It’s a day of small mercies.
Tiny mercies really, but he takes what he can get. The first is that the cameras aren’t there; it’s a Monday, and they’re normally there on Mondays, but they’ve packed up for the summer and so when he steps out of the elevator the office is dark, quiet except for the muted drone of a vacuum somewhere downstairs.
Switching on the lights he stands transfixed as they pop into life, the glare flattening out the shadows in the room. Then he shivers because there’s no warmth in the light and he’s not slept, not really, for a couple of nights. He’s edgy and exhausted all at once, flat and hyper. A dozen other contradictions.
He hangs up his jacket, the only thing on the coat stand bar a scarf that’s been there since the winter. It’s baby-pink, which means it’s probably Pam’s. He puts his jacket on a different hook and doesn’t look at her desk, but stops mid-stride toward his own.
You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that…
The feeling he’s been living with all weekend, like a fist balled in his chest, intensifies until he’s forced to sigh, just to ease the pressure.
Ignoring the memories, he pulls out his chair and slumps into it. After a moment of staring at the ceiling he switches on his computer and closes his eyes, listening to it boot up.
If he was to list the ten worst days of his life, Friday would be way up there. Way up. Silver medal, probably. Not gold, because he’s reserving the top spot. June tenth is a contender, or would have been if he was planning on being anywhere near the wedding. Which he isn’t. He’ll be in Australia, which is about as far away as he can get. Maybe he should have chosen China, for those few extra-thousand miles of distance? As if that would make any difference. June tenth is still a contender.
But today, he suspects, will take the prize. Because, although three sleepless nights and two blank days have passed, today is really the morning-after-the-night-before.
He hasn’t called her, of course, because what is there to say? She’s made her choice and he isn’t going to beg. She hasn’t called him either. He didn’t expect her to, not really, but every time the phone rings his heart leaps out of his chest. And every time it isn’t her, that fist squeezes just a little bit harder.
So today is the day when, bright under the neon gaze of the office, he’ll have to face her.
Hey Jim
Hey Pam
Good weekend?
Yeah, great. Hey, guess what? I laid it on the line to this girl I’m crazy about, and she totally turned me down. Twice. So she’s still marrying the other guy, but get this – this is the kicker – it turns out she was the one. You know? Like, the one. So now I can’t sleep, or eat, or maybe even breathe. So, yeah, really great weekend. You?
Yeah, something like that.
In the silence he hears the elevator doors open and sits bolt upright in his chair, heart pounding. He’s not ready. Fingers curl around the side of his desk, he tenses as if for a blow.
“Jim. You’re in early.”
“Oscar.” His breath comes out in a rush he can’t control and Oscar gives him an odd look. “I had some stuff to do,” Jim fumbles, shuffling papers around his desk with a serious nod.
“Okay,” Oscar shrugs, not really interested. “Good weekend?”
“Yeah it was… Yeah.”
Seven-thirty-six. That leaves twenty-four minutes. Twenty-four minutes until…? What?
He gets up, goes into the bathroom and stands staring at himself in the mirror. Pasty, shadows under the eyes. It’s a good look. “Hi Pam,” he says, trying it out. His smile is a rictus and he closes his mouth, tries a casual nod. “Hey.”
There are twenty-four minutes left – twenty-three now – to pull himself together. He laughs at the notion and it’s an alarming sound, close to something else. Who’s he kidding? He doesn’t even know how to look at her. Arms resting on the side of the sink, he presses his face into his hands. “Whywhywhywhywhy?” he mutters through his fingers, just as the bathroom door bangs opened. It’s Dwight, of course.
“So, it’s true.”
“What?”
Letting the door swing closed behind him, chest puffed like a balding cockerel, Dwight circles. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing here.”
“Okay. I work here, so…”
He levels a finger. “I’m watching you.”
“That’s great.”
Eyes narrow, chin lifts. “Remember: I know Michael, I know how he thinks. I know what he thinks. I know when he thinks.”
Jim finds he has absolutely nothing to say, he even lacks the energy to be amused. Instead he just nods and pushes past Dwight toward the door. “You know what? Knock yourself out. I got nothing today.”
He slips out of the bathroom, sees Kelly in the kitchen making coffee, and swerves back toward his desk before she notices. Why the hell is everyone in so early? Or maybe they always get in this early, and he never knew because he doesn’t get in until eight, because – seriously – what’s the point of being here before Pam?
