His hands were still shaking when he put his key in the ignition. Starting the car, Jim attempted to still the tremors by putting his hands on the steering wheel. Failing miserably, he dropped his head onto his hands.
She was there. She was fucking there. They had spoken to each other for the first time in what, five months? The first time since they'd kissed. The first time since he'd moved away. And, not just spoke. They talked. They fucking talked - for like what? An hour? It had seemed more like all of five minutes to Jim.
At some point Jim put the car into drive and made his way home. He didn't really have a strong memory of doing so, but his surroundings confirmed that his car was indeed sitting in his driveway. He walked into his apartment, threw his briefcase and suit jacket on the chair in the living room, and went into the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, but he certainly needed a drink. Opening the fridge, he was about to grab a beer when he realized the ache in his chest wasn't going to be numbed by something that light. Instead he grabbed a glass, and reached for the 15-year-old single malt Scotch whisky he kept for special occasions. It was definitely that kind of moment.
He jumped when the phone rang, and stopped in mid-pour to check the caller ID. He felt the uncomfortable twisting in his stomach ease when he saw an unknown local number on the screen. He was angry at himself for such a reaction to the phone ringing. He could barely admit how much he had wanted to see the familiar 570 Scranton area code instead. He let the call go to voice mail.
He finished pouring his glass of whisky, kicked off his shoes and stretched out on his couch. Glass in one hand, his head resting on his hand in the other, Jim began to replay their conversation in his mind yet again. There hadn't been a lot of meaningful content, but Jim was as guilty as Pam of that. He couldn't even remember some of what had been said; he just hoped he didn't come off sounding like too big of an idiot. He nearly had hung up when he first heard her voice. He wasn't yet sure if he did the right thing by not following through with that first impulse.
By his second glass of whisky, Jim had mellowed enough to allow himself to think about the good feelings the conversation had stirred. It was stupid of him not to admit that it had felt wonderful just to be able to talk to her again. They enjoyed each other's company so much it was practically a crime that they were in this predicament. If he had never fallen in love with her, he thought, tonight could have been just one of the many ordinary phone calls he was sure they would still be having. He wouldn't have to miss her so damn much if he could manage to just be friends with her. Because tonight confirmed what he'd feared. She was still his best friend. Nobody knew him like she did. Nobody could make him laugh like she did. In unguarded moments of conversation tonight, he had felt happier than he had all year. She just naturally brought out the best in him.
There were reasons to be glad he had talked to her. She was certainly single now. She was living in her own apartment. Not that the reasons behind these changes were talked about. That would have been entirely too awkward. But he could hear a confidence in her voice that he had never noticed before. The one thing he was truly glad to hear was that it seemed like she was finally looking after herself. She was doing things she wanted to do, not what others wanted. She seemed to really be enjoying her independence. He just wished he was there to see this change.
She never came out and said it, but she certainly seemed to give the impression that she wasn't dating anyone. He had really wanted to ask about that date Michael had mentioned the week of the convention, but he didn't think he could bear to hear the details. Better he stick to his own version, where the date had turned into a complete nightmare and the bastard didn't get as much as a handshake, much less a good night kiss.
He'd been sitting on the couch, wavering between wistful hope and wretched despair, for quite some time. He decided it was time to stop drinking the whisky and just go to bed. He didn't need a hangover tomorrow at work when he'd already be feeling frayed about tonight's development.
He took off all his clothes and got into bed. He didn't bother with pajamas, or even a pair of boxer shorts. He just wanted to lie in bed and pretend how things should be. He let himself suspend rational thought and relive what they'd said. It had been a little while since he had fantasized specifically about her, although on nearly all other occassions the object of his desire was a woman who suspiciously bore more than a passing resemblence to the Dunder Mifflin Scranton receptionist. But tonight was definitely all about her. He focused on how she made him feel: the very sound of her voice, the distinct way she laughed, her teasing tone that felt like a caress. He tried to hold on to the feeling for as long as he could, and in the end it was the most all-consuming release he'd had in a long time. He'd cried out in its intensity, and could perhaps be forgiven that her name was the only word he said. His mind might be fuzzy on what to do, and his heart was most certainly a traitor, but his body couldn't lie. He wanted her more than he could say. Still.
When it was over, he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. He tried to ignore the tears that arose. All this time and something as simple as a telephone call had put him right back to where he was months ago. Well, almost. He had the comfort of distance and the wisdom of time to wonder if things really were as he had accepted. He had to admit that there was always a chance that maybe things weren't so black and white between them.
But it wasn't as if he'd have a chance to test that theory. He had moved to get away from her, but now the inability to be face-to-face seemed to have backfired on him. Any subtle move he might want to make would become a big deal at this distance. He might be dying to know where things now stood, where they might still go, but he couldn't do anything without giving up the security of distance. And he felt paralyzed without that security.
Besides, it was better if he stuck to believing things were black and white. Everything he had done regarding her was based on it. She had told him no. Twice. Even after the wedding was called off, she never called. Clearly it was time to move on. But his heart refused to abandon the grey. Would it really be so awful to push a little more, to find out if things really were impossible? Or was he truly just a masochist?
He didn't want to be the one who made the next move. He couldn't be. He didn't want to set himself up all over again. Unfortunately he also knew he'd spend more time trying not to think about her, waste more energy making sure he didn't make the next move, than if he just took matters into his own hands and went and talked to her. Talk about all the things they never really talked about. But that kind of courage came at too high a price.
He desperately wanted to believe that she'd changed enough to be the one to move first. Now that the ice was broken, surely she would express interest if any still existed. What he really needed, he thought, was a miracle. Or an act of God. Anything that would take this dilemma completely out of his hands.
