“Pam, we have a problem.”

Erin’s voice, low and urgent in my ear, stills my hands just as I place a prosciutto rose beside dozens of others on the prep station. I turn slowly, my mind racing to make up for it as I consider what could have gone so wrong. The refrigeration went out and everything is room temperature. Someone saw a rodent. The health inspector is here. Shit. The health inspector is here and saw a rodent while checking the now warm cheese platters. 

“Okay. What’s going on?” I attempt nonchalance while absently wiping my fingers on a dishtowel. 

Erin glances around the kitchen, her voice lowering even further. “I guess when I did inventory… well, and when I placed our order… I guess I didn’t…”

“Erin, what is it?”

“We’re out of a few things.” Shame verging on tears fills her response, so quiet I have to lean in to hear her as she continues. “Romaine and chives and a few spices.” 

A pink piece of paper - clearly she’s been to Kelly’s side of the office - is thrust under my nose, my eyes blurring before focusing on a list much longer than the few items Erin just mentioned. I take it from her, silently adding the cost of each ingredient while also mentally considering what substitutes we might have on hand. 

Pocketing the paper, I pull my coat from one of the hooks near the back door and call to the bustling kitchen, “I’m running to Dwight’s.” 

I know it’s going to snow soon, I can smell it. Also it’s mid-February in Pennsylvania and we have at least eight more weeks of freezing temperatures. Oh god, I’m still wearing the worn sage green apron covered in stray swipes of butter and flour and blackberry jam and tomato soup. My fingers are already freezing, aching while furiously fastening the buttons on my coat as I make my way through the garden gate and onto the sidewalk that runs along Dunder Street.

Traffic is minimal as most of Scranton is caught in the midday prison of those last few hours of work, allowing me to barely glance down Mifflin Avenue before crossing the intersection to Schrute’s Grocery Co-op. The small but plentiful store is exactly how it was when I first stepped foot here twenty years ago. The earthy smell of local produce and the ching of an archaic cash register take me back to my childhood, new to Scranton and desperate for friends and some sort of connection. 

Meredith catches my eye and we nod politely to one another. I can’t help but notice that her basket is filled entirely with limes and lemons and jars of maraschino cherries. Maybe there’s a special version of Mercury going into retrograde today for those of us in the food and beverage industry. 

“Sir, if you have any concerns about the authenticity of our Amish cheese...” Dwight’s voice, that clipped attempt at being unaffected while not at all masking his displeasure, is unmistakable. I make my way toward the dairy section, hovering at the edge until Dwight’s conversation results in the now-shamed customer slinking toward the register with an abundance of Amish dairy products he likely feels obligated to purchase. “Pamela.” Dwight has returned to stocking milk with precision, entirely undeterred from his last encounter. He says my name with a neutral acceptance, maybe the tiniest hint of warmth that I interpret as kindness.

“Dwight.” The thing is, I need something from him. I know it; he knows it. There’s no benefit in us beating around the bush about the favor I’m about to ask. “I have a few things that were missed when we placed our grocery order.”

Wordlessly, he extends his hand, palm facing up. I gently lay the list there, summoning a silent plea across my face while his eyes dart over the words. 

“I’ll have these delivered to you in one hour.” Dwight turns away from me, pushing aside the plastic strip curtain before disappearing into the cooler. 

I sigh, relieved that I wasn’t stuck listening to one of Dwight's patent speeches about preparation and planning, and make my way toward the front door. I should just go back to the restaurant. Prep for tonight. Reconcile payroll. Something. Anything except for crossing Dunder Street and toward the impressively large house on the corner. 

That, of course, is exactly what I’m doing. 

My steps pause as I catch sight of the sign at the foot of the stairs leading up to the door. ‘Halpert Productions’ in a tight, modern graphic, bold and confident against the neutral background. I glance over my shoulder, diagonally across the intersection. The sign posted in front of the old house-turned-restaurant on the corner is far more humble and unimpressive; a cheerful looking bluebird and the single word ‘cafe’ carved into a wooden plaque, hanging by a chain on a worn white wood post. 

“Pam!” I turn to the voice enthusiastically calling my name. “Pam!” Karen repeats, waving her arm and smiling in my direction over the hood of her SUV.

