---

“What happened?”

They always ask it in the same way, with the same inflection on “happened”. The people who ask vary quite a bit: awkward young high school girls who either simplify or complicate everything depending on their hormone levels, middle-aged housewives who’ve been there, done that but are still trying to figure it all out, little old ladies who need to believe a happy ending is always possible, despite what life may have taught them. The people who ask are almost exclusively women, but that is where the similarities end. Except for how they ask it: “What happened?”

I’ve gotten used to it, sort of. The barrista at Starbucks who squints at my face before her eyebrows shoot up in recognition and suddenly feels it’s her right to know everything, to understand the intricate weaving of my failed relationship even though I don’t completely understand it myself. People feel like Pam and I belong to them – our story is their story, and that they should have a say in it. And I guess that’s my fault, really. If I had been more like Stanley – kept my nose buried in a crossword puzzle, paid less attention to the cameras, suppressed my goofy personality and desire to be liked – people would probably not only not recognize me, but they probably wouldn’t care what happened between me and a shy receptionist at a failing paper company. But I had to wear my heart on my sleeve, make every woman feel like my mother or sister or potential soul mate. So now it’s somewhat disconcerting that hundreds of people (or thousands or millions – I have no idea how many people actually watched our show) feel like they know me better than I know myself. And the truth is, they might.

My mind has often tried to convince me of a lot of things – that I loved somebody when I didn’t, that I didn’t love somebody when I did – with varying degrees of success. I thought that just maybe I was fooling everyone with those purposeful shrugs, as if I didn’t really care, or my carefully worded talking heads. But despite my best efforts, the audience always seemed to figure out the truth. The damn cameras – they are a bitch. They captured every look of longing, every eye roll, every smirk or grimace. They knew when I was lying to someone else or to myself, and it was their job to tell the truth. So I guess I can’t blame these strangers who want to know, after years of watching my longing and seeing me finally get exactly what I thought I wanted, why it didn’t work out. I’d want to know if I were them.

I’m so tempted sometimes to try to explain it, to defend myself, maybe even to defend Pam. A part of me wants to write a proclamation and publish it in the Scranton Times and wherever else The Office may have a following. But I’ve learned a little bit about being a pseudo-celebrity and rule number one is: just shut it. No matter how careful you think you’re being with your words, no matter how little you try to say, you will almost always end up regretting 99% of what comes out of your mouth. So I usually smile, turn on the charm. “It’s complicated,” I might offer, because that’s the truth. And most times they take the hint and instead ask for an autograph or a picture and I gladly indulge them as thanks for letting it drop.

But once in awhile there is a drunk girl at a bar or a nosy grandmother who will be like a dog with a bone: “Did she cheat on you? Did you cheat on her? Was it that art school? Was it Roy/Karen/Katy?” They try to simplify it, try to place blame appropriately, but there is no way to dole out the blame on this one. Pam and I were both equal partners in our demise, just as we were equally guilty of the five years it took us to get together in the first place. And to try to explain the complex downfall of the infamous “Jam” in the middle of a Starbuck’s, with a line of cranky, caffeine-starved people behind you . . . well. It’s nearly impossible. And frankly, far too much of my adult life has been open to the public as it is. So I’m grateful that, as a salesman, I’ve learned how to steer conversations where I want them to go, and I deflect the line of questioning however I can. I sometimes think of Pam getting these same types of questions and the way she might stammer or blush or even actually, God forbid, answer. I don’t think she’d purposefully throw me under the bus or anything, but there are two sides to every story and her version … well. I’m still not sure what her version is. Verbal communication was never our strong point. Neither was timing.

The show is off the air now, the series finale trying to tie up all the loose story lines in a neat, packaged, marketable sort of way that can be promoed in 15 seconds. But Pam’s and my story is one with frayed edges that refuses to be neatly tied or summarized in a sound bite. Although it has been months since Pam and I actually broke up, it’s only been a few weeks since the final show aired. After Pam and I left Dunder Mifflin and refused to let the cameras follow us beyond the terms of our contract, the filmmakers dragged our story out for far too long, using the existing footage they had to script a soap opera of sorts. They toyed with the audience to create some kind of climactic dramatic ending instead of the slower fizzle that it actually was. So to our “fans,” who haven’t had much time to process it yet, the response to our break up is still visceral, personal. People expect me to be broken and weepy and are somewhat disappointed to find that I’m functioning and able to smile. I’ve been lectured and propositioned and hugged, often all in one conversation. The constant scrutiny and unwanted advice has been exhausting. I’m looking forward to some day in the hopefully not so distant future when my fifteen minutes of fame will be long forgotten and I’ll be able to go out in public without being seen as one half of the most famous former couple in Scranton.

Yeah, I’m really looking forward to that day. To a fresh start.

Fresh isn’t something I’ve felt for awhile. Even when Pam and I got together and we called it a fresh start, it wasn’t really. When you’re finally happy after such a long bout with misery, a fresh start seems so simple, like it will be easy to forget what made you miserable for so long. But underneath the shiny new surface of our fledgling relationship was a whole lot of rotting stuff, between us and within ourselves, that eventually we couldn’t ignore.

So I’m due for a fresh start, but that time hasn’t come quite yet. I’m still in Scranton, still running into people daily who pepper me with questions like machine gun fire. I walk around in a constant state of tension with tight, slouched shoulders and a baseball cap pulled down low. I still can’t relax and I still can’t be anonymous. Not yet.

So today, when I run to the Steamtown Mall to pick up a few shirts for my new job, I still duck my head as I pass by a group of women with strollers. I grab several shirts off the rack without trying them on because I’ve discovered that a disproportionate number of teenage girls spend time at the mall, and my “fans” (if you can call them that) are disproportionately teenage girls. Plus, most teenage girls have yet to learn the art of subtlety or reading body language or quiet conversation vs. squealing interrogation. They are like Kelly on steroids. So the quicker I can get in and out, the better. I toss the shirts over my arm and turn, head down.

“Excuse me?” The voice behind me is soft and female and I tense in a way that I never thought I could at the sound of a soft female voice asking for my attention.

I turn and ready myself for the barrage: Oh my God! Aren’t you Jim Halpert? I, like, totally love your show! What happened with you and Pam?

But the woman I turn to face isn’t a teenager – she’s probably about my age – and she doesn’t have that anxious, excited look people get when they recognize someone from TV.

“I’m sorry to bug you, but . . . do you mind me asking: um, how tall are you?”

I tilt my head, surprised. This is a new one. My vital statistics – age, height, weight, eye color (sometimes listed as green, sometimes as hazel), even shoe size – are posted on just about every fan website. People don’t usually bother with confirmation of the obvious.

“Um . . . 6’3”?” I answer, still waiting for some kind of bait and switch.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she nods. She holds up the brightly colored shirt in her hands. “What size would you wear? A large? Or extra large? Or, like, a large tall?”

“Um…”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at herself. “I’m sorry. I just … I’m trying to buy a birthday present for my brother-in-law and he’s about your size.” She looks me over for a brief moment. “Maybe a little . . . wider.”

She doesn’t seem to know who I am at all and I feel a wave of relief flow over me, like the tingle that travels through your arms and hands when you narrowly avoid an accident.

“How much wider?” I ask, relaxing a little. “Because I’d get a large tall, but depending on his . . . um, girth . . . you might want to get an extra large.”

She laughs. “His girth is fairly substantial.”

I bite my lip to hold back a that’s what she said. What can I say? Old habits…

She looks down at the shirt. “So maybe the extra large? The large tall just has longer sleeves, right?”

I nod and she bites her lip, still looking down at the rather unfortunate shirt in her hands. She sees me looking at it, too.

“It’s hideous, isn’t it?”

I start to shake my head, even though it is truly hideous, but she continues without waiting for my answer.

“It is. I know. And the fact that I’m spending hard-earned money on a shirt like this will haunt me forever. But he’ll love it.”

I grin slightly. “Is he . . . um . . .blind? Or . . . a clown?”

She suppresses a laugh. “Oh, he’s a clown alright. But mostly he just has alarmingly bad taste.”

We smile at each other and I feel something unfamiliar and worrisome tickle at my throat and down my spine. For a moment I almost mistake it for fear before realizing that it might be interest. Attraction, even.

“Okay, well, thanks.” She tucks her hair behind one ear in a way that reminds me of why I feel slightly afraid. “If I’m going to invest in this repulsive clown shirt, it might as well fit him.”

“No problem. At least you didn’t ask me to try it on.”

She smiles again and her smile is easy and light, like it’s the most familiar expression to her face, the one she wears most often.

“Oh, one more thing?”

I tense a bit, fearing that she’s known who I am all along, wondering what question she’s going to ask. Why didn’t you tell Pam you loved her sooner? Why didn’t you propose at Toby’s party?

“Um. Will you try it on for me? Just to be sure?” She sees the look on my face and laughs again. “I’m kidding!”

I shake my head and roll my eyes at her.

She tries unsuccessfully to swallow her smile. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . kidding. No, I just . . . do you know if there’s a Hallmark store at this mall? I need a card to go with this horrid shirt and I’m not from around here…”

“Um, yeah. It’s down by Boscov’s, I think. By the store where all the teenagers hang out?”

“Abercrombie?”

“No, the other one.”

“Hollister?”

“Bingo.”

She laughs and shifts her purse to her other arm, not quite ready to leave yet, or not quite sure how to end the conversation.

I’m actually not quite ready to end the conversation myself. “Where … where’re you from? Since you’re not . . . well . . . from around here.” I’m all sorts of awkward and ridiculous. Damn. I’m so out of practice at this.

“Oh. Um, Philly?” She offers it like a question, like ever heard of it, but without Andy’s condescension. The way she does it is charming, as if she thinks stating “Philly” in a matter-of-fact way would sound pretentious.

“Just in Scranton for the shopping?”

“Yeah,” she deadpans. “I thought: Magnificent Mile. Rodeo Drive. Madison Avenue,” she holds up one hand, palm up. “Or Scranton’s Steamtown Mall.” She holds up the other hand, same way, but lifts it high, while the other drops, like weights on a scale.

“No contest,” I agree.

“It is a shopper’s Nirvana.”

“A Mecca for people seeking clown shirts.”

She laughs, and it feels good to make her laugh. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt such an easy rapport with a woman, and I feel like I do when I hear a once favorite song that I haven’t heard in awhile: nostalgic. The joking and the banter with this woman brings back memories of when I first met Pam, when things had been simpler. Pam and I always had the rapport, but we also always had the added tension of a fianc� or a girlfriend or our checkered history. This feels . . . unfamiliarly comfortable. Easy.

I shift my weight, slide one hand into the front pocket of my jeans. And, because I like to think I’ve learned a thing or two over the years, I take a glance at her left hand. No ring.

“Um. Where in Philly are you from?”

“Bella Vista. You know Philly?”

“Not really,” I say. “Well, not yet. I’m actually … I’m moving there in a few weeks.”

“No kidding?”

I shake my head, remembering that I’m not kidding. My fresh start is fast approaching and every time I say it out loud I feel a little lighter and more hopeful. I glance down at her flip-flop clad feet, tan and peeking out from the bottom of her jeans. Her toenails are painted a rosy pink.

“Where in Philly?” she asks.

“Um… Queen Village? Monroe Street? I don’t actually know the area that well yet…”

Her jaw drops a bit in slightly overexaggerated shock. “That’s 5 or 6 blocks from me!”

“Really?”

She nods, her straight, sandy hair sliding against her collarbone. The ends are smooth, thick, and even, like a paint brush.

“Well. We’ll be neighbors, practically.”

I have to admit, the prospect isn’t unappealing. “Small world.”

We stand awkwardly for a moment and I consider asking her for her information, her name, number, something. Despite my previous successes (if you can call them that) with women like Katy and Karen, my experience with Pam has made me question my instincts and I shift my weight, trying to decide if I’m reading her warmth correctly. She mistakes my movement, my insecurity, for impatience.

“Well. Thanks again….” she trails off, inviting my name.

“Jim.”

“Emily,” she says, touching her hand lightly against her chest. We don’t shake hands. “So. Maybe I’ll see you around Philly,” she adds.

I smile, impressed by her easy confidence, her friendly smile, her unambiguous but subtle flirtation. I think that maybe I used to be like her once, not so long ago.

“Maybe I should get one of those shirts. You won’t be able to miss me.”

“Jim,” she says, her face serious. “If you’re wearing this shirt?” she holds it up, “I might miss you on purpose.”

I shake my head in mock disappointment. “So shallow.”

She laughs again and holds out her hand. I take it.

“It was nice meeting you, Jim.”

“You too, Emily.”

“See you around.”

“Sure. Yeah.”

She slides her slender hand from mine and smiles one more time before she turns and walks away, her hair swinging slightly against her shoulders.

---

If I had to pinpoint when I knew that things were changing, I would probably say early August. But maybe they had actually started to change the night of Toby’s goodbye party, when Andy had unwittingly sabotaged my plan to propose. After that night, nothing went quite like I thought it would. When we got home after the party, Pam was distant, a little cool. Not exactly angry but … something was off. I wondered if she had been expecting the ring and I suspected that she was getting tired of waiting for me, tired of my joking around. I was kind of tired of waiting, too, so I decided to ask her the next day, first thing in the morning. I’d wake up early and watch her sleep until her eyes fluttered open and I’d be waiting there with the ring. Fuck the ass kicking. I was ready to marry her.

But Pam woke up even earlier than I did and leaned over me while it was still almost dark outside, telling me she was running home to do some things and would see me later. And when we did see each other later the weight of our mutual disappointment took its toll and we got into a stupid argument about where we would eat dinner, although the argument was really about a lot more than that. So . . . no proposal.

And then I talked to my brother, Jeff, about it all and when I told him how Pam was going to New York for three months, he had groaned.

“You can’t ask her now, dipwad.”

“Um. Why, exactly?”

“Because it’s like giving a girl your high school ring before you both go off to college. It’s kind of desperate, like getting matching tattoos or . . . branding her.”

“Branding her? Come on.”

“Yeah. It’s like you’re trying to mark her as yours. So when she meets all those artsy New York guys, she’ll already be taken. It’s kind of passive aggressive, actually.”

“You’re insane.”

“Okay. Whatever.”

But the more that I thought about it, the more right my stupid brother seemed. Asking Pam to marry me did seem sort of desperate, given the timing. Here she was, about to go off on the biggest adventure of her life so far, an adventure I had encouraged 100%, and I was going to play the part of hometown honey, distracting her with wedding plans and shit.

I imagined a guy asking her out after class and her saying, “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m engaged. My fianc� is back in Scranton.”

The guy would look at her and say, “Really?” and then look for the ring on her finger and depending on the guy, she might be self conscious of its size or its design, like she sometimes had been with Roy’s ring. And then the guy would say, “Scranton, huh?” in a confused sort of way, his voice slightly smug.

And Pam might feel a little tickle of something that she’d try to dismiss, but it would be there. It might remind her of being engaged to Roy, of the sense that something was a little off, that the life she was leading was not exactly the life she wanted. Not that I thought she didn’t want to be with me, but just that she might not want the tired label of “engaged girl,” one she’d had already for years, following her around on her big adventure.

So I sat her down a few nights later and explained what I was thinking. I told her that I had jumped the gun a bit and now that she was going to Pratt, I didn’t want her to think about anything other than what she was doing there, what her dreams were, what she wanted to accomplish. I told her I wasn’t going anywhere, and that I wanted to marry her, but only when the time was right, when she was back in Scranton and ready to move forward. I told her that getting engaged right before we were going to be apart for three months felt reminiscent of war brides during WWII – rushing the process a bit. And we were in no hurry. We had already waited years to be together. What was three more months in the grand scheme of things?

Pam had argued with me, saying that she didn’t want to wait, but I stood my ground. I was confident that I was doing the right thing. The mature thing.

“Go,” I said. “Be brilliant. We’ve got time.”

So she went, her ring finger bare.

---

---

My apartment in Philly is nothing like any place I’ve ever lived, and my new job is nothing like Dunder Mifflin. My fresh start is officially here and I feel a lightness inside of me, a freedom that I haven’t felt in at least seven years. Maybe that I’ve never felt before at all.

The house I grew up in was similar to the house I lived in with Mark – generic, built in the 70s with wall-to-wall carpeting and cheap hollow doors. In Stamford I lived in a more modern rental condo, with Pergo floors and smooth Corian countertops, but it didn’t have a lot of style or personality and I ended up feeling empty and cold there for reasons besides my sorry emotional state. Even the apartment I shared with Pam for a few months was a compromise between what we wanted and what we could afford, just like the living arrangement was a compromise between just dating and being married. But here, my apartment is old – a century old at least – with weathered hardwood floors and heavy oak doors and wide wood trim that climbs up every wall. The kitchen has been refinished with new cabinets and stone countertops, but it has vintage light fixtures and a quirky layout as a result of the large wrought iron vents dotting the floor. The rooms are fairly small and cozy, but the ceilings are high and the windows large and it’s filled with a bright, cheerful light that I know Pam would have loved.

And it has history. Lots of history. Something about this is comforting to me, like it’s witnessed a lot and my sort of pitiful and embarrassing story is nothing to it. So what? it seems to tell me. I’ve seen worse. Living in a place with a hundred years of sorrow and joy within its walls makes my sorrow or my joy feel normal and expected. Like a rite of passage.

With my brother’s help, I move in my portion of the furniture from the Scranton apartment Pam and I shared for a short time. We picked out some of the pieces together for a married life we never actually got to have, but it was all peacefully divided up when we split. I got the sofa (since I’m taller) and she got the two comfy chairs. I got the high stools, she got the small dining set. I look at the furniture as mine now, not ours. I suppose that shows I’m healing.

My job is both intimidating and exciting. I’m still in sales, because I’ve discovered I’m good at it and actually even like it when I’m not trying so hard not to. I work with people who are smart and funny (in a completely different way than Michael was funny) and who enjoy their jobs (in a completely different way than Dwight did). More is expected of me but I find that I like that. I’m finding that when I try, I surprise myself. And it’s sort of intoxicating to look forward to coming into work for reasons other than messing with your annoying coworkers and seeing the woman you are secretly in love with. I feel like I’m finally getting a taste of what Pam felt in New York – a new world, a new passion, a fresh start.

I keep an eye out for Emily around my neighborhood, but as the weeks pass, I realize I’m having trouble remembering exactly what she looked like. We only spoke for a couple of minutes and now her features blend together in an indistinct blur. I know she was tall – at least four or five inches taller than Pam was – because her head came above the level of my shoulder. And I know she was thin but not scrawny in a way that said she never ate French fries or ice cream. Her hair was brown, but a light honey brown, maybe even a little bit blonde, past her shoulders but I can’t remember exactly how long. And if it were up in a pony tail or under a baseball hat, I’m not sure I’d recognize her at all. I have no idea what color her eyes were – maybe blue, maybe gray. She was pretty in a clean cut, universal way, in the way I like girls to be pretty – natural and wholesome and girl-next-doorish. But Philly is a big city – much bigger than Scranton – and the more time that passes without running into her, the less I think I’ll recognize her if I do. I feel a vague sense of disappointment that I may not see her again and am increasingly frustrated with myself that I didn’t ask her for even her last name. But a month ago I wasn’t feeling as brave as I am now. I wasn’t feeling like I was ready to move on.

---

I drove Pam to New York on the first Saturday morning in June. We unpacked her things and took a walk around her neighborhood, checking out the closest restaurants. We made love in her tiny new bedroom and before I left we kissed for awhile by my car. She let go of me first, I think, anxious to go back inside and look over her class schedule. I had secretly wanted to stay overnight, to go for coffee the next morning and maybe wander around the city some more, but she had an orientation the next day and I didn’t want to be a distraction, so I insisted on leaving. I’d be back the next weekend, I told her. She seemed okay with that compromise.

When I think about it now, I remember feeling a vague sense of worry as I drove away, knowing that this experience was hers alone. She was growing and changing and starting to live her dream. I was going back to Scranton, where her engagement ring still sat in my nightstand, to the same job that I dreaded, to the nagging feeling of failure and unmet expectations, of unrealized potential.

---

---

I don’t see him enter the coffee shop – my head is bent over a stack of persuasive writing papers, the careful new cursive they are written in amusingly inconsistent. But I do hear him order his coffee: small, black. I smile to myself that he doesn’t use the made up size names – tall, grande, venti – or add things like “shots” to his coffee. Nothing worse than some high maintenance snob who orders like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. I glance up at his back: tall, lean and broad shouldered, brown hair peeking out from beneath a baseball hat. Nice.

I return to my papers and hear him thank the cashier, his voice low and warm. He laughs at something she says and his laugh is vaguely familiar. I take another look.

He drops his change into the tip jar and walks towards the side counter to wait for his coffee, which is ready almost immediately because it doesn’t require steam or foam or flavors or whatever else they do to coffee these days. When he turns to lean against the counter, I get a better glimpse of his profile and I realize it’s him. It’s Jim.

“Jim?” the barrista calls. “Tall black drip?”

I smile at that, thinking he’s tall, but neither black nor a drip. I watch him smile to himself too, perhaps thinking the same thing, and reach for the coffee. I’m tempted to call his name, to wave him over, but I realize that maybe he won’t be glad to see me. Seeing me might make him feel obligated to ask for my number or something, since it will be the second time we meet, and I don’t want a pity request. Heck, he may not even remember me at all and then I’ll have to awkwardly remind him: I’m Emily? We met at the Steamtown Mall?

But as he walks by he glances up and gives me a neutral, polite smile, and then hesitates and cocks his head.

“Emily?”

“Jim.” I realize after it’s out of my mouth that I don’t act at all surprised to see him. I wonder if he knows that I’ve been watching him, waiting to see if he’d remember me.

“Hey!” he says, stopping close to my table. “I figured we’d run into each other eventually.”

“Odds were in our favor.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“You too. Getting all settled into the new place?”

“Sure.” He nods, twisting the coffee sleeve on his cup, and looks down at my stack of papers. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you busy?”

I wave a hand, dismissing his apology. “Just grading papers. Nothing that can’t be interrupted.”

“You’re a teacher,” he says, a statement, not a question. I try to tell by his voice if he likes that fact or not. Seems like maybe he does.

“Yep.”

“What do you teach?”

“Kids, mostly.”

He rolls his eyes and smiles.

I smile back. “Third grade.”

His smile seems lighter and more transparent than it was the first time we met. When we met in Scranton, his smile was like the sun behind haze – you could still see it, but it wasn’t as bright or as warm as it could have been. Now there’s something more . . . radiant about it.

“I loved my third grade teacher. Mrs. Angelo.” He sighs in a longing sort of way before sipping his coffee.

I dated a guy once who could never remember his grade school teachers’ names and it used to bother me, the thought that I could be so forgettable to my students someday. I like that Jim can recall Mrs. Angelo immediately.

“Mine was Miss Fletcher. Bright red hair and hooker nails. Obviously, I worshipped her.”

He laughs. “Obviously.”

I gesture towards the empty chair at my tiny table. “Do you want to . . . sit?”

He waves his hand this time. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“No, not at all. Sit,” I say.

He hesitates for a second more and then sits.

“So. How did your brother-in-law like that shirt? Clowny enough for him?”

I laugh and appreciate that, after over a month, he still remembers that the shirt was for my brother-in-law, and he remembers the jokes we made about it.

“Loved it. Put it on immediately.”

“And it fit?”

“Like a glove.”

“Good. Glad I didn’t steer you wrong on the size.” He sips his coffee and looks down at my stack of papers again. “So. What are third graders working on these days? Long division? Atom splitting? Curing cancer?”

“Almost. These are persuasive papers on which pet is better, a dog or a cat.”

“Well. That’s easy. A dog, obviously.”

I laugh. “Obviously. But they have to give reasons why one pet is preferable over the other. Like, in this one,” I pick up one from the pile, “Bianca argues that a cat is better because it can clean itself and scratch your mosquito bites with its sandpapery tongue.”

Jim nods, as if this is a perfectly good argument. “Nice.”

“And, not to be outdone, Gabriel likes dogs because you can blame your farts on them.”

Jim shakes his head, laughing. “Okay, so… it’s not exactly curing cancer, but . . .”

One of his long legs accidentally brushes mine under the table and he pulls away, looking a little embarrassed.

“Here’s a question: why are you grading papers in July?”

“Summer school. Kids like Bianca and Gabriel need a little extra practice before fourth grade, so …”

“Ah.”

We sit silently for a moment, sipping our coffees. I sneak a look at him, noticing that he’s even better looking than I remembered. I remember him being cute in a non-threatening way – but today there is something sexy about him. Maybe because it’s Sunday morning and it looks like he probably hasn’t shaved since Friday. His stubble makes him seem older, more rugged. He’s wearing a plain gray t-shirt and well worn jeans with a small hole in the knee and what look like last year’s retired running shoes. Plus the baseball hat I’ve seen before. He’s casual and scruffy but he smells like fresh laundry and his fingernails are short and clean.

“So . . . I wish I would have gotten your number in Scranton.”

“Really?” I try not to sound too excited to hear that.

“Yeah. I could use someone to give me the inside scoop on restaurants around here. You know, the best Chinese. The best pizza…”

Now I try not to look too disappointed in his reason. “What?! That’s cheating!”

“Cheating?”

“When I moved here, I had to endure months of terrible Orange Chicken before discovering the best place. Just giving it to you is like giving you my homework to copy: cheating.”

“Typical teacher.” He sips his coffee. “See, I’d call that networking. Lead generating. It’d save me an awful lot of legwork.”

I fake a scowl at him.

“Okay. How bout I invite you to dinner. For … say … Chinese? You pick the place?”

“You are a slick one, aren’t you? You know I’ll suggest the best place since I’ll be eating, too.”

He shrugs, grinning, and I realize that he is smooth. He’s managed to just ask me out without putting himself on the line too much. But he does ask, and that’s something.

---

By July I was getting a little tired of being alone, tired of driving to New York, tired of always being the one doing the following, the chasing. It reminded me of the past, a past I thought we had left behind us. Instead of joking on the phone about Dwight and Michael, Pam and I spent more and more time talking about her new friends and her projects and her classes and I was proud of her and yet . . . I think it all made me feel sort of pitiful and stuck. The one not changing, not growing, not following a dream. Not even having a dream. I missed our long conversations about nothing, because now when we talked she usually had work to do and couldn’t sit with her feet tucked under her and just laugh at my jokes for hours. I missed feeling her next to me in my bed and was a little hurt when she said she was sleeping great despite the oppressive heat in her apartment.

On one visit, I brought the ring with, thinking maybe I’d propose anyway. She wasn’t expecting it yet so it would be a surprise, and it was still what we both wanted. Why not just do something romantic and spontaneous? So we went to dinner at a restaurant she had heard about from one of her new friends and we shared a bottle of wine and it felt almost like it had before she left, before things had started shifting. Her hair was looser and her cheeks sunburned and there was a wildness in her eyes that she never had in Scranton, but she seemed like the same Pam . . . just more so. I slipped my hand into my pocket and felt the box, my fingers rubbing against the velvet that felt a lot like her skin. Soon, I thought.

After dinner we walked for a bit, holding hands, talking. Then Pam was waving and laughing and suddenly we were surrounded by five or six people from Pratt and they invited us to a party and I could tell that Pam wanted to go, so we went.

I ended up sitting next to her all night, listening to her friends talk about things that I didn’t understand or didn’t care much about and Pam had to translate, explain which instructor they were ridiculing, what graphics program they were discussing. I smiled and nodded, waiting for her to turn and give me a secret eye roll when one particularly pretentious asshole with an eyebrow piercing compared being a graphic designer with being God. But she didn’t, just nodded along with what he was saying and I wondered if she just didn’t want to get caught mocking him, or if maybe she didn’t think he was a pretentious asshole.

That thought scared me more than anything.

I felt more like Roy than I ever thought possible, wanting to drag her out of there even though she clearly wanted to stay.

When we got home Pam was drunk and almost aggressive as she undressed me and although a part of me liked her new confidence, a part of me missed how she had been our first time together – blushing and nervous, quiet and surprised.

---

---

The restaurant is a hole in the wall, which doesn’t bother me because I’m partial to hole-in-the-wall kinds of places. What does surprise me is the fact that there are no other customers – literally none – except for us. But it’s fairly early on a Sunday evening and I assume that maybe this place is Emily’s little secret, not yet discovered by the masses.

The waitress comes by and dumps two menus on the table. “You want drink?” she asks. We order a couple of Sapporos and she departs without a word.

“The service is . . . well . . . terrible, but wait til you taste the food.” Emily seems a little nervous and anxious to reassure me, and I tell her that I’m sure the food will be great. She recommends the Mongolian Beef to me, orders Sesame Chicken for herself and while we wait she tells me about her school, how diverse it is and how most of the kids are from lower income families. She says she loves her job but didn’t always know she wanted to be a teacher.

“I was an English major. When I graduated I got a job as an editorial assistant at a small publishing company.”

“That sounds cool.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t really. Basically I was a secretary. And I worked in the department that published automotive magazines.”

“What, so you’re not a gear head?”

“I know that’s surprising but, no. I didn’t even have a car back then.”

“Ah.”

“Then I started babysitting to make some extra money, because despite what you might think, the hardworking underlings in automotive publishing are woefully underpaid.”

I smile, enjoying the way she tells the story.

“Anyway, I was helping their daughter with her homework and I just… something clicked. Explaining something she hadn’t understood before, or teaching her something new. It was … intoxicating, that responsibility. That privilege. So I decided to get my teaching certificate, and then my masters, and there you go. Now I teach.”

Almost as if on cue, the waitress brings our plates and unceremoniously plops them down in front of us before walking away without a word.

I look down at my food and it’s a little . . . gray. The vegetables are faded and the beef has sort of a rainbow sheen to it, like oil on top of a puddle.

“Looks good,” I say, hoping I sound sincere.

“Mmm hmm,” Emily agrees.

I pick up my chopsticks again and pinch a piece of beef and take my first bite. It’s salty and sort of chewy but doesn’t have much actual flavor at all, like a strip of leather soaked in soy sauce. It crosses my mind that perhaps I can’t date this girl, no matter how attractive and funny she is, if she thinks this is good Chinese food. I look at her and she’s smiling, expectantly, her food untouched. She watches as I try to chew the mouthful of tough meat.

Her smile grows as I force myself to swallow, the twinkle in her eye vaguely familiar. Her look isn’t expectant as much as it is mischievous, and suddenly I realize: I’ve been pranked.

“So. What do you think?” she asks, her grin now wide and a little cocky. She’s completely adorable.

I reach for my glass of lukewarm water in an attempt to wash away the aftertaste.

“I think you’re evil for a third grade teacher.”

She laughs and sits back triumphantly.

“I told you. I’m not a cheater. I had to suffer through all the bad to get to the good . . .”

“Still.” I clear my throat and take another sip of water. “This has got to be the worst Chinese food ever.”

“Yep,” she says cheerfully. “It is. The absolute worst.”

I pick up my chopsticks and grab a wilted, pale stalk of broccoli, ready to pay my dues, but Emily reaches across the table and rests her hand on mine. “Oh, God. Jim. You don’t have to eat any more. It was hard enough watching that first bite knowing what you were in for. Let’s just chug our beers and get the hell out of here.”

“Oh, thank God.”

So we both pick up our bottles and she clinks hers against mine in a sort of challenge and we both drink quickly. I barely get my empty bottle to the table before hers.

“Wow.” I wipe by mouth with the back of my hand. “Impressive.”

She smiles and puts $30 on the table. I reach to stop her. “Hey. I’ll get this.”

“No way. That was my little joke and it was totally worth 30 bucks. You can pay for our real dinner.”

“Fair enough.”

We leave the restaurant quickly, before Susie Sunshine comes back to find our full plates and very tiny tip.

Our actual dinner is delicious and I leave the second Chinese restaurant feeling satisfied and happy. We had to drive to the second place so I park in front of Emily’s apartment and walk her to her door. I don’t kiss her goodnight, although I do think about it. It took me so long to kiss Pam that kissing a girl on a first date still seems like moving at light speed to me. And I like this feeling of waiting. I guess I’m used to it, and it’s comfortable for me to deny myself for a little while, delaying what I really want. And I discover, somewhat to my surprise, that I do really want to kiss her.

---

By August, something had changed in Pam’s voice when we spoke on the phone. When I would count down the days until she came home, like we had from the beginning, her response was just slightly less enthusiastic. It was subtle, almost undetectable to the average person, but I sensed a tightness that had never been there before.

“Thirty more days,” I’d say, picturing her back in my apartment with a ring on her finger.

“Yep,” she’d respond, her voice soft but not exactly cheerful. “Just 30 more.”

---

---

Jim and I talk on the phone twice during the week after our dinner date and each conversation is easy and comfortable and I realize that I’m setting myself up for disappointment if he doesn’t like me as much as I like him. But on Friday I decide to be a little brave and I ask him if he wants to go bowling with me.

“Bowling?”

“Yep.”

“This isn’t some kind of prank, is it?”

“What, you don’t like bowling?”

“No, bowling is fine. I just don’t know if I can trust you.”

“How can going bowling be a prank? It’s . . . bowling.”

“I don’t know. I’m sure you could find a way…”

“Moi? Innocent third grade teacher Miss Miller? Come on. I think you’re overestimating me.”

“I don’t know. I’m still recovering from that one bite of Hong Kong Crap.”

“Oh, like you’ve never pulled a prank on anyone.”

Jim laughs. “Good point. Okay. Bowling it is.”

I take him to a cool vintage bowling alley called Southport Lanes, where they still have manual pinsetters that you tip by shoving dollar bills into the finger holes of your bowling ball and rolling it back up the gutter. If you tip them well, they may knock over a few extra pins in your favor. This is information I don’t share with Jim.

I can tell he likes the place by the way he looks around with a wide grin on his face, like a little kid at an amusement park, and I feel kind of proud to introduce him to it.

He ends up being a much better bowler than I am, all power and lanky grace, but I tip better and the pinsetter manages to keep me in the game.

“See? I knew I couldn’t trust you. Who’s the cheater now?”