He slumps into his chair and opens up his email, that fist in his chest clenching at the prospect of pam@dundermifflin.com. There are fifty-five new messages, half of which are forwards from Michael. Nothing from Pam. The rest are work related, things he should deal with, but there’s something going on in the pit of his stomach that makes his hand shake on the mouse and he can’t focus long enough to open any of his messages.
Oh God. What’s he going to say to her? Seriously, how is he even going to be around her? He needs a plan.
“Read ’em and weep, Jim,” Dwight crows from behind him, triumph in every syllable.
Trying to ignore him, he opens up Excel.
“Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte,” Dwight carries on. “Rich espresso. Sweet, buttery, sugar-free cinnamon dolce syrup. Non-fat steamed milk topped with foamed milk and cinnamon dolce sprinkles. Just the way Michael likes it.”
Figuring he’ll get it over quicker if he just takes the bait, Jim swings around in his chair. Dwight’s poised outside Michael’s empty office with a Starbuck’s in one hand. After a moment, Jim just says, “I give up. What? You got a job at Starbucks?”
“Michael,” he says, “has had an…exhausting weekend.” Here there’s a smirk Jim has no desire to investigate. “He’ll need this when he comes in, and as his batman it’s my job to anticipate his needs. You will never understand that.”
“His Batman?” He wants to make a joke about Robin but he’s too tired for this, and he can hear footsteps coming from the elevator and that weird sensation in the pit of his stomach is rolling into nausea.
“Not Batman,” Dwight tuts. “His batman – Samwise Gamgee to Michael’s Frodo. Loyal servant to the chosen one.”
“Dwight,” he presses the balls of his hands against his temples, “I actually don’t—”
“Hi Jim, hi Dwight.” It’s Phyllis, bustling into the office in a haze of au d’mothball.
Jim thinks he might actually throw up from the tension.
“My point, Jim,” Dwight carries on, “is that I know what you’re doing. Did you think I didn’t notice your ‘dentist appointment’ last week? Those not-so-secret conversations with Toby?” He nods. “Oh yes, I’ve been waiting for this challenge to my position and I am ready. Consider this fair warning; I will crush you.”
Jim just turns back to his emails. But the tips of his fingers have turned cold and he’s buzzing like he has the worst caffeine high. He can’t sit still, so gets up and heads for the break room. Coffee’s the last thing he needs, but what the hell?
He pours a cup and sloshes it onto the counter because his hands are shaking. Any minute now she’ll be there and he’ll have to speak to her and act normal, only there is no normal anymore because he loves her and she doesn’t love him and she’s marrying Roy and he’s transferring to Stamford and—
Stamford.
Yes.
He clings to it like a drowning man, because Stamford is going to save his life. He’s transferring to Stamford. He has that to say to her, at least.
If you left here I would seriously blow my brains out…
He smiles and feels ashamed of the harsh, angry glee. But he takes a breath, lets it settle, and feels calmer. Stamford is his way out and the knot in his stomach relaxes a little. He wipes up the coffee on the counter and takes the mug back to his desk, and when he looks up there she is at reception.
Their eyes collide for an instant before he looks away. He flushes, curses himself, and forces his mind to go blank as he sits down and pretends to work. Stamford, Stamford, Stamford. It’s like static in his mind, running interference. Everything else is just noise.
At some point Michael shows up, ostentatiously whistling ‘Love is in the Air’, and begging someone to ask about his weekend. Jim keeps his head down, keeps his eyes on the blur of spreadsheets on his screen. He doesn’t look at her again, but he can hear her despite the mantra rattling through his mind.
“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”
As a distraction he starts working out how he’ll tell her. The problem being that telling her involves talking to her, which involves looking at her, and that would mean remembering how she’d kissed him – and she had kissed him – and how, for one incandescent moment, he’d thought, he’d believed—
“Pamalamadingdong!” Michael’s hand slaps against the reception desk, yanking Jim out of the memory. “How was your weekend, Pametto?”
“Fine.”
“Fine? Okay… Pam had a ‘fine’ weekend, everyone.” There’s no answer, so he’s forced to add, “And…how was the weather?”
“The weather?” Her voice is quiet, subdued, but Jim can still hear it above everything else in the office.
“Any unusual weather?”
“Um. No.”
“I was just wondering because I didn’t get outside once this weekend.” Although Jim isn’t looking he can hear the leer and the desperate plea to be asked why. No question is forthcoming, however, so Michael elaborates. “We just pretty much holed up in the bedroom the whole weekend. Just holding each other and listening to the rain.”