I cross Mifflin Avenue, quick steps to ward off the cold as much as to quickly abandon my original destination. “Hey, how are you? Let me help.” She hands me a bulky box, one of two in her backseat, and closes the car door with her hip.

“Thanks for the help. I had to go pick up marketing materials from the printer. You’re a lifesaver.” We cross the open brick courtyard and Karen quickly unlocks the door. “Just set those over on the desk.”

“Wow,” I breathe, looking around. “Karen, it looks great in here. You’ve done a ton of work.”

I say this to myself as much as her. The art gallery has really become a sophisticated showplace since Karen purchased the space a month and a half ago. I met her the day she bought the space, and the cafe has become her go-to spot for coffee and lunch. Each day when she comes by, she shares with Kelly and me the progress of turning the old furniture store into a proper art gallery, but this is the first time I’ve seen it. 

“Let me show you around.” Karen eagerly guides me through the space, pointing out the changes she’s made, her vision for events and community involvement. Her face lit up as she talked about hosting Sunday yoga and kids’ painting classes in the future. “Hopefully, right? After tonight. You’re going to save the neighborhood.”

I meet Karen’s encouraging smile with a cautious one of my own, a nervous bob of my head. “That’s the goal.” I swallow, my throat suddenly parched, and glance toward the exit door. “I’m going to, uh, head back now. I probably need to get things set up for tonight. I’ll see you there.”

~~~

It’s almost six o’clock, and I’m adding the finishing touches to a crudite spread, carefully drizzling olive oil to the top of the freshly made hummus. I study the finished piece and convince myself the dip looks artfully staged and not like bland goop topped with runny grease. 

Erin appears, her presence perfectly timed all evening to carry each cheese and charcuterie board to its designated spot as long as I give her very specific instructions. She’s just carried out two trays of lemon bars and blondies, heeding my warning that she has to be sure Kevin takes only one of each. Kelly, having already filled the ceramic tureens with three of her best soups, is poised by the front-door, greeting the twenty or so guests we have invited tonight. 

As I deftly untie the faded sage apron from my waist and slip it from my neck, I swallow against the mounting anxiety that is creeping up my throat. Why am I so nervous? Most of these people are my friends! Local business owners, long-time Scranton residents who care about preserving our small-town image and not being run out by a faceless big corporation. 

I take a sip of now-cold tea and sneak a glance from the kitchen into the common area we affectionately call ‘The Living Room.’ It’s our most popular spot for groups to gather. Knitting grandmothers and moody college students and young entrepreneurs are all drawn to the old but comfortable silk and velvet couches, warm and cozy with a large fireplace surrounded by sturdy end tables, a refurbished chandelier, and a polished wooden bar where our barista brews coffee and creates latte art while also pouring the occasional glass of beer and wine. 

My eyes scan the inviting, eclectic space. I feel my stomach momentarily drop a bit as I can’t find the one person who could make all of this come together, but I remind myself that almost everyone else we invited is here. Oscar scrutinizes figs and prosciutto momentarily before loading his plate. Toby is scanning the bookshelf near one of the windows. Meredith is accepting a (hopefully, first) refill to her wine glass.

The tiny office I share with Kelly is a cluttered mess of a supply closet in the corner of the industrial kitchen. I slip in, quickly swipe on deodorant and lip gloss, and take a deep breath. I have cooked for celebrities and politicians. Tom Colicchio said that my orange cinnamon rolls are sent from heaven. Blake-freaking-Lively personally hired me to cater both of her baby showers. I can do this. 

Kelly meets me at the kitchen door, greeting me with an uncharacteristically silent but expectedly kind squeeze to my arm. Over her shoulder, I see that everyone is taking a seat, balancing loaded plates of food with small bowls of soup and generously poured alcohol. Erin is topping off everyone’s wine, and I remind myself to tell her how much I appreciate her intuitive understanding that the best plan here is to get everyone tipsy first.

“Hey, everybody,” I feel like a fraud, as that last syllable drops an octave. My sweaty palms instinctively swipe against my thighs, and I pray that my light gray skirt doesn’t display the evidence of my nerves. My eyes wander across the room and don’t settle anywhere. “Thank you for stopping by tonight. I hope you enjoy the food.”

