She doesn’t really notice him at first.

OK, that’s a lie. She notices him. Of course she does: him being hired is something new in the office, something to break up the tedium. When she first got the job a year ago, she wouldn’t have believed tedium was possible with Michael running the office and Dwight…well, actually, now that she remembers it, Dwight wasn’t quite as bad before. Still bad enough that the first thing she told this new hire was that he’d never forget the moment he met his deskmate Dwight, but more in the way that you might show off your roommate’s weird trained parakeet to a new friend (or, say, to your boyfriend Roy when he came to visit your first and only year of college), hoping that they’ll see what you see, that this thing is strange and odd and not as normal as everyone around you seems to think (although sometimes they just laugh distractedly and then whine about when you’re going to go out to “one of those cool college parties I keep hearing about”). The new guy got it, of course, but…wait, that wasn’t the point. She couldn’t let herself get distracted. Anyway. Dwight hadn’t been as bad then, just dour and reserved and still quite beet-obsessed. And Michael had still been Michael (or maybe just still was Michael now). So she hadn’t believed it would ever be tedious to work there: terrifying, yes. Dismaying, yes. Awful, maybe. But not tedious.

It had definitely become tedious by the end of the first year.

So the new guy was a distraction, and Michael’s sudden and obvious man-crush on him was even more of one, especially when it made Todd Packer (ew, Todd Packer) get weirdly defensive and aggressive all at once. He started calling the new guy “queer” and “gay” and a bunch of other words that meant similar things but were just straight up offensive so she chose not to remember them. She didn’t want to psychoanalyze anyone…well, not too much…but it almost seemed like Todd didn’t know how to deal with his own sense of being threatened in his male (she’d say homosocial but she didn’t like what he’d do with the first half of the word) friendships and was lashing out. Almost. Maybe.

But that was Todd Packer being distracting. The new guy was just that…a new guy. He did his work—not too much of it—he kept his head down—except when he was glancing up at reception with a grin in his eyes—and he quickly became an integral part of the office. He cheered up Toby, which was itself a miracle but not a distraction, and he dealt with Michael, and he tolerated Dwight. And that was it. They had lunch his first week there, and it was nice, and she got a vague impression that he might have liked her, but then she mentioned her fiancé before it went anywhere and they settled into a genial but boring routine.

It was barely worth mentioning.

If anyone noticed the new guy in her household, it was Roy: apparently he played basketball down at the local Y, and Roy and Kenny had gone down and ended up playing 2-on-2 with him and his roommate, and gotten their butts whooped in that confusing manly way that meant Roy liked him now instead of sulking like he usually did. Somehow it came up that they both worked at Dunder Mifflin (OK, it was probably the single most obvious topic of conversation beyond “nice jumper”), and then Roy started talking her about her new coworker occasionally. “How’s the new guy fitting in?” “Man, I don’t envy him dealing with Michael every day…no wonder he’s down at the Y so much.” “That new guy’s an Eagles fan too, he’s invited me and Darryl around to watch the game, be back later.” “Hey, that new guy in your office says Michael danced on a table today, is that right?”

It was weird, honestly, that she kept having to remind him that “the new guy” (several months into it and hardly new at all anymore, if she was truthful) had a name: Jim Halpert. It was like Roy had some kind of Memento thing with him: they kept running into each other but he had no idea who he actually was.

Apparently, neither did the new guy.

Five months into his time at Dunder Mifflin, he was hunched over her desk, whispering to her about Dwight (apparently the presence of another younger salesman had prompted something in the assistant to the regional manager, who had started pressing harder and harder on his sales calls to “establish dominance”) when Roy wandered upstairs to take her to lunch. It had been a while since he’d done that—she wished she could say it was an unpremeditated gesture of goodwill and love, but she might have happened to mention that it had been a long time at dinner earlier that week, so she knew where it was coming from—and apparently long enough that the new guy…Jim…hadn’t noticed it earlier, because she could definitely see a look of confusion cross his face when Roy bounded through the door with a cheery “Hey Pammy!”

Or maybe he was just confused about her name, since no one else called her Pammy. Either way, he drew back and she stood up and kissed Roy and they went out to lunch, and when she came back Jim Halpert was lounging by the copy machine. She slid back into her chair and he sauntered around the circular desk and popped a jellybean into his mouth. She busied herself with the messages she’d missed while she was out and waited for him to talk.

Eventually he finished the jellybean (how long did it take to eat one of those, anyway? And when had she started noticing things like how long it took him to eat a jellybean?) and glanced up at her.

“So.” He took another jellybean and twirled it in his fingers. “Roy’s your fiancé?”

She felt flustered. Why did she feel flustered? It was just the new guy. It was an easy question. “Yes?” Why had she asked it like a question?

“Huh.” He popped the jellybean into his mouth and chewed around the words. “Didn’t know he had a girlfriend.”

“Fiancée.” The correction was automatic by now, even though this wasn’t Roy speaking.

“Sorry. Fiancée. Didn’t know he had one of those either.” He grabbed another jellybean. “He’s a real monster on the glass.” He glanced up as if realizing that she might not know what he meant. “At the Y, I mean. Pickup basketball.”

“I know.”

“Cool.” He popped the third jellybean in. “Congrats, Beesly.”

When had he started calling her that?

Why hadn’t she noticed?

She refused to admit the next thought, but it slipped in anyway: why did it sound so much better than Pammy?

He always noticed her. Well, not literally always. There was the odd moment when he wasn’t entirely sure where she was or what she was doing, especially earlier on in their friendship. Well, not too early. Earliest on, after all, he still thought she was single and he was…well, he wasn’t licking his chops because ew that’s a disgusting metaphor and also because he was Jim Halpert not James Bond, it wasn’t like gorgeous funny intelligent women threw themselves at him naturally. So he hadn’t really expected her to actually go out with him, and it had felt like the universe restoring itself to normality when she revealed at the end of what he’d thought was a date that she was engaged.

After that he’d tried to tread a little more carefully for the sake of his own heart, and he’d really enjoyed getting to be her friend. He’d made sure he had other social outlets, though, so he and Mark had gone down to the Y and done some pickup basketball, he’d started going jogging, basic things like that. He found he was happier and more energetic when he got out and did things, and so he kept it up as best he could. Some of the guys at the Y were pretty cool, though they did have a tendency to complain about their “better halves” in a way that set Jim’s teeth on edge. Dudes, he’d think, just be happy you have them—or break up. Like, if it’s that bad…

Anyway, he found himself watching Eagles games at a bar with some of them frequently enough to get to know them outside of the Y, and he joined a fantasy football league and things were pretty chill, honestly. Sure, he still pined for the receptionist, but it was a lowkey pining, the sort of thing where you figure the crush is just because you haven’t seen anyone actually interested in you yet and you really like this person as a person. And he did. She was awesome.

Unfortunately, being awesome did not, apparently, preclude being treated like shit. He wasn’t sure exactly who this fiancé of hers was, but she was unhappy with him a lot—or at least, that’s how he interpreted the grumbles and the sighs at her phone and the occasional wry comment. And when he found her portfolio of art one day, she actually flinched when he reached to open it.

That wasn’t cool.

He obviously didn’t open the portfolio, though when she recovered from whatever automatic reaction she’d had she showed it to him herself, and he was glad to be able to tell her honestly and without flattery that it was good. He didn’t remember that much from art history sophomore year of college, but he could tell she had a good grasp of perspective, and a really good sense of color and light. One painting of a field of dandelions was particularly superb, because she’d managed to convey how the dainty dandelion heads diffused the light across the grass and gave the whole picture a dreamlike quality. Another, angrier and more abstract, had bold brush strokes heavy with paint that—he imagined, if she had had the oil paint she had scribbled a note to buy in the margin—would have reared thickly above the page, and still managed to convey a sense of powerful unease.

He smiled down at her as she flipped through the paintings one by one, carefully choosing his words to make clear that he was genuinely looking at each piece while spending as much time as he could looking at her. She looked surprised, almost shocked, and then delighted like it hadn’t really occurred to her that someone else could actually care what she’d painted.

He always noticed her—but today, he couldn’t help but see that she didn’t notice him noticing, or expect it. And somehow that just made him want to notice her more.

Roy didn’t really think about Jim Halpert very much anymore. I mean, he did know the guy existed—Pammy talked about him a fair amount, and he would still hear from a couple of the guys at the Y now and then, with Dunder Mifflin and then Jim coming up more than once—but he wasn’t going to the Y consistently anymore himself, and it wasn’t like he had a lot of reason to come upstairs to the main office very often. If anything, he had a reason to avoid it, and that reason was named Michael Scott. Pammy seemed to have some sort of soft spot for the guy, but to Roy he was just the perfect example of someone promoted beyond their competence, not just in the job but as a human being. He was just the worst—and to make things even worse than the worst (there was this little bit of poetry Pammy had embroidered on a handkerchief when his dad had had a cancer scare a few years back that stuck with him at moments like this: the worst is not so long as we can say this is the worst) he was exactly the sort of namby-pamby physical wimp braggart that Roy hated worse than anything. Well, except Redskins, Giants, and especially Cowboys football. But worse than anything in ordinary life anyway.

If Roy thought about Jim Halpert then, he thought of him as “at least he’s better than Michael.” Or, occasionally, “thank God Pammy has someone to complain to that isn’t me.” Because in the about a year since Halpert started, Pammy had definitely gotten not just more positive about work but also less talkative about it in general. Which suited Roy just right down to the ground and through it and maybe back up through the ground in China. When he got back from work he didn’t want to rehash it all; he didn’t want to hear about the boring doings of selling paper and answering phones to sell paper when he’d just spent eight hours shipping out that same paper. He wanted to kick back on the couch, grab a beer, and then eat a nice hot hearty dinner with his girlfriend. It wasn’t that he didn’t like listening to Pammy—one of his favorite things about her was her voice—but he didn’t want to have to hear about all the little comings and goings upstairs. They could talk about family, or football, or something, and that was fine. And sure, sometimes he complained about something in the warehouse, but mostly he kept that stuff where it belonged—at work—or talked about it to Darryl or the guys at one of their poker nights. He didn’t bother Pammy with it, and he didn’t see why she should bother him with her upstairs stuff.

So he was glad she had Halpert. Glad she’d brought him into their lives: good jump shot, apparently the sort of guy who didn’t mind hearing her complain, and generally a pretty chill dude. But he didn’t really think about him very much: some days he couldn’t have 100% told you if he was “Jim” Halpert or “Jack” Halpert or “Joe” Halpert—he was just Halpert, and he was useful. First names were for the guys, and Halpert wasn’t really one of the guys to him, not since Roy had stopped going to the Y consistently anyway. Not like he needed the exercise anyway; he was perfectly happy with his body shape, thank you very much.

But sometimes he couldn’t help but notice Halpert. Like the time they had an all-hands meeting and that lanky frame was stretched out next to his girlfriend, or when Darryl had gone to talk to Michael about some problem he’d caused and come back explaining that “that Halpert dude” had fixed the problem—and then rewarded him by inviting him along to poker night (though he didn’t come back). Or today, when he’d come upstairs to pick Pammy up for dinner with his parents and she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Halpert was sitting there whistling some kind of irritating tune and he’d turned to ask him about where Pammy was and all he’d gotten back was a shrug and a grin he couldn’t quite describe but didn’t like somewhere down in his gut.

He’d sat down on one of the too-short, too-flimsy (for him at any rate) chairs where, he supposed, clients or something must sit while waiting to meet with the upstairs staff, and Halpert had gone back to whistling whatever it was. Eventually that other guy—Dwight? Stanley? One of the upstairs folks, anyway—who sat across from Halpert had gotten up and stormed into the back muttering something about inhumane working conditions, and Roy couldn’t say he blamed him. Halpert muttered something in return (it sounded vaguely like “finally”) and then tapped a quick rhythm on his desk. Roy was startled to see Pammy sneak out of the supply closet and—ignoring him—make a beeline for Halpert with a grin of triumph on her face.

“Got it!” she whispered. She handed Halpert a stapler as he pulled out a paperclip, jimmied the lock on one of Dwight-or-Stanley’s desk drawers, and handed her another one. Halpert placed the closet stapler in the drawer, closed it, and relocked it, and Pammy grabbed the desk’s original one and slid it into one of her desk drawers before locking it—and then doing a double take as she noticed Roy himself.

“Oh! Roy!” She looked at the clock above his head. “Shoot!”

What was all that about? He pushed the question out of his mind—not important—and swung himself up to his feet.

“You ready to go?”

“Umm…” She looked between him and Halpert for a moment before the other man made a shooing motion.

“Go, go. I got this.”

She ran up and hugged Halpert—what was that about?—and then grabbed her coat and slid her arm into his as he stood there in the entryway feeling confused. “Do you know what your mom is making for dinner?”

“Mac and cheese.” What was going on between her and Halpert? Why had she hugged him?

“Sounds great.” She took a hand off his arm and waved to Halpert. “Bye Jim! Text me how it goes!”

“Sure thing. ‘night, Beesly.” Halpert was back in his desk, but he was still smiling at Pammy, and Roy felt something inside him growing increasingly unhappy that he didn’t understand exactly what was going on. Fortunately, he had an easy way out of this, since they were already going to be late for dinner because of whatever game it was Pammy and Halpert were playing. He turned and walked out, pulling Pammy along with him as she clung to his arm. She was saying something about his mom’s mac and cheese, and he answered her absent-mindedly as he pushed through the door, with her trailing behind. He pressed the button and waited for the elevator, then stepped on.

When he looked back towards the office from the elevator, there was Halpert, that same little stupid grin on his face, looking not at Roy but at Pammy.

So yeah, sometimes he noticed Halpert more than others.

Jim did his absolute damnedest to avoid noticing Roy. Well, maybe not his damnedest, because then he’d have to actually notice the effort he was putting into it, and that would have been worse than noticing Roy. But he had sat down one day and made a multi-layered list of why it made sense for him to avoid Roy and Roy-adjacent activities after one particularly annoying time that Darryl had invited him over for drinks (nothing against Darryl—great guy—it was just his friendship with Roy, who was also there, that made the night annoying. He’d have had fun in a Roy-less world).

1)      It was never good for him to notice how badly Roy treated Pam. This was because

a.       He couldn’t actually say anything to Pam because she got defensive, so

                                                               i.      She was unhappy, and that sucked.

                                                             ii.      She was mad at him specifically, and that sucked too

                                                            iii.      She would cling more tightly to Roy, which was very unhelpful

                                                           iv.      She would more actively ignore whatever it was he pointed out, which was awful.

b.      He couldn’t say anything to Roy, because he got mad, and

                                                               i.      He’d say it was none of Jim’s business

1.      This was technically true, and thus hurtful

2.      Sometimes it wasn’t true, though, because friends look out for friends

                                                             ii.      He might punch Jim (obviously not optimal)

                                                            iii.      He’d ask Pam about it, which would lead to (1) above.

                                                           iv.      [written very small and he didn’t feel good about it] He might change, and Jim wasn’t sure how he could deal with Roy being a good fiancé

1.      Though to be fair to himself, he could probably deal with her having a good fiancé, just not if it was Roy so he had to remember how awful he’d been

2.      This was still not a thought he felt good about.

c.       He couldn’t say anything about it to anyone else because

                                                               i.      It wasn’t his business, not really

                                                             ii.      He didn’t want to be that guy who always talked about his crush and her love life

                                                            iii.      His family and friends were probably sick of it already anyway

2)      It was also not good for him to notice when Roy treated Pam well because of

a.       Jealousy

b.      The constant memory that this was a rare occurrence

                                                               i.      Made worse by her surprise and gratitude for basic emotional competence

                                                             ii.      Made worse by Roy’s apparent sense that doling out a few good moments made him a good guy.

3)      It was further not good for him to hear Roy talk about Pam behind her back because

a.       Duh

b.      He never fucking called her his fiancée

c.       He tended to be crude

4)      Finally, it was not good for him to see Roy socially because

a.       He was afraid they’d be friends if Pam didn’t exist

                                                               i.      And he didn’t like what that said about him and his choice of friends

                                                             ii.      He didn’t want to have to explain why Pam was a stumbling block

b.      If they wouldn’t be friends without Pam, they definitely didn’t need to hang out

Getting the list off his chest was helpful, and he kept a copy of it in his desk drawer (he’d tried to put it in his wallet, so it was always with him, but it was too big). It allowed him to avoid noticing Roy because he’d already noticed him sufficiently: he’d just think “2A” or “1Bi1” to himself and go about his day.

This was not one of those days he could avoid it.

The “purse girl” (her name was Katy, and he felt terrible dehumanizing her by reducing her to her choice to sell purses, but hey, at least he didn’t just call her “hot girl”) was just trying to sell her wares, but Roy would not shut up about what he’d do if he wasn’t dating Pam. Jim wanted to shout “you’re engaged”—and silently cheered for Pam when she pointed this out—and couldn’t help but wonder why Roy was upstairs anyway. He felt like shit for wondering—1Biv, and it made him feel small—but at the same time, what the hell, man? Kevin being creepy about her and how she compared to Pam was not great, but at least he wasn’t engaged to her.

And then there was the damn tickling. How was he supposed to ignore Roy when that was going on literally on his workspace? Tomorrow he was going to have to steal Dwight’s rubbing alcohol, and not for a prank—just to eliminate all vestiges of that moment from his desk and thus his memory. Ugh.

Drinks with Katy were fine. She was nice. She was cute. She didn’t seem to have a hulking fiancé-slash-boyfriend-depending-on-who-you-asked to drive him nuts.

But the next day he saw Roy getting out of his truck, and he noticed.

He was going to need a 5: it’s never good to see Roy, because he’s everything I want to be, and I can’t stand wanting to be that.

It was strange for her to admit that she rarely noticed her own fiancé, but it was the truth. Roy wasn’t, in a sense, a person for her to notice; he was an elemental force that shaped the reality of her world. She was aware of Roy in the way one was aware of the weather or the traffic. His moods were borderline predictable, in the way that February would be cold or rush hour busy, but still bore watching: the difference between a day he felt slighted and one when he’d won the warehouse poker game was as stark as between a blizzard and a thaw. But she didn’t really notice him as himself; it was more a matter of checking how his status would affect the larger terrain of her life than anything personal to Roy.

When, exactly, this had become true of her fiancé, the love of her life, her future and her comfort, she wasn’t exactly sure.

It was probably longer ago than she’d care to admit, even to herself (this meta-admission being as close as she was comfortable to coming to admitting quite how long it had been) but she was certain that things had gotten worse over the summer. The summers had once been the brightest times in their relationship. It was nice enough out that Roy spent less time drinking in bars or playing poker at guys’ nights and more time tossing a football around reliving his glory days—which meant more energy and a better mood for him and an opportunity for her to participate (as audience, of course, not player, but she was far more welcome sitting in a camp chair with a sketchbook at a pick-up football game than taking up a seat at the poker table). The light was better, too, so she could actually sketch after work, and sometimes they even took long drives or picnicked by the lake on work nights. It was in the summer that she was always most certain of her choices (not that she was uncertain the rest of the time, exactly, but in the summer she could see most clearly the future she wanted for the two of them). The winter was long and dreary and (she explained to herself) everyone felt weird and unhappy. The summer was glorious, and she tried very hard not to flip that explanation around and wonder if everyone was happy and easygoing then.

Of course, this summer could have been used as a counterexample to that argument, because Roy had definitely not been happy or easygoing. He’d become crabbed and resentful after tweaking his hamstring during a rare spring basketball game at the Y kept him from playing his usual football—and the fact that his friends kept playing without him didn’t help matters. She’d suggested they still go, and she could sit with him and they’d both watch so he could still hang out with his friends, but a curt “Nah, Pammy, I don’t do that stuff” had been the best response she’d gotten to her multiple offers. He’d stopped hanging out as much with the high school buddies and started doing more with the warehouse workers, who were less likely to get out and exercise even in the summer because, as Roy put it when Pam asked, “we get tired enough at work.” He’d never seemed “tired enough” before, she thought. But now he was grumpy, and the two were close enough as made no difference.

It wasn’t that she disliked the warehouse workers: by and large they were a pretty reasonable bunch, and their various significant others were too. But for every barbecue with friends and family there were two nights of drinking, gambling, or watching baseball and yelling at the TV. She should have been grateful that Roy liked to host, since it meant he was around, but the unspoken but very clearly implied assumption that she would cook and clean and prepare for these events and he would sit on the couch with their friends didn’t make it rewarding, and the one time he’d thrown out her paints when she’d left them on the table before the guys came over was burned into her memory. So too, to a lesser extent, was the time she’d tried to be “one of the guys” and sit on the couch with a beer herself. His eyeroll and his “so what’s for dinner, Pammy?” had been followed by a “you’re not really just gonna sit there, are you?” and a fight she had definitely not enjoyed, but had at least made sure he didn’t either.

All of that was in the back of her mind as fall rolled around and with it the annual Dundies party at Chili’s. Usually this was the signal to her that summer was over: a disappointing and embarrassing “Longest Engagement” Dundie (along with Roy’s even-worse celebration of the trophy) was her annual reminder that it was time to put away the joy of summer and assume the drudgery of the long hard slog into winter. This year, though, she found herself already there, and that, perhaps, was what made her point out her frustration to Jim: did she really need another Longest Engagement Dundie if it didn’t at least bring her the memories of a good summer with Roy?

Maybe this was why she found herself noticing Roy more fully at the Dundies. Usually this kind of grumpy mood from him, and his eagerness to depart, would have been like a cloudy day or the backup behind a car turning left: annoying, maybe a little dispiriting, but the sort of event you barely paid attention to in the larger scheme of things. Nothing worth mentioning, or doing anything about. The sun would burn through eventually, the car would get out of your way, and you wouldn’t even remember it the next morning.

