--Disclaimer -- All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s Note – This is my first attempt at fan fiction writing. I’ve read so many wonderful stories on this site and I hope this can measure up to their greatness.
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Twenty minutes ago, Pam was sitting at the reception desk, mapping out the rest of her life, in some kind of convoluted way that would never include Jim within the confines of her inner circle. She was sure he would be her boss and he would have his life in the big city and she would find something to do. What exactly that would be was a mystery.
Twelve hundred minutes ago, she was still chafed, still angry with him for so many things. For not coming to her art show, for the silent treatment, for not comprehending what she said last week at the beach. She knew she should very well point the finger toward herself, there were so many things she still knows she should have done differently. Growing a pair, maybe, and telling him how she felt instead of bundling it up inside of an invitation to coffee, covering it all with the blanket of friendship.
If she could do it all over again last week, instead of just standing there and listening to him as he told her he missed their friendship too, she would have been more straightforward. She would have said what she really meant, that she missed more than his friendship, she missed him. Admit to him that she made a huge mistake that night last year and wanted a second chance. She wishes she had done that, instead of letting his hands slide from hers once again as they walked back to the bus.
But in the seconds since that conference room door closed, the moment he said date, none of that should have - would have - could have seemed to matter.
It might come up later. No, she thinks, it should come up later. She knows they can not move forward until the chains and ghosts of the past are fully and completely slain.
Seeping doubt fills her mind as she settles in front of her computer once again, little flits of what ifs that creep in as the adrenaline that pumped through her moments before as the camera’s red light went off and she placed her microphone on the chair.
Her eyes scan the office, finding no sight of the man who just burst back into her life, leading her to question if any of that really happened. Had he really asked her on a date? Was it a real date where he pays for the meal and maybe, just maybe, holds her hand, or, dare she dream, kisses her at the end of the night?
Brainwaves constantly turning in a loop inside of her head, she can’t grasp any action that her hands are taking part in. She’s lifts a pad and clicks a pen top, unsure of what she plans on doing with the objects once she realizes what she is actually doing. Or not doing.
Staring intently at her hands, she never sees him approaching until he’s standing there, in front of her, his new hair cut looking like he ran his hands through it a thousand times. She looks up, feels her mouth hanging open, sees his bemused expression, watches his fingers tug at his tie and flip the sleeves of his shirt up, into place where they belong.
Her eyes follow a bead of sweat that trickles down the side of his face. “Must be warm outside,” she mutters, not sure why, of all of the things that should have come out of her mouth, that was what she chose to verbalize.
“Yeah, feels like I pretty much ran here from Manhattan.”
She laughs in that way that makes her heart feel light and free, makes her feel shiny and sparkly and giddy. All of the things she knew she felt before but would never let herself admit, not even within the silent confines of her mind.
“So, how was the interview,” she asks, and it comes out in a raspy way that says she wants to know everything but can’t bring herself to ask right then.
He shrugs, grins sleepily to her, leans his forearm on the counter, one hand on his chin, he gazes down to her hands. “What’s all that?” he points to her scribbled notes.
“Oh, that? That’s um,” she hesitates, wants to say what she means this time. “That’s my alternate list.”
He looks confused, quirks an eyebrow and licks his lips. “An alternate to what, exactly?”
“My alternate life. You know, what I was going to attempt to do if you never came back again.”
“Oh,” he wiggles his eyebrows, smugness crosses his smile. “So, you think I’m back, huh?”
She tilts her head to the side, shakes it lightly. “I hope so,” she smiles shyly. “I mean, you, you said date. And I sort of, you know,” she pauses, flustered and frustrated that her mind and her mouth are working separately. “I hope it’s not one of those things where it’s a date so you can tell me that you’re leaving again.” She frowns suddenly, realizes something. “Because, you know, if you didn’t come back for good then maybe we should just say goodbye here.”
He leans forward; his tone whispered, his face starkly serious, noticing the fragility in her eyes. “I came back to ask you out on a real date.”
“Good,” she says, her eyes lock into his gaze, a lump forms in her throat, relief relaxes her shoulders.
He takes the list from her hand, folds it twice without reading it and tears it into four pieces. “You won’t need this.”
“You seem so sure about that,” she says seriously, hopeful.
“I am so sure.”
“Okay,” she nods slowly, almost unaware that she’s still breathing. She takes the torn paper from his hand, tosses it in the trash and watches it fly into the receptacle.
Her throat catches a breath; her conscious mind begs her to pull it together under his unwavering gaze. She looks back to him, standing in front of her, his smile warming her, setting her skin on fire. He’s saying something, but all she can hear is the sound of her own voice in her head, telling her to wake up - this is all a dream.
But the extension of his hand, the point of his thumb toward the door - the signal that it’s time to hit the road - tell her differently.
She feels the fibers of her coat in her hand, not even sure when she stood from her seat or how exactly her computer is powering down. He opens the door, holding it for her to walk through, never looking back.
