In all your days, you’ve imagined yourself as many a movie character. As a kid, it was Indiana Jones, on an amazing adventure to find some long-hidden artifact; it was Mikey from The Goonies, in search of One-Eyed Willie’s subterranean treasure ship. Even in college, you fancied yourself as a slightly-older William in Almost Famous - after all, you did write a few sharp editorials for the school paper in high school about Weezer’s second album and how overrated you thought Silverchair was.

That’s why it shouldn’t be at all surprising that as an adult (or as close as you’ll ever get to that status), you’re displaying some distinctly Rainman-esque tendencies.

Some of them were always there. Let’s be honest: you figured out years ago that you could get to her counter in a minimum of seven steps (three when you took that other desk, but that path isn’t as engraved in your head or the carpet). You are well aware that your half hour lunch breaks average 46 minutes and you spend approximately 81% of that time talking, despite the fact that you usually have to throw out a good portion of your sandwich because you run out of time to finish it. The mean length of the glances you share is seven seconds (up from a paltry three just two years ago), and she smiles at you no less than 26 times a day (up from…well, much less a year ago, or even a few months ago).

And this from a guy that never earned higher than a B in any math class, ever.

But now, you find yourself calculating regularly just how long it’s been since you’ve been together. How many hours have passed since your world, almost magically, split wide open and let the sun shine in constantly, regardless of if it’s day or night? How many minutes since you haven’t had to look for a reason to smile, because it seems now you just never stop? How many seconds since you learned that bliss is a real state of existence and you are eyeball-deep in it?

This is why you know, as you retrieve two beers out of the refrigerator and she sits on your couch watching some sort of home design/renovation show that she recorded on your TiVo, you have been with her for seventeen days, three hours and 23 minutes, and neither of you has said “I love you.” Or any variation thereof.

You think you should give yourself partial credit. You have managed to get out such poetic phrases as “You are just…so…,” “You know that I’m, like…,” and “Oh, God…you…,” but these usually end in dazed head-shaking or kissing - and that last one, that occurred the first time you saw…well, all of her (six days, 21 hours and 14 minutes ago), and by no means should you have been expected to form a full sentence under those circumstances. Her response is usually a happy smile and nod, sometimes paired with a squeeze of your hand or her arms wrapping around you, and honestly, that’s not a bad deal. You two haven’t been in this new world where you actually communicate using real words for very long, after all. It takes a bit of getting used to.

But for God’s sakes, you’ve already bought her an engagement ring. The scales seem a bit unbalanced between what you know is true and what exists outside of your mind, in the world of sentiments actually expressed.

It isn’t that you’re scared, or at least you’re pretty sure it isn’t. You don’t have anything to be scared of, right? Because honestly, after the long and twisted path you’ve both had to walk, there’s no way either of you can be unsure of your feelings. It just isn’t possible. You’ve each handed your heart to the other - at different times, in different ways. Are the words really that important?

No. Of course not. They’re just words.

Important words, but words nonetheless.

You flop back next to her and she flashes you a quick grin as she daintily takes the bottle from your hand, then returns her gaze to the screen. Your finger traces an infinity symbol on her shoulder as she watches and you stare aimlessly at a paper plate from dinner on the corner of the coffee table.

You wonder that maybe it’s on her to say it first, then wonder if that’s juvenile. Sure, she didn’t come out and say those words to you back on the beach, or on your first date as she handed you that coaster, but for all intents and purposes you knew that’s what she was telling you. You are fluent in Pam, easily translating the adjectives in her eyes and adverbs in her fluttering hands. You know what she said when she didn’t say it. Similarly, you’re pretty sure she understands your clumsy half-declarations and lingering stares. So essentially, it’s been said.

Except it hasn’t really been said.

She lets out a sort of squeak and her head jerks in your direction, brows furrowed. You have no idea why you’ve suddenly stolen her attention away from the painting technique being explained on the screen and you wonder if she’s become telepathic, aware of your questioning of her. Then you realize that the finger that had been gently tracing along her shoulder blade is now tangled in one of her curls tightly. Simply put, you just pulled your girlfriend’s hair.

Wait - wasn’t that how you said it as a kid? Does that count?

You quickly unravel the strand and shoot her an apologetic glance. “Sorry about that,” you murmur, feeling a blush make its way up your neck. Her look of discomfort and surprise melt away as she smiles.

“’s okay,” she assures him, taking a pull off her bottle and looking back at the television. You look that way as well, but it’s clear that rag-rolling is just not up to derailing this train of thought.

Maybe you should plan a romantic evening, the kind that made you mime gagging when they popped up in movies when you were younger, and usually made you change the channel even after you were older. Something with wine, and decadent food, and the perfect ambient lighting. You have planned these evenings before, for other women - not many times, but enough to not be completely naïve about it. But with her, romance seemed to bloom on its own. The way she absentmindedly bobs her head to a commercial jingle as she snags another piece of pizza does more to you than any night of dining and dancing. Watching her laugh at an impromptu haiku you emailed her (oh Andrew Bernard/in pink and lime and sky blue/Cornell’s proud peacock), trumps any love poem recitation by far. Love and romance had never seemed to fall privy to the chicken-or-the-egg question until now - before, you had only used romance as a way to show your love. Now, romance became a natural byproduct of revelling in being in love.

Because you are in love.

Even if you don’t say so.

Your eyes are on the television and your mind is far, far away, so it takes you a moment to realize that she is watching you. “Are you all right?” she asks gently, and her expression offers subtitles. I know something’s wrong but I don’t want to seem too nosy. You’ve never accidentally pulled my hair before - I’m not mad, but it was weird. Now you’re just sort of vacantly staring and I know you aren’t interested in this show. I’d really like to hear what’s on your mind, please?

You can feel your face going through some sort of rearrangement of its features, trying to settle on a look that’s casual. You know you’re about to say something regarding this issue, but what you’re not sure. You don’t have to read from an approved script with her anymore, which is fantastic and freeing, but it leaves you at a loss for words sometimes. You look down and toy with her fingers, then back up as you take a deep breath.

“I was just thinking that…we haven’t…”

And you trail off, studying her face. Her expectant half-grin slides away, replaced by confusion. Her eyes dart back and forth just slightly as she mentally searches for something obvious that the two of you haven’t done yet. You don’t smile to encourage her, because you can’t, because in that nanosecond you know that you are terrified that there is a very good reason why you have been with her for seventeen days, three hours and 44 minutes, and she hasn’t said those words yet.

And, an instant later, you can see that she has figured all of this out as well. Well, maybe not the time frame, but everything else. Her eyes widen and her lips purse, and you know that she can see your every thought, every fear in your face. Her fears, similar in nature and strength, are just as evident. This has gone from being just another moment you log to a Moment, one that will be written in your Story, Remembered for all time.

“I love you.”

It’s said on exhale, quickly but evenly and with certainty.

It’s said in unison.

There is only one response. It’s full of relief, of assurance and of love. It, too, is in unison.

“I know.”

“Tell me something I’m not good at.”

The line is silent for a long moment, and Pam takes an opportunity to glance up from her seat on the floor and look at the clock. It’s 2:04 am, technically Tuesday. It is a time that has become all too familiar to her in the past three weeks at Pratt. She feels guilty, again, because she knows it is not a time that salesman at struggling paper companies tend to see much. She had not said hello, just sprung that request on him.

“What?” he asks hoarsely, and she imagines Jim running his hand over his face and through his hair the way he does when he’s not quite awake.

“Tell me something I’m not good at,” she repeats, awkwardly juggling a conte crayon to avoid getting a smudge on the half-finished drawing in front of her.

“You’re good at everything,” he says evenly, and Pam is glad she is on the phone because she can’t keep herself from rolling her eyes.

“No I’m not. I’m bad at a lot of stuff.”

“I don’t think so.”

She stays quiet. He sighs.

“Okay. You’re bad at…I don’t know, not tripping over the laundry basket?” he tries.

“That isn’t a real answer.”

“I think it’s kind of a loaded question, Beesly,” he says through a yawn, and she knows he’s right. She isn’t usually the type to play mind games, especially in a relationship. For so long she was quiet, keeping her needs and wants, hopes and dreams to herself. With him she is more open and honest, but she still keeps things inside. She is not one to act passive-aggressively, and this is passive aggression at its finest.

“I just…I need to know.”

“Need to know what?”

“If I’m bad at art. If I’m wasting my time,” she spills.

“You’re amazing.” His response is automatic. He doesn’t stop to think about it, to consider that Pam being anything less than perfect is an option. He is her constant cheerleader and biggest fan. The answer makes her smile, even though he has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Thank you,” is all she says back. “I’m sorry I woke you up. Go back to sleep.”

“’S okay,” he says through another yawn. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Definitely. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

She closes her phone and leans back against her bed. She hopes he won’t remember that conversation in the morning, but hoping that Jim forgets anything to do with her is wasted energy. She stares at the conte crayon, leaving residue all over her fingertips as she toys with it. She isn’t sure what the point of that call was; she knows Jim feels the same.

She has been dealing with a frightening revelation since starting here, one that she has feared for a long time. It isn’t being alone – that certainly isn’t fun, but she’s dealing with it as best she can. It isn’t that she isn’t cut out for the city – she knows she is a suburbanite at heart, but has been surprised by how much fun New York has been.

It is that being here, doing this, has made it very clear that she isn’t as talented as everyone thought.

When she was one of those “artsy fartsy” kids in high school, she was one of only a few. There was little competition. She was the one who was sought out to design murals for the Homecoming dance, or posters for the drama club’s productions. There were few pretty things that adorned the brick walls of the hallways that didn’t bear a tiny PB in their lower right corners. In the few art classes she had taken in her two years at community college, she was still a shining star. They were small classes and usually populated by middle-aged women and grandfathers who looked at their classes as a hobby, a pastime. Of course there was a freaky teen or two, obsessed with anime or dragons. Pam had outshone them all, and had gained more confidence in the hours spent in those small studios than she had anywhere else.

But now, she is surrounded by the best, from all over the country. Her classmates have been entering art in shows and competitions since they’d been in middle school. They have portfolios full of amazing work, pieces that Pam could never conceive of creating. They speak in a cryptic language of state-of-the-art computer programs, underground artists and hole-in-the-wall galleries. Furthermore, they are young – sure, there are a few close to her age, but more often than not she finds herself in classrooms and studios packed with people years younger than her. They hadn’t wasted time in their hometowns at dead end jobs in dead end relationships. The world of possibility that had opened to her just two years ago was one in which they have always lived. They are more confident, more talented, more sophisticated, more daring, more…everything.

Pam knows she is better than average. She also knows, especially in the wee hours of the morning, that try as she might, she is not on the level of her peers. She is almost thirty, and her biggest artistic accomplishments are winning a contest judged by elementary school students, displaying some watercolors at a mandatory art show at the Scranton Community Center and four seconds of animation in a commercial no one aside from her coworkers ever saw. Funny doodles that Jim praises to high heaven and a framed portrait of the Scranton Business Park on the wall of her office do not count for anything here. No one would be impressed by her many posters for South Pacific and Anything Goes. While her fellow students create masterpieces with ease she still keeps the instruction manual for Flash close at hand. The most she has gotten from her professors is a slow nod and a chin rub as they study her projects. She is clawing her way to the middle, and every day it is a struggle to not simply let her arms – and her heart – give out.

But she does not have that luxury, because now she lives her dreams for two.

Jim does not know art. He is in awe of what she creates because she creates it. His support is neverending, always positive and offered without hesitation. He is an endless font of encouraging clichés, but he says them so earnestly that she drinks them in without a smirk or a laugh. She is doing this not just because of him, but for him, because he truly wants nothing more than for her to pursue her dream. He holds her to no standard; he is never disappointed. On days when she is feeling off this can frustrate her, but most times it simply fortifies her knowing that no matter what the rest of the world thinks of her and her talent, or lack thereof, in his world she is everything she only dares imagine herself to be.

With a long swallow of her (now cold) coffee and renewed resolve, she wipes her hands on her sweats and leans back over her drawing. She will do this as best she can. She will put everything she has into this experience. She will push herself past her comfort level and she hopes she will surprise herself, if not dazzle her professors and peers.

Maybe she will succeed. Maybe she won’t. But she is doing this, no matter what, for both of them.

Pam was always hesitant to open emails from Kelly, especially ones that had “OMG” anywhere in the subject line, but this Thursday had already proved to be exceptionally boring and so with a sigh she clicked the message. After a lot of adjectives and exclamation points came a YouTube video, and once she was sure her computer’s volume was set to low Pam hit play and watched.

She couldn’t help but giggle as the seemingly too-cool-for-school hipsters started to dance, and she took a quick glance around to make sure no one had caught her. Only Jim was looking at her, his brows furrowed as he silently asked what was so funny. She gestured for him to join her, then returned her attention to her monitor.

Jim strolled over, snagging a jellybean before coming behind her counter. “Look at these guys,” Pam said, pointing. Jim knelt down next to her, chewing as he took the video in. She giggled again as the band pranced around the lead singer, and Jim smiled as he chewed. Huddled together so they could both see, they were close enough that she could smell the trace of cherry on his breath. As they watched she couldn’t help but notice in her periphery that Jim had begun tapping his fingers on his knee lightly to the beat, and her smile widened just slightly.

Before the video finished Michael barged out of his office, apparently finally finished with his long conference call with Jan. He scowled at the office at large, then zeroed in on Reception. “Really, Jim? Could we maybe do some work today?” he snapped.

“Absolutely. Sorry,” Jim answered, shooting a quick eyebrows-raised look at Pam that she returned. Once Michael was back in his office, though, she played the video again.

----

Pam was late in joining Jim for lunch in the breakroom – Michael’s bad mood hadn’t dissipated and he had asked her to type up several documents that seemed to have no point other than to make her look like she was being productive. She heaved a dramatic sigh as she walked through the doorway and Jim grinned.

“I already got your lunch out.”

“Thanks,” she said, flopping into the chair next to him and fishing her sandwich out of the brown paper bag.

“He’s in rare form today.”