But today? After this summer? It was too much. She found her teeth grating and her fist clenching and her laughter getting just a little too high-pitched, because she was noticing Roy for the first time in what was probably a lot too long. She was noticing how he didn’t really care what she thought or she wanted, noticing that he somehow combined the worst of both not caring about what could with a little effort be a fun outing and thinking that the single most embarrassing moment of the night would be the highlight (i.e. the stupid stupid Dundie), noticing that he didn’t notice her either.

And she was sick of it.

So as she told him she was staying (typically, he didn’t really care, just peeled out of the parking lot anyway) and went back into the Chili’s, she made a choice. This was going to be a day where she didn’t care about the weather, or the traffic. And the best way to show it, she decided, was to steal as many drinks as possible. After all, if Roy didn’t like her kicking back at home—she’d kick back here. Why not? Jim would look after her, after all. She’d be fine.

Roy always noticed Pammy. Well, now that he wasn’t at that stupid ice hockey game—but that was years ago. People thought he didn’t, but he did. Did he always think what she was doing or wearing or whatever was the most important thing in the world? No, of course not. That wouldn’t be healthy. No one should always prioritize someone else over themselves—he wouldn’t expect Pammy to do that for him either. Sure, he wanted dinner on the table and a beer in his hand and the game on, but she didn’t have to be there while he watched it. If she wanted to do her art things, that was fine. He meant it when he said she didn’t have to be there if she didn’t want to be. Why did everyone always assume there was something lurking underneath it?

Like, when they were playing that stupid who-would-you-do game during the fire that dumb intern caused. Of course he’d do Pammy, he did Pammy, that was part of the point of dating Pammy. Who needed to hear him say it? It would’ve been a cop-out. So he picked someone else because why take a turn if you’re just going to say the person you’re actually doing? He’d figured Pammy would smack his arm and tease him about his “thing” for what’s-her-name, Angela, and then they’d have a little laugh at whomever she said—like Oscar or Kevin or someone—and they’d go back to normal. Like when he called Halpert and Michael gay for picking Kevin and Ryan; nothing serious, just some joshing and a good time.

What he hadn’t expected was for her to come off all cold and pissed at him. Come on. It was just a game for god’s sake. A chance to shoot some shit outside the office while it was maybe burning up inside (seriously, who sets a fire in a paper sales building?).

So after that he was paying extra attention to her. Not that he wasn’t before, you know. Just a little extra to make sure she wasn’t really that pissed. And…she was surprisingly hard to read. Like, he knew her. She was Pammy. They’d been together forever. But somewhere along the way he stopped knowing exactly what her facial expressions meant—maybe because he didn’t need to, they were always the same anyway—and now he wasn’t sure exactly what she was thinking. Like, what the hell? At least he hadn’t said Katy, that chick Halpert was dating now, even though he’d been thinking it real loud. He’d noticed when she got pissed about that, and he could understand it. He hadn’t meant anything by it, and damn she was being touchy, but like, that was part of dating too. You understood when you’d messed up and you fixed it.

So yeah. He noticed Pammy. And he was going to keep right on noticing her. No matter what she or Halpert or anyone else thought about it. Because he might not know why she’d reacted this badly, but he wasn’t going to be the bad guy here. Hell, maybe he’d even order some pizza tonight so she didn’t have to cook. And they could watch…well, not one of those chick flicks, but something they both liked. Something on TBS maybe. He’d heard The Breakfast Club was on tonight: she liked that, right? Yeah, that’d be good. Then they could put this whole thing behind them and get on with life.

Pam doesn’t like being noticed. Jim has noticed this. He tries hard not to pay too much attention to the paradox in there—or at least, the paradox generated when you add to that information the fact that he, Jim Halpert, tries to do everything Pam Beesly wants. But Pam doesn’t want to be noticed, and it’s just not in him to do that.

It’s specifically being noticed that she hates: not being seen, or understood, or attended to. When he pays her a compliment (nothing too big, not trying to come onto her, just paying attention, like when her mom gave her new earrings and he told her the opals looked nice) she flushed bright red, but the smiles she darted out from her suddenly-ducked head told him she didn’t mind—she just wasn’t used to it. And the way she says “thank you” when he validates one of her pet peeves, or brings up something she thought she was alone in thinking about the office, tells him that she doesn’t mind when people are on the same wavelength as her, or when they hear the complaints she’s making (even the ones she’s not actually making out loud).

No, Pam hates that moment when everyone’s heads swing around and look at her—which is something his head is doing all the time, only she can’t really see it because his desk faces hers, thank god—and he can tell because she freezes. He used to laugh at the phrase “deer in the headlights” because really, what kind of animal would freeze stock still with four tons of death hurtling towards it at speed? But now he can tell: Pam would. Well, not from an actual car, he’s pretty sure she has a reasonably developed self-protection instinct in that regard, but from the…psychological and metaphorical equivalent of a car in her case: a bunch of eyes. If the room suddenly turns to her—or even if she just thinks it does—she will go stock still.

Jim feels for Pam in this, he really does, but he cannot, at the core of him, understand it. He’s practically the opposite: he seeks attention, smirks at imaginary audiences even when no one is looking, catches any and every eye he can as if to say “did you see what I’m seeing?” When he’s not deliberately attracting notice (and to be fair, there are a lot of times he’s not, he’s not that big an egotist) he just doesn’t care. There’s a book he read a few years back, the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, with a big animal (“beast,” he remembers it being called, but he’s too lazy to look up the details right now) that believed that “if you can’t see it, it can’t see you.” Jim’s not quite that bad, but he’s in that realm: if he doesn’t notice the eyes on him, they might as well not be there, and if no one is obviously staring at him they might as well not exist. He can’t see them.

Pam doesn’t just see them. She imagines eyes where there aren’t any, living in her own personal Panopticon despite the presence of walls. He’s tried to suggest (as subtly as he can, which when it comes to Pam is actually remarkably subtle) that most people just aren’t that interested in what you’re doing but of course she asked him (him, who cares more about what she’s doing than about his own day to day life) about what she’d been up to earlier that day and he’s incapable of lying to her (by commission at least. Not telling her how he feels is rapidly becoming the biggest lie by omission that he’s ever committed) so he tells her and she thinks she’s proven her point when all she’s really proven is that he, Jim, cares for her, Pam. But not everyone yearns as desperately as he does (he thinks—maybe he’s wrong and everyone else is just as aware of how amazing, how wonderful, how perfectly her she is, but he’s pretty sure only he has truly unlocked this particular secret of the universe). So he’s also pretty sure she’s wrong that everyone’s watching, or really—since she assures him with a laugh that she doesn’t think she’s that interesting (which she’s totally wrong about but whatever)—that everyone’s potentially watching. That they’re all ready to snap their heads over with bugged out eyes at a moment’s notice. They just aren’t. They don’t care that much. Especially their coworkers, who really don’t care at all (except maybe Angela, who loves gossip almost as much as she claims to hate it, and Kelly who will natter on about literally anyone’s personal life if she can, but even they don’t care as much as Pam thinks. He thinks).

It doesn’t really matter, though, because she thinks it, and she’s the one suddenly freezing in his arms at the dojo and icing him out for most of the rest of the day. Because she feels noticed. And he’s really hoping it’s just that, and not that she feels caught. Or maybe (and this makes him feel almost as guilty as thinking about 1Biv) he’s really hoping it is because she feels caught: because if she feels caught, there has to be something she feels she could be caught doing, and the only real candidate is horseplay with him. And that’s only really wrong if she’s thinking what he’s thinking (and even then only because well, she has a fiancé…and they’re in public, which he supposes don’t-notice-me-Pam is probably against as well). But he’s hoping at least that it’s just because she hates being noticed and not because she’s aware of what he was thinking (or of what he could have been thinking, since his actual thoughts surprised even him with their G-rated nature—he wasn’t having dirty thoughts with Pam in his arms, just comfortable and happy ones). Because if she’s freezing him out because she doesn’t want anything to do with the man who would break up her engagement for his own selfish reasons, he’s doomed. There’s no coming back from that because, well, that’s him nailed to a T. But if, just if, she’s freezing him out just because she got noticed, it’ll fade. It’ll be fine. They’ll get past it.

Because just like a deer in the headlights, Pam only freezes for so long.

He hopes.

Seriously, what was going on with Pammy today?

Well, that was the wrong thing to ask her, apparently, but it was a sincere question in Roy’s head. It wasn’t his fault that whatever it was that was bothering her was somehow simultaneously entirely his fault and something he wasn’t allowed to talk to her about. How was he supposed to know what the problem was if she wouldn’t talk to him? And why had she tramped out of the room when he’d asked if they could put the hockey game on if they weren’t going to talk? He’d tried. He really had. He’d suggested hockey, and not basketball or baseball because it was the sport she liked. Right? They’d had their first date at a hockey game. He could still remember her sitting on the bleachers next to him, enfolded in her giant coat (her parents had been convinced for years that Pammy was going to keep growing—someone had told them when she was a kid that she’d be as tall as her dad, and they’d remained certain that a late growth spurt was coming years after it was obvious that nothing of the sort would happen). She’d been so cute, bouncing up and down whenever a goal was scored. He’d had to gently remind her that they only wanted one team to score, but inside he’d been glowing every time she’d given that little cheer and then looked over at him to make sure she was actually supposed to be cheering this time. It made him feel important—not that he hadn’t thought he was important, he knew his own worth, but he’d had this odd feeling that Pammy didn’t really care about his place on the football team or his popularity at school. So it had been important to have her think he was important. He’d looked over at her so much that he’d almost forgotten Kenny was in the seat next to him half the time.

Now, he hadn’t forgotten how that date ended. But they’d gotten over it, right? They’d been together for a decade now. Kenny had had a hookup who could get them a game-used jersey but only if they bum-rushed the locker rooms right as the game ended. So they’d rushed out, and then it had taken longer than they’d expected and they’d been sitting around—in the locker room, chatting with, well, not players but actual staff like they belonged—and then he’d heard the buzzer go off like a goal was scored (apparently they did that when the team was coming in to warn the staff) and he’d had that oh-shit moment. He’d looked around to see Pammy celebrating and she wasn’t there, of course. He’d left Kenny—who’d had the balls to be pissed at him later—and run back upstairs and there she’d been, standing by the entrance to the tunnel with a scrawny kid who’d been trying to make her laugh. He’d rushed up, begged her forgiveness, whisked her away to his parents’ borrowed Chevy. The next day he’d made a deal with the custodian (he was emptying garbage bins at school for a week) and gotten the key to her locker, and he’d left a reasonably-sized winter coat (one that actually looked like it might fit—thanks Mom for knowing how women’s sizes worked!) and a note:

Sorry I’m an idiot.

Hope this coat makes you feel as warm outside as you make me feel inside. [Thanks, Mom, for helping him put that into words]

I really like you. [Thanks again, Mom, for making him suck it up and write that too, after he’d let her read it and asked with bright hopeful eyes if it would mean Pammy would forgive him]

-Roy

She’d worn that jacket for the next three years, and she’d agreed to go on another date with him (and another and another and…) so he’d figured that meant he was forgiven. But come to think of it, he couldn’t recall having actually gone to another hockey game with her.

Maybe the hockey had been a mistake.

But this couldn’t be about that, right? It was ten years ago! It had to be something else stupid he’d done, but she wouldn’t tell him. And if she wouldn’t tell him…what the hell was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like he was going to ask fucking Halpert for advice on what to do with his girl.

Maybe his mom would have an idea again.

But seriously, he thought. What was with that woman? He sighed. One thing he’d learned was not to let her go to bed angry, because then she woke up angry. And he could tell that asking for dinner wasn’t going to cut it tonight, even though it was usually lasagna night. The clomp-clomp of her feet meant she probably wasn’t coming down for a while.

He picked up the phone. Maybe a pizza would help.

And if it didn’t, at least he’d get to eat, and she’d probably appreciate a night off of cooking.

“Hello, Pizza by Alfredo, may I take your order?”

Sometimes Pam wished she were a little…thicker? Not physically, no (that kind of language always brought her back to some very unhappy middle- and high-school days she had no desire to relive at all), but in that very British way of talking about someone’s mind. She wished she didn’t pick up on things; didn’t think about them afterwards; didn’t notice people and their emotions.

Right now, sitting in her bed next to her snoring fiancé, she wished she weren’t awake. And that, since she was awake, her subconscious mind hadn’t taken this as the particular moment to unveil some things that it had noticed over the evening’s festivities. And if it had to pick now? She wished she were a bit thicker. A little less aware. Because she could already tell she wasn’t going to get a lick of sleep.

Why did she have to choose now to notice how drunk Roy had been last night? Well, she could actually answer that one. Roy was drunk…a lot. More than she’d been letting herself realize, really. She thought back to the Dundies (ignoring, for the moment, the time she’d spent with Jim that evening—she knew she’d come back to it, she always did, but it wasn’t the point right now) and remembered that even at an event with alcohol, he’d been itching to move on to the next place they’d serve him more beers even before the awards themselves were presented. He’d gotten his two drinks and Chilis had told him to wait and then he’d been gone. And he was spending more and more nights out with the boys, not always playing poker or video games or basketball (how long since he’d been out to the Y?) but always, always drinking. She didn’t notice it most of the time for two reasons: first, and most obvious, it had somehow become the baseline for his behavior, the standard by which she judged him (and how sad was that? Why was it that the time her mother visited work and he’d dressed up with a sweater had been the highlight of the year in terms of his care and consideration? Why wasn’t that expected? How had she gotten here?); the second was that, to be honest, and when was a good time to be brutally honest if not three a.m. on the day you set the date for your wedding, she didn’t spend a lot of her time thinking about Roy.

Well, scratch that. She spent a lot of time thinking about Roy. About how he liked his food cooked, about getting home in time to do it, about what he’d want to do and how they could do it, about how wheedle him into doing something important to her (and about how to deal with it when she failed to do so, like that internship). But she didn’t think a lot about Roy as Roy. She realized that for all she wanted to pin her current dark-of-night dissatisfaction on him, she couldn’t do so exclusively. What kind of fiancée was she if she didn’t care about her fiancé’s well-being? If she let him (or didn’t object to him) slob off his responsibilities and go get drunk? Not to say that Roy’s problems were her fault—he was his own adult, after all—but what did it say about their relationship that she didn’t really think about him as an independent human to interact with? He wasn’t the climate, he wasn’t the traffic—he was Roy. And she ought to think of him as Roy. Why didn’t she? When did that stop?

But noticing how drunk Roy was was only the start. Had he even known she was in the room when he’d…well, not proposed, they’d been engaged for three years, but, actually, in his mind it was probably proposed, because he seemed to forget that all the time…but anyway, when he’d set the date? She’d just stepped in from talking to Jim…would he have noticed if she hadn’t? Or would he have swayed in a way that she thought then was emotion plus the boat’s rocking but might just have been alcohol, brayed out a date into the cabin, and blinked uncomprehendingly when she didn’t appear to take him up on it? She’d jumped at it, practically leapt out of her seat, because it was a day she’d been longing for for three long years…but should she? Why was it an accomplishment to get Roy to set a date, like marrying her was a chore equivalent to taking the last gas out of the mower in the winter before the cold set in so it wouldn’t oxidize?

And while she was at it, what was going on in that moment with Jim? She hadn’t been cold. Well, she had been but it hadn’t been from the weather. It was from staring at him and realizing that if he kissed her…she might not have pulled away. Hell, she wouldn’t have pulled away at all. And she’d shivered. Because he really looked like he might do it. That long, interminable silence had been so intense she’d felt a chill run down her spine and she’d chickened out and fled.

And why was she thinking about Jim kissing her? Why was she so sure he was thinking about it too? It was probably silly, at least on that end: he’d brought Katy to the cruise, after all, and while she’d teased him about dating a cheerleader (and don’t even get her started on Roy’s excitement when he’d learned that little tidbit) she couldn’t help but feel like…well, like she hadn’t felt since before Roy Anderson, football star, asked her out in high school. Like the cheerleaders got who they wanted and life was unfair. Like even someone like Jim (and when had Jim become her “even someone” example?) preferred them to her, and there was nothing she could do. So when he’d looked like he might kiss her she hadn’t really let herself believe it was true, because the counterexample was right inside the cabin, doing shots with her own example of why she couldn’t possibly be interested in the kiss herself, both using some sort of scuba mask to do something idiotic together while she and Jim stood on the deck.

But for all Katy’s cute, gorgeous, cheerleaderish qualities, she’d seen something in Jim’s eyes…something she’d seen when he showed her the bonus gifts in her teapot (and that she’d carefully avoided seeing, she now admitted, when she initially chose the video iPod over that same teapot); something she’d seen when he’d noticed she was hanging back in his room at the party at his house (and what had possessed her to do that? Or rather, why was she possessed of this insatiable curiosity about Jim Halpert, since that was clearly what had motivated that choice?); something that had blazed out visibly and frighteningly when he’d joked about their “first date” on the Dunder Mifflin rooftop. There was something there.

But it wasn’t something she was sure of, comfortable with, familiar with like what she had with Roy. For all his flaws, he was her rock, and Jim was…Jim was a breath of air, to be sure, but was it the kind of air you drew in to savor the freshness, or the last gasp before you drowned? Roy had been her dream for a decade, and she wasn’t sure what Jim was. He was still together with Katy, for gods sakes, and if even Roy had made it clear he’d “jump on that” if he weren’t with her…what about the man who was probably jumping on it right now as she thought?

Her cheeks flashed crimson as she turned over. It was all stupid anyway. Maybe Roy had been drunk off his ass. Maybe Jim had been staring at her just willing her to kiss him like she thought he wanted to kiss her. Or maybe she was just getting jitters now that she had the actual date set (oh my god, June 10, so close and yet so far). Maybe this was what they meant by “cold feet,” the sorts of thoughts you had to overcome to make a marriage work and last. Or happen. She finally had what she wanted from Roy. Why was she over-thinking it?

Thoughts like these consumed her night, with neither conclusion nor rest in reach. This would all be so much easier if she didn’t notice things.

When Pammy slammed into the pickup truck looking like a hurricane had bowled her over, Roy noticed. Of course, it wasn’t the sort of thing one could really miss. She didn’t look angry, exactly. Roy knew what Angry Pammy looked like (hunched shoulders, sad eyes, crossed arms) and this wasn’t it. No, this was something different. Not necessarily something new (if he had an Encyclopedia of Pammy he was sure he’d have been able to find something like it in an entry somewhere in the back) but something out of the ordinary.

This impression was increased as she answered him in monosyllables. “Is it OK if Darryl and I go hit up the arcade?” “Sure.” That would have usually taken a whole argument all to itself—it was nice to see her being reasonable, but he’d had the whole reasoning prepared (Darryl was feeling down about missing last year’s shipping targets and Roy wanted something to get his spirits up—which had the major benefit of being true) and he was a little out of sorts at not actually getting the opportunity to put it into action.

Then there was “I might be home late.” “OK, Roy.” Where did that one come from? He almost asked himself “how do I get it again,” but something about the tone of her voice stopped him. Sure, he’d wanted to hear “OK, Roy” every time he’d said he was going to be out late for the last…oh, basically ever since she’d stopped coming out late with him, which was years now, but something in her voice told him she wasn’t really saying it because it was actually OK, you know? Or rather, it was OK (Pammy had told him again and again to believe her when she said something, so this was a good time to start) but it wasn’t OK for the reasons he wanted it to be OK. It wasn’t OK because he, Roy, could just go ahead and have the fun he wanted to have because that was cool. It was OK because of something going on in Pammy’s head that he wasn’t entirely up to speed on. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t take an OK when it came, but it worried him.

“You OK, Pammy?” “Yeah. Fine.” Alright, that was a dangerous one to accept at face value. But what was he supposed to do? Needle her about it? Then she’d be all “I’m not fine now because you wouldn’t leave things alone” and they’d be no better off than they were. Better to let whatever Pammy was working through get worked through. And hey, at least he was already going to the arcade. Maybe he could push that time up a little, get some wings with Darryl on the way, and Pammy could have the house to herself. After all, that was what she usually wanted, right? Some time and space to have her own thoughts? Maybe she’d paint or something. It had been a while since she painted.

Still, he thought, he owed her a little more than a night on her own. It didn’t feel like a night that called for heroic measures—he wasn’t going to call her mom and try to convince her to make a surprise visit or anything like that—but maybe something. Maybe he could get her a side of wings at the arcade place and bring them back with him. Not like a peace offering or anything—they weren’t at war, this wasn’t Angry Pammy—but like, a gesture of good will. Or maybe she’d prefer like jalapeño poppers or something. He’d figure it out. But that seemed like a good idea.

“You mind if I go a bit early? Darryl and I…” “Fine.” OK, now something was definitely weird. But…again, it seemed, he was in the situation where taking Pammy at her word was what she’d asked for and it got him what he wanted. But he upgraded the issue in his mind: maybe both wings and poppers. And maybe he’d swing by the grocery store and get those things she’d put on that list for him last week—toilet paper, yogurt, something else…yeah, that was a good idea. It would definitely put her in a better mood to have all that stuff.

He pulled into their driveway and jumped down, trudging towards the door. Pammy trailed after him and he turned to smile at her as he unlocked the front. “You have a good night, Pammy,” he said as he grabbed the list from the fridge and turned back out towards the truck. “Love ya.” He bent and kissed her cheek as he passed on the way out.

“Love you.”

And he was gone.

Why, oh why, didn’t Dunder Mifflin have carpet cleaners on call? There had to be people who cleared the wastebaskets, reset the tables in the break room, cleaned up Dwight’s disgusting beet mess that he left in the fridge for two months, and so on, even if they only came in on weekends. So they could come in for a carpet cleaning emergency, right? They’d know what to do. They’d deal with Michael’s panic calmly and easily. They’d…

OK, mostly they’d mean that Roy of all people wasn’t upstairs today.