“Where should we go?” he asks as they walk toward the stairwell.
“Um, what about like, Applebee’s?”
He stops mid step, fixes her with a sideways glance, a questioning look. “Seriously? You know, this is a date, I think we can do a little better than that.”
She shrugs, laughs at herself. “I don’t know. I’m not a fancy restaurant person.”
He rolls his eyes in the adorable way that she adores and motions his hand for them to continue their journey down the steps. “Yeah, me either.”
“So, what if we just go somewhere like Sid and Dexter’s?” she offers, moving toward her car.
“You know, I do like a girl that can shoot some pool,” he says, his forehead creasing, catching what he just said.
She turns to face him, her fingertips running over a thread on her jacket. She knows she’s too flustered to speak correctly, but she won’t allow herself to miss an opportunity. “So, you … um, like me again?”
He nods - a slow bob of his head, his Adam’s apple slicing through the skin on his throat.
She smiles, an instant grin of relief. “You’re not mad at me anymore.” She doesn’t say it as a question, and when shakes his head, she tentatively lifts her arms, wrapping them around him, relishing in the feel of his hands on her back and his breath on her neck. It’s a moment she catalogs away, the feel of his muscles through his work shirt, the scent of his faded cologne filling her nose. She holds on tighter, her breath coming out in a spurt of emotion that makes tears spring to her eyes.
“What about Karen?” she asks, reluctantly breaks their embrace.
“Yeah, uh, that’s over. And I’m sure she’s hoping I was blown up in some horrible car accident, or something.”
“What happened?”
“Well,” he steps back, puts his hands in his pants pockets, stares at the ground and kicks a pebble. “That’s a long story. Let’s go eat.”
“Okay,” she agrees, a weak smile crosses her lips.
Last night, when she lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, she created a conversation between them, where they would just apologize and move on. Where they would say all of the right things and let the past float away into some miserable abyss that never happened, never mattered. Now, sitting in his car as he drives toward the restaurant, nerves set in as she come to think that this may not be as simple as she had wished it to be.
The silence in the car, neither comfortable nor tense, was broken by her simple statement, “I guess we have a lot to catch up on.”
He moves his head to the side and eyes her, watches her fingers nervously pull at her coat button, reaches out with his hand and stills her. “I thought a lot about stuff on the drive today. I want this to be simple.”
“Me too,” she agrees quietly.
“I can’t promise you that I’m perfect. I mean, I’ve been told I’m a slacker who needs to get his act together. I don’t really keep my apartment neat; I don’t know what the bottom of my hamper looks like. I don’t cap the toothpaste and I run the dishwasher once a week, if that.”
“Are you sure you’re a salesman?” she jokes, tries to keep her voice even.
“Not a very good one, according to some,” he says, shrugging, the grin on his face a sharp contrast to the self deprecation.
“I’m kidding,” she says, running her hand over his shoulder before pulling it away, unsure if she’s allowed to touch him. “I’m not perfect either, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I think you’re pretty damn close to it,” he says, fully grinning, placing the car in park and unhooking his seatbelt.
If he is going to leave her speechless every time he looks at her that way, she thinks she’s pretty sure they’ll never get through an entire conversation. She tries to remember how they ever did the talking thing before. How they navigated through topic after topic, joke after joke, without fireworks going off in her head every time his eyes met hers.
He walks around to her side of the car, but she’s already half way out of the car before he gets there. “You’re supposed to wait for me,” he sighs dramatically as he extends his hand.
She just laughs, a look on her face that tells him he’s going to have to get used to the new version of her. “I can open a car door,” she opens and closes her hands.
“Nah, that’s my job. Part of the whole dating thing.”
She wants to add some smart remark there, make a joke in some way, but all she’s capable of doing is staring at him dumbly as he closes the door behind her and takes her hand, as if he’s done it a million times.
Maybe, in his mind, he has, she thinks.
She wonders if he’d ever thought of this, of how a first date between them would go. She tries to extinguish the need to tell him that she’s dreamed about it at least a thousand times. Probably more.
He always holds her hand in her dreams.
They settle into a booth, order beer and wings and she loves so many things about the moment he smiles, sleepily, eyes crinkled in the corner, lids blinking slowly.
His finger snakes across the table, linking with hers, his eyes boring into her. “I took my name out of consideration for that job.”
She nods, bites the inside of her lip.
He continues, “I didn’t want it, the more David talked to me about it, the more I realized I didn’t want that life in that city. I want something so much different, so much better.”
“What do you want?” she asks softly.
He licks his lips, takes her hand in his. “I want you. And I know that we do have a lot to sort through, and I need to apologize for being such a jerk lately. I’m sorry, about it all. I’m sorry I didn’t come to your art show, I’m sorry I haven’t been a great friend lately.” He pauses, appears thoughtful as he creases his brow with a question. “Do you think we can just put all that stuff behind us?”
She nods her head, a breathy sound forcing its way through her opened mouth. “Yeah, if you can forgive me, for being dense and for almost getting your face knocked in.”