Pam rolled her eyes as she swallowed a mouthful of ham and cheese. “It’s ridiculous. He gave me a list of at least fifty ‘business phrases’ and said I had to incorporate all of them into this letter.” Jim chuckled as he munched on a chip. They were quiet for a moment.

“I think I’ve played that video, like, a million times already,” Pam finally said.

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “I really like the song.”

Jim took a swig of his soda. “Me too. It’s not my favorite off the album, but it’s good.”

Pam’s eyebrows raised, although she didn’t know why she was surprised. She could see him in her mind’s eye, seeing the band at some tiny, trendy bar in Philly, maybe with some friends from college, sipping an imported beer and nodding along with the music. This was the Jim that she knew existed outside these drab walls, that lived a real life away from her - from all this. He’d told her of outings like these, what he’d done on Saturday nights when she’d been at home, already in her pajama pants and an old t-shirt, watching some college football game with Roy. “Oh, you have…” She suddenly panicked, unable to remember the band’s name but charging on in an overly casual tone, “their album?”

It was Jim’s turn to nod. “Their first one too, although this one’s a lot better.” He set his soda down. “Lemme go grab my iPod; I have the whole thing on there.”

She forced a smile. “Okay,” she chirped, but as she watched him leave she suddenly remembered a scene from her eighth grade year. For Christmas she had finally gotten the “cool,” name brand sweatshirt she’d been pleading for for months. Granted it had meant far fewer gifts – they were at least sixty dollars a piece – but she’d been ecstatic to wear it the first day back to school in January. When she had arrived at her lunch table, one of her friends had smiled and complimented the new top. Flushed with excitement, Pam had thanked her. However, one of Pam’s snarkier “friends” had given her a different smile, one that spoke volumes. “Everyone got one for Christmas, I think,” the girl had said airily. With a quick survey of the cafeteria Pam had confirmed that everyone seemed to be dressed in variations of her same sweatshirt. Her smile had melted away, and suddenly the cozy fleece lining in her sleeves made her feel itchy and hot.

When Jim returned, iPod in hand, Pam knew her cheeks were still pink. If Jim noticed he didn’t feel the need to comment, for which she was grateful. “This is my favorite OK Go track,” he told her as he clicked the selector wheel.

“What’s it called?” she asked, not quite meeting his eyes.

He told her the name without needing to look at the display. Pam popped in the earbud he held out to her and the song began. Jim gave her a questioning smile during the chorus and she nodded, bobbing her head. She quickly looked back at the table, though, for some reason certain that she was off the beat.

---

Pam was nowhere near finished with her faxes as Jim pulled his coat off the rack at the end of the day. “Want me to wait for you?” he asked. She smiled as she shook her head.

“That’s okay. I’m gonna be awhile.”

“All right.” He gave her counter the traditional few taps and smiled. Just as he was about to step away he leaned in again. “Hey, want me to burn you a copy of that CD?”

His overly kind tone reminded her of her offers to Roy for extra help in English in high school – well-meaning, with just a trace of pity. “Sure, that’d be great,” she replied.

He smiled again. “Okay then.” A few more taps, then he turned to leave. “See you tomorrow, Beesly,” he said over his shoulder.

“See ya.”

---

On an unremarkable August afternoon a year later, Pam’s email alert dinged. Opening her inbox, she saw one message from Kelly.

OMG CHECK THIS VID OUT!!! OK Go are so awesome!!!!!!!!!!! I WISH I could do this on a treadmill LOL!

Pam hesitated for a long moment before opening the note and watching the video. The hipsters had upped the ante and for the first time all day, Pam smiled. Once it was finished, she took a deep breath and clicked Forward. However, once a new message appeared, all she could do was stare at the empty text box where an email address belonged.

Her hand moved the mouse in lazy circles. It had been almost two months since Jim had left for Stamford. They’d had no contact. Maybe this could be a starting point. It was safe ground, a nod to their past without being heavy or meaningful.

Finally she sighed and closed the entire window, assuring herself that a better opportunity to reach out to him would arise. He’d probably already seen the video, anyway.

“Morning, sunshine.”

A sleepy wave, a yawn. “Morning.”

“Coffee should still be hot. I just made it a half hour ago.”

“Awesome.”

A stretch of almost-silence while coffee is poured and cereal is slurped. A moment later he is joined on the couch; a second pair of feet in polka-dotted socks land next to his bare ones on the coffee table.

“I hate this show.”

“I know.”

“Our kids are never watching this.”

“Mmkay.”

A moment passes. He laughs at the antics of the animated starfish. She rolls her eyes; sips her coffee.

“Seriously, never.”

“You got it.”

----

Moonlight and Late Night illuminate his bedroom.

“James Jr.?”

“No.”

A kiss.

“Thomas.”

“Nuh-uh.”

Another kiss.

“Brady?”

He gives her a stern look. “Never.”

Back to business. A gasp, then:

“How about Ryan?”

From somewhere near her shoulder: “Ha ha.”

A quiet stretch. “No ideas from you?”

“The Force.”

“You’d name our son ‘The Force?’”

“Absolutely.”

A hand disappears under the sheet.

No argument is presented.

----

“Can it really hurt that bad?”

The shrimp falls from her chopsticks, hitting the noodles with a plop.

“No, I mean, I’ve heard about squeezing a watermelon out of your nostril or whatever, but I mean honestly?”

The shrimp remains ignored.

“Wouldn’t women just quit having babies if it hurt that bad? It all seems a little…exaggerated, you know?”

He is certain she can barely see him through such narrowed eyes.

“You’re aware I can ban you from the birthing room, right?”

A pause.

“I was not.”

“Fact: I can.”

Another pause.

“I was totally kidding.”

“That’s what I thought.”

----

The shelves around them are filled with baffling technicolor options.

“I have a question.”

She studies a box, scoffs at the price tag. “Yeah?”

“When did Legos and Play-Doh stop being enough for kids?”

A shrug. “I was always happiest with markers and some paper.”

He reads in a monotone from another package: “’Guaranteed to stimulate your young one’s imagination, encourage dexterity and enhance social skills.’”

A long look is exchanged.

“How did we manage without these toys, Beesly?”

“I have no idea. But our kids will too.”

“And if they ask for anything that ‘stimulates creativity,’ I say we send them out in the yard and find creative uses for sticks.”

A laugh. “Agreed.”

----

The house is quiet. She stands in the doorway of the empty room. Closes her eyes.

She can see riotous flowers painted in bold strokes. Cartoonish animals frolicking through them. Bright curtains, pulled back to allow sunshine in. A crib in one corner, a changing table next to it. Books about green eggs and curious kittens and saying goodnight packed into a bookshelf. He is in a rocker, humming to the bundle in his arms.

Warm arms encircle her from behind. She opens her eyes.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

She leans into him. “Decorating.”

“See ya, man.”

“Bye Den! See you soon!” Pam adds enthusiastically. I have to laugh – she’s at that super-friendly drunk stage that, by some unknown laws of physics, makes her even more adorable. Dennis gives a wave and I shut the front door. Pam claps her hands once. “And then there were two,” she announces.

“Yes indeed.”

“My favorite two.”

I give her a critical look. “You’re in your own favorite two?” I scoff. “Seems kinda arrogant, Beesly.”

She returns the look. “Shut it. I’m only in my own favorite two when I’m with you. That makes two,” she explains, as if it’s obvious. I am pleasantly toasted enough to accept that answer as being logical. Besides, I feel the same way. Quickly switching tracks, she points toward the kitchen. “Should we clean?”

“Nah. We’ll get it tomorrow.” I take her by the shoulders and lead her toward the couch, where we collapse unceremoniously in a heap, with her sprawled out across my lap. “Did you have fun tonight?” I ask as I reach over her to snag my half-finished Killians off the coffee table.

“I had a blast,” she pronounces solemnly, then smiles like a champion, “and I won!”

“I know – you took me out to win.”

She throws her arms up triumphantly and imitates a crowd going wild and I, like the lovesick dork I am, just laugh again. Although she’d met them out at the bar once or twice, tonight was her first chance to really hang out with my buddies, as it was the first poker night I’ve hosted in the two months Pam and I have been together. (And one of only two I myself have attended…I’ve probably been a shitty friend since we’ve started dating, but I have priorities. Okay, I have one priority.) I wasn’t nervous about it, per se, but you never can tell how your girlfriend and your friends will mesh. Plus Pam has become…oh, how should I put it? The stuff of legend? The subject of much of their harassment of me over the years? But come on - even after a few drinks she’s still quicker with a comeback than almost anyone I know, she’s a pop culture scholar, she can even keep her head above water in a sports discussion (I take a little credit for the baseball part of that), and she’s beautiful. To say that I fell more in love with her, watching her not just hold her own in a roomful of smartasses but wrap them around her little finger? It would be an understatement.

We sit in a contented silence for a minute. After gesturing she wants a sip of my beer, which I gladly share, Pam hits me in the arm, hard. “Oh! Oh!”

“What?” I ask, rubbing my bicep.

Not bothering with my agony, she continues. “Know what we need?”

My eyes automatically stray to where my hand rests – specifically, on the couple of inches of bare midriff that her awkward position allows. “What’s that?” I question, hoping for the best.

She fixes her gaze on me as if she’s about to share the most important secret ever. “We need a song,” she whispers, then raises her eyebrows.

It takes my brain a minute to change gears. “Oh. Wait…we do?”

“Of course we do. All couples have songs, except us.”

“I bet not all, but I see where you’re going.”

“So?” She waves her hand vaguely, like she might conjure up some minstrel who’d start playing a song that was meant to be “ours.”

“So…what? You want suggestions?”

Pam makes a face. “No. No one knows your music. I’ll never hear a song you pick on the radio and get excited and think, hey, that’s our song.”

“That means I listen to good music. Have you heard most of the stuff on the radio?”

Now she rolls her eyes. “I’m Jim. I’m indie guy. I’m above those crappy radio songs,” she mocks, then giggles, apparently at her own hilarity.

“Well, I am.”

“Oh I know you are.”

“All right, then, how do you propose we choose a song?”

“Um…” She takes a moment to think this over deeply, then her eyes widen. “I got it! Music channels!” she cries, reaching out for the remote on the arm of the sofa. This whole thing seems kind of juvenile to me, plus I’ve already got loads of songs that make me think of Pam. However, I love seeing her get so excited about something so goofy, especially something that involves us.

And I’m…well, pretty drunk. That doesn’t hurt either.

Pam fumbles with the remote, turning on the television and finding the start of my cable music channels. We’ve done this before, this musical channel surfing, on nights we’ve had a few beers and the program offering is sparse. It usually devolves into us teasing each other about songs we secretly enjoy, or sharing memories from our past. That’s how I learned Pam smoked her first of four cigarettes as a sophomore in high school to Radiohead’s “Karma Police” (“I was trying to be a mysterious, art-y type!”), how she found out my first slow dance was to BoyzIIMen’s “Water Runs Dry” (I’m pretty sure they played every song off that album twice at that eighth grade dance), and we both have bad memories associated with REM’s “Shiny Happy People” (for me, it was playing for the fourth time in a row the first time I threw up from drinking, in a bush at a frat house my freshman year in college; for her, it was on when she got out of work her first day at Dunder-Mifflin, and she’s felt like the song exists only to mock her ever since).

“So what’re the guidelines here?” I ask as she zooms past Sounds of the Season.

“The first song we find that fits…us, is our song.”

“No boy bands,” I immediately rule, giving her a stern look. She smiles.

“Oh come on! The Backstreet Boys have some great songs!”

“I wouldn’t know, but still-”

“Like ‘Quit Playin’ Games!’ And ‘As Long As You Love Me!’”

“No boy bands-”

“Or…wait, I got it!” she interrupts again, and I know what’s coming, because I’ve caught her listening to this song. I clamp my hand over her mouth, but a few muffled lines still seep out, terribly off-key. “Don’t give loneliness a chance! Baby, listen to me when I say…I will love you more than thaaaaaat!”

“Absolutely not,” I state, although deep down I’ll admit it’s not a terrible song, and I can’t deny the fact that it hits a little close to home. In the effort to get her back to the matter at hand, I point at the tv with my bottle. She stops her serenade and begins channel surfing again, pausing at Arena Rock’s offering – Queen’s “We Will Rock You.”

“Pass.”

“Well, I mean, I will, if you’re interested…” I offer.

“Pass again.”

“Ouch.”

She jumps back a few channels and lands on R&B Hits. “No. Definitely not.”

“Oh c’mon, Beesly. Can one get more romantic than Ginuwine’s ‘Pony?’”

“I hope so!”

“Just picture it – at our wedding, we step on the floor to dance our first dance?”

She’s already started laughing but I remain serious.

“Or at our fiftieth anniversary party? Our children and grandchildren around us, just admiring the look in our eyes when the chorus starts?” In a dramatic tone James Lipton would be proud of, I continue. “’If you’re horny, let’s do it. Ride it, my pony.’”

“Stop!” she begs.

My hand's now on my heart. “’My saddle’s waiting. Come and jump on it.’” I wipe an imaginary tear away and sigh. “I think it’s a touching scene.”

“You’re crazy.”

We both quickly dismiss what’s on Rock (Alice in Chain’s “Man in a Box”), the offerings from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s stations (unbelievably, all Michael Jackson songs), and Musica Latina channel’s “Besame Mucho” (although I remember enough of my two years of high school Spanish to capitalize on that one, and almost succeed in derailing the song hunt). After a solid twenty minutes of more rejected songs Pam sighs, exasperated.

“Where’s our song?” she cries, throwing the remote to the far end of the couch as “Knights in White Satin” finishes up on the Lite Hits station.

“I’m still pulling for ‘Ninja Rap,’” I tell her.

“I hate you.”

“There you go! Isn’t that a song? ‘She Hates Me?’” I muse, grinning at her.

She’s distracted, and when I try to continue extolling the virtues of Vanilla Ice’s ode to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles she shushes me and points at the screen. My eyes widen.

“Um…no.”

Another shush. “Listen!” she hisses.

So I do.