Pam says, “It didn’t rain this weekend.”
“Well, then there were sprinklers…”
There’s silence. Then the phone rings. “Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam. Oh, hi Jan, Michael’s just— Oh. Yes, just one moment…”
Jim’s phone rings, making him jump, and he can’t stop himself from glancing over at her as he picks up. “Jim, I have Jan for you,” she says, both tinny through the phone and loud across the room.
He swings his chair away as he answers, but he can tell she’s watching him. He can feel her gaze burning into his back. “Hi Jan,” he says.
“Jim. I’m phoning about the transfer; I want you to know that I’ll need an answer by close of play tomorrow. So give it some—”
“Um, actually, I can give you an answer right now – it’s a definite yes.”
“Really? Okay, that’s great, Jim. It’s a good move for you. I’ll have the details passed to Toby and we’ll get this thing moving as soon as possible.”
“Okay.” He sits forward, lowering his voice. “Um, any idea how soon…?”
“That’s really up to you.”
He laughs, a bleak kind of sound. “Tomorrow would be good.”
“Okay, well, it’s good to see you’re eager. Ah, how about next Monday? That’ll give HR time to do the paperwork and you’ll obviously need time to find a place to stay, so we can arrange some time for that this week…”
“Okay, that’s good. Monday’s good.”
He sits with the phone to his ear and listens to it hum long after she’s hung up. Monday. It’s done, he’s leaving. Wow.
“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”
He glances over, but she isn’t watching him anymore. She looks pale, he thinks. And tired. Maybe she hasn’t slept either.
“Question:” Dwight’s fingers are steepled, tapping against his chin. “Why would corporate director Jan Levinson call to speak to the ninth-ranked regional salesman, Jim Halpert?”
“Good question,” Jim nods, and from the corner of his eye he sees Pam turn and feels her eyes on him again.
“Word of advice,” Dwight says. “Doing an end run around your CO is never a good idea. “
Jim gets to his feet. “You’re not my CO. And this isn’t the marines.”
“Disloyalty will be punished.”
With a shrug, he heads back to the break room.
“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam. Yes, just a moment. Michael, I have Jan for you.”
Jim lets the door close behind him and drops down into one of the chairs. It’s done. He feels a flat kind of relief, but nothing that could be called excitement or anticipation. He’s leaving and soon it might stop hurting so much, he might stop thinking about her all the damn time, and that fist in his chest might unclench. That’s all—
“Hey.” Pam opens the door and slips inside.
Scrambling to his feet, he tries not to look like he’s backing away. Although he is. “Hey. I was just...” He makes a move toward the door, but she stops him.
“Wait, Jim. Listen...”
“Come on,” he says, shaking his head. “We did this...”
“I just— This feels so weird.”
“Yeah.” He’s studying his shoes, scruffy against the grey carpet. “I’m sorry—”
“No, I didn’t mean… I wasn’t...” She sighs. “Is this what it’s going to be like from now on?”
He shakes his head, not knowing how to answer. Through the glass partition he sees Toby ambling toward his desk, a file in hand. “I, ah,” he says, edging toward the door. “I need to speak to Toby, so...”
Tight lipped, she moves out of his path. “Okay.”
Her heavy sigh follows him out through the door, but he doesn’t look back.
Pam pulls a soda from the bottom of the machine, but doesn’t open it and doesn’t head back to her desk. Instead, she watches through the window as Jim and Toby exchange a few words and then walk together into Michael’s office. Toby closes the door.
She can’t imagine how it could have anything to do with what happened on Friday night, but nonetheless there’s a cold kind of foreboding in the pit of her stomach. Does Jim imagine he has to disclose what had happened to HR? Does he think she might complain about him, make up some stupid harassment claim?
God knows, that would be a lie. She’s still dizzy from the kiss they shared, from the way he purposely demolished the careful fiction that they were just good friends. But there’s no coming back from that, no more pretending, and she has no choice but to turn him away.
What else can she do? It’s three weeks until her wedding. And Roy’s a good man. A decent man. She knows him, knows what her life will be like with him; it’s the life she’s planned since forever. How can she abandon all that for something so untried, so risky? It’s insane. She can’t do it, she can’t take that kind of chance.
Shaking the thoughts away, though they don’t go far, she heads back to her desk. As she passes Michael’s office she glimpses him through the blinds, arms folded and leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t look happy. And then she hears his voice, raised but muffled, and has only just sat down at her desk when his door flies open and he spills out with Toby on his heels and Jim, hands sunk in his pockets, lingering in the doorway.