I shrug innocently and tally up the spare I just earned with my friend Mr. Abe Lincoln.

Jim is a great date – a perfect mix of fun conversation and casual flirting. He leans in, his mouth close to my ear to be heard over the music and din of falling pins and I can smell the clean scent from his neck, feel his breath against my cheek. I touch his forearm once to get his attention and I like the way his sleeves are rolled up, the way the warmth and firmness of his skin feel under my hand.

I watch him go to the bar for a second pitcher of beer, enjoying the easy gait of his step and the way his jeans hang just so on his hips. I wonder what might be wrong with him, why he’s single at 29, why he really moved to Philly, why he seems to be starting over. But we all have our history, and I’m sure I’ll find out his eventually. Best just to wait and see.

I finish off what’s left of my beer and get up to take my turn while he’s at the bar. I get eight pins down and then fail to pick up the spare. The pinsetter shrugs at me from his perch and I laugh, patting my empty pockets. He kicks one of the two pins left down for me. I give him a grateful nod.

Then I hear what can only be described as a squeal and look up to see a woman grabbing Jim’s hand at the bar, clearly excited. I can’t hear what she’s saying but she’s obviously happy to see him. He smiles politely at her, nodding. The bartender sets our pitcher in front of him and Jim hands him a bill and picks up the pitcher, gesturing to me. I can’t hear what he’s saying. The girl looks over at me with what can only be described as disgust. Or if not disgust, maybe disdain. Jim nods again, smiles and heads my direction looking a little flustered.

“Hey,” he says, filling my glass again. “My turn?”

I nod, waiting to see if he’ll say anything about the mystery girl. He doesn’t, and I’m left wondering what the hell that was all about. An old girlfriend, maybe?

Jim seems distracted and his bowling skills take a definite turn for the worse. He even gets a gutter ball, which I tease him about.

“Jim, you’re only supposed to do that if you want to tip the pinsetter. You’re just confusing him now.”

He shakes his head, smiling, but he’s still preoccupied. He keeps glancing around nervously and I’m wondering if maybe there is a whole flock of ex-girlfriends around, waiting to give me dirty looks.

Then the girl from the bar is back, holding a cell phone and glancing back at her friends excitedly. She’s clearly more than a little drunk.

“Jim Halpert! My friend has a camera phone so can I get a picture with you?”

Jim looks extremely uncomfortable and my suspicion that this is a former girlfriend or someone from high school that he doesn’t quite remember feels right on target. I can’t imagine why she wants a picture if she doesn’t already know him in some way.

The girl turns to me, now. “You don’t mind, do you?”

I shake my head, eyebrows raised. Jim shoots me an apologetic look when the girl hands me the phone.

“Just press the button. The green button.” She wraps her arm around Jim’s waist, her hand gripping his side familiarly. Jim poses awkwardly with a forced smile. I snap the picture.

The girl takes the phone from me again and I’m dismissed. “Thanks. God, my mom is going to flip out! Jim fucking Halpert in Philly!” She stumbles away and Jim sits back down and runs a hand through his hair. I look at him curiously but he doesn’t say anything.

“Old friend?” I ask, keeping my voice light, joking.

“Not exactly.” He sighs as he pours his beer and then takes a long sip.

I wait, although a part of me wants to push a little. Something about that experience and Jim’s reaction makes me think it’s more than just an old girlfriend.

He clears his throat. “Have you ever heard of a show called The Office?”

“A TV show?” His question surprises me and I have no idea how it pertains to the drunk girl.

“Yeah.”

“Um, I don’t think so. Is it on cable? I…” I clear my throat in an embarrassed sort of way, “I don’t have cable.”

I wait for him to make fun of me about that, but he lets it slide. “Yeah. It’s a documentary and . . . kind of a reality show, I guess . . . about people who work at this paper company.”

“O… kay.” I’m still not exactly sure what this has to do with that girl, but I’m trying to follow along.

“I used to work at that company. In Scranton.”

“The paper company?”

He nods.

The pieces start to fall into place. “Wait. You were on TV?”

He nods, looking embarrassed. I laugh. “No way! That’s how that girl knew you? From TV?”

“Yep.”

“Does that kind of thing happen a lot?”

He shrugs. “Not so much here, but in Scranton – all the time.”

“You’re a celebrity,” I tease. “She was, like, paparazzi!”

He rolls his eyes and smiles a little. He clearly doesn’t find this as amusing as I do.

“I’ve never seen it. Is it still on?”

He shakes his head.

“Can I get it on DVD?”

Jim shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“Well. I’m totally going to check out Netflix. I’ve got to see it, now.”

He shifts in his seat, wiping at the condensation ring from the pitcher with his fingers.

“How long were you on it?”

“Almost five years.”

“Oh my God. That’s a long time.”

He nods.

“So if I were to Google you, you’d be on imdb?”

“I guess so.”

“And there’d be a bio and pictures of you and everything?”

“Um, maybe.”

“Do you get fan letters?”

He shrugs. “Some.”

At first I was kind of enjoying making him squirm, just like he might find it fun to tease me if he ever found out I was on the pom pon squad in high school. But now I suddenly feel bad. It’s obvious he’s embarrassed about sharing this information with me and my giving him a hard time isn’t helping.

“I’m sorry. I just feel kind of clueless that I didn’t know this about you. Like I live under a rock or something.”

“I’m glad you didn’t know. I think it might have . . . changed things.”

“Changed things? How? Like, I’d be reduced to a screaming fangirl or something?”

He laughs a little and shakes his head. “No. But . . .” he shrugs and plays with the soggy napkin under his beer glass. “Well, you’d instantly know way more than you should about the last five years of my life.”

For the first time since I met him in Scranton, his smile has that sun-behind-the-haze quality again.

“You don’t want me to watch it, do you?”

He shrugs. “You can watch it. Just…” He sighs and rubs a hand over his jaw. His eyes meet mine and they are serious and green and completely intoxicating. “Maybe not yet…”

I realize this isn’t a joke. He’s not an actor playing a part. The show – The Office or whatever it was called – was actually about him, at least partially. The stuff that happened on the show wasn’t scripted, it was real, and it happened to him. Now I understand why the thought of me seeing it makes him squirm. I try to imagine him watching film footage of the last five years of my life and I shudder at the thought. The loser boyfriends, the sometimes foolish decisions…

“I won’t watch it,” I say decisively. “Not a big deal.”

He smiles again, a small smile. “You can watch it. Just . . . give me a couple more dates first.”

I shrug nonchalantly, as if dating him will be a hardship. “Well…if I must.”

We don’t talk about his celebrity status any more and just keep bowling. Jim ends up beating me but not by much, thanks to my pin setting friend behind the curtain.

As we leave the bar I notice several people watching Jim, pointing him out to their friends. He either doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

We walk the six blocks back to my apartment, our hands swaying just inches from each other, but he doesn’t touch me. I realize how much I want him to.

I lean against the wall next to my front door, playing with my keys.

“Well, Jim Halpert. I promise I won’t Google you the second I get inside.”

He laughs. “Sure you won’t.”

“I won’t. We’ll act like that drunk girl never accosted you and we’ll just continue on as we were.”

“Sounds good.” He leans his shoulder against the wall and looks down at me. I’m just a little bit drunk and I find myself staring at his mouth, wishing he would kiss me. “It’s just . . .” he sighs and jingles the keys in his pocket, “a lot of information all at once.”

I nod, although I’m not sure exactly what kind of information he’s talking about. But the idea that there are hours and hours of film footage about him, that I could watch a few seasons of television and learn more about him than he’d ever be able to tell me, is overwhelming. And if it’s overwhelming to me, I’m sure it’s terrifying to him.

“I had a lot of fun tonight,” he says, his voice more relaxed and gravelly. Something about his voice is just sexy as all get out.

“Me, too,” I agree.

“How much did you end up tipping that guy?”

“Not enough, I guess.”

He laughs. “Cheater.”

I shrug. “Now we’re even.”

He pushes off the wall and we make eye contact for a minute. I think maybe he might kiss me, but he looks away first. I find my front door key and slide it into the lock.

“Good night, Em.”

“Night Jim.”

---

Pam finished her courses at Pratt by Labor Day and I drove to the city one last time to help her pack up and bring her home. She’d undergone a sort of metamorphosis over the summer that, among her peers at the end-of-the-summer show, was not obvious to the casual observer. But to me, it was glaring. Her clothes were different – from conservative receptionist to art student in three months. The casual stuff she had worn back in Scranton, clothes she’d probably had since high school, were replaced by fitted light-weight t-shirts and cotton skirts. She still wasn’t exactly trendy and probably never would be, but she had a different vibe to her, like she was finally more comfortable in her own skin. She had gotten her hair cut, too. It was still fairly long, but she did away with the smoothing and curling process she tried the first year we dated and instead scrunched the layers with some kind of hair product, leaving it curly and kind of wild. She occasionally pulled it back in a pony tail, but even that was messier than before.

I liked the changes. I thought she looked great and told her so. But when I’d glance up at her, expecting to find the Pam I’d gotten used to looking at for 6 years, it was disconcerting to find this new Pam. She seemed sort of unfamiliar, like I must have to her on our first date when I had that haircut Karen talked me into.

She smiled a lot, seemed happy to have me there, but as we drove out of the city she turned away from me and looked out the window. She lifted her hand to her eyes more than once and I think she might have been crying. I’m not proud to admit this, but I realized I didn’t want to know for sure.

---

---

I think about Emily a lot, wondering if she’s Googled me yet, if she’s asked her friends if they’ve ever heard of The Office and what they know about it. What they know about me. I like this girl in a way I haven’t liked a girl since I met Pam. I like that Emily liked me before she knew I was Jim Halpert, reluctant cable TV star. I like that she is funny and relaxed and not engaged to someone else. I like that she invited me to go bowling, that she doesn’t look away from me first. I like that I don’t feel like I’m doing all of the chasing, but also that I don't feel like I'm being chased.

I definitely like her, so I invite her over on Wednesday night, figuring we can’t run into anyone that recognizes me if we stay in. I order pizza from a place she recommends (she insists she’s not pranking me this time) and when I open the door, she’s holding a bottle of wine and a travel Scrabble game.

Her hair is pulled back in a smooth, straight ponytail and she’s wearing a tank top and a summer skirt that hits just above her knees. Her arms and legs are tanned and toned, like a teenager’s, and I figure that maybe teachers sometimes look like this in the summer – like the kids they teach. I guess when you have three months off, you can work out and appreciate the pleasures of the beach often enough to get some color.

She follows me to the kitchen and I open the wine that she brought and pour two glasses.

“Hope you like it,” she says, nodding at the wine. “I read on Wikipedia that you prefer red.”

“Shut up,” I laugh.

She smiles and clinks my glass with hers.

We eat our pizza on the floor in the living room with the Scrabble board spread out on the coffee table between us. She is scarily good at the game and is beating me handily. Not only can she find long words using most of her letters, but she usually manages to multiply her score several fold by placing them strategically.

“I should have known better than to play this game with a teacher. And an English major.”

“It’s all about strategy, baby. Look, you just left me the perfect opportunity to use the triple word score box there.”

“Huh.”

“I like this,” she says smiling. “It’s much easier on my pocketbook than trying to beat you at bowling.”

She doesn’t mention anything about the show and even better, she’s not acting like it’s difficult not to. I’ve met women who try to act nonchalant about it, who make every effort to be cool, but they know and just pretend not to. Emily doesn’t know and doesn’t seem to care that she doesn’t know.

After she kicks my ass in Scrabble, we sit on the couch and talk. I ask her questions and she answers, telling me about herself, her family, her students. She asks me some questions back: do I have brothers or sisters, did I grow up in Scranton, do I like my new job. But my answers are shorter and simpler than hers, mostly because I prefer to hear her talk. And also because I’m going to give her the DVDs tonight and she’ll know a lot about me very soon. Probably more than she wants to know.

It’s almost midnight when Emily looks at her watch. “Whoops. I should probably go. School night.”

“I thought summer school was over.”

“Not a school night for me. For you.”

She stands and I follow.

“Hey,” I start, and she looks up at me, her gray eyes wide and expectant. “I, um . . . I have something for you.”

She tilts her head a little, licks her bottom lip. “You do?”

I think about kissing her again. She smells like summertime and vanilla and the skin on her shoulders looks amazingly smooth. Instead, I nod and grab the black case from the kitchen counter that holds the DVDs of all five seasons of The Office. I hand it to her and she squints at me a bit, trying to figure out what it is. She unzips the case and sees the first disk and takes a deep breath.

“Seriously?”

I nod again.

“It’s only been one more date. I thought you said a couple.”

“I know. But I’m afraid of more scenes like at the bowling alley, and I’d rather have you watch it yourself than … well … hear stuff from other sources.”

She nods and zips the case back up. “Okay. Do you want to watch it with me?”

I laugh at the utter absurdity of her question. “Oh, God, no. No way. You can just watch it and then you can call me. Or maybe never speak to me again. Whatever.”

She tilts her head and squints at me again. “Unless this is hard core porn – like, The Orifice or something – I’m pretty sure I’ll be calling you.”

I can’t believe she just came up with The Orifice like that. It reminds me of Pam and The Beets Motel and The Radish Inn. I try to keep a straight face.

“Crap. Well. It’s been nice knowing you.”

She blushes a little and laughs, tucking the case into her bag. “Jim Halpert, porn star. Still a marked improvement from the last guy I dated.”

God, she’s cute. I turn towards the door. “C’mon. I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to. It’s only six blocks. And I’ve got my pepper spray.”

I laugh, thinking of Dwight. God I miss him sometimes. “I’ll walk you.”

We walk slowly, lazily, our shoulders bumping occasionally. When we get to her apartment, she leans against the wall next to her door again, fiddling with her keys. I remember a scene I saw in a movie once where Will Smith says if a girl fiddles with her keys by the door, she wants you to kiss her. I wonder if this is true or just movie bullshit.

But keys or not, I want to kiss her. And this might be my only chance because I get the sinking feeling when she watches my relationship history on those tapes, she might not be wanting to kiss me anymore. And I wouldn’t exactly blame her – it’s not like I’ve got a stellar dating record. I clearly dated (some would argue “used”) two girls to distract me from the one I really wanted and ended up dumping them both unceremoniously in obnoxious ways. And then I finally got the one girl I loved all along and yet I still couldn’t make it work. Sure. I’m sure Emily’s going to think, sign me up for some of that.

“Thanks for the DVDs,” she says quietly.

“Yeah. Well.” I don’t tell her that I didn’t really have a choice. If I continue to date her – and at this point, I very much want to – she has to see the show. I picture being out with her, Pam fans peppering her with questions without her having the slightest clue who Pam is. I thought about trying to tell her the whole story myself, without the DVDs, but talk about overwhelming. I’m sure to leave something out, either on purpose or by accident, and I don’t want any omitted detail coming back to haunt me. I want her to know the whole story and then decide what she thinks, what she wants.

She puts one hand my shirt, her finger looping casually, maybe accidentally, between two of the buttons. I can feel the warmth of her finger, the coolness of her fingernail, on my skin. It’s just a tiny bit of contact – maybe half a square inch of her skin touching mine, but I feel a surge of something. Want, need, ache.

“I mean it. I know it was hard to give me those.”

I sigh and shrug. She’s right: it was hard.

“But I will call you.”

She looks up at me with those big gray eyes and I think I can do this. Kissing Pam while she was engaged to Roy, after she had just rejected me, took a lot more courage than this. This is easy.

I lean down and our mouths meet softly. She tastes a little like suntan lotion, or maybe it’s Chapstick, and red wine and she doesn’t hesitate and she doesn’t pull away. In fact, she presses her hand against my chest and leans into me, her body almost flush against mine. I’m not sure I’ve ever kissed a girl as tall as her and I find that I don’t have to slouch. I just have to tilt my head and lean a little bit and we fit together.

It feels good to not have to bend over backwards – or forwards – for a change. It’s nice that it’s just . . . easy.

---

Pam started back at Dunder Mifflin the Tuesday after Labor Day and the office was beside itself with excitement. Michael threw a “Pam-tastic” Welcome Back party complete with Spam and Jam and Ham sandwiches, which only Kevin and Dwight could stomach.

“You wouldn’t survive two seconds on Fear Factor, Jim,” Dwight scoffed at me while he chewed the concoction, and the sight of strawberry jam mixed with Spam chunks almost made me blow chunks of my own. “I once ate an entire rabbit in one sitting.”

I nod. “That’s . . . Wow.”

“Being hesitant to consume unorthodox combinations of foods is just foolish. It all gets combined in your stomach anyway.”

“Well, I’m fine with letting it combine in your stomach, Dwight. Not mine.”

Pam acted glad to be back, smiling and hugging everyone, but I caught her once or twice staring out the window with a cup of punch in her hand.

“Hey.” I came up behind her and nudged her lightly with my elbow. “Aren’t you enjoying your party? There’s plenty of sandwich left.”

She looked up at me, gave me a small but less forced smile than she had given everyone else, “I just . . . don’t really want to be here anymore.”

And I knew she was talking about work, but it felt like she was talking about more than work.

---

---

I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, enjoying that post first-kiss euphoria. It was the perfect first kiss. Not super long but definitely lingering, no tongue, no fondling. He smelled good and tasted good and felt good beneath my hands. It was the kind of kiss that leaves you wanting more, and I’m definitely wanting more.

Lately my first kisses have been sorely lacking, both in quantity and quality. After the last first kiss I had (which was also the last kiss with that guy, period), I had come inside and not given it a second thought, heading immediately for the freezer and the pint of chocolate mint chip ice cream that had been waiting patiently for me all night. I had thought about that ice cream while we had been at dinner, working so hard at our conversation that I almost broke a sweat, and had actually felt a tug of longing when I thought about getting home, taking a spoon out of the drawer, and digging in. That first bite of ice cream (and second and third) were much more satisfying than any part of that evening, including the wet and sloppy kiss on my doorstep.

But let me tell you – tonight there were no yearning thoughts of ice cream at any point. And that kiss was definitely not sloppy.

I look down at the DVD case in my hand and try to decide if I can stay up to watch at least one or two episodes tonight. I look at my watch – nearly 12:30. Maybe just one.

I take out my contacts and change into my pajamas and slide the first DVD into my player. When Jim first shows up on screen, I laugh and point at the TV. “Oh my God,” I say out loud. He looks younger and shaggier, but his face is the same and his voice . . . well. It’s the same auditory aphrodisiac it is now. It’s surreal to see him on my TV, the Jim I just kissed on my front steps.

I realize almost immediately that he has a crush on the Pam girl – around the mixed berry yogurt line. I also realize that it is a no-win situation, since she’s engaged to the warehouse guy, Roy. It makes me sad that she doesn’t seem to see what she’s doing to Jim – flirting with him and joking with him and then acting like they’re just friends. But, well . . . I guess maybe we’ve all been guilty of that.

One episode turns into two. I rewatch the scene where Pam falls asleep on his shoulder several times. There is something heartbreaking about the way, after he quietly wakes her up, his chair bumps against the wall, the way he wipes his hands on his hips. The way just being close to her like that made an otherwise sucky day not so bad.

Two episodes turn into three and then four. I laugh a lot at the pranks Jim plays on Dwight: the stapler in the Jell-O mold, the alliance, the mimicking of Dwight talking to the purse girl. I start to realize why Jim appreciated my Chinese food joke the other night. But by the time I turn off the TV, six episodes and nearly three hours later, I still can’t understand why Jim was afraid for me to see the show. He’s just as funny and smart and likable onscreen as he is in person. The only downside is that he had a crush on an engaged girl. Big deal. Who doesn’t have some unrequited love story in their past?

I go to sleep feeling pretty good about things. So I’m dating a guy that used to be on TV. Whatever.

Thursday morning I get up and decide to watch a few more episodes before I go for a run, so I sit down with a bowl of cereal and the remote control, ready to witness more of Jim’s charming antics.

But after only a few episodes of season two, I realize things are more serious than I thought. I see it when Pam innocently kisses Jim after winning her Dundie and 17 different emotions cross his face in just seconds. I see it when Pam suggests he take that job in Maryland and something inside of him breaks at even the thought that she might not miss him if he left. I see it in his every trip for a jelly bean, in that teapot full of private jokes, and I especially see it five seconds into the long, heavy silence out on the deck of that boat. Jim’s feelings for Pam were more than just a crush, and she knew it. And I suspect that her feelings for Jim were more than just friendship, too.

It’s getting painful to watch, and I need to take a break after 5 hours, my run long forgotten. I strip off my pajamas and stand in the shower, letting the water flow down over my head, trying to guess what happens. A part of me just wants to skip ahead: Did Pam and Roy ever get married? Did Jim ever get over her? Or am I dealing with the remains of a severely broken heart?

It’s strange to think that other people already know what happened. That girl at the bowling alley, along with thousands of others, already knows the ending of the Pam and Jim story. I realize all I’d have to do is Google “Jim Pam The Office” and a synopsis of the TV series would give me a summary of every episode and I could save myself hours of anticipation. But I know I need to watch it play out to understand what I’m dealing with here, what I’ve gotten myself into.

I understand, now, why Jim was hesitant to have me watch the show. I’m sure when it was filming, he felt like he was doing a good job at camouflaging his emotions, hiding what he felt. But onscreen his expressive face gives him away every time. The camera holds on him for a moment longer than absolutely necessary to catch him when he’s vulnerable. It is merciless during those one-on-one interviews, refusing to be fooled by his practiced attempts at indifference. What wasn’t obvious to him (or to Pam) at the time is completely obvious to anyone watching, and I’m sure he feels vulnerable and exposed and embarrassed, now, knowing that he wasn’t fooling anyone.

I want to call him, to let him know how brave I think he is to give these disks to me. I mean, to be willing to lay out the past five years of his life so honestly after only three dates is truly amazing. He could have taken his chances, hoped that he got lucky and he could just trickle me information as needed. But he didn’t. He handed me the complete collection. I mean, I know why he did it – because one more run-in with a drunk fan and I’d get an earful of what happened with no context, no background, no understanding at all. Odds are that someone would have ruined the ending for me. And I need to know Jim and Pam’s whole story, including the ending, in order to be okay with the beginning of ours.

I don’t call him, though, because I need to know something more than what I know now, which is that he was once in love with a receptionist named Pam. I guess I need to know if he’s still in love with a receptionist named Pam.

A half hour later I’m back in front of the TV, ready for more. I sense a shift in Jim in some of the episodes, a feeling that he’s trying to move on. On Valentine’s Day and when he plans his trip to Australia, he seems to be trying so hard. But then there’s that game of jinx, and that look that makes my heart literally ache. He’s not over her. Not by a long shot.

The last episode of the season takes place only a few weeks before Pam’s wedding and I think it’ll be over soon. She’ll get married and Jim will move on and it will all be okay. But then they’re out in the parking lot and Jim says “Can I talk to you about something?” And I think he’s going to tell her he’s transferring. But instead he says, “I’m in love with you.” My hand flies to my mouth and I gasp. Oh, God. He’s doing it. He’s telling her.

Pam, of course, freezes. “What are you doing?” she asks and Jim gives her that look as if to say, C’mon, Pam. And then she denies, denies, denies and Jim tells her he wants to be more than friends. And then that tear! Oh my God, a tear actually runs down his cheek and I feel my throat tighten up and tears on my own cheeks. I miss the next scene completely with Michael and Jan and that Carol woman. So that’s how it ends, I think, with Pam rejecting Jim and that heartbreaking tear, and Jim walking off into the darkness while Pam twists her ring. But then Pam is on the phone and Jim is walking in and, oh God, he’s kissing her and I’m holding my breath the whole time. Oh my God. I watch it again, watch the mouth that just kissed me last night descend on hers so desperately and longingly. I watch it again. And again.

I’m exhausted when I finally force myself to turn off the TV, and also completely conflicted. How can I want him so much for myself and yet my heart breaks that he’s not with her?

---

Something changed after Pam got back from New York, but I’m still not sure if it was something in her or something in me. Maybe a little bit of both. I knew she missed New York, missed doing something every day that she enjoyed, missed her new friends. In the six years I had known her, she’d never had a close girlfriend, a friend she called on the phone, saw movies with, told secrets to. Now she had several, girls who were probably just like her in high school: sweet and smart but kind of invisible to most people. Girls with substance; girls the polar opposite of Kelly. Pam spoke to and texted and emailed them every day, and once again, a part of me was glad for her – glad she had friends who understood her and appreciated her – and a part of me was jealous. For the better part of a decade, I had been her friend. Her best friend. And now I felt like maybe she was talking to these new friends about things she felt she couldn’t talk about with me.

Was she telling them about hating her job at Dunder Mifflin, how she couldn’t wait to get out of there? Maybe she felt like she couldn’t talk to me about it anymore because, while she was sending out her resume and preparing to leave, I was still there, still selling paper, still unhappy. Was she telling them about me, and how I wanted to get married, how I had loved her for six years? Did that sound pitiful and stalker-ish to these girls, who were all still in their early 20s? Did they give her the reaction she wanted – with “aws” and “that’s sweet” – or did they exchange an alarmed look at my sort of creepy single mindedness? I was glad that I’d never told Pam about the ring and how quickly I bought it, imagining their reaction to that bit of news. Were they disappointed that she’d gone from one long-term relationship to another, had never dated, and had only slept with (hell, she had only kissed) two men in her entire life?

I imagined how Pam’s new friends – nice girls who liked me well enough – would see me: a 28-year-old paper salesman from Scranton. Not particularly artistic or deep, a guy who couldn’t be bothered to read Angela’s Ashes for her book club, a guy who’s favorite pastime seemed to be playing pranks on his coworkers. I don’t think that’s how Pam saw me, but I wondered … was her opinion being influenced by her friends? Did they look at me how I used to look at Roy: not worthy of Pam?

So I’m not sure how much of the tension between us came from her and how much of it came from me, but it definitely started to affect us. I still wanted to propose to her, but I felt like I should wait until I felt more settled, had a better idea of what I wanted to do with my life. Until I was more worthy, I guess. And Pam started to talk about moving, suggesting we go back to New York, start over there. But New York wasn’t where I wanted to be. A year and a half earlier, when David Wallace asked me where I saw myself in ten years, it wasn’t in New York. It wasn’t anywhere near New York.

When Pam and I talked about kids, which we had done lots of times before she left for Pratt, she now seemed hesitant to discuss a timeline, even in fun. “Once I get a better job,” she evaded. “I’ve never had a job that I really liked before.”

“Me neither.” I meant it as a joke, but something in Pam’s eyes felt like pity.

“Then you should find one you like.”

“I don’t care about my job, Pam. That’s not what’s important to me.”

“What’s important to you, then?”

“You,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “Us.”

Pam sighed, sounding vaguely frustrated. “I can’t be the only thing that’s important to you, Jim. That’s not fair ...”

I understood what she was saying, but I didn’t know how to explain that I hadn’t ever had a dream like hers, or if I had, it was long forgotten, probably discouraged by a well meaning relative who urged me to be practical. And I didn’t know how to resuscitate those dreams now without feeling foolish and ridiculous. I was almost 29. How did I learn to dream again after not dreaming for so long?

I thought that maybe she didn’t want kids at all anymore and was afraid to tell me. She told me that she wasn’t comfortable around them, hadn’t babysat as a teenager. She reminded me that the only kid that had ever warmed up to her was Meredith’s delinquent son, and that was only because she gave him candy and let him use the shredder. I started to wonder if having kids was negotiable to me. Could I be happy as the childless, average husband of a driven career woman? Wasn’t that where I had been heading with Karen?

I wanted the house with the yard, the kids, the soccer practices and the summer evening trips to Dairy Queen. My career was secondary to all that. A wife, a family, a home – those were dreams that I had been taught were okay to want. They were respectable. Realistic. Practical. But what if Pam didn’t want those things anymore? Or what if she didn’t want them yet?

I started to realize that Pam had already almost gone that route with Roy, and she had balked. And maybe she had not only balked at Roy, but at the whole picture. Maybe I was just a different partner in the same unappealing scenario that felt like someone else’s dream and not hers.

---

---

Thursday passes quietly at work. I have some reports to finish up, but since I’m more Sales Manager than salesman now, I have a secretary to help with some of that. She’s not my secretary alone – I share her with several other people – but she is there to make my job easier. Unlike Dwight, who always made my job more difficult. Maybe more amusing, but definitely more difficult.

I find myself staring out my office window (yes, I have an office now), wondering if Emily has watched any of the shows yet. I’m not foolish enough to think she dropped everything to spend the day in front of the TV, but I wonder if curiosity got the best of her. I try to remember what she’s going to see, what embarrassing bits of my life she will get to witness. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen season two, even longer since I’ve watched season one. Truthfully, I’ve avoided rewatching the entire series as much as humanly possible. I remember some things – things I hadn’t even realized were captured on tape at the time. But most of it is sort of a blur, now.

The majority of it will just be mildly embarrassing. The goofy pranks, my random hair, my pitiful ability to be humiliated repeatedly. But I think of some parts and I feel nauseous. Casino Night (as the producers named that episode) in particular. That was raw and slightly insane and certainly not meant for the cameras. The thought of anyone witnessing that, much less a potential girlfriend after only three dates, definitely makes me want to throw up.

I’ve discovered (mostly from people who try to force me to talk about the show) that not everyone looks at that night the same way. Some people think what I did was romantic and sweet – one last-ditch effort to stop Pam from making a mistake and marrying Roy. Some think it was selfish – getting everything off my chest and then leaving Pam alone in Scranton to deal with the aftermath. Some people think Pam was cold and dishonest, some totally sympathize with her and understand that she was terrified of what me loving her meant. I think all these views are pretty much spot on. I was romantic and selfish. Pam was dishonest and terrified.

So, despite what some people assume, I’ve never blamed Pam for anything that happened that night in the parking lot, or up in the office afterward. Everything I did was impulsive and shocking and not thought through at all. Looking back, I truly don’t know what I expected her to do. Even though I knew she had feelings for me, I also knew her. And cheating on her fianc� or calling off her wedding on the spot were not in her character. If she had done either of those things, she wouldn’t have been the Pam I fell in love with. But I spilled out my feelings anyway, selfishly, desperately. That was my choice. I never could quite blame her for not being able to do the same thing because, frankly, it was sort of an ambush. I hope she can look back on that night and forgive me for throwing her into a tailspin and then getting out of town as quickly as possible, just like I forgive her for not being honest with me about how she felt. Hopefully our mutual stupidity cancels each other out.

But the thing I’ve always had trouble forgiving is that she didn’t try harder after that night, that she didn’t fight for what I thought we had even a little bit after she called off her wedding. If I hadn’t done any number of things – called the office accidentally after hours one night, come back to Scranton, broken up with Karen, turned down that job in New York and asked Pam out – we probably would have never gotten together, and that thought has haunted me. That she didn’t feel strongly enough about me to shoot me an email has definitely taken its toll on my self esteem. And I’m not even talking about after I came back, when she had Karen to consider. I’m talking about the five months between June and November when the only thing I heard from Scranton was a deafening silence.

The most painful part for a lot of people to watch is my teary confession in the parking lot, that kiss that threw everything out of whack, but the painful part for me was all the stuff after that night. Hearing that she had called off her wedding. Knowing that she was going out on dates. Thinking that everything I had thought was true – that she had feelings for me, too – was completely off base. That’s what’s hard for me to remember, and that’s the kind of thing that was festering inside of me that whole first year that we dated.

I know she loved me. I’m absolutely sure she did. But I’ve often wondered if her love for me was more of a response to my love for her versus something she would have acknowledged on her own. I can’t shake the feeling that she might have gone on to marry Roy, she might have never contacted me if I had stayed in Stamford, she might have let me move to New York with Karen without more than an innocuous little note. And any of those things might have left her sad and full of regrets. But the fear of losing me was never enough of a motivator to get her to do much more than tell me she missed me in front of our coworkers. It was brave, for her . . . but it felt to me like a band aid for a gaping wound. If I hadn’t dropped pretty much everything to chase her one last time . . . well. I guess our story would have ended before it really began.

So when I think of Emily – who spoke to me first at the mall in Scranton, who invited me bowling, who kissed me back instead of pulling away – I can’t explain how strange and sort of welcome it feels. It’s not like I’ve never had a woman make an effort before. Hell, Karen made the effort. And Pam and I certainly tried to make up for all our mistakes once we were together. But how do you go back and erase that damage? Even when we were together and we were happy and Pam looked at me like I had always looked at her . . . I still sometimes found myself wondering: does she love me enough?

And Emily feels like a salve on that bruised part of me.

---

By October we still hadn’t talked more about getting married. I think we were kind of playing a game of chicken, waiting to see who would bring it up first. It was a familiar game for us, one that I usually lost, and I think I was tired of losing. Also, maybe I was being stubborn and a little bit of a coward. Something told me that maybe Pam wasn’t ready to get engaged after all and if I brought it up she’d either go along with what I wanted, or she’d have to speak up. And I was afraid that Fancy New Beesly might just speak up this time.

When my lease was up in November, we decided to move in together even though we weren’t officially engaged. It was as if that discussion we’d had at her desk had never happened, as if I didn’t know perfectly well that she had said she wanted to be engaged before living together. We didn’t talk about any of it just like we hadn’t talked about our feelings while she was with Roy, like we hadn’t discussed what happened on Casino Night when I came back from Stamford. Things always hung in the air between us and I think we’d kind of gotten used to just ducking around them.

I still had the ring in my nightstand; in fact, when I packed up my apartment I took it out and looked at it while Pam was in the next room. I thought about doing it right then – just asking her and putting myself out of my misery. I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe because Pam no longer seemed to be holding her breath waiting for it.

---

---

I wake up on Friday morning, bleary-eyed and feeling like I’ve just run a marathon even though all I did yesterday was sit on my couch and watch TV for almost 9 straight hours. And I’ve only finished two of the five seasons! I’m not even halfway done.

So this morning I force myself to go for a run before even allowing myself near the remote control. I shower and eat something and at the perfectly respectable time of 10:00, I casually hit the “play” button again. I feel sort of like an alcoholic, setting rules for myself about when I can take that first drink. For me, Jim’s story has become my fix.