Everyone nods enthusiastically, smiles around full mouths. That puts me slightly at ease. Just behind me, the front door sweeps open, and I whip around expectantly. A blast of cold February air and Ryan Howard enters the room. We exchange pleasant smiles, and he makes his way through the back of the room silently, politely to take a seat. 

“So, I want to talk about— I mean, what I want to say is— I think it’s—” The lump in my throat is painful to swallow, as though it is scalding and weighs ten pounds. “You all know how I feel about the city’s decision to let the big developers move in and take over the Dunder Mifflin neighborhood. But, if we fight this — together — we really stand a chance of saving Scranton’s historic district.” 

Their reaction is exactly why my palms are sweating and my words are stilted and my mind can’t form a coherent thought. The impatient shifting in their seats and mumbling my name under their collective breath is enough for me to consider throwing in the towel. But I’ve come this far so I open my mouth to continue.

“Well, I know I’m new in town, but I don’t want to see anything happen to the art gallery. I really like it here in Scranton.”

“Oh, everybody, if you haven’t met her yet, this is Karen Filippelli. She just bought the old furniture store after Ed Truck —” I stop myself. It’s not necessary to remind everyone of the gruesome details of Ed Truck’s sudden and unfortunate death. For two months people couldn’t seem to talk about anything else until that incident happened at the poultry processing plant in Wilkes-Barre involving either a chicken bone or a human finger.  It’s still under investigation. “Anyway. Karen, welcome. We look forward to the art gallery opening soon, and we’re so glad you’re here and involved in keeping a small part of Scranton thriving.”  

I take another breath, this time really letting my eyes focus on the people sitting in front of me. “Toby, if they bring in a big box store, your bookstore will be gone. Phyllis, the Blooming Garden will close. Meredith, Kevin, they’ll bring in sports bars, chains —”

“Gabe said me and Meredith don’t have anything to worry about. People just like bars, I guess.” Kevin shrugs and smiles unapologetically just before he slides a (fourth; I can’t help that I’m counting) spicy sriracha deviled egg down his gullet. 

Ah, Gabe. The rock in my shoe. The proverbial rain cloud hanging over my parade. The Vice President of the Scranton Chamber of Commerce. He has adamantly pushed for demolishing the neighborhood where I work and live and replacing it with superstores and parking garages and chain restaurants and an Urban Outfitters. 

Kevin’s comment prompts murmurs among my guests, many of whom are still conflicted on the issue at hand. I can’t hear their words, but Oscar and Toby are in a hushed debate while others around them are tossing opinions back and forth. 

“Let’s remember that Gabe’s intentions are political.” Nellie’s crisp tone cuts through the chatter. I could hug her for it but send her a grateful smile instead. “Gabe wants to develop Scranton further this direction, hoping to take credit for the expansion before the next election cycle.”

“Well, Bob says it would be good for Scranton’s economy to grow.”

“Phyllis is right.” I confess to the twenty-something pairs of eyes that have shifted my direction. “And, guys, listen, I love Target and huge fancy movie theaters and the fifty-page menu of the Cheesecake Factory as much as anyone else. I just don’t think we need more of that at the expense of our local businesses. There’s room for both.”

Someone asks why I hadn’t served my classic cheesecake tonight. Then someone else (Kevin; I’m sure it was Kevin) asks why I don’t ever make a different cheesecake because they have, like, hundreds of choices. And then the suggestions start to flow about the kinds of cheesecake I could make. The topic of cheesecake ignites a more passionate debate than the preservation of our historic corner of town, especially the prospect of so many options so close if Gabe and his corporate cronies get their way. As sides are quickly and fervently drawn over the restaurant chain’s white chocolate raspberry truffle versus their Reese’s peanut butter chocolate cheesecakes, I look for allies.

Kelly sends me an apologetic glance, but I know she can’t help herself as she vehemently weighs in on the merits of the peanut butter cheesecake. Karen and Nellie look at me sympathetically but also with a touch of impatience in their eyes as the meeting derails by the second.

“Guys I’ll make whatever kind of cheesecake for each of you, if you just shut up and listen!” It’s not that I’m any louder than the increasing volume from the group, but to hear me uncharacteristically raise my voice and with such an edge clearly startles them all into silence. Good. “Okay,” I huff out the word in a sigh. “Why don’t we let Nellie, from the Lackawanna County Historical and Preservation Society, speak for a minute.”

Nellie smiles at me as we swap places so that she’s now in front of the group, and I’m sitting in one of the ladderback chairs we pulled from the dining room. While Nellie speaks, Erin slips a cup of warm tea into my hands with a meek but somehow reassuring smile.