“Michael,” Toby says with his usual quiet resignation, “this isn’t really—”
“Okay, listen up everyone.” Michael is speaking too loud and too harsh. “I have an announcement. Apparently, there’s a traitor among us.”
The usual frowns of confusion dart around the office, and Dwight is on his feet right away. “Michael, do you want me to begin an investigation?”
“No, Dwight, that won’t be necessary because Benedict Arnold is standing right here.” Michael’s gaze fixes on Jim. “Apparently Jim hates working here and doesn’t want to be our friend anymore.”
Pam stares at him, heart pounding. It’s not true. It’s a joke, one of Michael’s stupid jokes. But Jim’s gaze is fixed on Michael and he isn’t smiling. Then he gives half a shrug to the office in general and without looking at her, says, “I got a promotion. I’m transferring to Stamford next week.”
There’s a perfect moment of silence. Then Dwight’s pumping the air. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”
“No,” Michael scowls. “Not ‘yes’, Dwight. Betrayal isn’t a ‘yes’ moment.”
“It’s not a betrayal,” Jim sighs, moving back to his desk and sitting down. “It’s a promotion and a pay rise.”
“Hey, congratulations, man,” Ryan calls from the annex. “I didn’t think you’d ever leave this place.”
Jim nods. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Stop!” Michael protests. “Don’t congratulate him, Ryan. No one congratulate him.”
“Way to go,” Kevin says. “You got out.” And then the others follow suit, but Pam isn’t listening. It’s just noise in her head, because all she can think is he’s leaving, he’s leaving. Oh my God, he’s leaving.
Then Toby must have said something to Michael, because suddenly Michael’s office door slams shut and Toby is outside staring at it. And Pam realises she still hasn’t moved, that her hand is still clutching her mouse, and somewhere a phone is ringing and ringing.
“Uh, Pam?” Dwight says. “Phone?”
She blinks and almost drops the handset as she picks it up, her hands oddly clumsy and her mind slippery, like ice. “Um, Dunder Mifflin.”
It’s Jan, for Michael, but he refuses to take the call so Jan asks her to transfer it to Toby. But Jim still hasn’t looked up and Pam’s finding it difficult to see the dial because her eyes are blurring and somehow she manages to cut off the call. Toby says not to worry, that he’ll call Jan back, but he sounds too sympathetic, like he knows, and even over the phone it’s hard to keep her composure.
Because Jim’s leaving. He’s leaving her.
Her throat burns, she wants to cry. She wants to hide in the bathroom and sob her heart out. She wants to scream at him, shake him, and make him understand how much this hurts.
But she can do nothing. Because this is work and you don’t do any of those things at work. And, anyway, what right does she have to be sad or angry? She knows exactly why he’s leaving; she can’t even blame him. How could she, after she saw that dreadful look in his eyes? That raw heartbreak.
No, she doesn’t blame him, not for that. But she’d give anything to go back and keep him from speaking those few perilous words, that sentence that ruined everything.
I’m in love with you...
If only he hadn’t said it! If only things could just carry on as they were, silent and beneath the surface. If only…
She risks a glance in his direction, sees him staring into space, so familiar and so— What’s the word? There’s a word for how he looks, how she feels when she looks at him, but she just can’t put her finger on it. She can never find quite the right word for him.
“Hey.”
And then Roy’s there, drumming his fingers on her desk, and she has to force herself to smile. “Hey.”
“So, ah, listen babe… Think you can get a ride home with someone else tonight?”
“What? Why?”
“Daryl’s organising a little pre-bachelor party thing after work, you know?”
“A pre-bachelor party?”
“Just some of the guys from work…”
“But they’re the same guys going to the real bachelor party.”
“Well, yeah, but—” He slaps his palm down on the desk and takes a step toward the door. “Come on, it’s Daryl.”
“It’s Monday night…”
“So?” He’s backing away. “You’re not the ball-and-chain yet, babe. I’ll be late, so don’t wait up.”
She watches him leave, watches the door slowly shut behind him, because it’s easier than looking anywhere else. And she doesn’t want to see Jim watching her with that expression she always hates, the one that says ‘Why the hell are you with that guy?’
But when, at last, her gaze slips toward his desk she sees that his chair is already empty and he’s over in the far corner, talking to Toby. She thinks that, last week, he’d have offered her a ride home; she knows he won’t today.