Season three starts out with the temp sitting at Jim’s desk and before I have time to register what that means exactly, there are Pam and Jim kissing again and, again, it takes my breath away. Then he says in that low and crackly voice of his, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” Pam looks a bit dazed but happy when she says, “Me too.” I start to think that maybe she is going to admit how she feels but I remember Ryan, looking self-satisfied with Jim’s old job and I know something went wrong. And then there it is: Jim going in for another kiss and Pam stopping him. “You’re really gonna’ marry him?” and then that nod and I know it’s over. Jim took that transfer and Pam married Roy.

Sure enough, there’s Jim sitting at his new desk in his new office in Stamford and he looks so good. New suit, slightly different hair, but the same sort of haunted expression on his face. Well of course. The woman he loved married another man.

But then Roy brings Pam a plate of foil-wrapped chicken and Pam tells the camera that she didn’t marry Roy after all and I sit up a little straighter. This is slowly killing me. I know that Jim and Pam don’t end up together. I know that for a fact. And it’s torture to watch this in between stuff unfold.

I keep watching, one episode after another, trying to figure out why Pam didn’t get in touch with Jim. What was she waiting for? It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that she had feelings for him. She was brave enough to call off her wedding at the last minute and yet, there she is, going out with that boring cartoonist friend of Kelly’s and there’s Jim sitting on a hotel bed with Michael saying that he “heard something about” Pam’s aborted wedding. She never got in touch with him personally and it breaks my heart to see how obviously hurt Jim is.

At the beginning of every episode I’ll swear that this is the last one and that I’m going to turn off the TV and do something productive. But then that Karen girl is giving Jim the once over or Jim and Pam are accidentally talking on the phone and I just have to find out what happens. I finally force myself to turn off the TV when Jim decides to take the job back in Scranton and Karen admits that she’s “kinda’ into him,” realizing that this could go on all day and I’m supposed to meet my friend Rebecca for lunch at 1:00.

As it is my obsessive TV watching has made me lose track of time and I get to the restaurant 10 minutes late, which I hate. I’m never late, and it kills me that I’m late now because of a TV show. Granted, a TV show that may have some direct impact on my life, but a TV show nonetheless.

“Sorry I’m late!” I slide into the booth where Rebecca waits, finishing typing a text on her phone.

She looks up. “You’re never late. I was getting worried.”

“I know. I just lost track of time this morning. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I already ordered us a steamed artichoke and you a glass of wine. I texted you to find out what kind you wanted but you didn’t answer.”

“Rebecca. You know I don’t text.”

“I made it easy for you: A) Chardonnay, B) Pinot Grigio. You can’t text one letter?”

I just give her a look. “It’s the principle.” She rolls her eyes at me. “So, wine at lunch?” I ask.

“Why not? It’s summer. It’s Friday. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.”

“Fair enough. I’m in.”

The waitress brings our appetizer and my wine and when she leaves, Rebecca asks, “So. How was the bowling date with that guy?”

Suddenly I feel nervous and anxious. Oh, God. What if Rebecca watched The Office? She loves TV and watches everything and what if she knows all about Jim and Pam? The fact that she could know the whole story and all I’d have to do is ask her is so tempting…

I sip my wine to buy me a moment. Nope. I want to figure it out for myself. No cheating. “It was good. Really fun.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Jim.”

Rebecca nods. “That’s right. Jim from Scranton.”

I tense a little, wondering if she’ll make any sort of connection. She peels off a leaf from the artichoke.

“You gonna’ see him again?” Apparently Jim from Scranton doesn’t seem to ring a bell for her. Plus, I realize she’s not exactly the documentary type. And a documentary about a paper company? I guess I forgot who I was dealing with for a moment.

I nod. “I saw him Wednesday, actually.”

“A weeknight date? Wow. Must be nice.”

“I just went over to his place. We played Scrabble.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “You and your games. Who won?”

I just raise my eyebrows.

“Dumb question. So . . . anything else?”

I can tell she’s fishing for details but I’m not ready to give them yet. I don’t want to gush about Jim like I normally would because I feel like there is this fog lingering around our infant relationship. If there is something on those disks to make me change my mind, I don’t want to set myself up to look like a fool.

I shrug. “Not yet. We’ll see.”

I end up drinking three glasses of wine at lunch and when I get home I don’t even try to fool myself – I head straight to the TV, plop down on the couch.

Watching with a little buzz is even harder, with all my emotions and attraction so much closer to the surface. When Jim and Pam finally see each other again, my stomach is in knots. Jim plays it pretty cool, although there is something intentional about his coolness. He doesn’t want to get hurt again and unless Pam makes a big gesture, he’s not going to stick his neck out. But God, it’s heartbreaking to watch. At the end of the episode, in the parking lot, Pam does it again. She isn’t honest, she insists they’re just friends, and you can almost see something harden inside of Jim in that moment.

He’s dating Karen, which I knew was coming, but it’s obvious that he’s not that into her. Well, obvious to everyone but Karen. It hurts my wine-addled brain to think that I might be like Karen – a rebound girl. A distraction. I don’t want to be Karen. I want to be Pam.

The rest of the season is painful to watch – Jim fighting what he feels for Pam, Karen trying to hold on to a flimsy relationship, Pam crying in the hallway but never actually getting up the nerve to say anything to Jim. I feel bad for Karen, that she’s kind of a clueless pawn in the whole love triangle. I feel bad for Jim because he’s trying so darn hard to move on and yet can’t because the woman he loves is right there in front of him and she’s no longer even engaged. And I feel bad for Pam because she’s just too darn scared to make a move.

When Pam leaves that wedding with Roy I flop my head back onto the couch. I want to scream What the hell, Pam? I mean, I know why she did it. She’s lonely, Roy’s comfortable, Jim’s with Karen, yadda yadda. But if she wanted to put a nail in the coffin of her and Jim’s “relationship”, she just did it. After that, and after Roy’s testosterone-fueled attack, something in Jim shifts. He’s done. All playful banter with Pam subsides and I breathe a small sigh of relief because maybe that’s what it took for him to get over her. I don’t worry too much about Karen because I know she’s not in the picture anymore either, and something tells me that he had very little trouble getting over her.

I’ve almost made it through season three, believing that’s it. After all, this is a documentary and not a scripted show. The chances of any kind of dramatic turnaround now are pretty slim and I figure season four will focus on other characters in the show, since the Jim/Pam thing is pretty much over.

Wrong again. Pam finally gets up the nerve to say something to Jim and I lean forward, ready for something big. Something drastic. But . . . it’s Pam, so it’s timid and a little awkward and not completely honest. I can’t tell what Jim thinks about it. Seems like he’s not overwhelmed and I can’t say that I blame him. It’s gonna’ take more than an “I miss having fun with you” or an “I wish you would” to turn that ship around.

But I’m wrong again. When Jim asks Pam out to dinner and she says yes, I just sit and stare at the TV. I want to scream Tuna! Are you kidding me?! Because really . . . instead of feeling happy for Pam, now I’m feeling resentful. He loves her that much? That all it took is a little carefully worded note and a yogurt lid to make him give up a big new job and a steady girlfriend? I mean, I know he’s a romantic guy and he loves her but . . . still. If he’s going to make a move I’d like to see at least a little more effort on Pam’s part.

I’m sort of disgusted when I turn off the TV, refusing to watch season four tonight. It takes Herculean effort because now I suspect that Jim and Pam did get together, and I also suspect that that is what their fans wanted. And that would explain the dirty look that drunk girl gave me at the bar. I’m not sure if I want to watch happy and in love Jim and Pam. The angst I could handle. More kissing and . . . whatever? Not so much.

I keep reminding myself that they don’t end up together ultimately. I know this. Jim and I are dating and I know Pam is not around. But still. Her ghost is sort of lingering in my apartment, haunting me. He loved her. He loved her a whole freaking lot.

---

By Christmas Pam had found an entry-level job in graphic design and had given Michael her notice. She’d start her new job in January 2009. She seemed excited and happy. I felt . . . not happy. Work was work, things between Pam and I were quiet. Nothing felt like I thought it should.

On New Year's Eve things kind of quietly imploded. There was no huge blow up because things between two conflict-averse people rarely blow up in a dramatic way. Pam had wanted to go to New York for New Year’s Eve, spend it in Times Square. She said she’d never done anything like that before and wanted to experience a really crazy New Year’s Eve before she turned thirty. That sounded like the worst idea ever to me. Spending that night with thousands of drunk strangers, out in the cold, at 29? I couldn’t think of anything less appealing. But because I never wanted to give Pam any reason to regret loving me, I went along with it.

We met up with her friends from Pratt, who were all still in their early 20s, the age where watching the ball drop in Times Square sounds like fun instead of torture. Once again I felt out of place, tired, frustrated. Pam drank too much champagne and by the time we got back to our hotel, a storm was brewing.

“You should drink some water,” I told her, handing her a glass as she swayed on the edge of the bed.

She nodded and took the glass from me, sloshing a little bit onto her lap.

“You didn’t have fun tonight,” she said. Not a question, I noticed.

I didn’t answer right away, trying to think of the kindest way of saying no, I didn’t have fun. She sipped the water.

“You don’t like my friends.” Again, not a question.

“I like your friends,” I said, but even I could tell it had an insincere ring to it. I did like her friends well enough, but they were her friends, not mine. She had bonded with them for three months while I was home missing her. They were younger and artsier and whenever I spent time with them I felt old and dull.

“Hmmm.” She didn’t believe me, I could tell.

She handed the glass of water back to me and fell back onto the bed, her feet still on the floor.

“I never did stuff like this when I was their age.”

“Stuff like what? Freeze your ass off with thousands of people you don’t know?”

She ignored my sarcasm. “Crazy stuff. Fun stuff. Roy and I always spent New Year’s Eve with his friends at some boring house party.”

I stiffened as I always did when she mentioned Roy. Just his name…

“It’s like I totally missed my 20s.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. She had missed her 20s, spent them engaged to the wrong man living a life that didn’t suit her. But that wasn’t my fault. I started to feel defensive.

“So, what? You want to relive them now?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.”

I sat down on the chair facing the bed, waiting for her to explain.

“I just . . . time is going by so fast. I’m almost thirty!” I could tell that she meant that she hadn’t lived enough yet, that she wanted to go back and do things over.

“I’m almost thirty, too.” I meant it in a completely different way. I meant it as, I’m almost thirty and I’m ready to get on with my life.

Pam pushed herself up again and looked at me, here eyes shining a little. We stared at each other for a moment, neither of us willing to break the silent tug of war we had going on. Say something, I begged her. Tell me you want to get married. Tell me this is what you want – I am what you want. But Pam just sighed.

“I’m tired.”

I nodded and stripped off my clothes and climbed into bed with her. She turned away from me but pressed her back up against me so that we were spooning. She was quiet for awhile, as if she were either thinking or sleeping. Then she flipped over and faced me.

“Happy New Year, Jim.”

“Happy New Year, Pam.”

She kissed me, sort of a peck, but I caught her and pulled her closer and kissed her deeper. She kissed me back and I tasted champagne on her tongue, smelled cigarette smoke in her hair. Who is this woman? I thought. Who is Fancy New Beesly?

Then we made love as if our bodies were trying to say all the things our mouths couldn’t.

---

---

Still no word from Emily and I wonder if I should have just given her some hard core porn to watch instead of five years of my life. Maybe the chances of her calling me would be the same either way. It’s hard not knowing if she’s watched the shows and just doesn’t know what to do with the information, or if she just hasn’t taken the time to look at them yet. A part of me would almost prefer that she’s watching them and is still processing everything because if she hasn’t been tempted to even look at them. . . well. Maybe I jumped the gun a bit, overestimated our attraction. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that kind of thing.

I think about calling her, checking in, but I decide I won’t be that guy this time. If she thinks she can handle dating me despite my relationship history and the fact that I get accosted by strangers about half the time I go out, then she’ll call. If she can’t handle it, she won’t and I’ll move on. We’ve only been on three dates and kissed once, so it’s not like I’m over invested yet.

Although, then again maybe I am. I was in love with Pam before we even went on a date or kissed, so it’s not like those things are prerequisites to love in my mind. I mean, I know I’m not in love with Emily, but I also know that if she doesn’t call I’ll be disappointed. More disappointed than I’d care to admit.

But I try not to think about it too much. I try to focus on work since that’s the one good and solid thing I have to focus on right now. That thought still surprises me sometimes – that my job is actually a fulfilling part of my life now. I often compare my first couple of weeks in this job to my first couple weeks at Dunder Mifflin. The difference I feel between this job and my last one is huge and I don’t know if it’s my attitude that’s changed or that I’m finally growing up or if I’m just glad to have my fresh start.

I started at Dunder Mifflin when I was 23, practically right out of college, confused about my future and sort of desperate for a job after six months of looking. I wanted something perfect, something that screamed This is it, Jim – this is what you want to do! A job that would somehow fill in the holes of my future. And well . . . I realize now there is no job that can do all that. The want ads and job search websites had some jobs that sounded okay, but I wasn’t qualified or experienced enough for any of them. My major in college had been too general, my interests too related to sports, my extracurricular activities too focused on goofing off with my friends. I think I had always thought that, when the time came, the right job would fall into my lap and I’d discover what I was meant to do. Obviously, that never happened. So I gave up on “perfect” and went with “practical.” As my dad said, it was time to get a “real” job.

So I started my first day at Dunder Mifflin already sort of desperate, anxious to find something about selling paper that I liked, and there was Pam. So sweet and funny in a quiet, modest way. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me that I fell so hard for her so quickly, even though she was clearly not available. I knew right away that that job wasn’t the fairy tale position I had dreamed about, but liking Pam made it seem worth sticking around for awhile.

I know I didn’t just fall in love with her to make me feel better about my job, though. She was smart and gentle and easy to talk to, and pretty without even realizing it. There was so much to like about her that I pretty much had no choice. I loved Pam so totally for so long that I almost can’t remember NOT loving her. Loving her was like breathing or making jokes – just something I did, just who I was. I won’t diminish how I felt about her even now. But I will admit that a part of me needed to love her because if I hadn’t, if I hadn’t needed to see her every day, then I would have had to examine my life, my job, my choices. And that was almost scarier than being in love with a woman who was engaged to another man.

I had been a decent student all through college, the kind of annoying kid who never had to work at all for a B, and with only a tiny bit more effort, easily earned As. Once I took a class Pass/Fail, which basically means you take it for the credit, but it doesn’t count towards your grade point average. It was senior year, Spring, and I thought why not take it easy a bit? I was coasting along with a 3.75 GPA and I figured I’d take a harder course, something really challenging, but not have to worry so much about my grade. The problem was, I didn’t know how to study just enough to pass. I ended up doing my work as I always had – studying for tests, writing papers – and I got the same grades that I always had. It was actually kind of frustrating, not to know how to slack off. And despite my slacker reputation with Dwight, it was the same at Dunder Mifflin. I put forth a very moderate amount of effort and I always made my numbers. I didn’t just squeak by – I actually did pretty well. The day of the office Olympics is a perfect example. I goofed around almost all day, but when push came to shove, I closed my sales and finished my reports.

But I know why I didn’t try very hard to pass Dwight by and sell more paper than he did. Dwight is a great salesman, but he doesn’t exactly have perfect people skills, and I think if I had put forth a little more effort I could have stolen that flimsy “top salesman” certificate and prize money from him pretty easily. I didn’t try because trying would have meant that I cared about that job, and caring about it would have mean that I made a choice to make that job important in my life. And I didn’t want to choose to be a paper salesman.

It was a lot easier to make jokes about my job than it was to be honest about what I wanted. I think I was embarrassed by my lack of focus, my lack of a goal. Pam may have been a receptionist, but at least she had dreams of something more. She had a hidden talent, something that made her interesting. What did I have that made me interesting? When she jokingly teased me about my Second Life avatar that day, I felt exposed and childish, even though I never really had specific dreams of becoming a guitar-playing sports writer. When she wanted to know more about me, wanted to know if I actually played guitar, I felt like a little boy who wants to be an astronaut or a race car driver. Foolishly optimistic. Incredibly na�ve. Unrealistic and silly.

At the time I didn’t know why I was so scared to try for something more than selling paper. Looking back, I think I was afraid of failing. With Pam, things had not come as easily to me as they usually did. I had to struggle and constantly put my neck out and keep plugging away until she admitted how she felt. It was exhausting and frankly, it kind of sucked a lot of the time, feeling like a loser, like second best, like the one not chosen. I wasn’t sure if I could take failing in my career, too.

When I thought I was going to propose to Pam, I realized I had to get more serious, especially after Ryan gave me that “verbal warning.” I figured the only thing worse than being a mediocre salesman at a failing paper company was being fired for being a lousy salesman at a failing paper company. So I tried harder, but only because of the situation. It wasn’t until Pam and I broke up that I realized: I actually liked being a salesman. It suits my personality, I enjoy the flexibility and social aspect of it. I can make decent money and I realized quickly I could make even more without a whole lot more effort. Not that making money was ever a huge priority for me, but if it gave me options for the future – a wife who could stay home with kids if she wanted to, family vacations, stress-free retirement – then that was good, too.

When Pam was no longer a factor in my staying at Dunder Mifflin, I started looking more seriously. David Wallace tried to talk me into staying, to moving to the corporate offices in New York, but I explained I wanted a fresh start. He put me in touch with some friends and I had something I hadn’t had as a 23 year old: connections. When I started this job, I started feeling hopeful. Excited even. It felt like a choice instead of a move of desperation.

Pam was my first real love and I don’t regret one minute of our relationship. But being with her, loving her, sometimes didn’t feel like anything I chose – it was more like something I had to do, something I couldn’t help. Like an addiction. In fact, it sometimes felt like desperation. And I’m not sure that’s what love is supposed to feel like.

---

Pam loved her new job. She worked with more young people than Dunder Mifflin had ever seen, young people who were bright and interesting (unlike Kelly), welcoming and warm (unlike Ryan). Her office was housed in a cool old building that was once a factory but was now stylish loft-style offices. She started getting up for work earlier and staying later, anxious to do well and wow the boss. Her work wardrobe changed, too. Instead of the simple skirts and cardigans she wore before, she wore pants and boots and shirts that showed a bit, but still a professional amount, of cleavage. Her butterfly necklace was replaced by chunkier jewelry she had bought in New York on a shopping trip with her friends. Occasionally she spent the extra time in the morning to straighten her hair.

It didn’t come naturally to her, this sudden interest in fashion and hair. She still seemed most comfortable at home in stretchy pants and a hoodie with her hair in a pony tail. But she was trying for the job. She wanted to fit in, to be professional. She was making an effort, taking some risks. She wanted to be noticed.

I noticed. Because she’d never been much of a risk taker before, I definitely noticed.

---

---

I decide to forego any pretenses of getting anything done this weekend and just get it over with. I sit down on Saturday morning, in my pajamas, with no intention of getting off the couch (other than to eat and pee) until I’ve made it through to the end.

So Jim and Pam are together – I can tell right away by their smiles and jokes and Pam’s new hairstyle. Something has shifted and when I see Jim climb into her car and kiss her, something inside of me deflates a little. They are obviously happy, in love, holding hands and flirting. And clearly sleeping together; I can tell from the look that Pam gives Jim in the second episode when he comes up to her desk and she says, “hey” and looks him over head-to-toe. It’s a sexy “I know what’s under those clothes and I like it” look and it makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.

I almost wish, now, that Jim hadn’t given me the disks at all. I liked him immediately during our first conversation at the mall and definitely saw potential. After our third date, I felt that giddy new relationship vibe, but it was within the realm of normal early dating feelings. But watching him onscreen, especially with Pam, has actually made me fall in love with him a little bit. I’d never admit that out loud because it sounds crazy, falling in love that easily with someone I barely know based on what I’ve seen of him on a TV show. But there’s something . . . more now. Before he was just a cute, funny guy I wanted to date, a guy I’d eventually get to know in the normal way. Now I’ve become unfairly invested in him and his story. I’ve become charmed by stuff he did long before I met him, stuff I’ve only seen on a TV screen. It’s truly bizarre.

Season four is by far the hardest season for me to watch. Jim’s gigantic smile when the camera crew confronts him and Pam, the night they cuddle together at Dwight’s beet farm, when Jim swoops in and kisses her right in the office. Every time I wince a bit, as if someone has pinched me. Even knowing already that they break up doesn’t make me feel any better. They were clearly in love. They were happy.

I find myself waiting for a sign that something bad is coming. I know it has to be, and that’s probably why the proposal conversation catches me off guard. I was waiting for a fight, a discussion about the past, for Karen or Roy to show up, but then Jim’s saying he’s going to kick her ass and the rest of the season is just me, sitting on my hands, waiting for it. My head spins to think that Jim may have gotten engaged just a year ago. I have to wonder what the hell happened. How did they get from there to here?

The fourth season is only 14 episodes and when I quickly take a break to Google why, I find that there was some kind of union strike that cut it short. So I get to the final episode quickly and Jim is saying he’s going to propose to Pam that night. Pam is obviously going to say yes. I feel slightly nauseous and exhausted and anxious.

Then Jim’s got the ring box in his hand and he kisses the top of Pam’s head and she looks at him and just . . . wow. I feel a soreness in the back of my throat, the threat of tears, an unsettled wave in my stomach. But then Andy is proposing to Angela instead, and Jim puts the ring back in his pocket and I wonder how many times I can be faked out in one documentary.

I don’t even take a break between seasons four and five. I just switch DVDs and continue, determined to get through this with as little time to think as possible.

But season five is different. Pam returns from Pratt and it’s clear that she isn’t happy at Dunder Mifflin anymore. There’s a slight restlessness in the way she deals with Michael now, like a mother who’s losing her patience with an aggravating toddler. Things between her and Jim seem fine, though . . . just quieter and less sparkly than when they first got together, but that’s not unusual in any relationship. There is no talk of the botched proposal, no ring on Pam’s finger and I wonder what happened during those three months.

Before Christmastime Pam tells Michael she’s leaving Dunder Mifflin for a new job and by now I know these people well enough to know that they will not let her go quietly. Sure enough, just three months after her “Welcome Back” party, Michael throws her a going away party. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and over the top, as is everything Michael does.

After Pam leaves, she’s rarely on the show anymore. Once she comes to take Jim out to lunch and she looks different – more sleek and polished and Michael asks her why she never tried to look that hot when she was at DM. But beyond that, she is gone. Apparently the filmmakers didn’t have rights to shoot her outside of Dunder Mifflin-related activities without her permission or the permission of her new workplace, and apparently they didn’t grant it. So there is little footage to fill in the blanks besides Jim becoming quieter, more focused, less fun.

The camera crew must ask about her when they do those one-on-one interviews in the conference room because occasionally Jim will give an update. Things like: “Yep, Pam’s really liking her new job. And why wouldn’t she? Her boss isn’t Michael and they have casual Fridays.” Or “No, I haven’t asked yet. She’s really trying to focus on her new job. When the time’s right…” There is something practiced and intentional in his voice, similar to the first three seasons when he was trying to convince himself and everyone else that he didn’t love her.

Around February Jim takes a vacation – he’s not in two episodes at all – and when he comes back something has changed. He is even more careful around the cameras.

A couple episodes later, Jim tells Michael that he’s leaving Dunder Mifflin and of course Michael cries like a baby. He asks if it’s because the new receptionist isn’t good looking enough. He threatens to fire Dwight if he did anything to make Jim want to leave. He says that without Jim and Pam (and Ryan), the “hotness quotient” of the office takes a nose dive and that they’re putting a lot of pressure on him. Jim just shakes his head, gives the camera one of his amused looks.

They have another going away party for Jim – Angela is clearly put out, Meredith is drunk and kisses Jim on the mouth, Creed calls Jim “Tim”, Michael sings a song satire to Neil Diamond’s “I Am, I Said”. But Pam is not at the party and when Phyllis asks if she’s coming Jim just shakes his head and changes the subject.

And then Jim is gone and I can tell why the show went off the air when it did. Without the normalcy of Jim and Pam, without their story, their romance, the show is actually kind of uninteresting. Sometimes amusing, sure, but something is missing without them.

In the finale the filmmakers try to tie up all the loose ends, but since it’s real life and not a scripted show, there are no neat endings. Michael, who has finally broken off his relationship with Jan, asks Holly out. Ryan awaits his trial. Angela calls off her engagement to Andy, but neither she nor Dwight acknowledge that they are together. The whole show is vaguely frustrating and filled with more questions than answers.

Finally, there is Jim again, in one of those “talking heads” and you can tell the footage is older because the trees outside the window don’t have any leaves on them. I’m guessing it was around the time he took his vacation.

“Yes, Pam and I broke up. And that’s really . . . all I’m going to say about it.” He gives the camera almost an “I dare you” sort of look, stands and leaves the room, and the screen goes blank.

I stare at the TV. That’s how they end it? I imagine thousands or millions of enraged fans, staring at their TVs just like I am, thinking, That’s it?

---

One day in early February I came into our bedroom and Pam was sitting on the bed with her back to me. Sometimes she liked to look out the window and draw, and I didn’t want to disturb her.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “I’m gonna’ go for a quick—“

She turned slightly to face me and I could see she hadn’t been drawing after all. She was holding something on her lap, something small and square. I looked closer. It was a black velvet box. My black velvet box. The one that held the engagement ring that I’d bought over a year and a half earlier.

I didn’t say anything right away. The box had been sitting in my nightstand since we moved in together. I hadn’t forgotten about it, but I guess I hadn’t felt the need to hide it more carefully. Maybe I had almost hoped she would find it, force her hand a bit. Force my hand a bit.

She turned the box around in her fingers.

“Did you look at it?” I asked. I assumed she knew what it was, who it was meant for.

She shook her head. “How long have you had it?”

I sighed and looked down. “A long time.”

“How long?”

“Since a week after we started dating.”

She looked confused. “Why haven’t you given it to me? Why haven’t you…”

Her voice trailed off and I sighed, knowing that this was it. This was the conversation we had both been avoiding. I shrugged a little and sat down on the bed next to her.

“I wasn’t sure you still wanted it.”

She turned to look at me. I expected her to deny, to reassure me, but she just looked at my face for a minute.

“Why wouldn’t I want it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Since you came back from Pratt I’ve been trying to figure out if this is what you want. And . . . I’m not sure it is.”

Pam looked hurt. “I waited for you to ask all last spring. And then you wanted to wait during the summer and that was fine. I understood you didn’t want to . . . distract me, or whatever. But you’ve had this ring the whole time? And you still haven’t asked?”

“Things seemed different when you came back. You seemed different.”

“I am different. But I still love you.”

“I'm not...I'm not saying that you don't. But do you still want to get married?”

“Yes. Of course I do...” I wanted to feel satisfied with her answer, but it sounded too much like there was a “but” missing from the end of it.

“I don’t want to be Roy, Pam. I don’t want you to marry me just because we already discussed it. I want you to be sure.” I paused. “I want to be sure.”

“You’re not sure?” she sounded surprised, and the surprise in her voice and the emphasis she put on "you're" reinforced something inside of me.

I realized that maybe I wasn't sure.

---

---

Monday afternoon I have my chair turned away from my desk, enjoying the warmth of the sun through the window while I flip through the outline of a sales presentation I have to give next week. Outside it’s a beautiful day and I’m finding it hard to focus. Maybe I’ll get out of here on time for a change, go for a run…

There is a light knock on my open door.

“Jim?”

Susan, the office receptionist, stands in my doorway. She’s nothing like Pam, and for that I’m grateful. She’s about 45, married, a little plump, with black hair that is cut in what’s I think is called a bob, although I’m not exactly sure. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what “bangs” are. Susan is gregarious and funny and extremely nice, but the chances of me falling in love with her are pretty slim.

“Hey, Susan. What’s up?”

“Someone dropped this off for you.” She holds a small square cardboard envelope in her hand and steps into the room to set it on the corner of my desk.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She says cheerfully and turns to leave. I look at the envelope but there’s nothing on it except for my name, written in neat, square lettering.

“Um, do you know who dropped it off?” In he past I’ve had a couple of overzealous fans who’ve sent me things besides letters: photos, homemade cookies, um . . . videos. I’ve learned to be a little cautious when I receive a package.

She shakes her head. “She didn’t leave her name. Tall. Blondish? Maybe late twenties? Real cute.”

Emily. I look at the envelope and wonder if she returned the disks and ditched out of here as fast as she could so she wouldn’t have to see me. But I realize, when I pick up the envelope, that there couldn’t be that many disks in there. One or two, tops.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Sure.” She smiles again and leaves my office.

I open the envelope and sure enough it contains a DVD, but not one of the ones I gave her. This one looks blank – there are no graphics on it, it’s just a generic DVD – except for my name written on it in permanent marker. A small pink Post-It note is attached to it that reads, Can I stop by your place tonight around 7:00? After you watch this? Email me if you’re busy. – Em

I take off the Post-It note and press it onto the edge of my computer monitor and stare at it for a moment. It’s a simple note and doesn’t give much away, but she wants to see me. That’s something. Although she might just want to see me to tell me she never wants to see me again. Dating me comes with a lot of baggage, both private and public, and I’m sure if she’s watched all five seasons of the show, she realizes that by now.

I look at the disk and debate about waiting until I get home to watch it, but curiosity gets the best of me. I stand up and close my office door. Then I eject the CD drive of my computer and slip the disk in.

A moment later, Emily is on my computer screen, right next to her Post-It note.

She’s sitting on a couch in what I can only assume is her living room. It looks like she might be wearing her pajamas, and her hair is up in a sloppy sort of bun. She’s squinting at the camera a little bit.

“Hey, Jim. I, um, finally finished watching the DVDs you gave me last night. Or early this morning, I guess. Kind of had a marathon session. And I . . . well . . . I know we’ve got a lot to talk about, which is really weird because we’ve only been on three dates and the kind of stuff we probably need to talk about is most definitely not typical fourth date conversation.”

She brushes some stray hairs out of her eyes and smiles a little. “But before we get to that, I wanted to level the playing field a little. You let me watch five years of your life and, although I can’t exactly do that – nor would I want to – I can give you a little bit of dirt on me. Just to be fair.”

She reaches forward to her coffee table and picks up a pair of glasses and slides them on.

“So, this is what I look like in the morning. Just . . . you know. Nothing fancy. I’m not one of those frail little girls who’s always cold, so even in winter I sleep in a tank top. I hate slippers and . . . bathrobes, for the most part. Unless you’re at a fancy hotel or spa and they’re those really thick ones – then you’ve gotta’ wear them at least for a little while. Also, at hotels I always take all of the shampoo and lotion and soap. All of it, every day so they have to keep giving you more. Plus the shower caps and sewing kits and shoe horns . . . whatever. I love free stuff. I’m kind of like Ross from Friends like that – always trying to get my money’s worth.”

She shrugs. “Just some random, slightly embarrassing information about me.”

She picks up the camera and turns it so it’s recording her apartment. She scans the room. “This is my living room. This is what it usually looks like – I didn’t just clean it up for you. I’m really a bit of a neat freak. Not, like, psycho neat freak. Just . . . tidy. Okay. Movin’ on.”

She walks down the hallway with the camera focusing in front of her. “This is my hallway. Nothing really interesting about that. Typical hallway.”

She gets to a room and enters and I catch a glimpse of a neatly made bed before the camera turns to face her dresser. She opens a drawer with one hand while pointing the camera inside with the other.

“This is my underwear drawer and you should probably know right now that most of my bras and underwear do not match. Actually, this is something that all men should know . . . not about me, I mean, just in general. Most women’s bras and underwear do not match. And if a woman does have tons of matching sets, she’s probably kind of slutty or . . . really desperate to impress you.”

I laugh a little bit, thinking that she’s right. Karen was the queen of matching bras and underwear.

Emily turns the camera back on herself and she’s biting her lip. “Whoops. That was an unfair sweeping generalization, wasn’t it? Well, you should probably know that I make those sometimes.”

She turns the camera to show her bed again. Lined up on top of the quilt are photos.

“Now it’s time for a little trip down memory lane.”

The camera zooms in on the first photo, which is her at about age 14. At least I think it’s her. She’s got braces and glasses and fairly puffy hair in front. It think the puffy part is the “bangs” but I’m still not completely sure.

“This is me when I was a freshman. As you can see, I still had the high hair going on in 1995. I tell people that it was still in style in Ohio at that time . . . but that’s a lie. It was always horrible and dated no matter where you lived. Also notice the braces and lovely glasses. Try to keep your drooling under control – I know I was quite the looker.”

The camera pans to another photo of her, without glasses or braces but still with the kind of high hair, and she’s wearing some kind of cheerleading uniform. “I was on the pom pom squad in high school. I tell you this because people usually have a love it or hate it reaction to that news. I’m guessing you might be a “hate it” kind of a guy, which is fine and actually completely understandable, but I wanted to get this out in the open. Please don’t judge me.”

The next photo is of a boy, maybe 15 or so, with unfortunate skin and feathered hair. “This is Paul Yackley. I believe I went out with him for about three hours before I broke up with him, via an origami-style folded note delivered by my best friend, Michelle. Yes. I broke up with him in a note. Not my proudest moment.”

The camera pans again to a photo of another boy, slightly older and definitely more attractive. “This is Mark Allen, my first real boyfriend. The first guy I loved. He cheated on me with Lynn Gentry and broke my heart. I got back together with him twice before I learned my lesson.”

Emily turns the camera and sets it on the dresser so that it can film her while she sits on the bed.

“So…I know this is kind of lame, and really not even close to…what you…” She trails off and shrugs. “But I just thought I should make myself a little vulnerable before we talk. Remember that we all have history. Just… most of us have the luxury of doling out whatever history we want to whomever we choose. And, well … you don’t have that luxury, I guess.”

She sighs and bites her lip again. “Okay. Well. I’m going to come by your place at 7:00 tonight. Hopefully you’ll be there and we can talk.” She smiles a little. “Bye Jim.” She reaches out and turns off the camera. The screen goes dark.