Sure, Jim realized, it probably wasn’t the most romantic of situations: to see one’s fiancé cleaning up literal human shit from the inside of your boss’s office, and then hauling out the stained carpet for cleaning, disposal, whatever. But there were certain angles it could be viewed as positive from, and these teased Jim with possibility. He’d always imagined Roy as a big buffalo of a man, less concerned with cleanliness or hygiene than with projecting a masculine affect: the sort of guy who’d be more likely to leave his fiancé with a stinky clogged toilet at 2:37 a.m. than to flush, much less fix the toilet himself. So this new situation put a nasty spin on his assumptions: what if this helped prove Roy was a practical, capable man who cleaned up messes instead of causing them? What if seeing him take control of a situation that had everyone freaking out was an aphrodisiac? What if…

The other problem, of course, was that this was all what if. Jim knew it was irrational to think that one carpet cleaning was actually going to change Pam’s opinion of Roy, much less that she even had the thoughts he did about her fiancé. After all, they’d been dating for ten years, engaged for three…her thoughts on that score had to be pretty fixed, didn’t they? And they obviously didn’t march with Jim’s, or else she wouldn’t be in that situation in the first place, right? So this was all beyond the land of hypothetical into dream, wish, and fantasy.

But he didn’t even know if his fantastical dream-nightmare-panic scenario was happening. Because he’d been kicked out of the main office into the annex so that Roy (and Darryl, he supposed) could do the work. So instead of catching Pam’s eyes and rolling his at Michael’s odd ejaculations (and at the use of the word ejaculations, which he could pretend to be shocked by, and so on and so on) until she giggled, he was stuck listening to a Kelly monologue. He was sure she thought of it as a conversation, of course, but here in the safety of his own mind he could at least call a spade a spade.

Worse, instead of waiting eagerly to hear Pam’s giggle, or the little intake of breath that meant she’d noticed something interesting that he’d get to hear about later, he was dreading it. Every sound that was vaguely like her made him jump. Alright, it usually did. But this was a bad jump, an “oh no, she’s like that with everybody” jump. Well, not everybody. An “oh no, she’s like that with Roy” jump.

Not that it ought to be bad for her to be like she was with him with Roy. After all, if you thought about things rationally, coolly, objectively (which he had to admit had ceased to be his strength recently…or ever when it came to Pam) you would think that someone who wanted to date…be engaged to…marry someone else could do worse than to relate to that person in the same way that that person related to their actual significant other.  It would be a sign of closeness; a sign that there was, as his sister Larissa had reminded him just last night on the phone, “something there.” There were at least three problems with this that he could see: one, he knew he was close with Pam, so it wasn’t comforting to hear that, because he wanted to be special; two, Roy was an ass and (5) he didn’t want to be like Roy, especially to Pam; three, the looming deadline of June 10 that meant that he couldn’t draw this out as slowly as everyone told him he had to.

Ugh. Sitting in the back wasn’t just crowded, it was bad for his mental health. He had started with a burst of energy, a determination that if he couldn’t look at Pam he’d work himself into not caring that he couldn’t, use the opportunity to get ahead on work so that when (he tried not to think if) he got to move back he could look to his heart’s content. But then thinking about Roy and listening (even with half an ear) to Kelly and trying to avoid Angela’s scolding eye had made muck of that intention, and now he was wallowing in that muck. He needed distraction.

He stuck his head out of the back and walked quickly to the break room. Nothing wrong with that, right? He wasn’t cursed out of the front, just moved for the day. Kelly came to the break room sometimes. So did Kevin. This was OK.

He dealt with the expected Dwight interrogation, which was almost sweet in its predictability, grabbed a grape soda, waiting for the satisfying plonk as it fell, popped the tab, and sat. That he happened to sit facing the windows to the main office was just coincidence, he told himself.

He watched Roy. Well, he also watched Pam, but he didn’t really notice that he was doing it, in the same way you don’t notice you’re breathing until someone mentions it and then it gets all weird. Consciously, he watched Roy. And he began to notice a tendency that he didn’t really trust himself to have gotten right, but which made him want to grab someone else (if only the other candidates weren’t Michael, Dwight, and Darryl) and demand whether they saw it too.

Roy didn’t talk to Pam.

Oh, he did on occasion, but she kept glancing up from the desk towards him (like she always did towards me, Jim thought with a pang—though she had been turned towards the copier when he’d come out of the back and he hadn’t been brave enough to say hi with Roy right there, so she didn’t look at him. Or at least he hoped that was the reason) and Roy almost never met her eyes. He grunted jokes to Darryl, tweaked Dwight’s sensibilities (Jim was really not enjoying feeling like they were similar), and mocked Michael (OK, that wasn’t Jim’s bag quite as much) but he didn’t really talk to Pam.

Jim sipped his grape soda, surprised to see it was still almost full, and wondered what it meant. When he finished the drink he walked back to the annex and got back to work. Whatever it meant, it was suddenly very important to make sure he had plenty of available time for Pam when he did get back to his regular desk.

The first thing Roy had noticed about Pammy, all those years ago—well, aside from the hair and the general cuteness—was her love of art. It was hard to miss; every time he’d catch her eye, she’d drop her head back into a book, and eventually he noticed that it wasn’t a regular book like they read in class but something bigger, blanker…a sketchbook, he eventually realized. He never really got a good look at what, exactly, she might have been sketching, but he did start to notice other things: a packet of colored pencils in her bag, a crayon in her purse. She was always drawing, at least whenever she had the time between classes, homework, and (eventually) him.

He never did get to see the sketchbook, but once he got to know her, he did get to see the finished products. Her bedroom at her parents’ house was full of the stuff, all over the walls (and yes, he did eventually notice the walls, not just the fact that he was in Pammy’s bedroom). He loved seeing her stuff. It made him feel good to know that his girlfriend was smart, creative, interesting. She wasn’t like the other girls he or his friends had dated, and he liked that.

Over the years she stopped doing quite as much drawing. At least he thought so. Their bedroom wasn’t covered in her art, like hers had been, and he saw the sketchbook come out less and less. He didn’t really mind; if her interest in art was waning, well, his interests had changed too. He played less football and more poker, drag-raced less and barbecued more. They grew together, right, like couples did.

So it came as a real surprise when she walked through the door to their house still talking about that art internship.

He’d told her no already, hadn’t he? OK, he hadn’t really been listening, because Jan had just told him and the boys that they’d lose their jobs if they unionized, so that was a bigger deal. Couldn’t she see that? But she insisted he look at the pamphlet again, and her very insistence surprised him into taking a look.

His first reaction after the surprise was pride. Someone upstairs had told her she had talent? Someone had recognized something in his Pammy they wanted to support? Awesome. But then he heard the details. Weekends away? Weeks in New York, without pay? This was her “big news”? They couldn’t afford that. It was a cool idea, but…maybe a few years later? Maybe if they had built up a nest egg? Or at least get a little better pay and benefits. As he’d just been reminded that afternoon, the warehouse rate stank, and while everyone upstairs made more, Pammy as the receptionist was an exception to that, more or less. So thank you no, he wasn’t going to give any more free labor to the company, and neither was his damn girlfriend. Especially not if it meant actually giving up income while she was in New York. As the conversation grew, he got more and more frustrated, and yeah, sure, maybe he got a little extra frustrated because she seemed to be making a big deal out of it, and maybe he started saying things like “I’m putting my foot down here” but they’d get over it, you know? People fight. They grow. They get over it.

It was while he was trying to think about why she’d been so stubborn about this thing that it finally clicked. Halpert.

Funny, he’d just had a good interaction with Halpert that morning. Checked in on that crush (which he’d always suspected—score one for team observant Roy!), told him they were cool, ragged on Pammy a little bit to show they were all buds, like you did, you know? But this, this idea that Pammy had that this internship (seriously, an unpaid internship. Like a sucker) was a good idea, a big break, a must-do? That had to be coming from Halpert.

Now that he thought about it, had Halpert actually said anything today? He’d nodded through their little conversation, and he could have sworn he was rolling his eyes during the “manly bonding time” Scott had insisted on. OK, that was fair, actually; Roy had done his own eye-rolling too, and then there was that Dwight guy…”drive them to church” indeed. That better be a metaphor. But some of that eye-rolling looked like it was directed as him. And not about the union stuff he and Darryl got into. Like Halpert had ever had to take a girl out for more than drinks.

But anyway, he’d need to keep a closer eye on that guy. Not that he was worried about Pammy falling for that lanky jerk, but he wasn’t so sure about the reverse. That crush…might not have been quite so long ago.

“The best sex of her life?” Really? I mean, technically, sure, he’d given her the best sex of her life at some point. He’d given her the only sex of her life. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t enjoy sex. But…really? How fucking romantic, Roy. And how cheap—especially because she knew (knew) it wasn’t like he was actually going to put any extra effort into it. If he’d gone to Adam & Eve and bought them something, or even if she could be sure he was going to make a special effort: oil, flowers, lube, something…then she’d believe. Or maybe at least then she wouldn’t feel this overpowering urge to roll her eyes and push him away.

Because, seriously? She’d just spent an entire workday watching Phyllis Lapin get utterly inundated with gifts. Literally, she thought, if you put Phyllis in a bathtub and poured the presents over her, she’d drown in them. Not that she wanted to put Phyllis in a bathtub and murder her, but the thought became vaguely tempting after she lost count of the number of times she’d had to sign for a package.

If she complained to Roy about it though, she knew what he’d say. First, he’d snigger about her signing for his package. Then he’d remind her that “we agreed Valentine’s Day wasn’t about the gifts, Pammy,” and “it’s the thought that counts, right?” Which it was. It was totally the thought that counted, Roy, but only if you actually put some thought into it. Leering into her face and telling her she’d have the best sex of her life like having sex with her was some kind of gift he gave her, not a mutually pleasurable and desirable act, was not the thought, and (she sneered inwardly) if it were? Roy would not like it to count. Because ledgers have credits and debits on them, and she knew which category that particular set of thoughts belonged in.

Sometimes she wondered how it had come to this. How she’d ended up with a fiancé who thought that waggling innuendo was a substitute for consideration. And to top it off she hadn’t even gotten to exchange a proper Happy Valentine’s Day with Jim, which meant the little card with the caricature of Dwight (saying “Hammy Valentine’s Day”: she’d re-drawn the original, “Valentine’s Day is a waste of company time, but I guess I’d rather waste it with you” when Dwight gave her that perfect opening with the line about ham as a romantic gift) had stayed in the drawer of her desk, and whatever Jim had for her (which had never failed to surprise and please her) also remained a mystery.

Why couldn’t Roy see that that’s all she wanted? She meant it when she said the thought counted, and that Valentine’s Day wasn’t about the gifts. But that didn’t mean you didn’t get someone something. You just…didn’t need to blare it out like Phyllis and Bob Vance, or prove your manhood (or womanhood, she supposed) with a single giant present like her friend Isabel’s boyfriend had tried to do with his disastrous giant FAO Schwartz bear present (honestly—who didn’t know Izzy was afraid of bears?). You just…cared. She’d left Roy’s card and present on the dashboard of the truck, and sure, it was just a box of fishing lures and a little doggerel about how he’d already caught her heart, but it was specific to him and she’d planned it in advance. That was really all it took. Why couldn’t he see that?

Well, right now he couldn’t see it because he was sitting on the couch drinking a beer while she prepared a romantic dinner for the two of them. Not for the first time she was inclined to just….stop trying so hard. To maybe just slop some red sauce on some pasta and not even bother to pop garlic bread in the oven. To let him get back to the game that was just so important that it had to be on on Valentine’s Day. Why was she slaving over making sure she made his mom’s lasagna perfectly while he was sitting there like a potato in the dirt? Why were all the little romantic touches she’d put out (a candle, an actual tablecloth, wine) still sharing space with the bottlecaps and Tupperware he’d left strewn about? Sure, she usually cleaned up for dinner, but why didn’t he take at least some of the responsibility?

She peered out into the living room.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Really? He couldn’t even keep himself upright and awake for long enough for her to make this lasagna—or for him to eat it—or for him to produce the one thing he promised her for Valentine’s Day? Was this just her life now? A choice between cold food eaten whenever Roy happened to decide to wake up (because God help her if she woke him up, he’d be in an awful mood all evening: “I work hard, Pammy, I deserve my rest!” as if she didn’t work hard too) and hot food eaten alone with the sorrow of realizing she made a special meal for him that he didn’t care enough to eat? A promise of life-altering (or at least life-defining) sex and a reality of drunken snoring?

She shoved the lasagna into the fridge and pulled another can of tomato sauce out of the cupboard. The lasagna would keep. Tonight was going to be easy, and simple, and at least she wouldn’t have wasted her effort. As she took down the candles and folded the tablecloth it struck her: was this what giving up looked like?

The beep of the microwave that had finished heating the tomato sauce broke her out of her reverie—and Roy out of his slumber, as she could tell by the sudden yelling from the living room.

“Hey, Pammy, mind if we eat in here?” His voice sounded hoarse with sleep. “There’s, like, four minutes left in the game.”

“Sure, Roy,” she sighed, glad now that she’d already packed up the table. “Be there in a second.”

He didn’t even bother to thank her.

He’s glad she has Ryan and Kelly writing those invitations, because he’d been petrified that she would ask him as soon as he noticed that box of fancy notepaper sitting on her desk. It would be just his luck, he’d thought, that she’d waltz up to his desk with that little skip that he just can’t possibly ever say no to and tell him something adorable and heartwrenching at the same time: something like “I just know you’ll know who to invite” or “ I couldn’t possibly imagine writing these without you” or even “I can’t do this alone” and he’d find himself caught between the Scylla of telling her no and the Charybdis of having to not just watch her plan her marriage to another man but actively participate. Not that he’s not already in a whirlpool (or is it dashed against a rock?) having to hear her talk to Ryan and Kelly about it.

Not least because the whole Ryan-Kelly situation is reminding him of a loud, abrasive, obnoxious version of his own life, only with Ryan playing the Pam role much more…grumpily, aggressively, and angrily.

He also hopes he’s playing the Kelly role a little more subtly. Or at least less…hopelessly? No, because, he realizes, she has a lot more hope than he ever will. He loves Pam Beesly, loves her with parts of him that he didn’t realize he had, like how the Bowmaster Flex promised to tone muscles Mark didn’t even know about. But just like that extremely optimistic purchase, he’s sitting in the closet gathering dust. She’s engaged to someone else. Ryan’s just a dick. So while he can’t really understand why Kelly is putting herself through this (don’t look at that one too hard, he advises himself, it has teeth), he has to acknowledge that all she has to do is to get Ryan to like her. He has to get Pam to like him—and then to not marry Roy.

One of these is harder than the other, he reflects, as she notices him staring at her (oops) and sticks her tongue out at him before using that same delightful little tongue (and stop thinking about her tongue that way Halpert, she’s not yours) to lick an envelope when Kelly catches her with it out. He’s pretty sure Pam likes him a lot more than Ryan likes Kelly. But the effort involved in getting her not to marry Roy? That’s a totally different question.

After a little while he can’t take it anymore, and he realizes in a flash of inspiration that with Ryan and Kelly out here the annex must be fairly open—and marginally more devoid of gossips, although he does have to remind himself that Angela’s still back there. He heaves himself to his feet, struggling to ignore how Pam’s eyes flit directly to him with the motion, and walks to the back.

“Hey, Toby, can you spare a minute?”

One fifteen-minute bitch session (and let’s be honest, it really is just a bitch session—he’s not really complaining, he just needs to get the words out before they burst from his chest like the creature in Alien) and a promise on Toby’s end to keep this confidential (“I have to write it up, but I promise, your name won’t go on it and I’ll put it at the bottom of the pile. And you know, with Dwight’s constant influx of complaints about you, I somehow doubt I’ll ever get to the bottom of that pile…”) later, he’s back in the main office feeling a lot better.

Until, that is, he hears Ryan’s little outburst to Pam when she tells him to be nice to Kelly.

“I know what I said.”

It’s classic Ryan, in that it’s pointlessly hurtful and yet doesn’t actually accomplish anything, since Kelly’s not there to register it. But it also puts him into a little spiral of his own, just when he thought he was out of it. Sure, Ryan’s the dick version of Pam in his little analogy, but…what if this is how Pam feels too? What if she knows what she’s doing to him—is just stringing him along as an emotional aid when Roy’s too much of an ass to bear? He doesn’t think Pam’s really like that, but the possibility keeps nagging at the edge of his mind. What if? What if she’s not even conscious of quite how far he’s gone, but still aware that he has some kind of feelings, and she’s manipulating that for her own benefit? He doesn’t think she’d do it if she knew quite how hard he’s fallen, but…if she thinks it’s just a crush, like he stupidly told her? He could totally see her playing to it, not as maliciously as Ryan, sure, but still for her own benefit.

In this light, her not asking him to do the cards looks less like kindness or luck and more like a calculated choice: this would make him break, this I can’t do, but I’ll keep leaning on him in other ways. Again, he doesn’t even fully believe she could be that cruel intentionally, but he can’t take that chance.

He clicks back to the travel website he’d been browsing idly before and starts clicking around with renewed purpose. He has to get out of here—he already knew he couldn’t watch Roy get what he’s always wanted, but now he has an additional urgency in letting her know he won’t be there. He needs her to know that this best friend thing? It doesn’t extend (quite) to the point of a suicide pact. He’ll be with her every step of the way that he can bear, but he’s not going to let her string him along into…whatever he’d feel he had to do if he got to June 10.

In some strange way, he realizes, this is still him trying to protect her. Because one thing he knows for sure is that if he’s in that little church on June 10, he’s going to object. No, he knows that’s not actually a real part of most weddings anymore: no one asks you to speak now or forever hold your peace. They just get on with the marrying. But asked or not, pregnant pause for it or not, he’s going to object. They’ll have to carry him screaming out of that church if they want him to let her get married to Roy. And he can’t actually do that to her. He’ll just remove himself from the equation, for both their sakes.

The travel site is having a special on long distance trips, trips that take over 20 hours. He notices the first one listed: Sydney, Australia, 23 hours 25 minutes. Halfway around the world seems far enough. He doesn’t even know what time her wedding will be, Australia time, and he’s suddenly more than OK with that. Before he knows what’s what, he’s clicked on it and booked it and sent the email to Michael and Toby requesting time off (which he’s pretty sure they’ll grant—if nothing else, Michael will look at the dates, see it includes June 10, and insist on having a Hooters lunch to help Jim “get over bitches,” but he’ll definitely give him the time off, and given the talk he just had with Toby, he’s pretty clear on that score too).

He sits back in his chair and finally lets himself stare at Pam. She’s giggling with Kelly about something, probably wedding-related, and he lets out a big sigh. No, she’s not the terrible person Ryan is. Not even close. But she’s still too dangerous for him to be around when June 10 rolls around. Just as he’s thinking that, she looks over at him, still giggling, and her smile widens.

God, he needs to get out of here.

The silence is killing her.

It’s been killing her all day, actually, and the irony is not lost on her that she’s just transitioning from one batch of silence to another, like someone has thrown a hush over her entire life—and that being alone with her own thoughts is driving her nuts. Nor has it eluded her that her frustration is mostly if not entirely her fault. It’s not like anyone forced her to call jinx, or to be “unflinchingly rigid” about the rules (though her sister deserves some of the credit—or blame—for that growing up). No one forced her to be silent here, either. The lack of talking today? She could have fixed it herself.

Lack of talking, though, not lack of sound. This was actually not a particularly silent day, she realizes, for all she thought of it as silent without Jim’s voice, and she finds herself thinking back across all the non-speaking communication he did. The way his eyes would meet hers and conjure up his voice in the back of her head; how he stood up in front of Michael and wept—wept—rather than break the jinx; the little smirks and sounds he would make to compensate for the inability to speak (or rather, she realizes, the choice, the choice to follow her in her ridiculous game and to let her set the rules); the sighs…ok, she doesn’t want to think about Jim’s sighs.

Actually, what she really doesn’t want to think about is her own talking. Because she could see his face shut down when she said that really, really stupid thing. “You can tell me anything.” She meant it, of course. Jim should be able to tell her anything. He’s her best friend. But it was mean to say during a jinx, and even meaner when she can tell there’s something going on behind his face that he can’t tell her, or at least that he hasn’t told her yet. She’s not entirely sure she knows what it is, and she’s afraid of what it might be. Is he sick? is something wrong with his family? Either of these he should have told her by now. Is he…oh god, is he looking for another job? She remembers when they made that fake application for Dwight and she told him he should apply for the job at Cumberland…and how she’d told him at the end of the day that if he ever left she’d blow her brains out.

Oh my god, Jim might be looking for another job. That would explain why he’s been slightly veiled the last couple of days. That might explain…a lot of things, actually. How jumpy he’s been. Why he won’t be coming to her wedding: maybe that Australia trip is a cover for an interview? Because she can’t imagine why he’d have made plans for her big day otherwise. Especially to go to Australia, which she can’t imagine he’d actually do. Be interested in, yes. Fly to? On the weekend of his best friend’s wedding? No. No way. But a job interview? Yeah, that might not be movable. That might be something they’d have to schedule far out in advance—especially for the types of jobs Jim ought to be looking at. He’s the best; he should be looking at like, executive jobs and stuff like that. They do big dog-and-pony shows for those, don’t they? And if Jim’s looking for a new job, and she’s already told him she’d be heartbroken if he did…yeah, that would fit with him not being able to tell her anything. And it…it would suck. But they’d get through it. She has his IM name and his cell number, after all. There’s no way Jim Halpert is getting out of being her best friend. Even if she won’t see him every day.

Speaking of every day…even this thinking about Jim, she admits to herself with a little silent sigh, is just a distraction from what’s really bothering her right now. Because apparently her fiancé hasn’t noticed that today is not like every day. After the day of jinx with Jim, she had the brilliant idea (she would roll her eyes at herself but really, what’s the point, she knows it was stupid) to see how long she could do it herself: how long after work she could go without saying anything out loud.

And the answer appears to be forever.