At which point, Michael’s door flies open. “Right,” he says, “I’ve decided that today is Loyalty Day. Conference room, everyone. Now.” He looks over at Toby’s desk. “Except Toby. And Jim. This is only for Scranton employees.”
She spends the next hour not listening to Michael and watching Jim’s back through the conference room window. In a way, it’s a good thing. It gives her time to think, to get herself under control and figure out what to do next. After an hour of Michael’s wikipedia version of traitors and their punishments, she realises that she has to say something to Jim. They can’t part in absolute silence, that would be ridiculous. She cares about him – she’s not afraid to admit that – and so, as a friend, she has to say something. The question is what, and how?
Opportunity presents itself sooner than she expects – sooner than she’s ready, if truth be told. Then again, perhaps she’ll never be ready for this because, when it comes right down to it, this is goodbye.
“Pam,” Michael says, jarring her awake. “I need m’boom box.”
“Your boom box?”
“It’s in my car. Keys are in my desk.”
With a sigh she gets to her feet and it’s then that she realises this is the moment. Stomach twisting, she closes the conference room door behind her and stands for a minute trying to gather courage. Jim isn’t at his desk, but she spots him in the kitchen making coffee, and in the quiet office she can hear Toby busy on the phone.
It’s the perfect moment, as alone as they can be at work.
Swallowing her nerves, she pushes open the kitchen door and steps inside.
“Hey.”
He nearly drops his mug at the sound of her voice and it takes a moment before he can muster a “Hey” in return, and even then he doesn’t look up from the milk he’s pouring into his coffee.
“So,” she says, staying close to the door, “you kept that quiet.”
He nods, and like an idiot says, “Kept what quiet?”
“Your transfer?” Her voice is edged with a laugh, but it sounds more like anger than humour. “I mean, wow, talk about out of the blue.”
He’s stirring his coffee, even though he doesn’t take sugar. But it’s better than looking at her. “I wasn’t sure I was going to take it, so…”
There’s a long silence and the only noise in the world is the clink of his spoon against the mug.
“You don’t have to leave,” she says at last. “I mean if it’s about what happened—”
“It’s not.” He looks up then because he doesn’t want to talk about it and it pisses him off that she doesn’t get that. “It’s because I can’t do this for the rest of my life.”
“Oh,” is all she says, because she has to know that this doesn’t only mean selling paper in Scranton.
“I should…” he says, nodding toward his desk.
But she doesn’t move from in front of the door. “You didn’t even tell me.” She’s shaking her head as if she’s just working it out. “I had to hear it from Michael.”
He doesn’t have an answer to that. It’s true, he didn’t tell her.
“I thought we were friends,” she says. “But you—”
“We’re not friends.” It slips out, but what the hell? He’s already bet the farm and there’s nothing else to lose. “You know it was never just that, don’t even pretend it was just that.”
Her eyes widen, lips pressed tight. He isn’t sure if she’s angry or afraid, and either one breaks his heart anew; he doesn’t want it to end like this.
With a sigh he scrubs a hand over his face. “Look— It doesn’t matter. You’re marrying Roy and that’s great, that’s what you want, and I’m… I’m moving to Connecticut. There’s nothing else to say.”
Except that her eyes are full of words, unspoken as always. She’ll never say them now and he guesses it doesn’t matter because whatever she feels for him, it just isn’t enough. The fist that’s been tight in his chest all weekend falls away, becomes a dead weight in the pit of his stomach, and he’s suddenly bone tired. “I should get back to work,” he says, because he can’t stand there listening to her silence anymore.
With a nod she moves away from the door and as he opens it she says, “I’m really sorry. For everything.”
“Yeah,” he nods, not looking at her as he leaves. “I know.”
When he gets back to his desk he realises he left his coffee behind. He doesn’t go back for it.
After lunch Angela appears in front of her desk.
“Michael wants the party planning committee to organise a leaving party for Jim on Friday.”
It’s a blow Pam should have expected, but didn’t. “Oh, right,” she says, avoiding Angela’s shrewd gaze. “Okay.”
“We’re meeting in ten minutes, in the conference room.”
She nods, still avoiding eye contact, and tries to will away the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Planning Jim’s leaving party? How fantastically ironic. It feels like planning a wake. She’s still trying to quell her distress when Jim comes over. Tentative, he hovers in front of her desk, not getting too close.
“Hey,” he says, speaking really low, and looking anywhere but at her. “Uh, listen. Don’t worry about the party thing, because – I haven’t told Michael yet – but actually I’m not going to be in for the rest of the week. Jan’s given me four days leave to sort out the move. So...”
