It would be a lie to say the rest of the walk was uneventful. They saw more wallabies, and Pam insisted…no, Jim thought, he should be fair, they both insisted…on stopping each time and admiring them as they deserved. They saw birds, and plants Jim had never imagined, much less seen, and a few other hikers, though fewer than Jim had expected before he remembered it was wintertime for them.

But mostly what they did was thoroughly, completely enjoy themselves. Jim couldn’t remember when he’d had a less stressful, more fun day. Even on the best of days with Pam before—making up names of diseases to mock Dwight, the time Pam slept on his shoulder, having Pam in his house in his room—there’d always been the shadow of Roy hanging over him like the sword of Damocles, ready to fall at any moment, as indeed it had that time he’d caught Jim holding Pam’s hand.

Pam had been angry that day, insisting it was innocent. He knew better, and in that moment so did Roy. Although apparently he’d forgotten by the next year when he’d so casually told Jim to look after Pam.

Well, it might not be the way Roy would have liked—it definitely wasn’t—but it looked like he’d be keeping that promise after all.

But today was not a day of Roy-thoughts, at least not mostly. It was not even a day of Stamford thoughts. It was a day of pleasure, of finding out how Pam was when she was excited and actually let herself be excited. He’d always suspected that she was one of the more joyful people he knew, if she allowed it, and today she was apparently allowing it.

That he too was allowing himself pleasure was not something he really internalized, but it was nevertheless true.

They finished the walk and collapsed (again) into the chairs outside the Visitor Centre.

“We’re never going to actually go in there, are we?” Pam asked, as she fanned herself.

“Speak for yourself, Beesly. I’ve already been. And it’s amazing.” He grinned over towards her tiredly. “Spectacular bathroom, if I do say so myself.”

“You should not have said that.” Pam shook her head. “Now I have to go see for myself.”

“It’s not that amazing…” he changed tack immediately, but as she put it, the damage was done.

“If you hadn’t mentioned bathrooms…” she added as she hurried inside.

“My mistake!” he called after her, and promptly fell asleep in the chair.

**

Pam wasn’t kidding—the moment Jim had mentioned bathrooms the fact that she hadn’t used one all day sprang to her mind and refused to leave. She raced into the Visitor Centre and was very grateful that there was a universal sign for bathrooms visible as she entered—though as she reflected later, they did speak English in Australia, so she could probably have found it anyway. Or asked someone. But at the time it felt like deliverance.

After washing her hands and exiting the bathroom, she poked around corners in the Visitor Centre, confirming her impression that while it was quite nice Jim had definitely been exaggerating for humorous effect, not serious, when he’d described it as amazing. There was plenty to do and see, but none of it better than sitting with Jim would be. Except maybe the gift shop.

She strolled through that on her way out, looking for something to convey to Jim just how much she’d enjoyed seeing kangaroos for the first time with him. Something small. Something cute. Something like the little bits of memory he’d kept for her, tucked inside the teapot he’d given her at Christmas. She still had the teapot, obviously, but what she doubted he expected was that she also still had the gifts too, tucked in a little zipped pocket of her purse where she could never lose them (and Roy could never find them, though that had ceased recently to be a concern). Thankfully TSA, or whatever the Australian import equivalent was, had not noticed the little hot sauce packet.

There it was, sitting on a shelf with a discount sticker on it (all the better, since she actually had no idea how Australian dollars converted to American). A kangaroo pencil sharpener, with the slot for the pencil where the joey should be. It was cheap, it was tacky, it fit in perfectly with the pencil from the minigolf game—she had to buy it.

Again, she found herself surprised at how easy that was: she could just see a thing and do it, and no one made fun of her or made it more difficult or anything. She was freer than she’d realized, or else her previous life had been more stressed and confined than she’d ever let herself think.

She made her way out of the gift shop with the little brown paper bag around the pencil sharpener stuffed in her purse and found Jim in his chair snoring away. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for: a chance to sketch him when he definitely wouldn’t ask to see the sketch. She sat down opposite him, pulled out the book, and sharpened her pencil in the kangaroo (he wouldn’t mind—after all, all his gifts to her had been technically used too).

The next half hour passed in gentle silence, punctuated only by the background noise of the business of the botanic gardens and Jim’s gentle but occasional snores—and the scritching sound of pencil on paper.