Their first date is a blur in his memory.
Well, actually, they’ve agreed to call it their second date, not because any individual previous encounter should count as a date (it’s not a date when the girl goes home to her fiancé), but because out of the intimate kludge of so many prior meetings they’ve decided there are at least two half-dates, which makes this their second date (he’s pretty sure she means Cugino’s and the rooftop, but he’s a little afraid to ask in case he’s making the wrong assumptions—she thinks the same, down to the lack of specificity).
So it is, by mutual agreement, their second date, which is convenient, he thinks, because it means they get to avoid any first-date jitters. Or at least that’s the hope. Of course, he doesn’t think he’ll ever necessarily get over the jitters of this is Pam out on a date with you or you actually get to hold her hand, but he feels like something is improved by at least pretending this isn’t the first time he’s gotten the chance to do it. He’s still aware of that, blindingly aware, but it’s muted somehow by their agreement—more by the fact that they’ve agreed, he thinks, than by the content of their treaty.
It’s actually a miracle he managed to have that conversation with her at all, because when she showed up at his door (and thank God she found all the notes so she knew what to do and when—but then again he didn’t really have any doubts) he was basically speechless for a good…well, how long has it been?
And it’s not because he didn’t think she was gorgeous before. He told her in the note that she didn’t have to change because she looked good in pink, and he knew the reality was that she looked good in anything and everything to him (he intentionally avoids thinking about her in the remaining available category of nothing because then he really won’t be able to function at all). But he hadn’t counted on the fact that she’s even more gorgeous when she’s happy. When she’s actually smiling at him and then the smile is widening into a grin as she makes some kind of flippant remark (he thinks it’s “you look happy to see me” but he’s not sure because again his brain has basically stopped working) and then she’s pulling him into her apartment (“well, don’t just stand there in the cold, Halpert”)? Then he’s a total goner. He’s standing here, in the entryway of her apartment, making some kind of banter about kitchens and first (or second) dates and he doesn’t even know what because all he can focus on is her face and her smile and the fact that she’s actually happy and excited and all of this for him. For their date.
She actually wants this just as much as he does, and she’s not running away from it, and the wonder of it all overpowers him.
It’s a good thing he made reservations (at Alfredo’s Pizza Café [not, he triple-checks, Pizza by Alfredo]—not usually a reservations-type spot, but he knows a guy who’s dating one of the hostesses and she’s heard the whole Pam story enough times that she gets it and she puts him in for one) because if he hadn’t he’s not sure there’s anything that would break him out of his stupor of just being with Pam. But she says something playful about when they’re supposed to be where and it reminds him of the reservation and finally he’s able to get his legs and mouth moving in the right direction with the right purpose so that they can get out to dinner.
It’s a really good thing his chivalry is on autopilot too, as he opens her door and then his own, because he’s not sure he trusts himself to really think about anything related to Pam Beesly right now without ending up in that same vapor-lock of joy that ambushed him at her place. He drives focusing very hard on the road and trying to ignore her presence in his passenger seat—kind of rude for a date, even the second, but necessary if he’s not going to crash the car. And he really doesn’t want to crash the car; he has precious cargo onboard, even if he’s deliberately not thinking about just how precious that cargo is right now (and even if Pam’s not really cargo, more like a copilot).
He lets her order (half cheese, half mushroom, with a side order of her making fun of him for not liking mushrooms and being boring) and just takes the time while she’s “deciding” (he’s pretty sure she’s known what she wants ever since he admitted where he was taking her—and even thinking that phrase, so open to delightful analysis and reinterpretation, has him spacing out again) staring at her face, wondering at the openness of expression he sees there.
He’s used, you see, to catching half-glimpses of Pam Beesly’s affection for him: stealing mouthfuls of it like Oliver Twist begging for more gruel in a workhouse. He’s used to either averting his own eyes because Karen’s watching them and he can’t be seen staring at her (or because he feels embarrassed for staring at someone he’s otherwise been so cold to) or, further ago but for longer, sifting her expressions for the merest flashes of emotion before she takes control of herself by remembering Roy or considering their audience (usually Michael or Dwight, once memorably Meredith) or whatever it was that she used to shut down those moments when she looked at him like he looked at her. Now he’s looking at her, not just stealing glances but full-on looking, and she’s looking back at him, only the emotions aren’t tamped down, they aren’t hidden, they’re right there on the surface and he can’t get enough. It’s like drinking from a firehose when you’ve been dying of thirst, he thinks, or the moment when you go to college and realize that no one is making you get up and go to class anymore. He feels a tremendous impulse to just indulge—to just stare and stare until someone makes him stop.
But in the end he makes himself stop, because for all that he’s loving this chance to stare at her, he owes her more than a silent dinner companion with a weird expression on his face (the odds that she’s enjoying this moment in the same way as he is go entirely over his head). He cocks a grin at her and teases her about her preference mushrooms (“God, Pam, I knew you didn’t like animals on your pizza, but throwing out the entire vegetable kingdom too? What’s next, archaebacteria?”) and suddenly they’re off. It’s like he never left, like Roy never existed, like they’ve been together for years.
And when she gets a little sad in the eyes at something he says about how things were in Stamford, he notices, and they talk about it, and they work through some of the hurts they felt a year ago (he really had no idea she was ever going to come around; she really expected him to be there the Monday after; they each understand each other now, and they’re ready to move on). And when she brings up (haltingly, apologetically, carefully) the pain she caused him for the years before that, he doesn’t interrupt her or tell her it didn’t happen—they talk about that too, and they figure out what they’ve meant and what they mean to each other over pizza and drinks and a giant piece of double chocolate cake. And it’s not actually like Roy didn’t exist or Stamford never happened, because somehow it’s better, because they aren’t pretending any longer. They’re just together, and happy, and in love.
Because she says she loves him. It’s not the only thing he notices from that night, but it’s the one he’ll remember and treasure always, because it’s not a deep and giant declaration like his was last year. It’s just a matter-of-fact statement when he asks how she managed to deal with him being an asshole for the past year. “I knew it wasn’t who you really are, and I figured you’d come back to your senses eventually. And besides, I love you, so…” He isn’t sure whether there’s anything more to that sentence because he’s around the table in a single stride and kissing her and when he finally comes up for air and they go back to eating he reflects (once he’s capable of independent thought again) that he’s going to owe their waitress a ginormous tip for putting up with them.
But it’s definitely, 100% worth any tip he could imagine, because Pam Beesly loves him, and he absolutely believes her, because it’s written all across her face every moment of the night, so he can’t help but notice, because he loves her back.
And finally, finally, they’re both doing something about it.