“So today’s your last day?”
“Yeah.” He nods, rapping his fingers on the desk. “Today’s my last day.”
“Right.” And, really, now she’s pissed. “Fine, then.” They’d been friends – and she doesn’t care what he has to say about it, they had been friends – for three years, and this is how it ends? Afraid of the anger, of what it might provoke her to do, she snatches a couple of files from her desk and stalks away.
He watches her go, but says nothing, and after a futile circuit of the office she finds herself in the women’s bathroom. And then she can’t hold back the tears because he was her best friend and now he can’t even look at her, and he’s leaving because of her, and she doesn’t know what to do to make it right.
It’s Angela who finds her, stopping in the doorway and giving her a long look. “We can manage without you,” she decides in the end, with a hint of sympathy that suggests they both share an illicit secret. And then she closes the door and Pam takes a breath and tries to clear the red puffiness from her eyes with a splash of cold water.
She wants to tell him that it sucks that he’s leaving like this, out of the blue and with barely a day’s notice. She wants to be angry at him for denying their friendship, but then she remembers how he looked when he walked away that night and she can only feel miserable. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, and she doesn’t know what to do.
And so she creeps back to reception, hating that she feels so mousy. Jim’s frowning down at his desk, doodling with sharp, angry strokes, and he glances up the moment her eyes land on him, as if he’s been waiting. He looks wretched and she suddenly realises that neither of them know what to do, how to fix what’s broken between them.
And maybe it can’t be fixed, maybe his leaving is the only thing to do.
She’s never been so miserable in her life.
Time moves strangely for the rest of that afternoon, simultaneously galloping and crawling. The tension is excruciating and she just wants the day to be over already so she can go home and blank the whole thing out. But when the day is over he’ll be gone; he’ll be gone and she might never see him again. The pain of that prospect is so sharp it’s hard to breathe around.
Close to five Jim stands up and there’s something of the gallows about him as he steps into Michael’s office. Pam feels sick, knotted inside. This is it, he’s leaving.
Of course, Michael makes a drama out of the added betrayal Jim’s immediate departure inflicts on the party planning committee. And of course Dwight makes it his business to ensure that Jim isn’t stealing any Dunder Mifflin Scranton property as he begins to box up his desk. And of course Kelly cries when she leaves for the day, hugging Jim tight and making him promise to email because ohmygodi’mgoingtomissyousomuch!
And of course Jim doesn’t look at her the whole time he’s clearing his desk, and then he’s slipping on his jacket and looping his bag strap over his shoulder and picking up the box and walking toward her and—
“So...” He holds the box in front of him, like a barricade. “I guess this is it, Beesly.”
She can only nod, because tears are crawling up into her throat and she won’t let herself cry in front of the whole office.
He nods in return, as if her silence is all he expects. “Okay. Well, you know, good luck. With the whole wedding thing...” Here, he clears his throat, frowning. “Hope it works out. I mean— Not that it wouldn’t.”
Silence stretches, she can feel every eye on them, and it’s like their feelings are painted in broad brush strokes for the world to see. “You too,” she says at last, her words scratchy and insincere. “I mean, good luck. With the new job and everything.”
“Thanks.” It’s all he says, rough-edged with emotion he’s struggling to hide.
And then they’re just looking at each other across the chasm growing between them, vast and painful. She has to look away and her gaze falls on the yoghurt-lid medal still draped over her lamp.
When she looks back up, Jim’s already walking away. “Hey,” she calls, holding out the medal. “Something to remember us by.”
He flinches when he sees what she’s holding, and his eyes turn sharp with disbelief. She’s never really seen him angry before. Backing away a step he shifts his hold on the box as if to say ‘I don’t have a spare hand’. “Keep it,” he says, “I’m taking enough junk with me already.”
It feels like a slap and the paperclip chain rattles as it hits her desk. And then that’s it, he’s walking out the door. He’s gone.
She stares at her desk through hot tears and thinks she can see her heart in pieces among the memos and scattered paperclips. She doesn’t think it’ll ever fit back together.
Six nights before her wedding, while Roy snores and she lies in the dark and stares at the ceiling, she finds the word she was looking for – the word that described how she felt when she looked at Jim, when he smiled at her. When they laughed together.
She thinks she’d be laughing now if she wasn’t already crying, silent tears running into her hair.
It’s love, of course.
The word is love.
Of course.