“Right, so many of you know me from the same campaign we ran almost a decade ago. Packer Development Group wanted to demolish this area and, not only were we able to stop him, this area grew because many of you opened, or preserved,” Nellie smiles at me, “a piece of what makes Scranton unique. Pam’s right. It’s not that we are opposed to the Steamtown Mall or even expansion. We just don’t want to lose this part of town where our local businesses are thriving. I’ve brought several statistics —” 

“Whatever happened to trying to get approval for the historical registry?” Gil asks as he absently takes one of the glossy folders and then passes the stack. 

“Well, the only location that would qualify is —”

“Jim’s house. Or office. Whatever. The Halpert place. Which is why I hoped Jim would decide to show up tonight.” I send Ryan a pointed look, an irrational moment of anger misdirected at him instead of his friend and boss. 

“Oh, um, okay.” Ryan pauses as he lowers his half-eaten plate of food to balance on his knee. “Jim said that he couldn’t make it tonight so —”

“I’m sure someone had to keep the casting couch warm.” I don’t think I’ve mumbled this loud enough to be easily heard, but apparently saying the words into the mug near my lips amplifies every embittered word.

Ryan’s eyebrows scrunch and he looks thoroughly perplexed as he slowly speaks to me, “That’s not exactly what we do at Halpert Productions, Pam?” He pivots back to the group before I can answer. “Jim asked that I come tonight — in his place — to hear if there are any compelling new arguments, but, until then, his original position still stands.”

I scoff, the frustration mounting again in my tone. “Unbelievable. It was Jim’s dad who saved this town last time! How could he not —”

“Pam, sweetie.” Phyllis’ quiet words and gentle hand on my shoulder are enough to silence me. I feel appropriately guilty as she chastises me with the smallest shake of her head. 

Nellie eyes me as she speaks, and I wonder if she’s concerned that I’m too much of a live wire to be her partner in this. And that is not at all how anyone would ever describe me. 

I’m quiet, reserved, overly structured, and scheduled; I’ve made three impulsive decisions in my entire life. Well, four, but I only think about three. 

Her tone is measured as she continues, slow and somewhat reluctant. “Pam is, once again, right. I had the pleasure of knowing Gerald Halpert and Will Beesly,” Nellie cautions the type of look in my direction that makes me infinitely thankful that Phyllis, who hasn’t moved her hand, is once again patting my shoulder. “They were truly remarkable men. Loyal men who loved and took care of this town and the Dunder Mifflin neighborhood.” 

With these words I start to zone out, my mind falling into a fuzzy, ethereal state where I slowly dissociate from everything and everyone around me. As though I’m underwater, Nellie’s words slip away and create a white noise around me. Movements - Gil handing Oscar a plate, Phyllis digging into her purse for her lipstick - are stiff and disjointed, like watching poorly constructed claymation. I’m not even really conscious of the way my mind drifts away from the present until Nellie says my name, her restrained exasperation indicating that she has likely repeated herself.

I straighten, hoping that my aligned posture won’t give away how I’ve let my mind drift from my own meeting. “The zoning commission will vote on it this summer. So we have a few months to convince them why Dunder Mifflin is worth saving.” The sea of faces in front of me are still uncertain or, worse, entirely apathetic. “Thank you guys for coming tonight.”

And with those wildly eloquent words, my muscles somehow push my body from the chair while my feet take me along with them; away from the room, away from the staring eyes that are edged with concern and hesitation and maybe a little shock. Without conscious thought at all, I push through the swinging door leading to the kitchen, instinctively navigate around prep tables, and ignore the squeak of the hinges on the backdoor. 

The shivering begins quickly and my teeth chatter but I can ignore it easily as my footsteps continue on their determined path. My skin won’t last long against the February cold, but everyone will be cleared out in ten minutes. 

Thankfully my feet stay dry as there hasn’t been snow in a couple of weeks. But I know that’s about to change. I can smell it. 

I cross the sizable stone patio and make my way into the garden that won’t get much attention for at least another two months. The cold stone bench is freezing and my ass numbs as soon as I sit down, foolish as this was in the absence of my coat.

There, on this old stone bench, in the quiet of the garden that has kept so many of my secrets, I take a long moment and just let myself one small luxury. I breathe. 