I can’t fight this feeling any longer,
And yet I’m still afraid to let it flow.
What started out as friendship has grown stronger -
I only wish I had the strength to let it show…

Pam quickly sits up and gives me a look, her mouth a tiny ‘o’ of delight and horror combined. The sinking feeling in my gut only intensifies as the song continues.

I tell myself that I can’t hold out forever.
I said there is no reason for my fear,
‘Cause I feel so secure when were together.
You give my life direction,
You make everything so clear…

I swallow, hard. This really can’t be happening, right? I mean, this song? This is the one that fits? The cheesiest of cheesy, hokiest of hokey?

And even as I wander
I’m keeping you in sight.
You’re a candle in the window
On a cold, dark winter’s night.
And I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might…

Before I could hope to stop them, memories of dark days and long nights alone is Stamford swirl through my mind. How much brighter the world got after our impromptu marathon phone chat. I shake my head as though that will clear it, but all Pam does is nod slowly. And no matter how much I wish she wasn’t right, I know she is.

And I can’t fight this feeling anymore -
I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for
It’s time to bring this ship into the shore,
And throw away the oars, forever…

‘Cause I can’t fight this feeling anymore -
I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for.
And if I have to crawl upon the floor,
Come crashing through your door,
Baby, I can’t fight this feeling anymore…

We both stare at the screen in silence while the song finishes. Once it’s done, I snag the remote and turn off the television. It’s still silent, for a long time. Finally, Pam looks at me.

“Well.”

“Yeah.”

“Guess that’s it.”

“Guess so.”

“Who would’ve thought REO Speedwagon, huh?”

I stand and pull her up with me. “Let’s go to bed. And never speak of this again. To anyone,” I suggest somberly. Pam gives me a wily grin as I wrap my arm around her.

“It does work, like, eerily well - you gotta admit that,” she teases as we head down the hall.

“How does that fit into ‘let’s never speak of this again?’”

“I’m sorry. I can’t fight it.” When I sigh she just giggles again, then goes on tiptoe to give me a kiss. “I love you,” she murmurs.

“I love you too.”

“A lot?”

I grin. “Of course.”

There’s a pause.

“Enough to throw away the oars, forever?”

“Oh that’s it.”

You thought maybe it would never happen. Oh sure, you’d bickered before, but it was over silly issues, and you’d always resolved things so quickly it was almost as if it hadn’t happened. Maybe it’s naïve, to think that this relationship is somehow untouchable, too perfect, above falling into the traps your previous one had. You just never anticipated a real fight, and maybe that’s what made that first one so bad; if there’s something you can’t stand, it’s being unprepared.

To be fair, the odds stack early and heavily in favor of this being the day such a thing would happen, so perhaps it shouldn’t have taken you so off-guard. It’s the day after the fun run et cetera, and as “nice” a day as that one was, this one is most assuredly not. Your running shoes apparently weren’t broken in like you thought they were, and five kilometers was enough to give you a nasty blister on your heel. You can also say with fair certainty that some sort of epic war is being staged in your reproductive organs, and of course Jim doesn’t have any Midol at his apartment. You swear you left a bottle there last month, but he insists you didn’t (although he has been known to lose things before, which you don’t bring up but couldn’t help thinking as he shrugged helplessly at you). You two are running late (another fact that only serves to make this day a bad one), so you don’t have time to stop at the Rite Aid on the way to the office to get more, thus the battle rages on as you take a seat behind your counter. You have hours of angry messages to deal with after yesterday’s absence, people who no doubt got extra agitated after listening to the message that Michael made you record. Just as you’re listening to the ranting from a Robert Johnson, who’d left three messages about a mixed up order, Jim instant messages about lunch. It’s only nine-thirty and you don’t have much to say on the topic, but he keeps “talking,” despite your one-word answers and lapses between responses. Finally you just shut your instant messenger off because you’re swamped. He gives you a hurt puppy look and you point at the phone and return a look of your own that’s probably not as apologetic as you hope.

When lunch time finally does arrive – days later, it seems – you want to vent to him about your awful morning, but instead he spends much of the break discussing fantasy football with Kevin. For the life of you you can’t figure out why this is so important (it’s fantasy, as in not real), but you remain quiet and pick half-heartedly at your sandwich. Just as the time nears to get back to work he gives you a bright smile. It’s an expression that never fails to make you grin as well, but today it just doesn’t hold its usual power. Because you’re sure that all you gave him back was a grimace you squeeze his shoulder as you stand and head back to your pile of paperwork.

He’s eager to head out that afternoon and tries to push you to just leave everything you haven’t finished for Monday, but you hate coming in after the weekend with work already waiting so you make him wait, which he proceeds to do like a five year old. You get so irritated with his constant interruptions that you have to actually hold your tongue between your teeth to prevent you from snapping at him. You make your way through your remaining responsibilities as quickly as possible, sure that you’ve made a few mistakes on that last form but past the point of caring.

You stop at Gerrity’s to pick up groceries for that night’s meal – you two had planned to get as many dinners out of the grill as possible before the first cold snap hits. He heads to the butcher’s counter for steaks and you take the cart in order to retrieve salad fixings. You relish the opportunity for a minute alone and attempt to clear away the irritation you’ve been plagued by all day. It’s the weekend, you have no plans but to spend time together vegging – there’s no reason to feel so off anymore. You manage a smile as you snag a bottle of Catalina dressing from the shelf and stroll further down the aisle. He catches back up to you as you stand contemplating the crouton offerings.

“Got the steaks and a couple potatoes,” he announces, holding up a white papered bundle in his left hand and the bag of produce in his right. “Are you set?”

“I’m just trying to pick which croutons to get.”

He smiles. “You know you’re the most indecisive person I’ve ever met, right, Beesly?” he asks in the teasing tone you know so well.

And with that seemingly innocuous comment, your newly-found attitude improvement heads for the hills.

You angrily grab a bag of garlic and cheese croutons and throw them in the cart with a force that will no doubt leave you with mostly crumbs to sprinkle on your salads. Without a word you steer the cart back towards the front of the store at a brisk pace.

“Whoa, hey,” you hear from behind you. He jogs to catch up. “What was that?” he murmurs.

“I decided,” you state, without turning your head.

There’s a pause, then a whispered “ooo-kay,” which doesn’t make you feel any better.

Checkout is a silent affair, as is the drive home. In your peripheral vision you see him glancing at you every few moments, but you sit with your arms stiffly at your sides and keep your focus on the road. At his apartment he parks the car but he keeps his hands on the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead.

“Do you still want to do this? Have dinner, I mean?” he asks quietly, uncertainty dripping from his every word. As if you could not decide this on your own, as if you had to be pressed to make another choice.

“Yes,” you answer evenly.

He sighs but says nothing further, gets out of the car and unloads the bags from the back seat. You follow a few steps behind him to his door. Once you’re inside he takes the bags to the kitchen where you immediately begin unpacking them. He heads out his sliding door to his small patio space and begins putzing with the grill without a word, almost looking like he’s running away from you. Well, not running, but definitely briskly walking away. You take a few deep breaths as you search his cabinets for a big bowl, then wash the produce under icy water.

You know he didn’t mean his joke that way – he’s teased you about it many times, and it’s true. You’ve always had a hard time making choices, no matter how big or small the issue. Hell, one only has to study a highlight (or lowlight) reel of the past year to see how true it is. But that’s why it rubs you the wrong way – Jim himself was the subject, and victim, of most of that indecisiveness. You both know it, so keenly it hurts, even though you never talk about that.

He had presented you with a choice last spring, and you had floundered. But it was the first time he had ever expressed his feelings so openly. Yes, you’d known how he felt, on some level, but not to what degree; you hadn’t spent years dissecting his every look, every word, for deeper meaning like he had done with you. He’d expected you to, hoped you had.

So when he came back that was exactly what you’d started doing. That’s why you can’t help but read deeper meaning into his joke. Usually decoding his statements and actions rewarded you with gems: a simple compliment on your outfit bears witness to how beautiful he thinks you are. A chuckle at a joke you tell whispers how charming and funny he finds you, still. A hand on the small of your back as you take a walk says I’m proud to be with you. I love you. I want to take care of you, always.

But reading into his teasing at the grocery store leaves you with an assessment that seems harsh – sure, surging hormones are partially to blame, but to you it screams oh, same old Pam. Always unsure about what she wants. Granted even if that’s what it means it’s meant affectionately, but it’s not fair. You’ve tried so hard to start being someone who makes choices confidently, quickly. You’re getting better all the time, but a change doesn’t come overnight.

You attempt to focus on cutting up the vegetables so that you don’t slice off a finger. Jim comes back in and takes the bundle of steaks off the breakfast bar where you’d set them. “Can you grab me a couple plates to set these on?” he asks in a low tone, as if he’s scared of you now. You feel partly guilty, partly irritated by that reaction, but you give him what he asks for and he half-smiles a thank you, retreating to the patio again.

Once everything’s done you take a seat at his kitchen table together, still in silence. You want him to ask what’s wrong, even though you don’t know what you’ll say in response. “That joke about the croutons really hurt me” seems so irrational and girly, even if it’s true. Maybe it’s just better to pretend nothing happened, because honestly not much happened. When he sprinkles a few extra croutons on his salad, it’s just as you predicted: the bag is mostly dust now. He eyes you and seems to ask with his eyes if this is funny yet, but you can only stare back at your plate, chewing a bite of your baked potato slowly.

“Are you okay?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, I guess.”

He gives you a look that tells you how much he doesn’t believe that. “Come on. What’s the matter?”

“I just had a really bad day.”

“Why?”

You stare at him now. “Did you not see me dealing with all those messages today?”

He nods. “Sorry about that. But at least you had a good day missing the calls.” He smiles genuinely now.

You shrug. “I’d kinda trade it in to not have been so busy today.”

You catch his eyes dropping for a second, looking hurt, before he meets your gaze. “Sorry,” he says again, quietly.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“I feel like I should.”

You’re intrigued. “Why?”

He looks caught off guard. “Because I don’t want you to have bad days,” he answers after a moment.

“Oh.”

There’s a pause.

“Is there something else I should be sorry for?”

“I guess not.” It’s so passive-aggressive and you hate that, but if he can’t think back to an hour ago maybe he kind of deserves it.

It’s quiet again, then he almost whispers, “Could’ve fooled me.”

And you are shocked by the slight edge in his voice, because if there’s one quality you’d attribute to Jim it’s eternal patience, especially with you. You raise your eyebrows at him, but he is staring fixedly at his steak. This is the first time you’ve heard this in his voice, or the first time in a long time. The last time you’d heard it, it had colored his words when he answered your defenses of Roy. It brings you back to memories you’d rather forget, memories that underline your indecisiveness.

“You want to know what’s wrong?”

“Yes,” he stresses, sounding relieved.

“Why did you say that, at the grocery store?” He looks clueless “That I’m just so indecisive.”

His eyes go wide and he shakes his head. “I was just…it was a joke. About the croutons.”

“I know it was a joke. But sometimes you just…there’s a grain of truth in every joke.”

“Not that one.”

“Really? You’ve never thought I was someone who couldn’t make choices?” The look in his eyes is so fleeting that if you hadn’t been watching him intently you would have missed it, but it answers the question for you. “That’s what I thought,” you say, poking at your remaining steak.

“Pam, come on. You’re making something out of nothing. It was a joke. That’s what we do. We joke. Right?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

And then a silence.

“Clearly it’s not okay,” he says.

“I told you what upset me; you said you were kidding. It’s fine.”

“Uh huh.”

You stand and head behind the breakfast bar, snagging the bottle of Midol you’d purchased and taking two. He watches you and his eyebrows raise, as if to say thank God. You know that look: Jim is a man unlike any other, but apparently even he is susceptible to that guy tendency to chalk up bad moods and hurt feelings to PMS. It feels like a dismissal, but you vow that you won’t push it. You refuse to instigate any “What was that look for?” discussions, because you’ve had too many of those in the past. Besides, that question leads to fights – it never fails. And that is terrifying. You don’t know how to fight with Jim. You never have; you have no idea what’s off limits to say, what crosses the line. You and Roy both knew those things about each other; your fights were almost scripted, they’d been so similar time and again. You purse your lips: this night can be salvaged somehow; this will be your contribution to the cause, to let that look go. Because he’s not wrong, although you don’t like that your feelings are attributed to a “monthly friend.”

You ponder finishing the rest of your dinner, but you just don’t feel hungry anymore so you take your plate to the garbage. Jim is still methodically eating, staring at some mystery place on the wall. After your plate is in the sink you take a beer from the refrigerator and, after a moment’s hesitation, join him at the table again.

“How are your feet after yesterday?” you ask tentatively, hoping this will somehow get them out of this.

“They’re fine.” His tone is still a bit clipped, a bit wary.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

You pick at your beer bottle label, hoping he’ll take the lead and steer this conversation somewhere else, but he doesn’t.

“Is there something wrong?” you ask in a tone that you hope isn’t sarcastic, because it isn’t meant to be. He half shrugs.

“I don’t know.” He sighs, sits back, rubs a hand over his face. “You’ve just seemed so…upset all day, or mad at me, or something…” He shakes his head. “I thought yesterday was a really good day, and here you are…not thinking that, I guess.”

You resist the urge to ask Jim if he too is suffering a bit of PMS, because you hadn’t really said that and it seems a bit melodramatic. “Yesterday was a good day.”

“Does this have something to do with them knowing now? The camera guys, I mean?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m the one that spilled it. Why would that bother me?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. That people know now.”

“Why would people knowing about us bother me?”

“You’re sure it doesn’t?”

And there it is again – that assumption that your first answer isn’t always the right one. You pick at the label more furiously. “Yes. I said yes. Jeez.” You look up to see him watching you. Is it so unbelievable to think that this questioning might bother you?

He sighs, then forces a smile. “Can I get anything right today?”

“Don’t do that.” It’s out before you can stop it.

“Do what?”