I sit for a second before ejecting the DVD and sliding it back into the envelope. I leave the Post-It note on my computer.

Tonight will be our fourth date, if you can call tonight a date. And instead of stuff you normally do on a fourth date, like pretending to watch a movie but really making out, or having normal dinner and conversation and getting to know each other better, Emily and I will be sitting down to discuss the last woman I loved. It’s crazy and I realize I won’t blame her at all if she says thanks but no thanks.

But that DVD? Awesome. Yeah, I think I could grow to love this girl.

---

At some point I realized I was adjusting myself to the idea that maybe Pam and I would never be able to make it work. When I was in Stamford, I think I had been so desolate and depressed because I felt like if Pam and I could finally just be together, everything would work itself out. We’d be perfect for each other. I was heartbroken that we never had the chance to try.

But this time I knew we’d had the chance. There was no fianc� or girlfriend or physical distance in the way. No external road blocks. This time, we got in the way of ourselves. I discovered that there is no such thing as perfect – there is merely compatibility, attraction and effort. We had the compatibility and attraction, but we sort of fell down in the effort. Our own inability to be honest with each other, to deal with our issues, to forgive ourselves and each other for the past – those were the things that drove us apart.

The reasons people think we broke up seem so simple, so manageable from the outside. People suspect that Pam wanted to focus on her career, maybe move back to New York, postpone kids and maybe even marriage for awhile, and that I wanted to get married, have a family, and live in the suburbs. They argue there were plenty of compromises in between that could have worked. But those were not really the things that got in our way. As Pam pulled away from me, even a little bit while she was at Pratt, I realized that I wasn’t secure in how she felt about me and probably never had been. When things were good in our relationship, I felt fairly confident that she loved me. But when she clammed up a little, started keeping even little things to herself, every doubt I ever had came bubbling to the surface.

I thought about Roy often during those times, how he had been blind to the fact that Pam was growing away from him. When she called off their wedding he had been caught offguard, not realizing that Pam’s heart had changed, that she no longer wanted what she had always said she wanted. I didn’t want to be that guy. I tried to rationalize that Pam loved me more than she had loved Roy, that we had something more special. But the truth is, she had jumped from Roy to me before she had really thought much about what she wanted.

While I was in Stamford and then when I was back in Scranton and with Karen, people think Pam went through this huge transformation but the truth is, she was only slightly more honest with herself than she had been before. Getting her beer order right or changing a flat tire was great, but she still faked a friendship with Karen, got back together with Roy, only confessed a part of what she was feeling to me. I don’t think she really became Fancy New Beesly until she was by herself, away from Scranton, away from me.

So outsiders don’t understand it. They see season four and how happy we were and they don’t get how it could fall apart. They think we should have tried harder, not given up so quickly. What they don’t realize is that I didn’t give up quickly, and frankly, neither did Pam. Technically we’d been working on our relationship for six years, and in some ways in the last days we were no further along emotionally than we had been when we first met. In fact, in some ways, we were worse. When we met and were just friends, at least we had really talked to each other about pretty much everything except the taboo subject of our feelings for each other. At the end of our relationship, we avoided talking about anything that might cause conflict – Pam’s dreams, my feelings, our future, our past. We always seemed afraid that we’d end up hurting each other with honesty. Instead we hurt each other with our silence.

There was that period in the middle when things were great. That first year that we were together we were really happy. I think we both thought it would always be like that – and we’d be able to forget why we had been apart in the first place. But eventually all those reasons came rushing back. I think we could have put more effort in and probably made it last – after all, our relationship was still a lot better than most. We could have been as happy as many couples are. But somewhere between Toby’s goodbye party and when we broke up, I realized that with Pam I would always feel like the one who loved more.

And I didn’t want Pam to feel like she was always having to prove she loved me enough.

---

---

When Jim opens the door he looks different for some reason, and I realize it’s because for the past four days I’ve been watching him on TV, with different hair and work clothes and one of a hundred different expressions on his face at any given time. Tonight he looks like a normal guy, not a guy from TV. His hair freshly cut and his jeans and t-shirt more casual, his face calm, unreadable. He’s just a normal guy, the guy I met at the mall in Scranton.

“Hey.” My voice cracks a little and I clear my throat.

“Hey,” he says back. His voice cracks a little, too.

I give him a smile, sort of a weak, confused one, probably. I’m not sure how to act after learning everything that I learned about him. Watching his last serious romance play out over the course of five years makes things a little awkward. Do I give him a little hug? Kiss him on the cheek? Slap him across the face to knock some sense into him? I settle for the weak smile and he gives me one back.

“Come on in.” He opens the door wider and I slip past him. He smells fantastic – like soap and fresh-baked bread, if that’s possible. How does someone go about smelling like fresh-baked bread, besides . . . I don’t know . . . working in a bakery? Do they sell some kind of cologne for that?

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

“Um, just water would be great.”

“Okay. I’ll just . . . be right back.”

I stand in his living room, wondering if I should sit. Wondering if there is some protocol for these kinds of awkward situations. I decide to sit, but I sort of perch on the edge of the sofa instead of making myself comfortable. Nothing about this is comfortable.

He comes back in with two glasses of water and hands me one and sets one on the coffee table for himself before perching next to me, but not too close.

“So I…”

“I got the…”

We start talking at the same time and then laugh awkwardly. I gesture that he should go first.

“Um, well . . . I got your DVD.”

I can feel myself blushing and I suddenly feel stupid for doing that. It seemed like such a good idea at the time but now it just seems patronizing or something, as if me giving him a tiny bit of self-censored information about myself will somehow even things up.

“Yeah.” I shake my head and roll my eyes. “That was…”

“It was really great.” His voice is so sincere that I can’t help but believe him. “Thank you.”

“Well…” I smile a little. “You’re welcome.” I take a sip of my water before setting it down next to his.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Alright.” I take a deep breath. “I’m just gonna’ . . . stand, I think.”

“Okay,” he says. He remains seated.

I stand but immediately don’t know what to do with my hands. I feel too tall and too serious, like I’m about to give a speech. “Nope. I’m gonna’ sit.” I sit back down.

He grins at me sympathetically.

“Sorry. I’m just kind of . . . nervous, I guess.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I take another deep breath and rub my hands down my lap before tucking them under my legs. “Okay. So I’m not going to pull a Karen and ask if you still have feelings for Pam because I’m sure you probably do. Or … at least a part of you does, and I get that. I totally do.”

He’s looking at me seriously but his eyes don’t dart away and he doesn’t shake his head to deny it. He just watches me. I’m talking kind of fast so I take a breath and slow down.

“I mean, you don’t love someone for as long or as . . . seriously as you loved her and then just . . . stop, like, cold turkey.”

My leg accidentally touches his lightly but he doesn’t pull away.

“I guess what I want to ask is,” I take another deep breath and blow it out. “Is the part of you that still loves her bigger than the part of you left to love . . . someone else?”

He tilts his head a little but he’s still looking at me. I suddenly feel foolish about my question, the question that I spent hours figuring out how to phrase. I look down at my lap, bite my lip.

“Because I don’t want to get into this too deep if I don’t even stand a chance.”

He reaches out and turns my face to look at him again and his other hand finds its way to my neck. His fingers on my skin make my breath catch, my heart race a little bit. Then he kisses me. It’s not the light, lingering kiss from my doorstep last week, which was lovely. This is lovely in a completely different, mind-altering way. His mouth is more decisive and serious on mine, his palms cupping my face, fingers tangling in my hair. His mouth catches my bottom lip and then the top one, and then I feel just a hint of his tongue on mine before he pulls away. He keeps his hands on my face, his thumbs against my jaw, and leans his forehead lightly against mine.

I take a shaky breath. “Is that a yes?” I whisper.

He kisses me again, just once, soft and delicious.

“Or a no?” I finish, surprised I can still put three words together in a row.

His hands slide from my neck and one of his finds mine resting on my lap. He covers it with his, lacing our fingers together.

He looks down and smiles and it reminds me of when he looked down at his and Pam’s hands after they kissed on Casino Night. I wonder if I’ll always do that – associate things he does with things he did with her.

“The part that’s left is bigger, now,” he says quietly. “Significantly bigger.”

I nod and swallow, feeling relieved. I believe him, although I suppose I don’t have to. I want to believe him.

“There’s a 'that’s what she said' in there somewhere.”

Jim laughs quietly and shakes his head. His thumb traces along mine and we sit, quiet for a minute. “But here’s a question for you,” he says, and my heart sort of clenches for a moment, waiting. “Do I stand a chance?”

I look at him, kind of confused by the question.

“I mean, I know I come with a lot of baggage. And not just the stuff with Pam.” It’s the first time I hear him say her name in person, face-to-face, and I don’t know what I was expecting but he says it completely normally, not as if it pains him to utter that one syllable. I was afraid that every time he’d say her name, it would sound like an apology and that would get on my nerves after awhile. “There’s all that . . . TV crap and it can get really old really fast.”

“We all come with baggage, Jim.” I realize now that I’m in this deeper than I thought, that I’m sort of desperate to dismiss a lot of stuff that could end up being the downfall of this brand new relationship. Maybe that’s just what we all do in the beginning – somehow try to make things okay. “But I can’t … not try.” I squeeze his fingers a bit between mine. “I mean, I kinda’ like you now.”

“Wow.” He smiles and looks down, shaking his head slightly. “You’re brave.”

I laugh a little. “I don’t know about that. Just . . . optimistic, maybe.”

“I like optimistic.”

We look at each other and this time I lean in and kiss him, and I try to forget about Pam and The Office and just focus on the warmth of his mouth against mine.

---

---

Kissing Emily is a little strange, but not in the way that kissing Pam was strange when we started dating. When Pam and I kissed for the first time – or the first time we were really allowed to kiss – she pulled away after a moment and laughed a little bit, saying how surreal and weird it was. I had agreed, even though it wasn’t that weird to me. I guess I’d been thinking about it, hoping for it, a lot longer than she had.

The first time we undressed each other, she had blushed and looked away. I think a part of her still thought of me as her best friend and the idea of her good buddy Jim seeing her naked was still kind of embarrassing to her. Or maybe seeing me naked had embarrassed her. Plus, she was nervous and insecure about the fact that she had only ever been with Roy. I understood all of those things and was patient and careful, but something about her reaction bruised my ego a little, I think.

I had been attracted to Pam – sexually attracted to her – from almost the moment we met. And I had wanted to see her naked for longer than I cared to admit. When she got shy with me, when her laughter bubbled up at inappropriate times, when she resisted her instincts and held back when we were in bed, my confidence took a little hit. I wanted her to be overcome with passion, blown away by her long-denied lust for me. Typical male, I know, and I’m not proud of that reaction. But that’s what I had hoped for and instead she was cautious. Quiet. Timid.

Her initial hesitancy didn’t last long, though, and once we got past the awkwardness, we were actually really good together. She was always a little shy and slightly reluctant to tell me what she wanted, but that was Pam and if all I wanted was someone who was sexually confident, I would have stayed with Karen. Or Katy for that matter. So I was patient with her, she was patient with me, and we just enjoyed exploring that new area of our relationship.

But kissing Emily is different. She’s definitely not timid. She kisses me like she wants to be kissing me, like there is nothing funny or weird or surreal about it. There is a subtle urgency in the way she slips her hands into my hair, in the almost inaudible moan she makes in her throat when the kiss deepens a bit. But then after a moment she reels it in, slides her hands from my hair, down my chest, pulling away slightly.

She takes a shaky breath and doesn’t quite make eye contact with me.

“Sorry about that,” she says, and I’m not quite sure what she’s apologizing for until I realize that she kissed me.

“Um…I’m …not?”

She smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I just…we were going to talk…”

I nod, although I’d be okay with not talking. Kissing some more sounds fine with me. But I’ve learned the hard way that talking is just as important as kissing. Probably more important.

“Okay. Let’s talk.”

She reaches for her glass of water and takes a sip. I do the same. She kicks off her flip flips and folds one leg underneath her and turns so that she’s facing me. I lean back into the cushion and her knee lightly nudges my hip. I like the feel of it, the pressure and warmth of a part of her against a part of me.

“So what should we talk about?” I ask, my arm resting lightly against the back of the couch behind her.

“I was thinking baseball. You follow the Phillies?”

Man, this girl. She smiles at me and tilts her head and I really want to kiss her again. I resist the urge.

“Or we could talk about, I don’t know . . . why you left Scranton. What it’s like to be starting over, kind of.”

She doesn’t ask directly about Pam, doesn’t do the whole “What happened” thing, which is kind of nice. I know she must want to know, but she doesn’t pry. When Karen wanted to talk about Pam, I always felt like I was being interrogated. Questions followed each other like a skipping record and I barely had time to breathe. But the way Emily is gentle with me makes me want to tell her everything.

“Well, you’ve seen the show, now.”

She nods. “I have.”

“And you know what Dunder Mifflin was like.”

She smiles. “I do.”

“So it was just time for me to … go. And in Scranton the show was a thousand times more popular than anywhere else, so I couldn’t go out anymore without being … harassed. I actually … the day we met at the mall? I thought…” I trail off, kind of embarrassed.

“You thought what? That I knew who you were?”

I nod, feeling myself blush a little.

She grins. “I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Me too.”

“I really just needed help with the size thing.”

“So that wasn’t just a line?”

She fakes an offended look. “You think I’d try to pick up a random guy at the Steamtown Mall?”

I shrug.

She wags her head from side to side. “Now, maybe if we’d met at the Starbuck’s … on my home turf…”

“Right.”

“Cuz that’s where I usually pick up guys.”

“Of course.”

She leans her head on the back of the couch and her hair touches my arm.

“Is… Pam still in Scranton?”

Her question doesn’t surprise me; what surprises me is how simply and unapologetically she asks it. How she looks me right in the eye.

“Yeah. She was, anyway. But I think she was planning on going back to school again in New York.”

“Do you keep in touch with her?”

I shake my head. “No. I hear things sometimes, through fans of the show or occasionally the local paper would run a little blurb. But we don’t talk anymore.”

“Do you miss her?”

I sigh and remind myself to be honest. “Sometimes. But…” I think of how to phrase this, “When we broke up? We didn’t waffle anymore. We both decided that it wasn’t going to work and it was best to just…stop. So I don’t know. I feel like we both walked away…ready.”

She nods, studying me carefully for a moment before looking down. “Do you like Philly?”

My hand is just inches from her hair and I reach out and touch it, taking a section of it between my fingers. Its heavy silkiness surprises me. “I like Philly a lot.”

She looks at me for a moment, her eyes wide. Her gaze seems to flick down to my mouth for a second, then back to my eyes. She licks her lips. “You know what? We don’t need to talk about everything tonight.”

“We don’t?”

She shakes her head. “What’s the rush?”

“Right.”

In a sudden movement, she leans in and I lean in and we meet in the middle. This kiss is restless, heavier with wanting. There is a tension, a palpable weight to it. I’m still sitting straight and she’s still turned towards me at an awkward angle so I press one hand lightly against her hip and she understands and swings her leg over my lap so she’s straddling me, facing me. She’s not embarrassed or hesitant. In fact, her hands are in my hair again, her fingernails scraping lightly against my scalp. I find the sliver of skin just above her jeans, sliding my hands under her t-shirt far enough to see if her skin is as smooth and warm as it looks. I’m not surprised to find that it is.

Our kiss is slow and leisurely and then deeper and more urgent. I’m surprised at how much I want this, how much I want her. I wasn’t sure how long it would be before I actually wanted to be with a woman again for reasons other than just…physical. It’s a relief that the intimacy doesn’t freak me out. In fact I find the intimacy kind of comforting.

Emily drags her mouth away from mine and presses it to my jaw, then my neck, before resting her forehead against my shoulder.

“Wow,” she says quietly, her breath a little ragged.

I lean my head back on the cushion and smile at the ceiling.

God, I like this girl.

---

---

I force myself to leave Jim’s apartment at 10:00. I know he has to work tomorrow and I also know that if I stay much longer my clothes might start falling off of their own accord. God, that guy can kiss. I mean, really, really kiss.

We didn’t talk much more . . . well, we talked, just not about serious Pam-related stuff. We talked about work and the neighborhood and what we like to do on weekends. He made popcorn and we talked about movies. Then we stopped talking and kissed a little more until I felt myself becoming restless and overeager. Jim seemed so patient and willing to just let me dictate how things progressed. His hands never roamed lower than my hips or higher than my ribcage, other than to touch my face or my hair. And yet he seemed eager, hungry, perfectly capable of taking charge if I were to give him the signal to swing away.

When I realize it is just a matter of time before I lose control and do something really reckless, like reach for the button on his jeans, I reluctantly sit up and drag myself off his couch and to his door.

“I’ll walk you home,” he says.

I shake my head. “I have my car.”

“I’ll walk you to your car, then.”

“Okay.”

So he walks me to my car and he leans me back against it and we spend another five minutes kissing in the street in front of his apartment. By the time I’m in the driver’s seat and he shuts the door behind me, I know I’m in deep with this guy. Really, really deep.

~*~

On Tuesday morning, still in sort of a haze from my evening with Jim, I falter a bit and decide to Google him really quickly, just to see what kind of things show up. I’m not sure what I expected, but when I get over 100,000 results I’m completely stunned. There are youtube videos and fan websites and photo galleries and links to interviews. There are entire websites just devoted to him and Pam and their epic love story. I stare at the first page of results and am so tempted to click on something, just to see what it says about him. Instead, I google myself: “Emily Miller” Philadelphia 28. I get about 1,500 results and as I browse through them, hardly any of them are about me. There are a few race results for 5Ks I’ve run in, there is a link to my school district’s staff page, stuff like that. But nothing about me, personally. I don’t show up in anyone’s blog, there are no photos of me, I’m certainly not in any youtube videos.

I google Jim one more time and browse down the list of links that show up. Sure enough, there he is in imdb and Wikipedia.

For the first time since we met, I feel completely intimidated. Even watching the show didn’t freak me out as much as Googling him. Thousands and thousands of people know who he is, what he looks like, the whole story of his relationship with Pam. He’s probably got stalkers and girls out there with “I heart Jim” t-shirts and cutout magazine pictures of him in their lockers. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to go out with him and not have people look at me as the impostor, the other woman, the one who’s not Pam. I wonder if I’ll start getting hate mail.

I close the window on my computer and force myself out of the chair and remind myself that he’s just a guy. Just a normal guy who kisses like nobody’s business and if I think too much about all the other crap I’ll freak myself out. Best just to let it be.

But all day, while I’m cleaning my apartment and running errands and trying not to think about it, it’s there. All those websites, all that information, those opinions just sitting out there. Taunting me.

---

---

I have to go out of town for work and by the time I get back on Wednesday, I realize how much I miss talking to Emily. It’s only been two days and I feel kind of twitchy and anxious to hear her voice. I call her Wednesday night and ask her to have lunch with me on Thursday.

“Hmmm,” she says. “I may have to rearrange my very busy schedule of doing nothing. But I think I can squeeze it in.”

Thursday she comes by the office and by the time I get out to reception, she’s already chatting with Susan like they’re the best of friends.

“Hey,” I say, and she looks up and smiles.

“Hey!” She pushes herself off of Susan’s counter. “You ready?”

“Yep. You need anything, Susan? Starbuck’s? Jamba Juice?”

“Nope, I’m good. Had mine this morning.”

“Okay. We’ll see you later.”

“Sure. Bye Emily! It was nice to meet you.”

“You, too, Susan. I’ll keep an eye out for Marissa.”

They wave to each other like old friends before Emily and I walk out of the office to the elevator. “So, you and Susan are chummy already.”

She laughs. “Her daughter goes to my school! Fifth grade. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Crazy,” I agree. The elevator doors open and we step inside. “So … what are you in the mood for? Seafood? Or Mexican?”

“Ooh, Mexican.” She leans back against the back wall of the elevator. “Definitely Mexican.”

I smile at her decisiveness. “Okay. Mexican.”

We walk the three blocks to the restaurant and I notice that she dressed up a bit for our lunch. She’s wearing a casual dress and earrings and sandals with a little heel. No flip flops.

“You look nice,” I say.

She smiles and looks at me sideways. “Thanks. So do you.”

I’m tempted to reach for her hand, but just the few days we haven’t seen each other have made things feel a little formal. Did we really just make out on my couch – and against her car – on Monday night? Was that us?

Once we’re sitting at our table with a basket of chips, Emily asks, “So. How was your business trip?”

“Pretty good. Nice to be home, though.”

“Yeah. I can imagine. Travelling usually sounds like fun to me, but once I’m there I’m always kind of exhausted and would rather just be in my own bed.”

“Yeah, that’s about how it is.” I sip my Coke. “Oh, hey. I brought you some lotions. And a shower cap.”

Her smile is bright and happy. “You did?”

I hear a commotion behind me and see Emily’s eyes drift past my shoulder. “Don’t look now,” she says, “but I think you’re being recognized.”

Sure enough, just seconds later two women approach our table. “I’m sorry,” one of them says, “but are you Jim Halpert?”

I nod and smile, suppress a sigh. “Yes. I am.”

“Oh my gosh, I thought it was you! We didn’t expect to see you in Philly! You’re not living here now, are you?”

I nod again. “Yep.”

The women look at Emily and she smiles but doesn’t say anything. I can tell the women are wondering who she is. When I don’t offer anything, the women try another tactic. One of them lowers her voice, as if Emily won’t be able to hear.

“We just are so curious about how the show ended. They really didn’t explain anything.”

“Well,” I say, “I didn’t have much to do with that.”

“Oh of course not, but… well… it left us all wondering … what happened?”

I glance at Emily to find her pushing her chair away from the table. “Excuse me. I just have to use the washroom.”

I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or if she’s trying to give me privacy or if she really has to use the bathroom. “Sure,” I say.

One of the women waits until she leaves and then asks, “Is that your girlfriend? Are you really not with Pam any more?”

I’m about to use one of my standard lines – it’s complicated or I’m afraid I can’t really talk about that – when my cell phone rings. I glance at it but it’s a number I don’t recognize.

I gesture to the phone. “I’m sorry but I have to take this call.”

The women look disappointed but they nod and retreat. I open my phone.

“Jim Halpert.”

“Is this Jim Halpert, sexy cable TV star?”

I smile when I hear Emily’s voice. “Why yes it is. Who is this and how did you get my number?”

“Just a fan. I stole one of your business cards.”

“Ah. Well, it is kind of strange that we haven’t exchanged cell phone numbers yet.”

“I prefer talking on a phone that I can prop up against my shoulder.”

“Good point. So, what can I do for you . . . what did you say your name was?”

“Ima. Ima Stalker.”

God, she’s funny. “Where are you?”

“In the bathroom. See?”

I hear the toilet flush on the other end of the line. “Did you just pee while we’re on the phone?”

“Um, why? Is that inappropriate for a fifth date?”

“Oh my God. You did, didn’t you?”

“You’ll never know for sure. Are those ladies gone yet? Can I come back to the table?”

“They are. But I think maybe we should get our food to go. They may be back.”

So we order our enchiladas for the road and end up eating them in a park a block from my office.

“I’m really sorry about that… I told you, it’s a pain in the ass.”

“It’s okay. I just feel bad for you. I mean, people think it’s their right to know everything, don’t they?”

"Yeah," I agree. "They sure do."

When we’re finished eating, Emily walks with me back to my building.

“So…” I say, not quite sure how to say goodbye to her. A hug? A kiss on the cheek? A friendly pat on the shoulder? On Monday night I said goodbye by pressing her body against her car and kissing her until I felt a little lightheaded, but that doesn’t seem appropriate now.

“So,” she says back. “Are you…free for dinner Saturday night?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“You want to come over? We still haven’t… talked much.” She gives me a small, sly smile. “I’ll cook.”

I smile back. “Okay.”

“7:00?”

“Sure.”

She reaches out and brushes her hand down the back of mine, squeezing my fingers lightly before letting go. It’s the first time she’s touched me this afternoon, and just the simple, innocent gesture does something to me.

“Okay. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

I watch her walk away, watch the way the muscles in her calves twitch under her skin, the way her hair swishes against her back. I flex my hand. It still feels warm where she touched it.

---

---

So for our sixth date, I invite Jim over to my place. Although I realize going out in public is probably much safer from a keeping-my-clothes-on perspective, I also know that we might have to deal with more fans and interruptions and dirty looks. Another night of quiet solitude is fine with me.

It’s a warm night and I warn him in advance that I don’t have air conditioning and I live on the second floor, so he shows up in cargo shorts and a t-shirt carrying a cold six-pack of beer. Even though I had lunch with him just two days ago, I still feel a giddy thirteen-year-old girl vibe at the sight of him.

He looks around my apartment, nodding. “Nice. Very … tidy.”

“Shut up.” I laugh and take the beer from him, pulling two out of the box before putting the rest in the fridge. While I open them he sets something on my kitchen counter.

“These are for you,” he says. I look up and laugh.

“Oh my God, I totally thought you were joking!” I pick up the small bottles of lotion and the little box containing a shower cap as if they are priceless treasures. “I could have used the shower cap when I was making dinner,” I say, taking it out of the box. “I’m always afraid I’m going to get hair in the food.”

“Mmmm.” He takes the shower cap from my hands and puts it on my head. “Nice. Very sexy.”

“Well, you’ve got to get all the hair up in there, Jim, for the full effect.” I tuck my hair up into the cap. “Better?”

“Much.”

We look at each other for a second, our smiles fading a bit, before he breaks the gaze. “Can I help with anything?”

I pull off the shower cap. “Nope. I’m all set. Just take these.” I hand him the beers and I take the cold Thai noodle salad I made from the fridge. “I hope you like cilantro,” I say as I follow him to the table.

“Who doesn’t like cilantro?”

“My sister. She says it tastes like soap.”

He laughs. “Ginger tastes like soap.”

“You don’t like ginger?”

“No, I like ginger. I guess I … like the taste of soap.”

So we eat and talk and the whole time all I can think about is kissing him, feeling his skin against my lips. I wonder if he’s thinking about kissing me.

I’m rinsing off the plates in the kitchen when I feel him behind me. He’s not touching me, but I can sense him there, smell his clean scent. Then his hands are resting lightly on my hips and I nearly drop the plate I’m holding. I set it down and blindly reach for the faucet to turn the water off.

“Thanks for dinner,” he says, his voice low and smoky, then his lips just barely touch my shoulder.

“You’re welcome.” My voice is clearly strained with the effort of trying to speak while his breath is on my skin.

His hands press my hips so that I turn to face him and his body traps mine against the countertop. I hook my fingers through the belt loops of his shorts.

He looks at me for a moment before he kisses me, and in that moment I realize: I’m falling in love with him. When he kisses me, his mouth like a key unlocking something inside of me, I realize that maybe I already am in love with him.

His hands slide up from my hips so that they are wrapped around my ribcage, my tank top bunching a bit under his fingers. I let my thumbs slip under his shirt to feel just a bit of his skin and when that’s not enough contact, I unhook my fingers from his belt loops and press my hands against his stomach through his thin t-shirt. His body is hard and warm and I wonder how the hell I’m going to keep my hands away from his belt buckle tonight.

“We should probably talk more,” he says against my mouth, his thumbs almost brushing the sides of my breasts through my shirt.

“Yeah,” I say. “Probably.” I kiss him again, my tongue tasting his bottom lip.

“Did you want to do that now?”

I shake my head. “In a minute.”

I let my hands slide up farther and I feel the hard swell of his chest, the thump of his heartbeat. His hands circle to my back and press against my shoulders. The parts of my body that aren’t being touched by him are jealous and aching.

God, I’m so tempted to just take him by the hand and pull him down the hallway to my bedroom, but we’ve got so much ground to cover, first. I need to know what happened with him and Pam, to be sure that he’s ready for this, to be convinced that if Pam showed up in Philly wanting him back, he wouldn’t drop me like a bad habit. So the logical, smart side of my brain that up until this point has been overruled by his intoxicating touch fights back and takes control.

I pull away, remove my hands from his body and he does the same. He takes a step back, freeing me from where I’d been happily cornered.

I take a deep breath and pick up my beer from the counter. “Okay,” I gesture to the living room. “Let’s focus.”

We sit down on the couch, far enough apart that I won’t be tempted to touch him again.

“So,” I start, not exactly sure how to start.

“So,” he says back.

“I don’t know what to ask you, really.” I have my theories about what happened from last June until now, about what drove him and Pam apart. But I feel like he should be the one to tell me without me treating this like a deposition, peppering him with question after question. “What do you think I should know?”

He thinks about this for a minute and runs his hand through his hair. “Most people just want to know what happened between me and Pam. Why we couldn’t make it work.”

I nod.

“It’s just . . .” He clears his throat and takes a sip of beer. “I didn’t think she knew what she really wanted. And I think I wanted something a little different than what we had.”

“Different how?”

He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “I wanted something without all the…doubt.”

I nod again, understanding. “She never called you.”

He looks surprised.

“When you went to Stamford. She never called you.” I don’t really mean it as a question but I think he takes it as one. He looks down and shakes his head.

“And when you came back, she still didn’t…try very hard.”

He nods.

“You kept taking most of the risks and she kept letting you.”

He finally looks up. “I’ll never understand how she could get up the nerve to call off her wedding at the last minute but she didn’t have the guts to even send me an email. And she was willing to just be my friend, to let me move to New York with Karen. So either she was just willing to settle more than I was, or she was still being really dishonest with herself.”

“But she obviously wanted to be with you. I mean, when you came back from New York…”

“Yeah. But if I hadn’t come back? If I had taken that job? I don’t think she would have done anything.”

“She might have.”

He shakes his head. “I think that was as far as she’d let herself go. What she said on the beach and in that note. And I thought I could live with that when we finally got together. I thought it was enough.”

I nod.

“But when I saw how she was when she went to Pratt, I realized I wasn’t okay with it after all.”

“What happened when she went to Pratt?”

“I don’t know. Something about going away made her brave, but brave about other things. It bothered me that she could be brave about her art or her career, but she could rarely be brave when it came to me.”

I think back to the other night when he called me brave and I feel warm inside.

“But maybe you made her brave. Being with you helped her to be brave enough to even go to Pratt. Maybe she just wasn’t strong enough before …with anything, not just you.”

He tilts his head and looks at me, sort of surprised. Maybe he didn’t expect me to argue Pam’s case at all.

“Maybe. But…I could never let go of that feeling, I guess. You know, that feeling that I wasn’t worth the risk of … feeling foolish or being rejected.”

I nod. “She tried, I guess. At the beach.”

“Yeah. She did. And for her that was huge. But still…I think I just expected something…”

“More.”

“Yeah. I mean, her saying that stuff in front of everyone from the office was a big deal and it did take guts. But it was still sort of filtered. Maybe because she said it all in front of Karen. But if she would have just pulled me aside once during that year…I mean, we saw each other almost every day. Just once all she would have had to say is ‘can we try this again?’– I wasn’t expecting a tearful apology or anything. I just wanted her to say something, to me, one on one.”

“Well. There was Karen.”

“And before that there was Roy.” His voice is slightly more defensive. Maybe I’m sticking up for Pam too much, but I’m just trying to be fair, trying to understand. “And I still said something to her. She seemed more concerned about protecting my mediocre relationship with Karen than she was about her own feelings. Or about my feelings.”

“Maybe she didn’t know how you felt, still.”

He shakes his head, not buying it. I don’t really buy it either, but I’m just playing a little Devil’s advocate. “I didn’t know how she felt. Just when I thought maybe she had feelings for me, she’d tell Ryan she was ready to date or she'd hook up with Roy or …” I can tell he’s stretching, reaching for something to explain his frustration. He shakes his head. “That’s not really the point. What happened happened. I just never felt like she could be really honest with me. Like she was never really honest with Roy.”

We sit, quiet, for a minute. Jim takes another sip of his beer. I turn and face him, leaning my back against the armrest of the sofa and bending my legs so that my bare feet slide under his leg. I feel like I need some contact with him before I speak again.

“When you guys were together, you seemed really happy.”

He sighs and shrugs and seems … sad. “We were. I mean, I don’t mean to make it sound like things were never any good because they were for awhile. Really good. But there was just… a lot of stuff still there, underneath everything And even when things were good, I think we were always so afraid of sliding backwards or something, like if we admitted we had doubts or grudges or fears or whatever…it would just…I don’t know.”

“Ruin everything.”

He nods. “Open a can of worms.”

“Bring back the past.”

“It was totally my fault, really. If I could have just trusted that she loved me enough and let go of all that … shit from before, I think we could have been fine. But I just… couldn’t. And by the time we broke up, our communication was really awful. I wasn’t sure we’d ever get better at it. And I didn’t want her to always feel like she had to prove something to me.”

I nod. I get it. It sucks to be the one always loving more. Or at least the one always feeling like you’re loving more.

“God, I’m sorry.” Jim’s looking at me now with a slightly horrified expression on his face.

“For what?”

“Just my … diarrhea of the mouth.”

“We’re just talking.”

“I know, but … it’s just a lot…”

I shrug. “I asked. I want to know.”

“Still.”

We sit, quiet for a minute. He seems a little embarrassed, uncomfortable with the verbal bloodletting he just endured. I decide to give him a break, take a turn.

“So, my last serious boyfriend? Peter? We dated for almost four years.”

Jim looks up at me. He’s listening.

“I kind of thought we’d get married, even though it was never exactly the perfect relationship. It seemed good enough, you know? As good as I’d ever had, I mean.”

I sip my beer and then pick at the label.

“I think we were both afraid of being in our mid-twenties and starting over. I mean, it’s crazy to think about – we’re still so young. But most of our friends were in relationships or getting engaged and the thought of meeting someone new, dating… I don’t know. Fear made us overlook a lot of things.”

Jim rests his hand on my shin, his fingers curving around the back of my calf. I lose my train of thought for a minute.

“We hung onto that relationship for way longer than was healthy. To the point where we weren’t happy, and we weren’t even trying to be happy anymore”

His thumb caresses my shin, his hand sliding up my leg until his fingers find the sensitive area behind my knee.