~~~

“Ooooh, perfect! I have a new carrot soup I want to try out before Easter.”

I pause, studying Kelly carefully. “Seriously?” She’s a hard read and can often use exaggerated enthusiasm as a weapon for the exact opposite of what she really has on her mind. “You really want me to tell Dwight he can send us an extra ten pounds of carrots next week?”

“Pam, yes.” Kelly rolls her eyes and begins talking about ginger and curry while I turn back to my laptop and reply to the email at the top of my inbox, confirming the additional discounted produce. 

The dinging of my cell phone momentarily distracts me from both responding to the email and half-listening to Kelly passionately talk about soup consistency techniques. 

wyd

I roll my eyes and keep typing, despite being intrigued by Roy’s midday text that resembles the type I usually receive from him closer to midnight. Focusing instead on ensuring that my email clarifies the additional produce will only be purchased at the offered discount, I try to ignore the following dings from my phone indicating three more text messages have arrived. 

Unfortunately, Kelly’s curiosity gets the best of her. She abruptly stops talking about the pros and cons of cream-based soups and picks up my phone. “My god, Pam, you have to answer your phone when someone is trying to — Whoa. That is a dick pic. From Roy Anderson.” 

I fumble to grab the phone from her, not expecting the death grip she’s got around the device. A clipboard clatters on the floor and both of us knock over a huge cup of pens in our struggle in the confined space. 

“Kelly, that is not --”

“Give me the phone, Pam. This is a matter of national interest --”

Somehow I wrangle it from her and hold it with a viselike grip behind my back. “Kelly, that’s private. Just between us!” I pause, letting that absorb as I consider Roy has never actually sent me a picture of...well, anything that I can recall. Our texts are limited to confirmation that we are on for our normal Thursday night at his place or the occasional noncommital question if he can stop by after last call. Once, in a moment of real tenderness between us, he offered to bring a pizza and beer on his way over. 

“I didn’t even see anything,” Kelly grumbles as she lands with a thud in the chair on her side of the office. “Besides, it was just a text asking if you got the dick pic he sent.” She rolls her eyes and turns back to her desk before continuing. “You know, Ryan sent me a dick pic the other night. He swears he didn’t mean to send it to me, but then he wouldn’t tell me who he meant to send it to. But then when I tracked his location and showed up at Meredith’s bar, guess who he went home with? Not Miss Originally Intended Recipient. He came home with me.”

“Uh-huh,” I had already tuned out Kelly, distracted by Roy's words on the screen in front of me. I read them over and over, finally letting myself open the very personal, very, um, attentive, picture he referenced. I need you. I can’t stop thinking about last week. 

“Pam! Hello!” Kelly’s snapping fingers rouse my attention and I look at her. “I thought you and Roy were over? Didn’t you tell him to get back with his ex-wife at Christmas or something? Not like I blame you. He’s got that hot, post-divorce body going on.”

“Yeah,” I sigh heavily while tossing my phone on the desk, giving Kelly the best warning look I can manage to deter her from the temptation to pick it back up. “But he didn’t. Or it didn’t work out. I don’t know, Kel. We didn’t really talk about it, and I didn’t ask when he came over last month.”

“Do you have him on a schedule?” Only Kelly can sound so damn patronizing and get away with it. Her smug smile tells me she already knows the answer, and only widens when I sigh in defeat before answering.

