Pam sighed. It was an awful, heavy, bottom-of-the-soul sound that made the people who overheard it wonder what could have possibly gone so wrong as to cause so much heartache. Hers, however, was wasted as it faded into the loneliness of her tiny, scarcely decorated apartment.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be taken away by the soft guitar playing in her headphones. He'd always reminded her of this kind of music, of the kind where the voices are so soft you think you're imagining them and the melody is so light it gives you the impression you're floating.
These songs are also the ones with the melancholy lyrics that make you feel like you're drowning and you'll never live to hear another one like it.
She remembered one night, only slightly more than a year ago, but feeling like an eternity before. It was the night she realized this music was him.
They were standing outside the building, in the parking lot that also seemed to symbolize a hell of a lot lately. He'd given her the other earbud for his iPod, and they stood there, swaying oh-so-softly to the sounds of soaring guitars and haunting vocals. He'd kept his eyes closed as they moved, but she hadn't. She'd watched, almost mesmorized, as he literally felt the music filtering through the wires, filling up the cold, wintry air between them. His body - head tilted forward and to the side, one knee bent slightly to make up for their height difference and to allow the wire some give between them - paired with the music he obviously so desperately loved, was poetry to her, and since then, she hadn't been able to see him without hearing that song, or hear the song without seeing him in her mind's eye.
Pam was basically torturing herself - the playlist she was listening to was a collection of bands that he had suggested after that night, when she'd expressed interested in some other things on his iPod. They all had strange names; names like The Shins, Surfjan Stevens, Arcade Fire... Now, she was listening to Death Cab For Cutie - his number-two band, (after The Shins, the band they'd shared in the cold parking lot,) and one that was quickly making its way up her own favorites list.
"There are different names for the same thing..."
Tell me about it, Pam thought. "Friend", "confidante", "crush", "love", "soulmate"... Every one of those words seemed to describe him, even though she hadn't realized the last two could possibly be true until it was too late.
She curled up tighter, pulling her legs up to her chest and resting her head on her knees. She closed her eyes, her memories coming in short bursts.
...sun, snow, the smile of the cute new salesman as he introduced himself at her desk...
...laughter and smiles over pizza at Cugino's on their first "non-date"...
...the look of awe when she took their first prank on Dwight one step past what he would have...
...a drunken kiss she knew he thought she couldn't remember but in reality she'd never forgotten...
...not-so-innocent looks during company basketball games...
..."dying" of boredom over expense reports...
...secret inside jokes and a little blue teapot...
...twenty-seven seconds of silence (yes, she counted - what else could she do?)...
..."Who Would You Do?" and REM...
...spot-on impressions that made her laugh almost too hard...
..."Hi."...
...a violet-blue dress, a black sweater, five words, four arms, four hands, two pairs of lips, one kiss...
...a tiny yellow Post-It stuck to her phone: "I had to. I'm so sorry, Pam. I'll always miss you."...
...a deceptive, altered metal detector...
...an intercepted phone call that lasted nearly two hours...
..."I can't believe it's you!"...
..."I've kinda started seeing someone."...
That last memory echoed cruelly in her head. She felt the tears on her cheeks before she even realized she was crying. How had their relationship gone from one extreme to the other? How had she let it happen? She hadn't been able to continue pretending that she didn't know that he had feelings for her, but she also hadn't been able to admit her own feelings.
It was her fault. She'd pretended to be blind to him, and in the end, when she realized he was exactly what she needed, exactly what she wanted, it was too late - someone else was in her place now.
It was all her fault.
Something banged against her window, so loudly that she heard it over her music. Tearing off the headphones, she bolted upright and looked over her shoulder. It had been snowing steadily since she left for work a little after five, and now, on the rooftops across the way, she could see that it had piled up significantly in the last four hours.
She also saw the clump of snow splattered right in the center of the windowpane. That's not natural, she thought immediately, standing and moving towards it. That looks...it looks like a snowball!
