrong, that you haven’t thought it through, or maybe it happens over years and years, like a constant drip that eventually leaves a dent in a rock. Either way, changing your mind is not unusual. It’s not a sin. Some might argue it’s a sign that you’re open minded. Flexible. But to me, it felt like a weakness in my character. That not being decisive or sure or convincing somehow made me fickle and ridiculous.

So when I see the footage – whether it’s of me and Roy, so clearly wrong for each other, or of me and Jim, happy and in love – I realize I was always so quick to convince myself (and others) of whatever I need to to make my decisions okay. When I watch Jim getting ready to propose to me, and then my disappointment that he didn’t, and then just months later my relief that he hadn’t, I mostly feel ashamed that I had been so very sure and then not sure at all, all within the span of a year. Really, within the span of a few months. After taking ten years to end a relationship with a guy much less suited to me than Jim, how did I somehow manage to let my relationship with Jim fall apart so quickly? How is that possible?

I try to recreate that year sometimes, trying to determine what exactly happened within me so that next time I’ll know. Hopefully next time I’ll know for sure what I want before I’ll attempt to morph my wants into the wants of someone else, before I drag someone else down that rabbit hole of doubt and insecurity with me. But that fear nags at me often: what if I’ll never be sure? What if nothing ever feels 100% right? What if, just like I left Roy for Jim, and just like I broke up with Jim for some other nebulous desire, I waffle again?

I hope that something is different in me now. Whereas before I had always been actively convincing myself, whether I realized it or not, now I am just … being. I am living and letting life kind of wash over me. I’m no longer so black and white, believing that either something is wrong or right, worthy of keeping or throwing away based on someone else’s opinion. Now I will sit with something and let it kind of sink in instead of a knee jerk reaction to cave in when doubt seeps through the cracks of my certainty. I’ll listen to a voice, a still sort of quiet voice that has probably been inside of me all along. The real Pam’s voice. The first time I recognized that voice as me, I nearly cried. I wanted to hug her and whisper in her ear, I’ve been waiting for you. Where have you been?

When I left for Pratt, though, that voice was just a tiny, laryngitis-tinged whisper. When I had been with Roy, it was pretty much gagged and silent, but even when I was with Jim it was quiet and timid, trying so hard to clear its throat and get my attention. I remember sitting in the conference room, talking about how “solid” things were with Jim and how I wouldn’t consider going to Pratt if they weren’t, and I think that almost-mute Pam was raising her eyebrows at me, looking confused. You wouldn’t? she seemed to ask. Isn’t this what you want? Isn’t this what you wanted long before you ever even met Jim? But I drowned out the tiny little voice with my cheerful talk of things finally being perfect. Yes, I actually cockily used the word ‘perfect’ and shushed that voice with a Not now. I’m happy. And so she shrugged again and zipped up her lip, chastened.

A few months later, when I was half dreading returning to Scranton, trying to act like I missed it, that voice was saying, See? I told you.

That first day in New York, I had been equal parts terrified of Jim leaving and Jim staying. What would happen when he wasn’t there to overrule my doubts, to give me the boosts of self-confidence that I seemed incapable of giving myself? Who would I be without him telling me that I’m smart and funny and pretty? Would I still be those things? But if he stayed, if I had the ring on my finger that just weeks before I was so convinced that I wanted, I knew myself well enough to know that I would start compromising what I wanted for what he wanted. Thai when I really wanted pizza. Taking a cab when I wanted to walk. Seeing a movie when I wanted to paint. Jim was so much better at letting me make decisions than Roy was, but when I knew that he wanted something different, I would quickly convince myself that it’s what I wanted too. And for the first time in my life, in New York City, I wanted to allow myself to simply want what I wanted. So when he had made love to me and kissed me and left without complaint, I loved him more than ever for not staying. I loved him for letting me grow.

I made friends immediately, which was so unusual for me. I had gone so long without any friends besides Jim that I thought maybe I was incapable of being close to anyone without a secret crush involved. But I did make friends. Guy friends AND women – younger women who looked up to me and took me under their wings at the same time, like I was some slightly older but more naïve cousin from Nebraska, someone they wanted to give a makeover. They asked lots of questions about “the tall, kinda’ hot guy” they saw me with on weekends and when I told them he was my boyfriend, boyfriend felt like the right word. All those years with Roy I’d found pleasure in saying “my fiancé,” trying to feel more grown up and more confident than I was. But in New York, among my new younger friends, “boyfriend” was a word they understood, a word that made me feel less old. Fiancé would have been foreign to them, a futuristic term they wouldn’t have to think about for years, like “adjustable rate mortgage.” Or maybe it just would have seemed old-fashioned, like a grandparent using the words “dungarees” or “slacks”. Anyway, boyfriend felt right, and I was actually sort of grateful to Jim for realizing before I did that waiting was the right decision.