“So I figure, we both have relationship shit in our past. The key is,” I smile at him, raise my eyebrows, “not to make the same mistakes twice.”

He nods, looking right into my eyes.

“I just…the thing that worries me a little is that you loved her so much. Are you going to … change your mind? I mean,” I look down, away from his gaze for just a moment, “if she gets brave all of a sudden?”

Jim doesn’t answer. Instead he’s sort of crawling up between my knees, pushing me gently back so that his body presses mine against the sofa. I gasp at the suddenness of this, at how quickly he is on top of me. He doesn’t kiss me right away. He just looks down at me with those green eyes. While I have him here, looking right at me I want to ask What if Pam wants you back? but I can’t force myself to say the words. And then his mouth is on mine, as if trying to press some kind of reassurance into me. But he doesn’t say he won’t change his mind. I never hear those words.

---

---

Talking with Emily about all this stuff leaves me feeling exhausted and exhilarated and … really close to her for some reason. I find I want to actually be close to her, feel the warmth of her through the warmth of her body. She wants reassurance that I won’t change my mind about Pam and even though I believe I won’t and want to tell her I won’t, I’ve learned from the past not to make promises so soon. I’ve learned that “never” and “always” are really strong words that should be used with extreme care.

So instead of answering yet, I ease myself on top of her and her breath hitches a little. She doesn’t look offended or hesitant, just surprised. When I kiss her, trying to tell her with my mouth that I like her – I like her a lot – and that I don’t ever plan on hurting her, she kisses me back and it seems like she’s saying the same thing.

Our kissing conversation morphs into more of a spirited debate, hungry and impatient and urgent. She smells like coconut and lime, like summertime, and I breathe in the soft skin on her neck. Her hands quickly find their way up my shirt, sliding restlessly against my back. Her tank top has eased its way up a bit and I get a glimpse of her flat, golden stomach and I try not to think too much about the bikini she must wear to get it that way. As it is, my body is resting solidly between her legs and I know she can feel me – all of me – against her. I wonder if she’s okay with this evidence that I’m not just her friend or a buddy or someone to confide in. I don’t want to be any of those things right now.

She doesn’t seem to be thinking of me as a friend, either, because one of her bare legs hooks around the back of mine and I feel her foot against my calf. We kiss and kiss, just…wanting. I press my mouth to her neck, feeling the flutter of her pulse under my lips and against my tongue. She runs her hands up my sides, her thumbs trailing along my ribcage. I push her shirt up a little farther until my fingers reach the silky part of her bra that wraps around her body, the heel of my hand just barely touching the side of her breast. She arches her back a little and pushes up against me and…

God, I need to slow down. I need to know if she’s ready for more than this kissing, grinding, panting thing we’ve got going on here. I remove my hand from temptation, slow my kisses, trace her cheekbones with my thumbs, turn this restless hungry frenzy into something both slightly less and slightly more than what it was.

We break apart reluctantly, like magnets still trying to cling to one another. I look down at her, then away, a little embarrassed by my sudden passion, by the evidence of it pressing up against her hip.

“Sorry about that,” I say, my breathing still a little ragged.

She looks up at me, her hands still pressing against my back. “I’m … not?” she says, in the same way that I said it the other night.

Her apartment is warm, and our bodies so close and electric have made it even warmer.

“Do you want me to…”

I was going to say “stop” or “get off of you,” but I don’t even finish my question before she shakes her head.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask,” I tease. “What if I was going to offer to wash the dishes?”

“Is that what you were going to ask?” She quirks an eyebrow at me, clearly not believing that it is.

I roll my eyes. “No, but...”

“I didn’t think so,” she laughs.

I push myself up and off of her anyway and she adjusts her shirt and sits up. We arrange ourselves next to each other again, our breathing slowly returning to normal. We keep doing this – stopping and starting, getting crazy and then sobering up. I feel like a teenager in my girlfriend’s basement, freezing up and trying to act normal every time I think I hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks.

“Do you have any good ones?”

“Do I have any good ones? Let’s see. I have Legally Blonde 1 and 2, Legends of the Fall, Bridges of Madison County…” she ticks them off on her fingers

For a moment I’m completely horrified by her taste in movies before I realize she’s teasing me. Those are all movies that were mentioned by Meredith or Katy the day of the fire when we played Desert Island.

“Wow. You’ve got excellent taste in movies.”

“I do. But just in case you don’t like any of those winners, I just got Leatherheads from NetFlix. Have you seen it?”

I shake my head.

“Do you want to?”

“Sure. Although I think you make out better with that movie choice than I do.”

“What do you mean? It’s about football.”

“Yeah, but it’s got George Clooney and that other guy. All I get is puckerface Zellweger who, frankly, I don’t find attractive at all.”

“Ah well. You can always ogle the guys with me.”

“Oh yay.”

She grins and gets up and hands me the movie to put on while she goes to the kitchen for two more beers and some microwave popcorn.

She turns down the lights and we settle into her couch, our shoulders pressing against each other, her leg bent so that it overhangs my lap a bit. The movie is okay – definitely not anything special. Partway through she leans close to me and whispers, “That Krasinski guy reminds me of you.”

I think it’s cute that she whispers like we’re in a movie theater and I’m flattered that she’s comparing me to a movie star. But I have to laugh. “Yeah. Right.”

She looks at me. “He does.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes.

At some point her bent leg straightens so it’s stretched across my lap and I rest my hand on her shin. Other than that, we actually make it through the whole movie without getting distracted, without a repeat of our earlier teenager-in-the-basement display.

When the movie ends, Emily shuts off the DVD with the remote control, leaving the room dark.

“So. What’d you think?” she asks.

“It was okay.”

“Yeah. It could have been so much better without puckerface, and maybe a little more character development.” She pulls her leg off my lap. “That Krasinski guy sure was cute, though.”

I laugh. “Better than Clooney?”

She nods. “Much better than Clooney. Clooney’s too…”

“Old?”

“I was gonna’ say ‘short’.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that really hurts his chances with the ladies.”

She reaches over and turns on the light next to the couch and I sneak a peek at my watch: only 10:30. I don’t know if I should offer to leave or … stay. I want to stay, but I don’t want to presume…

Emily turns off the DVD player and the regular TV comes back on. Saturday Night Live is just starting.

“Ooh,” she says. “Steve Carell is hosting! Have you seen this one?”

“Yeah, it’s good.” So we sit and watch together but the show doesn’t seem to hold our attention, or maybe we’re just tired of keeping such a tight reign on our hormones, because halfway through Emily’s hand is on my thigh and mine is on hers. And by the time the Usher is dancing around the stage, we’ve completely lost interest in both music and sketch comedy. Instead she’s half on my lap again, her hands in my hair, my mouth on her collarbone, and I realize, thankfully, I’m not going home anytime soon.

---

---

What is wrong with me? I have to wonder if I’m 16 rather than 28 with the way that I’m making out with Jim on the couch, barely coming up for air. I guess it’s been awhile since I’ve been this attracted to someone, since I’ve been in these early stages of a relationship where it’s all you can do to keep your hands off each other. But still… I need to think carefully about whether or not I’m ready to sleep with Jim – this guy who was half of a famous former TV couple. A guy who may not be completely over his last love. A guy who yields over 100,000 Google search results.

But the way he kisses me makes me forget a lot of that stuff, makes it all seem not so important. He gathers up my hair, moving it out of the way so his mouth on my neck can urge me to just let go. The feel of him hard against me makes my common sense and logic go AWOL. I’ve already run my hands all over his smooth, hot back and it’s all I can do to keep from yanking his shirt up and off. But I realize once we start undressing each other, there may be no turning back. We seem to be playing a game of chicken, both willing to go only so far. His hands will slide up my shirt, wrap around my ribcage, his thumbs threatening but not quite crossing the border of my bra. I’ll adjust myself against him, shifting my weight but purposefully not rubbing or grinding in a way that implies what I’d really like to do. Neither of us wants the responsibility of pushing the other past the point of no return. And frankly, I’m not really sure how much more of it I can take. I’m sort of aching for his touch in lots of other places, and I assume he is, too.

I lean my head against his shoulder and breathe against his neck in a combination of lust and frustration. “Oh my God, this is crazy.”

He laughs quietly, really just an exhalation of air. His voice is low and throaty when he says, “I know.”

I kiss his jaw, the slight stubble rough against my lips, and then whisper in his ear, “It’s too hot for this shit.”

“We should have gone to my place. I have air conditioning.”

I laugh and nod against his shoulder. “Next time,” I say.

Next time. I realize I’m confident that there will be a next time, and that makes me smile. But I seem to have broken the spell of lust we had going on and we awkwardly untangle ourselves and readjust our disheveled clothing. Jim runs a hand through his hair. He looks at the TV and gestures with one hand. “Aw. We missed Usher.”

“Darn.”

We stare at the TV for a moment before Jim inhales deeply and then blows out his breath. “I guess I should probably get going.”

I nod, although I don’t really want him to go. I’m just not sure what the other option is. Obviously he couldn’t stay longer without things getting out of hand again, and I know for sure that ten more minutes of kissing him would undo the last threads of my resolve.

So we stand up and I walk him to the door.

“Thanks again for dinner,” he says. “It was great.”

“Thanks for the shower cap.”

“That was courtesy of the Ramada in Schaumburg, Illinois.”

“Okay, well, if I’m ever in Schaumburg I’ll be sure to thank them.”

He smiles, looks at the ground for a second. “Hey. Are you busy tomorrow?”

He shifts a little, jingles his keys in his pocket. He actually seems worried that I’m going to turn him down, nervous that I might not want to see him despite the fact that my mouth has been attached to his, or some portion of his skin, for the past hour and a half. I wonder how much of his hesitancy is residue from Pam’s long-ago rejection. How long does something like that stick with a person? Forever? His vulnerability makes me want to kiss him again, tell him that he doesn’t need to worry about me turning him down.

Instead, I say simply: “Nope.”

“You want to … do something?”

I smile. God he’s cute. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know . . . but I’ll come up with something.”

“Okay. Something sounds good.”

“Okay.” He smiles and reaches out, pulling me closer to him with one arm, and then he kisses me. Simply, chastely. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I nod and then he leaves me to think about another daunting day of trying to keep my hands to myself, another to steel my resolve not to get hurt.

~*~

He calls me at 10:00 in the morning.

“Too early?” he asks.

I stretch in my bed, pushing the covers off of me. It’s nice to hear his warm, gravelly voice first thing in the morning. “Are you kidding? I’ve already run 5 miles and whipped up a healthy breakfast.”

“Seriously?”

I laugh. “If you have to ask that, you obviously don’t know me well enough yet. I’m still in bed.”

“Oh.” Something in his voice sounds slightly embarrassed and I find it adorable. “Did I wake you up?”

“No, I was just lying here. Being lazy.” I don’t tell him that I was daydreaming about him, but I wonder if he knows somehow, if something in my voice gives me away.

“So I have a plan,” he says.

~*~

He picks me up an hour later and I throw my bag in his backseat before climbing in next to him.

“Great day for the beach,” I say.

“I thought so.”

We smile at each other and he hesitates just a second before leaning across the distance between us to kiss me lightly.

When we cross the border into New Jersey it hits me that I kind of have a boyfriend.

~*~

Once we’re at the beach we both seem a little shy about stripping off our clothes. We may have touched each other a lot last night, but we didn’t actually see much, and it feels kind of strange to take off our clothes now so … matter of factly. Last night I was so hesitant to pull his t-shirt over his head, and here he’s going to do it for me, in front of a bunch of strangers. But I decide the sooner I get my clothes off, the sooner I can get him to rub some sunscreen on me, so I pull off my shirt and step out of my shorts with my back to him.

I’m not a particularly shy person, but something about turning around to face him in my bikini makes me blush. I quickly see I’m not the only one.

“Will you…” I hold out a bottle of sunscreen, “Do my back?”

He smiles, raises his eyebrows sort of innocently which, combined with his blush, is adorable. “Yep.”

I turn away from him again and gather my hair up into a ponytail while he squirts lotion on one hand and then rubs both his hands together, hesitating for just a moment before he touches me. Then his strong hands are there, sliding over my shoulders and back slowly and carefully. He rubs every inch, under the straps when I move them out of the way, down to my lower back and the edge of my bathing suit. When he’s done, he gives my shoulders a small squeeze.

“Okay,” he says. His voice cracks just a little.

I move my straps back into place and turn to face him again. “Do you want me to … do you?”

He smiles and rolls his eyes. “You’re just baiting me now.”

“What? I’m talking about sunscreen. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He turns away from me and pulls off his shirt and now it’s my turn to blush. Something about that expanse of smooth, bare, warm skin brings back memories of last night…

“You’re gonna’ need to use the heavy duty stuff,” he says. “Not all of us have summers off to work on our tans.”

“Well, that’s why I became a teacher in the first place,” I joke, “For the melanoma.”

He laughs a little and I squirt the lotion directly onto his back. He arches away from me in surprise. “Hey! Easy there, Tex.”

I laugh. “Such a wimp.” I scrape the drizzle of lotion of off his back with the edge of one hand and rub my hands together like he did, warming up the lotion. Then I gently slide both hands across his shoulders. “Better, princess?”

“Much.”

I continue spreading the lotion across his shoulders, down his sides, to the edge of his swim trunks. I probably make the process last longer than it needs to, but I rub until every streak of lotion is blended into his skin. I give his back a pat, signaling that I’m done and then we both go about lotioning the rest of our bodies on our own. I sneak glances over at him, though, and wonder if he’s doing the same to me.

He’s got a really nice body – tall and lean, defined but not bulky like he’s trying too hard to impress anyone. His chest is sprinkled evenly with hair that trails down to his belly button and lower to the edge of his bathing suit. His stomach is flat, his hips narrow, and he’s just … he looks really good.

Once we finish with the sunscreen I spread out a blanket and sit down.

“You hungry?” Jim asks.

“Um, yeah. I’m always hungry.”

Jim opens the cooler he brought and pulls out sandwiches, chips, apples, carrot sticks and bottles of water.

“Look at you,” I say. “You made this yourself?”

He laughs. “I’m 29 and single. I have to at least know how to make sandwiches.”

“Yeah, but these are good sandwiches. I mean, they have onion and lettuce and everything. And you brought fruits and vegetables!”

He laughs. “Wow. You are so easily impressed.”

I sit with my legs stretched out in front of me, hoping my stomach isn’t too unsightly as I eat my sandwich. I should have left my shirt on for a bit longer. Now I’m stuck here, eating, all hunched over in a two piece. Ah well.

“So, I have to confess something,” he says as he crumples up the bag his sandwich was in.

I look at him, eyebrows raised, mouth full.

“I’ve never really been much of a beach kind of guy.”

I smile, swallow, take a sip of water. I had sort of guessed that but I simply say, “No?”

He shakes his head.

“Then why did you want to come to the beach? You like a little grit in your sandwich?”

He shrugs, looks out at the ocean. “I’m trying …” he trails off, not finding the words he needs. I wait. He finally sighs and looks at me again. “Different things, I guess.”

“Different things?”

He nods, takes a bite of a carrot. Something about what he said scares me a bit. Like the beach, maybe I’m just something different that he’s trying out. An experiment of sorts. He chews, takes a sip of water.

“Am I … a different thing?” I ask.

His looks up at me quickly, his face surprised. “No! No. That’s not what I meant… at all.”

I nod, waiting for him to tell me what he meant.

He looks at me for a moment. “I like being with you,” he says, and I feel something flutter in my stomach. “I like being with you a lot.”

I smile; I can’t help myself.

“But I’m sort of afraid that once you really see what’s involved in dating me, you won’t want to … date me anymore.”

I nod, even though I’m not completely sure what he’s talking about. So far, nothing about dating him has been difficult. Well, except for the Google thing. And the ladies at the Mexican restaurant. And knowing that I, along with most of Pennsylvania, have far too much knowledge about his last relationship. Okay, so maybe I do kind of know what he’s talking about.

“It’s easier to just hang out at your place or my place and not have to deal with all the … stuff that I sometimes have to deal with when I’m out alone.”

I nod again.

“But I can’t just keep you holed up in my apartment, right?”

I shrug, not sure I’d mind being holed up in his apartment at all. Especially if it involves more kissing and less clothing.

“So I figured I’d try something different.”

“The beach.”

He nods. “Not a restaurant or a bowling alley or a mall.”

“You don’t think your fans will recognize you with your shirt off?”

I swear he blushes a little. “I doubt it…”

“You’re forgetting about that Fun Run episode.”

He throws his head back and groans. “God, I knew that was going to come back to haunt me. I was just trying to make fun of Michael.”

“Oh, you screwed the pooch on that one. I’m sure all your fans screencapped that scene immediately.” I look around. “I bet it’s just a matter of time before some girl who has a shirtless Jim for her screensaver comes over here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“We’ll see,” I tease. “I think you underestimate the power of teenage girls’ imaginations.”

“Anyway,” he says emphatically, cutting off my joking, “I just thought there might be less of that here.”

“Fine by me.” I shrug. “But I’d be okay holed up in your apartment, too.”

He tilts his head at me, grinning. I grin back and finish my sandwich.

I collect the garbage from our lunch and take it to a trash can. When I return, a group of teenagers is talking to Jim and I’m sorry to have to admit that I was right – his fans can pick him out, even shirtless on the beach. I guess I don’t truly understand, yet, what it must be like to be him at all and I feel a subtle wave of disappointment that our quiet afternoon is going to be intruded upon by more of his fans. I approach them carefully and Jim turns to me, looking relieved.

“These guys want to know if we want to play volleyball.”

“Volleyball?”

He gives me a look that says, Yep! They just want to play volleyball!

“You want to?” he asks. “Or don’t former pom pom girls do that sort of thing?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, I can play volleyball, Halpert. Let’s go.”

---

---

Emily and I split up on opposite teams to keep the numbers even and the game quickly gets heated. I’m pretty competitive when it comes to sports, but the fact that Emily is on a team with mostly teenage boys who clearly seem to be checking her out brings out macho Jim. He doesn’t make appearances very often; in fact, one of the last times I remember him showing up was when we played the warehouse guys in that basketball game and I was trying to impress Pam. But I feel his presence now, making me turn up my game a notch.

I’m not surprised that Emily is really good, setting and hitting better than some of the guys on her team. Something about her screams natural athlete. When her teammates realize that she’s got talent, they stop hogging the ball and start setting her, innundating her with high fives her and cheering her on. She’s completely unselfconscious, her hair falling messily out of her pony tail, sand stuck to her face. She seems comfortable in her body, in her skin, but not in the preening way some women are – looking at themselves in mirrors, clearly aware of their own attractiveness. Emily is just smiling and laughing and having fun, totally oblivious of how her humor and sportsmanship make her even more irresistible than how she looks. She’s supportive of her teammates, encouraging, teasing, funny. Not to mention beautiful in a way that reminds me of a J. Crew model.

Her team wins the first game handily and we switch up players to try to make things more even.

“Hey,” she smiles at me when I duck under the net. “Nice game.”

“Yeah.” I slap the hand she’s holding out. “You didn’t tell me you were a ringer.”

“Please.” She leans close to me and whispers, “You just had a team of amateur ball hogs. I’ll take care of you over here.”

“Okay. I’m counting on it.”

She’s true to her word. She sets me often and well, and I return the favor. I’m surprised at how much fun I’m having, playing volleyball at the beach with a date. It’s not something I ever imagined doing with any of my past girlfriends, but I’ve never dated an athletic girl, one who could hold her own among a bunch of guys. It’s just about the sexiest thing.

Once I accidentally bump into her, almost knocking her over. I reach out to keep her from falling, one hand gripping her around the waist, the other grabbing her arm. I pull her back against me, feeling the heat of her against my chest, the slight slickness of her skin against mine. She smells good – like soap and suntan lotion. The feeling of our hot, sweaty bodies against each other is disconcerting and I hold her for longer than I need to before finally dropping my hands. She smiles at me shyly.

“Thanks,” she says, wiping stray hairs out of her eyes with her wrist.

Man. I don’t know about her, but I’m thinking the whole trying different things approach was a great idea.

Our team wins the second game and Emily and I excuse ourselves. The group tries to talk us into playing again, but Emily smiles and thanks them, saying she wants to swim a bit. We walk down to the water together, wading in slowly.

“I think I have sand in my ears,” she says, tilting her head to one side and fishing in her ear with one finger.

“Here, let me see.”

She takes a step toward me and turns her head so I can look. I quickly grab her around the waist and lift her up, ready to dunk her into the water. I remember picking up Pam like this at the dojo, our flirting quickly turning from lighthearted to guilty and dark, and I brace myself for Emily telling me to put her down. But she just laughs as I toss her under, emerging smiling and wiping the water out of her eyes. She wraps her arms around my waist, trying to dunk me in return, but I outweigh her by at least 50 pounds and she can’t get me to budge. But then she wraps a leg around mine under the water, forcing me backwards and I trip, pulling her down with me.

We rinse off, laughing, and return to the beach to rest in the sun. Emily lies on her back, me on my stomach, our heads turned to face each other so we can talk.

“You need more sunscreen?” she asks.

“Probably. Do I look like a lobster?”

She shakes her head. “Just a little pink.” She takes the bottle and squirts some on my back again. “How’s that temperature for you, princess? Not too cold?”

I just give her a look. She smiles and starts to rub the lotion. This time, though, she kind of kneads my back, turning the application process into more of a massage. Her hands are strong and sure and I have to stifle my moans as she works. She finally pulls her hands away and I open my eyes.

“Wow. You are … really good at that.”

“My sister is a massage therapist. She practiced a lot on me.”

“Well… it paid off.”

“Oh, that was nothing. You should feel her full body Swedish massages. Oh. My. God.”

“That good?”

She nods. “The hands and feet are my favorite. Here, give me your hand.”

I roll over onto my back and reach out my arm. She squirts a little suntan lotion in her hand and takes my hand in both of hers. She starts to rub, her fingers lightly kneading mine. “Have you ever done yoga?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Yeah, I’m not going to be able to talk while you’re doing that.”

She laughs. “I know! It’s awesome, isn’t it?” She flips my hand over and rubs the heel of my hand with her thumbs. “In yoga there’s this stretch you do for your hands,” she sets my hand on her lap and shows me, somehow crisscrossing the fingers from both hands in front of her in something that reminds me of the church-and-steeple thing I did as a kid. “I have to make do with this in between visits to my sister.”

She picks up my hand again and continues to rub it for a few minutes. I think I actually doze off for awhile, it feels so nice. “Now,” she says, snapping me back from my coma, “compare your hands. Doesn’t the other one feel almost arthritic now?”

I flex my hands and agree – the one she was rubbing feels amazing, the other tight and achy. She lies back down next to me. “If you’re really nice to me, maybe I’ll do your feet sometimes.” She closes her eyes and sighs quietly. “I swear it’s better than sex.”

I turn to face her and her eyes pop open again, realizing what she just said. She turns to look at me. “Well. It’s better than some sex.”

We stare at each other for a moment, the word “sex” hanging between us. I’m suddenly grateful that we’re in a public place because lying next to her half naked, slightly damp, utterly appealing body while hearing her say the word “sex” is enough to dissolve any of my remaining self control.

---

---

Jim drops me off at my apartment to shower and change and we decide to meet for dinner at a restaurant in between our two apartments, apparently not sick of each other yet and willing to push our luck with going a whole day without him being recognized. My skin tingles pleasantly from the little bit of sun I got, and I decide to wear a sundress with skinny straps and no bra. I’m small-chested enough to get away with it and it’s not unusual for me to go braless from time to time, but something about not wearing a bra when I’m going out with Jim feels like tempting fate. Like I have one less layer of protection, one less barrier to knock down.

I gather my damp hair into a loose pile on my head, throw on some earrings and lip gloss and I’m back out the door.

I get to the restaurant first and order a glass of wine at the bar.

When Jim shows up ten minutes later, with damp hair and smelling like soap, I have to tease him. “Hey, primpy. What took you so long?”

“Sorry.” He smiles and runs a hand over his chin. “I had to shave.”

Something about the idea of him shaving – shaving for me – makes me feel warm.

“You look…” he trails off, looking for a word. “Pretty.”

The simplicity and sincerity of his compliment make me smile and I feel myself blush. “Thanks.” I gesture to my wine glass. “I would have ordered you a drink, but I didn’t know what you wanted.”

“That’s okay. I’ll get it.” He waves over the bartender and orders a beer. The bartender pours it and tells us that tequila shots are 2 bucks tonight, and Jim gives me a challenging look.

“Why not?” I shrug.

So the bartender pours us each a shot. I watch Jim’s tongue dart out of his mouth to lick where his thumb meets his hand. He sprinkles salt on the spot and then waits for me while I lick my hand. He sprinkles salt on my hand, too.

We pick up the shot glasses. “To a fun day at the beach,” he says.

I clink my glass against his and we both lick the salt, shoot the tequila, and then bite a slice of lime.

I shake my head in disgust. “God. I’m way too old to be doing tequila shots.”

He grimaces, too. “Yep.”

The hostess signals that our table is ready and we follow her and sit down.

“So, how’d you get so good at volleyball?” he asks.

I shrug. “I have lots of boy cousins. And I played my first two years of high school before I got recruited to the dark side.”

He laughs. “Gave it all up for poms, huh?”

“What can I say? I was young and stupid and blinded by the allure of the cute skirts. How about you?”

“Nah, the skirts never did it for me.” He gestures at his lap. “Hairy legs.”

I laugh and shake my head.

“No, you know how it is. When you’re tall, you stick to sports where height is an advantage.”

“Yeah. It’s not like I was ever going to be an Olympic gymnast.”

“Wait, don’t Poms have to have some gymnastic skills?”

“You’re thinking of cheerleaders," I point out. "I just needed to be able to do the splits.”

“That’s gymnastic, isn't it?” He sips his beer before asking, “So, could you? Do the splits?”

“You bet your ass. Took me a year of stretching every night, but I got them in time for tryouts.”

He raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Can you still?”

I hesitate before nodding, a little embarrassed for some reason. Should a 28-year-old woman be able to do the splits? Should she admit it?

“I don’t believe you.”

I give him a look. “Another shot of tequila says I can.”

“You’re on.” He waits, expectantly.

“Wait… now?” I ask.

He nods. “Come on. Two buck tequila shots are tonight, Em. I’m gonna’ need immediate proof if you want to take advantage of a bargain.”

I glance around. “I usually stretch out a little first.”

“You’re stalling.”

“You don’t think I’ll do them here, do you?”

He smiles at me, challenging. “I don’t know. Will you?”

“Okay.” I stand up and stretch out my shoulders comically, dramatically. “You ready?”

“Absolutely.”

“You sure?”

“Stall-ing,” he singsongs.

I’m not about to let him win this one so I squat and slide myself into the splits, ignoring how stupid I feel. My muscles are a little tight, but I manage to get all the way down. I even lift up my hands in a little “victory” arm move. The couple at the next table laughs and claps. I quickly pop back up, brush my dress down, and sit back in my chair.

Jim is shaking his head, laughing. “Impressive.”

“I can’t believe I just did that,” I mutter and wave down the waitress to order Jim another shot of tequila. He does it without complaint.

“So,” I say when our food comes. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“About the show? About … you know … Pam and stuff?”

“Sure,” he repeats, but he doesn’t sound quite as sure as he did.

“When did you start dating Karen? I mean, was it while you were still in Stamford, or after you came back to Scranton?”

He looks down at his plate, poking at his pasta with his fork. “Technically I guess it was before I came back. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

He sighs. “We went out a few times in Stamford. But things didn’t get … you know … more serious until Scranton.”

I nod, knowing that by “serious” he means “intimate.” The thought of him with Pam, with Karen, with Katy, with anyone leaves me feeling a little breathless.

“So when you told Pam that you were kind of seeing someone, that was the truth.”

He nods.

“But you told her to see what she would do. How she’d react.”

He sighs and sets his fork down. “I guess. I don’t know if I wanted her to be jealous or if I wanted to try to… force her hand, make her admit something. I don’t know.”

“When Pam brushed it off, did you know she was faking it? Or did you…really think she just wanted to just be friends.”

He thinks for a minute before answering. “I knew she was lying, I guess. Like I said before, she didn’t know how to be honest with me about how she felt. So even when we were together, I was never sure she was telling the truth.”

“You didn’t believe that she loved you?” I find it hard to believe that he didn't know Pam truly loved him when I, as a lowly viewer, knew unequivocally.

“Oh, I believed that she loved me. But when she said she wanted kids? When she said she was happy being back in Scranton after New York? When her eyes would sort of shift away when we talked about certain things … I just felt like she was afraid of being brutally honest with herself, much less with me.”

I nod, understanding. “What about you? Were you brutally honest with her about what you wanted?”

He looks me in the eye for a second before looking down. “No. Probably not.”

I nod. “Can you be?”

“Can I be what?”

“Honest about what you want? With…me?”

He sighs again. “I think so. I hope so.”

I watch his hand adjust the bottom of his glass against the table. I guess that’s a good enough answer for now. His uncertainty is pretty honest.

I smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Okay. Sorry.” I shake my head. “Too serious after tequila shots and splits.”

I change the subject and talk about work, his and mine. School is starting in a week and I’m starting to gear up. He asks about what third graders are learning, whether I’ve taught other grades, what I like about kids that age. He’s a great listener, nodding and asking follow up questions. I can see why he’s a good salesman.

Jim eventually excuses himself to go to the bathroom. While I’m sitting there by myself, a woman comes up to our table.

“Hey,” she says, rather unceremoniously. “Is that guy you’re with Jim Halpert?”

I think about lying and saying no, but I realize that lying about who he is isn’t really a call for me to make. “Um, yes.”

“Who are you?” she asks, emphasis on the word "you."

I look at her, kind of annoyed by the bluntness of her question. “Not sure that’s any of your business.”

She doesn’t seem deterred. “I mean, are you dating him?”

I just stare at her, trying to decide how to handle this. She seems angry at me, and I’m pretty darn sure we’ve never even met before. “Again, not sure that’s any of your business.”

Before she has a chance to respond, she looks up and sees Jim coming back to the table.

“It’ll never last,” she says under her breath before walking away from me and crossing the restaurant to Jim. I can tell she asks for his autograph, which he seems to reluctantly give. By the time he gets back to the table, I feel mildly possessive and frankly a little pissed off. Who the hell was that woman and why does she feel like she has the right to interrupt our evening and give her uninvited opinion on our relationship? Just because I’m not Pam, the freaking Saint of Scranton?

I down the last of my glass of wine and suggest we do another shot. He gives me a suspicious sort of look but goes along with it. By the time we’re done eating, I realize I’m kind of drunk. Not wasted, but definitely pretty buzzed. We decide to go back to the bar area of the restaurant for awhile, but that turns out to be a big mistake. Jim is immediately recognized by a handful of loyal Office fans and they surround us, gushing about the show, asking about Pam, subtly pushing me, the non-celebrity Jim-stealer, out of the little circle they’ve made around him. I back away, feeling excluded but even worse, dismissed, if not by Jim then by his “fans.”

Jim makes eye contact with me over the head of one of the shorter girls hanging on his every word. He smiles me an “I’m sorry.” I smile him back a “here’s what you can do with your apology.” Although maybe it’s just a regular smile. I’m kind of drunk and I’m not sure I’m communicating well.

Jim excuses himself from the throng and makes his way over to me.

“Hey,” he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

I nod. He grabs my hand and pulls me from the bar and doesn’t let go of it once we’re out on the street.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

I shrug. “I’m getting used to it.” My voice is colder than I’d intended.

He just gives me a look and hesitates on the sidewalk. “Do you want to … go to my place for awhile? It’s still early.”

I shrug again, realizing probably too late that I’m being kind of a bitch now. But the combination of tequila and wine has made me sort of petulant. “Sure.”

We walk to his apartment in relative silence. Something has shifted and the playful fun we’ve been having all day is now something darker and more serious. Up in his apartment, Jim offers me a drink and I ask him if he has any wine.

“You want wine?” he asks, something in his voice implying that maybe I’ve had enough. I nod defiantly. So he pours me a glass without comment but I end up letting it sit on the coffee table, realizing he’s right – I have probably had enough. I’m just drunk enough to be brave, but not too drunk to not know what I’m doing.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

I start to shake my head but then decide to stop this passive aggressive bullshit thing I’m doing and just tell him. After all, I made such a point of talking about honesty earlier.

“One of your fans stopped by our table while you were in the bathroom.”

“Oh.” He seems to know where this is going before I even tell him.

“She was very clear on her thoughts about us dating.”

He rubs his face with one hand. “I’m sorry, Em.”

I shrug and soften a little, realizing I’m not really angry at him. I’m angry at myself for caring about what strangers think. For not clarifying how he feels about me, how he feels about Pam. “It’s not your fault.”

He studies me for a moment before sitting down next to me on the couch. He puts one hand on my leg, his thumb caressing lightly.

“It’s just … people really wanted you guys to be together, didn’t they?”

He hesitates, then nods. Honest.

“That’s the kind of stuff you’re talking about, isn’t it?” I imagine getting those dirty looks from random strangers for years to come. People doubting the potential of our relationship because they think Pam was Jim’s soul mate. Me doubting the potential of our relationship because maybe I think that Pam was Jim’s soul mate.

“Em,” he says quietly, “they’re just … fans of a show. They don’t know everything.” He tightens his grip on my leg. “They don’t know me at all.”

He looks at me and the alcohol in my veins suddenly morphs from anger to a completely different kind of aggression. I feel like I want to prove something, prove that what we have, what we could have, is comparable to what he had with Pam. I trap his face between my hands and kiss him. Hard. He kisses me back and we’re back to our cat and mouse game except I’m much more willing to be the cat tonight. The tequila has created a fuzzy liquid warmth low in my belly and has miraculously, suddenly eased my fears of sleeping with him before knowing the answer to every Pam-related question. So somehow, within just minutes I’m unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off his shoulders. I run my hands over his chest down to the bulge in his jeans.

“Do you want to…” I start, but am not sure how to finish that sentence. “I mean…”

He nods and stands up, taking my hand and pulling me towards his bedroom.