“You sound so…put upon. Like I’m just too much to deal with today. I’m sorry I’m moody, but you sound like R—“ You manage to stop yourself, but not in time. Despite never fighting before, you do know one thing – don’t talk about Roy. Jim had never asked you not to, and frankly you weren’t compelled much, but out of courtesy you never share a lot about your life with Roy. You figure he appreciates it, because he never asks. The same works in reverse with Karen. It has just never seemed relevant – you two are forging your own history, adding to the already rich tapestry you’d woven in your friendship, and the past just doesn’t matter anymore. Oh sure, there are times you want to ask things about Karen, about their relationship, but you just don’t. Other girlfriends are fair game, but Karen – as good of a person as she was – is the physical embodiment of what you could have had if only you’d said yes. She is the final obstacle you’d had to overcome, and you aren’t sure there will ever be a time when even her name won’t bring a profound sense of melancholy bubbling to the surface. His eyes narrow.

“Like Roy.” He spits it out, as if it he’d taken a bite of something that tasted awful.

You don’t say anything.

“Well that’s great.”

“I didn’t mean it like…it’s not a comparison thing—”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“Jim, don’t.”

He sets his plate down on the counter with a clatter. You recognize the look on his face immediately; he’d worn it so many times as you’d thoughtlessly confided in him about this or that spat with Roy. “Okay, I ‘won’t.’”

“I was just saying…that…”

“That he was an insensitive jerk to you, and apparently I’m being one too.”

“He wasn’t an insensitive jerk.” You don’t know why your first instinct is to defend Roy, not Jim. Maybe an old habit resurfacing.

He is looking at you in disbelief, then smiles, but without joy. “No. Of course he wasn’t.”

“He wasn’t. I mean, we had problems, but…” You let that statement trail off, unsure of how to finish it. There is a long silence, so long that you think it’s a good time to head to the bathroom, splash some water on your face and regroup. Just as you enter the hallway, you hear him finishing your sentence.

“But aside from him not caring about you, or your thoughts, or your feelings, or your talent, or what you wanted in life, or anything like that, yeah, he was essentially a really good guy.”

It had come out in a rush and freezes you in your tracks. Slowly you turn and take the three steps back into the kitchen and take Jim in. He looks overwhelmed, having just voiced thoughts that had no doubt been locked in his head for years. You are stunned, but feel blood rising to your cheeks, because…why now? And really, was that all the credit he could give you, that you had just mindlessly stayed with an asshole?

“He did care about me,” you whisper.

Jim snaps out of his daze, glances at you, then turns away. “Mmm.”

“He did, Jim.” You reach up to your necklace. “I’m sorry you’re hurt…you know, that I said what I said.”

“Should I not be?”

“I don’t know! I don’t hate Roy like you do. But don’t…drag him through the mud like that. He’s a good person.”

Jim just stares at you. “Are we talking about the same guy that came after me a few months ago? ‘Cause then yeah, he’s a great guy.”

You frown. “He shouldn’t have done that. I agree. But what would you have done if that was you, and you’d heard about…” you wave your hands vaguely, “heard that I’d done that?”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“You mean if I had been with you.”

He nods just slightly.

“That’s not fair. I didn’t…you know I loved him once too.”

His brows furrow. “What is that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You think I don’t know you loved him?” He turns away and angrily empties his plate into the trash “Of course I know. I watched it, I saw you two together. Everyday, Pam.”

“I know you did. And I’m sorry…I’m so sorry that that hurt you.”

An agonizing pause.

“Are you sorry you were with him?”

You don’t know how to answer this. Roy was such an integral part of so much of your life. You’d grown up together, then grown up apart. He’d been key in you becoming who you are, the good and bad. And there were a lot of times when you were happy together. But you are sorry that on that warm May night under a single desk lamp, while you wore that silly dress that was far too fancy to wear to a silly office event and he kissed you in a way that made you feel so alive, you didn’t give Jim the answer he wanted; the answer that rattled around in your head and your heart for days – months – afterward.

But before you can even begin to explain that dichotomy, he’s taken his answer from your silence. His eyes turn hard. “Never mind,” he mutters.

“You didn’t even give me any chance to explain.”

“Just…really. Forget it.”

You wrap your arms around your waist and lean against the wall. “I think we’re a little past just ‘forgetting it,’” you say. Jim grabs a beer of his own, slams the fridge and heads to the couch. He falls onto it and puts a hand through his hair.

“Okay. Explain.” But it’s clear he isn’t interested in whatever you’d say.

“Should I bother? You’ve already assumed…whatever.”

“No. Go ahead.”

“We got together when I was sixteen, Jim. Do you realize how much we’d been through?”

“Obviously.” His tone is neutral, and you are praying that he stops picking this scab.

But he can’t. Obviously.

“High school sweethearts.”

“Don’t do that,” you say again fiercely. “Don’t dismiss what I had with someone else, just because he wasn’t you.”

“You think that’s what I’m doing?”

“Yeah. Aren’t you? You thought I needed saving from him, or…or something. Like I was a damsel in distress. It wasn’t like that. It just…I needed time to figure it out..”

“A lot of it,” he almost whispers. It feels like a slap.

“Obviously,” you parrot back at him. “What do you want me to say?”

“What do I want you to say?”

“Yes.” You hold your arms wide. “What am I not saying that will make you happy?”

He drums his fingers on his knee at a rapid clip. “It’s not on me to tell you what to say.”

“It sure as hell feels like it is, because what I’m coming up with isn’t cutting it.”

“Dammit, Pam.” He looks up at you. “Why can’t you just say that he was wrong for you? Just for once…say it.” His voice cracks on the last two words and he looks out the screen door.

You blink back the sudden tears that have risen. How had this spiraled so quickly to this point? Had a joke in the condiments aisle really led to this? “Because I thought me breaking up with him made that clear! Because I thought me being happy with you made that clear! Because I thought that when I say ‘I love you, Jim,’ that it was clear where I am now! That this?” You point back and forth between the two of you. “I thought us being together was enough! You’re asking me to just write off any of my life that didn’t involve you.” You take a deep breath. “I’d never ask you to say that Karen was a mistake.”

“I will. Karen was wrong for me.” His expression silently adds See? Not hard at all.

“But I don’t need you to! I have faith enough to know that ultimately…that…for whatever reasons you dated her, that you made the choice to be with me, in the end.”

“I did choose that. Yes.”

You can’t read his tone, but your blood boils as he hits that raw nerve again. “Fine, Jim. Yes. You make good choices and I don’t. You know how to decide things and I don’t. Jesus, if that’s what you want to say then say it,” you say loudly. “I can’t choose croutons. I can’t choose internships. I can’t choose men. I can’t do anything.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“Isn’t it?” You stare at him, challenging him. He just stares back. “I get it,” you continue. “I messed up once, and it was huge, and I’m sorry. You punished me enough dating Karen. Don’t keep punishing me now, even if it’s just a joke.”

“I didn’t date Karen to punish you.”

“It felt like it.”

He sighs again. “Come on. You want me to give you the benefit of the doubt with Roy, but you think I stayed with Karen just to make you feel bad? That seems a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. It felt like it. I didn’t know what you were thinking. You hardly talked to me then.”

“What was I supposed to say? I’d been there, Pam. I’d been the one to hear about all that stuff!” You know what that means: You hurt me with that tactic. I wasn’t going to do the same, treat you like just a friend.

“So it was all or nothing, and you chose to give me nothing. For months.”

He laughs mirthlessly. “Wow. Yeah. I guess I chose that. It had nothing to do with you,” he fires back sarcastically. He picks up the remote, then throws it to the end of the couch. “All you had to do was say the word—”

“I did!” you cry, then rub your eyes and sink down the wall. “I did choose, Jim! And I chose you! Maybe not when you wanted, or how you wanted, but I did choose! Why can’t that be enough?!” You can’t think straight, because the comments are too rapid-fire now. You’ve dug up too many issues; everything is getting too broad and all-encompassing, and you know now that no matter how fantastic the last few months of bliss have been, it was a bad idea to never have hashed this out in the beginning. Time had not healed these wounds; it had actually done the reverse. You had both lived with these tiny miseries every day and gotten used to them; having them laid out now, when you’re both finally happy, amplifies their ability to hurt you.

He stands and you almost think he’ll take a timeout, leave for a few – Roy always had, and while you hate comparing the two, you can’t help it sometimes because that’s the extent of your relationship experience. Plus you know that Jim hates these kind of…well, fights. He’d said as much. But instead he comes to join you on the floor and puts an arm around you. You lean into him and cry quietly, repeating “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” as you do. He says nothing, just rubs your back slowly and occasionally kisses the top of your head. Finally you take a shaky breath and look up at him.

“We should’ve…” you begin.

“Yeah.”

You wipe your eyes. “I didn’t know all that was still so…there.”

“I didn’t either.”

It’s silent again.

“Do you really feel like I hold that over you? Everything…before?”

Your immediate instinct is to say no, but if there’s a time to be honest it’s now. “Yeah. In some ways. Maybe just in the back of your head, but yeah.”

He nods slowly and looks at the carpet. “You’re probably right.”

“I do it to myself, too.”

“Don’t.”

You just shrug. After a moment he stands and holds out a hand to you. You get up too and walk with him to the couch. You take opposite sides, because this is still going on and you still need a little space. You reach for a throw pillow and rest your head on it. After a few moments of quiet you look at him. “He wasn’t a bad person, Jim. He’s not amazing like you and our relationship wasn’t amazing like this…” He smiles just slightly at that. “I can see how you’d think he’s…but there were times that were really good too.”

His jaw clenches, then relaxes. “Tell me,” he finally requests. Your eyebrows shoot up.

“What?” You wonder if he’s being masochistic, asking this.

He can’t meet your eyes but he is sincere when he repeats, “Tell me about times when you were happy.”

“Really?”

He nods again. “I never asked before…didn’t want to know…but…yeah. Tell me.”

You reach out and take his hand, and you start talking. And while he never looks thrilled by your tales, he’s attentive. He asks questions, grins occasionally. You fall back into these memories easily, because you’d chosen to value them above the other, darker ones. The whole thing is a release, invisible weights being removed one by one. And after you finish you ask about Karen, things you’d wondered but never voiced, and you see the same release happen to him. It is hard not to be stung by the fondness in his voice, but not much – not as much as you’d predicted, at least.

Late that night you head to bed, after hours of talking and listening. You’re clearly both exhausted and neither of you instigate making love; instead he just pulls you to him and nestles his face in your hair; you feel his steady heartbeat against your cheek. It is more than enough.

“So what do we need again?” Jim questioned as he started the car.

“Um…” Pam glanced down at the notepad she held again. “Celery, ‘fat free bacon?’” She paused and they exchanged a shrug. “Wheat grass, water pills and…‘poop pills,’” she read, making a face at the last entry.

“Ah, Michael and his weight loss kicks,” Jim sighed. He took a peek at the list and frowned. “Wait, that’s it? The list looks longer than that.”

“Oh, I need to pick up a few things too. Just figured I’d save myself a trip after work.”

“Misuse of company time. I’m reporting you to Dwight.”

“Would you? Maybe I’ll get fired.”

“Aw, come on. You don’t really want to get fired. What would you do without seeing… Kelly every day?” he joked, almost forgetting to edit himself. Again.

“Know a heck of a lot less about Laguna Beach, that’s for sure.”

“True.”

“Never mind. I can’t afford to lose my job. Not before the wedding, anyway.”

The frequent appearance of the “w word” was as dependable as the tides these days.

“God, I’m just so tired lately,” she sighed, tipping her head back against the headrest.

“Yeah, me too.” As soon as he said it he realized that was a total failure of self-editing.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Why?” she asked.

“Oh…uh…just not been sleeping well. This week.” Or since the booze cruise, he mentally added. “Why are you tired?” he quickly tacked on, to divert the conversation away from him.

She threw a hand in the air. “There’s just so much to worry about with all this planning – did I call so-and-so about such-and-such? Did I tell that other vendor I’d changed my mind about the color of…I don’t know, whatever I had to choose a color of?” She laughed a little. “Did that even make sense?”

“Yeah.” The real answer was it was just another sentence in the epic novel he was mentally writing entitled Nothing Makes Sense Anymore.

Pam toyed with her necklace. “I just keep telling myself, ‘Pam, there’s only a couple more months. You can make it. Just get all of this over with already and you’ll be fine.’”

Jim looked over at her to see if this assessment made her sad, or if she seemed depressed that things had gotten to this point, but all he saw was a look of resignation. He tried his best not to frown, because it just didn’t seem like weddings to your supposed true love were the type of events you should want to “just get over with already.” That label was saved for things like dentist appointments. Or funerals for a great aunt. Or Michael’s meetings.

Then again, what did he know? Just another line to put in the novel.

But she was about to surprise him.

“Is it supposed to be this hard?”

He white-knuckled the steering wheel for a second. “What?”

He’d heard her, despite her whispering. But he had to ask.

“Um…” Her eyes were a little wider, as if she hadn’t meant to say that aloud (Join the club, he thought), and she started working her gold charm faster along its chain. “I just…it doesn’t seem like it should be this hard to…make things…work…I mean, like, the wedding and…”

(His runaway train of thought finished the sentence over and over: …and my relationship with a guy that’s just so clearly wrong for me…and the calling off of said wedding…and my burning love for you…and wanting to scream, “Jim, take me to bed or lose me forever!”

He pulled the emergency brake – or whatever it was called on a train - when his inner monologue started quoting Top Gun.)

Pam turned to look out her window. “Sometimes I…I just can’t remember a time when all this wasn’t the focus of my life. I can’t remember my life before all this took over.”

And he knew exactly what she meant. He was living it too, albeit not in the same way. It reminded him of a bout of walking pneumonia he’d had in college – he’d just thought it was a cold he couldn’t shake. Finally after two months he’d gone to the campus clinic, gotten diagnosed and was given heavy doses of steroids and antibiotics. And a few days later he’d had energy to spare, a spring in his step – it had been amazing, but he’d forgotten what being healthy felt like. Life was like that now, but instead he’d forgotten what it was to be truly happy. Oh sure, he had times when he smiled and laughed, enjoyed a night with his buddies, but never any real sense of joy.

Unlike her deadline of just a few months, there was no end in sight for him.

