Jim was glad his mother spent her whole evening puttering around the kitchen nattering at him about Larissa, because it simultaneously gave him something to focus on and didn’t actually require anything more from him than occasionally shaking his head and repeating “she was fine, Mom.” He dutifully scooped cookie dough, put damp towels over rising bread, stirred the chili on the stove—Betsy Halpert compensated for nerves by making ridiculous amounts of food—and did his duty to Larissa by refusing to let anything his mother said about immaturity go unchallenged, but his mind was whirling and his heart wasn’t really in his parents’ house.
Who was she? Obviously she was one of his coworkers—his new coworkers, not the guys at the Sheetz he’d worked at in high school and gone back to part-time so Mom and Dad would get off his back after college—but in what capacity? She’d answered the phone on the number that Michael had given him, so maybe she was his secretary or assistant or something? But then again, he didn’t think Dunder Mifflin was the kind of place that had executive assistants or personal secretaries, for all that Michael had tried to posture at their interview at the Starbucks. And he vaguely remembered the number being the same one he’d seen for the main Scranton branch when he’d first seen the ad on Craigslist. So she’d probably been answering the main line, which made her…what? The receptionist, or just the last person in the office? Obviously, of course, he’d find out tomorrow, but he was too excited to let it go at that. Maybe she was in sales, like him? She had said her desk was across from his, as well as this Dwight she’d told him about, so they were clearly working near to each other—he was looking forward to finding out what she looked like—and she’d teased him (he was pretty sure it was teasing) about Michael insisting that he make a sale if he’d been at the university today. So she clearly knew about how Dunder Mifflin did sales—but then again, it was a sales branch, so even the HR manager (tflenderson@dundermifflin.com) he’d been emailing with probably knew that much about sales. So she could be anyone. But he’d be working with her, no matter what, and he’d hear that voice again, and if he was very lucky he might get to make her laugh again. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d be doing more work on that than on paper sales, if his impressions about Michael Scott’s efficiency as a boss were confirmed.
What did she look like? He felt a little guilty wondering about this: if she was really the person he’d come to believe she was over the phone, it shouldn’t matter. In fact, he perversely hoped her face wasn’t as beautiful as her personality. That would greatly increase the odds that she was single—and he was very sure that he wanted her to be single. Though again, if she could impress him this much in twenty minutes on the phone, what were the chances she hadn’t had that effect on someone else who’d actually met her in person? No matter what she looked like, he was glad her desk was near his. And if she was as pretty as she was awesome? He’d just have to hope she was straight and all the other men she’d ever met were idiots.
What had happened at the end there? This was the thought he kept coming back to, even as he tried his hardest not to think about it at all. Why had she hung up? Why had the line rung through as busy when he’d tried to call back, but then gone to voicemail when no one picked up after he gave into the irresistible temptation and called back a few minutes later? It was probably nothing. She’d probably gotten another call on the line and just realized that the (extremely pleasant) light-hearted conversation they’d been having wasn’t actually her job, and switched calls without telling him. Or maybe she carpooled with someone and they’d been waiting for her and she’d had to run. Or maybe…but there was no maybe that fit the facts he could come up with that explained why she didn’t just say goodbye. Unless she’d dropped the phone—but then why hadn’t she picked up five minutes later? It bothered him, like a sore tooth, and he couldn’t keep from flicking it with his tongue. Metaphorically speaking, of course, although he’d just caught himself actually flicking his front tooth with his tongue. Not even licking his lips, which would have been appropriate to the cheesecake he was pulling out of the oven (Larissa’s non-mishap had really put Mom off-balance if she was breaking out the cheesecake) but probing his tooth like he had after biting down on a fork when he was fourteen and it had taken the dentist himself to assure him he wouldn’t need surgery, it would just hurt for a while.
He sat down at the kitchen table with one of the cookies and a glass of milk and tried to remind his mother again that Larissa had promised to definitely 100% for-sure charge her cellphone next time, and was it really that bad that his little sister actually liked college homework enough to spend the whole day in the library? There was some serious irony, he told her, to the fact that she’d spent twelve years between them (with some overlap, of course) telling him and Pete and Tom that they needed to spend more time studying, and now that Larissa actually wanted to study she was saying exactly the opposite. “Where was this when I was in school?” he teased, knowing from the way she bit her lip that his mother was fighting laughter. “Oh Jim,” he added in the high-pitched voice he’d used to imitate her ever since he could remember. “Please don’t spend your time in the library! Couldn’t you just go to another party? Maybe a rave or an orgy?”
“I do not sound like that.” No, his mother had sounded panicked in a way that he didn’t want to make her remember, but now she sounded like his Mom again.
“Do too.” He smiled at her and grabbed a second cookie. “At least, Larissa assures me so. I certainly never got that kind of lecture from you. It was all ‘are you sure you need to join that club?’ and ‘what about your classes, Jimmy?’” He took another cookie. “L’s gonna be fine, Mom. You just have to let her do her own thing. Even if that thing is,” he shuddered artistically, “studying.”
“Oh, Jimmy.” His mother looked over at him kindly and handed him a third cookie. “Your Dad and I just wanted you not to end up working at the Sheetz for the rest of your life.” She put a hand to her mouth and gasped. “Wait…wasn’t this supposed to be your first day at that new place—Dunder Mathlin or something? You didn’t miss it because of me, did you?”
“Mifflin, Mom.” He ate the cookie before answering her question. “And yeah…but I called in. It’s all good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll just start tomorrow. I think I’m going to like working there.” At least if that receptionist or whatever she is is single. “It’ll all be OK.”
“I hope so, Jimmy. I really hope so.” His mother slapped his hand as he reached for a fourth cookie. “The rest of those are for your Dad and Larissa.”
“Mom, Larissa doesn’t even live here anymore.”
“I know, but I’m going to send her a care package.”
“You never sent me…” whatever he’d been about to say was lost in a laugh as his mother mimed throwing another cookie at him to get him to shut up.