Once we’re there he wraps his arms around me and pulls me up against him. He kisses me for what seems like forever, just softening the already molten core inside me even further. He eases my dress up so that his hands can slide underneath it, up my legs and hips to my waist where they pause. He kisses my neck, his tongue softly pressing against the place where my pulse is thumping wildly. Then his hands slowly move farther up, to my ribs and then finally, finally they slide over my breasts and I know I sigh a little too loudly.

I reach for his belt buckle and unhook it and make quick work of both the button and zipper on his pants. But before I can touch him, he pulls my dress the rest of the way up and over my head and turns me around so that I’m facing away from him, his bare chest against my back. His mouth finds my neck again, his hands slide over my stomach, my breasts, smoothing over my skin like they had with the sunscreen earlier, easing out the creases of my worry. One hand hesitates at the edge of my underwear, pressing flat against my stomach. He pauses, his breath in my ear and I must make a noise or give him some kind of non-verbal invitation because his fingers slide underneath the elastic and find the spot that’s been aching for his touch for days.

He holds me sort of trapped like that, one arm wrapped around my body, the other stroking and dipping between my legs and I’m grateful he’s holding me up because I feel like I might collapse if he lets go. I can feel his attention on me, studying my response to each change in his touch. When I gasp, he does whatever he was doing again, and again until I’m trembling and holding onto him, my arm wrapped back around his neck. And then I’m almost there and I know I at least say “Oh!” and maybe I say more than that but I’m not sure because something is melting inside of me and a crazy part of my brain is worried about him burning his hand.

---

---

When Emily grabs the back of my neck with one hand and gasps out a breathy, surprised “Oh!”, I smile against her shoulder. There is something confident and fearless about her – the way she agreed to play volleyball without hesitation, the way she willingly downed the shots of tequila, the way she dropped into splits in the middle of the restaurant – and yet also something vulnerable and shy. How she looks down slightly when I give her a compliment, seems surprised by what ends up happening whenever we kiss. When her body presses back against me and I feel her hand rest lightly on mine as I find a spot and a rhythm that she likes, she seems bold. But the surprise in her voice, the simple gasp when she comes, just feel completely genuine and unrehearsed.

That confidence and that innocence, combined with the way she looks and smells and tastes, is enough to make me lose my mind. I feel her weight shift as she loosens her grip on my shoulder and turns to face me. Her kiss is hungry, almost grateful. She reaches for my zipper again and lowers it the rest of the way, tugging my jeans down over my hips. I step out of them and she pushes my chest lightly so that I take a step backwards and my legs hit the edge of my bed.

God, she’s just really beautiful. Her hair has fallen out of the loose arrangement it had been in all night, tumbling over her shoulders in still-damp golden waves. She’s wearing only a pair of pale pink panties and her entire body is lean and tight. Not exactly curvy but athletic and strong and extremely sexy. All afternoon I watched her dive after volleyballs and wondered what it would feel like to press against her, feel her breasts push against my chest, her long legs wrap around me. I think – I hope – I’m about to find out.

She climbs onto my bed, taking my hand and pulling me down next to her. Our kissing slows again, becomes softer, gentler, less frantic. Her hand explores the elastic of my shorts and then sneaks under, sliding over my hip before taking hold of me and making me suck in my breath. There’s something about her touching me, her wanting to touch me and give me pleasure that makes me feel whole and sort of … worthy. She wants me. She likes me. She’s not afraid of letting herself like me.

But God, her long, graceful fingers are magic and I roll her onto her back, distracting her from touching me so I can catch my breath, get control of myself for a minute. I kiss her, and she barely slides her tongue against mine, sighing quietly and I decide I can’t wait. She lifts her hips so I can slip off her underwear and she helps me take off mine. Our slightly sunburned bodies are hot and restless against each other, aching to be closer than we are. We kiss more, her mouth warm and wet and welcoming and I’m amazed by how much I want her. How much I might just … love her. Could I love her?

When kissing and rubbing and touching are no longer enough for either of us, I reach over to my nightstand. Inside the drawer is a box of condoms that I bought a couple months after Pam and I broke up in an optimistic surge of rebound testosterone. I thought I was ready, then, to “move on” and moving on at that point meant sleeping with someone else. My optimism was short-lived, though, and my one attempt had been somewhat of a train wreck. Apparently, I’m not the kind of guy cut out for one-night stands, so the box is still nearly full.

Emily watches me as I slip the condom on, her eyes warm and hungry and I’m pretty confident this isn’t going to be any sort of train wreck. I lower myself back on top of her, my hands brushing her hair back from her face. She looks at me seriously, like she’s asking a question with her eyes and I think I know what it is.

I kiss her again, confident in my answer, now. “I won’t change my mind,” I whisper.

She tilts her head a little and touches my face with her fingers. And then I slide into her and she pushes up to meet me and we’re moving together, gasping, moaning, together.

I haven’t spent the past five years loving her, and everything between us has been easy and uncomplicated, but I realize that doesn’t lessen how I feel about her. I still feel an amazing connection when she digs her fingers into my back, when I watch her come again, and when I follow just moments later. I guess angst and long-denied passion are not prerequisites to what feels an awful lot like love, and I’m grateful for that.

~*~

My face is still buried in her neck, my body still buried inside of her, when I think about the shots of tequila and the wine and wonder how drunk she might be. I hope her judgement wasn’t compromised for our first time and she’ll end up regretting this in the morning.

I push myself up onto my elbows and look down at her. She’s staring up at the ceiling with a hard-to-read expression on her face. She looks at me and smiles a little.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

“Hey,” she says back.

I kiss her lightly, my mouth catching her bottom lip and holding it for a second before letting go. Her hands trail up my back, scratching gently in a way that makes me want to groan. I pull away and look at her again. She doesn’t look that drunk…

“Are you… I mean, was that…” I can’t seem to finish a sentence and she looks at me sort of amused.

“Was that what?” she asks.

I feel myself blush a little in the dark. “It’s just… you aren’t that drunk, are you?”

“Wasted,” she says. “Shitfaced. What was your name again? John? Jay?”

“Jim,” I clarify, smiling.

“Oh, right. Jim.” She snakes her hands up between us and rubs her thumbs up my jaw, her fingers threading through my hair and pressing against the back of my neck.

“So I didn’t take advantage of you?” I tease. “You’ll remember this in the morning?”

She laughs a little. “If anything, I took advantage of you. And I’ll definitely remember this in the morning.”

I kiss her again before rolling off of her, trying to discretely take off the condom and drop it to the floor next to the bed. This is all still so new and we have so many logistics to figure out, all the navigations of intimacy still to master. She turns onto her side to face me and rests her hand on my chest. I tuck her hair behind her ear, trace my knuckles down her neck to her collarbone that was driving me crazy all through dinner. Those skinny straps of her sundress hitting the slender bone, making me want to run my tongue along the ridge to the hollow at the base of her neck. I decide to do it now, since I can, since I think she’ll let me.

She seems to hold her breath a little while my mouth is on her skin, her hands tangled in my hair. When I get to the base of her throat I kiss upwards until I get to her jaw, then her mouth. She kisses back lazily, leisurely, as if she’s getting sleepy.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” I say, making her blush a little. “All day, really.”

“Really?” She scoots closer to me, so that our legs are layered with each other.

“Yep.”

“I’ve been wanting to do this,” she says, and she turns my face with her hand and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the spot where my jaw meets my neck, right under my ear.

“Mmm.” I wrap my arms around her, pulling her flush against me. I feel like we’re trading secrets, like she knows I’m not secure enough in anything yet without a little ego stroking. I’m grateful she’s willing to indulge me.

We lie still, quiet for a bit, her breathing becoming light and steady and I wonder if she’s fallen asleep. But then she pushes away from me a little and says, “I should probably go. Let you get some sleep.”

I swallow, my stomach knotted in that familiar fear of rejection. “Do you want to…” I clear my throat, run my hand up the silky skin of her back. “Stay over?” I realize I don’t want her to leave. Maybe ever.

She looks at me for a moment before speaking. “You sure?” she asks. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“I’ll go in a little late.”

“Slacker,” she says. She shifts a little, pulling away from me. She hasn’t answered and I think maybe she’s going to leave anyway. Maybe she’s not quite ready for what spending the night means. Maybe sex is one thing, but sleeping together in my bed until morning when our tequila-induced bravery will be worn off is too much just yet.

But she says, “Okay. I’ve just got to … take my contacts out,” and she swings her legs off the bed. I watch her get up, naked, to search for her purse. She finds it and slips into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I get up, too, and put on my underwear before heading to the kitchen for a drink. As I pull glasses from my cabinet I realize this is the first time since I met Pam that I’ve slept with a woman without Pam being there, a constant invisible presence in the room. With Katy and Karen, Pam had always been around, hiding, no matter how hard I tried to push her out of my mind. My train wreck rebound sex had Pam’s subtle fingerprints all over it. But with Emily it didn’t feel that way. I suppose Pam was there – might always be there, the way memories are – but it wasn’t distracting. I didn’t feel that sinking disappointment, that realization that Emily was lacking in the ways that Katy and Karen always were – mostly just because they weren’t Pam. I’m relieved that being with Emily was simply being with Emily. Someone different, someone new. Not a bad thing at all. In fact, a very good thing.

Emily is back in bed, the sheet pulled up over her bent legs to her armpits, by the time I come back with two glasses of water. I hand her one and she thanks me before taking a sip. I take my turn in the bathroom.

When I slide back between the sheets I’m pleasantly surprised to find her still naked, but I wonder if that’s because she has nothing to wear except her dress and she’s just afraid to ask to borrow something.

“Hey. Do you want something to … sleep in?”

“Why?” She raises her eyebrows at me, teasing. “Would you prefer me to sleep in something?”

I laugh. “God, no. I just wanted to be polite.”

“I’m good, then.” She snaps the waistband of my shorts. “You’re a little overdressed, though.”

I laugh and slide off my underwear again and gather her up against me and within minutes she’s breathing slow and steady and I press my face into her hair, just … happy again.

---

---

I wake up early – the sun is up just enough to make the sliver of sky I can see out the window a sort of cobalt blue instead of black – and remember where I am when I feel Jim’s warm body against my back. I lie still for a moment, enjoying the weight of his arm across my waist, the flutter of his breath against my shoulder. It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up with a man, and even longer since I‘ve woken up with a man I felt like I loved. It’s nice. Really, wonderfully nice.

But I desperately want the glass of water that sits on his nightstand and I don’t want to disturb him. I feel good, considering the tequila shots and the wine. Just thirsty. And as I assured him, I still remember everything that happened last night. Vividly.

Good lord, I feel happy. It should be illegal to feel this happy because it only makes when you feel bad that much worse. But I feel like I could just about burst with the pure contentment running through my veins.

But, man, I’m thirsty. Finally I can’t take it anymore and I carefully reach over for the glass of water. I try to drink it while still lying down, trying not to spill or wake Jim up. I manage with moderate success – there’s only a small puddle pooling on my pillow and Jim still seems asleep – and I try to snake my arm over to the nightstand again to put the glass back. Jim shifts, not asleep after all, and holds his hand out above my shoulder, gesturing that he wants the glass. I hand it to him and sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest. Who’s brilliant idea was it to sleep naked? Oh, that’s right. Mine.

“Morning,” I say, feeling suddenly shy and awkward without my friend Jos� Cuervo.

“Is it?” he asks, his voice rough and sleepy and way too sexy. He sits up to sip the water and glances toward the window. “It’s still dark.”

“It’s pretty early.” I wonder if he’s regretting inviting me to sleep over – thirsty girl who wakes him up before the sun is even halfway above the horizon. And… now I have to pee. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, trying to keep the sheet covering me until the last minute. “I’ve just got to … use the bathroom.”

“Okay,” he says.

I slip out of bed and slink to the bathroom, much more aware of my nakedness than I was last night. Last night I was a little insane, I think, waltzing around his bedroom without my clothes on like I do that sort of thing all the time. Really? When did I become so confident? If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was about the time I started doing tequila shots. I use the toilet and then brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush I keep in my purse. I find a t-shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door and hold it up to my face, smelling Jim’s clean laundry smell in it before slipping it on and going back into the bedroom. Jim is sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers. When he sees me, he stands up and points to the bathroom.

“I’m just gonna’….”

I nod. Everything feels different today – more awkward and self-conscious. I take another couple gulps of water, standing stiffly next to the bed. Do I climb back in? Or just get dressed and leave so Jim can get to work? I set the glass back down and wait, tugging on the bottom of his t-shirt, trying in vain to get it to cover more of my thighs.

But when Jim comes back out of the bathroom, he seems to have regained some of last night’s momentum. He quickly slips his arms around me, as if he knows that he needs to do something to smooth out the light-of-day awkwardness. He takes the hem of the t-shirt I pilfered between two fingers and tugs on it lightly.

“Who’s overdressed now?” he asks, a quiet playfulness in his voice.

The smoothness of his last-night face has been replaced by his morning-after beard and it rasps against my cheek in a way that makes me go a little weak inside. His breath is warm and soft in my ear and … vaguely minty. I smile that he brushed his teeth for me, too.

I slide one finger under the waistband of his shorts and snap it gently. “I guess we both are.”

He takes the bottom of my t-shirt, pulls it up over my head in one easy motion, and then kisses me and walks me back towards the bed.

“I thought maybe I should go,” I whisper against his mouth. “Let you get to work.”

“Not yet,” he says, his voice low and hungry and I lie back down willingly.

God, he’s good at this. Smooth without being smarmy, skillful without seeming too practiced. I can tell he’s good not so much because he’s been with lots of women but more because he pays attention. Just like he remembered that I take shampoo from hotels, he seems to be soaking up my responses to everything he does to me. But he doesn’t talk. In fact, I don’t think he said one thing last night in between that amazing “I won’t change my mind” and the “Hey” after we … finished. There were other noises: soft moans, breaths catching, a delicious sort of exhale that was like a sigh and a groan all in one when he came. But no actual words. I kind of like it.

With my last boyfriend I always felt like there was a running commentary when we were in bed together. He was either telling me what he liked, telling me what I liked, or just plain talking dirty, and sometimes I wanted to tell him to shut it. Sometimes I just wanted to put my hand over his mouth and say, Hey Chatty, didn’t your mom ever tell you that silence is golden? So I like Jim’s restraint, the fact that he’s not needing me to guide him through every single step or being bossy and telling me what to do. Although I do wonder if he’s so quiet because he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling out Pam’s name instead of mine. Hmmm.

The thought of Pam triggers that little twinge of fear inside of me again. Am I just a rebound? Some girl to sleep with until he gets his relationship legs back? A nobody important?

But oh, God, he’s not kissing me like I’m a nobody. He’s kissing me like I’m definitely a somebody. And his hands are sliding all over my body, causing a riot in every nerve ending I have. His face is rough against my breast when he kisses it, but I find I don’t mind at all. In fact, I feel like he could sand my entire body with his cheek and I couldn’t care less. By the time he slips his hand between my legs, I can barely put two thoughts together, much less two words. Oh. That’s. God. Oooohhh.

Before he gets too far into the whole amazing stroking, circling, dipping thing he did last night, I roll on top of him. He’s already shown he can make me come, probably at will. I’d like a turn to take charge, see what he likes.

I tug down his boxers and lie on top of him, our bodies pressed together, my legs between his. I kiss him everywhere; his rough jaw, his velvety earlobe, his neck and shoulder, his chest, stomach, lower. I hear his breath catch, feel his hands in my hair and after a few minutes of his quiet but heavy breathing he murmurs a sort of groan followed shortly by a more urgent “Em.” I stop, not wanting this to end yet. There is an ache inside of me that I need him to fill first. I kiss my way back up his body – the flat plane of his stomach, the swell of his chest – giving him a moment to regroup before I straddle him. I reach over to his nightstand and feel around for the condoms that I know are in there somewhere. My fingers graze a Chapstick, some kind of small box, a couple of pens, before finding the packets. Bingo.

I rip open the foil, slide the condom on him a little clumsily. So much for my smooth sexy seductress act. He doesn’t seem to mind my fumbling – he just looks at me with his intense green eyes. I lean down and kiss him, sliding my tongue against his full bottom lip, and lower myself onto him slowly. I stay leaning forward, my hands resting on either side of his head, liking the pressure, the sensation of rubbing against him while he’s inside of me. His hands rest lightly on my hips, just barely floating there, letting me control everything. After a moment I sit up and guide his hand lower, between us, and he uses his thumb to make me gasp. I’m feeling a little reckless now, distracted by his hand on me, his body in me and some words slip out. Something like, “Oh, God. Jim. That’s…”

I lean forward again, trapping his hand, his thumb, increasing the pressure, the warmth, the building glow in my stomach. His mouth is near my ear and he finally speaks and forget what I said about liking his silence. I take it back because his low, sexy voice rumbling “God, you’re amazing” just hits a button inside of me and I’m done. The glow bursts into flame and I kiss Jim again to keep myself from making the kind of reckless noises I’m tempted to make. Jim pushes himself up to sitting and wraps his arms up my back so that he’s gripping my shoulders and pulls me firmly down against him. He leans his forehead against my shoulder and I feel that amazing noise– a satisfied blend between a groan and a sigh – as a breath against my skin. I love making him make that noise. Love it. I wrap my legs around him and we slow and settle against each other, wrapped up, tangled up, intertwined, just trying to breathe.

I bite my lip to keep from telling him that I love him. The words want to come out, wrestling around with my logic and my fear. Logic and fear are shaking their heads. No. Too soon. Too much too soon. But God … I think I do. I’m pretty damn sure I love this man.

---

---

Emily sleeps again, curled up on her side with one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Neither of us said anything after we made love… we just shifted and settled and were quiet. It felt like our feelings – or my feelings, at least – were too close to the surface, like there was only a thin film of self-control keeping me from blurting out something drastic and honest. The particular something that kept running through my mind was I love you I love you I love you, and it was easier to keep my mouth shut than to say that out loud. So she curled up facing me, and we just sort of looked at each other for awhile until her eyelids started to droop. I watch her sleep, now, as the room gradually gets lighter. Her face is calm, peaceful, beautiful. I’m sort of awed by the warm feeling in my chest, the shock that this could be so simple. I like her and she likes me. I might love her and she might love me. Amazing.

I finally get up, careful not to wake her. I shave and shower quickly, but when I come back out of the bathroom, she is already up and dressed and sitting on the edge of my bed. She looks at me, her eyes sort of traveling quickly down my body before darting away. I’m only in a towel but I still find it adorable that she seems embarrassed, now, considering how we spent the earlier part of our morning. And last night.

“Hey,” I say. “You’re up.”

She nods and stands. “Yeah. I thought I should…” she gestures toward my bedroom door.

“You don’t have to go...”

She shakes her head. “Oh, I know. I just have a lot to do today.”

She seems different. Nervous or … maybe flustered. I take a step closer to her and she looks down.

“You sure? You want some breakfast? I make a mean bowl of Cheerios.”

She smiles, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “No, that’s okay. I have to go into school for a bit today, and I know you have to get to work, too.”

A tickle of something vaguely familiar flutters in my stomach. Something is off. She’s avoiding something. She’s not telling me something. Did I do something wrong? Is she disappointed? She didn’t seem disappointed an hour ago when she was wrapped around me, our bodies slick and hot against each other. But … maybe I did something by accident, let something slip. Oh, God, I didn’t call her Pam, did I? I don’t think I did – I certainly wasn’t thinking about Pam at all – but …

“Hey,” I say, slipping my hand around her waist and pulling her closer to me. “You okay?”

She smiles brighter and rests one hand lightly on my bare chest. “Yeah! Of course. I just … don’t want you to be late. I’m kind of a rule follower like that.”

I look into her gray eyes for a moment, not convinced. But she looks away and tugs me by the hand. “Come on. Walk me to the door.”

I follow her to my front door where she slips her arms around me, her hands pressing against my back. She kisses me lightly and I kiss her back not so lightly, and even the most tired and satisfied parts of me start to wake up and get hungry again. She sort of groans against my mouth and pulls away, leaning her forehead against my cheek.

“Just stop it,” she says.

I laugh. “Stop what?”

“You know … smelling so good and being all naked and stuff.”

I laugh again. Okay, so maybe nothing’s wrong. Maybe I’m just paranoid from years of trying to read Pam’s subtle tones and facial expressions, trying to figure out what she really meant versus what she said.

“So,” I say, pulling her closer in a hug and leaning close to her ear. “I’m going to Chicago again this afternoon… until Friday morning, I think. Trade show.”

She nods.

“But can I see you Friday night?”

She nods again. Her fingertips trail along the edge of my towel as she pulls away a little.

“It's gonna' be a long week,” she says.

I sigh. “Yeah.” I slip my hands up to her neck, tilting her face up to look at me. “A really long week.”

She smiles a little and I kiss her again before letting her go. She reaches for the doorknob but hesitates with her hand on it. Her gaze settles on my bare feet. “I … had a lot of fun yesterday.” She smiles at the floor. “And this morning.”

I smile at the floor, too, wishing I were brave enough to look right into her gray eyes. “Me, too.”

Even though I don’t look directly at her, something in my voice makes her look up anyway. I wonder if she hears the I love you I love you I love you ringing in my head, underneath my words like an echo.

“Good.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and raises her eyebrows. “So… I’ll talk to you on Friday?”

“Friday,” I confirm. “Or sooner. I’ll call you.”

“Okay.” She nods and turns to leave.

“Em,” I say, and she turns back and I grab her and kiss her one more time. She kisses me back, sighing and pressing her hands flat against my stomach, melting against me. Then she leaves.

---

---

I’m totally full of shit. I realize this as I walk the six blocks home from Jim’s apartment. I’m all about honesty and directness when it involves someone else’s honesty and directness, but I don’t follow my own rules. Jim knew something was wrong this morning and I flat out, boldface lied.

The sound of the shower woke me up and I thought about joining him for about a second and a half before realizing I’d need some tequila to do that. Quite a lot of tequila, actually. So instead I listened to the sound of the running water for a few minutes before getting up and getting dressed. I had trouble finding my underwear at first but finally saw it peeking out from under his side of the bed, next to the condom wrapper. I picked up both and went to push the drawer of his nightstand shut, tidying up in my usual anal retentive way, when something else caught my eye.

I realized I had felt it when I was fumbling around for the condom, but in my sexually heightened state it hadn’t registered. But in the light of day, without Jim’s body beneath me and hands on me, distracting me, I realized: it was THE box. The ring box. The one Jim had opened for the cameramen, telling them he had bought it a week after he and Pam started dating. The box he had pulled out of his pocket that night he was going to propose. I tried to rationalize, thinking Maybe it’s not the same box. Maybe it’s a pair of cufflinks or something. But I knew without even looking. It was the box. It was the ring. Pam’s engagement ring.

I heard the water shut off and I shut the drawer quickly, slipping on my underwear and trying to get my heart to settle down to a normal pace again. I felt sort of guilty, like I had been caught snooping through his stuff, even though I hadn’t. Clearly he knew the ring was in there. This morning he saw me open that drawer and dig around in it and he didn’t stop me, didn’t seem at all concerned or guilty or secretive. Why should he, though? So he hadn’t had time to sell the ring. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he just … forgot about it. Yeah, right. I’m sure he just forgot about a $6,000 ring sitting in his drawer.

By the time Jim came out of the bathroom, I had calmed myself down externally, but I was still reeling inside. Not so much because he still had the ring, but because I had been reminded of what that ring meant. He had wanted to marry Pam. He had been ready to spend the rest of his life with her. And who was I, really? Just a girl he met at the mall. Some girl who sleeps with him before she even knows for sure how he feels about her. Some girl who is probably much more invested in him than he is in her.

So when he came out of the bathroom, all the confidence, all the swaggering self-assurance I had felt earlier in bed drained out of me and all I could think was: I’m not Pam. I’ll never be Pam.

But how could I tell him that on THIS morning, the morning after our first night together? How could I get all whiny and mopey and “Waa waa waa, I don’t know if you love me?” That’s not who I am! I’m not the clingy, needy, jealous girl who constantly requires reassurance. That’s not who I want to be. So I sucked it up and smiled and kissed him back when he kissed me and his mouth on mine was almost enough to make me forget about that little box and that band of platinum and diamonds. Almost.

~*~

By Tuesday afternoon I realize: I need to tell someone about Jim. I don’t think I’ve ever dated a guy that I’ve kept such a secret. I’m not sure that I’ve ever had a reason to keep a guy a secret before, and the newness and excitement, along with all of the doubt and insecurity, is eating away at me without release. And maybe I do need reassurance – if not from Jim then from a girlfriend – that he does like me. That the things he’s said and done are enough for now, despite the engagement ring for another woman still sitting in his nightstand.

So I call my sister.

“I hate that shirt you got for Doug.” It’s the first thing out of her mouth when she picks up the phone. “He wears it all the time and I’m just sick of looking at it.”

“You’re welcome,” I say sweetly.

“Why do you support his bad taste? We’re trying to be a positive fashion influence on him, remember?”

“What can I say? I saw it and thought ‘Doug must have this fugly shirt.’”

“Yeah, and two more almost like it. He actually went out and bought it in other incarnations. I mean, what the hell? See what you started?”

I laugh.

“It’s not funny.”

“It is.”

She snorts. “So. When does school start? Next week?”

“Yeah. Monday.”

“Have you gone supply shopping yet?”

“Please. Like, three weeks ago.”

“Do school supplies still smell as good as I remember?”

“Totally. I mean, that’s mostly why I became a teacher.”

“Right. That actually may be why I want to have kids.” I hear her sip something – probably coffee. She can drink coffee any time of the day and still sleep like a baby at night. “So. What else is new?”

Now that she’s asking the question I’ve been waiting for, I’m really nervous. Once I talk about Jim out lout to someone else, it’s like it’s real. I have a witness, someone who can say, ‘Remember when you were so totally in love with that guy?’ I take a deep breath.

“Well. I’m kind of seeing someone.”

“Really? Who, that guy from the gym?”

“Ew, no. That guy didn’t last one date. All he could talk about was working out. Plus: really sloppy kisser.”

“Ew. Okay then, who?”

“Well … I actually met him in Scranton, when I was visiting you. The day I bought Doug’s clown shirt, actually.”

“Wait, he’s from Scranton?”

“He was. He lives in Philly now.”

“Ah. So. Does he have a name?”

“Jim.”

“M-kay. And what does this Jim do?”

“He’s in sales.”

“And what does this Jim look like?”

I smile. “He’s tall—“

“Obviously.”

“And he’s got brown hair. Green eyes. Nice smile.”

“Body?”

“Yes, he has a body.”

Sara grunts. “Don’t toy with me.”

“Very nice body,” I concede, blushing, remembering.

“Bingo. Sounds like a keeper.”

“Yeah…”

“Oh no. I detect a ‘but’ somewhere.”

“Oh, yeah. Nice butt, too.”

Sara laughs.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” I say, readying myself for whatever comes. “He used to be on TV.”

“I thought you said he was a salesman from Scranton.”

“He is. He was on a documentary show. Like a serial documentary, like World’s Deadliest Catch…”

“Wait.” Sara’s voice is serious, quiet. “Don’t even tell me he was on The Office.”

I hold my breath and bite my lip, letting my silence be my answer.

My sister screams. “Oh my God! You are NOT dating Jim Halpert from The Office!”

I cringe a little. Even though my sister lives in Scranton, I didn’t expect her to watch The Office. She’s a kind of granola-y massage therapist who grew up in the same family I did, and I don’t even have cable. She had never even heard of The Apprentice when it was on, but she knows about a little documentary in Scranton? I guess I underestimated the local angle.

Her voice is slightly quieter but just as intense. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Just calm down…”

“I can’t calm down! You are dating JIM HALPERT! Everyone in this whole fucking city knows who that guy is. I just had a client of mine jabber on for her entire session about that show. I mean, have you even seen it?”

“Yeah. I mean, I hadn’t seen it before we met, but he loaned me the DVDs.”

“Wait, you started dating him and you DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHO HE WAS?!”

“Okay. THIS is why I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“You haven’t TOLD anyone yet?”

“Just you. Just now.”

My sister is quiet for a minute, but I can hear her breathing, trying to calm herself down. “Okay, so. Are we talking just, like, casual dating? Or is it serious?”

I take a deep breath. “It feels pretty serious to me.”

“Wait. Have you… SLEPT with him?”

I take another breath and nod. “Yep,” I say quietly.

My sister screams into the phone and I hold it away from my ear. “OH MY GOD! You HAD SEX with Jim Halpert!”

I hear Doug’s voice in the background. “What the hell are you yelling about?”

“Can I tell Doug? Please, please, PLEASE let me tell him,” she begs.

“Tell me what?” Doug asks.

“Can I? Emily? Don’t make me keep a secret from my husband.”

I laugh. “Oh, like that’s the only secret you keep from him. Tell him to look in your underwear drawer.”

“Shut it. Can I just tell him? Please?”

“Tell me WHAT?” Doug is getting impatient.

“Fine. Tell him. But then that’s it. NO one else.”

My sister lets out a yelp and then says, “Emily is totally fucking Jim Halpert!”

Doug must be right by the phone because I can hear him clear as day. “Jim who? Wait. That guy from The Office?”

He must take the phone away from Sara because his next question is directed at me. “You’re fucking the guy from The Office?”

“Hey, Doug. How’s that shirt working out for you?”

Doug ignores me and whistles quietly. “Man. What the hell happened with Pam? Did he tell you? Because that’s, like, the fucking ‘Who shot JR?’ question of the year around here.”

“Doug. Put Sara back on the phone. And I swear to god, you’d better not tell anyone.”

He hands the phone back to Sara, who has calmed down considerably.

“Okay. I’m sorry, Em. I’m fine. I just got a little excited. I mean, I would totally leave Doug for Jim Halpert.”

“I’m right HERE,” Doug’s voice bellows.

“He’s on my list, remember?” She’s clearly talking to him, not me.

“Wait. Jim is on your ‘list’?” I ask.

“Totally. Right between Nathan Fillion and Ryan Reynolds.”

“Okay… this is just … completely bizarre.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I mean, if you guys get married I can totally sleep with my brother-in-law and Doug can’t do a thing about it. The rules of the list are sacred.”

“First? No, you can’t. Second? We’re not getting married. Why did I call you, anyway? I should have called Rebecca. She wouldn’t have a clue who Jim is.”

“But you didn’t. You called me. So I’m going to try to be really mature and helpful. Let’s try this again.” She clears her throat. “So… is he good in bed? He totally looks like he’d be good in bed. I mean, gah, those hands!”

“That’s mature and helpful?”

“You’re not answering. Should I take that as a yes?”

I can’t help it and laugh a little.

“Oh, man. That’s totally a yes.”

“Sara,” I whine. “I’m serious. I need some rational sisterly advice. Can you just forget who he is for a minute and listen to me?”

Sara takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll try.”

So I tell her about how we met, about our first dates, about how he told me who he was. Then I tell her about how I feel when I’m around him, how I want to let myself love him but can’t get over the thought that he might still love Pam. Then I tell her about Sunday night and how he told me he wouldn’t change his mind and how I’m not sure I’ve ever had sex that good before. Ever.

I have to give my sister credit – her tongue is probably bloody from biting it to keep quiet, but she listens without interruption. Finally I ask her the million dollar question: “Do you think he’s over Pam? Do you think he can get over Pam?”

Sara takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Sweetie, if anyone can get him over her, you can.”

I laugh, finally. “Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Sara.”

“I’m not. I mean, you’ve seen that show. Pam had some issues.”

“We all have issues.”

“Sure. But just because he loved her before doesn’t mean he still loves her. Hell, you loved Peter for a long time but you don’t still love him, do you? Wait. Don’t answer that. Even if you do, I don’t want to hear it. Because that guy? Ick.”

I ignore her. She’s always looking for a way to slip in a dig against Peter. “But what about the whole celebrity thing? I mean, every time we’ve gone out in public he’s been recognized! And he looks a lot different than he did on the show. His hair is shorter, he dresses better. But every time, some girl gushes over him and gives me the stink eye.”

“Grow some thicker skin, then. I mean, that kind of thing will fade over time. Do you like him or not?”

I smile, and I’m sure she can hear it in my voice. “I like him a lot.”

“Then, there you go.”

I hang up with my sister feeling much better about everything. When Jim gets back from Chicago I’ll just be honest with him about how I’m feeling and we’ll work it out. We’ll just choose to do the thing that he and Pam could never seem to do. After all, it’s not rocket science. It’s a choice to be the kind of person you want to be, to have the kind of relationship you want to have. Right?

---

---

I think about Emily more often than I care to admit while I’m supposed to be focusing on work. Even when I’m talking with vendors or potential customers or other salesmen, she’s there in a corner of my mind. I can conjure up her summer-y smell if I try, and in my hotel room at night I find it far too easy to close my eyes and think about what her body felt like against mine and lose myself in the memory.

I call her on Tuesday night, but it’s late -- after a much-too-long dinner with a client who loved the sound of his own voice -- and it's even later in Philadelphia than in Chicago. I sigh when her voicemail picks up, wishing I had tried to call her earlier in the day. I leave a rambling message, trying to ignore the image of her in her bed, all slender arms and long legs and golden hair, tangled up in sheets that smell like her.

Wednesday night I attend a big industry party and I get back to the hotel even later, a little bit buzzed, and decide a drunken, horny, late-night phone call would not be the best idea this early in our relationship. I don’t want the first time I tell her I love her to be from almost 1,000 miles away, over the phone, after one too many gin and tonics.

The trade show goes until Friday, but I end up finishing up my to do list and meetings on Thursday and my boss tells me I can leave, urging me to go enjoy the city. I’m sure he means Chicago, but I’m thinking what I want to enjoy is back in Philadelphia. I head straight to O’Hare and fly standby, making it back to Philly by late afternoon. I hurry home to shower and change. I think about calling Emily but I decide to just go by her apartment, see if she’s home. Surprise her.