Roy’s not talking to her. She doesn’t think he’s actively avoiding her or snubbing her or anything. He’s just sitting on the couch with a beer occasionally grunting and yelling incoherently at the Sixers. She hadn’t really realized before today how much of their interaction she had to initiate: how his daily routine barely involves her unless she makes it. She’s already made dinner and they ate in silence, and as far as she could tell he didn’t even notice. He wolfed it down and was back on the couch, with a mumbled something that could have been “love ya” and could have been a burp in between. He didn’t ask her about her day, and when she didn’t ask him he didn’t volunteer. It’s just…quiet. Not silent, because the TV is on and Roy’s not actually being all that quiet over in the living room, but no conversation. No actual talking.

So much less communication than there was in the deliberate silence this morning and afternoon. She couldn’t catch Roy’s eye if she wanted to, wouldn’t know how to get him to waggle his eyebrows or pinch his nose to communicate without words. He’s just there. Taking up the living room—so much so that when she tried to sit in there and see if he’d notice her not talking, his sheer focus on the TV actually drove her out here into the kitchen, where she’s doodling on a memo pad and drinking tea.

The doodle is of a pair of hands, pinching the bridge of a vaguely sketched out nose.

She already knows, without admitting anything, that she’s not going to draw in the eyes.

He really didn’t mean to stay out late with Kenny that night. It wasn’t, like, intentional or anything. Just one thing led to another, and he was never good at telling Kenny no anyway. Ever since they were kids—and she of all people should know that, they’d been together forever after all—he and Kenny just kind of…did stuff. Not necessarily stupid stuff (though yeah, a bunch of stupid stuff that he half-winces when he remembers—though the other half is mostly pride, so maybe he’s not quite as ashamed of it as she would like him to be) but just stuff. They were “a pair” as their grandma would exasperatedly hiss to their mom: which pair they imagined themselves changed daily, but it was always cool. Jim McMahon and Fred Barnett, mostly. Laurel and Hardy, once, when their grandma insisted on them staying indoors for once young men and watching some proper movies. Whoever it was, they were a duo—not a trio, never alone, always two. So what was he supposed to do when Kenny had an idea? Not support his brother? That wasn’t going to Fly Eagles Fly, and he wasn’t going to let Kenny down.

Yeah, somewhere along the line it had transitioned from not letting Kenny down by picking him up from practice or making sure they both tried out for the sports teams to not letting him down by keeping on drinking and partying past the hour Pammy wanted him home, but they were still brothers, and just because they weren’t in high school didn’t mean Kenny didn’t need him. Hell, if anything it meant he needed him more. Roy had his shit together, you know? He had Pammy, and a house, and a steady job, while Kenny was working odd jobs and bouncing between girlfriends and a steady relationship with his own right hand in a series of down-and-out apartments that weren’t quite on the up and up. So if he wanted to stay out a little longer, who could blame him? Certainly not Roy. If anything, he felt a little sad for Kenny, not having someone back at home who cared what he did or where he was. Sure, it was annoying when Pammy left those phone messages (“where are you?” was one of his least favorite questions, along with “when will you be back?”) but it was sweet that she cared. And she was always there when he came back in, however late it was, whichever day it was (since more than once…a lot more than once…he ended up sleeping the night off on Kenny’s most recent ratty couch purchase from a flea market). He loved that about her. He could always count on Pammy. Just like Kenny could count on him.

That’s how he knew they were meant to be: she was like family to him. Love was comfort, and Pammy was both.

But sometimes he wanted to slap Kenny upsides the head (mostly when he was still chatting up some girl at the bar long after anyone else would have noticed she wasn’t going for it, and Roy just wanted to get home to Pammy)—and sometimes he wanted to do the same to Pammy too. Not that he ever hit her, or that he ever would. He knew better than to touch a woman that way, even if it didn’t really hurt Kenny when he did it. But she could be just as annoying as Kenny sometimes. Like this time. Sure, he’d been out late. Sure, he hadn’t called. But he always came home. She knew that by now, right? He came home to her. Because he loved her.

But right now? She was angry, he could tell that in her eyes, from the way they kept skittering off of his, but not down to her feet. If she was sad or ashamed or (rarely) guilty, she’d look down. But now she was looking up and to the side, and that meant she was pissed. Words like “worried” and “scared to death” were peppered in with “drunk” and “irresponsible” and he was getting pretty tired of it. He’d been fine to drive. He got home, didn’t he? And what the hell was different about this night anyway? It wasn’t like they’d had plans. He and Kenny had gone out, and he’d asked permission (even though it felt stupid to—it’s not like she’d ever told him to stay in). So what the hell?

He got through her tirade, and he could tell exactly the moment she went from pissed to tired: her eyes flicked down and her hand went to her necklace, and he could tell it was time to suggest they go to bed. He knew better to than to suggest they do anything in bed—the nights she was angry, that was a surefire way to get her back on her high horse—but a good night’s sleep was just the ticket. She’d be back to normal in the morning, and he’d think of something to make it up to her—whatever it was he had to make up anyway. Maybe pancakes. She liked those.

And she’d come around. She always did. They were going to be married in a few weeks. And they were, after all, in love.

She couldn’t tell you a single thing that happened in the warehouse. Not even anything to do with him. That wasn’t because she hadn’t noticed him—the world had shrunk down, actually, to her eyes, to just him, his face, his hands, the sweater hugging his chest…just Jim. Even the cards and the chips were just petty attempts at distraction from Jim’s smile, the little glances he was casting her way (he actually seemed almost incapable of looking anywhere else), the sheer joy pumping through her at being around him…well, not quite not at work, but in a slightly different register than they usually were at work. She wasn’t even entirely sure she’d won when she went all in; she’d just felt like she couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t help but push it all straight into the middle and let everything fall as it might. That she had a better hand than Jim’s was a genuine surprise, and the joy of it pushed her higher than she could remember having ever been before. Was this what people called being high on life? It was amazing.

She’d almost forgotten Roy was even there, and then all of a sudden he was saying goodbye—leaning out of the truck and shouting those utterly ridiculous words, asking Jim to “keep an eye on her” like she wasn’t an adult who could take care of herself, but also like he hadn’t even bothered to notice that Jim had two eyes on her all night. This was where her actual memories of the night would start: with her fiancé leaving and Jim’s eyes fixed on her face.

Her memories were like the TV at a dentist’s office: the dialogue muted, recalled with an effort but not naturally, like reading closed captions lagging two to three seconds behind the action, the words not quite making sense. And then cutting out, the way closed captions sometimes did, the words “I’m in love with you” hovering on the screen even as Jim’s and her mouths kept on moving.

Her brain went utterly blank. It was a cop-out in memory, she knew, her mind trying to protect her from recollecting the stupid, hurtful way she denied Jim’s feelings—denied her own—but it was such an utter shock she couldn’t process a word of it after that declaration. She was struck by the sheer honesty in his eyes, but also by the sense that there was something else he wasn’t telling her, something important. And while she waited to find out what that was, her mouth went on autopilot, carrying on the argument she’d been having with herself for days. Jim’s leaving for Australia. He’s probably got another job. You can’t; we can’t; this can’t be real.

“I can’t” escaped her mouth, and again like a bad closed caption the sentence never ended—because she couldn’t fix on a way to end it.

…process this?

…believe this?

…wait?

…help but love you back?

But for Jim, she realized with a start as he began to cry, the sentence was already complete. I can’t.

And as his face crumpled (not so dramatically as her own would that night after she got home, but still, for someone who knew him like she did, a definite crumple all the same) her instincts took over. Not her Roy-focused instincts to smooth everything over, though looking back on the scene she’d realize those were involved too, but her Jim-focused instincts that screamed that she needed to comfort him right now.

Only she didn’t know how. It became awfully, terribly obvious how uneven their relationship was—how much she took from him and how little she was used to giving—as the words tumbled out of her mouth and she discovered that while he had been comforting her for years, she didn’t know how to comfort him.

“You have no idea what your friendship means to me.” Because he didn’t. Or maybe he did; maybe he did better than she did, because it was absolutely killing her to see him in such pain. Maybe “I’m in love with you” was a better phrase.

Then it hit her what he’d just said. Not the love. The “once.” “I just wanted you to know, once.”

He really was leaving. Whether it was Australia or a new job or something else she hadn’t even guessed, there was no reason she’d only know it once if he was still there with her. She’d see him on Monday, wouldn’t she? She’d know he was in love with her. She’d know it in every moment.

“I can’t.” Again left as a full sentence, this time because she was even further from being able to—anything. Anything except continue rambling on, apologizing for she didn’t even know what as she felt her own emotions and the moment simultaneously slipping out of her hands.

And before she knew it she was up in the office, something in her bringing her over to Jim’s desk instead of her own to call the only person she thought had a prayer of helping her finish that sentence: I can’t what?

“Hi, Mom.”

Even as she leaned against the desk she recognized the scent of him still floating around the wood.

**

The entire night was going to be seared into his memory, but not for the reasons he’d hoped. Her dress was going to ruin the entire color blue for him (and purple too, anything even vaguely adjacent). The way she’d panicked when he’d told her had gone straight to his hippocampus, triggering some kind of mad fight or flight reflex that had sent him running up the stairs to the office after her after about thirty seconds of sitting in the car, his hands locked on the steering wheel.

There she had been, at his desk, and something about the quiet intimacy of her leaning across the space he occupied every day had given him the momentum to make it across the floor and gather her into his arms. He’d remember that feeling forever too: the massively improved version of that day at the dojo when she’d been squirming and play-fighting and then gone rigid. Now there was none of that hesitation, none of that panic, only a gentle yielding and then a surprisingly passionate motion as she twined her hands around his head and pulled him in.

He would treasure the feeling of her giving in—not giving into him, like he’d demanded something ridiculous or unworthy of her, but giving in to herself, giving in to them, letting the emotions that had been simmering for months if not years boil over—and the feel of her lips on his. He basked for a moment in the warmth created when she admitted she too had wanted this; first with her hands and her mouth and then with actual words.

But the thing he noticed most, that would linger with him all the way to Stamford, Connecticut, was the way her throat closed up when he asked if she was actually going to marry Roy.

He knew Pam Beesly. Or at least he hoped he did. And so he knew that if she’d said anything in that moment, she wouldn’t have been able to stop talking: she’d have let herself break down, let herself deal with the emotions of the moment. Whether that was by spitting out something she’d walk back later, like “I’m happy with my choices” or by admitting something like “me too,” or even just breaking down mid-word and crying, when she was talking there was the possibility of progress.

It was when she was silent that he had to worry. Like at the dojo. For a woman who loved jinx so much, silence from her was a real threat.

And so he was watching her mouth, not just because the desire to kiss her again was palpably beating inside his skin, but because he needed to hear her keep going. But instead the lasting impression he got was of the moment when he could see, could actually see, the lump in her throat close it up, and her head incline into that little nod.

He bowed his head and accepted his defeat.

“Okay.”

If she couldn’t even talk to him, there was no reason to stay.

**

Of course he’d noticed her at the start of the evening. She’d actually made an effort, for once, and she looked good. He was proud to glance over at her and see the woman he was going to marry looking so good. Proud enough that he graciously ignored Halpert’s little sideways glances. Not that he wasn’t aware of them. When he decided to leave and she decided to stay, he felt the need to remind Halpert that she was his: “Hey, Halpert! Keep an eye on her, all right?” Just a little nudge to remind that guy that he was aware of the way he’d been watching.

Pammy looked so happy, and had been winning so much money, that he didn’t really mind Halpert’s little lovey-dovey act, as long as no one got carried away. He’d see her later, or (since he really was tired) in the morning if she came back after he fell asleep. That was the thing: Halpert clearly wanted her, but she’d be spending the night, and the next, and the rest of her life, with him.

So what he really noticed was her absence the next morning. He’d rolled over, expected to envelop Pammy in a morning hug and see if maybe he could get a little lucky, and his arm hit bare, still-unrumpled sheet.

He shot to his feet, and stared mutely at the bed. He moved around during the night (Pammy accused him sometimes of being a cover hog) so it wasn’t entirely clear, but he was pretty sure this bed hadn’t had two people in it.

Still, he didn’t panic. She was a considerate woman, Pammy, maybe she got back in late enough that she slept downstairs on the couch because she didn’t want to disturb him. Silly, of course, since he’d much rather be woken up (even if he knew he was a bear when his rest was disturbed) but representative of her thoughtful nature

He bounded downstairs and there was a lump on the couch. Not really realizing how loud he’d been coming downstairs, he assumed this was just Pammy, sleeping it off, and crept up on the figure to surprise her. When he reached the couch and put a hand out, he was beyond surprised to be touching a green duffel bag partially hidden underneath a quilt.

“Roy.” He looked up, and saw her silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“We need to talk.”

He didn’t go to Australia.

He probably should have. The ticket was booked. He was able (by turning on that Halpert charm and being very, very patient, and also by paying another $200 “change fee”) to turn it into the airline equivalent of store credit. But somewhere inside he knew he wouldn’t use it. Not until or unless he had to flee again, and he had promised himself he wasn’t going to get in that situation or anything even vaguely close to it ever.

Instead, he transferred to Stamford as soon as possible. Technically sooner than possible, in that he leverages that week off he’d already taken and moves it up so that it covers the week after Casino Night.

He arranges all of this at 5 am on Monday, because he can’t stop noticing her.

All weekend he waited by the phone hoping against hope that she’d call him. It felt like giving her a last chance: if she couldn’t talk to him in the moment, maybe the weekend would loosen her tongue. By the time it’s Sunday night and she hasn’t reached out, he’s pretty sure he’s done for.

Still, he’s planning to come into work, because Jan says it’ll take a little while for the paperwork to come through, and besides, he can help by moving his clients over to the other Scranton salesmen and women during the week.

He can’t sleep Sunday night, because he knows that if he goes into work that Monday morning he’ll have to interact with her, and he has absolutely no idea how to do that. It’s like all the coping mechanisms—the teasing, the self-deprecation, the laughter—have washed away in the flood of emotion from Casino Night and he just knows none of them will work. But still, he’s not looking at this like something he can avoid; in fact, he’s almost numbed himself because he knows it’s going to happen to him and it’s going to be awful.

Because he can’t sleep, he decides to get a move on in the morning. By 4 am it is clear that “can’t sleep” is entirely literal, and he drags himself up, into the shower, and over to Scranton Business Park. Maybe being in the office will spark some idea of how to deal with this, to deal with the dead thing that he used to call us.

Instead, it confirms his determination to get the hell out.

The doors to the building are haunted. There she bent over, doubled in laughter, after he managed to convince Dwight that his car’s tailpipe needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (with the engine off, he’s not a murderer). By that shrub she first mentioned her love of The Princess Bride. On that bench he sat for fifteen minutes after kissing her upstairs and wondered what the hell he was doing with his life.

The whole walk into the building is like this, like he’s playing one of those first-person shooters he’s absolute garbage at (and Mark loves) where just looking at something by scrolling your cursor over it pops up a tooltip with pertinent information. Hank’s desk reminds him of teasing Pam about how she’d need to get a new badge that said “Pamela Anderson”—not a good thought right now, but that was earlier in their rela…in their whatever it was. The elevators remind him of every journey up and down when he silently wished they’d get stuck (now he’s wishing the same thing, but just so he wouldn’t have to go through with today). The doors to the Dunder Mifflin suite are so covered with memories he can’t even really discern one individual thought, except maybe (he thinks with a sardonic twist of his mouth) the old Dantean expression: “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

And he’s right, because walking into the actual office is hell.

Her desk, of course, is the first thing he sees, and if the doorway was bad, the sight of the jellybean tray on her desk is pure and unadulterated torture. He has to tear his eyes away from cataloging the rest of the detritus she’s left there because if he does he won’t be able to stop. He’ll just stand there hyperventilating until Dwight comes to tip him over at…whenever it is that people like Dwight get into work (he actually knows the answer, down to the minute, because of a prank he and Pam executed over a year ago to slowly move all of Dwight’s clocks forward by a minute a week [the car clock was particularly hard to manage, though Schrute Farms was surprisingly easy] but he doesn’t want to think about that prank so he forces himself not to remember the time).

His glance grazes the break room and he twists himself around to avoid looking too carefully at…well, at anything, but particularly at the damn cupboard which is sitting ajar, and in which he can see the rounded edge of a particularly meaningful teapot.

This present is special, because it has bonus torture.

Unfortunately this frantic turn points him at a window, and he can see the parking lot, and it’s too much. He falls, heavily, into his chair, as if his feet had moved by autopilot. He does not want to think about the last time they did that in this office. It didn’t work out that well.

He thinks, for a moment, that its odd that he hasn’t actually looked at his own desk, but he quickly realizes exactly why that is. His desk was already a shrine to Pam, although she didn’t necessarily know it—in fact, given what happened last week he’s pretty sure he can say definitively that she did not know it—and it’s only made worse by the fact that he can still see the changes made by…whatever it was that happened on Casino Night. He refuses to think about her fiddling with the cord to his phone, or how their legs had swept the papers askew on the edge of the desk, or any of it. It’s all pushed back into that black box labeled “Casino Night.”

It’s then, with his pulse racing, that he picks up the phone and dials corporate, knowing that they often start their days on UK time, especially at the start of the week, to conference with the suppliers in Slough. He’s hoping against hope that this is one of those days, because he desperately needs Jan to be in her office.

She is.

At the same time, he’s turned on his computer and is frantically clicking through options on the airline site, and—once Jan is assured that he really means what he says and clicks off so she can go onto one of those international conference calls—picking the phone up again and calling helpline after helpline. Or rather, calling one and letting them transfer him in what he would swear is an infinite loop. Fortunately for him, however, 6 am on Monday isn’t their busiest time, and he gets through eventually.

He arranges a call back at 10 “since your case is so complex, Mr. Halpert,” marches to the annex, leaves Toby a note saying he’ll send in the forms remotely from his newly moved vacation and to check with Jan for the approvals of vacation and transfer, and packs up his desk on autopilot. He’s done before 7, which was his personal drop-dead point, that being when the earliest people (Angela, for instance) tend to start drifting in.

He doesn’t really rationalize why he keeps the little yogurt lid or the sketch of Dwight as cupid. But he does. And his last memory of Dunder Mifflin Scranton is of a jar sitting empty on a counter. You’d only know it was for jellybeans if you’d seen the man walking out the doors munching on them one by one and crying.

She notices Roy more now that they’re broken up.

It’s not just the chicken-or-fish every day for lunch (and why oh why couldn’t he get off his butt and do the one thing he said he’d do in cancelling their wedding? She moved out. She left him the stuff. She called their families—yes, even his. She undid the venue, the cake, the guests. He’d agreed to do one thing: the catering. And he’d somehow failed to do that. She understands its hard, being broken up with. But after she had to talk to his mother for him…it’s really just one thing). It’s not just the guilt, which pushes hard against her ribcage and flushes her face whenever she lets it. It’s not even just her desperate need to look anywhere, notice anything, other than Jim’s empty desk—or then, worse, Ryan-at-Jim’s-desk—every day.

It’s that he’s actually more visible, more present in her life, now that they’re broken up.

Because he doesn’t get it. He talks a good game about how he understands that it wasn’t working, how he knows he wasn’t really putting in effort, how he sees how she felt distant from him, but he doesn’t realize that that doesn’t mean she wants those things from him now. It’s like he’s stared at the broken edges of a plate he dropped on the ground, and then just decided to keep carrying the plate around like it had never broken in the first place, because that was how he was supposed to keep it unbroken. Maybe that’s why he “forgot” about the caterer: because to him, all of this is just prelude to her deciding he’s done enough to get back with him.

There isn’t such a thing. She’s done. OK, she can see, maybe, a world in which she backslides, one in which she gives into the pain in her ribs and the flush in her face and the pathetic puppydogness of him and gives him another chance. But she can’t see it working—and she tries, so hard, to make him see it.

And he keeps nodding along until right at the part where she reminds him that they’re not getting back together. Suddenly the man who couldn’t be bothered to stay home with her has infinite free time to ask her out. The guy whose brother dragged him to the lake every weekend  and whose buddies took him for poker every night is always hovering at her desk (almost like someone else used to do). And she can’t quite bring herself to shove him away quite as hard as she should. Not because she still wants to be with him, or because she sees a future there, but because once you’ve already kicked a puppy you really don’t feel comfortable coming at it with a 2x4. Every time she has a flash of frustration with Roy she sees the memory of Casino Night—not Jim’s kiss or his confession which, hurtful as they are to remember, hurt good, like a muscle stretching, but the fight she and Roy had that night when she told him she couldn’t do it anymore—of his face falling when it finally got through that this wasn’t like other nights (she’s briefly reminded of her friend Izzy’s Seder the one time she stayed with them over spring break, when her mom and dad were out of town, and the ritual question they asked with such reverence: why is this night different from all other nights?). When he finally realized that she was not just angry with him but breaking up with him.

When he finally started to cry.

She just can’t do that to him again, and so every time she pushes him away she knows she’s not doing it quite far enough. It’s like when she’d put things away in the house they used to share, actually: her arms just aren’t as long as his, so sometimes he’d complain that she didn’t get things far enough into the cupboards. Only now it’s pushing him away that isn’t quite far enough, and he’s quite happy to use his longer arms to pull back at her when she thinks she’s done her utmost. And unlike the cans in the cupboard, she can’t quite bring herself to fling him off with all her strength, because really, isn’t it enough that she’s pushed him? Can’t he get the hint? Why is it that all it took for Jim was two hands on his chest and a little nod, and Roy can’t understand shouted words?

It’s endlessly frustrating, but it also means that Roy’s always on her mind. She can’t avoid him, and he seems to be aware of this because he’s always coming up to the main office on little errands for Darryl. She wants to tell him that it’s just proof that the excuses he gave for not doing that when they were together were so much bullshit, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she’s noticed. It’s still annoying though, and the worst part is that he (and everyone else upstairs, except, oddly , for Michael) seems to think that it’s going to work: that it’s adorable, and she ought to take him back. Ugh. If only they knew how every time he pays attention to her now is just a reminder that he didn’t do it back when it might have mattered.

If only he knew it too. If only he’d listen. Because even now he won’t actually hear her tell it to him. He thinks he’s being considerate and attentive, but he’s really just being an attention hog. And she hates it. Almost as much as she hates not being able to look over and roll her eyes with Jim whenever it happens. But…not quite.

