She can't breathe.
Pam feels it begin slowly, a gentle breeze cooling the hot late-July air, small spatters deepening the pink of the shirt she wears.
It builds, becomes hard and fast, mirroring the beating of her heart, the pounding in her head. Fat drops hit her arms, her face, her shoulders, chilling her skin as they fall. Soon her clothes are sticking to her, clinging to her skin, so close they've become a part of her, contouring to her body like a mold. Puddles form in the spaces between her toes as the warm water drips down her legs, off her fingertips, out of the sky. It's running down her face, tears from heaven for what she's afraid she's lost. It cascades down her neck, between her shoulder blades, tickling the base of her spine. Her jeans grow darker, heavier, weighing her down with the fear she's been carrying since she got in her car to come here.
She can't move.
The rain is pouring, the wind blowing. It's as if the weather can read her mind, bringing a day as stormy and dangerous as the thoughts running through her head. It's dampening her perfectly curled hair, smearing her carefully applied make-up, and still she is rooted to the concrete.
She is caught in the moment, mesmerized by the enormity of what she is about to do. Whatever the outcome, it will change her life forever and it thrills and terrifies her. She's in her head, telling herself to move, to speak, to breathe. She watches the scene play out in her mind, watches herself stand frozen in the middle of a downpour, paralyzed with the fear of heartbreak, hair and clothes becoming a second skin. She screams at herself to move, to go, to finish what her heart started years ago, without her consent, without her knowledge.
Ten steps.
That's all she needs, all that is required of her stubborn legs. She feels her heart beating in her throat, takes in the tingling anticipation coursing through her fingers and running, dripping down her legs and into her toes.
She knows he's there, can see his car in the street if she turns her head a quarter of an inch to the left. A splash of bright red in a dark, gray world.
She can see him, too, sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the television, his indifference towards the program evident in his sagging shoulders, his tilted head, his permanently unsmiling lips.
She watches as he stands and moves towards the kitchen, into another room and out of her sight, and she remembers the last time she watched him go, the last time she watched as his back grew smaller and smaller, sobbing in her mind while her face remained stoically unconcerned, a slab of stone in which she'd carved an acceptable and emotionless facade.
He'd left with nothing more than a wave and a nod to acknowledge the friendship that had bound them together for years, a circle of light in the darkness of their days.
When he'd left Scranton, he'd selfishly taken a part of her with him, removing the part of her heart that had held happiness, leaving nothing in its place.
Her thumb moves to the fourth finger of her left hand, a habit born of years of wearing first a high school ring and then an engagement ring there, a symbol of a love that had disintegrated over time. Hurt, thoughtful, or nervous, she would run her thumb over the cool metal, feeling the gentle rub of the ring as it moved lightly against her skin. Her thumb lazily moves against the spot where her fourth finger meets her palm, the spot now marked only by a receding tan line that advertises what had once been.
He appears again, a small dot through the dirty gray screen, framed by cracked, peeling paint and well-weathered wood.
She watches him look up, out, at her, his eyes boring through her towards the heart that has stopped beating.
She watches as his eyes widen, a small gap appears between his lips, and the bowl of popcorn held loosely in his hand falls to the floor, its scattered contents tumbling across the carpet as wildly as his thoughts tumble through his mind.
She can't think.
Salty tears mingle with the warm rain, dampening her cheeks as she watches him, seeing him for the first time in the eternity that has elapsed in the last two months.
*****
He can't think.
He wonders if he's dreaming. He wonders if he's dead. Maybe he's choked on the popcorn he'd plucked from the bowl that now lies empty on the floor. Maybe he's lying on his kitchen floor as the life drains out of him, as he fades away into nothing.
But that can't be right. Because for the first time in two months he actually feels his heart beating, feels the air moving over his lips and into his lungs. He feels himself come alive at the sight of her, an angel standing beneath the old oak tree in front of his house, half drowned by the weather that had matched his mood until he'd seen her through the window, framed by the cream colored curtains his mother had insisted on hanging when he'd moved in two months ago.
He can't move.
He is rooted to the carpet, warm, freshly buttered and salted kernels of popcorn scattered over his bare feet and falling between his toes. He'd heard what happened, of course. A voicemail from Michael had made it clear.
She didn't do it. Get back here.
So uncharacteristic of Michael, it had ended there, leaving Jim as shocked then as he is now, desperate for more information.
He briefly wonders how long she's been there, staring, watching. He's surprised he didn't know she was there, didn't feel her presence somehow.
They are welded to their spots, twin pillars of hope and fear and love. They are each acutely aware of the other's eyes, roaming over faces, taking in the matching images of anticipation and disbelief etched there, each knowing that the wall between them is now only one of lumber and paint, capable of being passed through at any given moment, on any given whim.
Jim feels his feet begin to move, feels his hand reach for the doorknob, feels the warm rain hit his face, instantly soaking him from head to toe as his bare feet make their way across the rough, wet pavement.
He can't breathe.
He's within inches of her, close enough to see drops of water pooling on lashes above tear-filled eyes.
A drop of rain drips down the back of his neck and he shivers.
Pam.
He whispers her name, as though he's not sure she's really there, afraid that anything louder will make her disappear, make him awake from the dream in which he'd like to live forever.
*****
She has to touch him, has to make sure he's really there and not just a figment of her imagination, a result of the desperate desire for the light to return to her life.
Her fingers graze his cheek and move back towards his hair, gently at first, tentatively, as though he might disappear if she applies too much pressure. When she reaches his damp hair, slightly longer now and curling at the edges, she allows herself to give in to the need to feel him, really feel him. Her fingertips turn white as she presses them into his scalp, raking her hand through his hair, feeling the silky strands slip through her fingers.
He runs the tips of his fingers down her bare arm, over her wrist, and envelopes her small hand with his own, finally feeling the weight of her presence, finally sure he hasn't imagined her into existence.
She shivers, despite the warmth of the air and the searing heat of his fingers on hers.
He lowers his head until it is within a centimeter of hers and she closes the gap, pressing her face into his cheek, her eye lashes tickling him as her eyes close.
When she opens them again, his eyes are piercing into hers, their mouths almost touching, him inhaling the air she expels as she whispers his name.
Jim.
His free hand snakes through her hair as the sliver of space between them disappears and they both rediscover the ability to breathe.
Author's Chapter Notes:
I sat down to write a shopping list and this is what came out. Realized there was already a fic with this title only after I named it, now I can't think of anything else to call it, so I hope no one minds. Decided to use it for Bonorocks's Rain Challenge. Hope you enjoy! Please review.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Smurfette729 is the author of 14 other stories.
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