She was beginning to grow tired of a lot of things.
Tired of not remembering. Tired of this stupid stuffy feeling in her heart that started at Jim and ended somewhere between soft shell crab and Spud Webb. Tired of the headaches and the itch between her broken wrist and this smelly cast. Tired of mom having to wash her hair in the sink.
But tired, most of all, of being bored out of her wits.
Per doctor’s orders, she wasn’t really supposed to be watching television or reading for more than thirty minutes a day. But with dad at work, and Penny back in New York until at least the weekend, and mom splitting half-days between here and the office, that left quite a bit of time for her to go slowly insane with next to nothing to do.
There were days when she would pick up around the house--finish up the load in the dryer or tidy up the kitchen after breakfast--only to have mom up her butt about resting and not lifting a finger. It was frustrating, to say the least. She wasn't bedridden or broken, for crying out loud.
She knew that Jim would be there at the drop of a hat, but that didn’t seem fair to him. In her time alone, she pieced together just how long he had been out of the office at her expense. It was a miracle he still had a job.
Still, he provided some entertainment when she would sneak the occasional text. This screen time wasn’t quite the same, right?
He gave her updates on the coworkers whose faces were still like fuzzy strangers. Apparently Angela and Dwight were having something of a lover’s quarrel, and that guy who got sent away (for punching a wall, he reminded her), was somewhere involved in the middle of it maybe?
But one lonely afternoon, as she picked through the suitcase that sat at the end of her bed, she found a sketchbook hidden beneath sweatpants and old t-shirts and two pairs of shoes and
Jim’s shirt.
Somewhere, in the rush to pack up her hospital room and grab essentials from home, that maroon t-shirt had weaseled its way into her bag.
She tossed the sketchbook onto her bed and rubbed the cotton between her fingers, spreading it wide enough so that she could see the logo on the front, the fading CONFERENCE CHAMPIONS 1994, the Lackawanna County Conference emblem with a basketball behind it. When she turned the shirt onto its back, she was met with a list of three columns: jersey number, name, and graduation year. Her index finger scratched down that list until she hit 18-James Halpert-’97.
It took her a bit of math to reason that he played varsity ball as a sophomore. It took her a bit of staring at his name, at the way lines formed letters that put him on this t-shirt, to decide that she really wanted to see pictures and hear stories and know more about who he was.
In the quiet emptiness of her parent’s house, she took a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, the bright summer sun painting abstract patterns into the carpet that was otherwise undisturbed. It was silly, she knew, because no one else was home, but her cheeks flushed in spite of this knowledge as she quickly discarded her own plain t-shirt and replaced it with Jim’s.
Much like the last time she wore it, the shirt hung down to her knees, fell past her elbows, dwarfed her entirely. But, more than that, it cloaked her in a scent that, as it had before, shocked her senses like a defibrillator. She was stunned backward, her hand at her chest as she closed her eyes, breathed him in, and let the images awash her as they had before.
It was nothing entirely new, nothing she hadn’t had flashes of before, with a bit more clarity in the details. But now, after knowing, it was so much more real.
Her head on his chest.
His teeth shiny white, lips pulled back into a smile that was a mile wide.
Chocolate on his breath, because they had baked a cake together for dessert, but eaten too much of the batter for it to rise the right amount.
She was wearing his t-shirt to bed because she wanted to.
His kisses tasted like frosting and toothpaste and Jim.
He was happy. God, was he happy.
And he kept telling her, in between kissing her and holding her close.
When she opened her eyes, she was sitting on the edge of the bed with the collar of the shirt pulled up to her nose, surrounding her senses with the blast of him.
It wasn’t everything.
She could see them in the kitchen, him with chocolate batter on his cheek, a fire in his eyes as he rounded the kitchen counter.
“Oh, you’re dead, Beesly!” before sticking his fingers into the bowl and coming at her full force with a hand full of batter.
Later, going through his bag to steal his pajama shirt.
“What am I supposed to wear to bed now?”
“Who said you had to wear anything?”
Waggling her eyebrows.
Him, shaking his head as he palmed the back of his neck and tried to hide a smile.
But he’d come to bed in his undershirt anyway.
“I don’t want to rush you, okay?” as he kissed her forehead, held her close.
“Am I ever going to get this shirt back? For real. This one is my favorite,” as he fingered the edges, found where it met her bare skin just below her bottom.
“Well, that might be a problem. It’s my favorite now, too.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“It smells like you.”
“I have a billion shirts that smell like me.”
“I’ll have to take them, too.”
Shrugging, trying to keep her composure but failing and giggling and pulling him to her lips before falling asleep in his arms.
“Why is this one your favorite?”
“Because you’re wearing it.”
She found herself struggling to breathe, struggling to hold on and press REWIND, PLAY, PAUSE over and over and over again until she was forcing her eyes open and taking in huge gulps of air through her lungs.
With fingers still shaking, she unearthed her cell phone from the mess on the floor and tapped out a message:
Did we ever bake a chocolate cake together?
It was the worry that had her panicking, that the memory was false, and that her head was playing tricks on her. For some reason, she needed this one to be true.