It bothers him more than he can say when she comes into work one day in a shirt he doesn’t recognize. It’ s not like she’s cheated on him—it’s not something ridiculous like a guy’s shirt hanging from her shoulders, a walk of shame shirt, nothing like that—it’s just that it’s a visible reminder that she walked out on him a few weeks before their wedding. That she’s not his Pammy anymore and he doesn’t quite know everything about her. Doesn’t get to see every moment of her life anymore.

Up until this point he’s really been able to pretend otherwise. Well, actually, that’s a lie, a nicely crafted one that has been helping him get through the evenings and days and everything alone. But it’s close enough to the truth that it doesn’t entirely feel like a lie, and that’s what makes it effective. Sure, his nights are lonely (well, except for the ones where he’s going to a poker night or a basketball game or a video-game binge, but even those weirdly different now because the guys keep giving him sympathetic looks and he’d swear Darryl actually folded a winning hand to let him win one time). And he doesn’t have a toaster (because she took it, leaving him the coffeemaker, which was only fair because she drinks tea…and why didn’t they have a teakettle, and why didn’t that bother him before?). Or a rocking chair, though he still has the sofa and that’s a relief because he’d finally worn a good butt-crease in the thing. But by and large, he can still pretend.

They still get to eat lunch together—well, maybe not together, but he gets to see her—and they’re actually doing that more than they did before they broke up. He didn’t mean to drop the ball on the caterer, he just got so…out of it that it didn’t seem important, you know? And now he’s glad because it means they eat lunch together most days, and he gets to look at her.

Just looking at her is great. I mean, don’t get him wrong, he’d love to touch her. He misses feeling her in bed beside him on a random night and knowing, just knowing, that everything’s going to be OK. But now he’s starved for a look at her, and the lunches are a good chance for that. She’s so pretty.

But the shirt really throws him for a loop. Because until then he could pretend that this was just another fight, just another time when she made him sleep on the couch or went to her parents’ for a weekend or something. Pretend that she didn’t really call it off (even though June 10 has come and gone and there’s no ring on her finger). Pretend that he’s still with her.

But now she’s going out shopping without him. OK, he didn’t actually go shopping with her when they were together, but now she’s shopping without him…in mind? I mean, it would be flattering to think that she picked the new shirt out for him, but other than the neckline (which he quite enjoys) he can tell she wasn’t thinking about his opinion when she bought it because…well because of a lot of reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. Or rather, he can, but each one individually wouldn’t be convincing—and yet he’s certain of them all combined.

First, the color. Don’t get him wrong, it looks good on her! But…it’s not a color he’d have chosen. Olives and greens and grays and that sort of thing—he liked her in those. Blue wasn’t a bad color. But this was like a red-purple thing that he would have sworn Pammy didn’t even know existed, much less was willing to wear.

Then there’s the style. He’s not really up on women’s fashions (he doesn’t pretend to be—why would he?) but there’s something in the swoop and the fit of this that just doesn’t fit in with the rest of her wardrobe as he remembers it. Something almost provocative. Not like he’s complaining—just like the neckline, it’s a good look for her—but he knows she didn’t wear that kind of thing around him before. It almost makes him worry she’s found someone else, but who could it be? There’s no one. Halpert’s disappeared (some kind of scandal there, he’ll bet. Maybe embezzlement or something) and he doesn’t think she has the time for finding guys outside of work. Not that he really knows what she’s doing with her time, but every time he asks her out she’s busy, so there’s something.

And finally, he overhears her whispering with one of the other upstairs people (Kelly, he thinks) about the price. And that’s when he knows she’s really moved on in a way he hadn’t expected. Because the Pammy he knows never spent much of anything on her clothes. She still looked nice, of course she did, but he’s never heard of her spending this much on a shirt in her life. Not that he was paying all that close attention to their receipts or anything, but still. Something’s different.

He doesn’t like different. But, he supposes, that’s her right. She can be different. She’s earned it. And when she finally realizes that this fancy new Pammy still needs her Roy—he’ll be here. And he’ll even have nice things to say about her new shirt.

He thinks about her ever day.

Not just once, either. It’s not like he checks a little mental box labeled “think about Pam” and then gets to go on with his day (note: he would get to check that box basically as soon as he woke up every morning, so it would be a real convenience if things did work this way, but they don’t). No, he thinks about her pretty much constantly. Every time a phone rings and the wrong person answers (well, technically the right person, since these people are calling Dunder Mifflin Stamford, not Dunder Mifflin Scranton, and so having Pam pick up would be weird and inappropriate, but for him it’s the wrong person. He briefly thinks that if he were dictator of the world all phones would be answered “Dunder Mifflin. This is Pam.” But then he thinks that if he were really dictator of the world, he could probably fix some bigger problems. And besides, hearing that every day out of the wrong mouths would actually probably make things worse, not better). Every time he comes home to an empty boring apartment with no Mark to hang out with and no food in the cupboards and no reason to be there except that he couldn’t stand to be in Scranton one more minute. Every time…well, just every time.

And of course he thinks of her double-triple-quadruple-infinity on June 10, when he’s not in Australia and not in Scranton and not at her wedding objecting to her marrying Roy. Even though he wishes to hell he were either the first or the last so he wouldn’t be thinking about it quite as much.

But that’s not really noticing her. It’s just like breathing for him, and it’s all in his head, all memories and baggage he’s carrying around with him. It’s all on him.

The next time he actually notices her is when they get the new Dunder Mifflin directories in early July. He takes a deep breath and he opens the binder (surprisingly heavy, but then, they would spring for the fancy paper to show off Dunder Mifflin wares, wouldn’t they?) and he looks at the As.

There’s Roy Anderson (along with a John, David, and Lyle Andersons as well, in Utica, Albany, and New York Corporate respectively, and an Angela Anderson, also at Corporate, who he feels very sorry for, name-wise).

He’s not quite sure what to do with this—did she leave the company? Oh God, is Pam pregnant and on maternity leave?—so before he can stop himself he’s flipped to the Bs, and there she is. Pamela Beesley. Well, OK, so they misspelled her name, but it’s definitely her, (Scranton: Receptionist) and there’s a little thumbnail picture as well in case he had any doubt.

His first thought is that the book is outdated (after all, for printing in July, when did they have to put in the data?) or that she finally won an argument with Roy and got to (decided to) keep her name after marriage, cringing at all the Pamela Anderson jokes coming from Michael et al. if she did change it. Then he thinks about Roy and thinks about Michael and realizes that that is not the most likely explanation (though he still can’t put aside printing lag as the reason).

The problem consumes him and he briefly considers stalking her online—something he’s decisively decided is not a good idea because of his own tenuous grasp on sanity as a result of this whole…situation—before opting instead to try and ignore the question by throwing himself whole-heartedly into today’s work. He’ll fill out purchase orders, cold-call new clients, cold-call old clients, empty his wastebasket, clean out the men’s room toilet—anything to feel vaguely productive and distract himself from the nagging question of why Pam Beesly is still Pam Beesly.

It’s when he’s made his way down to the next-to-last task on his task list, sorting through spam mail (cleaning out toilets didn’t actually make it on—the last one is “organize paper supply closet by color”) that he stumbles on a treasure trove of emails that make him close his email client, stand up, walk to the men’s room, and hurl before he even has a chance to read them.

There they are, marked as SPAM by Outlook because too many of them came in too short a time with too similar of keywords, all from too similar a set of email addresses: a horde of bold unread email subjects from his former Scranton colleagues, starting with Michael and Kelly but also (to his surprise) including Kevin, Oscar, Toby, Dwight (!), and Angela (!!).

Pam’s Wedding is Off

Pam’s Wedding CANCELLED

She Called it OFF

ALERT: PAMELALALALA IS FREE

And so on.

When he’s cleaned up the men’s room sink, he sits back down, opens Outlook again, and scrolls through the list.

None of the emails is from Pam.

He wishes he were more surprised.

He also wishes he were sure the bad taste in his mouth and the twinge in his gut were just from having puked.

She wasn’t expecting Roy’s mom to call.

Well, not this time anyway.

It’s not like she hadn’t talked to Mrs. Anderson, or Mrs. A as she always called her. After all, Roy made her call everyone to tell them it was off, and so she got to bear the brunt of the disappointment from his whole family as she told them one by one that she couldn’t marry him. Wouldn’t marry him. Wasn’t marrying him on June 10 or any other date.

Mrs. A had actually been the most understanding of them all. She’d sighed, she’d asked why, she’d even cried a little on the phone (or else there was some very conveniently timed static, but Pam knew what she’d heard). But she’d been much nicer about it than most of Roy’s family: his grandmother had asked snappishly if “she didn’t think she had an obligation to follow through on her word,” his father had yelled at her, his aunt had hung up abruptly and then called back to curse. Mrs. A had listened. She’d asked Pam what she wanted (and, unlike her son, she’d realized along the way that Pammy had turned into Pam—and unlike her husband and his mother she hadn’t called her “Pamela” as if using her full name would somehow make her reconsider). They’d even had coffee the week after, partly to help Mrs. A “know what to tell Roy” but also because, as she said, “I see why you’re doing this—and I want you to know I don’t blame you.” It had been nice, though short. You couldn’t really stay friends or whatever they were with a woman when you’d left her son a month before the wedding day. Not because either of them didn’t like the other—if there was any woman she was closer to than Mrs. A, it was only her own mother or her sister—but because you had to give each other space: Pam space to explore her new life and Mrs. A space to be a good mother to Roy. And at that coffee they’d agreed it would be a bad idea to keep in touch too closely, lest Roy should get the wrong idea. Loving his mother like family—even loving him like family—didn’t mean she wanted to marry him, or would ever take him back.

So she really hadn’t expected to hear from Mrs. A again unless they bumped into each other on the street—maybe at Jo-Ann or Michaels or one of the smaller craft stores, or at Walmart or Wegmans or somesuch. It was a real surprise to hear her on the phone, so much so that she almost missed what she was saying.

“Roy’s where?”

“I’ll tell Darryl.”

“Yeah, thanks Mrs. A. I know.”

So apparently Roy had gotten himself arrested for drunk driving, and being the thoughtful person that he was, he’d called his mother to bail him out. Only the Andersons were on vacation in Colorado (with Kenny, which Pam personally thought made it less vacation and more punishment, but they had raised the boy), and Roy totally forgot, so they didn’t get Roy’s message until Mrs. A called their home phone to check for messages.

Then she’d called Pam, full of apology, heading off any expectation that Pam herself should bail him out or pick him up, but certain that she’d at least know someone who would. Which, of course, she did. She dialed the warehouse line and passed the responsibility off to Darryl before taking a very early lunch. She ignored Dwight’s astonished “Pamela! It is 10:17!” and pushed through the double doors towards the stairwell.

She didn’t need this.

It wasn’t just the reminder that Roy was apparently not actually a completely functional human being without her (not your fault, not your fault, not your fault she repeated to herself, reiterating what Izzy and Penny and her mom had all told her). It wasn’t even that Mrs. A, for all her expressed willingness to let Pam live her own life without Roy, had still called her for his emergency. It was that she felt trapped. She’d made all these big moves (breaking up with Roy, moving out, changing her wardrobe, painting again) and it still felt like nothing had really changed.

Or rather, one big thing had changed—no Jim—and no matter what other change she made it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing could go right while that was still wrong.

But she couldn’t think of anything to do about it. She’d felt awful when she’d told the whole office about her break-up and seen everyone (after peppering her with questions of course, for what felt like an hour but was honestly more like five minutes) rush to their computers at the same time. The thought had flashed through her head: “they’re emailing Jim.” She’d tried to get ahead of them but hadn’t known what to say, so she’d ended up sending him a nearly blank email with the subject line “No Wedding” and the body just saying “Call me?”

But he hadn’t responded.

No email, no call, no nothing.

She hadn’t been able to think about much else for weeks. She wasn’t going to reach out again. The ball was in his court (was that how sports metaphors worked? She’d ask Jim…or Roy…but….no). And now this thing with Roy just made her realize how much she was, not out of control, but not in control either. Everything was just off, and everything sucked.

But hey, at least she got to eat something for lunch other than chicken or fish for once.

She felt a little bad about thinking of that as a silver lining—but not much.

Roy had been trying to avoid Pammy.

He didn’t like thinking of it that way. After all, she was…well, she wasn’t his girlfriend anymore, but she was still the only person he wanted to be with. The only person he could imagine coming home to.

But at the same time…she just wasn’t the same Pammy, and it was bothering him.

Or maybe, if he was really honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he was the same Roy. The DUI hadn’t actually changed a lot—Darryl bailed him out, his mom was weird about it for a while, his insurance rates went up (again—they’d gone up when Pammy had moved out too and he’d had to admit he was the primary driver)—but it had changed something in how he felt about the whole situation.

Now whenever he saw her he didn’t feel sad about the non-wedding, or impatient for her to realize they were meant to be together. Well, he did feel those things, but they weren’t the primary feeling. No, his primary feeling now was guilt. Because he knew from Darryl that she’d been the one to call him, and he felt guilty about it. Not guilty enough to actually bring it up with her and clear the air (how did you do that, anyway? Didn’t talking about things make them more noticeable, not less?) and not guilty enough to stop seeing her altogether (every lunch was still a chicken or fish day, and he still loved the moment when he walked up to the double doors of upstairs Dunder Mifflin and saw her bent over her desk, the moment before she noticed him when he could pretend they were still together and nothing had changed—right up until she raised her head and looked up). But guilty enough to make those visits short, and to pass on the opportunities Darryl kept handing him to bring up warehouse complaints or shortages (and thus be upstairs, and thus see Pammy). He stopped passing on his family’s greetings, or their mutual friends’ (though now that he thought about it, those greetings had also gotten fewer and farther between, and his mother had said something about “giving Pam her space” that he hadn’t really registered until now).

So he was, in his own way, avoiding her.

It just wasn’t very effective.

Now he just had one lunch a day to listen to half-heard snippets of conversation: that one woman (Kelsey? Kelly? Something like that) was always going on a mile a minute so it was hard to keep things straight, but he thought he’d heard something about a double date. And Pammy had turned a little red so he thought it was about her. But now of course the other woman was on about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, so maybe they’d been on a double date with some other celebrity couple? He remembered vaguely that Pammy had liked Brad Pitt in one of those movies she was always seeing with her girlfriends (some sort of rom-commy thing, not for him) and so maybe she was blushing because she had a crush on him? Or maybe there was nothing there at all, and it was just the glare from that stupid mustard-colored salesman’s beet-infused beet salad that was throwing off his color perception.

Then another day there was something about buying new clothes. He’d already noticed the new clothes she had, why did she need another set? What was wrong with his Pammy, the cardigan-wearing woman he’d been with for a decade? Sure, he’d nagged her enough himself about getting new clothes, but those weren’t for work. He’d hoped she’d come home and change or something, not go around in new stuff for all those salespeople and stuff to see. And anyway, why’d she have to change now, when he couldn’t properly enjoy it?

Ugh. Why did Pammy have to make everything so hard? She just needed to realize that he was sorry, and that they’d be happier together than either of them could be apart, and come back to him already. All this new stuff was just a waste of time. Especially his.

Why didn’t she just come back?

The Annual Northeastern Mid-Market Office Supply Convention was a complete and utter waste of time, Jim decided. Was this really what assistant managers of regional paper companies had to look forward to? Well, he’d always known this wasn’t the right job for him, not long term, and this was just more proof of it. It was like…he was going to say being surrounded by four hundred Michael Scotts, but it was worse. It was like being surrounded by four hundred Dwight K. Schrutes. Michael at least had some originality. Most of these people were just laser-focused on paper. Hell, at least with Dwight he’d know what buttons to press, exactly how far to go before something went wrong. These guys had that little Andy Bernard edge where he didn’t know what would push them over into maniacal retaliation—and he didn’t really want that. So it was a relief to see the actual factual Dwight K. Schrute because here was a man he could safely prank.

Except, of course, he found himself being pranked. Worse than pranked. Because whatever Michael had just said about a date to Pam was clearly not meant for him. It wasn’t a prank. It was just life. Pam being Pam. Which meant Pam dating. Which meant Pam moving on in a way that he had pretended to himself that he had but he clearly had not.

At Michael’s little party he ended up confessing that he’d moved on from Scranton because of her, not Michael, and Michael had started out first by assuring him that “he’d fix it” and then (once he was a little drunker and Michael was a whole lot drunker) regaling him with the story of how Kelly had badgered Pam into this particular date. Given a discount of about 25% for Michael-being-Michael, he started to wonder.

Was Pam really over him (not that she’d ever been under him [that’s what she said])?

Was it fair for him to think this was such an important question, now that he lived in Stamford?

Why hadn’t she contacted him when she told literally everyone else in the office about it? He’d gone back to look at those emails at the end of the day and they’d all disappeared—it must have been time for the auto-delete of old spam, which he’d never regretted before—but the image was still seared onto his memory. Seven or eight emails, all with those big bold Pam-related subject lines, and nothing from her.

Feeling a little tipsier than he had realized he was, he hardened his heart.

So what if Kelly had badgered her into the date? She was still going on dates without him and so what if she had ended things with Roy, it still clearly had nothing to do with him. It was all her and her own needs and he was proud of her (of course) but that didn’t mean he could backslide. He couldn’t afford to think about her in that way. Look how much pain it was causing him just know that she was on a date! A date she didn’t even want to go on! It was time for him to put that all in the past and actually let go. Time to really let himself live in Stamford. Unpack some boxes. Dig out the PS2 and set up some Madden. Maybe some of the Stamford folks played video games. Maybe he could find out who his neighbors were, or what there was to eat in Connecticut besides fast food and frozen dinners. Maybe someday even go on a date.

After all, if Pam could do it, so could he.

And maybe someday he’d get to the point where his reasons didn’t have anything to do with Pam anyway. It wasn’t like Scranton and Stamford interacted that much. Sure, he missed the old place (and not just for Pam-related reasons): the games at the Y (did Stamford have a Y? It must. Maybe they did Saturday pickup games), Mark, pranking Dwight, even talking to Phyllis and Toby and Kevin (about life, Sasha, and fantasy football, respectively). Even Michael, who for all his massive obvious visible-from-space faults was actually a pretty good boss when you let yourself go in for the ride. But he could move on from all that, because Stamford had things too. He just needed to figure out what.

It was time to suck it up and become the Jim Halpert he was always meant to be. Like in Pokemon: Charizard into Charmeleon into Charmander, Jim Halpert (Scranton) into Jim Halpert (Stamford). And then eventually into…what? He’d eventually figure that out. Someday.

Pammy’s little fashion show at lunch….that had to be for him, right? Because they were still doing that little push and pull, where she pretended to be moving on and he pretended to be OK with it. Where they met up every day at lunch and exchanged chicken and fish and he got to experience having her in his life for another fifteen or twenty minutes before she got whisked away or he got called back for another round of heavy lifting.

He was very glad she hadn’t really realized that he could easily have just given her half the food and stopped doing this little lunchtime exchange. She had a new place by now, it had to have a freezer—OK, maybe not a big one like the basement of the house he still lived in (he refused to call it “his house” or “their old house” or anything that implied that she no longer lived there, even if it was temporarily true)—but something that could hold a bunch of meals. He could just bring her like a week’s worth at a time or whatever (140 guests plus extra to make sure no one went hungry went a long way). And then they wouldn’t be doing this pantomime every day.

But he liked the pantomime, and by now he had come to assume that she did too, because otherwise why hadn’t she asked him to just bring her a bunch at once? She had to be enjoying this, and that meant that somewhere, maybe buried, maybe right near the surface, she wanted him in her life. And he was willing to wait.

He was especially willing to wait if she was going to reward his patience with extras like that fashion show. He’d not been happy when she first started transitioning her wardrobe from the stuff that she wore while they were together. He wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t hurt to see her acting like she was moving on. But this felt different. This time she was not just silently changing, but showing it off—showing it off for him. Sure, the rest of the office too, but what, she was suddenly interested in that fat accountant? If Halpert had still been around, sure, maybe he’d have worried. Hell, if Halpert were still around he’d have slugged that guy, because he could just imagine the way that thin asshole’s eyes would have been glued to Pammy’s tits. OK, maybe that was unfair. Who could blame the guy for looking? Roy looked himself, of course, but then he had the right. He’d put in the time. He’d been with Pammy for ten years, so he was entitled to stare a little.

And she had to know he was going to, right? It was a fact of life by now that he came up at lunch, and (no matter what that bitch Kelly thought) he had a right to come up and have a Coke now and then too. So she knew he’d be around. Putting on that provocative top was a signal. He could read Pammy’s signals. She wasn’t entirely comfortable doing this in the office—of course she wasn’t—so there must be some reason she was doing it. And that meant him, right? Why else would she be doing something she felt exposed or uncomfortable doing if not to signal to him—we’ll be OK, do you like what you see, aren’t I still your pretty Pammy?

And she’d thanked him when he said she looked nice. Of course she did. She looked like…what was it that their dumb boss had said that one time? Pam 6.0. Yeah. New and improved indeed. Vavavoom. But she’d been happy when he’d told her that, and uncomfortable when the fat guy and the two ladies complimented her. That meant she was looking for his approval, right? That had to be a good sign.

That reminded him, though. If he was going to win Pammy back (and he knew, deep in his heart of hearts, that she was waiting for him to do that—to convince her that she had been right to be with him all along) then he was going to need to do what she was doing. He needed a new wardrobe, but more than that he needed a new attitude. He needed to be not just a guy she could be happy with (he was pretty sure he was that already) but a guy it was obvious she’d be happy with. After all, Pammy hated going back on decisions—which meant that it had taken something for her to break off their engagement, but also that it would take something new to bring that engagement back on. He had to show her that the grass was greener right where she’d left it, and that un-un-doing their marriage was the best option.

