After the German onslaught, Jim finally heaved himself out of bed and wandered out into the streets to seek some sort of sustenance. He stumbled past a fountain commemorating something or other (he didn’t stop to check; it was a giant ball of water, which only reminded him of how thirsty he was after an indeterminately long sleep and flight), then picked a direction—only to end up in front of the most American place he could have found: a McDonalds.

To be clear, he realized as he examined the menu through the window, the offerings weren’t quite the same as in the US. The sandwiches, McFlurries, and so on were all slightly different, slightly off, like walking through a funhouse mirror. But the fries were still McDonalds fries, he could see from the pictures, and the arches were still as golden as ever. He almost went inside—after all, he was hungry—but a little voice inside told him he’d regret it if his first meal in Australia was quite that American.

He tried very hard to ignore the fact that the voice actually asked whether he wanted to tell Pam about that.

Instead he continued on just a little further down the street until he came to a corner with two different food options: a restaurant that proudly proclaimed itself the Thirsty Bird and another rejoicing in the name Friggitoria.

He did not even try to stop the snort that came to his nose unbidden at the second name. McDonalds was one thing; imagine Pam’s reaction when he told her his first meal was at the Friggitoria. That’s what she said, indeed!

Of course, imagine it was all he would be able to do. When he came back, he wasn’t going to see Pam. And that was a good thing, he reminded himself. Or at least a necessary one. It was self-preservation that was driving him to Stamford. He couldn’t tell Pam anything, or else he’d end up insane, and still in love with her.

That might be his fate anyway, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to at least try. With that in mind, he pushed his way into the Thirsty Bird (not that that name wasn’t hilarious in its own right, but at least it wasn’t the Friggitoria).

**

It was hard for Pam to resist the temptation to pour out her heart and soul to the nice lady sitting next to her, but she resolutely sat on her hands and bit her tongue (mostly metaphorically) until the urge passed. What she had to say to Jim—what exactly did she have to say to Jim?—well, whatever it was, it was the sort of thing that had to be said to Jim. She’d spent far too much of her life venting to people who weren’t the main person involved: about Roy to Jim, about Jim to her mother, about herself to…well, Jim as well. She hadn’t spent enough of it saying the right words to the right person; if anything, she was in dun territory there, since she had decidedly said the wrong words to the right person a month ago (even if it was totally and completely unfair for him to drop that on her and expect her to react well). But she couldn’t blame her hurtful words (not so much I can’t, which was, on reflection, a fair statement of how she felt, but I’m sorry if you misinterpreted things, which wasn’t) and hurtful actions (not kissing him, which was, on reflection again, as important to her as breathing, but that little nod when he’d asked about Roy still hurt when she remembered it) on him. Nor on being drunk, though that was looking like an attractive option right now as a way to stop thinking about it. No, she hadn’t done well by Jim or herself, and she needed to make it right with him somehow, not with a stranger, no matter how sympathetic.

She laughed almost maniacally at the thought that if she’d decided to do the same with Roy instead of talking to the new guy at work three years ago, she might not have been in this mess. She didn’t think she’d be with Roy—they just weren’t as compatible at 26 as they’d been at 16 and she knew it—but she wouldn’t be right here right now feeling these things.

The maniacal laughter seemed to reduce the temptation, or at least the opportunity, to confide in her seatmate—but it also made her feel sad. Because the only times she’d really, truly laughed in the last year or so had been with Jim. Jim, who was now—she checked the seatback flight tracker—one hour of flight time, a forty-five minute layover, and another plane flight away.

Shit. Really? Only 45 minutes?

It was a good thing her white sneakers were, technically, running shoes.