You might think, from the insanity of the night before, that I would be confused as to where I am. But I'm not.
I am in Jim's arms, my head on his chest, breathing in his fabric softener. Where else would I be? Where else would I be this comfortable?
I don't want to move.
His undershirt is soft against my cheek and my fingertips rest softly on a tantalizingly warm sliver of skin where the cotton has ridden up. I pull my hand over the exposed stomach and hold back a laugh when one of his arms twitches and pulls me closer.
"Pam," he says, voice low and close to my ear. "That is so not fair."
I smile and hum into him. "I know." My hand splays over his abdomen. "I have to go."
"I know." And his hand rests over mine.
Roy shouts, and I need out. As I turn to close the door, he kicks the chair and my heart breaks a little when he collapses into it and sobs.
A little.
I return to Jim's with my bag and my left hand feels lighter than it ever has and I'm liberated. Free.
I don't go inside. On the steps I say, "Jim, I need time." He nods and he understands and when I tell him I'm taking time off he just hugs me and I kiss him swiftly.
"See you soon."
"Take care of yourself, Pam. Good luck."
On Saturday, Mom hugs me twenty-two times and Roy calls thirty-nine. I find a little blue car in a driveway down the street from my parent's house and it's for sale. I get a good deal, and Mom helps out a bit.
"Anything you need," she says, dabbing her eyes. "Oh, my baby." Hug twenty-three follows.
On Monday, I find a tiny apartment but know it's mine immediately because of the small balcony off the bedroom. I paint all of my three rooms on Tuesday.
Roy has called a total of one hundred and forty times, and left fifty-one messages. Mom adds a dozen more hugs to her list.
Wednesday, as I lie on the couch in my scarcely decorated living room, Jim calls.
"Work is terrible," he confesses, "without you there. I mean, really. Dwight needs a severe pranking. And Michael is, well--Michael. I'm sorry to say."
I laugh. "I'll be back soon, I promise."
"Ryan is the receptionist. He thinks I'm gay now."
"Ouch."
"I'm telling you, Beesly, we need you here. If I have to see Ryan give me the 'Is my coworker straight? Because he keeps looking at me longingly . . .' look one more time--"
I fall a little more, for him, and I don't know if next Monday can come soon enough.
Sunday night finds me at the supermarket and attempting to move as little as possible.
"Shit!" I curse under my breath, rubbing my shoulder after a few achy hops for the eggs. "God dammi--"
"Anything I can help you with, ma'am?" a voice comes from behind me.
"Yes, those eggs, up there, could you reach them? Thanks so much, sir, I--" His snort cuts me off, and I turn.
Jim says, "You called me sir," with a ridiculous giddy grin on his unshaven face.
"Dammit, Jim!" I launch myself at him, laughing, punching his shoulder. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow."
"Whoa there, Beesly. What happened to you?"
"Rearranging furniture," I wince. "All afternoon. Heavy stuff."
He looks hurt, his lips pulling down at the corners in disappointment. "You could have called me. I do have these hideously large muscles."
"Yeah, I could have, but Jim? I needed to do it myself."
I don't have eggs. I need an omelet and I don't have eggs.
There's a knock at the door.
"Pam?" he says, handing me a carton. "You forgot your eggs."