Pam was still looking out the window, but then she hung her head, and he knew it was on him to break her out of this funk. The pathetic irony didn’t escape him, ever – the guy who was miserable because he was so damn in love with her was expected to make her happy in these melancholic moments when her relationship with another guy got to be too much. He’d cast himself in this role so long ago, and she depended on it now. He almost hated her at times like these, when she was such a needy jailer, but the sad fact was he couldn’t; it was Stockholm syndrome at its purest.

Jim took a deep breath. “Well, you know what Oprah says,” he said on exhale.

Her head raised slowly. “What?” she asked, sounding more confused than anything else.

“What Oprah says. The wedding’s just one day,” he admonished her in a sing-song voice, wagging his finger.

A small smile tugged at her lips. “I don’t think Oprah says that.”

“Pam, don’t question me. I am an expert in all things Oprah.”

“I had no idea.”

“One of my many areas of expertise, really.”

“What are the others?” she asked, now smiling fully.

“Nacho toppings, Neil Diamond trivia and underwater penny stacking,” he listed as if it was obvious. She giggled, and the sound simultaneously made him smile and pushed the dagger into his heart a little further.

“Thank you,” she said quietly a moment later.

He shrugged. “It’s…”

…the highlight of every God-forsaken day.
…tearing me apart inside.
…because I love you.

“It’s what I do.”

“Seriously, Pam, it’s August.”

“I don’t care. I’m still freezing.”

“The thermostat’s set at 70.”

She gets up, heads for the hallway. “Are blankets in here? Behind these boxes?” she calls from the closet.

“Um yeah, I think…oh wait, no…” His eyes suddenly go wide and he springs off the couch. “Wait—”

There’s a thud, a yelp of pain and then Jim is there, looking down at his girlfriend under a heap of slim, brightly-colored tomes in plastic sleeves. She looks up at him.

“Booby trapped,” she laughs, scrambling out from under the pile of comics. Jim gives a half smile, but she misses it as she looks around at the damage. “This is…wow.”

“Yeah,” Jim responds slowly.

Pam points at the long white box, laying on its side with its contents spilling out. “That thing was full?”

“Um, maybe.”

“Wow,” she repeats. She’s back on her feet, on tiptoe, peering up at the shelf from which the comics had just fallen. “You have at least three other ones up there,” she marvels.

“Ah…yes.”

“All full?”

“No?” he guesses. Incorrectly.

Pam’s smile can’t be contained but she starts replacing comics in the box without another word. Jim runs his palms over his pockets nervously as he watches her.

“I can do that,” he offers.

“No. I knocked them down.”

“Pam, I got it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No really,” he says, sounding a little desperate. She studies him questioningly as he kneels and takes the books from her hands.

“Oh my God…are you putting them in order or something?” she finally asks.

Jim winces but continues. “Blankets are in my bedroom closet,” he mutters, checking an issue number.

----

“That’s a pretty sweater, Pam. Very autumn.”

“Thanks, Phyllis,” Pam replies, smiling down at herself.

“Where’s it from?”

“Um, the outlets. I think Gap maybe—”

“Is it true?”

Phyllis’s question was so quiet Pam isn’t sure she heard her. “Is it true…about the Gap?”

Phyllis is staring determinedly at the coffee she’s stirring. “No, is it true what they say about…big feet?”

Pam immediately glances down at her size seven feet in their brown flats. “I don’t…”

“Not you,” Phyllis whispers, glancing at Pam with one eyebrow raised suggestively.

The break room is eerily silent, and her reflection in the microwave door confirms Pam’s suspicion that she has, in fact, turned frighteningly pale.

“Oh,” she breathes.

“Because Jim must wear…what, a size thirteen?”

There is a long pause while Pam stares at Phyllis, whose eyes have gone wider.

“Fourteen?” she whispers, in a tone that’s distinctly hopeful.

“Oh,” Pam breathes again.

“Hey!” Jim chirps happily, suddenly filling the doorway. Phyllis looks between the pair and smiles knowingly.

“I’ve got…there’s…phone,” Pam manages as she hurries out.

----

Despite what he claimed later, she had knocked.

“Jim?”

“I don’t know what they want from me, it’s like the mo’ money we come across, the mo’ problems we see…”

Pam stops in her tracks. She’d never known Jim’s voice could get that high.

What came next – that is, after two deep “Uh!”s – is even more surprising.

“B-I-G P-O-P-P-A, no info for tha D-E-A…”

Yes, there are even hand gestures he fits in around sweeping the kitchen, distinctly white-guy-attempting-to-look-like-a-hardcore-rapper in nature.

“Federal agents mad cuz I’m flagrant – tap my cell and the phone in my basement…”

Pam has to lean against the couch so as not to collapse from laughing, as he’s taken to rapping the next few lines into his broom handle microphone.

“Gats in holsters, girls on shoulders…”

And it’s just as he throws his hands in the air that he spots her. His arms stay up for just a moment, then slowly lower, one hand removing his earbuds.

“Hey Beesly,” he attempts faux-casually.

“Hey.”

“Um…you’re early.”

She takes a deep breath to collect herself. “I am.”

“You…ah…I’m thirsty. Are you thirsty?” he asks, turning quickly toward the refrigerator.

She nods. “Word.”

----

“So I was thinking, maybe Saturday—”

It was quiet. At least there was that.

Quiet, but audible.

Jim’s eyes go wide and he leaves his musing unfinished; the blush of pure agony reddens Pam’s cheeks in what must be record time. She opens her mouth to offer excuse, but there is no squeaky chair or rubber-soled shoe to blame it on in bed. Her lips close again, but before her eyelids follow suit she sees Jim’s lips quiver just slightly.

“Please,” she begs, squeezing her eyes shut. “Please don’t.” She lets one eye open just enough to see that he couldn’t keep that pesky smile at bay.

“Did you just—”

“Please,” she moans, in a way she had before, in this very bed, but under drastically different circumstances.

“Wow,” he breathes, rubbing a hand over his face, as if to hide the fact that his smile has grown even bigger.

“Stop! Just stop!” She pulls the comforter over her head.

“Don’t do that – that can’t be a safe place to hide right now,” he laughs, wrestling the cover from her.

“Shut up!”

“I’m sorry,” he says through a chuckle, then takes a sobering breath. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and she chances a look his way, pouting.

“I can’t believe I…did that.”

“It happens,” he says, shrugging.

She heaves a deep sigh, feeling her cheeks start to cool a bit. “Anyway…what about Saturday?” she attempts to say lightly, as if that hadn’t happened.

“Oh yeah…I was about to suggest I take you up on your offer to find me some new dishes.”

“That sounds good.”

He nods. “And after that maybe we could try that new Mexican place. But then again…” The sparkle in his eye is unmistakably impish.

She dives under the covers again.

----

Despite the assurances that it would just be “a little get together,” her parents’ small backyard was full. Friends and family had come to congratulate Pam and Jim on their engagement, and the mood was festive as the late September sun warmed the crowd.

Not that they can see this from their current locale, but they appreciate the sentiment.

“Someone’s going to come looking for us,” Pam says against Jim’s lips.

“You’re paranoid.”

She opens her mouth to argue but Jim silences her quickly, walking her backwards towards a bed that still sports the purple comforter she’d picked out in tenth grade. They both laugh as they fall onto the mattress. One of his hands is in her hair and one’s just pulled down the zipper of her sundress when a gasp stops them.

They sit up to see a blond cherubic angel – in this moment Pam can’t remember her name or which cousin claims the little one - watching them in horror. Their expressions mirror hers.

“It’s not—” Pam starts.

“Oh hey—” Jim says at the same time.

There is a silence.

“Pam and Jim…are having…SEX!” the child announces, for the benefit of all guests and presumably anyone within a five mile radius, then makes a run for it.

Pam finally looks Jim in the eye. “Cute kid,” he mutters.

“Who’s paranoid?” she hisses as she reaches for her zipper clumsily, then climbs off the bed. Jim stays where he is.

“You go ahead. I’ll be in here, trying to turn invisible.”

“Oh-ho no,” Pam says as she pulls at his hand, flashing her ring under his nose. “We’re a team now, buddy.”

I know it’s still early when he gets out of bed. I peek with one eye at the alarm clock as he heads for the bathroom – it’s 9:06, to be exact. Okay, so that isn’t really early-early, but for us on a Saturday it might as well be four AM. I close my eye again and snuggle into my pillow, figuring he’s just going to the bathroom and wait for him to come back, crawl into bed and spoon up behind me.

When I hear the shower start a moment later, though, I attempt to break out of my groggy state. What exactly’s going on? We don’t have anywhere to be – we’d talked about Christmas shopping, but not until the afternoon. I wonder if maybe he’s going for a run, or up to the basketball courts to shoot hoops, but why would he shower before that? By the time he comes back in his towel, running another one over his damp hair, I’ve rolled over and sat up a bit.

“Hey,” he says, smiling before he opens the dresser to pull out a pair boxer shorts.

“Hey. Whatcha doin’?” I ask through a yawn.

“I just need to go take care of something real quick. I’ll be back in about an hour or so.”

“Ooo…am I getting a present?”

“No, greedy. Sometimes it isn’t all about you,” he teases, grabbing a sweater from another drawer.

“Seriously, where are you going?”

“I’m going to the cemetery,” comes the answer from inside his sweater.

I was not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

“Yeah. My parents asked if I could take the wreath out to my granddad’s grave, clean off the stone, that kind of thing. Today’s the first day the cemetery allows Christmas decorations, and with Dad’s arthritis and it being so cold, I just told them I’d take care of it.”

I smile to myself as he finds his belt because yes, this is exactly the type of thing that Jim would volunteer to do, early on a Saturday morning with six inches of snow on the ground. Granted neither of his brothers is close enough to make the drive in less than an hour, but even if they lived next door to the cemetery Jim would still gladly do this for his parents.

I give a final stretch, then get out of bed. He looks at me in the mirror above the dresser. “What are you doing? You don’t have to get up yet.”

I’m already taming my hair into an acceptable pony tail. “I wouldn’t be much of a future wife if I didn’t go with you,” I tell him, an elastic band in my teeth. He opens his mouth again, probably to argue, but I swat him on the butt as I join him at the dresser. “I want to, buddy, so just shut your mouth,” I warn as I give him a smile.

----

Twenty minutes later we’re on our way to the Dunmore Cemetery, my hands warming on a cup of coffee we’d stopped for at Dunkin’ Donuts. The sky is an icy blue, free of clouds, and it feels a little strange that on a day so beautiful we’re heading to a place that’s so sad, so devoid of life.

Jim seems like he’s in good spirits, but he’s also been quiet. I wonder what he’ll be like in this setting. After a year and a half together, as unbelievable as it seems, we haven’t had to attend a funeral, or visit a sick relative in the hospital. This is the closest we’ve ever been to death together, if that makes any sense. We’d actually known each other when his grandfather passed away several years ago – it was shortly after Jim had started at Dunder Mifflin, within his first few weeks. We were hardly friends, but I can clearly remember his somber expression and downcast eyes as he asked where he was supposed to get the paperwork requesting family leave. I’d arranged for a bouquet to be sent to the funeral home and I kept the sweet thank you note he’d left on my desk when he returned a few days later; despite signing the card from Michael and the staff, he’d somehow known that I had arranged the whole thing.

We had never talked about his grandfather much as friends, but since we’ve been together I’d learned, through both him and his family, that “Granddad” (who Jim was named after), had died suddenly. He’d had cancer, but it had been in remission and everyone had thought he was on his way back to being as healthy and active as ever. I also know that Jim and his grandfather were really close and, mostly from long chats with his mom, that Jim took after his namesake in a lot of ways: his sense of humor, his easy smile, his creativity.

It makes me ache sometimes that I’d never gotten to meet this man that meant so much to Jim, to know I’ve forever missed out on a part of his life; that I’ve missed any part of his life. I’m silly about these kinds of things, I guess. I’d gladly hop in a time machine just to get a chance to watch Jim on the playground with his elementary school friends. I’d love sit in the bleachers and cheer for him at one of his JV basketball games, give anything to have watched him cram in the library for one of his finals in college, highlighting lines in his textbooks like I’ve seen him do so many times on forms at work. I wish, somehow, I could have been a part of everything he’s done and been.

Thoughts like these make me worry that maybe I’m too in love with him, if there is such a thing; that I’m almost obsessed with him. It could just be that with Roy, our lives had been intertwined from day one, practically. Our stories involved the same people from high school; I’d known his family as well as my own by the time we graduated. So much of Jim was a mystery to me, despite the fact that we had almost spent every day together for years, hours upon hours of talking and storytelling. Jim had his own history, his own cast of characters that starred in a past that I didn’t know anything about. Since we’d gotten together we’ve spent even more hours sharing, but I’m always desperate to hear more, poring over photo albums and almost demanding to know even the smallest details. He just laughs when I try to keep him talking past a certain point - “That’s all I’ve got, Beesly,” he’s said so many times, but in some way it’s never enough. I can’t relive his past with him, but I’ll be damned if I haven’t tried.

As we drive into the cemetery small mausoleums line the side of the road, the light colored stone gleaming in the sun. This is the same cemetery my grandmother’s buried in, and as a kid I always imagined that those buildings were like miniature temples, or as I put it, “American pyramids.” I almost say that now, to lighten the mood because I notice that Jim’s expression has turned a little more solemn, but it doesn’t seem right so I just bite my lip as we pass them. I feel so…lacking, I guess. Despite knowing him better than anyone, I don’t really know where his head is right now. I want to be here for him if he needs me, but I’m not sure how - I just feel awkward and clumsy with him so quiet and unreadable.

Jim navigates through all the twists and turns, finally guiding us to a back section that has oak and pine trees scattered across it. He turns to me with a small smile. “Here we are,” he says quietly. I nod, for lack of any other response, and we climb out of the car.

I wait for him on the sidewalk as he retrieves the brightly decorated wreath and its stand from the backseat, shivering just a little. He slams the trunk and joins me on the sidewalk, gesturing with his free hand that we need to head to the left. I step as carefully I can over the blanket of snow, avoiding any gravestones I see. We’re silent again as we walk, maybe fifty or feet or so. Jim’s pace slows to a stop at and he nods ahead of him.

