“It’s exactly. The. Fucking. Same.” Pam was marveling at the details of the wedding venue as they waited for Phyllis and company to walk down the aisle. “Exactly the same. Seriously, precisely, exactly the same.”

“As what?” He peered around and gave a wave to Karen, sitting across the way with her plus-one, which she’d surprised him by using on Mark. Mark nodded, he nodded, and the two of them turned back to their respective dates. Frankly, it surprised him that Phyllis had given Karen a plus-one, but the two of them had hit it off during one of Michael’s weird pranklike training rituals and hey, the venue was large enough that they all could have had plus-ones. Not that he wanted to be here with anyone but Pam.

“As my wedding with Roy.” Pam glanced around, and, evidently convinced that no one was watching them, started pointing. “P&R—no one calls him Robert, he’s Bob Vance, Vance Refrigeration— ”

“The R could stand for refrigerator,” Jim added as he tried to figure out how to best support Pam in this moment.

“Heh.” She gave him a small smile but kept on trucking. “The same colors. The same decorations.”

“Not the same bride or groom.” He grabbed her hand.

She squeezed. “Yes, and thank God for that. She and Bob are well-matched, while Roy and I…”

“Well, I didn’t want to be the one to say it…”

“You did, though, didn’t you? In a thousand little ways. And one big one.” She squeezed his hand again. “But seriously, did you not notice?”

“I kind of tried to ignore your wedding planning as much as possible. I even complained to Toby about it, remember?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “That’s what I meant by a thousand little ways. And honestly, I’m glad I didn’t end up with this wedding. That color scheme is fine, but it’s not really me, you know?”

“It might be Phyllis.” He looked around. The colors were the same as the ones he’d been forced to watch Pam plan with, but he hadn’t noticed because they suited Phyllis and her aesthetic so much better. They’d never seemed Pam-like to him, but they were Vance-y.

“It might at that.” Pam seemed somewhat mollified.

He looked more carefully at the program. “She even got Kevin and his band to play the reception.”

“Wait, what? I didn’t plan that.” She grabbed his program, putting her own down in the process he noticed, and stared at it. There was something coupley about it that made him smile.

“You might not have, but Roy did, remember?”

“Oh my God.” She looked up with a grin. “You know, in the whole monthlong trying-to-figure-things-out-with-Roy period that completely slipped my mind?” She laughed. “That, right there, should have been enough of a sign.”

“So you’re saying that’s a no on Scrantonicity from you? Good to know.” He smiled back at her and then the music started and the wedding itself began.

**

At the reception Pam was still trying to figure out how she felt: about the wedding, about the way Michael had tried—was trying—to take over, about that little comment Jim had made about the band. Was he going to propose? They were living together; it was very nice, honestly. Much nicer than it had ever been with Roy. Oh, Jim wasn’t perfect (he needed to realize that you could clean before a patina formed on the shower) but he was perfect for her (once she pointed out the patina he did something about it—oh, and he also did most of the cooking, which freed up her evenings for art). Would she mind if he was thinking of proposing? Silly question. Would she like to be engaged to Jim? Sillier question. Was she ready to be engaged again?

Better question. Still not certain. Peering into her own mind was like shaking a magic 8 ball: reply hazy, please try again.

One thing she was certain about, though, was that she was glad this wasn’t her wedding: that she hadn’t gone through with it with Roy. The man himself had found his way over to her when Jim was off getting drinks, mumbling something about “Halpert, huh?” that strongly implied that Darryl (who was hovering over his shoulder) had clued him in earlier, and she’d smiled and said yes and then grabbed Karen as protective coloration when he’d tried to say something about how it might have been them. She knew somehow that he didn’t recognize the decorations or the themes or any of it—and it was for the best not to poke that wound, even if it was healing very rapidly with how happy she was with Jim.

“Look at them go.” Jim gestured at Mark and Karen sliding around the dancefloor to an upbeat Police song.

“I expected it of Karen, but when did Mark learn to dance like that?” she asked.

Jim shrugged. “There was a while there, when things got really bad last year, when I was dragging him out to the Y multiple times a weekend. He’s a good sport, he never said no, but at one point he pulled me aside and said ‘dude. I don’t like basketball that much.’ So he signed up for the only class they were offering during the time I was playing pickup hoops: ballroom dance.”

“He’s pretty good.” Pam sipped her drink and looked at the two of their friends whizzing around out there.

“Any chance I can convince you to join me for a whirl?” Jim stood up and held out his hand. “After a while he started dragging me to that class too.”

“Oh, no, I’m such a dorky dancer,” she started, but he kept his hand out.

“I know.”

“Don’t you Han Solo me.”

“Come on, give the people what they want.” He started a mock-cheer. “Beesly! Beesly!”

“Okay, okay.” She took his hand and let him lead her out onto the floor. “Anything to make you shut up.”

“I can think of some other options.” He winked and pulled her into his arms.

“Well, be sure to let me know.” And they were off. It turned out that dancing was something she was bad at, but dancing with Jim she no longer cared.