“That,” he says, pressing his fingers into hers. “See, here’s the thing,” he licks his lips, closes his eyes and sighs. “We can sit here all night and try to make admissions for why things happened the way they did. But, for me, all that matters is that we’re here, we’re both single, and you have wing sauce on your chin,” he finishes with a glint in his eye.
“Oh my God,” she mutters, dabbing her chin with a napkin. “I’m such a mess.”
“Nah,” he tilts his head, laughs as she grabs her purse mirror. He waits for her attention before he says, “I’m sorry, Pam.”
“Me too,” she strangles out, pressing her head to his. “I’m sorry, for so many things.”
They smile, closed mouthed fine line lips, understanding looks of acceptance of apologies. The talk turns to catching one another up on the past year, without accusatory tones or pointed fingers.
He listens to her talk about the art classes she is taking, and she loves that he hangs on every word like it’s the most fascinating thing he has ever heard. As she speaks, she notices how he looks at her as if she were the only woman in a room filled with half drunken girls in hot pants and boob shirts.
What she loves most about him in that moment is how he participates in the conversation, asking her questions that move her from art to her family to reminiscing about her childhood.
She asks him about his niece and nephew, about his brothers and sister, parents and aging grandparents, catching up like old friends, the way they used to.
She mocks his pool playing skills, beating him both rounds. He smiles like he could not care less, amazement behind his eyes that he’s here, she’s here and they’re actually doing this.
They laugh about their coworkers on the way back to the parking lot for her car, placing bets on how long it will take for Andy to turn back into a crazy person. She says a month, he says two weeks.
“We could call it even at three weeks,” he says, winking in her direction, making her feel like her insides are on fire.
She laughs, shakes her head and says, “I’m sticking with a month.”
“Suit yourself,” he tells her, a shrug of his shoulders. He parks his car next to hers, and he holds her hand as they walk to her driver side door.
“I had a great time tonight,” she says, twisting her fingers, feeling the slickness of her palms, hoping the he doesn’t notice the moisture on the hand he’s holding.
“Me too,” he agrees. “I was thinking, maybe tomorrow night we can do dinner and a movie?”
“I’d like that,” she says, her voice crisp, above a whisper.
She wants nothing more than for him to kiss her in that moment, as he stands in front of her, the moonlight and floodlights casting shadows across his face. He’s never looked more vulnerable to her. Or maybe he has, she thinks. Maybe she just never wanted to notice.
He leans in, slowly, whispers, “I’m so happy to be back here.”
She quietly says the one thing she’s been aching to say – maybe the top two. “Promise me you won’t leave again.”
He smiles, places his hands somewhere between her elbows and shoulders. “I promise.”
“Okay,” she nods.
He inches forward, lets out a sigh. Before she can comprehend it, his lips graze hers, slowly, softly at first. Her arms wrap around his neck and his fold around her waist. Colorful swirls of light flash behind her closed eyelids as the kiss becomes heated and charged. She wants to memorize how it feels to hold him; tries to remind herself that she can do this now. She’s allowed to be exactly the way she wants to be with him.
He pulls back, breaks the kiss and holds her close, hugging her, bodies flush against one another. His head rests on her shoulder, her fingers play with the ends of his newly cut hair. She kisses his neck, a new sensation runs through her veins, something powerful she can’t place a name to. She holds her lips close to his ear, breathes for a moment, courage working its way from her belly to her vocal chords.
“I love you, Jim,” she tells him, a giggle bubbles to her throat, a sense of relief at saying it aloud makes her feel complete.
His arms hold on to her tighter, his head burrows into her neck and a strangled noise comes from his throat. “I love you too. So much,” he says into her hair. He pulls back, kisses her once again, this time with an intensity she’s never felt before in her life.
He peers at her, a grin on his face, his teeth gleaming. He presses his finger to her nose, draws the outline of her lips with it. He laughs lightly, her own smile growing wider, making her cheeks ache. “Be careful driving,” he says slowly. “Call me when you get home.”
“I will.”
She can’t for the life of her figure out how she got into her car, on the road or into her apartment. Then she’s on her bed, on her cell phone, his voice in her ear.
“I told you never to call me here,” he jokes, a stifled laugh pushes air through the ear piece.
“I’m home,” she says, grinning at her reflection in the mirror, rolling her eyes at herself.
“Okay good. So I was thinking, Chinese for dinner tomorrow night. You pick the movie.”
“I’ll take a look at the listings as soon as I get in.”
“Good night, beautiful.” The way he says it makes her believe it’s true.
“Good night. I love you.”
No amount of wishing could ever compare to the feeling that settles in her heart as she lies in bed, serenity and hopefulness and pure joy flow through her as she gives in to sleep.
She has new wishes now. To feel him next to her as she sleeps, to lay her head on his chest, to wake with him each morning. She wants to give herself the power to never let what they’ve just began, end.
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