Doubt begins to creep in the moment you even think about asking Jim this question. You take a deep breath, stalling, looking around for any reason to back out.

And unfortunately you make eye contact with a documentary camera, the best excuse in the world for staying silent.

“Um, I just wanted to say thanks,” you say.

Jim raises his eyebrows. “Not really a question.” He laughs and you’re relieved he doesn’t say anything more about it. “Okay, let’s get you home. You’re drunk.”

He takes a step towards Angela’s car and opens the passenger door for you. Trying not to think about it anymore, you get in. You’ll see him tomorrow, you tell yourself.

“Bye,” you mumble as the warm darkness of the car receives you.

“Goodnight,” Jim says. “Thank you, Angela.”

Angela grunts in return, and you watch Jim walk back to his car before the parking lot disappears from view. Then you close your eyes and try to pretend that you’re not in a moving vehicle. The last margarita is sloshing in your stomach.

“You guys are still on Adams, right?”

“Mmm hmm.”

Thankfully Angela doesn’t say anything else as she drives you home. She turns on a classical music station and leaves you to think about the implications of the 2005 Dundie Awards.

All you wanted was to forget about your argument with Roy. Actually, that wasn’t true. That wasn’t true at all. All you wanted was to spend the evening with your fiancé, laughing and maybe having a couple drinks and making fun of your coworkers and praying your way out of an embarrassing award. But Roy had other plans. Plans he just assumed you would want to follow.

You tried standing up for yourself, and instead you just made a scene. Roy grabbed your arm, you pulled away, and one car door slam later, he was gone. And you were where you wanted to be, only, not really. Could anyone blame you for running to your best friend in a situation like that?

Perhaps not, if you had been able to make it through the night without kissing said best friend. God, what was wrong with you?

At last, Angela pulls into your driveway. “We’re here.”

“Mmm. Okay.” You sigh and start to get out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Goodnight, Pam. Feel better.”

You grin and turn around to look at her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” you reply, hiding a chuckle. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Goodnight.”

Roy’s truck is nowhere in sight, but you’re not surprised. You call his name anyway as you walk into the house. You don’t quite know how to feel about the silence that responds, but the nice thing about silence is that it doesn’t demand very much of you.

You managed to keep it together on the ride home, but suddenly your stomach tightens, and you bolt for the toilet. Up come drinks four, three, two, and one.

You feel better and worse as you stand back up and face your pale reflection. The only thing that sounds good right now is to put the night behind you and go to bed. You’ve done this plenty of times before. Maybe you can pretend this is just another night that Roy is out late.

You call his cell phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. Looks like you’re on your own for at least a little while. Your soft bed is calling you…

But you hesitate. You and Roy may not have the most harmonious relationship in the world, but a fight like this is still worth talking about. As tired and ill as you feel, you wonder if waiting for Roy to come home is the right step forward here.

You both have work in the morning. He probably won’t be out that much later.