“This is it.”

He takes a few steps forward to wipe his gloved hand over the pink granite slab, wiping away the snow that’s settled over the words etched into the headstone’s surface. I glance to my left – there’s a small pine tree not six feet away, already decorated by some early morning visitor with silver and gold ornaments. “It’s really pretty out here,” I manage, then cringe, because how stupid does that sound?

Jim nods again, his back still to me as he continues tending to the ground around his grandfather’s grave and setting the wreath on its stand. “Yeah, it is. Grandma and Granddad picked this plot out themselves. They loved the trees.”

“Do you know who decorates? The pine tree, I mean?” I ask, because it’s something to say.

“Um, I think it’s the woman whose mom is buried right there,” he replies, pointing at the grave next to his grandfather’s as he stands again. I take a step or two closer to him and he gives me a half grin. “Makes it more festive, huh?”

For a split second I wonder if he’s teasing me, but then I realize it’s his way of letting me know – maybe subconsciously – that he needs this, needs our lighthearted banter, so I find a smile. “Very,” I agree. He grins fully now, his eyes issuing a silent thanks before turning their gaze on the headstone again. Mine follow suit, and I’m taken aback when I read what’s engraved there.

HALPERT tops the wide stone, centered and in a font my graphic design-addled brain recognizes as Copperplate Gothic. On the left is James’ name and the years he lived. However, to the right of that is Frances Jean; underneath the year 1925 and a hyphen.

His grandmother’s name and the year she was born. His grandmother, who is still very much alive, healthy and probably baking cookies in her tiny house in Dickson City.

My expression must’ve changed and Jim obviously notices because he clears his throat. “They picked out everything together,” he repeats softly. “When Granddad died, I thought it was really weird that…y’know, there was Grandma’s name too.”

“Yeah,” I breathe. He shrugs.

“I asked her if she thought that was morbid, because I kinda did. But she just sort of smiled and shook her head no.”

“It’s not morbid at all,” I say, and I mean it.

It isn’t that I’ve never seen a headstone like this before, or even one where both names are engraved even if only one person has passed away. It’s just that suddenly…I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s a portent of my future, but not at all dark or frightening. Don’t misunderstand: I’m “fancy” enough to admit that I am terrified of death. I’m even more terrified of losing the people I love, and Jim is at the top of that list. But seeing this doesn’t fill me with dread, like it might have at another point in my life. I actually feel calm, at peace – for maybe the first time, I’m suddenly so certain of just what it means to agree to marry someone, to tie your life – your whole existence – to someone forever. To know that even after all your days together are over you still want to be inextricably linked to the one you love.

That seems strange, because I was engaged to someone for years and almost took those vows that would’ve bound us for life. I can’t – and won’t ever – dismiss the love Roy and I shared, but I know I never had a moment like this when we were together. Maybe I got too caught up in wedding plans and daydreams; maybe we were just too young when he initially proposed for me to fully grasp what that promise of forever really meant. And, to be totally honest, I’m not sure that I even understood it this time, with Jim. Not until now.

I rub the backside of my engagement ring with my thumb and smile to myself, tears pricking at my eyes. I will never know Jim’s past in its entirety. No matter how many questions I ask, how many stories I hear, how many pictures I study, I will never know everything. And it isn’t that I’ve just suddenly lost interest in trying – I’m sure I’ll always want to know as much as I can. But this simple hunk of granite, glinting in the December sunshine, reminds me that I will always be a part of Jim’s present, and more importantly Jim’s future. We’re two people who are making one life together. One day there will only be one of us – because how often do people get the bittersweet happy ending of leaving this earth at the same time? Even then, somehow, in some way, we’ll still be together. That fact overshadows any of the past we haven’t shared.

I can’t be sure exactly what Jim is thinking, but I know it must be similar to what’s running through my mind, because when I glance at him he’s already looking at me with a soft smile is on his face.

“You okay?”

I nod, and tuck my hand into his. “I’m great.”

“Ready to go?”

“If you are.”

“Yup.” He casts another look at the stone, nods a silent goodbye and we walk hand-in-hand back to the car. Before I walk to my side I put my hands on his shoulders and press my lips to his. “What was that for?” he asks, rubbing my back.

“I…” I’m not sure exactly what to say, so I just kiss him again quickly. “Thanks. For letting me come,” I whisper. He smirks.

“Wouldn’t be much of a future husband if I didn’t.”

“So I have a really important question for you.”

“Uh oh.”

“Why do you automatically assume it’s bad?”

“Because you’re asking it.”

“Thanks, Beesly.”

“Welcome.”

“Seriously, question.”

“You sound like Dwight.”

“Wow. Unkind.”

“Truth hurts.”

“Are you going to listen?”

“You can’t wait for a commercial?”

“The future of our relationship depends on the answer.”

“Oh God.”

“If that is your answer, I’m extremely concerned.”

“I don’t even know the question, how can that be my…ugh. Never mind. Lemme pause…all right, what’s so important?”

“Who’s on your free pass list?”

“Who’s on my what?”

“Free pass list.”

“I don’t know…oh, like who would I…”

“Yes…?”

“Someone I’d want to have a free pass to, like, make out with?”

“Make out, yeah, or…whatever.”

“The future of our relationship depends on this answer?”

“Yes. And now you see why God was a bad answer?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know why God is a bad answer? Pam…”

“If I wasn’t so comfortable I’d kick you, jerk. No, what I don’t know is who’s on my free pass list.”

“Oh come on. I know there’s somebody.”

“I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Well start thinking.”

“…”

“Any day now…”

“I’m thinking!”

“What about Brad Pitt?”

“Eh.”

“’Eh?’ Are you allowed to ‘eh’ Brad Pitt?”

“I just did, so yes.”

“I thought he was every girl’s dream guy.”

“He’s good looking, but I just…I don’t know. I’ve never been that into him, I guess.”

“Okay, so, who does make the cut?”

“Um…ooo, okay, how about Paul Rudd? I’ve always liked him.”

“Ever since Clueless, I’ll bet.”

“Maybe. Please don’t start on your Clueless rant again.”

“It’s not a rant—”

“Here we go…”

“—but it always bears repeating: Clueless is one of the worst movies ever made. See? I said it calmly."

“I’m proud of you.”

“Who else?”

“Let’s see…maybe Ewan MacGregor?”

“Not a bad choice.”

“Is he on your list too?”

“Of course.”

“And…oh, Hugh Laurie.”

“He’s at least twenty years older than you.”

“No he isn’t. And even if he is…so? He has nice eyes. And he’s British.”

“He’s losing his hair.”

“And Matthew Fox.”

“Dr. Jack Cries-hard?”

“Very clever.”

“Thanks.”

“And Indiana Jones.”

“Harrison Ford?”

“No. Indiana Jones.”

“He’s not—”

“My free pass list contains Indiana. Jones. End of discussion.”

“…All right then.”

“And I can’t forget Conan.”

“…”

“What? I love Conan.”

“…Conan O’Brien?”

“Let’s think about it: tall, funny, smart, and a total dork. Hard to believe I’d have a crush on him, huh?”

“Touche.”

“I win. What’s that look?”

“I’ve just realized that, hypothetically, you’re kind of a slut, Pam—OW! Hey!”

“I take enough abuse from Angela, thanks. Who’s on your list?”

“Oh I don’t have a list.”

“Mmhmm. Seriously.”

“Seriously! I can’t help it that I’m more loyal than you.”

“You cheated.”

“I did not. And more importantly, I would not.”

“Not fair.”

“Totally fair. I guess I’m just a better boyfriend than you are girlfriend, that’s all.”

“…”

“Stop giving me the look!”

“…”

“Okay, okay…Natalie Portman’s not hideous.”

The first two weekends Jim had traveled to New York to visit, he and Pam had spent most of their time holed up in her room.

Sure, they’d ventured out for meals or a walk around the block, and Pam sometimes had to leave to take care of one of her prone-to-dramatics resident’s many crises. Aside from those necessary outings, though, they’d stayed in the cozy cocoon of her dorm room. Almost all of their time had been spent in bed. Obviously they'd made up for lost time physically, but even the most mundane activities had been conducted in Pam’s tiny twin. They'd rehashed their weeks in detail, even though they’d already done that by phone, laying side by side with their arms lazily draped around each other. They'd watched television - one weekend they'd made it through most of LOST’s first two seasons; the next weekend they'd split their time between The West Wing and Curb Your Enthusiasm. They had curled up with their cartons of Ben & Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream that they’d brought back from the cafeteria there. Even homework couldn’t escape the magnetic pull of the bed - Pam would sit against the headboard plugging away at her latest assignment while Jim had stretched out as best he could, rereading whatever he’d thrown in his bag to kill the time he knew she'd need to devote to school: High Fidelity. The Gun Seller. Sal Paolantonio’s latest on the NFL’s most over- and underrated players. Jim had loved it, adored every second. He'd liked being shut away from the outside world and its disruptions, and he hadn’t wanted to be an inch further from her than necessary, after so many miles had separated them for days that seemed to stretch on forever.

This weekend, however, was different.

Friday evening she’d taken him to an Italian café one of her classmates had recommended that supposedly served amazing risotto (he stuck with the flatbread pizza), then to a small pub where a local band was playing – Pam had heard about them from one of her residents and thought they sounded right up his alley (they weren’t bad, essentially Death Cab for Cutie impersonators). After spending the day wandering around the East Village, they were currently crammed into a tiny, sweltering gallery with a crowd largely dressed in black. The event – that’s what you called it, right? – featured the work a friend of one of Pam’s new friends, some guy that Jim thought graduated from Pratt last year but couldn’t be sure. He looked down into his plastic cup, emptied of cheap champagne, as conversation buzzed around him. Pam stood at his side, leaning against him slightly as she listened to the artist explain how tough it had been to convince the gallery owner to let him have a show.

“It was only after I got those pieces published in Altar two months ago that the guy relented,” he said, shoving his dark hair out of his eyes. “I kept telling him, mixed media illustration, especially when it draws on postmodernism? Totally profitable, but he’s so old school…”

Jim nudged Pam with his shoulder, and once she looked up at him he nodded toward the makeshift bar across the room. She nodded too, then returned her gaze to the artist, still explaining his epic struggle with the gallery owner.

At the bar, Jim fished a Heineken from a huge metal tub full of ice and popped the cap with the edge of the table’s assistance. He watched Pam from across the room – she was nodding along with the others in the small circle, tucking her hair behind her ear. He realized he’d never seen the blouse she was wearing before, and if pressed would never have picked it as one she’d buy. He was fairly certain her shoes were new as well, because he didn’t think she’d owned red and black ones back in Scranton, but even he wasn’t terribly observant when it came to shoes.

“Hey Jim.”

He jerked his head forward, startled at being addressed by name in a room full of people he didn’t know. Alex stood in front of him, snagging a beer of his own and smiling.

“Hey man,” Jim returned amiably.

“Having fun?”

“Oh yeah. Definitely. You?”

“Sure. Much better than watching the Angels,” Alex said, smirking in a way that suggested he’d much rather be doing just that. Jim chuckled. He’d met Alex on his last visit, briefly. He seemed like a nice guy, and Jim was a little surprised that someone so normal was an artist, too. (He hated how stereotypical that sounded, even in his own mind, but he’d already seen his fair share of pierced faces and tragically pale wraiths, so he didn’t feel like it was completely unfair.) He liked Alex, even though he could tell the guy was head-over-heels for Pam.

“So you and Pam worked together, right? Back in Scranton?”

“Yeah,” Jim answered, not bothering to correct Alex. They would still be working together in the future. At least for awhile.

“At a…?” Alex trailed off, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember…”

“Paper company,” Jim finished, raising his eyebrows. “Glamorous stuff.”

“Right, right. I remember that now. I know Pam was the receptionist. What do you do there?”

Pam’s verb was past tense. His was present. “I’m in sales.”

“Oh cool. I did the sales thing for awhile too, after high school. I was…pretty terrible at it.”

“I don’t know that I’m all that great either, honestly.”

“What are you talking about? You’re fantastic.” Pam appeared at his side, smiling up at him with flushed cheeks as she reached for another cup of champagne.

“Are you sure you’re talking about me?”

She gave him a smile, looking almost maternal in her pride. “They didn’t make you Assistant Regional Manager for nothing.”

“Um, agreed. No one was making me a manager of anything,” Alex seconded.

Jim half-smiled, shifting a little in discomfort. “At that company, I don’t know that that title implies much of anything.”

Pam rolled her eyes as she took a healthy swallow of champagne. “Stop that,” she admonished.

“What?”

“Selling yourself short.” Suddenly her smile widened. “Get it? Selling yourself?”

Jim just shook his head with a grin. Pam and champagne were a heady mix; last New Year’s had taught him it went to her head faster than anything.

“Well the place sure sounds…interesting,” Alex said, grinning.

“That is…one of many words you could use,” Jim said. “But it’s a paycheck.”

“Always important.”

“Plus as long as they have a hot receptionist…” Jim added, elbowing Pam, who shrugged.

“You’ll have a ‘hot receptionist’ for as long as you want. Can’t say the same about Dunder Mifflin,” she said.

“Guess I’ll need to start polishing my resume then.”

“So what do you think of the show?” Alex asked Pam, gesturing to one of the pieces on the wall behind him. Jim squinted at it: it depicted a flock of birds, drawn crudely in pencil yet with Photoshopped rabbit heads, and a weird little man in leg shackles and a bowler hat (and nothing else), staring up at them in wonder.

“It’s pretty cool,” Pam replied as she studied at the piece.

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh,” she said, but just for a moment Jim swore he saw a flash of some look from the past wash across her face – that uncertainty he knew so well. Before anyone could say anything else Pam gestured to Alex with her cup. “Have you heard anything about that show back in L.A.?” she asked.

“Oh, I thought I’d told you. My piece was accepted – the black and white one? I think I showed you…”

“That’s great!” Pam exclaimed.

“Congratulations,” Jim added, and Alex nodded a humble thanks at both of them.