“Thursdays.” Now it’s my turn to thud into my chair, identical to the velvet club chair on wheels at her side of the desk, the only difference being that mine is green and hers is pink. “And if we’re both,” I can’t help but smile coyly and shrug, “in the mood.”

“Thursdays. Interesting. Where does that leave Alex?” Oh, she’s in full detective mode now. I can practically picture how Kelly looks in her own head. Pen poised to pad, connecting all the dots of my love life as though she’s solving this week’s murder. I’m certain she’s also wearing a fantastic Burberry trench and a hat in this image of herself. In all fairness, she can really pull off hats.

“I still see Alex,” I say, managing to keep my tone level as I swivel my chair so that my back is facing her and I can pretend I suddenly have a very necessary work matter to focus my attention.

“When?” 

“Ya’ know,” I say casually, waving vaguely toward the wall calendar that houses all of our delivery dates.  

“So what happens if Alex delivers on a Thursday? What do you do then?”

Actually that’s going to happen next month and I have to figure that out. “I guess…” I turn to look at her fully now. “I guess I’ll just see Roy in the afternoon and meet up with Alex that evening like we usually do.” My shoulders jump to emphasize the simplicity of the whole thing, proud of my quick thinking.

Kelly lets out a quiet hmmm while giving me an assessing nod. “You’ve got it all figured out. Just serve Jim and his mom at their weekly lunch at noon, skip over to Roy’s for some afternoon delight, and then bang the sausage guy into the night.”

No coherent words come out of my mouth as I’m stammering over too many thoughts. Namely the one I finally land on. “How did Jim Halpert show up in this conversation?”

The look on Kelly’s face makes my stomach knot, but I’m saved by Erin opening the door and poking her head in. “Hey, um, sorry to interrupt, but you told me tell you when Jim and Ryan came in to get their afternoon coffee.”

“Thanks, Erin.” I pull off the old apron I didn’t realize is still around my neck and swipe chapstick over my lips.

“Why are you putting on lip gloss?”

“It’s Burt’s Bees. My lips are chapped, Kelly.” She isn’t at all shaken by my tone and once again her knowing nod and that faint smile she replies with, frustrate me to no end. I scowl at her as I slide past them and out of the office. 

We aren’t very busy which is exactly what I was hoping for. The absolute last thing I want is to have Jim Halpert cause a scene in the middle of a busy dining room. He’s just paid for his order, carrying a paper cup toward the coffee prep station. He pauses the first time I say his name, but resumes so quickly that I wonder if he did, in fact, hear me. The second time he definitely ignores me. By the third time I’ve said his name, I’m standing beside him and he has no choice but to look warily in my direction.

“Did you seriously just act like you couldn’t hear me say your name ten times?”

“Ten times?” He’s chewing on a wooden stir stick in a way that would be adorable if I didn’t hope he would choke on it. “Ryan, did she say my name ten times?” We both ignore Ryan’s staying out of it as Jim continues speaking as though Ryan has said nothing. “Wow, what could I have done that caused you to say my name ten times?”

I don’t even try to hide the scoff that escapes in response, holding the lock on our eyes as though breaking our staredown would cause the world to swallow me whole. Jim’s face is so neutral, so passive that maybe I’m the one whose mind is in the gutter. 

Dammit, I lose the showdown as I break eye contact and cast my eyes over an empty section of the dining room. A steadying breath and taking my hands off my hips helps to refocus on what’s important here. I need Jim’s help.

“Have you been avoiding me or something?”

“Avoiding you?” Jim’s focus has clearly returned to preparing his coffee. He holds up an empty glass container. “You’re out of sugar.” I pull three sugar packets from a table nearby and hand them to Jim.

“Yeah, I feel like since --”

“Oh, wait. Ryan, do you need sugar?”

“Yeah, I could use some sugar.” 

Unbelievable. I glare at both of them, waiting for Ryan to get his own sugar. Evidently that’s never going to happen.

“Here,” I snap as I set the small black box of sweetener options in front of Ryan. I don’t even care that my hands are planted on my hips at this point as I turn my attention back to Jim.

“Why didn’t I get the whole box?”

