She paced her apartment, walking from her kitchen to her living room and back again, clutching her cell phone in one hand. Again she padded the path, leaving the faintest trail in the soft carpet – kitchen, living room, kitchen. An endless circle.

I wish I had three kitchens right about now – more room to pace.

And then she stopped, eyes closing as she pressed her phone to her chest for a second before she hit the button, her hand shaking a little.

His cell number has probably changed by now; it has been five months. It’s probably going to be disconnected, or some old woman will answer, or…

“Hello?” He sounded breathless.

She froze, unable to say anything at first, prompting him to say softly, “Pam…?”

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He sounded surprised.

And then the words tumbled out of her: “You don’t hate me.”

He paused, then: “Of course I don’t.”

She didn’t respond, just stood there with her eyes closed, nodding.

Again he said, “Pam….?”

“I’m still here.” She said, her voice choked as if she had a cold. She knew she should say something – after all, she had called him. But she was speechless, trembling and tongue-tied, as if she hadn’t just spent almost two hours on the phone with him not forty-five minutes earlier.

Then he asked, his voice a little hoarse, “Did you really think I did – hate you, I mean?”

“Well…I didn’t really know; I thought maybe you did.” She answered honestly.

“Pam….” He exhaled, his hand passing over his eyes. He didn’t know what to say – or how much to say.

Should he tell her that the best he had hoped for was indifference, and even that had eluded him?

Or should he tell her that he’d been so relieved to find himself attracted to Karen lately – catching himself flirting with her, thinking about her even when he wasn’t at work – only to realize as soon as he had heard her voice so unexpectedly that he was nowhere near moving on?

He decided not to say anything; instead he just let the silence fall and thicken between them.

She realized then that he was waiting for her to say something; he wasn’t going to make it easy for her. And why should he? He’d already been brave enough once to speak aloud the things she’d tried to pretend out of existence for years.

She sensed instinctively that he’d never do it again.

All the things she knew she should say were right there, crowding her throat, making the ache quicken; she was positive that he knew she was trying to find the nerve – that he was deliberately maintaining his silence. Her palms actually started to sweat; she swallowed a few times, trying to muster the courage, pacing back and forth once again.

She found herself remembering when she’d been ten and had – in a moment of false bravado - climbed to the top of the high dive, standing up there feeling the rough, bumpy plaster beneath her bare feet, the shimmering ripples below looking like something just waiting to swallow her whole. She’d been positive from that distance that when she hit the water, it would sting her skin; or maybe she’d plunge down through the swirl of mist and bubbles too fast and hit the bottom, knock herself unconscious.

She’d stood up there floundering for so long that the kids in line behind her had started to complain, shifting on their feet impatiently.

She heard herself saying, “So what’s it like in Stamford?”

She’d left so much of her old life behind, but there were remnants of that coil that weren’t so easy to shuffle off.

His eyes closed, his head bowing. For the second time in an hour, she’d managed to shock him with the realization that she still had the power to render him ecstatic, then ridiculously crushed in the span of a breath.

Worse than that was the fact that he apparently was still incapable of not letting her.

“It’s…um…different.” He answered, not even thinking about what he’d said; it was just the automatic answer that came to mind. He was still reeling a little, partly from the fact that she’d called him, but mostly from the surge of hope that he’d felt when she’d alluded to all that had happened with that simple statement: “You don’t hate me.”

And now here she was, running away again.

“Okay….” She laughed softly, her hand toying with her necklace. “Different how?”

She knew she had no right to ask this of him – to expect him to engage in yet another mindless conversation about nothing, when there was so much that needed to be addressed. But she was too afraid to try to talk about it.

Just a little longer – and then I’ll get there. I swear.

And talking about Stamford was a way of inching closer to acknowledging their reality – she hadn’t asked him about it when they’d talked earlier. Only he had dared to broach the fact that things had changed so much – and even then it had been an oblique reference to “Fancy New Beesley.”

“Well….” He took in a deep breath, a hand passing over his eyes again, then he shook his head slightly. “I have a view of the water, for one thing, as opposed to a view of the curls on Dwight’s forehead.”

She laughed again. “That sounds amazing.”

“It is.” He was feeling strangely threatened, realizing as he said it that it was amazing – the mere fact that he’d gotten out of Scranton, that he’d forced himself to break away from her – to say nothing of having a position that officially constituted a “real” job with a stunning view.

And unlike the view he’d had at the Scranton branch, this one didn’t leave him feeling as if he were drowning, gasping for air, trying to tread water but unable to reach the surface. Even so, talking to her left him realizing that this tenuous peace he’d found in Stamford might well be mutually exclusive of hearing her voice again.

So he let the silences fall where they would, ignoring the ache and the disturbingly reflexive instinct to make it easier for her.

She was picking up on an uncharacteristic reticence from him – he’d been far more open when they’d spoken earlier in the evening. He seemed guarded, as if now that he’d had time to think about what was happening, he had his defenses up.

