Seriously, what was going on with Pammy today?

Well, that was the wrong thing to ask her, apparently, but it was a sincere question in Roy’s head. It wasn’t his fault that whatever it was that was bothering her was somehow simultaneously entirely his fault and something he wasn’t allowed to talk to her about. How was he supposed to know what the problem was if she wouldn’t talk to him? And why had she tramped out of the room when he’d asked if they could put the hockey game on if they weren’t going to talk? He’d tried. He really had. He’d suggested hockey, and not basketball or baseball because it was the sport she liked. Right? They’d had their first date at a hockey game. He could still remember her sitting on the bleachers next to him, enfolded in her giant coat (her parents had been convinced for years that Pammy was going to keep growing—someone had told them when she was a kid that she’d be as tall as her dad, and they’d remained certain that a late growth spurt was coming years after it was obvious that nothing of the sort would happen). She’d been so cute, bouncing up and down whenever a goal was scored. He’d had to gently remind her that they only wanted one team to score, but inside he’d been glowing every time she’d given that little cheer and then looked over at him to make sure she was actually supposed to be cheering this time. It made him feel important—not that he hadn’t thought he was important, he knew his own worth, but he’d had this odd feeling that Pammy didn’t really care about his place on the football team or his popularity at school. So it had been important to have her think he was important. He’d looked over at her so much that he’d almost forgotten Kenny was in the seat next to him half the time.

Now, he hadn’t forgotten how that date ended. But they’d gotten over it, right? They’d been together for a decade now. Kenny had had a hookup who could get them a game-used jersey but only if they bum-rushed the locker rooms right as the game ended. So they’d rushed out, and then it had taken longer than they’d expected and they’d been sitting around—in the locker room, chatting with, well, not players but actual staff like they belonged—and then he’d heard the buzzer go off like a goal was scored (apparently they did that when the team was coming in to warn the staff) and he’d had that oh-shit moment. He’d looked around to see Pammy celebrating and she wasn’t there, of course. He’d left Kenny—who’d had the balls to be pissed at him later—and run back upstairs and there she’d been, standing by the entrance to the tunnel with a scrawny kid who’d been trying to make her laugh. He’d rushed up, begged her forgiveness, whisked her away to his parents’ borrowed Chevy. The next day he’d made a deal with the custodian (he was emptying garbage bins at school for a week) and gotten the key to her locker, and he’d left a reasonably-sized winter coat (one that actually looked like it might fit—thanks Mom for knowing how women’s sizes worked!) and a note:

Sorry I’m an idiot.

Hope this coat makes you feel as warm outside as you make me feel inside. [Thanks, Mom, for helping him put that into words]

I really like you. [Thanks again, Mom, for making him suck it up and write that too, after he’d let her read it and asked with bright hopeful eyes if it would mean Pammy would forgive him]

-Roy

She’d worn that jacket for the next three years, and she’d agreed to go on another date with him (and another and another and…) so he’d figured that meant he was forgiven. But come to think of it, he couldn’t recall having actually gone to another hockey game with her.

Maybe the hockey had been a mistake.

But this couldn’t be about that, right? It was ten years ago! It had to be something else stupid he’d done, but she wouldn’t tell him. And if she wouldn’t tell him…what the hell was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like he was going to ask fucking Halpert for advice on what to do with his girl.

Maybe his mom would have an idea again.

But seriously, he thought. What was with that woman? He sighed. One thing he’d learned was not to let her go to bed angry, because then she woke up angry. And he could tell that asking for dinner wasn’t going to cut it tonight, even though it was usually lasagna night. The clomp-clomp of her feet meant she probably wasn’t coming down for a while.

He picked up the phone. Maybe a pizza would help.

And if it didn’t, at least he’d get to eat, and she’d probably appreciate a night off of cooking.

“Hello, Pizza by Alfredo, may I take your order?”