He needed to get to the gym more. He’d used to go the Y for basketball and stuff like that; why had he ever stopped? And maybe he could see if the guys from high school were still playing pickup football on the weekends. That was the ticket—get back in shape, get back to the Roy he knew he could be. Maybe he’d grow like a beard or something. Chicks dug beards. Pammy’d like that. And hell, maybe he’d like it himself.

But the one thing he couldn’t do was get complacent. She might have made that little show for him, she might be waiting for him to make a big gesture, but he needed to get his act together to show her he’d noticed what she was signaling. She’d said when she broke it off that they weren’t connecting, that he wasn’t noticing her, that they didn’t communicate well. He couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by then. Show her you saw, show her you noticed, show her you can pick up what she’s laying down. It was time to get back to where he needed to be so she could get back to where she belonged—with him

He wondered if he could go get a fourth can of soda, or if Kelly would call him out again.

God bless Kevin Malone.

OK, maybe that was a little extreme. But Pam couldn’t help but be grateful for the opportunity to hear Jim’s voice. And not just to hear his voice; not just a voicemail or a background voice on a weird phone call with Michael (OK, that was any phone call of Michael’s, but still). No, she got a conversation. A weird, roving, Jim-and-Pam conversation that warmed her all the way through, as if he’d never left. As if he’d actually responded to her email about Roy. As if they were still friends.

It warmed her up so much she actually bothered to say goodbye to Ryan on his way out, instead of just staring in front of her mindlessly as had become her modus operandi the last few months. And of course that was when it all started to go wrong. Because Jim apparently thought she meant to say goodbye to him, and by the time she’d figured out that he wasn’t the one saying goodbye but thought it was her he had already started to pull away and then he was hanging up and she couldn’t think quickly enough to keep him on the line. Damn it.

Now she was alone in the office. Alone with her own thoughts, which was always dangerous, and never more so than when she was alone with her own thoughts in full view of the place where everything had gone so right and so wrong all at once: Jim’s desk. Well, Ryan’s desk, she guessed now. But anyway, that spot, which haunted her so much she was pretty sure Ryan thought she was crazy for staring at him all day, was not a good place to be looking when she was alone. As she now was.

And now all she had available to distract her from remembering that night and how she’d fucked up was the memory of this night and how she’d fucked up. Not even getting into the unfortunate goodbye—that was really on Jim, did he think she’d just cut him off?—what was that stuff about typing speed? And why oh why had she admitted it felt like he was far away without actually coming out and saying that she missed him? Missed him? Loved him. You need to say the word, Pam, she said to herself in her mother’s voice from their last conversation. If you can’t even tell yourself you love Jim, how do you expect him to figure it out from Connecticut?

And if she couldn’t even say it to him when they actually talked (and they did! Actually talk! She heard his voice and everything!) how was he  going to know even if he weren’t in Connecticut? After all, she realized, if she didn’t mention anything, didn’t even really make a move towards it, he was just going to think things were like they always had been…only less so, because he was at Stamford. Stupid stupid stupid. She should have said something.

But when? Should she have blurted out “I’m in love with you” over discussions of kitchen space and horror movies? Should she have interrupted his little spiel about fantasy football with some kind of innuendo? Not that she was any good at innuendo. So probably not, since bad innuendo was probably worse than verbal diarrhea about typing speeds. She hoped so at least, because those were probably her two options, if she was honest with herself, and she’d clearly chosen door number two.

But it had just been so good to hear his voice, so necessary to her in a way she hadn’t even really realized even as she was telling her mother she was in love with the man. It was like those deserts she’d seen in the Planet Earth special DVDs her sister had lent her: arid and empty and sand-colored one day, and then a rainstorm whirled through and everything lit up with colorful flowers. She’d love to draw one of those someday, if she ever got out of Scranton—and she felt like one of those today when Jim called. Suddenly everything she’d been shutting down had woken to new life, and she was almost giddy—so giddy she didn’t think about what she said at all. And that meant she didn’t say the most important things.

Well. At least the shutdown was over; the rain had fallen; the bloom had begun. And maybe now that they’d talked, she could find a way to talk more—and then she’d get a chance to tell him the more important stuff.

Hopefully soon.

OMG Michael proposed to Carol and now I have to give him a ride home! Can you believe it? J

The words don’t make any sense. He can read them, of course. He’s not that drunk. Not yet. But when he reads them they don’t really communicate anything to him. He’s not sure why Pam is texting him—sure, they talked on the phone a little while ago, and it was amazing, but he can’t trust his instincts when it comes to things like this, not after being told he was misinterpreting their friendship—and so he’s not sure how to respond to that in the first place, and when you add to that the weirdness of the content (why does Pam have to give Michael a ride home? From where? Why was Pam there when Michael proposed to Carol, wherever there is?) he’s really just completely flummoxed.

OK, maybe he’s also that drunk. He’s not sure exactly when Pam sent the message, he’s not entirely sure what time it is now, and he thinks he might have passed out drunk while drinking whatever that horrid stuff Andy brought in was. How the hell was Karen not affected? That woman must have a liver of steel, kidneys of iron, and the overall constitution of a…a…something that has a really good constitution. A dwarf cleric or something. Don’t ask him, he’s drunk.

And if he’s drunk enough to not know what animal has a good constitution (a yak maybe?) and to then go back to his college Dungeons and Dragons phase for a metaphor, he’s probably too drunk for this text.

Why is Pam texting him? No, scratch that, why is Pam texting him this? He’s had fantasies about Pam texting him, of course, because he knows that talking is hard for her (even though he’d much rather hear her voice than read anything ever). First it was simple, sweet fantasies like just getting an “I miss you” or a “Hey, are you going to the mall, because I’m here and we should hang out.” Then it was very specific fantasies that he’s now drunk enough to admit he really craved, about pictures and words and all the things he’d really like to do with her if she weren’t with Roy/in Scranton/evidently not as interested in him as he’d always hoped (circle all that apply). Sexting with Pam would be…well, he actually has no idea. He doesn’t even really have a precedent for it, because the closest he’s come is the couple of times Katy booty-called him by text, and he really doesn’t want to imagine that Pam is anything like Katy. And he knows his reactions to her are magnitudes more significant than anything he ever had with Katy, so he just doesn’t think of that as even comparable, plus it wasn’t like actual sexting, just a casual “u up” followed by some…more direct, interpersonal action. So no, he has nothing to base his thoughts about Pam on except for his knowledge of her, and he’s deathly afraid now that he doesn’t know her nearly as well as he’d thought. Since Casino Night his fantasies about Pam texting him have become simpler: “I was wrong.” “I can.” “Come back.”

None of those have come true either.

Except now he has the reality of Pam texting him, and it’s much more confusing than any of his fantasies. Maybe this is because he’s still drunk (and how did he get home? He remembers the bike…and the bush…oh right, Karen. Thanks Karen! And why couldn’t it have been Pam? She’s giving Michael a ride home! Why not him? Oh. Right. Scranton is…how did she put it? It feels far. It’s not Stamford. He’s not…he’s never really home). But anyway. Being drunk. Sucks. Can’t really understand this text. Why is she telling him this? Why is she talking to him about proposals and Michael and car rides? Is it because Michael getting shot down (which he assumes he must have been if Pam is giving him a ride home) reminds her of Jim getting shot down? Because she thinks it’s funny to tell him that he’s just like Michael, that telling people how you feel about them is always a bad idea and leads to heartbreak? At least Michael has friends (good friends, Pam friends) to help him home. Jim had to drive back from Casino Night alone, friendless, hopeless.

And at least Michael got to date Carol. He thinks. Yeah, they definitely dated. He got further than Jim ever did. So did Kelly, now that she’s with Ryan. Only Jim gets to sit out in the cold. No one wants to date him. The woman he loves and doesn’t love him thinks it’s funny to tell him about other people getting their hopes dashed. And he’s in a one-bedroom apartment in Stamford, Connecticut, drunk off his ass, without any of the benefits of drinking. No camaraderie. No loosening of inhibitions or stolen kisses at the Dundies. Nothing but paperwork at Dunder Mifflin and bare walls in an apartment that might as well be a hotel room.

Damn it, tomorrow he’s going to have to pick up his bike. Which means he’ll have to drive in and then figure out where it was that he went off the side of the road, because he’s not sure exactly where that was but it wasn’t where he usually keeps his bike. Assuming it’s even still there in the morning.

God, this is messed up. He’ll deal with the text message later. If ever.

He rolls over and goes back to sleep.

It was strange thinking about the Scranton office closing. He’d gotten this job like right out of high school, when he’d decided college wasn’t for him and that his future was in something more physical, where he could use his muscles and his sturdiness to get things done. Where he could see the results in front of him (a loaded van, a fully stacked set of shelves) and know he had done a good job. So in a way, it was like a second home for him; a second family. He’d known Darryl and Marge and the boys for long enough that he could actually remember (with Pammy’s help…so maybe he couldn’t now) their birthdays and anniversaries. He wasn’t sure what he could do otherwise. Probably another equivalent job, if Staples or someone were hiring. Or really anywhere; he’d heard good things about the Giant food warehouse, where you stacked pallets of corn and beans instead of paper.

It was kind of like Pammy leaving him, in a way. They’d been together ten years; he’d been in the warehouse seven and a half. Pammy had always been home to him; he’d gone to her house (well, her parents’ house, but he didn’t really get along with Mr. and Mrs. Beesly the way he wished he did—he always felt like he had to try to impress them, and that he had always failed to do so—and so he didn’t think of it as their house, but Pammy’s, because otherwise he couldn’t work up the nerve to go in) every time something went wrong at home. Every time his dad was drunk and screaming, or his mom was throwing things, or simpler problems like he’d gotten an F in English and didn’t want to show anyone at home. He’d just known that Pammy would be there for him, and he’d found himself curled up around her thinking comfortable thoughts. Or not even thinking. There was a peace he found with Pammy that wasn’t present anywhere else. Around her he could shut his brain off, just be himself. It was calming.

The warehouse was kinda like that too. He could be Big Roy, the guy they called to pick up the loads that were too small for the forklift but too big for anyone else. He didn’t have to think about an empty house, the extra bottles of her shampoo still sitting in the closet, the chicken and fish in the big freezer out back that were rapidly dwindling (and with them his excuses to see her every day). It was his home away from home, and Pammy was his home, and the big (too big for one person, but what was he going to do, break the lease?) house on the corner was just where he went to sleep at night.

It was nice of her to come down and tell them all. He could tell she was nervous, and he had hoped for a blinding second that this was it—that she was nervous because she was going to ask him if she could come home again, apologize for the last few months, start over, everything he’d been hoping for. And then she’d gone to Darryl instead of him and he’d had a flash of jealousy, just long enough for his hand to curl up into a fist without him knowing it. Then Darryl had gone pale, and she’d turned and told everyone else, including him: “They’re closing a branch. Michael says it will be this one. I’m sorry…but I thought you guys should know.” And then she fled upstairs.

He’d wanted to call after her, to…do what? Thank her? Beg her to come back to him now that he was losing the only other home he knew? Grab her and kiss her and show her what she was missing? All he knew was that by the time he’d even half figured out what he wanted to do she was already up the stairs and through the door.

God, she was beautiful, though, when she was being brave. It was like courage made her hair curlier, her eyes brighter. She’d been beautiful that night too, when he’d gotten up all bleary-eyed and thought she was on the couch, and she’d stood in the kitchen and told him “I can’t do this. I can’t marry you.” He’d broken down then, and begged, and she’d stood firm—he’d have been proud of her if he wasn’t so freaked out—but he’d thought he saw something in her expression—not quite a warmth or a softness, more like pity, but he’d been willing to accept that—and he’d managed to convince her not to tell everyone immediately. To take a moment, take a break, figure out if this is what she really wanted, if there wasn’t anything he could do to convince her to come back. And when the week before their supposed-to-be wedding she’d told him she still couldn’t do it…that was when he’d really gotten mad. But she’d still been brave, still been beautiful, and he’d had to let her go. Just like he’d let her go now, up the stairs, out of the warehouse, maybe out of his life.

He still believed she’d come back, but he was slowly becoming aware that he’d have to do more than he’d been doing to get her to come back. Shaping up his own life wasn’t enough, and neither, apparently, was noticing and complimenting her. He’d need to do something bigger, something better, to make her see that he was really the man she wanted to be with.

Maybe getting that job at Giant Food would help. That would be progress, right? She’d said everything was the same, and while he couldn’t quite see why that was a problem (they were happy…why would they want to change that?) maybe some change would help her see him in a new light.

This resolution lasted exactly as long as it took for him to hear (again from her, again nervous, again brave and beautiful) that it had all been a false alarm. That Stamford was closing, not Scranton. That they all had their jobs still. And in his relief, he forgot all about the possibility of change.

He tried really hard not to notice her. Not to see that she’s made an extra effort today (or is that just how she dresses now? Is she still going on dates like that one he overheard Michael talking about? Is Fancy New Beesly so far out of her shell that this is just how she is? How much has he missed?). Not to react when she throws her arms around him (does she remember the Dundies? Does she remember Casino Night? Or has she pushed all of it deep down and is just happy to get her best friend back—because he can’t do that again. He just can’t). Not to look up when she glances towards him (made much easier by Ryan’s refusal to give him his old desk back—now he can only see her when he turns…or looks at the reflection in his monitor. And yes, he did angle the monitor so he could do that, why do you ask? Sometimes old habits die hard). He can’t go back to pining for her, he just can’t.

And yes, it would be back to pining, he finds out as he tells her he’s “sort of seeing someone” and she responds by saying “we’ll always be friends.” Friends. Right. That’s exactly what he wanted from her.

Sure, it’s unfair to the beautiful black-haired woman he’s having drinks with that night, that “sort of someone” he’s “sort of seeing” (she has a name. It’s Karen. But for some reason—that he knows well enough, deep enough in his soul, that he never actually has to name it—she’s always just “the other woman” when he’s thinking about Pam). But he’s desperate. She almost broke him. Even walking into the office today wasn’t really a matter of seeing his old colleagues (hello Dwight, hope you enjoyed the Gaydar; hi Michael, no, this hug isn’t crushing my ribs; hi Phyllis, why the hell didn’t you tell me about Pam). It was a matter of strategically avoiding every memory of her, because the Scranton office isn’t where he works. It’s where he thinks about Pam. It’s where he remembers her, where every little inch is crammed with emotion. And he has to suppress all of it, just for self-preservation. She didn’t call. She didn’t write. She texted that one time, but it was…he didn’t know what to do with it. So he can’t do this. He’s not even sure he can safely be friends with her, because that way leads terrifying declarations of love and rejection.

So he hides behind Karen, while at the same time hiding it from her. Telling her they can’t be out at the office (and remembering Oscar’s new car he can’t help but laugh at that phrase, but it’s too, too appropriate) because Michael will go overboard with it, because they don’t want to be like Kelly and Ryan (he still feels like Kelly, though; Karen just isn’t the Ryan of his dreams). He doesn’t tell her about Pam. He doesn’t even tell her about Pam and Roy, even when he sees Roy slipping into the office, even when Roy slaps him on the back and tells him there’s still basketball on Saturdays at the Y. He’s afraid. Afraid that mentioning it, that conjuring it up audibly will made him backslide, that he’ll start parsing every word Pam says again.

Not that he’s not doing that anyway, but at least this way he can pretend he’s not.

**

He knew the branches were merging, of course. After that day of panic in the warehouse they’d made sure to keep abreast of what was going on at corporate through whatever means they could, and he’d heard about Halpert coming back—as assistant regional manager, no less. He’d been worried for a little while that that would mean Pammy would suddenly be interested in him; that Halpert’s clear interest in her would get reciprocated now that he had that big fancy title and a bigger paycheck.

He finds reasons to go upstairs the day of the merger, to see for himself. He still has work to do, of course, so he doesn’t get to go up there immediately, as the Stamford people are showing up (and thank god they didn’t transfer any of the Stamford warehouse staff; they’re barely able to keep themselves all on at the current warehouse budget levels, let alone any new folks). But he makes it up around lunchtime as usual. And he can feel something different in the air. Usually when he’d come up (rare as it was) when Halpert was first here, he’d see evidence that Halpert had been up at the front desk. Sometimes it was simple: Halpert was at the front desk. Other times it was subtler: no jellybeans left in the jellybean container. A weird-looking contraption half-hidden behind the reception desk. Eyebrows raised and glances exchanged.

This time there’s nothing. Halpert’s back is to her, and she’s looking at him, but he’s not looking at her, and Roy’s not sure what to do with this. He does the chicken-and-fish exchange (only a little time left for that now) and decides to eat back down in the warehouse while he decides what to do with this new information: that Halpert doesn’t seem to be as interested as once he was.

As he’s turning to leave, he sees one of the new salesladies (and a hot one at that) glance up at Halpert and grin. He catches a raised eyebrow back from Halpert as he slowly finishes his turn. Interesting.

Down in the warehouse, he chows down on some fish while thinking, hard, about the situation. What will get his Pammy back best? Well, she did always tell him she wished he and Halpert could be friends again, “like when you guys played basketball down at the Y.” He’s been going the last few weeks—ever since he realized that he needed to put some real effort into transforming his body back to what it used to be—and he thinks this might be just the ticket to make the point he wants to make. He finds an excuse to head back up (Madge and Lonny are on a smoke break, he goes to make a soda run upstairs) and stops on his way back to clap Halpert on the shoulder. “Good to see you back, Halpert. The guys down at the Y miss you. We still play on Saturdays, if you’re up for it.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pammy watching, and he knows he’s done his bit. Halpert’s never going to be his favorite guy in the world, but he’s not that awful when he’s not mooning over Pammy, and he knows his message got across. As a bonus, Halpert doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, so at least he’s confused the guy, which he’ll count as a win.

He chugs a soda as he heads downstairs, pleased with a job well done.

**

Had she entered some kind of bizarre world, where Roy was a friendly, good guy and Jim was the asshole? Something something “seeing someone” something something “good to see you back” something something. It all blurs together as she sits in her little Yaris and watches him pull out of the parking lot ahead of her.

He hadn’t even been willing to get coffee with her.

And don’t think she hadn’t noticed who was the sudden recipient of all the attention that used to be hers. Yes, it probably made her a jealous bitch to expect Jim to come back and pay her the same attention he used to; her cowardice and inaction at Casino Night had definitely hurt him and he deserved better than that. But to turn her down twice, first by rejecting her coffee date and then with that explicit-but-not “I’m sorta seeing someone”? Was this just revenge? Or had he really moved on that quickly? Those little touches between him and Karen, the glances they shared…that had to be the someone, right? Who else would he have had time to be dating in Scranton if not someone coming with him from Stamford? And Karen…Karen seemed nice, actually, but Pam could recognize the signals. She was definitely interested in Jim. And if he was interested back…

Well, they were all adults.

She couldn’t believe she’d screwed this up so badly. Once again she’d found her words utterly wanting. “We’ll always be friends?” Really? Where was the courage he’d showed on Casino Night? Where was the “I wanna be more than that?” She’d been trying to convince him to at least spend some time with her, but instead he’d reacted like she’d slapped him (or at least like she imagined it would be like—she couldn’t actually slap him, even if she wanted to wring his neck a bit right now, Simpsons-style. Why you little…). She’d obviously said the wrong thing, again, and that parking lot was really feeling haunted for her right now. It was like standing on the asphalt turned her brain to mush or something.

It didn’t help that every time she looked at him now she saw him on Casino Night, a single tear tracking down his face as he turned from her. She’d do anything to make it up to him. But apparently he wasn’t interested in “anything.” He was only interested in making eyes at that woman from Stamford and (quite literally) turning his back on her.

Compared to Jim, it was barely even worth it to think about what Roy was playing at. He and Halpert hadn’t gotten along for years. That whole Y-basketball thing had to be for her benefit. She was pretty sure he’d been looking at her even as he’d talked to Jim. Well, at least someone was thinking about how she felt, even if it was misguided. She wasn’t interested in getting back with Roy. She just wanted Jim.

She just wanted Jim to think about her again. To care about her again. Because she’d been well aware for a long time that she cared about him, but seeing him in person again had just cemented the reality of it for her.

She was in love with Jim Halpert.

God help her.

It really took her longer than it should to put two and two together. In her defense, there was some serious shock involved. Start with the idea that Andy Bernard was interested in her at all. She’d barely registered his existence. OK, that wasn’t hard, because she’d had eyes for no one but Jim when they first merged the branches, but if there was someone from Stamford who made less of an impression on her than Andy, it was hard to think of them. And she had certainly not done anything to draw his attention, or indicate any interest in him either.

OK, so maybe it was just a normal male reaction to an apparently available female, but she couldn’t credit the idea that she was all that attractive to him. She knew her wardrobe had improved since her time with Roy, but she’d kept the more…Kelly-inspired…items at home, and nothing she wore to work (after the fiasco of that first day with Jim at least) was anything to write home about. And while she no longer wore a ring on her left hand, she also had made no indication in his direction that she was available. Or at least available to him—what kind of guy took her hitting on Jim (and yes, she had been doing that, although it would be just her luck that Andy would notice and Jim, seemingly, not at all) as a green light for someone else to hit on her? Unless Andy already knew that Jim was taken…

She didn’t really want to think about that any more.

Then, to add to it, he was doing it so wrong. Like, he literally could not have chosen worse. A banjo? She’d hated banjoes ever since grade school, when they’d replaced art class with music class and all they’d bought for them to play was banjoes. She couldn’t stand the sound, it always reminded her of throwing fits as a seven-year-old. Add to that that that was the first time (but definitively not the last time) she’d heard the dread words “no more painting, Pammy,” and just…no.

And in falsetto? Falsettos creeped her out. Unlike the banjo thing she had no specific trigger moment, no specific memory to flash back to as she cringed, but she had never, ever, not in a million years of imaginary past lives, liked a falsetto. She could barely listen to “Bohemian Rhapsody” (I see a little silhouetto of a yuck), and she liked Queen, let alone listening to Andy Bernard butcher tones like that.