I feel nervous as I park on her street. I think I used to be better at these bold, spontaneous moves, but now I’m reluctant and unsure, always afraid I won’t get the response I’m hoping for or expecting. I ring her bell but she doesn’t answer. Shit. This is the problem with surprises: sometimes there's no one home to surprise.

I turn to head back to my car, figuring I’ll just give her a call later when I see her jogging towards me. She doesn’t notice me right away – she’s got her ipod going and her head down slightly. Her skin is slick with sweat in the afternoon heat, her hair back in a high pony tail swaying with her steps. God, she looks good.

I lean against the building, waiting for her to see me, but she’s focused on her run. Finally, when she’s just a few yards away, she slows and looks up. When she sees me she smiles, a big, radiant smile. Totally the response I was hoping for.

“Hey!” she says, a bit too loud. She pulls the ear buds out of her ears and her voice goes down a decibel. “What are you doing here?” Her chest rises and falls quickly, her breath coming fast. I almost have to shake my head to get the image of her, on top of me, breathing like that, out of my mind.

“I got back early.” I can’t stop smiling at her. I feel like I should kiss her or hug her, but we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk and she’s wiping the sweat from her face with the bottom of her tank top, giving me a quick glimpse of her amazing stomach. The moment passes, so I don’t kiss her yet. “I, um, wanted to see if we could bump our date up a night. You feel like sushi?”

She looks at her watch and I realize maybe she already has plans for the evening. Another problem with surprises…

“I mean, unless you’re busy or something.”

“Oh, no! Not for dinner. I’m totally free for dinner. I’m just supposed to meet a couple of friends for drinks later, at around 9:00.”

I nod, swallow my disappointment. “Well, should we just do it tomorrow? Stick with the original plan?”

She shakes her head. “No! I mean, we’ll totally be done with dinner by nine, right? And then maybe … you can join us for drinks. If you want?” She seems a little nervous about inviting me. Meeting her friends is kind of a big step.

“I don’t want to intrude on girls’ night out.”

“Oh, it’s not just girls. Just some friends from work. I mean, if you want to…”

I nod, even though I’ve kind of been dreading involving other people in our relationship. People who might know who I am, might know about my past. People who might encourage Emily to find a guy with less of a public history. “Sure. Okay. That sounds good.”

She looks down at her shorts and tank top. “Obviously I need to shower first, but…”

“Yeah, of course.” I point my thumb down the street. “I’ll just go grab a coffee or something…”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be a dork. You can come up. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

I love how quickly she can dilute my awkwardness, how she doesn’t overthink everything or get embarrassed easily. “Okay.”

I stand behind her while she unlocks her door and even though her skin is shiny with sweat, she still smells clean, just like I remember. God, I want to just grab her and kiss her senseless. Instead, I follow her upstairs to her apartment, hanging two steps behind her.

“How was Chicago?” she asks.

“Good! Or, you know, at least the Rosemont Convention Center was good. That’s about all I really saw.”

“You bring me shampoo and stuff?”

“Of course. And a shoe polishing cloth thingie.”

She turns and grins at me, nodding. “Nice.” She unlocks her apartment door. We go inside and she heads straight for the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “You want a beer?” she asks.

“Sure. Thanks.”

She takes out a bottle, opens it, and hands it to me. “Just make yourself at home. I swear, I’ll be really quick.”

“Take your time.”

“There are some menus in that drawer by the microwave? See which place sounds good to you.”

“Okay.”

She hustles down the hallway and in a moment I hear the water running. I open the drawer she mentioned and pull out a neat stack of restaurant take-out menus. Sure enough, there are a few for sushi places. I drink my beer while flipping through them. After a few minutes I hear the water turn off and I stand, listening, thinking about her getting out of the shower. I take a second beer from the fridge, open it and wait another minute before heading down the hallway toward her room. I hear music, now, coming from behind the almost closed door.

“Emily?” I call, “You want a beer?”

She doesn’t answer. I take a few more steps. “Emily?”

Her door is open a crack but I don’t feel comfortable just waltzing in. I knock on it lightly. “Hey Em?”

She opens the door suddenly and I jump a little.

“Sorry, did you say something?” She is wearing only a towel – a white, fluffy towel that highlights her golden skin and light gray eyes. “I had the music kind of loud so I could … hear it in the shower.” Her shoulders are still damp, a couple of drops of water beading on her smooth skin. She steps back into her room and turns down the music.

“Yeah, sorry … I just wanted to know if you … wanted a beer.” I hold out the bottle to her dumbly.

“Oh, yeah! Thanks.” She takes it from me and takes a small swig.

I should retreat now, head back to the kitchen so she can get dressed but my feet seem sort of stuck to the ground. I try to look away from her but find I can’t. “So, um, which place is better? Wasabi Bistro or Sushi Station?”

“Wasabi Bistro, definitely,” she answers and sets her beer on the dresser. I find it a little disconcerting that I know exactly which drawer her underwear is in. “Plus it’s closer.”

“Okay. Good.” I stand there awkwardly for a moment more while she just looks at me, smiling, maybe … waiting, and finally I can’t resist any longer. I set my beer next to hers on the dresser and take the two steps to close the distance between us. When I kiss her she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back, her mouth open and soft and delicious. Her body is firm and warm underneath the soft terry cloth and I have to talk myself out of immediately tugging the towel right off of her.

Her hands slide down my back and then up my shirt, all over my skin. She gasps softly when I kiss her ear.

“Now you’re the one smelling all good and being all naked,” I say.

She laughs. “That’s my expensive free lotion from the Ritz-Carlton in Sarasota.”

I laugh against her neck and walk her backwards to the bed. She sits and starts to scoot herself to the middle of it, but I stop her by grabbing her under her knees and tugging her gently back to the edge. She looks a little surprised. I kiss her mouth and then her damp shoulder, leaning her back on the bed as I untuck the ends of her towel and unwrap it from around her. I kiss her breasts and her smooth stomach. When I pause to look at her, she looks back, maybe a little nervous. Or anxious. Or just surprised at my boldness in the light of day, the afternoon sunshine blaring into her room. I’m a little surprised, myself, actually. Four days away from her has made me brave. I kneel down next to the bed and run my hand up the inside of her leg, just a few inches. Her breath catches.

“Is this okay?” I ask quietly, my voice cracking a little. “Can I…?”

She nods and blushes, her eyes sort of wide, and then drops her head back onto the bed.

At first she’s kind of still and quiet – nervous or uncomfortable or maybe I’m just not doing it well. But then I find something that she likes, my mouth and hands sort of exploring and searching for the places that make her breath catch, and she hums quietly. Soon she’s bending her legs and she’s pushing towards me and then her hands are in my hair. She’s saying my name, moaning it, and it doesn’t sound at all like a complaint. She tenses and tightens and lets out a long, soft noise that seems almost like a thank you.

She nudges me upwards with her leg and I kiss her stomach again, her breasts, her neck. We both shimmy our way to the middle of the bed and she tugs at my shirt and pulls it roughly over my head. I reach down to unbutton my pants and push them down. Emily is restless and eager, helping to yank them off and sliding off my boxers. We’re both frantic and hungry and I just need to get a…

“Shit,” I say quietly, and she freezes.

“What?” she asks, her breath ragged. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t… I mean, I didn’t bring anything…I wasn’t…”

She looks at me, confused. It's actually a little humiliating to realize that I couldn't even control myself until after dinner, that I wasn't even prepared for my own reaction to her.

“I mean, do you have…?”

Her eyes widen when she realizes what I’m asking. “Oh!” she says. “No, but … um … I’m actually … I’m on the pill.”

“You are?”

She nods, brushing her damp hair off her face with one hand. “I mean, I have been. For awhile. I just … was trying to be … you know … responsible and safe or whatever until we had a chance to talk about … that.”

“Yeah, no, sure,” I sputter. This conversation is always the worst. How do you talk to someone about their past? What do you consider a “safe” number of sexual partners? Do you require an AIDS test or proof of a clean bill of health?

“So. I guess this is us talking about it, huh?” she says.

I laugh a little. “I guess so.”

Our naked bodies are still pressed together and I can feel her heartbeat thumping against my chest. I drop my head and kiss her collarbone lightly. “This is probably why they tell teenagers to have a plan before they get into this … um … situation. Cuz it’s kind of hard to think straight right now.”

She nods, her hands tangled in my hair. “Mmm hmm.”

“So … do you want to wait? Or …?”

“Why, do you want to wait?”

I look into her eyes, trace my thumbs along her temples. “No.” I answer without hesitation. “But if you want to…”

She shakes her head a little bit. “I don’t want to wait, either.”

“I mean, neither of us has anything to worry about. Right?” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince; all I know is that the idea of making love to her, right now, without a condom? Yeah, I definitely don’t want to wait.

“Right. Although, after how well you just did that,” she pauses and kind of glances down for a second, “maybe I should be worried.”

I feel my face grow hot and roll my eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Are you blushing?” she asks, holding my jaw and forcing me to look at her again.

I can’t quite hold eye contact. “Maybe.”

She laughs. “I’m just saying, I don’t think you get to be that good at something without a lot of practice.”

“I’m a quick study,” I offer, wanting to change the subject.

“Yeah,” she says, teasing. “I’m sure that’s it.”

I lie on top of her for another moment. “So. This is okay? Without…anything?”

She nods. I kiss her, more slowly now that we’ve put the brakes on for a moment, but our mouths and our bodies quickly become restless again. Emily pulls at my lower back, urging me towards her and then I’m inside of her and oh, God, she is something else. She holds onto me, pressing me deeper and I don’t know how long I can last with nothing between us. The sensation of our bodies sliding against each other, the way she is warm and wet and just … eager. I look in her eyes for a moment and see something intense and smoldering and different than before. Looking at her actually makes me pause, forget what I’m doing for a moment. She presses on my back, reminding me.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers.

She gasps a little when I push deeper again. God, she feels so good and I tell her that and she kisses me in response. And then I’m swallowed up by pleasure, my fears and insecurities fading as I push deeper and hold on as she clings to me. God, I love her. There is no maybe anymore. I love her.

She grips my shoulders and lifts her hips up to meet me and just that slight change in pressure pushes me into another place altogether. I don’t know if I speak or moan or yell – I’m no longer in control of anything. I love her. I love this.

Her fingers trail down my back and sort of collapse against my waist. We are both panting and sweaty and completely spent. I press into her one more time and then just stay there, feeling our hearts pounding against each other. I kiss her again.

And it’s a compromise with what I want to say, but I breathe “I missed you” against her skin and she says “I can tell” and I laugh. But then she says, seriously, “I missed you, too.”

---

---

Oh. My. God. I wipe my sweaty forehead with the back of my sweaty hand. How does he keep doing this to me?

“I need another shower, I think.” I’m surprised I can keep my voice steady and light after what just happened between us.

Jim kisses my neck, nodding against it. “Me, too.”

He props himself up on his elbows, holding his weight off of me, letting some cooler air circulate over and between our hot bodies.

“Just so you know, this honestly wasn’t my intention when I came over here,” he says, his fingers combing through my damp hair. “I just wanted to see you. Maybe have some sushi.”

“Ah,” I nod, sort of happy that he doesn’t seem able to control himself around me anymore than I can control myself around him. “Sushi, huh? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

He laughs and slowly slides off of me. We lie next to each other for a few minutes and my mind races around, trying to focus. I promised myself I would talk to Jim about the ring, about how he feels about me, about how I feel about him. Of course, I had also promised myself I would do it before I slept with him again, and here I am, naked and sweaty and not only have I had sex with him, we’ve moved on to condomless sex now. We’ve upped the level of intimacy and I still don’t know why he still has his ex-girlfriend’s engagement ring in a drawer next to his bed. I still don’t know if I’m someone … important, someone who is going to matter in the long run.

I clear my throat. “Hey. Um … can I ask you something?” My stomach is clenched, fluttering with nerves.

He finds my hand and holds it, his thumb stroking mine. “Yep,” he says

I decide to do it quickly, like pulling off a band-aid. “Why do you still have the ring?”

His thumb pauses mid-stroke.

“I mean, I felt the box when I was looking for the … condom. You know, the other morning? That was the ring, right?”

He nods and tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling for a second before turning back to me. “Is that what was wrong? Before you left?”

I sigh. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bring it up then but … I want to be honest. I know that’s … important to you. And to me.”

He rolls onto his side to face me and places his other hand on my hip but still doesn’t say anything.

“It’s just … it’s been, like, what? Six months since you broke up?”

He nods.

“And you’ve had it for … two years?”

“Longer, actually,” he says, looking a little embarrassed.

I keep quiet for a minute, resisting the urge to keep talking for him, putting words into his mouth. This is a question he needs to answer for himself.

He finally sighs. “I don’t know why I still have it. I mean, that ring isn’t about Pam as much as it is about … what I wanted or … thought I wanted or … didn’t want for so long.”

I nod, not really wanting to hear about his yearning for a life spent with Pam, giving her babies, growing old with her…

“One of the hardest things about our break up was just letting go of that … I don’t know … dream, or whatever. I’d spent six years sort of focusing on getting Pam to love me, and when it didn’t work out, I was kind of … lost, you know?”

I nod again, not sure I like where his answer is heading. Poor, heartbroken Jim, holding onto the dream of Pam, lost without her. I want to hold up my hand and say, you know what? Just forget I asked and let’s just have sex again. But stupid me, I asked for honesty, so he keeps talking.

“I guess the ring reminds me that I need to have some goals that don’t revolve around another person.” He clears his throat and looks down at the hand that is resting on my hip. “And that the next time I … you know … fall in love, it needs to be with someone who … who just …”

He trails off and I can’t seem to do anything but nod again, knowing exactly what he means. The next woman has to love him enough. She has to take risks for him, to be honest with him, to want the same things that he wants. I smile to myself, realizing I can probably do all those things.

“It’s just kind of an … expensive reminder,” I say.

He shrugs in a way that says he doesn’t care about that part.

“So. It’s not because you hope to still give it to Pam someday? Like, so you can tell your grandkids that you held onto the ring for years while you waited for destiny to bring you together again?”

Jim laughs a little, pulling me closer to him. Then he looks at me more seriously. “I told you. I’m not going to change my mind.”

We stare at each other for a minute and I think about telling him how I feel, telling him that I’ve fallen in love with him and if he’s not sure about us, he should tell me now. But I’ve already taken my turn with honesty. I need a break. Honesty is exhausting. So instead of baring my soul, I look at the clock on my nightstand.

“Well, if we want some actual sushi, we should probably get a move on.”

“Em,” he says. I turn back to face him. “I’m glad you talked to me about that. I’m really sorry if it … upset you.”

I wave away his apology. “I wasn’t upset so much as just … reminded, I guess.”

“Reminded?”

“Of how much you loved her. How long. How … close you were to marrying her.”

“Yeah…” he says, “but that’s all … past tense.”

I nod and he kisses me.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Okay.”

He smiles at me and then sits up, running a hand through his hair. I sit up, too, and try to cover myself up a little with the damp towel that is still crumbled half beneath me.

“Do you want to …” I pause, trying to figure out how to deal with the whole shower issues. “Um, take a shower?”

He nods, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Sure.”

“Um… like, together?” I ask. “Save our valuable water resources?”

He nods again, with mock seriousness. “Well, we all have to do our share to help the environment, right?”

So he follows me to the bathroom and we stand there a little awkwardly while I turn on the water and adjust the temperature. “Hot? Or cold?”

“Definitely NOT hot.”

“Oh, good.”

I step under the tepid water first and he follows. We seem to be trying to avoid looking at each other, although in a shower there isn’t really much else to look at. He manages to find something and smiles, pointing to the collection of small bottles in one corner of the shower. “Look at you,” he says. “You actually use them.”

“Of course I actually use them. I’m a teacher, Jim.”

“Teachers … like miniature bottles of shampoo?” he asks, confused.

I laugh. “Teachers are notoriously cheap.”

“You’re not cheap. You spent $30 just to prank me with that Chinese food dinner.”

“I did, didn’t I? Cool. Maybe I’m cured.”

He reaches for the small bar of hotel soap. It looks so tiny in his large hands as he works up a lather.

“You want me to wash your back?” he asks.

“My back?” I ask, skeptically.

“Or, you know. Whatever.” His eyes kind of wander down my body for a second and I blush.

“We can’t get distracted again, though. I’m starving.”

“Me? Distracted? Please.” He slips his arms around me, his hands sliding over my skin. I have to give him credit – he does stay on task. He washes me thoroughly and gently but he doesn’t kiss me or touch too long in places that would cause me to forget about the actual purpose of the shower. Although, just his hands sliding over my skin is enough to make my breath come a little faster.

I hold out my hand for the soap and he gives it to me so I can take my turn. His body is slick and firm and by the time I get to his lower half, I see that he’s starting to get a little, um … distracted, despite the fact that we just finished being distracted 20 minutes ago.

I raise my eyebrows at him and slide my soapy hand over his distracted parts. He groans a little.

“I thought you said you were hungry?” he asks.

I shrug, and he pulls me against him and kisses me.

I’ve never been able to figure out the appeal or the logistics of shower sex, but I have to admit that Jim makes it an entirely tantalizing prospect. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re both tall and our bodies align in all the right places, maybe it’s the slickness of our skin, maybe it’s just the fact that it’s Jim and I would probably have sex with him upside down in a pig pen if he wanted to. Whatever it is, by the time he kind of hoists me up against the shower wall, I’ve become a big fan of this new venue.

“Oh my God, be careful” I gasp, imagining him slipping and both of us ending up in a bloody heap on the tile floor. Try explaining that one to my landlord.

He stops immediately and looks at me, concerned. “Sorry… am I hurting you?”

I almost laugh. “No! God, no. It’s just … slippery.”

“Mmm hmm,” he hums and moves again and soon I’m not thinking at all about falling.

By the time we actually get out of the shower the water is cold and we are most definitely clean. Again.

“So much for saving our valuable water resources,” he says.

“Totally worth it.”

“Totally,” he agrees.

Jim slips on his jeans and glances at his watch. “Okay, so … we’re definitely not going to make sushi before 9:00.”

“We can have something quick here and then get something at the bar. We’ll do sushi tomorrow night.”

We head to the kitchen and I cringe when I look at the contents of my refrigerator. “I hope you like cereal.”

I pour us two matching bowls of Raisin Bran and top them off with milk. He thanks me.

“So. Who are we meeting tonight? Friends from work?”

“Yep. Mostly third and fourth grade teachers.”

“Do they … know we’re dating?”

I shake my head, wondering if he’ll feel bad that I haven’t told my friends about him yet.

He doesn’t seem to. “Do you think they’ll … know who I am?”

“I have no idea, really. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Oh, this is gonna’ be interesting.”

“Yep.” I take a bit of cereal. Chew. Swallow. “What about you? Have you told anyone we’re dating?”

He looks down at his bowl and fishes up another spoonful of bran flakes. “Um. Just my mom.”

I smile. “Your mom?”

He nods. “Why? Have you told anyone?”

“I told my sister just the other day. And her husband.”

“Sara?” I nod, pleased he remembered her name. “And clown-shirt guy?”

“Doug. Yep.”

“What did she say?”

“Well. She screamed in my ear ‘you’re totally fucking Jim Halpert!’”

“No she didn’t.”

“Yes. She absolutely did.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “So obviously she watched the show.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hmmm. Anything else?”

I pretend to think about it for a minute. “Oh, yeah. She asked if you were good in bed.”

“Oh my God.”

“You want honesty, I’ll give you honesty, Halpert.”

“Well. That’s not that strange. That’s exactly what my mom asked about you.”

I laugh and put my empty bowl in the sink

“So,” he starts, “what did you say?”

I grin at him over my shoulder. “Are you fishing for compliments, Jim?”

“I just want to know what kind of look to expect from your sister and clown-shirt guy, if I ever meet them.”

I shrug. “I said you were competent. Just need to work on your dismount.”

He shakes his head at me. I lean against the counter and level a look at him. “We’ve had sex twice in the last hour, Jim. What do you think my answer was?”

Oh, look. Now I’ve made him blush again. I love doing that.

He gets up and puts his empty bowl in the sink and then leans against the counter next to me.

“What did you tell your mom about me? Did you tell her I can do the splits?”

He looks at me for a minute. I expect him to make a joke but instead he says, “I told her you were amazing.”

My comeback dies on my tongue. “Really?”

He nods, and I find I can’t look away from him. He reaches out one hand and pulls me around towards him, facing him. His hands find my face the way I like best, with his thumbs stroking my jaw, his long fingers gripping the back of my neck.

“I told her…” he hesitates, licks his lips. I can feel my heart thumping everywhere. “That I’m falling in love with you.”

At first I’m not sure I heard him correctly over the pounding in my chest.

“I have already, actually.” His voice is low, honest. “Fallen in love with you, I mean.”

All I can do is stare at him, grip the front of his shirt, let my heart thump away.

“I love you, Emily.”

When I don’t answer right away, something in him starts to deflate and I realize I still haven’t spoken yet.

“I love you, too,” I blurt out and then take a breath. “I …” I lean my forehead lightly against his, “I’m a little freaked out by how much, actually.”

He smiles and kisses me, lingering. “Me, too,” he whispers.

We kiss again, and again, until the clock says 8:52 and I force myself to pull away from him. “I’m going to call my friends and cancel.”

He shakes his head. “No, you’re not. We’re going.” He kisses me one more time, quickly, and pushes away from the counter. “Come on.”

“I’d rather stay here. See if we could go for a hat trick.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

I laugh and open the fridge to put the milk away.

“Nice sports metaphor, though."

“Thanks.”

“Man, I’m still hungry,” he says.

“Then you shouldn’t have distracted me in the shower.”

“I distracted you?”

I ignore him and open a drawer in the fridge. “Here, have a cheese stick.”

“What am I, five?”

“What? It’s a cheese stick. Grown ups can't eat cheese sticks?”

“Oh, I’ll give you a cheese stick.”

“Later,” I laugh, loving this new sexual banter we’ve got going on now. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

---

---

Since we’re running late and neither of us feels like driving, we decide to grab a cab to the bar where we’re meeting Emily’s friends. When we slide into the back seat, I find Emily’s hand and hold it. She smiles at me and I feel almost giddy. She loves me. When I told her how I felt there was that awful moment of silence before she answered, that moment that gave me flashbacks of that night with Pam, but then she said it back. And not only did she say it back, but she offered me even more, as she often does. She always seems to go one step further instead of stopping short, and that goes a long way towards healing the scars on my heart.

The cab drops us off and we stand out on the sidewalk for a moment before going into the bar.

“You’re gonna have to tell me how you want to handle this,” she says. “I mean, should I acknowledge who you are or just introduce you as Jim?”

“You mean, should you tell them I’m your boyfriend?”

She smiles, surprised. “Well, actually I meant do I tell them that you’re Jim Halpert, sexy cable TV star, or just let it lie. But…” she hooks her finger through my belt loop, “I like the whole boyfriend thing.”

“Well, I just figured that … you know … we pretty much solidified the boyfriend/girlfriend thing earlier.”

Finally I think I manage to make her blush.

“Yeah. I don’t usually shower with just regular friends.”

“I wasn’t talking about the shower.”

She tilts her head and bites her lip. “I know.”

We look at each other for a minute and the way her eyes are heavy and lusty makes me want to turn around and go home and try for that hat trick. I finally look away and shake my head, smiling. “You decide. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Okay.” She reaches down for my hand and leads me into the bar. Once inside she looks around to locate her friends.

“There they are.” She nods towards the back of the room and we weave through the tables to get to them. When her friends see her they all smile and yell, “Miss Miller! Miss Miller,” some kind of inside teacher joke, I assume.

She smiles and waves with her free hand, and gives my hand a squeeze with the other. “Here we go,” she says quietly.

“Hey guys!” She says brightly as we get to the table. Her friends all look at me curiously, briefly, and then look back at Emily. “Everyone, this is Jim. Jim, this is Beth, Reese, Bridgette, Gina and Brady.”

I nod and smile at each of them as Emily ticks off their names and I can tell by how they look back at me whether they recognize me or not. It’s a hard thing to hide, I’ve discovered – that instant celebrity recognition. It shows in their eyes almost immediately, and then there’s a sort of tangible excitement right beneath the surface, like a twitch. Very rarely has someone recognized me without giving it away in the first few seconds. Once in awhile someone will have a delayed reaction but when they do finally make the connection, it's obvious.

Beth and Brady don’t seem to know who I am, smiling friendly but neutral smiles. But Reese’s and Bridgette’s eyebrows both go up slightly and they glance quickly at Emily who somehow manages to maintain a neutral expression. Gina squints at me like she thinks she might recognize me from somewhere but can’t quite place where.

“Hey,” I say as Emily pulls up two stools for us to sit on. “Nice to meet you.”

Bingo. Gina hears my voice and she makes the connection. Her eyes grow wide and she glances at Reese and Bridgette and they all exchange a knowing look. So I’m at sixty percent. Still better than Scranton where it would be 100% recognition, but pretty high nonetheless. But I guess this is the target Office demographic: 18 to 35, educated, urban.

Her friends are too polite to acknowledge that they know who I am, but I can tell they’re searching their arsenal of people-reading skills to figure out my relationship with Emily. Bridgette stares meaningfully at Emily who ignores her and waves down a waitress. “Beer?” she asks me and I nod.

Beth is wonderfully clueless, and she’s the one I happen to sit next to. “So, Jim,” she says. “You and Emily? Dating, huh?”

I smile and nod, liking her directness.

“Cool. She’s had a good summer, then.”

“Yeah. We both have.” The waitress sets our beers down in front of us.

“How’d you guys meet?”

“Um, at the mall, actually.”

I watch Emily out of the corner of my eye as she chats with Brady, who is the other clueless person at the table. The three in the middle alternate their attention between the two conversations, toggling back and forth like they’re watching a tennis match.

“Really? That’s so fun. I haven’t met a guy at the mall since eighth grade.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I guess it is kind of a middle school medium.”

“Hey. Whatever works, huh?”

“So … do you teach third grade? Or fourth?” I ask.

“Third, like Emily. What do you do?”

“Oh. I’m in sales.”

Bridgette jumps in, her attention momentarily on our conversation. “Do you sell … paper, by any chance?” I think she’s trying to bait me, trying to get me to admit who I am.

I act confused and glance at Emily, who is smiling slightly.

“Um, nope.” It’s not exactly a lie.

Beth looks strangely at Bridgette. “Why would you think he sells paper? That’s just … weird.”

Emily interrupts. “So. You guys. Tell Jim what happened at school yesterday.”

“You haven’t told him yet?” Beth asks, incredulously.

“Well, he’s been out of town. He just got back this afternoon.”

“Still. That’s, like, newsworthy.”

Emily looks at me and grins. “I guess we had other things to discuss first.” She hesitates just a tiny bit before the word ‘discuss,' and I smile at her before turning to Beth.

“What happened?” I ask, curious.

So they tell me a story of how a squirrel got in through an open window at the school during a faculty meeting and all the female teachers and most of the men freaked out, standing on desks and squealing like little girls until the custodian came and managed to scare it back out the window.

“Why is it that a squirrel is so harmless outside, but you get one indoors and everyone panics?” Reese asks.

“Rabies,” Gina answers.

“You think we were all on our desks because of rabies?” Beth asks. “I just didn’t want him crawling on me.”

“I’m sure he was more scared of you than you were of him,” Brady says.

“That’s what people always say, but he didn’t seem scared, did he? He seemed like a terrorist. Like one of those suicide bombers who just waltzes in like he belongs.”

“A squirrel terrorist?” Emily laughs.

“He looked all crazy in the eyes.” Beth insists and I realize that there is something about her that reminds me of Kelly Kapoor.

“Rabies,” Gina says again.

The conversation continues and I find myself relaxing, realizing that even if they do recognize me they’re not going to say anything to make me feel uncomfortable. They’ll probably just ask Emily about a thousand questions during lunch on Monday and Beth will feel embarrassed that she didn’t realize that I was someone vaguely noteworthy.

We have a nice time, laughing and sharing stories, although I purposefully keep the conversation away from me as much as possible. I have to give her friends credit – they don’t monopolize the conversation with talk of work and people I don’t know. They are considerate and funny and I like them all a lot. But after a couple of hours Emily yawns and I lean close to her. “Tired?”

She nods. “Too much exercise today.” She gives me a look that implies she’s not talking about her run. “You ready to go?”

I nod and she stands up. “Hey guys. We’re gonna’ get going…”

“What? It’s only 11:00!” Beth argues.

Bridgette nudges her and gives Emily a knowing look. “Oh, let them go.”

We stand up and say goodnight. I overhear Bridgette whisper to Emily as they hug goodbye, “You’ve got some ‘splaining to do, Lucy.”

I guide Emily towards the door, my hand resting lightly on the back of her neck.

“You’ve got quite the poker face, Miss Miller.”

She laughs. “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Did you see Bridgette? She was freaking out.”

“They were really well behaved, though. I mean, they just resisted the urge.”

“Except Beth. She was just clueless.”

“And Brady.”

“You don’t think he knew?”

I shake my head. “He didn’t send off the telltale signals.”

“Maybe he’s just got a great poker face, too.”

When we’re almost to the door a guy who has just entered the bar looks at us and his eyes grow wide. Crap. Here we go.

But instead of coming towards me he stumbles towards Emily. He’s clearly a little drunk.

“Emily!” he yells and pulls her into a too-friendly-for-my-taste hug.

“Hey, Peter,” Emily says, her hands stiffly patting him on the back.

Peter. Peter? Ex-boyfriend Peter? Four-year-relationship Peter? He pulls away from Emily and I take a look at him. He’s a good looking guy. Tall, but still a little shorter than me, with blondish hair and blue eyes and dimples and a preppy sort of look about him that reminds me vaguely of Andy. Peter stares at Emily for a minute.

“Damn, Emily. You look fine. Why did we break up again?” I think he says this for my benefit, to make me aware of who he is. He rubs his hands down her bare arms in a familiar sort of way, again, I think mostly for my benefit and it makes me want to throw up a little.

“Oh, I can give you a whole list of reasons, Peter.” She smiles a stiff smile and kind of shrugs his hands off her arms.

“I’ll bet you could, Em. You were always good at keeping score.”

Emily ignores his subtle insult and says, quietly but matter of factly, “Also, you’re kind of an ass.”

I suppress a smile and Peter laughs as if he’s sort of proud of the fact. “That doesn’t seem like a good enough reason since you can be kind of a bitch.”

I feel myself tense, my hands ball into fists at my sides the way they often had when Roy played the asshole boyfriend card with Pam. But instead of doing anything rash, I flex one hand and slide it back up to Emily’s neck, where it had been before Peter showed up.

Apparently that is enough to put me officially on Peter’s radar because he finally turns towards me and looks me over. He reminds me a little of a much better looking Todd Packer, with the cocky swagger. “Hey,” he nods.

I nod back.

He holds out his hand to me. “Peter Reddington.”

He says his last name like I should know who he is. Like ‘Peter Reddington of the Boston Reddingtons.’ I drop my hand from Emily’s neck again to shake his. “Jim.”

His handshake is almost too firm, like he’s trying to prove something to me. I let go first and as soon as my arm falls back at my side, Emily slides her hand into mine.

The three of us stand there awkwardly for a moment until I turn to Emily. “You ready?”

She lets out her breath. “God yes.”

“Great to meet you, Peter.” I clap him lightly on the shoulder as we pass him and head for the door.

“Good luck,” Peter says. “Nice seeing you, Emily,” he calls after her in a sugary sweet, sarcastic voice.

She doesn’t respond and once we get outside she shudders and rolls her head on her neck.

“That was THE Peter, right?” I ask and she nods. She looks a little pale. “Something tells me I don’t know the whole story there.”

She looks at me for a second and sighs. “Yeah... we haven't gotten into all the details yet.”

I nod and squeeze her hand while I hail a cab with the other. “Well. We’ve got time.”

I open the door for her and she climbs in and I slide in next to her.

---

---

“One stop or two?” the cab driver asks.

Jim and I look at each other for a second and both answer at the same time: “One.”

Jim gives the cabbie my address. We’re quiet during the ride, almost sleepy. Jim holds my hand, his fingers occasionally slipping out from between mine to stroke my palm. I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation.

It would have been a great night – Jim was charming and sweet, no one overtly recognized him, my friends were funny, the conversation was easy. Everything went really well, except for that thing with Peter. I think back to Sara’s comment the other day on the phone: That guy? Ick. Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe that I spent four years with him without seeing his wealth of flaws. Or maybe I saw them but just made excuses for them. Peter is good looking and smart and charming enough to make you forget the fact that he sometimes drinks way too much and turns into a raging asshole. He has a sneaky way of complimenting you that somehow feels vaguely like an insult, and a gift for deflecting his own weaknesses on you, making them feel like your fault. So maybe I did see his flaws but just mistook them for my own. Just another way he probably damaged me.

But Jim doesn’t push, wanting to know the whole story immediately, doesn’t ask me a million questions. He just strokes my hand in a way that soothes my nerves.

“Hey,” Jim says quietly.

I look over at him, my head resting against the seat.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I try to smile brightly. “I’m fine.”

He looks a little worried about me, which I find adorable. He leans towards me and kisses me lightly, but I slide my hand to his neck and make it heavier and it isn’t until the cab driver clears his throat that I realize the car has stopped moving in front of my building.

Jim pays the driver and we climb out and head upstairs. Once inside, though, things feel a little awkward again with the weight of MY past hanging between us for a change.

“Hey, we never ordered food at the bar,” I realize. “Are you hungry?”

He nods, looking relieved. “Oh, man. Yes.”

“Cheese stick didn’t do it for you?”

He laughs. “Not quite.”

“I think I have frozen pizza?”

“That works.”

So I turn on the oven and slide in the pizza. Jim grabs two Diet Cokes from the fridge and we sit down at my tiny dining table to wait.

“Tomorrow’s Friday, right?” I ask.

Jim nods, smiling. “You only had two beers?”

I laugh. “It’s summertime. I lose track of days. Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

He shakes his head. “Day off. Because of the trade show. Do you have to work?”

“Nope.”

