“Will you not tell anyone that I kissed you?”

Jim has a pretty expressive face, but you’re still surprised when his appreciative smile dissolves and his eyebrows knit together, meeting somewhere between confusion and anguish.

“Yeah, no, for sure,” he says slowly. His hand slides through the back of his hair and lands uneasily at his neck. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Thank you. I mean, I know you wouldn’t. But, um…” you trail off. But I’m engaged. And you’re my best friend.

“Yeah.”

He looks away uncomfortably, and you almost regret asking your question.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

Jim shrugs a shoulder and offers a quarter smile. “It’s okay. You were pretty drunk in there.”

Not drunk enough to use it as an excuse, you think.

Angela rolls down the passenger window and sighs in the aggressive way that only Angela can. “Pam?”

Your heart sinks, as you’re feeling nowhere close to ready for this conversation to be over. You’re not sure if you’re sober enough to avoid saying something you’ll regret in the morning, but how can you do worse than a kiss?

Jim leans down to look into the car. “Hey, I’ll take her home, okay? Thanks, Angela.”

Angela huffs and rolls up the window before driving away without another word.

“I think we need to find her a boyfriend,” Jim says as Angela’s car turns onto the street.

You burst out laughing. “Oh, come on. No one deserves that.”

“Well, I’m not saying it has to be permanent. Just someone to loosen her up a little.”

“Ugh, gross.”

You turn to walk to Jim’s car and make direct eye contact with a documentary camera. You forgot the crew was still here. Did they catch your kiss with Jim? And if they did, do they know what you just asked him?

Jim must sense that you’re panicking at seeing the cameras again because he reaches over and gently squeezes your arm. “They’re not seeing anything new here, Beesly. Come on.”

Jim opens the passenger door for you, and turns on the heat before backing out. The last margarita starts swirling in your stomach at the same ten mile an hour speed of Jim’s careful driving. You groan a little and close your eyes, resting your cheek against the cool leather headrest.

“Did you eat enough for dinner?” Jim asks.

“I ate some of your onion rings.”

You hear him smile. “I know. Anything else?”

“Not really.” You had a few of Roy’s nachos, but then he got mad and said you should have ordered your own appetizer.

“Let’s get you some food, okay?”

“Just not Burger King because one time I threw up a Whopper.”

Jim laughs. “Were you drunk?”

“No, I was in high school.”

“You didn’t drink in high school?”

“Good point. No, I had the stomach flu or something.”

“Is Taco Bell okay?”

“Yeah, baby,” you say, ending your sentence with a fit of laughter.

You put away both of your chicken tacos before Jim can even make it onto the highway. You start feeling warm after eating all that food, so you roll down the window and stick your head outside. Ahhh, wind.

“You okay?” Jim asks.

“It’s hot in your car.”

“Okay, um, do you want to take off your coat?”

“Oh, right!” You sit back down in your seat and struggle with your sleeves until Jim reaches over and helps you. “My mouth is still hot.”

Jim smiles and rolls his eyes before handing you the rest of his Baja Blast. “Here. Second drink.”

You grin, feeling mildly embarrassed. “Thanks. Remind me to pay you back for all your food I ate tonight.”

He turns to look at you for a moment, then looks back to the road and clears his throat. “Don’t worry about it.”

You pop the lid off the soda cup and try to remember the last time Jim let you pay for something. Even the first time the two of you had lunch together, which was like two days after you met, he insisted on paying. You don’t think he had even met Roy yet.

Wait. Was that really how it went? Maybe you’ll remember better when you’re not drunk.

Jim drops you off before you’re really ready for the car ride to be over. You’re warm and a little too full, and you can feel a headache coming along. You would love nothing more than to close your eyes and not leave this passenger seat for another eight hours.

“Alright, Beesly, take care of yourself, okay?” Jim says as he pulls into your driveway. From the looks of it, Roy isn’t home yet, so at least you’ll have a little time to think things over.

“I will. Thank you so much for the ride.”

“Anytime. See you tomorrow.”

You give Jim a final wave through the window before heading inside. The house is dark and silent, but you call out Roy’s name just in case.

You start feeling worse and worse as you get ready for bed. You wish you could blame it on the alcohol and the taco-induced heartburn, but neither of those explain why you’re feeling completely and utterly stuck. Stuck between discord and dishonesty, complacency and regret.

You were so angry with Roy when the evening started. All you could think about was how he only listens to you after he’s made a decision, and then he gets mad if your side doesn’t perfectly align with his.

But how can you still be angry with him when the third thing you did after he left was kiss another guy?

You wish this were a normal night. Even though your arguments always end with an apology from you and a halfhearted promise from Roy, you just want to go back to being mad at Roy like you were three hours ago, without this extra layer of guilt.

And then it hits you how wrong all of this is, when the lesser of two evils is the normal situation of being mad at your fiancé.

As if on cue, you bolt for the toilet. Up come the tacos and the Baja Blast and at least two margaritas. You groan weakly as you stand back up, but you feel a tiny bit better. You brush your teeth and head to the kitchen to get a glass of water before going to bed. Maybe you can put some of the night behind you and deal with the rest in the morning.

The garage door opens, and the hum of the truck vibrates through the hallway. You find yourself taking a step backwards into the darkness of the kitchen, as though the words I kissed Jim! are written on your face.

He’s not going to know, you tell yourself. Not right now, anyway. You step into the hallway just as Roy is pulling the door closed.

He takes a visible breath, offering a subdued smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply. Do I still sound drunk?

“You’re up late.”

“You’re home late.”

“Yeah, I know. It was my turn to drive.”