And really, “Rainbow Connection?” That was when she twigged, actually, when she realized that there were only three people she’d ever confided her particular hatred for that song to: her mom, her best friend Izzy, and Jim Halpert. She was pretty sure her dad and her sister probably knew too, but she was confident Andy had not been asking questions around the Beesly household. No, this was definitely Jim’s doing. Which meant it all was, then.

So how was she to feel about this?

On the one hand, there was the little shared smile she and Jim had had when she finally realized. That was a nice moment of connection, after the awkward days around the merger. So put one in the positive column for that.

Put another for the fact that he knew her this well. He must really have been paying attention to her to remember those things; it wasn’t like banjoes, falsettos, or bad Muppet songs came up in ordinary conversation—even their typically weird conversations—and she was pretty sure she’d only mentioned each a handful of times at most. Then again, that was Jim; he’d often surprised her with a quick memory for things she forgot she’d even mentioned to him, from her favorite flavor of yogurt (and its expiration date, which she hadn’t even mentioned of course but he’d still noticed) to bringing in books he’d been reading that she’d mentioned a year earlier she wanted to flip through. He was thoughtful that way.

But put a big mark in the negative column for the way he was using it. Sure, pranking her was in a way a relief, an indicator he was still thinking about her, why couldn’t he use that same awareness, that same knowledge of her, to actually woo her instead of setting Andy to do the same thing in mockery? Not that Andy knew he was mocking her, but Jim did, and for all it was a prank on Andy too, it hurt to see Jim intentionally setting her up not for disappointment (she did not want to be with Andy) but for…something less than what she wanted. How could he know her this well without also knowing that she wanted only one man to be serenading her—that she would have jumped into his arms even if he were playing “Rainbow Connection,” on a banjo, in falsetto?

Put another for him sharing this with Andy at all. Sure, he had done so in inverse language—clearly telling Andy the opposite of the truth—but now he’d revealed what had once been private knowledge between the two of them for everyone to see as she winced away from Andy’s performance. She’d liked knowing that there were things she’d told him and almost no one else. This seemed like it muddied those waters in ways she wasn’t entirely happy with.

So a balance, fifty-fifty. But sway that balance with the way Karen Filipelli was looking at him, and how although he’d met her eyes when Andy performed he hadn’t, as was his custom of old, actually come over, taken the damn jellybeans she’d set out (for him; she’d switched up the candy while he was gone) and talked to her about it.

Definitely on the wrong side of the balance. She sighed. Every cloud had a silver lining. But she’d much rather have a little more silver and a little less cloud.

He hadn’t actually expected Halpert to take him up on the suggestion of playing basketball on Saturdays, but either he’d miscalculated how into basketball the guy was or something was on his mind, because now he was there every Saturday—and for all Roy wanted to deny it, Halpert was pretty freaking good. He’d known it for a while, of course. This was how they’d met, at first, and then he’d had that reminder a few years back at the office basketball game. He’d taken Halpert a pretty good shot in the nose that time, he remembered, which helped him avoid doing the same as the guy raised for a three over him and (of course) it went right down.

He jogged down the court on offense, set a screen, and thought about Halpert. Not that he wanted to think about Halpert, but the guy was right here, and he’d been acting all weird and twitchy lately. Even Roy could see it, and hell, he didn’t give two shits for Halpert. He grinned. Maybe that new saleslady wasn’t as into him as he’d thought, or maybe she was saving herself for marriage or something. Poor little Jimmy Halpert.

Or maybe, he thought as he grabbed a rebound, upfaked on Halpert, then slid a pass into a cutting teammate for a layup, Halpert was twitchy because of something else. Hell, maybe it was Roy himself—after all, seeing went two ways, so he only saw Halpert when Halpert saw him, pretty much. But if so, that was weird in its own way, because he didn’t remember Halpert being this weird around him before he left, and back then he’d definitely had a crush on Pammy. Why would it be weirder now?

Like, he didn’t have great instincts—he knew that. Not just about Pammy (he still wasn’t entirely sure why she’d broken up with him) but on the court too, he thought, as Halpert’s teammate faked a pass, got him entirely out of position, and drove to the hoop. He wasn’t one of those guys who could see behind him like he had eyes in the back of his head, or who knew exactly where the ball was going before it went there. He had a little affinity for rebounds, he thought as he grabbed another one and fed it outside to one of the guards, but that was mostly size; he could get low with a lot of body mass and box out, then explode up to grab the ball as it came by. He wasn’t a wizard who could predict where it was going before the shot went up or anything.

But despite that, despite his lack of physical awareness (not that he didn’t know his own body, just…he couldn’t predict it the same way some guys could) he’d known for absolute dead certain that Jimmy Halpert had been staring at the back of his head during the whole office Christmas party yesterday. And it was weird, because he didn’t seem to be staring when he did look. Hell, he’d come over and given Halpert shit about today’s game because he liked making the guy uncomfortable. And then Halpert had barely met his eyes as he muttered something about “watch the three point line.” Speaking of which…damn. Another three, and they were trudging back down court with Halpert’s team up on his by five.

When his head was turned though? Then he’d just felt Halpert’s eyes on his skull 24/7. Especially when he’d given Pammy her present. And now it felt like Halpert was working through something on the court, too. He’d looked tired when he came in, like he hadn’t slept that well, or had stayed up all night or something (hmm…maybe on second thought that saleslady wasn’t so prudish after all…). And now every time Roy guarded him down the court he was taking threes—and too damn many of them were going down. Roy took the ball, muscled down low, and went up, only to have Halpert block the shot as he went up, grab the ball, and go racing downcourt.

And yes, he pulled up for a three on the break.

Of course it went in.

Damn Halpert anyway.  He might be working through some shit, but did Halpert really have to take it out on him? He gestured to Frank, one of his friends on the team, to switch up the guarding, and jogged back down to the block. Halpert might have his own issues, but Roy’s goals were still the same: get in shape, get his head right, get Pammy back. And guarding Halpert wasn’t helping. If it was helping Halpert? That was his problem. Roy wasn’t going to get involved.

He took a pass, turned, and banked it in off the glass over the flying hand of one of Halpert’s teammates. Nice.

After the game, he showered quickly and got dressed. Time to go to one of those party supply stores Pammy’d mentioned yesterday. His mom was still pissed at him for “messing things up with Pam.” He’d get her a present anyway (she’s his mom, duh) but maybe telling her Pammy had helped him figure out how to wrap it would make her less annoyed at him.

He made sure to tell Halpert “good game” on the way out. Just to mess with him again. And hell, he had had a good game. Gotta give the devil his due.

Just as long as he kept hanging out with that pretty saleslady and stayed the hell away from Pammy.

Well, that was a poopy day.

Not a shitty one. She’d experienced shitty. Shitty was the day she came back to the office and noticed Jim’s stuff was gone. Shitty was the day she spent calling all of Roy’s family to tell them the wedding was off. Shitty was the day she turned down the Rhode Island School of Design to stay in Scranton, and cried all day, and Roy just thought she was on her period.

Heh. Apparently this day had more in common with a shitty one than she wanted to admit.

But that was the thing. It wasn’t exactly like that day, because Roy had owed her something. Not that he owed her the chance to go to RISD; that was her choice, she’d chosen, she owned it. But he owed her caring about the choice she’d made, acknowledging the sacrifice, being at least aware that she had made it. He’d owed her being invested in her life, and that was what had made that day shitty.

Today? Jim didn’t owe her that. She wanted him to care about how hard it was to give him advice about Karen, wanted him to notice it, but for all the frustration and angst and sadness she carried around about Jim Halpert, the fact remained that she’d passed up the opportunity to have him owe her those things. She’d said no…well, actually, “I can’t.” And yes, she knew very well in her heart of hearts that it hadn’t been fair for him to dump all that emotional labor onto her that he’d clearly been working on for months-if-not-years, but she’d still messed it up herself. He bore some of the blame for the situation, but she did too. It wasn’t entirely cut and dried, like with Roy.

And she was pretty sure he’d noticed at least a little, too. After all, it was Karen, not him, who’d come by and thanked her for “talking sense into Halpert.” And she’d volunteered to help him. She could still see in her mind’s eye the way he’d gaped a little as she offered to talk to him about Karen. “Really?” And he had been surprisingly cool about it when she worked herself up to admit that: “Honestly, I think you should go easy on her.” Heck, he’d seemed convinced even before she showed him the comparable apartment options. Why? Because she’d convinced him? Or because he’d seen how much it cost her to be honest for him, rather than honest about him? Because honestly, what she’d most wanted to say was “dump her. Not because of this stupid apartment thing, but because of what it represents. If you’re worried about her living on the same street, why are you with her?” Or maybe just “I’ll take the apartment instead, if you’re cool with it. Then we can be together.”

Yeah right. Like she’d ever actually say either of those things. Fancy New Beesly was fancy and new, but she wasn’t that bold.

But Karen just had to rub it in, didn’t she? Actually, Pam wasn’t sure if she was aware of it, but…really, what were the odds he’d not told her at least something about what happened here before he left? He had to have, right?

But if that was the case…why had Karen been so eager to work with her on the party for Christmas? It just didn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe Karen didn’t know.  Maybe that wasn’t rubbing it in, but actual genuine gratitude. It certainly had seemed like it, and Karen didn’t seem like the sort of person to bullshit her. But why wouldn’t Karen know?

She was going to go insane if she kept wondering about things like that.

She deliberately turned her thoughts away from Jim and Karen. Roy…at least Roy had again confirmed why she wasn’t with him even if she was bereft of Jim. That little crack about “being right” about Mexico had been a very convenient reminder that even when he was on his best behavior he was capable of being an ass. More than capable. Sure, Mexico would probably have been fine, just like Hawaii would have, but first of all, Jamaica wasn’t Mexico, so what the hell—Michael’s vacation had no bearing on this whatsoever. And second, she was glad she hadn’t had to go on a honeymoon with him at all, if all he could think about was who was right, not what their mutual wishes were.

And that brought her back to Jim. Was he really that thoughtless about Karen, that he’d leave her in the Days Inn rather than having her just down the street? Was he so focused on his own needs and wants that he didn’t care about hers? Was he just another Roy in (admittedly very deep) disguise? And why would his own needs and wants not include having his girlfriend (fine, she could admit it if he could, he they were together…but really, only a month? She didn’t really want to do that math) as close to him as possible? And out of a hotel room, at least? She decided to break it down on a little corner of her sketchpad.

Option 1: Jim is an asshole.

Pros: This is kind of asshole behavior towards Karen. Asking me for help (even if I offered) is kinda assholish too, given our history (part of her wanted to point out that Jim didn’t necessarily know how she felt about it, but then she remembered that he hadn’t really given her the chance to tell him, or responded to her email or text. So.).

Con: I know Jim. I have years of experience with Jim. I love Jim. He’s probably not an asshole (though, see Roy).

Option 2: Jim has an unexpected but serious hotel room kink.

She found herself too flustered to fill out pros and cons for that.

Option 3: Jim thinks Karen is more serious about him than he is about her, and is trying to avoid deepening the relationship.

Pros: Would fit the nervousness about having her move near him. Seems like a Jim thing to do, avoiding the issue rather than directly addressing it with her (see everything prior to Casino Night, especially see complaint to Toby and flight to Australia).

Cons: Not sure Karen is that kind of person to get overinvested in a man. Seems too much like wish fulfillment. Potential for confirmation bias.

Option 4: Unknown cause, TBD

Pros: I have no idea what is going on in Jim’s head right now.

Cons: I have no idea what is going on in Jim’s head right now.

She felt a little better for having written it out. There was the small problem that now she could never show anyone else the sketch on this page, because there was an embarrassing sprawling list (albeit in tight, narrow handwriting to fit it all in) taking up the entire bottom corner. But since the sketch was of the view of Jim’s back from her desk…yeah, she probably wasn’t showing anyone that anyway. So it was safe enough here in her sketchbook.

She sighed. It would honestly be easier if she were just PMSing like Dwight thought. It was sweet of him to have come after her, and to have tried to comfort her. But she couldn’t stop herself from half-wishing it had been someone else. Definitely not Roy (oh dear, could you imagine?) but maybe Jim…

But then again, she reminded herself, if he had found her down there crying, she’d probably have had the same problem she had on Casino Night, and in the parking lot on the day of the merger. She’d have blubbered something about friendship and it would have been the wrong thing and they’d have ended up further apart. At least this way they were still acting like friends. Right?

Right. Because friends cry about each other in the stairwell all the time. Ugh.

God, she was gorgeous when she was happy.

It hit him then that she hadn’t been happy basically since he’d been back. He’d been pushing that information to the back of his mind, trying desperately not to notice, not to care, not to think about why that might be, but the way she was glowing today after and especially during that little prank on Andy? It made it impossible to ignore. She was happy, and she was beautiful, and he had no hope. None.

Well, he had one hope. He had Karen. And he needed to go on having Karen if he was going to avoid backsliding entirely and living out his life as a mopey salesman at a small paper company in Scranton, pining after a receptionist who didn’t actually want him.

But God, Pam was gorgeous when she smiled. At him. Not that she wasn’t gorgeous when she smiled at anyone else, but he’d gotten so good at flinching when she smiled at Roy that he rarely saw her smile at anyone else anymore. Well, or at all recently. Of course, she was also gorgeous when she wasn’t smiling at all, but that smile just lit up her face like the sun coming out from behind clouds, or a computer screen popping to life when you pressed the button. He’d missed it.

He’d missed her.

He couldn’t go back, but he couldn’t go forward either. Honesty was the best policy, they said, and look where that had gotten him—but as Macbeth once said, by now “returning were as tedious as going o’er,” and while he hoped that he wasn’t covered in blood from a murder he did feel as if being dishonest now would be just as bad as being honest, so he might as well be honest.

Honest with himself when he felt his heart expand as she smiled and Andy punched the wall (he’d almost forgotten how badly Andy took that first prank at Stamford; maybe this wasn’t such a good idea? But look at that smile).

Honest with Pam as he congratulated her on a prank well done.

Honest with Karen—terrifyingly, dangerously, exhaustingly honest—as he nodded his head and whispered “yes” when she asked him if he still had feelings for Pam.

Because he did. God help him but he did. He still stared at her reflection in the black screen of his turned-off computer (and thank goodness no one questioned why he’d started doing more of his work by hand instead of on the computer—though he had a great explanation ready if Dwight ever did ask, involving a delayed Y2K virus, government surveillance, and the inefficiency of goofing off on the Internet). He still made sure to angle his body as he stood in the break room so that he could see her at her desk, and timed his bathroom runs so that they wouldn’t interfere with keeping an eye on her. In a weird way, actually, she consumed his life more now that he was avoiding her than she had when he’d just been trying to hide his feelings. Then he’d openly strode to her desk and eaten jellybeans, but he’d also been able to actually focus on pranks or work (in that order) when he wasn’t actually interacting with her. Sure, he’d snuck a lot of looks, made a lot of air fives, raised a lot of eyebrows, but in between those moments he’d been a functioning human being. Now? Now he had to arrange everything to avoid backsliding, and it meant he actually thought about her constantly, just to avoid letting that thought show. What was the Hindu myth he’d read about once, about the atheist who denied God every minute of the day and then went to heaven because he alone among humanity had always been thinking about God, even if not in the intended way? This was something like that, except instead of heaven he was in hell. A hell of constantly feeling these damn feelings that would not go away, while not being able to show them because doing that would just trigger them harder—or worse, bring on another crushing rejection.

Because that was the real root of his fear. He’d bared his soul to her once, and all she’d been able to say was “I can’t” and some bullshit about misinterpreted friendships. And she didn’t tell him when she broke up with Roy, cancelled the wedding, moved on without reaching out. Sure, they’d had one good phone call while he was at Stamford, but then she’d sent that weird confusing rejection-reminding text, and nothing else. Even once he came back, she’d been friendly but nothing more, telling him they’d always be friends when he tried to sound her out about how she felt about him dating Karen, and then actively working to convince him to…not let Karen move in near him, after all, they were all adults, but to be OK with it when she did. And he couldn’t help but take that as another sign that for her, there was nothing to move on from; that whatever sadness or lack of happiness he’d noticed in her was just because he wasn’t paling around with her like a couple of besties with no romantic interest in the world, not because she was hurting at all, like he had been. Like he was. And if she was only interested in him as a best friend? A sad, pathetic part of him would have still been OK with that, but the rest of him was shouting “no.” He’d wanted to be more than that. He wanted to be more than that. But he couldn’t go back. So even as he acknowledged to Karen that he still had feelings for Pam, he also knew there was no chance that would actually ever amount to anything, because she didn’t feel the same way.

She might miss him, but it was just as a friend. And he couldn’t do that anymore.

So yes, he had feelings for Pam Beesly. That didn’t matter. She didn’t feel the same way. And he couldn’t risk asking because being rejected (twice! Three times if you count not telling him she was ending it with Roy!) was the worst pain he could recall. Four times? You might as well kill him and end the misery. OK, not really. Death was not really preferable. But pretty much anything else was.

Feelings? Sure, he had feelings for Pam. But the dominant feeling was fear.

Did she seriously just do that? Babble to Jim like a complete idiot about his sleep schedule (oooh boy there was a thought to get her hot under the collar. Jim’s sleep schedule. Jim not getting much sleep. Being the reason Jim didn’t get much sleep. Not getting much sleep herself. Not getting much sleep next to Jim. Sliding her hands up along his surprisingly ripped chest, at least as she remembered it from Casino Night, and the basketball game. Sliding her hands downwards to grasp…ok, probably not a good idea to keep thinking about this at work. Ahem). Where was she? Oh yeah, babble to Jim like a complete idiot about his sleep schedule and then babble again like an even bigger idiot to his girlfriend about him?

“Oh yeah.” Yeah, there was no way Karen was fooled by that.

But hey, at least she’d been honest, even if she’d immediately backtracked from it. She didn’t really want to cause Jim any trouble. She loved him. His happiness was important to her. So while she would absolutely 100% yes please in a heartbeat wholesale replace his current lovely (but not for him dammit) girlfriend with herself, she wasn’t going to just rock that boat to see what happened. Because what was most likely to happen was that Jim would tell her that actually, that girlfriend was just lovely and perfect and wonderful for him, thanks very much, and that she had missed her chance. And she wasn’t going to risk that.

But she had promised herself she’d be more honest about her feelings. Lie…less. And so she’d blurted out that little “oh yeah” to Karen, and she felt proud of it. Even if…even if it was pointless. Even if she ended up unsaying it twenty seconds later.

Because she had at least said it.

She felt like a complete idiot right now, but she’d said it.

And then she hadn’t…quite…lied later, when she’d told Ryan in front of Jim (and yes, she was very very aware it was in front of Jim, because she needed to at least send him some kind of signal, right, even if was a really crappy attenuated one?) that she was ready to be set up with his business school friends. OK, actually, that had been a total lie, if you didn’t count the part where getting set up with his business school friends would probably get Kelly off her back for like 30 seconds, in which case yes she was definitely into that because she needed to stop with the blind date suggestions! But no, the real truth there was the moment when she blurted “God, I need a boyfriend.” Because she did. And she knew just the one, dammit, if he weren’t taken.

And for God’s sake, not Roy again. I mean, he was being pretty sweet recently, but all that did was remind her of high school, and how he’d been so sweet before she actually slept with him. Not that he’d become a total asshole overnight—she’d have dumped him if so—but looking back that had definitely been the start of the decline. The start of when he’d begun taking her for granted. So Roy might be comfortable, and Roy might be on his best behavior, but she’d have to be pretty desperate to go back to him. He was probably super into that stripper they got for Bob Vance’s party—or, knowing Roy-on-his-best-behavior, he’d probably been ostentatiously against it, as if the years of “c’mon Pammy, it’s [fill in the friend’s name here]’s bachelor party, I gotta go” while he was practically salivating over the possibility of stripper on the phone to his buddies while he thought she couldn’t hear hadn’t happened.

At least Jim hadn’t gotten the girls a stripper, though if that Ben Franklin re-enactor was a real method actor, maybe he was. He’d claimed not to have syphilis (information she hadn’t really needed, but she had kind of flirted back and it was her who brought it up, so no harm no foul), but Ben Franklin…if she remembered one thing from American history, it was that Ben Franklin was a stone cold fox. So what did it say about her that this Gordon guy was good enough to fool Dwight for a surprisingly long time and he left her utterly cold?

It said that she was an idiot hung up on Jim Halpert.

As if she didn’t know that already.

Maybe she needed to take Elizabeth up on her offer and learn how to strip, then surprise him.

When though? At his own damn bachelor party when he decided to marry Karen? The thought was too humiliating. And the office was right out—but when else did Jim ever actually hang out with her? Not that he really hung out with her at the office anymore either. But hey, it wasn’t the worst idea she’d had so far. The worst was definitely the actual thing she’d actually done. Verbal diarrhea at both him and Karen, a totally failed attempt at reminding him she was single, and a lot of completely ignored staring at the back of his head. To be fair, it wasn’t as if he could see her, but still. It sucked.

It all sucked. And apparently all she could do about it was babble like an idiot. Which, she supposed, she was. Ugh.

Well, that went better than expected.

When he’d slipped Kevin that $20 to play that song, he hadn’t really expected him to do it. Not that he didn’t think he deserved his money’s worth but rather that he hadn’t necessarily expected Scrantonicity to have Jewel in their repertoire. So he’d been very pleasantly surprised to hear the song come on.

It was the only thing he could think of to do to make up for it after he’d apparently forgotten that a lot of these things had been planned for their wedding. Forgotten? He’d never known. And yes, he knew Pam would probably say something like “you should have been more involved” (and yes, he’d tried to fend that off by admitting it immediately), but seriously? She hadn’t involved him. She’d done a lot of that planning upstairs, in the office, on her own time, without asking his input or his opinion or anything. So he didn’t know the color scheme, or whatever other little things Phyllis had apparently taken from Pam’s planning. Shouldn’t he get points for remembering their prom? For recalling the color of the damn roses he’d gotten her (and hell, for getting her roses that weren’t just plain jane red in the first place)?