Jim is decidedly being cheeky and I’m not in the mood for it in the very least. “Because you use three packets of sugar, no matter how much coffee you get in your cup. You always use three. Always. I don’t know how many Ryan uses so he gets the whole box.” I don’t take a breath between words and certainly don’t offer any of the politeness I would usually use with someone else. “You absolutely have been avoiding me ever since the meeting you didn’t show up for --”

“I told you I wouldn’t be at that meeting.”

“--last month when we had almost every business owner in Dunder Mifflin here. You skip out early from lunch on Thursday, you hide behind your paper every Saturday morning. I can’t believe you haven’t changed your entire jogging route just to avoid passing by here.”

Somewhere in the middle of my tirade I started ticking off items on my fingers which are now suspended midair. Jim, on the other hand, has prepared his coffee to his liking with the calm coolness he tends to do everything. He glances at me before discarding the wooden stick into the trash can and taking a sip from his cup.

“Why have you been keeping up with all my moves, Beesly?”

My god, this man is insufferable. I audibly groan at the ceiling and cross my arms in frustration as he continues to evade the topic at hand, exacerbated only by his casual use of his old nickname for me.   

“Just tell me why you didn’t come to the meeting?” Even I have to roll my eyes that I’m harboring so much frustration about a meeting that happened over a month ago, but this is where I’m at with him. 

“Pam, I told you I wouldn’t be at that meeting.” Jim’s voice has dipped just low enough that only I can hear him, despite the small audience of Ryan and my staff lingering nearby. Like true adversaries, our eyes lock with a determination that won’t let either of us waver. He exhales a frustrated huff and glances -- at my mouth? Did Jim Halpert just glance at my mouth and then look away when I caught him? Surely that didn’t happen. Because he’s definitely looking me in the eye again when he says with the civil tolerance reserved for talking to loan officers and people who work at the DMV, “You knew I wouldn’t be there.”

Once again, I have to look away, sighing heavily at the truth before me. “I know. It was just an important meeting.”

“Oh, I heard.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Jim takes one step backward toward the door and my suspicions heighten just before he says, “Ryan said the food was amazing and the great cheesecake debate of the year occurred. Right, Ryan?”

I don’t even bother to look at Ryan who has left his perch at the counter with the rest of the onlookers and follows Jim toward the door. My eyes narrow and I ball my fists, letting my fingernails bite into the flesh of my palm, anger swelling underneath. 

“Pam, did you really offer to make everyone at the meeting their favorite cheesecake? Damn,” he shoots Ryan that trademark Halpert grin, “maybe I should have come to the meeting. Everyone always sleeps on lemon cheesecake.” He shakes his head as though some great miscarraige of justice in the cream cheese based pastry world has occurred. 

“Do you not care if they tear down this part of town? Our part of town?”

Even the few diners who have been discreetly watching our little exchange unfold are at full attention. Jim’s hand stays wrapped around the knob but he doesn’t pull the door. Instead he pauses and turns to look at me.

Deep within my gut, I can read his face. We were friends — best friends — at one point in our lives. Unpacking what has changed between us is a monumental task that I’m not entirely prepared to attempt. But despite this rivalry that’s grown between us, I notice the way his features soften, a sadness makes his eyes and the corners of his mouth dip.

“No, Pam. I don’t. And you shouldn’t either. We can both rebuild our businesses anywhere else.”

“God, do you care about anything?” 

Okay, so I probably sound a little melodramatic when the words come out, but I’m not doing great at holding back these tears and halfway through I realize that Phyllis and Bob Vance are staring at me. And suddenly this whole project, the very idea that I could possibly do anything to save Dunder Mifflin, feels very heavy. But I’ve always been one to stick with something that I commit to. Any proof needed of that can be found in the daggers I’m serving his direction while he looks at me with such unaffected calmness.

Finally, his hand slowly turns the knob and he says, “Yeah, a few things,” before giving me a wink as though I’m some casting couch protege that he can charm into consent, then opening the door and making his way across the street. No sooner does the door close before I turn on my heel and make my way behind the counter.  

“Pam, are you okay?”

Erin’s question was out of genuine sweet and polite concern. So she didn’t deserve the way I walked past her, closing the kitchen door too hard and raising my voice too loud as I said, “I hate Jim Halpert!”