It was the second time she found herself face-to-face with the consequences of that disastrous night, when she’d lied to him and kissed him and betrayed them both in such a way that still left her feeling breathless whenever she really thought about it. The first moment of reckoning had been the morning after, when she’d come in to see his desk cleared, his chair empty.

Fears she hadn’t even known to conceive of realized in that instant.

“So…” She hated the plaintive note in her voice. “Is there a Dwight in Stamford?”

He was glad she couldn’t see him, because he was positive that his smile was slightly cynical. It had been one thing to small talk with her and fall back into the old dynamic when he’d accidentally found her on the other end of the phone. But for her to call him back and open with such a direct question only to keep tiptoeing around the obvious? It made him feel strangely angry.

You just can’t do it, can you? Even after all this time; even though you’re free now, and there’s nothing stopping you.

It occurred to him in a flash of bitterness that she may as well still be engaged to Roy, because it was the same fear silencing her now that had stifled her before.

Only now it didn’t have a tangible guise.

But he humored her anyway, because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Not exactly a Dwight, but someone equally as deranged - in a totally different way.” He reached into his fridge and grabbed a beer, then strode to his living room, settling onto the couch.    

“Well you have to tell me about him – you can’t just say that and leave it.” She absently touched the wall of her living room, trailing her fingers down it before crossing her arms over her chest tightly.

He chuckled at her. “Well, let’s see…. He calls me Big Tuna, for one thing.”

“No way!” She laughed. “Why?”

“Because I made the mistake of bringing a tuna sandwich on my first day, and somehow, that merited a nickname.” He took a sip of his beer.

“Wait…” She was surprised. “You took a tuna sandwich to work? I thought you only ate ham and cheese?”

As soon as she asked the question, she regretted it, because she knew the answer.

His long pause confirmed it. “I just thought I’d try something different, do something new.”

“Oh.” Another uncomfortable silence, thick with opportunity, laced with fear.

“So what else does he do?”

I’ll tell you the truth after this. I will.

“Let’s see….” He took in a breath. “Oh, well, he freaked out when I put his calculator in Jell-O – kicked a trashcan and everything.”

“No way.” It was an autopilot response, because she was startled to hear that

Jim was still Jim in Stamford. She’d not even considered the fact that he’d become the heart of another office, and the realization was oddly frightening – primarily because it brought with it a consciousness of the fact that she’d apparently been taking for granted that he would just be different somewhere else.

That he’d somehow cease to be himself when he wasn’t with her.

And then it occurred to her: Did he have a new partner in crime?

Surely not.

...Why not?

She hoped her voice was casual. “Have you made friends with anybody?”

“Josh is okay. He’s a little unpredictable, though, and he can be sort of mean about Michael.” He stretched, his arm falling down to absently scratch the back of his head. “And there’s a girl named Karen who’s pretty cool.”

“Oh.”

He paused, holding himself very still, as if he could discern her reaction if he held his breath and listened closely enough. Was she jealous? Just curious?

When he realized he was slipping into it all over again, he felt the slightest twinge of panic.

Because he knew he couldn’t handle going back there.

“Listen,” He forced himself to say. “I hate to do it, but I really need to get going; Kevin’s waiting to hear from me.”

“Oh, yeah.” She knew she was doing a miserable job of sounding casual, light-hearted, as if it didn’t matter that the conversation was coming to an end awkwardly – for the second time in a row.

He took in a breath, trying to figure out what to say next, then: “It was really good to talk to you again, Pam.”

She closed her eyes at the warmth in his voice, because the words themselves spoke volumes about the distance between them – a startling dissonance between the tone and the reality.

“Yeah – I...you, too.” She nodded even though he couldn’t see her.

“Okay.” He paused, giving her one last chance to do something, to say something.

Silence.

“I’ll talk to you later, Pam.” He hit the little red button on his phone, not waiting for her response.

He sat there on his couch, not moving, for close to twenty minutes, head slightly bowed as he stared without seeing at his coffee table.

She snapped her phone shut, standing stock still in the middle of her one kitchen, realizing she’d blown it. Again.

Surely it wasn’t too late; surely she could try again.

That night she tumbled into dreams of when she’d been ten and stuck up on that high dive. In the distorted haze, Stanley was one of the people at the foot of the ladder, shaking his head in disgust, crossword puzzle under his arm.

“Reverse.” He’d said. “A four letter word.”

She’d turned, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the back of the diving board so that she could peer down at him. Her second grade homeroom teacher was standing just behind him.

“It’s not four letters; it’s seven.”

He pursed his lips, eyes tired, expression telling her he had no patience for her nonsense.

She’d looked down to see that she was wearing a cream colored silk shirt and an old pair of faded jeans. She hated silk – couldn’t stand the way it clung to her skin like humidity.

The next thing she knew, she was sitting on the edge of the high dive eating an apple, her legs swinging carelessly over the end of the diving board, Jim in the water below her, chest glistening, shoulders broad, smile brilliant.

“But I jumped.” She told him.

He kept smiling at her as if he didn’t hear her.

“Seriously, Jim. I jumped anyway.”

“Did the water hurt?”

“No.” She answered.