“What about you? Did you hear back from the magazine yet?” he asked.

“No, not yet.” Pam answered, shaking her head and taking a sip of her champagne.

“I’m sure you will soon. The stuff you submitted was awesome,” Alex assured her.

“Thanks,” Pam said, tucking her head against her shoulder for a moment. Jim looked down at her. When he’d grabbed his wallet off her desk earlier he’d seen the top of a letter dated last Tuesday peeking out from under her Flash handbook. He hadn’t read it – not really - but couldn’t help skimming the visible first line: Dear Ms. Beesly, Thank you for your recent submission. We here at PRISM always enjoy seeing the work of new artists. However…

She hadn’t mentioned it and he hadn’t asked.

Shortly after they finished their drinks Pam eyed Jim. “Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Sure thing.”

Alex offered Jim a handshake and told Pam he’d see her Monday. Jim took Pam’s hand as they squeezed out of the crowded studio. Once outside he took a deep breath of clean night air.

“Sorry if that was boring for you,” she said, swinging his hand in hers.

“Not at all.”

She watched the pavement for a minute, then looked up with a gleam in her eye. “It was a little boring for me,” she admitted, biting her lip. He laughed, feeling…was it relieved?

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Plus Jakob – the artist?” She shook her head. “So full of himself.”

“I kinda picked up on that.”

“It’s just…I don’t know. He just kept talking and talking, and using all these crazy labels to describe himself, and explaining his work in these weird ways and…I don’t know. That isn’t me. I can’t be…I just want to draw, you know?” she tried to explain, her words tumbling out in a rush. Jim squeezed her hand.

“I know.” They were quiet again.

“So…do you want to go somewhere else? Stop for another drink or something?”

“It’s up to you. It’s your city.”

Pam laughed. “Oh yeah. I’m the next Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Well those are some fancy shoes you’ve got there.”

“Thanks!” She kicked a foot out further on her next step, wiggling it a little. “I guess we could go to that place on the next block. I can’t remember the name, but Ally said it was cool…”

“Whatever you want.”

Pam tipped her head, mulling it over. “Actually, if it’s okay with you I’d rather just head back to my room, maybe watch another disc of West Wing?” she finally suggested, hesitantly peeking over at him. He nodded once, again feeling strangely relieved.

“Sounds more than okay to me.”

If working with Michael all these years has taught Pam one thing, it’s to expect the unexpected. Apparently it was a lesson that wasn’t destined to stick, however, because she is stunned by her most pressing current desire: on her first Valentine’s Day with Jim, Pam wants to call Roy and start apologizing, profusely. In the effort to prevent herself from doing just that, she pulls the cuffs of her new red sweater a little further over her hands and crosses her arms, leaning back in her chair with a weary sigh.

The day had seemed so…great, at first. She’d gotten in early, excited to arrange Jim’s gift on his desk just so. They’d already discussed the holiday, deciding not to get too elaborate – she was paying for art classes and he’d recently had to replace the transmission on his car. Keeping in mind their “keep it low key” agreement she’d been proud of the little gift she’d put together for him – she’d bought a small metal lunch pail from Michaels, collaged it with panels from a Deadpool comic and filled it with miniature Snickers bars, Jim's favorite candy. On top she’d planned to place la piece de resistance: a watercolor version of Ralph Wiggums’ famous “I Choo-Choo-CHOOSE You!” valentine she’d made.

Of course Jim had beaten her to the punch and gotten in even earlier, because a vase full of gerber daises already sat waiting on Pam’s counter, in a pretty blue vase she’d admired at Target a week earlier while they’d looked for a gift for his sister-in-law’s birthday. When she’d looked up to give him a smile his face had been resting on his right hand, his favorite way of coyly avoiding her gaze. She’d tucked her bag of goodies for him under her desk as a happy blush had made its way up her neck.

Pam had to wait a good hour before she could finally get Jim’s gift on his desk. This wouldn’t have bothered her as much had she not, in that hour, discovered the following:

1. a perfect, poetic card that must have taken at least twenty minutes to find at Hallmark – one of those long, narrow ones that somehow never failed to get her misty-eyed when she read them – tucked into her drawing pad,
2. a box containing what had to be at least a pound of white chocolate Raspberry Stars from Godiva – sweets she adored but could never bring herself to splurge on more than two at a time when at the mall – hiding surreptitiously under a pile of papers next to the shredder, and most surprising
3. a beautiful etched silver locket – which she’d fallen in love with at a tiny jewelry shop in Dunmore they’d visited a month ago and cost more than she’d make in two days - wrapped carefully around her favorite pen.

With each find Pam had looked up at Jim, but each time he’d managed to find some way to appear busy. In fact, he hadn’t come up to her counter at all, surely setting some personal record for how long he’d managed to stay away from his favorite perch. After the necklace, instead of looking his way she’d glanced down at her Rite Aid bag containing his gift. There was no possible way she could just give him that, but she didn’t have anything else. Her mind had frantically sought out another idea – tickets to a Sixers game? An Amazon gift card? Finally ruling those too expense or generic, she simply gave up and – when he got up for another cup of coffee – rushed to his desk and deposited his gift, albeit with much less enthusiasm than she’d had just an hour before.

When he’d returned from the kitchen his face had lit up in a huge grin as he spotted his present, but rather than making her smile in turn, Jim’s happy reaction made Pam feel like hiding under her desk. Too wrapped up in the disparity between gifts, she hadn’t even gotten the chance to reciprocate his sly look-away and had simply given him back a timid smile when he’d glanced her way. Another blush had started to build, but this was one of embarrassment. She’d actually had to turn away before seeing how he’d liked the card she’d spent an hour on last night.

Pam hadn’t found any other secret gifts between then and lunch, which had helped her feel a bit better (although Jim was still avoiding her counter like the plague, so she couldn’t be sure the surprises were over). Just as she’d been about to join him for lunch the phone had rung. She’d flashed Jim a “one minute” gesture and grabbed the receiver.

“Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”

“Um, hello…is this Pam Beesly?” The voice hadn’t been familiar and instinctively Pam had looked at Jim’s retreating form.

“Yes it is.”

“Hello, Ms. Beesly. This is Andrew, from Michaelangelo’s.”

“Oh. Um. Hi.”

“I was told to call this number and confirm your 7:30 reservations for tonight,” Andrew had informed her kindly. Pam had bitten her lip.

“Okay. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. We’ll see you tonight. Happy Valen—”

But poor Andrew hadn’t gotten the chance to finish his sentence, as Pam had already replaced the receiver, dazed. Michaelangelo’s? No, it wasn’t the most expensive restaurant in the area but it certainly wasn’t the cheapest, nor did it in any way fit into the “low key” holiday that the two were supposedly sharing. She’d given the locket, draped across the top of her keyboard, a long look before she’d sighed and headed to lunch with a heavy heart. As she’d expected, Jim had just given her a smile when she’d slowly taken a seat next to him. She’d been more or less silent as he’d made his way through his lunch and the small pile of Snickers bars he’d brought with him and chatted with Toby and Kevin, who were planning to play poker that night.

Now it’s three o’clock, and Pam finds herself feeling sorry for Roy. After all, hadn’t he been in this position just two years ago? They’d agreed for the sake of the wedding to keep Valentine’s Day simple, and she’d snapped at him when she hadn’t gotten anything at work. (He’d had two dozen roses waiting at home.) Obviously Jim hadn’t snapped at her like that, but his not being put-out about her silly present was almost worse. No, it was definitely worse. Pam clenches her covered hands – dammit, why today? She never drops the ball on normal days! She leaves him sweet notes all the time, brings him silly toys and stickers from the vending machines at Gerrity’s. Why does she have to suffer such an epic fail on Valentine’s Day?

She vacantly stares at her plastic dish full of pink, red and white M&M’s, desperately in need of a refill after Kevin’s last visit to the counter. Pam knows Jim must have thought about this day a long time, planning elaborate scenarios all those years she’d spent Valentine’s Day with Roy. She understands and appreciates that, but she doesn’t need all of this. She never has. And as selfish as it seems, it almost irritates her that, despite their talk, he still went so gung-ho today. Really, just the flowers would have been enough!

Is there a way to explain any of this and not sound like the world’s most ungrateful bitch?

As she stews an instant messenger window pops up on her screen.

JIM9334: Hey you.

With another sigh she leans forward, freeing her hands from her sleeves.

Receptionitis15: Hey yourself.
JIM9334: What’s up?
Receptionitis15: Not much.
JIM9334: Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.

Pam wonders briefly if a punch in the face is an appropriate gift before she replies.

Receptionitis15: Thanks. You too.
JIM9334: Thank you.
JIM9334: Gotta say, that card? Kind of fantastic.
Receptionitis15: Thanks.
JIM9334: Hey, we didn’t have plans this weekend, right?
Receptionitis15: Not as far as I know.
JIM9334: Do you think you have time to pack a bag tonight?
Receptionitis15: What? Why?

It takes him a minute to respond.

JIM9334: They don’t make beet wine or tables here, but I thought it might still be halfway decent. :)

With a churning stomach she clicks the link, and suddenly she’s looking at the Tattersall Inn, an absolutely gorgeous bed and breakfast in Point Pleasant.

JIM9334: We need to check in by 7:00 so we’ll have to leave right from here tomorrow; I just wanted to make sure you’d have time to pack tonight.

But Pam’s had enough. Jumping to her feet she marches past him and into the break room, slamming the door behind her. Her one comfort is that the cameras aren’t here, following her around when she feels so awful. She leans against the vending machine and tips her head back, staring up into the fluorescent lights. A moment later the door opens and Jim wanders in.

“Hey, we can bring some beets with us if you want,” he jokes, but she puts her hand up.

“No. Just…just stop. Please.”

Jim’s face falls some and he quietly shuts the door again before stepping closer to her. “What’s wrong?” he asks, planting a shoulder against the machine and putting his hand in his pocket.

Pam bows her head, then raises it again and blows the stray hair from her face. “I just…I feel like an idiot, Jim,” she whispers fiercely, looking up at him.

“Why?”

“Why? Because we were supposed to…to not be making a big deal out of today! So I didn’t make a big deal out of today! And you’re over here being, like, Mr. Romantic Jones!”

Jim’s lips twitch just slightly but to his credit he doesn’t smile. “I love my gift, Pam,” he says in earnest. Pam groans.

“I know you do, but that’s…that’s not the point. We set ground rules, and you…you cheated.”

His expression resembles one that he usually flashes the camera after one of Michael’s many faux pas. “Um, I’m…sorry?” he attempts.

Pam smacks him in the shoulder, mostly in jest. “You should be.”

“Well, then I am.”

It’s quiet a moment.

She looks into his eyes. “You know I love everything, really, but it’s way, way too much. You don’t need to do all that. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but it’s…”

His lips twitch again, but in his eyes she can see he might have expected such a reaction. “Overkill?” he finishes knowingly. Pam smiles, shrugging.

“A little.”

Jim appears to think for a moment. “Hmm. Okay, how about this, then – we scrap Michaelangelo’s and grab a pizza instead?” he suggests.

“That sounds great.”

“Good.” He leans down and plants a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’ll try to be a less amazing boyfriend from now on,” he promises. Pam gives him a stern look.

“See that you do.” She squeezes his hand. “If you let me pay for half, I’d still love to go this weekend.”

“Are you kidding?” Jim scoffs. “You’re paying for the whole thing now.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” Pam reaches up and smoothes his tie, again happy that the filmmakers were gone so there were no microphones to pick up her next statement. “You did have one other gift I was going to…show you later, but I can’t afford the whole weekend so…” She shrugs again, sighing. “Ah well.” Jim’s eyes widen for just a second, then he feigns thought, rubbing his chin.

“No, you know what? Halvsies is good. I can do halvsies.”

“Oh good.”

He moves toward the door, but before opening it he points at her. “But just for the record it has nothing to do with that other present.”

“Really?”

He shakes his head. “I just want to try a B&B where there’s no poop being flung.”

“Fair enough,” Pam says, tipping her head innocently. “I’ll leave that other gift at my apartment.”

“Well let’s not get crazy.”

Jim always felt uncomfortable with the post dinner ritual at the Beesly household.

Men didn’t help with the dishes. They just…didn’t. In his own childhood home this would have been unthinkable, to simply grab a beer or a cup of coffee and head back to the living room to watch television while the women (or woman, as his mother was the lone female in his house), cleaned up, but here it was protocol. The first few times he’d had dinner with Pam at her parents’ Jim had tried to squeeze in front of the sink as well, but Linda had simply taken the dishes from his hands, laughed and pushed him away, telling him not to worry about it. He always felt a pang of guilt as he followed after Carl, turning to shoot Pam an apologetic frown. Pam would simply smile and nod toward after her retreating father. Deep down Jim saw some connection between this type of tradition and Pam’s lopsided relationship with Roy, but that was amateur psychoanalysis he kept to himself.

Tonight Jim was seated at the kitchen table with his coffee (he felt a little better at least being in the same room as the cleaning) – Carl had excused himself upstairs as soon as the meal had finished, supposedly to find something he thought would be of interest to Pam. Jim blew across the top of his mug as Linda and Pam discussed the upcoming season of Dancing with the Stars and who was rumored to appear. They were interrupted when Carl’s voice came booming down the stairwell.

“Pam, come up here! I found those drawings!”

“Why don’t you bring them down here, Dad?” Pam called back, wiping a casserole dish dry. No answer came and an awkward minute of silence passed. “Dad?”

“Why don’t you just go up there, hon? I’ve got this under control,” Linda said, her voice a little higher than usual. Pam glanced at her mother quickly; Linda flashed her a tight-lipped smile before turning to load the dishwasher. First giving Jim a confused look, Pam then headed for the stairs.

Jim took a deep breath as quietly as he could. The after-dinner ritual was always uncomfortable.

But lately, so was everything else here.

****

Twenty minutes later, Jim was sitting with Linda in the tiny living room, watching a Jeopardy! rerun. On the loveseat across from him she seemed anxious, alternating between picking invisible lint from her sweater and repositioning items on the coffee table in front of her. She turned to Jim, squinting a little.