When my friends met Jim, they liked him, as everyone does. But when they pushed a little, as college-aged kids tend to do, asking about his passions and interests, they seemed amused but slightly unimpressed by his jokes and his attempts to change the subject. I was used to it – his slippery avoidance of subjects that made him feel uncomfortable. The way he could slide right under a pointed question and deflect attention. But to twenty-three year olds, an almost thirty year old without a dream seemed a little pathetic. Maybe a paper salesman who had been in love with the same woman for six years seemed more pitiful than romantic to them. I was quick to rush to Jim’s defense, as I often had done with Roy. Jim was more than what he seemed on paper, I told them. He wasn’t just a floppy-haired 28-year-old paper salesman who played pranks. I wanted my new friends to see that, to understand that. But I was realizing that Jim kept a lot from me – a lot of who he was, what he liked, what he thought. It sometimes seemed like his salesman persona carried over into our relationship and whenever I got too close to discovering something he might consider a “product deficiency”, if you will, Jim would find a way to change the subject and make the sale.

I had always felt like Jim was better than me, for some reason. He was smarter, funnier, more educated, had dated more, made more money. I had always fought with my own self-doubt when it came to him. It’s why I never called him after I canceled my wedding. It’s why I ignored any sign of interest that whole time he was with Karen. But in New York I realized I was worthy of him. I was a brave woman following her dream. I was no less than him – no more, either, but certainly no less.

By July, New York felt more like home to me than Scranton ever had. In Scranton I had always been labeled and defined, relegated to a less desirable non-cheerleader subgroup of society. The plain, quiet, artistic kind. But in New York, those weren’t necessarily better or worse qualities than being outgoing, eccentric, right-brained. There were so many subgroups intersecting all over the place that my old labels didn’t quite seem to fit anymore. And I liked that, not being labeled.

I worked so hard at Pratt. I was often overwhelmed and filled with doubt and sometimes just wanted to go back to answering phones at Dunder Mifflin because at least that was something that I knew I could do, something I could do well. Jim tried to talk me through it over the phone, encouraging me and telling me I was good enough, but I don’t think I believed him. He was the guy who fell in love with a receptionist. He believed in me, but what did he really know about art? Of course he thought I was good enough. He loved me and, because of that, he was incapable of objectivity. Sometimes when he’d encourage me, I found myself grateful that we were on the phone and not face to face so he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes. He was smarter and more cultured than Roy, but often his encouragement reminded me of Roy’s “Your art is the prettiest art of all the art.” Jim loved me, but his praise lost its power in New York, diluted by the city, watered down by the thousands of artists within walking distance from my dormitory. What did a paper salesman in Scranton know about artistic talent? I loved him, but sometimes I wanted him to just listen to me complain and not tell me I was good enough. Maybe I wished he didn’t love me so much so he could be honest, so he could see, objectively, if I truly was good enough or not.

I always looked forward to Jim’s visits, but eventually they felt a little like trying on a once-favorite pair of jeans, a pair that now seemed too tight and slightly out of style. The things Jim and I had always bonded over, the things we had always talked about, were now so far away. Dwight, Michael, the office, Scranton, it all felt like a lifetime ago. And Jim certainly tried to talk to me about my new life, but he was only there every week or so for two days, and when we were together we didn’t spend a lot of time with my new friends. He didn’t come to class with me, he didn’t meet my professors. The life I was living was completely separate from him, now. And a part of me wanted him in that part of my life, and a part of me wanted it to be my own. I liked having something that I didn’t have to bounce off him, waiting anxiously for his approval. Not because he needed to give his nod, like Roy did, but because I so badly needed someone else to confirm that what I was doing was the right thing. My inner Pam voice told me that I needed to figure that out for myself.

So I tried.


Chapter End Notes:
Thanks so much for giving this one a shot, friends. Hopefully you all can suspend disbelief enough to appreciate a different (and not necessarily unhappy) ending to the Jim and Pam story.

No idea when part 2 is coming. Hopefully soon...

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