“Oh.” You weren’t expecting that answer. “So you didn’t drink?”

He shrugs. “I had a beer.”

You smile in spite of yourself. “Yeah, I did too,” you say under your breath.

Roy clears his throat. “Hey, listen, um… I’m sorry about tonight.”

“It’s okay,” you mumble.

“Really?”

“Well,” you say, shifting from one foot to the other. “No, but… I’m sorry, too.”

Roy nods. “Well. Guess that’s two of us.”

You nibble on your lip, thinking of five different things to say and ten reasons why you shouldn’t say any of them.

“Let’s just go to bed, okay?” he says, reaching for you with an outstretched arm.

You nod and let him follow you through the doorway. His hand on your shoulder provides a sense of comfort and awakens a sense of guilt. It all seems to cancel out and leave you with nothing, like an eerie stillness before a natural disaster.

Roy heads into the bathroom as you stretch out under the covers. You realize that you’ve been getting into the habit of just apologizing when things get tense between you and Roy, hoping that an I’m sorry will smooth things out. It’s always easy to find something you could have done or said differently, and this situation is certainly no exception.

You’re starting to wonder if Roy’s been doing the same thing, just for different reasons. You’re so receptive to an apology from him that even an insubstantial one is enough for you to convince yourself that you’re not upset anymore.

You hear the shower running and decide to just let this one go, at least for now. Your head and stomach are still hurting, and you find momentarily relief in the coolness of the pillow and the heaviness of the covers. You don’t want to leave this conversation with Roy so unfinished, because there’s so much more on your mind. But Roy thinks that it’s finished, and that’s always been enough for you before.

Besides, you’re a lot less innocent this time around. If you’re going to start being honest more, this isn’t a great time to start.

***

Seven a.m. feels terrible when you’re hungover and still need to wash your hair before work. You have no idea how you ever liked mornings before. You think about calling in sick, but somehow that feels more embarrassing than just going in and pretending like nothing happened. So you groan quietly into your pillow and force yourself up, trying to think of how nice hot water will feel right now.

It’s a shame that Jim is such an integral part of the mental mess you’re in, you think as you step into the shower, because you talk to him about almost everything. You know that if this were any other situation, all it would take is a ten-minute conversation with Jim, and you would know exactly what to do.

You’re in the middle of conditioning your hair when it hits you that the exact same line of thinking could apply, should apply to Roy, and yet it doesn’t.

Comparing Jim and Roy is a habit you’ve developed in the last few months, and you hate it when you catch yourself doing it. It’s not fair to either of them.

Jim has proven himself over and over to be the best friend you could ever ask for. Roy is, well, not exactly the world’s best fiancé. But that shouldn’t matter. You’re supposed to accept your fiancé for who he is, because you love him.

Because you love him.

If you think about it anymore, it might sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.

You towel-dry your hair and pull on a light green button down shirt and a gray skirt. Then you pack both of your lunches and make enough coffee for both you and Roy, since your normal cup of chai isn’t going to cut it this morning.

Roy walks in, still tucking his shirt into his pants. “Mornin.”

“Hey.” You turn to offer him a smile, but he’s already rooting through boxes of cereal.

“We’re getting low on milk,” he says as he shuts the door to the fridge.

“Yeah, I saw. I’ll go shopping tomorrow.”

Roy nods. “Are we, uh… are we going to go out together tonight?”

You stir your coffee and pretend to think about it. “Do we have to go out? Why don’t we just do something at home?”

Roy looks at you for a moment, as if you’ve never made this request before. “I’ll see what the guys are up to tonight. If they’re not doing anything then we’ll stay in. Okay?”

You open your mouth to say something in response, but then you just nod and attempt a smile. The last time you tried to compromise with Roy it ended in a yelling match.

Roy finishes his peanut butter Cap’n Crunch and puts his bowl and coffee mug in the sink. “We should leave soon cause I want to get gas on the way.”

How nice of him to tell you now, you think, since you’re barely ready. You blow dry your hair, leaving it looking even frizzier than usual, and put on a little mascara before finding your purse and climbing into the truck.

Luckily Roy is never very talkative on your drive to Dunder Mifflin. He just hums a little to himself and grumbles about traffic, leaving you to worry about what you’re going to do today.

You’d been so focused on Roy and Jim that you completely forgot about everyone else you work with. Even if Michael didn’t find a way to accidentally work the kiss into a company email blast, Angela or Phyllis might say something.

You get a little jolt in your stomach as you pull into the parking lot, feeling somewhere between bug under the microscope and deer in the headlights. Even Roy notices something is up.

“Cheer up, babe, it’s Friday,” he says, punctuating his sentence by slamming the truck door.

You smile half-heartedly. “Yeah, I know.” You walk to the other side of the truck and go to give him a kiss. Your lips land on his cheek at the last second. “Have a good day.”

The two of you walk off in opposite directions. Stanley holds the door open for you in the lobby, and you ride the elevator with him. He doesn’t say anything, but that’s typical.

As you enter the bullpen, you see Jim walk into the kitchen. You start to follow him, but you still feel bad about being able to talk to Jim when you can’t even tell your fiancé you don’t want to go out tonight. Maybe you should talk to someone else first.

Your eyes slide over to Dwight’s desk and the peculiar man behind it. You don’t think you’ve ever had a voluntary conversation with Dwight, but he might be the perfect soundboard for you. He doesn’t really care about the personal relationships in the office, and he probably feels equally mild disdain for both Jim and Roy. You crack your first genuine smile in ten hours and watch Dwight get up from his desk and walk into the conference room.