Pulling it open, her heart pounding, she braced herself against the cold and looked out through the heavily falling snowflakes. Below her, standing just beyond the stairs leading into her building, was a tall, thin figure with floppy brown hair dusted white. Her breath caught in her throat. "Jim..." she whispered, almost not believing her own eyes. Their eyes locked, and he smiled, somewhat shyly.
Before she knew it, she'd shoved her feet into the blue rubber boots by the door and, forsaking her coat for time's sake, had bolted down the hall to the staircase. Taking them two-by-two, she made it down the two flights in record time and crashed through the front door, her whole body immediately hit by the cold and the snow.
She didn't register any of it. All she knew was that Jim was in front of her, grinning, looking at her like... Like what?
"You're going to get sick," he scolded, half-playfully, as she flung herself into his arms.
"I don't care." She looked up into his eyes, his lashes trimmed with perfectly-shaped snowflakes, his cheeks reddened by the chill. "You're here. Why are you here?"
He tenderly brushed back a thick lock of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. "I went home today and I just... I couldn't do anything. I kept thinking about you."
"Oh?" she whispered, the familiar rat-a-tat of her heart repeating itself. Same thing here, Halpert, she thought, not daring to say it yet.
"Yeah," he replied, his smile widening. "I'm an idiot, aren't I, Pam?"
Yes! "No," she said. "No, you're not. I am."
Jim laughed. His arms tightened around her waist, and now neither of them seemed to realize that the weather wasn't in their favor. "I just realized that it couldn't be Christmas without you," he said gently. "I'm tired of pretending that's not true."
Her heart stopped then. He was saying it, giving her the chance to make everything right that she'd screwed up the summer before. But... "What about Karen?"
"It's over. She ended it. She said that, quote, a blind man could see the chemistry, unquote, between you and me. She said it'd been fun, and she liked me, but she didn't want to be a rebound girl."
Pam swallowed. "Was she?"
"I think you know the answer to that." He bent his head and captured her mouth. This time, there was no hesitation as her fingers slid into his hair at the back of his head, as her body melted into his, as her lips opened for him.
The snow swirling around them, Jim pulled back and met her eyes. "I'm still in love with you, Pam," he said, his voice stronger than she'd ever heard.
Her own voice hitched on her response. "I know." She saw the slight disappointment flash in his green eyes, and she put a cold hand on his colder cheek. "I've finally realized that I'm in love with you, too."
She kissed him this time, pulling his body against hers and lifting herself up on tiptoes to make sure he could reach her. When she broke the kiss, she took his hand in her own and led him into the apartment building.
That night, with the snow falling hard outside, Pam and Jim made love - all lips and hands and bodies and hearts and souls. Jim whispered all the words she never thought she'd hear, and she murmured everything she never thought she'd say. Pam couldn't remember the last time she felt so complete, so wonderful, so happy.
And as she lie there on her side, her arm across Jim's bare chest, she felt his steady heartbeat as he slept with his face buried in her hair. Music played softly from the other side of the room, making her smile. Jim Halpert was music, and her life continually reminded her of that.
In a fit of romanticism before they'd tumbled into her bed, she'd turned on her stereo, playing a CD that she now knew would inspire quite the memories, but at the time had simply been what she'd always wanted - the man she loved, the soundtrack she craved, a moment she'd unknowingly waited her life for.
"'How 'bout another first kiss?' she said..."
"Another First Kiss" by They Might Be Giants. She recognized the song, was amazed at how the title so perfectly suited the moment. While she and Jim had kissed before, this night may as well have been their first. She snuggled in closer to him, pressing her lips to his smooth shoulder, and smiled when his arm tightened around her hips.
She was ready for a lifetime's worth of first kisses.
Story Notes:
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.
Author's Chapter Notes:
What came first - the music or the misery?
Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable,
or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?
Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable,
or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?
Chapter End Notes:
Author's Note #1: The title is from a passage in Nick Hornby's novel, High Fidelity:
People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands - literally thousands - of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives.
Author's Note #2: The lead-in quote is also from High Fidelity, this time from the movie and/or Broadway production. (Simply for the addition of the word "pop" to the quote...just to clarify.)
CallieJames is the author of 11 other stories.
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