“Did you get a haircut, Jim?”

“Oh, ah, nope,” he answered, running his hand through his hair self-consciously, then putting on a grin. “I probably need one, though.”

“Oh no, not at all. I just…I thought you looked different.”

“Maybe a little heavier after dinner. I’m pretty sure I ate a metric ton of that casserole.”

Linda smiled and gestured toward the kitchen. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything else? Another coffee? Or we have dessert…I picked up a pie at Wegman’s.” She started to rise before he could answer.

“Really, I’m fine. Thank you though.”

“Oh. Okay.” Linda settled back into seat, seemingly disappointed, and Jim almost regretted not just taking her up on her offer. She looked so…ready to flee. Her gaze repeatedly strayed toward the stairs, and Jim wasn’t sure if she was eager to have Pam and Carl return, or if their return was what she was so desperate to get away from.

Finally footsteps echoed from the stairs and Carl rounded the corner and entered, followed by Pam. One glance at his fiancée – and her father, for that matter - told Jim that old Crayola drawings of unicorns and rainbows hadn’t been the only reason the two had stayed upstairs so long. Her stare was vacant, fixed on some point on the wall behind him. For his part, Carl stood staring at the rug under his feet as if it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, hands shoved deep in his pockets. When Jim managed to catch Pam’s eye she blinked a few times, then pushed the most unconvincing smile he’d ever seen onto her lips.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked quietly. Jim almost sprang to his feet.

“Sure, yeah.”

He thought they’d be met with some resistance – Carl and Linda never let them leave without running through a list of “one lasts:” one last drink, one last chat, one last reason to keep them around a little longer. But tonight Linda simply nodded. “I’ll go get your leftovers,” she said as she hurried off. Carl heaved a deep sigh and raised his head, but only managed to meet Jim’s eyes.

“Thanks for coming,” he offered.

“Of course. Thanks for having us.”

Pam said nothing.

Linda returned, foil-covered casserole dish and pie box in hand. “You two take the pie.”

“We won’t eat a whole pie, Mom,” Pam said, working her locket around its chain.

“Well I won’t either.” Jim was struck by her pronoun choice: “I.” Singular. Linda shoved her offerings into Jim’s hands. “Neither will your father,” she quickly added. This wasn’t much better and all four of them knew it. “Just…take what you don’t eat to work. People always like that. When people bring in treats.”

She was clearly flustered. Pam and Carl remained silent.

“Don’t worry, the pie will get eaten. I promise,” Jim said, if only to end the awful silence.

Linda smiled gratefully at him, then stepped over to give each of them a quick hug. Carl just squeezed Pam’s shoulder. Barely responsive at best, Pam made her way out the front door first and walked quickly to Jim’s car.

Jim took the trip more slowly, enjoying a deep breath of frigid January air. He wasn’t in any great hurry to get in the car for the nearly two-hour drive. Once the leftovers were safely stowed on the backseat and the car was started, Jim reached over to take Pam’s hand that was resting on her knee. She squeezed back weakly. “You okay?” he asked gently.

“Uh huh,” was her automatic response. “I’ve actually got a headache, so I’m going to try and sleep it off while we drive. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

She gave him another clearly unfelt smile and settled down in the passenger seat while Jim backed the car out of the driveway.

****

True to her word Pam slept the entire ride home. Well, Jim was fairly certain she was asleep, although it was entirely possible she just faked it for the sake of not having to talk about anything yet. And really, there wasn’t much left to say on the topic of Pam’s parents that hadn’t been said repeatedly over the last few months.

Jim knew they’d been fighting regularly. Granted, he’d never seen this firsthand – they didn’t fight in front of Pam and him whenever they came to visit. What they experienced was the byproduct of an unhappy house. There was tension to spare, awkward silences and forced smiles that overwhelmed you. Carl and Linda rarely spoke directly to each other anymore, at least in the presence of company; instead they employed intricate conversational choreography that allowed them to talk to each other through their visitors. Occasionally if he was paying close enough attention he’d see a look one would shoot the other – looks of warning, scorn and hurt. He knew Pam always caught these looks, and the effort she put into maintaining a sense of normalcy was exhausting. She’d told him it was the same when she was younger: she had almost never seen or heard her parents fight, but it was always clear when they were, even if they denied it when asked.

However, now they didn’t deny it, which made it obvious just how serious things had become. In fact, Linda called regularly under the guise of discussing possible wedding plans or something silly she’d seen on television, but it wasn’t more than ten minutes before Jim would hear Pam sigh and say something along the lines of “Oh Mom, again?” Where once the drive back from the Beeslys’ had been filled with Pam chattering away about anything but her parents, attempting to free herself from the strain of the evening, now she was quiet. Since Thanksgiving she’d been near silent on their drives to Scranton, and it usually took her a good hour after they were home to act like herself again.

Jim wasn’t sure how to handle this, how to help her. This type of dynamic was so foreign to him. He came from a family that made no secret about how they felt. His parents were no strangers to arguing – sometimes loudly and lustily – but once everything was out on the table, they were able to forgive, forget, and move on. As a child, when he heard his parents yelling at each other he felt certain divorce was right around the corner. However, by no later than the following morning the two were back to normal, exchanging snarky yet loving remarks and kissing each other goodbye. He hated the yelling then, and as a result had never been one to fight unless he was practically shoved into it, but he found now that he almost admired the way his parents could air their grievances and really be all right afterward. It certainly felt healthier than the technique employed at the Beesly household.

Once they arrived back home Jim took the leftovers to the kitchen. Pam trailed along behind him as if in a daze. After he shut the refrigerator door he turned to see Pam wiping crumbs from breakfast into the sink, over and over. He leaned against the counter and watched her, but she didn’t stop. “Hey,” he finally had to interrupt.

“Hey,” she returned softly.

“We got our Netflix today. You wanna watch?”

“Um, sure.”

He reached out to push her hair from her face. She still didn’t look up. “Do you want to talk?”

Pam shrugged. “What’s there to say?”

“I don’t know.” Jim continued to watch her, restraining himself from grabbing her hand and stopping the robotic sweeping. “Did your dad really have drawings of yours upstairs?” He tried to keep his tone light.

“Yeah. Nothing important. Just some stuff from middle school.”

“Oh. Cool. Any hint of your later artistic brilliance?”

She didn’t smile, only shook her head. Thinking she would say nothing further and feeling as if he was stifling her, Jim turned to leave. Just as he reached the doorway he heard her take a deep breath. “Um.” He immediately turned back around. “He asked if we would mind him coming to stay with us, maybe later this week. For a couple of days. If things get bad again.”

Her voice was devoid of all emotion. He pursed his lips. Neither of them said a thing. The clock above Jim’s head ticked away the seconds.

Finally, Pam dragged her eyes away from the counter to meet his. “I told him we’d talk about it,” she continued, “and call him tomorrow to let him know.”

Jim nodded. “Okay.”

As she moved to the refrigerator, grabbing two beers and heading toward the living room, he silently thanked the powers that be that she hadn’t posed the question just then.

Because he would forever be ashamed that the only answer that came to mind was an emphatic No.

****

Pam was, thankfully, a heavy sleeper, so she wasn’t bothered by Jim’s tossing and turning most of the night. Sleep was elusive; he’d doze for a half hour or so, then wake suddenly. He gave up on the hopeless endeavor at seven o’clock. As Pam snored softly he threw on an Eagles sweatshirt and some warm-up pants, shoved his Phillies cap over his bedhead and his iPod in his pocket. He leaned over to give Pam a kiss on the forehead, then headed out the front door. Linden Avenue was silent, as was to be expected at such an early hour on a Sunday. Jim popped in his earbuds and started off at an easy jog. He’d never been much for early morning runs, but once in awhile it seemed to be the only way to soothe his mind when it raced uncontrollably. Times like now.

The issue of Carl coming to stay hadn’t been discussed any further the night before. Despite that, Jim couldn’t keep the question from his mind, and try as he might his first response was the only one he would have honestly been able to provide. He knew it was wrong, especially since Pam had held off from simply giving her father an affirmative answer on her own. She’d wanted to discuss it with Jim, which was a compassionate, respectful, amazing thing to do. What was wrong with him? This was his future wife, asking for a favor for her father. It would only be a few days. They had the space. It was hardly an inconvenience.

Right?

Wrong, his mind answered with conviction. It IS an inconvenience. I don’t want him to come here and stay.

And to his further embarrassment, his rationale’s first reason – the one he’d thought of before all the other more rational, less selfish ones? His pace picked up as he blushed just thinking about it.

Sex.

“Douchebag,” he muttered as he ran.

Granted they’d been having sex for almost two years at this point, but they were still in their honeymoon period in the house. It added a whole new thrill knowing that they were making love in a space that was theirs. It was overwhelming seeing her wearing a tank top his boxers in their kitchen, and they’d eaten quite a few meals later than planned. Similarly she’d teased a towel off his hips more than once as they got ready in their bathroom. Jim couldn’t imagine being comfortable enough to have sex with Pam in their bedroom while her father slept right down the hall. And what about on the couch? Or in the shower? Okay, so they’d only tried the shower thing once or twice and it was cramped and awkward, but still. There would be no further attempts while Carl stayed with them.

And how could anyone guarantee that it would only be a few days? How many horror stories had Jim heard of family houseguests that only intended on staying “a few days?” He’d grown up in Pennsylvania, home of the man who’d coined the phrase about fish and houseguests, and it was a warning Jim knew to be true. Carl was a great guy and Jim enjoyed the time he spent with him, but having him actually at their house? As a part-time resident? How long would it remain so pleasant? And Jim knew once Carl was there, neither he nor Pam would be able to ask him to leave – they just couldn’t.

Jim knew what the strongest reason was to oppose Carl’s staying with them, even if it wasn’t the first that came to mind. There was no doubt that the strain of having her father there – living proof of her parents’ rapidly disintegrating marriage in her home – would cause Pam nothing but upset. She would be miserable, with no escape from the stress. Jim already felt awful that he could do nothing to ease her pain, to make this better. He did his best to distract her, find ways to keep her mind off things, but every time the phone rang his heart sank with the nervous, sad expression that immediately took up residence on her face. Jim could do without the sex, albeit unhappily, but seeing Pam miserable day in and day out? That would be unbearable.

Jim slowed to a stop when he reached the quarry. He wiped the sweat that ran down his face despite the near-freezing temperature. He cupped his hands and blew on them for warmth, then leaned against the railing as he stared into the chasm ahead of him. He was starting to get cold, as his perspiration dried, but he resolved to just stay a bit longer. Dawn was only an hour away, bringing with it a day that was already slated to be harder than any he’d faced in a long time.

****

That night they sat folding laundry on the couch as Pineapple Express played. Neither was paying much attention and Jim debated just turning it off, but when they bothered watching for a few minutes here or there it was entertaining, and he secretly hoped it would help keep the mood light once they started talking about what they’d been avoiding. He knew he had to bring it up, tell the lie about how it was fine if Carl came, and move on. Because as much as he didn’t want to say yes, he knew - out of respect for Pam – he’d agree to it.

Carefully avoiding eye contact, he focused instead on the towel in his hands. “So have you called your dad yet?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pam shake her head. “We haven’t talked about it yet, so no.”

“Okay. Well…do you want to talk about it now?”

Pam shrugged. “I guess.” She set the t-shirt in her hands atop the pile of folded clothes, then fell back against the couch. “Do you…do you want him to stay here?” she asked, her voice small.

“It’s up to you. Whatever you want. Your call.”

Pam stared at the television for a moment, then looked back at Jim. “I don’t think I want him to,” she admitted.

Jim tried not to breathe a sigh of relief, but in his mind he saw a vision of himself jumping up and down in joy, spinning Pam around and yelling Thank God, me neither!

Something about this seemed off, though.

“How come?” he asked, still not giving her more than a fleeting glance.

“It’s just…I don’t want it to look like I’m siding with one of them or the other. And letting Dad stay here sort of feels like I am. Or like I’m agreeing that yes, being with Mom is unbearable.”

“I don’t think that’s what it means. And I don’t think your mom will see it that way.”

“I don’t either. She told me today she won’t. And besides…you know, I always listen to her. I take her calls anytime, and listen to whatever she says about Dad. I don’t really agree or disagree, I just listen, but…yeah.” Pam sat back up. “But I don’t know…there’s this part of me that just…this is our home. And it’s happy. And I guess there’s a really selfish part of me that doesn’t want that kind of…I don’t know, unhappiness, to be here. Invade here. This is…” Pam cocked her head and Jim finally looked into her eyes. “This is our sanctuary, you know?”

Jim smiled. “Yeah. I know.”

Pam smiled back. “I want it to stay that way. I feel like this is our time.”

“Me too.”

“So should I tell him no?”

And with that question, Jim realized he no longer had to give his okay, he wanted to.

He suddenly remembered the loving way Pam had recounted her parents welcoming her to come home after everything with Roy ended. He knew how much it meant to her to be accepted, even when so many people thought she was making a huge mistake. Jim knew this hadn’t crossed her mind yet, but that it would, and when it did she would feel guilty, and regret the decision she’d made. And by then who knew if Carl would be hurt, or what sort of chain of events her refusal might trigger. Jim knew he could do this one thing to save her from that. It was unavoidable pain now or unavoidable pain later – he wanted to just rip off the bandage now, when things were manageable. It was the least he could do in a situation where he could do so precious little for her.

And it eased some of his shame knowing she felt the same way about this whole situation that he did. She was just as sure that it would be difficult and painful having her father there. And knowing she had doubts too made him certain that, even with everything going on, things would be okay eventually. Well, for them - they’d be okay. It reminded him of the quote about faith untested not being faith at all. The same could be said for relationships.

“You know the rest of time is our time, right?” he told her, squeezing her hand. “This will just be a few days. I think it’ll be okay. This is absolutely up to you, but it’s fine by me, all right?”

Pam thought a moment. “You know I’ll need to lean on you through this? And that’s okay?”

Jim squeezed her hand again. “Pam, that’s always okay.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.” She leaned over and gave him a soft kiss. “I think you’re right.” She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered back, handing her the phone.