One New Text Message From: Pickles
We did!
One New Text Message From: Pickles
Are you remembering more things?
Her sigh was audible, and she let herself sink into the bed, the pillows folding around her head from the weight that she released.
I think so. Did I put batter on your face or something?
One New Text Message From: Pickles
Lol. Yes!
One New Text Message From: Pickles
You did!
One New Text Message From: Pickles
Do you remember that?
One New Text Message From: Pickles
Sorry, I’m just excited. That was a fun day.
She smiled down at her phone, noticing that it was only just after lunch, trying to picture where he would be in their office as he frantically texted her back.
I remember pieces of it. I can see you with cake batter on your face. And then...um...other stuff…
One New Text Message From: Pickles
Sorry, care to clarify? We might be remembering this night a little differently…
She bit her lip, blushing at the thought of texting this man, whom she barely knew in her head, but apparently knew in her heart, that very vivid images of him kissing her neck were suddenly hitting her full force.
Okay, um...just some kissing and stuff…
Sorry, this is a little embarrassing. If it didn’t happen, it’s a LOT more embarrassing. So, for both of our sakes, maybe you play along regardless?
It was harsh ringing vibration of her phone that made her jump six feet into the air, the Incoming Call From: Pickles with a picture on screen of an upside-down Jim Halpert, his eyes closed and his mouth spread wide in laughter, that had her heart beating in her throat.
“Hey, sorry, I just figured actually talking about this would probably make more sense than texting,” he started as soon as she answered the call, sounding out of breath.
“Yeah, no, that does make more sense. Um, where are you? Aren’t you at work?”
“Oh, yeah, um, I’m in the stairwell. I was getting kind of restless in there anyway. Figured I’d take a five minute break.”
She settled back against her headboard, the sound of his voice warm and buttery and all sorts of soothing.
“So, uh, to answer you question, yes, there was some kissing involved that night. No need to worry about false memories there.”
She could hear the nervous laughter in his voice as his breathing slowed.
“Good to know,” was all she could manage as silence lapped at them like water around the shorelines.
“But uh, what...what do you remember about that night? If you don’t mind me asking? I mean, aside from the...kissing and stuff?”
She smiled down at her lap, at the shirt that hung across it.
“It’s kind of broken, really. But I remember you said you wanted chocolate cake, and I had a box of cake mix, so we started making it. Somewhere in there, I put cake batter on you. And then you chased me around the kitchen to get me back?"
If she could see the way that his eyes were shining, could be there to watch them gloss over as he pressed his free palm into his forehead and grinned like an idiot, she’d be doing the same.
“Umm...and then it sort of skips to the...the other stuff.”
She whispered the last part, still slightly embarrassed about doing other stuff with someone she had, in this state of consciousness, only known for a couple of weeks. But there he was, her knight in shining armor for the entire stay of his existence.
“Um, yeah, if by other stuff you mean stealing my clothes. I’m down to skivvies over here, Beesly!”
Instead of hiding in his shirt out of embarrassment, she was now smiling into the collar, and, for the first time, not finding it odd that she wished he were sitting next to her.
“Oh, hey, listen, I’ve gotta go. I can hear Michael having a crisis through the doors. I’ll, uh...I’ll talk to you later, okay? Keep working on those memories for me.”
“Okay. Bye, Jim.”
“Bye, Pam.”
It was a wonder she managed to close the phone and actually function after that, but when she reached for her sketchbook, seemingly of her mind’s own accord, she wasn’t surprised at all to find it filled with images of him.
Some were of him at the office, a desk not far from her own, his forehead pressed into a closed fist as his other hand scribbled away in pencil. Others were of his face close up, different emotions depicted anywhere from laughing hysterically to wide eyed in surprise to a deep set frustration. Then, there was an entire section of just his hands. Reaching into a jelly bean box, clasped around a pen, typing on a keyboard.
The heat returned to her cheeks when she came across several of him sleeping. It wasn’t so bad when she had woken up next to him to stare at his sleeping figure. But this felt so much more intimate. There were intentional slivers of skin left uncovered, his hand on the empty side of the bed or cocked over his forehead or halfway past the waistband of his own pajama pants, a thin trail of hair peeking out from under his fingers. It was then that she found the book shutting with a concise SLAM as she tossed it to the end of her bed and dashed to the kitchen for a cool glass of water.
Later that night, under idle dinner chatter that revolved around How are you feeling, Pammy? and other monotonous questions she didn’t care to hear ever again, she stole away to her bedroom to text Jim.
Alright. I’m bored to death. Do you think I could come to the office tomorrow for a visit?
Absolutely! Need me to pick you up?
That would be great. Maybe after lunch? That way my parents won’t flip out about me being gone.
Wow, Beesly, sneaking out of the house? What a daredevil. Shame on you.
Oh shut it :P
Shutting it :X
What time should I be ready then?
… :X
Oh, come on. Seriously Jim.
…
:X :X :X
Fine. I’ll walk.
One. I will be there at one.
Ha! I win :P
Ugh. Somehow, you always do… :)
Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.
I can’t wait. Sleep tight, Pam.