“Any plans?”

“Well, I was just going to sit around all day, waiting for you to get home. Now my schedule’s wide open.”

“So we can sleep in?”

I nod, thinking about waking up with him in a more leisurely fashion than we did on Monday. And I smile, realizing both of us just assume that he’ll be spending the night.

“So…” Jim plays with the pop top on his can of soda. His voice trails off and I can tell he wants to ask something but doesn’t know where to start. I’ve been there, and it’s a familiar sort of pause.

I help him out. “You want to know about Peter, don’t you?”

He smiles a little. “Seeing him just seemed to shake you a bit.”

I shrug. “Yeah … things didn’t end particularly well for us. I’ve run into him a few times since we broke up and he always pulls that passive-aggressive-smiling-through-his-gritted-teeth crap. My hostility is just more obvious, I guess.”

“Can I ask… what happened?”

I shrug again, hating to admit what happened for some reason. Somehow, whenever I admit it, it feels like my fault. I take a deep breath. “He cheated on me.”

“Oh.”

“Multiple times, actually.”

Jim’s voice is quieter. “Oh.”

“I actually caught him the last time. Not … in the act, but I found a condom … a used condom … in our garbage can and … well … I was on the pill. So I knew it wasn’t from me.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

There is a moment of silence while I let that information sink in – the humiliation of it, the utter balls it would take for someone to be so thoughtless, so careless, so awful. Makes he and Pam look like the poster children for healthy relationships.

I clear my throat, take a sip of my soda. “I mean, it’s not like things were always great between us. But the cheating kind of turned the tide for good.”

He studies me for a moment before asking, “So, I guess I don’t really need to worry about you still having feelings for him?”

“Only if by feelings you mean complete loathing and disgust.”

He laughs a little. They say the opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference. But I beg to differ. I’d say it’s hate. The buzzer rings and I take the pizza out of the oven. I set it on the table to cool for a minute.

“So when I told you before that we both have baggage? I wasn’t just trying to make you feel better. I have some pretty serious trust issues and I think that’s maybe why, you know, I worry about you changing your mind with … Pam.”

I start to cut the pizza, but he places his hand on mine, stilling it. I look up at him.

“I won’t,” he says.

I nod, biting my lip, keeping the how do you know? How can you promise that? inside. I have to trust him. I have to learn to trust someone, sometime.

We eat the pizza and our conversation turns more casual, more about his business trip and about me getting my classroom ready for school to start next week. When we finish we clean up the kitchen and walk to my bedroom together.

He uses the bathroom first and then I take a turn, and when I come out in my normal pajamas – a tank top and boxer shorts – he’s already in bed. I climb in next to him and we curl up on our sides, facing each other.

“I liked your friends,” he says, and I smile.

“They liked you.”

“I’m sorry in advance about Monday,” he says and I look at him, confused. “They’re not going to leave you alone.”

I laugh. “You underestimate my friends. They won’t wait until Monday. My cell phone is going to be ringing off the hook tomorrow.”

He smiles and after a moment of silence he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry about Peter.”

I wave away his apology. “Not your fault. I run into him occasionally – hazard of still living in the same city, I guess.”

“No, I mean,” he swallows, clears his throat. “I’m sorry that he cheated on you.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say to that. Something about him is so sincere that I feel my throat tighten. Peter never even apologized for cheating on me; I certainly didn’t expect Jim to.

Jim shakes his head. “I can’t imagine ever cheating on you.”

I shrug because I’m not sure I can speak. God, I thought I had already dealt with this issue and let it go, and it’s frustrating to find it’s still there. The rejection, the lies and mistrust, the feeling of complete inadequacy, hovering beneath the surface of my easy smile and fa�ade of confidence. I guess it never really goes away. Jim must see something in my eyes – the tears that are hanging there, kept from falling by sheer willpower. He reaches out and pulls me closer to him, his long arms wrapping around me. And something about his warmth and his sympathy and his love just makes me lose it. I don’t sob and wail; I just let the tears fall and I grab onto his t-shirt with both hands. I don’t think I’m sad so much as I’m just grateful and overwhelmed that after someone like Peter I could find someone like Jim.

After a few minutes I pull away to wipe my eyes. “Sorry about that,” I mumble, feeling silly. I’m not a crier by nature. Sure, a sad movie or a touching moment with one of my students can choke me up, but I’m not overly emotional. Something about crying against Jim’s shoulder this early in our relationship makes me feel vulnerable and weak. I look at him for a moment and his face is serious. He shakes his head, just a tiny bit, dismissing my apology. His eyes are so earnest and intense that I feel them sort of crack open something inside of me.

I take his face in my hands and run my thumbs over his eyebrows, let my fingers trail down his cheeks. I kiss him softly and then not so softly and then everything is moving in slow motion. We’re taking off each other’s clothes and then he’s inside of me without preamble, without discussion and it feels so completely right, so much like I always thought making love should feel: intimate and tender and amazing. He is gentle with me but also so passionate, reverent. He touches my skin like it’s breakable, like he’s trying to memorize me. And then the gentle pace is no longer enough for either of us and it becomes faster and deeper and just … more. I gasp his name and his mouth answers on mine: “I love you.”

I breathe “I love you” back.

He seems to hold his breath as he pushes into me and he lets it out as a quiet moan against my shoulder. He lies on top of me, our breath rasping against each other’s skin. We don’t look at each other right away. I’m overwhelmed, teary again, and I don’t want to freak him out by crying twice in one night. But God, this is all new to me. All of this.

Our breathing gradually slows, the moisture on our skin evaporates but we still we don’t talk. Eventually he rolls off of me and gathers me up in his arms again so that my back presses against his front. When he finally starts talking it catches me by surprise because I had thought maybe he had fallen asleep. His voice is quiet and intimate, and when he speaks, I get the feeling that he’s telling me a story that no one else knows, one that he’s never told before.

~*~

After Pam found the ring and I admitted I had doubts about our relationship, things fell apart quickly. Our relationship felt like a sweater with a loose string that if you just tugged hard enough, the whole thing would unravel into a pile of yarn in seconds. I think the ring was the loose string.

Our last real conversation – probably the most honest one we’ve ever had – was on a Sunday morning. I woke up early, feeling lonely even though Pam was right there next to me. I wondered if she felt the same way.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes, wishing we could go back in time and start over again. Wishing I would have told her right when I met her that I liked her – not as a friend, but as something more. Wishing I would have made it clear that honesty was not negotiable and that my feelings were nothing that I could just get over because she was engaged. I wished that Pam could have been brave and honest, with herself and with me, from the very beginning. But instead here we were, six years later and still playing the same games with each other.

I opened my nightstand and pulled out the ring box that Pam had placed back in the drawer. After finding the ring she had been hurt and probably angry with me and I realized I deserved it. I think I often needed and expected more from her than she could give, and maybe that wasn’t fair, either. Maybe she was just as frustrated with me as I often was with her.

I opened the box and looked at the ring. I remembered picking it out for her just a week after finding that simple little note among my sales reports in David Wallace’s office. That was so typical of me – taking a small, timid gesture from Pam and responding in a completely disproportionate way. I guess I had just been overwhelmed by the potential of us, by the possibilities of what we could be. But what I failed to realize was that neither of us had ever really lived up to our potential before. She was a creative, talented artist who settled for being a receptionist and for a fianc� who didn’t see her for what she was worth. I was a smart and clever guy to whom everything came easily and I settled for a mediocre, unchallenging job and for being in love with someone I couldn’t have. So it’s no wonder that our relationship was sort of the same thing: a compromise.

She woke up and I felt her shift behind me. I sat, not moving, until she sat up and looked over my shoulder at the ring. I don’t think she’d seen it before – even the day she had found it, she never opened the box. So she looked at it and I think she was holding her breath, maybe thinking I was going to ask her to marry me and maybe finally realizing that she didn’t want me to.

“What do you want, Pam?” I asked, gently, quietly. Not an accusation, just a simple question. It was probably the bravest question I’d ever asked her and I sat like a statue waiting for an answer.

I expected her to ask, “what do you mean?”, faking confusion to buy her some time. But she didn’t. I guess we were finally beyond that. But she still didn’t answer.

“I’m not talking long-term, down the road. I mean, what do you want now. Marriage? Kids? House in the suburbs? Or something else?”

She still didn’t answer, so I turned and looked at her and tears were rolling down her cheeks. I wanted to gather her up in my arms, kiss the tears off her face, assure her that everything was going to be okay between us, that we’d figure it all out. But I knew that was a lie. She wanted our relationship on her terms – I think she always had. And I wanted it on mine. I had never thought of either of us as particularly stubborn people but I realized how much we were.

The final confrontation had been building for a couple of weeks, I think. There was her finding the ring, and then there was me, putting together a puzzle with clips from the show, looking to the past for evidence to explain what had happened between us. Just like I thought I had fooled the camera so many times, so had Pam, and I could watch her talking heads and see how she was lying to herself just like I had been. Just the week before, I had pulled out my DVDs of the show and found two specific episodes that had sort of haunted me. I remember two of Pam’s interviews, specifically, that had sort of triggered something in me at the time, but I had ignored it, seeing instead what I wanted to see. But as I watched them again I realized what it was.

In one, back when she was with Roy she had been talking about how she wasn’t very good with kids but wanted to get better because she was “getting married,” as if one thing automatically had to do with the other. Maybe she wanted a kid to like her to prove to herself that she liked kids. Maybe she was looking for confirmation, reassurance that she wanted kids, not just with Roy but with anyone. It was like that had been drilled into her head from an early age: get married, have kids.

Then, when we were together, she had been talking about how solid our relationship was – which stung to watch because what had seemed solid at the time was really just a temporary state, like a calm between aftershocks – and how the timing was perfect for her to go to Pratt because “if” we had kids, she “couldn’t” go then. The language was so subtle that I’m sure most people who watched it were encouraged by her happy tone, by her smile and her use of the word “perfect,” by the idea of us having a family some day. Plus, everyone thought we were about to get engaged and that colored everything. But I watched it and what stuck with me was the hesitancy, the slight negativity. So extremely subtle, but it was there. The use of the word “if” instead of “when,” the idea that kids would put a damper on her dreams. Even the idea that she wouldn’t have gone to Pratt if things had been shakier between us. As usual, she was always willing to sacrifice what she wanted for what she thought she should care about. The selling out of her own priorities for those of everyone else.

After watching those episodes, I realized I didn’t want to be a compromise that she’d end up regretting someday. I didn’t want our life, our kids, to be a second choice to other things she wanted. And I realized that I needed to go after what I wanted, whether it was a more fulfilling job or someone who could love me the way I needed to be loved.

So I sat on the bed and still Pam didn’t answer. I could almost see the regret and fear in her eyes, the way she was afraid give up what we had to go after what she wanted. I knew then that we’d probably both regret this decision on some level some day, but I also knew that I couldn’t hold on to something just in case I might someday change my mind.

“What do you … want?” I asked again, trying to emphasize both the ‘you’ and the ‘want.’

Finally she took a deep breath and answered. “I don’t know.”

I knew that was the answer all along – probably from the time I first met her. She was still trying to figure out who she was. Even while I was at Stamford and afterward, when she had started to try to figure it out, I had come back and distracted her and she had confused wanting me with wanting something for herself.

I turned to face her and held her.

“I’m just not ready,” she cried against my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

I nodded against the top of her head, feeling tears sting my eyes. “I know. It’s okay.”

“Can’t we just …” she trailed off, but I knew she was going to ask to wait, ask for more time. But I also knew – maybe we both knew – that time was not going to solve our problems. I’d spent six years waiting for things to come together and instead of being ready to settle down, she was just getting ready to take off, to start being the person she had never gotten to be before. Maybe I was just starting to be the person I’d never been, too. It seemed like we were sometimes a damper on each other, keeping each other sort of stuck. Maybe to each other, we’d always be the person we had been because that was comfortable and safe and familiar.

A week later she moved out. One of her friends from work had an extra bedroom and needed a roommate. The honest moments we had shared that Sunday morning sort of faded and we were back to being stiff and careful with each other. I don’t know how she felt during that time, but I missed her a lot. I took two weeks off of work and went to visit my brother who told me again and again that I had to follow my instincts, that it was possible for me to find someone with whom things weren’t quite so hard. I think my family – my parents and my brother and sister-in-law – all liked Pam a lot, but it was hard for them to forget that she had hurt me. They had witnessed firsthand the sadness that had engulfed me that whole year after I told Pam how I felt and she turned me down. I think maybe they held it against her, like I did, that it took her so long to acknowledge her feelings for me. They liked Pam, sure, but I was their son, their brother, and their loyalty was with me. I realized maybe they wanted a fresh start with someone else, too.

When I came back to work, I decided that I would be happy, that I wouldn’t wallow or mope around in regret, wouldn’t do a repeat of my months in Stamford. And, really, I think I felt a little relieved that six years of off-and-on heartache were over. I loved Pam, I missed Pam, but our break up had sort of set me free from that constant state of questioning.

Sometimes you don’t realize that you were trapped until you are finally free, even if you were only trapped by your own limitations.

---

---

Emily listens to me without interruption. I feel her breath against my arm, feel her feet occasionally rub against my leg, but otherwise she is quiet and still. When I finish talking I feel lighter, the subtle weight of my past lifted. The story of Pam and me is something I’ve kept to myself since we broke up and I’ve never told anyone, even my family, about our final conversation.

After a moment of silence between us, Emily rolls over to face me. She kisses me softly once and looks at me for a moment before saying simply, “I’m sorry, too.”

We’re both survivors of failed long-term relationships and I guess that’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think I’ve always felt that, because my relationship with Pam was so public, its failure was somehow a reflection on me. When people questioned my actions, made me feel ridiculous for not doing or saying things sooner, for giving up too easily, I believed them. When people told me that Pam and I were perfect for each other, I started to wonder if maybe we were. Maybe I was crazy to want something more, someone who felt about me the way I felt about her. But I realize now that I was right all along. I was right to believe that I shouldn’t settle, shouldn’t make do with someone who loved me almost enough.

Emily curls up on my chest, her hand floating across my stomach and settling, gripping my ribcage. I kiss the top of her head, smelling the vanilla scent of her free hotel shampoo. I was right not to settle.

“So..." I ask quietly, "what do you want?” It’s the question I should have asked Pam years earlier and I’m trying so hard to learn from my mistakes.

Emily breathes softly against my chest. “This,” she sighs happily. And after a moment she props her chin on her hand and looks up at me.

“I mean, long term.”

She smiles. “So do I.”

I slide my fingers through her hair, amazed. I realize, now, that everything has sort of unfolded as it should. Some day, if she hasn’t already, Pam will find someone she is willing to take risks for. Or maybe it’s just a matter of someday Pam becoming the kind of person willing to take risks. And maybe she’ll be able to do that because of what she learned from our relationship. I learned from Pam that I have to be happy with myself before I can be happy with someone else, that I have to find contentment inside rather than looking for it to be delivered to me by a red-haired receptionist or anyone else. Hopefully we helped each other become ready for the rest of our lives and the people we’ll share them with. I will always love Pam for that, for giving me that knowledge and for agreeing to let go of something good to search for something better.

Emily curls up against me again, her hand stroking my chest lazily, her leg thrown over mine. She seems at home there, at home with me. Comfortable with who she is and how she is with me, which makes me feel comfortable, too. She’s not Pam, and she’s not a replacement for Pam. She’s much, much more than that.

---

---

A couple weeks before Christmas I stop by Jim’s apartment with some holiday decorations. As a typical guy, he has almost none, and as a typical teacher, I have far too many. We spend the afternoon decorating his tree with ornaments that say things like “#1 Teacher” and “Teachers do it with Class.” When Jim hangs that one, he nudges me and says, “Please don’t tell me you got this from one of your students.”

“What? Haven’t you ever heard the song ‘Hot for Teacher’ by a little band called Van Halen?”

“Okay Dwight,” Jim laughs. “But you teach third grade.”

“Good point. And pedophilia is no joking matter, Jim.” I reprimand him, trying to be serious. “I got that from Sara. She thought it was funny.”

“Okay. Now, that makes sense.”

Jim met my sister at Thanksgiving and they got along about how you might expect – perfectly. Once she got over staring at him like he was Brad Pitt, they started joking around and I let her give him a massage (just his shoulders, fully clothed) and now I think they might just be best friends. Even Doug and Jim got along, despite Jim being on Sara’s list, and they bonded over a game of basketball after dinner.

After we decorate the tree, I teach him how to make my mom’s famous shortbread cookies, which I figure he can handle because they only have three ingredients. Even still I have to bring over the flour and butter, and the only reason he has sugar at all is for his guests who like it in their coffee.

“You can’t handle the dough too much,” I tell him. “It’ll make the cookies tough.”

He gives me a sly, sideways look. His mind, always in the gutter lately. And … well … so is mine.

“I’m serious. If you knead it too much, it’ll just make them all hard.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s usually how it works.”

I think that conversation had something to do with us making love on his living room floor under a sprig of mistletoe he hung from a light fixture.

“I don’t think this is what you’re supposed to do under the mistletoe,” Jim teases as I climb on top of him.

“Then I guess I’m on the naughty list this year,” I concede, and he hums in agreement as I move over him.

We’ve been together for five months and every day I’m grateful for my goofy brother-in-law and his height and his bad taste in shirts.

I bought Jim’s Christmas present just this morning: a new messenger bag made of beautiful, soft, expensive leather – casual enough for his tastes but nice enough for his fancy career as big shot sales guy. I also bought him several new ties because he hates shopping for them, a copy of John Krasinski’s latest movie as a joke, and almost front row tickets to a 76ers game. I think I’m cured of my teacher frugality.

My students have a Holiday concert tonight and Jim is going to come. Peter never came to these kinds of things for me, saying that the kids weren’t our kids so why should he care. He never got that they were my kids, in a way, and that if it mattered to me it might be nice if it mattered to him, just a little bit. Jim gets this without me having to explain it. Just another of the many, many reasons I love him.

I have to be there early, to help kids with costumes and such, so he’s going to meet me there. He walks me to the door of his apartment, pressing me up against the wall as he kisses me goodbye. After five months I still get lightheaded and dizzy when I feel his body against mine. Hell, I get dizzy when I even think about his body against mine.

I groan against his mouth and push him away lightly. “I’m gonna’ be late.”

He kisses me again. “Just tell the kids that your cookies weren’t done baking yet.”

“Oh, my cookies have been baked. Twice.”

“Twice?” he asks, smiling, maybe even blushing a little and I nod, not even embarrassed anymore by my teenage girl reaction to him. “Mmmm.” His hands slip under my sweater. “Once more and we have a hat trick.”

“After.” I grab his wrists and remove his hands from my skin, even though I don’t want to, even though the warmth of them on my ribcage makes something inside of me melt a little bit. “I promise.”

“Okay.” He kisses me once more. “I’ll be there at 6:45. You sure I won’t be a distraction?”

I shake my head. The whole school knows I’m dating Jim Halpert, sexy cable TV star, and it’s finally old news. He still gets the occasional hounding when we go out in public and we actually had paparazzi take photos of us holding hands that were posted on some gossip website. I believe the headline read, “Has Office Star Found New Love to Sharpen His Pencils?” We both got a kick out of that one and started referring to making love as pencil sharpening.

Once in awhile I get annoyed by the attention he gets, by the fact that some people can’t seem to move on from the idea of him and Pam together even though both he and Pam have moved on. But it’s a small price to pay to be with him. I love him more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone, so I can deal with the occasional dinner interruption or dirty look.

I kiss him again but when I feel his tongue sneak up against mine, I push away. “Not fair, Halpert. I have to go.”

“So go,” he says, holding his hands up innocently.

I laugh and open the door and step out into the hallway. “See you in a couple hours.”

“Yep.” He smiles at me and watches me head down the stairs. I don’t hear the click of the door shutting until I’m out of his sight.

Out on the sidewalk I pause, still smiling, to put my gloves on when a cab pulls up in front of me. The door opens and a woman climbs out. She looks up at me and smiles, a neutral smile you’d give a stranger you make eye contact with, and I swear my heart stops beating for a split second.

It’s Pam. Oh my God it’s Pam, looking at a slip of paper in her hand and glancing up at Jim’s building. For a second I stand there, speechless and awkward, wondering what I should say to her before I realize that she has no clue who I am. Why would she? I’m not the one who was on TV. She has no reason whatsoever to know that I am in love with her ex-boyfriend. So I shake my head and force myself to turn and walk down the street. I stop after a few steps and pretend to search in my bag for something, sneaking a look back. Yep, Pam is heading up the steps of Jim’s apartment building, opening the door to the vestibule. In seconds she’ll be buzzing the button that says “Halpert” next to it and for the first time in months, Jim will hear her voice.

It will be the first time in months, right? They haven’t spoken since we’ve been dating, have they? All of a sudden I’m full of doubt, even though just minutes ago Jim was kissing me, his hands wandering over my skin, trying to go for a hat trick.

I must stand there on the sidewalk for five minutes, stunned, not sure what to do. Pam doesn’t come back out of his building which means that she is probably up in his apartment now. I’m suddenly consumed with panic and fear and sadness. I trust Jim. I do. But how can I be sure he doesn’t still love her? How do I know all those feelings – those six years of feelings – won’t come rushing back when he sees her face? And what if she’s brave, now, willing to tell him that they made a mistake, that she’s still in love with him, that she wants them to be together forever? How would Jim handle getting exactly what he wanted from her all along?

I trust Jim. I do. So I will not be crazy stalker girl who waits outside his apartment for Pam to come back out. I will not call him or accuse him or do anything crazy. I will just wait.

I turn and walk slowly home, my happy holiday mood draining out of me with each step.

---

---

My buzzer rings just minutes after Emily leaves and I smile, thinking maybe she changed her mind and is willing to risk being late for some more pencil sharpening.

“Change your mind?” I ask into the intercom and buzz her in without waiting for an answer. I open my apartment door and wait in the hallway for her to come up. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, but when she turns at the landing, I realize it’s not her after all. The woman coming up the stairs is shorter and the hair sticking out from beneath her hat is more auburn and less golden, curly not straight. When she looks up at me, I feel my breath catch, my palms start to sweat.

It’s Pam.

She smiles at me, a small smile. I hesitate before giving her a small, awkward smile back. I think of what I said into the intercom: Change your mind? I wonder if she thinks I was talking to her. Has she changed her mind?

She walks up the rest of the steps and stops a few feet in front of me. She looks so small – I forgot how large our height difference was – but otherwise pretty much the same. Still beautiful in a natural, unassuming way. She pulls off her hat and runs her fingers through shorter hair.

“Hi Jim,” she says.

“Hey!” I say, a little too cheerfully. My voice cracks, betraying the calm I’d like to project.

She stands there for a minute, stretching her hat in her hands. I’m sort of stunned into silence, completely thrown off by her sudden appearance at my door. Finally she says, “I was just here … in Philly, I mean … for a graphic design thing and I ... well, I knew you lived here now and I … wanted to see you.”

I nod dumbly, trying to decide what it is I’m feeling. Fear? Guilt? Regret? Shock?

“I hope that’s okay,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say brightly. “Sure. It’s … good to see you.”

“You too.”

We stand for a minute in awkward silence and Pam looks down at her boots. “I guess I should have called first…”

“No! No. It’s fine.” God, why do I feel so nervous? Maybe because I’m terrified of why she’s here, why she wanted to see me. I take a step backwards into my apartment. “Do you … want to come in?”

She nods, looking relieved, and steps inside, brushing past me carefully. As I close the door behind us and we walk into my living room, I see her look around and take in my apartment: the Christmas tree, the cookies on the kitchen counter, a pair of Emily’s shoes left by my front closet. Why do I feel guilty? Why do I feel like I should be living in a sparsely furnished, dreary apartment with crusty dishes in the sink and REM’s ‘Everybody Hurts’ playing repeatedly on my stereo?

“Um. Can I … take your coat?”

She nods and unbuttons it. I resist the urge to help her slide it off her shoulders and instead wait for her to hand it to me so I can go hang it in the closet. She bought this coat last Christmas for her new job – I remember she felt guilty because it was kind of expensive but I encouraged her to get it, telling her she should treat herself. Last time I saw it – around the time we broke up – it still smelled new. Now it smells like her. God, was that only a year ago? Sometimes it feels like a lifetime.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask. “Or … a Christmas cookie?”

Pam smiles and it feels good to see her smile. Towards the end of our relationship, neither of us was smiling much anymore.

“I never knew you were such a baker,” she says.

I shrug, not sure if I should admit that I didn’t make them alone. She doesn’t give me a chance to elaborate.

“But, I’m good. Thanks.”

I gesture for her to sit down and she chooses the couch. I sit kitty corner from her on a chair that Emily helped me pick out just last month. I wonder if Pam notices that it’s new.

We sit for a moment, awkwardly, and then both start talking at the same time.

“You look really good—“ she says.

“How long are you in town—“ I ask.

We both stop and laugh.

“Sorry,” I say. “Thanks. So do you.”

She nods and smiles, accepting my compliment more easily than I think she ever has. “Just a few days.”

I nod. I want to ask her if she’s still living in Scranton, if she’s happy, if she’s going to school, but I also want to hear why she’s here. I need to hear why she’s here before I can concentrate on catching up, chit chatting about the life she’s been living since we broke up. So I just sit, quietly, waiting.

“Um.” She takes a deep breath and bites her lip. Then she looks at me and smiles nervously again. “Whew. I really thought I could do this.”

I tilt my head. Do what? I want to scream.

“I thought there’d be more small talk or … just … that somehow I’d know what to say.”

“We can do small talk, if you want,” I offer with a small smile, trying to lighten things up.

She shakes her head and laughs a little. “No. It’s fine. I just … need to spit this out.”

Now I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment before exhaling.

“I really just wanted to tell you that you were right. About me and just … about lots of things, I guess.”

“I was?”

“Remember at my art show, how Gil said that real art takes courage? And … honesty?”

I nod, remembering, although it breaks my heart to remember the footage from that night, the art show that I should have gone to but didn’t because I was being stubbornly loyal to Karen, a woman I never even really loved.

“And then Oscar said that those weren’t my strong points?”

I nod again, wanting to comfort her and tell her that Oscar was wrong. But frankly, he wasn’t.

“Well, it hurt me to hear that, but it was the truth.”

“Pam—“

“No. I mean, it’s okay. I have been sort of a coward my whole life. Kind of just … going through the motions, you know? With Roy, with my job, with my art. Even with you.”

She looks up at me with sad green eyes. I break the gaze first.

“That’s why I’m here. To try being brave and … honest, for a change.”

God, my stomach is in knots. I don’t want her to be brave anymore. Because what if she tells me she still loves me? What if she finally says all the things I wish she would have said when we were together?

What do I say then?

---

---

I feel nauseous and moody, and forcing a happy holiday smile for all my students and their parents is nearly killing me. How I managed to go home, after seeing Pam, and deal with things like hair and make up and picking out an outfit that’s the right blend of festive teacher and twenty-something chic is beyond me. I was in a daze, just going through the motions, and frankly I’m surprised that my shoes match. But now it’s 6:45 and I’m lining up my class in the hallway next to the gym, knowing that Jim is either out there in the audience, or he is still with Pam. And even if he is out there, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. This is a guy who broke up with his girlfriend of six months because Pam wrote him an eight-word note on a phone message slip. Who’s to say he won’t break up with me (girlfriend of only five months) when she shows up at his apartment, in person, and confesses that she still loves him, that she wants him back?

Granted, I have no idea what happened this afternoon, why Pam came to his apartment. My first thought was: she’s pregnant. But then I counted back and realized that would be impossible, unless she has the gestation period of a pachyderm. And I also realized … maybe I watched a few too many soap operas last summer. Then I thought that maybe they’ve been in contact all along and he just didn’t tell me. Then I thought, more rationally, that maybe she just happened to be in town and she wanted to clear the air, have the no-hard-feelings-I’m-so-over-you conversation. Frankly I have no idea why she came to see Jim and I’m just grasping at straws.

But no matter why she’s here – whether it’s to confess her love for him or to just wish him a Merry Christmas – I can’t quite seem to make peace with the thought of them together, alone, in his apartment. The image of that Casino Night kiss replays in my mind and I have to keep squeezing my eyes closed and shaking my head to stop it. I’m turning into crazy jealous girlfriend again and I hate it.

Beth comes up behind me and grabs my shoulders. “This just in: your famous boyfriend has arrived,” she teases. “I saw him giving an autograph to Ms. Waldschmidt.”

“Yeah?”

“And he looks goooood. Like, really good.” Beth looks at my face and her smile fades. “What’s wrong?”

I force a smile and say, too cheerfully, “Nothing! Just pre-show jitters.”

Beth gives me another odd look. “Ohhh-kay. You look kinda’ pale, though. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I want to tell her I have: the ghost of relationships past. But I just wave away her worry. “Just nerves.”

“Since when are you so nervous about a Christmas concert? Is it because Jim Halpert, sexy cable TV star, is here?” She kind of waggles her eyebrows at me in a way that makes my smile a little more genuine. “I mean, he was in show business, right? Sort of?”

I nod and laugh a little. “Yeah. I guess that’s it.”

“Hmm,” Beth hums, clearly not quite believing me. “Well, pull it together, sister. It’s curtain time.”

I give my kids one last pep talk and then sneak into the gym. I force myself not to look for Jim, not to search him out, because if I see him I don’t know how to hide the fact that I know who he was with this afternoon. Oh, God. What if he doesn’t tell me? What if I have to pretend that everything is fine even though it is so NOT fine, and won’t be fine until I know that he isn’t about to leave me for his one true love?

I think the concert goes pretty smoothly – frankly, I’m kind of out of it the entire time and can’t be sure. At the very least the kids are cute and the only minor technical difficulty is when Samantha Higgins’ big Christmas dress knocks over a microphone, filling the gym with a high-pitched electronic squeal. At the end of the performance, the music teacher introduces the third grade teachers and we all have to stand up and give a little wave while everyone claps for us. When they announce my name, the cheering picks up a bit but I don’t flatter myself to think it’s because of me – I realize it’s because of my semi-famous boyfriend and the residual celebrity I inherit by dating him.

The show ends and I herd my kids back to my classroom where their parents will pick them up. I force a smile, accept compliments, help kids with coats, all the while keeping an eye out for Jim. But it isn’t until all the kids are gone and I’m standing in my room alone that he comes in. I look up when I hear his footsteps and I try to force a smile, but I’m guessing he knows me too well to buy it, even after only five months.

Before I can say something clever and funny to distract him from the tears I feel gathering in my eyes, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him. He is quiet for a moment. We both are. I’m quiet because I’m afraid if I speak I’ll get hysterical, begging him not to leave me for Pam. I’m not sure why he’s quiet. Maybe he’s preparing to dump me. To tell me he slept with her. To break my heart.

“I love you,” he says softly and I suck in a breath. I’m not even relieved to hear it because something in me is waiting for a ‘but’.

“Okay,” I say, not willing to put myself out there any more than that. If I say ‘I love you’ back and then he drops me like a bad habit, my humiliation will be complete.

He takes a deep breath and presses his lips against my hair. It scares me that he’s not talking, not complimenting me on the show, not being his usual supportive and funny self. His silence and seriousness are freaking me out. Finally he says, “Pam came to see me. This afternoon, after you left.”

Again, not what I expected. His immediate honesty catches me off guard. I guess I had thought he would act normal, hide the truth until we were in the middle of dinner, and then spring it on me at a restaurant where I would be forced to be subdued and calm. That’s what Peter would have done. But this complete and sudden confession is a bit of a shock.

I debate about acting surprised, saying ‘oh, really?’ but I can’t play that game. Instead I say, “I know. I … saw her.”

We stand there for another minute of silence until it’s killing me.

“Do I want to know what happened?” I ask. I try to keep my voice neutral, calm, unconcerned, even though I feel none of those things.

Jim laughs – he actually laughs – and for the first time I start to think this might not end badly. I mean, if he can laugh…

“What do you think happened?” he asks, and his voice is joking, teasing. Normal.

I shrug and pull away from him to swipe at my eyes. “I don’t know. She told you she’s still in love with you and wants you back and you said ‘oh, thank god.” And then you had sex under the mistletoe and you told her that it was much better sex than the sex you just had with your other stupid girlfriend.”

“Oh my God,” he says, shaking his head in amazement. “How did you know? Did you have a hidden camera or …”

I swat at his chest, but the relief in me is so strong that I can’t keep my emotions in check any longer. A small sob escapes and I look down, covering my eyes with one hand.

“Hey,” Jim’s voice is concerned, now, his joking gone. “Emily.” He tilts my face up to look at him but I can’t maintain eye contact. His features are swimming in a blur of tears. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going to change my mind.”

I shrug, look away.

“I’m not Peter.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I look up at him again and nod. I do know. He’s not Peter. He would never hurt me like that. How could I doubt him? He’s … Jim.

He takes my face in his hands, and tries to drive the point home with a faint smile and his words. “I’m … crazy about you.”

I shrug again, still not totally convinced.

He takes a deep breath and blows it out. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding just, like, really corny. But …” he inhales again, gaining courage. “I was sort of … broken when we met.” He forces eye contact with me and I nod, slightly. I remember quite clearly his smile from the mall, the smile that was like the sun behind the haze.

“And you …” he rubs his thumb lightly against my bottom lip. “Well, according to my mom, you … mended me.”

I tilt my head and feel my throat tighten again. God, this man…

“I would never hurt you. The thought of losing you terrifies me…”

“Alright,” I roll my eyes, trying to joke even though my voice is still thick with tears. “You don’t have to lay it on quite so th—“

But he doesn’t let me finish, doesn’t let me downplay his words. He kisses me even though I have a runny nose and my face is covered with salty tears. He kisses me soft and sweet and I let him try to convince me.

We go home, skipping our planned dinner out. After he tells me about what happened with Pam, he convinces me more with his mouth and his hands and his body and his soft, whispered words against my skin. And when I fall asleep, wrapped up in his arms, I finally believe. He loves me. He won’t change his mind.

I definitely believe.

---