Well, he couldn’t be too upset about that, because after all, things had definitely looked up after that. He hadn’t been sure what her reaction to hearing “their song” would be, but it definitely seemed like it made up for that little crack about being the one who “actually wanted to get married.”

Not that he was going to take that back, not in a million years. Because he was right. He was the one who, when the chips were down, actually wanted to go through with it. He wasn’t the one who showed up in the middle of the night, started packing, and told her they needed to talk. No, she’d done that to him. Remembering it almost made him angry, until he remembered the rest of the evening.

She’d come home.

Oh, sure, she’d made noises about how it wasn’t her home anymore, and commented on the changes he’d made (mostly, if he had to admit it, adding more surfaces on which to place beer cans and filling in some of the more obvious spots where something she’d taken had left a gap in between things he’d kept. But she’d made appreciative noises, and she’d kissed him, and she still tasted the same. And while she hadn’t actually slept with him, he was pretty sure from the way she said she’d see him tomorrow that they were back together. So it was coming. And eventually she’d come all the way around: realizing that she belonged with him back in that little house that they’d lived in for so long. Together.

And he’d keep on trying to be a good…well, boyfriend he guessed now. Not just a good potential boyfriend, a reminder of how they could be, but an actual boyfriend now. As long as she kept on being a good girlfriend, of course, like Pammy always was. He had missed his Pammy. It was good to have her back.

**

She hadn’t actually left with him, had she? He really didn’t want to believe it.

But there he’d been, slow-dancing with Karen, staring at Pam across the floor as she sat at their table, and he’d seen her get up, and then…and then he’d seen Roy come across to her, say something (what, his frantic brain wondered, had he managed to say to her to get her to go with him?) and extend a hand, and the two of them walk out together.

What the hell was that?

She was back with Roy fucking Anderson?

He wracked his brains for a reason, a cause, a trigger. He’d seen them dancing together earlier (and then quickly looked away, wishing her hadn’t). After he’d thought they were getting along, too. He’d…

Ah hell. He’d almost backslid. He’d been so close. But she looked so damn lovely in that dress, and her eyes, and her face…and just her very Pam-ness made her irresistible to him. He wasn’t unconscious of the fact that right now, as he thought about it, his actual girlfriend Karen was up there on the stage singing a song, and he really ought to be paying full attention to her so he could compliment her appropriately afterwards (she wasn’t actually singing it to him, though, because…well, “every little thing she does is magic” didn’t really describe him. It did describe Pam, but he was pretty sure Karen wasn’t singing to her either, and that if he dared to mention anything like that to her he’d be sleeping alone tonight). But the issue of Pam was paramount on his mind.

He knew she didn’t actually owe him anything, not after she’d made it so clear that she didn’t want him. Oh, he was still hurting, hurting bad, after Casino Night (and yes, it was most of year ago, but it seemed like yesterday, especially with gorgeous Pam in another stupid gorgeous dress). But he could see she’d been hurt too, and if she didn’t want him she didn’t want him. That was that, even if it still hurt. And she’d definitely grown in the last year. She was stronger, more herself somehow while staying the same Pam he…well, he’d definitely already admitted he loved. So she didn’t owe him anything, but the one thing he’d thought she was really over, the one point of growth he’d been really proud of her for, was that she hadn’t stayed with Roy. Hadn’t gone back to Roy. Had become her own thing, her own Pam without being part of Pam and Roy.

And now she was throwing that all away.

What the hell had that asshole said?

What had he said that made her decide to dance not with him, but with Roy? To turn and leave with Roy, of all people?

What could he do now?

He could pay attention to his own damn girlfriend, that’s what, he thought as she stepped off the stage and he went to greet her, a smile pasted on his lips. And he could only continue to try to stop caring about what Pamela Beesly did. After all, any interest of hers in him was just a hypothetical. Karen was real. His heartbreak was real. And it was all he could do now to batten the hatches, keep his head down, and not give in to it.

Why did it have to be Roy?

He ran through his old calming routine: 1ci, this isn’t your job. 1aiii, she always gets closer to him when you notice these things. 2a, jealousy isn’t healthy.

It wasn’t really helping. Not because the old mantra was used up, or expired, but because it just reminded him of how long he’d been trying to work through these feelings. And how badly it had always gone.

**

She was probably going to regret tonight.

She already regretted a lot of it. She regretted coming, if it came down to that. It had hit her the moment she walked in: it wasn’t just the invitations, everything there was as close a facsimile as it could be to her own wedding. Apparently Jim’s redacted complaint about her planning had been truer than she’d thought: it was a bad idea to plan your wedding in full view of all your officemates. Not because it made anyone else uncomfortable, but because karma would come up and kick you in the ass by making you go to the very wedding you’d decided not to have.

Maybe that was what made her get up and dance with Roy even after he’d revealed his utter lack of awareness. He wanted some kind of credit for remembering that he’d given her these roses eight years ago, when he’d somehow entirely missed the fact that they’d had an entire house covered in these colors only a year ago. She’d left fabric for the wedding, invitations for the wedding, artificial flowers for the wedding (one of her bridesmaids was allergic) in the wedding colors around the house for months. She’d begged him to buy pocket squares for his groomsmen in the wedding colors. She’d had a series of mini-cakes baked in the wedding colors for them to sample (and heroically convinced the saleslady to let her take them home because God knew Roy wouldn’t actually be caught dead coming to the tasting). So yeah, excuse her if she expected him to remember the damn colors. Or anything else about the wedding they were supposed to mutually have, together, last June.

So why had she gone home with him tonight? Why had she decided to give in to whatever demon was whispering in her ear and get back together with Roy, let him kiss her, call her Pammy, call her his girlfriend (but not his fiancée, no, never his fiancée—and not now just because he couldn’t remember it, but because she wouldn’t let that happen again)? Was it really just the complete awkwardness of seeing the wedding she’d planned to have, the despair that had lanced through her at the realization that every single detail was just as she’d wanted it, the memory of what it had been like to be planning to marry Roy?

Of course not.

It had been watching Jim Halpert cradle that woman (who, when she wasn’t actually being held in Jim’s arms, or holding onto his sleeve, or glaring at Pam over her computer monitor because of him, was actually a quite pleasant, lovely woman named Karen Filippelli) on the dance floor, watching him chivalrously shepherd her around the dance floor with that look in his eyes that she always thought of as her look, that had set her over the edge. That had told her that there was no chance anymore, that whatever she did, whatever she hoped for, he wasn’t coming back to her. No amount of flirting (and no matter what, she would treasure that that definitely had been flirting at the bar) about her dance moves or “giving the people what they want” would overcome the reality that he was with Karen now and he was focused on her. If anything, the flirtation was just as sign that he was totally over her; that he could safely kid around again, because his heart was no longer in it. Whereas hers was so full of him that the very sight of him holding Karen could make her cry.

And that, in turn, had sent her right back to Roy.

She hadn’t planned it (though she wondered if he had, between that sweet surprise of remembering their song and the fortuitous timing of his invitation to “get out of here”). But if she couldn’t have Jim, she needed to have someone. She needed some kind of armor to get her through the day, some kind of balm to wash away the hurt of his disinterest. And Roy’s familiarity could do that for her. She didn’t want to marry him anymore; she didn’t love him like she had (though she would always love him in a way, like family you vaguely saw every once in a while at a reunion and were glad to hear were doing well whenever your parents updated you). But she could be with him. He was safe, in that way. He was familiar, he was trying so hard, and even if she knew they didn’t have a long-term future, they could have a decent present.

And maybe, just maybe, being with him would keep the demons away. The ones that said she’d lost her chance at happiness, she’d messed it all up, she’d failed. Because maybe she had. Maybe Jim Halpert was lost to her forever. But as long as she was with Roy, she could tell herself she was with the man she’d been meant to be with—and even as she knew it was a lie, the lie itself was comforting.

Seeing her face the next day would have been enough guilt.

Honestly, he told himself, it would have.

She was squirming in her chair, avoiding his eyes, looking miserable as he could remember seeing her. Worse than the day Roy told her not to go for that internship, which made him feel super duper extra awful. She looked defeated.

That would have been bad enough. He never wanted her to look that way, and while he could try to pretend that this had nothing to do with him, that it was entirely the fault of something else that had happened utterly independently of his total and complete failure to go to her art exhibit, he couldn’t kid himself that much. Sure, other things might have contributed to it, and he would later learn they had, but some large part of it definitely had been him.

No, she hadn’t actually explicitly invited him. But he wasn’t that capable of ignoring her hints, of failing to notice her whispered conversations. Hell, if he was entirely honest (which he certainly wasn’t to his girlfriend, nor to the woman he was currently thinking about, but he might as well be to himself if no one else) he knew what art class she was taking (she’d mentioned it to Kelly in the break room a few weeks ago) and he’d definitely looked it up. Not bookmarked it; actually, he erased his browser history every time he went there, because he never knew when Karen would decide to borrow his laptop and he could not risk having it display as a previously visited page. But he’d memorized the URL, and he had noticed the announcement of an art show, with the accompanying little blurb: “Pamela Beesly, watercolor and charcoal.”

So he wasn’t free from guilt. He’d known about it. And he hadn’t gone.

Again, he could spread the blame around if he liked. Karen hadn’t just not gone, she’d practically railroaded him into a night out with her that happened, just happened, to coincide with the timing of the art show (which just went to show that while she might have gotten her way this time, she didn’t know him all that well: offering to spend a night in with popcorn and a movie would have been a much less obvious, much more effective tactic). She’d made sure they went to one of those fancy places she loved (and he tolerated—the food was good at least) where they take an hour to make you an individualized set of dishes (he’d gone a couple times with her in Stamford, where they were rapidly making their way out of the NYC market; he had been startled to learn there was one in Scranton, and he fully expected it to close in the next six months, but there it was). But he’d gone with her, knowing what was going on, so he couldn’t really shake the blame, the guilt in his gut. It was on him, just as much as if not more than Karen. He’d been the one who hadn’t gone, because he’d decided, talking to the mirror in the men’s room, that “she has Roy. She chose him again. She doesn’t need you, and you can’t go back to being there for her when he’s not.” So it was on him.

Which meant, of course, he felt terrible. OK, not terrible enough to break through the walls he’d been putting up to protect himself from her, not terrible enough to go last night or to even actually mention it to her, but terrible enough that he had to put his face in a permanent sneer to avoid it. Had to harden his heart and put her feelings aside—and put his own, deep down feelings aside too—in order to stop himself.

And that was without the second thing. Because he’d come into work a little late today, he hadn’t heard the story of how it had happened, but there was a framed piece of art on the wall in the break room that hadn’t been there yesterday, and he knew, knew before he looked at the tiny familiar signature or asked anyone or did anything more than observe the brushstrokes and the vision of it, that it was Pam’s. Why she’d chosen to memorialize their office building and its parking lot (why oh why did the parking lot have to be there at all?) he couldn’t say. But he knew in his gut that it was Pam’s, knew from years of carefully stashing away every glimpse he’d ever gotten of her art, her style, her sensibilities that this could be no one else’s work. It wasn’t, he knew (and would both snottily point out to himself now and grudgingly admit later) the best of her work. He’d seen better even when she was with Roy; this looked…well, it looked like the painting equivalent of her face today, a little colorless, a little beaten down. But it was undeniably Pam’s and it made him feel even sicker, even more guilty.

Because there was no way this hadn’t been at yesterday’s art show. And that meant someone else—probably Michael, given the immediate appearance of this piece in the office—had gone, and that they’d gotten to see all the pieces, and that he hadn’t. It brought home to him his own inadequacies, his own failures, his own faults. And he hated that. And the fact that Pam still looked sad and defeated this morning even though a piece of her art was hanging from the wall tore at his heartstrings. It must have been really bad—and she must have been really hurt.

And this was all the art of hers he’d ever get to see again.

That was the worst bit. That he’d have to walk in every day and see Pam’s painting, knowing that if he were a little less of an ass he could have seen them all.

He only knew one way to get through the day after that particular realization. Well, he knew two, but he was definitely not capable today of breaking down his own walls, going to her desk, and begging her to take hers down too (assuming she had any; assuming he was ever capable of interpreting her correctly; assuming she cared. But he did assume that, deep in his heart of hearts). No, he would take the other route. He ignored the painting. Ignored the guilt in his gut. Powered on through.

After all, Karen had suggested yesterday that if he did things right, he might be able to get a promotion. And a promotion would mean leaving Scranton, which he was once again realizing he might need to do for his own sanity. Karen had her reasons, but he had his own, and if he wasn’t going to talk to Pam (and he wasn’t) he was going to need to work on that ASAP.

Once he got home, he wasn’t quite as upset as he had been.

Oh, he was still going to kill Jim Halpert. He had said it, and he had meant it, and he still meant it. He was going to go up to Halpert and punch him in his skinny, self-satisfied face until it stopped moving.

But he wasn’t upset at Halpert anymore.

No, he was simply determined.

If he was upset at anyone it, was at Pammy. How could she do that? How could she kiss Halpert when they were only a few weeks away from finally getting married? She’d bugged him and bugged him to set a date, and he had, and then as soon as he had she turned around and kissed Halpert?

Worse, she said she had “feelings” for him, whatever the hell that meant. I’ll bet she had feelings, he thought, she’s probably been feeling Halpert as often as he’d let her.

How long had this been going on? Had they been running around behind his back? Sure, Pammy said that that was the only time, that she’d broken it off with him immediately when she did it (he knew that was true, at least if Casino Night was the only time, because he could still remember that next morning and the dull ache in his chest that was now a burning ember). But how could he trust her? How could he really believe that she’d just suddenly decided to make out with Halpert, to have “feelings” for Halpert, completely out of the blue?

And then to come back to him? To make him believe they had a chance again, that they were a couple again, only to tell him that they needed a “fresh start” and that she’d fucking kissed Halpert? Why the hell had she toyed with him like that? Why’d she tell him there was no other guy if there was? Hell, he’d guessed! He’d asked her point-blank if it was Halpert, and she’d…

Actually, she hadn’t necessarily lied. That just made him angrier right now thinking about it, because he’d been such a fool, thinking she’d answered the question when she hadn’t. She’d just said “this is about you and me and how you take me for granted” and…well, he’d blown up at her and the question about Halpert had just sat there unanswered. Until tonight. Until she stood there drinking her damn lite beer (and since when did Pammy drink lite beer? They’d never had any in the house before) and telling him about kisses and feelings and then having the gall to tell him it was over as if he was the one who’d done something wrong.

He hadn’t cheated on her. He hadn’t even really fucked anyone else since they broke up, not that he hadn’t had opportunities (though, OK, yes, he was probably too drunk to function those times, so it was probably for the best nothing had come of it). When she’d said “no secrets” he’d thought it was cute, like she was worried he’d been keeping stuff from her when he’d actually managed to keep it together—but no, it had all been about her. It had been about her “feelings” and her “kisses” and her damn Jim.

Fucking Halpert.

And now they didn’t even have the jet-ski money, because Pam hadn’t had the good grace to tell him in private or somewhere he could let off some steam freely, and so he and Kenny had had to bribe their way out of Poor Richards’ calling the cops. Sure, they’d smashed some glassware, and maybe a mirror or two. He’d had a right to be pissed.

But he wasn’t upset now.

No, he was angry.

He was angry at little Pammy Beesly for whatever this charade of getting back together had been, for not telling him the truth when she broke up with him in the first place, for making him feel like second place to Jim Goddamn Halpert.

And he was beyond angry at Halpert for kissing his girlfriend. Damn it, he’d known it. He’d told the man to keep an eye on her, told him by implication that he was keeping an eye on him, and he’d still gone and done it. Still messed things up between him and Pammy. Because when it came down to it, Pammy had to be confused, right? She’d been happy, they’d been happy, and then Halpert puts his damn lips on her and talks about feelings and suddenly she’s calling off the wedding. Suddenly he’s walking on eggshells just to get near her, and when he finally manages it she’s still talking to him about fucking Halpert. Even when the guy has a girlfriend of his own he can’t stop messing up Roy’s life.

It was time to show Halpert that he can’t go kissing other people’s people. Time to mess up those lips that went where they weren’t supposed to. Time to go kill Jim Halpert.

What the hell was he thinking?

No, not Roy. She knew what he’d been thinking, or rather which parts of himself he’d been thinking with. Not the brain. Not even (she thought, after talking to him in the diner) the part of him that she sometimes worried was the only such part on any man she’d ever actually get a chance to see, and that she somehow sometimes simultaneously worried was relatively small and larger than the brain-parts he wasn’t using. No, he’d been thinking with his gut, with the part of him that usually made decisions, the instinctive, reactive, traditional part of him that didn’t like to see things change and thought that his physical strength and size were what really counted. That was the part of him that had charged Jim, that had recoiled in horror when Dwight pepper-sprayed him, and that had finally given over to the brain after that, when he’d apologized and urged her to go after Jim.

Jim. The guy who she used to be able to read like a book (specifically like one of those choose your own adventure books where she steadfastly searched for a page that didn’t say she died and then retroactively made her choices to make sure she got there: one where she’d known what she could read and what she wouldn’t read before she actually started the story). The guy she used to trust to read her like a book (one of those little fantasy novels by Terry Pratchett she knew he stuffed into his shoulder bag when he thought no one in the office was looking and read avidly, cover to cover, in as little time as she’d ever seen someone devour a book, only to have another magically make its appearance in the bag tomorrow or the next week). The guy she loved.

That was the guy whose thoughts she just could not understand today.

“I’m sure you’ll find your way back to each other?” What the hell was that?

Brushing off her apology she could almost understand. She’d hurt him, she knew she had, even if he was the one hurting her now and would probably deny it if anyone (say, a tall brunette someone named Karen) asked. And her apology had been, well, she had to admit it had been a little half-assed. Well, not in the sense that she hadn’t meant it. She’d meant it with every fiber of her being, meant it and a lot of other things she couldn’t actually say. But it had come out of her mouth entirely lame. She was, to a certain extent, amazed it had come out at all. She’d expected it to stick in her throat like the end of “I can’t,” or to come out entirely wrong like “we’ll always be friends.” She’d expected to let him walk out of there kicking herself for her stupidity like she had—well, most evenings, but most specifically the time he’d accepted her gift of a prank on Dwight and she’d wanted to offer to hang out with him and watch the result and her mouth had just. Stopped. Working. She’d ended up saying something inane like “oh!” and laughing and then he was gone.

This time she’d at least gotten words out. Though she wasn’t entirely sure “sorry I almost got you killed” counted. And when she remembered the look in his eyes, she was pretty sure it didn’t—just like “it’s probably my fault” had been so many months ago.

Only the reaction in his eyes was like a terrible opposite of that night. On that night his eyes had been luminous, like nebulas or distant galaxies, a tiny glow in vast darkness promising infinite possibilities. She’d felt lost in them, drawn to him, unable to speak precisely because of how much she was feeling and how unprepared she was to articulate any of it. She’d gasped and stuttered and utterly failed because his eyes had been speaking to her even more than his words had, and they invited her to fall in.

Now his eyes weren’t even trained on her, as if whatever it was he had in his hands was infinitely more interesting than her. What she could see of them was hard and flat, like a newly-strung canvas but without that canvas’s potential to be turned into something greater. He was avoiding her eyes, and her inarticulate inability to communicate was a result of his total indifference, not his total absorption of her attention.

It struck her then: it wasn’t actually indifference.

It was active hostility.

Did she deserve that? It wasn’t her who tried to punch him in the face. It definitely wasn’t her who hadn’t told Karen…whatever it was he clearly hadn’t told her, given the way she had been acting in the aftermath of “the incident,” which is all she could label it in the privacy of her head. Or “Roy’s idiocy.” Well, technically she hadn’t told Karen, but it wasn’t her place to—and it was putting some interesting ideas in her head about what he had told her if she was surprised to see Roy barrel in like that.

Though of course Jim himself had been surprised. And so had she, although less so the more she thought about it—and she was pretty sure Jim’s surprise wasn’t about what she’d told Roy, but when.

God, she just wished he’d talk to her. Why wouldn’t he talk to her? She’d even take the old kind of talking, the joking and the friendship and the light conversation they used to have—she didn’t even need the deeper stuff, the talking about their lives and their hopes and dreams and loves that she really wanted (and that, if she was honest, they’d also used to have—but maybe it was naïve or unfair to expect that of Jim after she’d left things the way she had…even if he had ignored her email and her text, or maybe especially because of that). She wanted, well, what had he called it, more than that. But she’d take that. And she wasn’t getting anything.

She was getting hurtful comments about how she and Roy would get together again, and “never say never” and stupid frustrating things like that. She was done with Roy. It hadn’t gone how she’d imagined, not even how she’d imagined when she…well, when she rebounded with him from Jim, if she was honest with herself, for all that she and Jim had never actually dated. But it was over, and it was done, and if Jim couldn’t see that his eyes were wrong.

And while she really wanted to show him how wrong he was, she wasn’t sure it was worth it. Because he was being an absolute ass, and it showed in his eyes.

She’d never before thought of his eyes being brown because he was full of shit, but here they were.

He knew he was supposed to stay away. They’d fired him; Pammy had not just told him they were done but actually listened to him and talked him through why they were done, and he thought he finally understood; he’d picked up his final paycheck, apologized to Halpert, all of it. His business there was done.

But it wasn’t like he had much of a friend group outside the warehouse, you know? Sure, he had the guys he’d hung out with through high school and beyond, but they were all getting married, moving on, moving forward with their lives. He might have finally found a place from which he could go forward, but it sure as hell hadn’t started happening yet. He might not be stuck in the mud, but it was still all over his clothes. So he wasn’t going to hang around with them, especially not the ones like Jack and George who’d been…well, they’d been his closest friends for a while, but thinking about it now he realized they were friends because they all made fun of the people they thought were beneath them. The nerds, the losers, the pansies. And he was well aware that right now he was one of those people. He didn’t feel like a loser; he felt like someone who was waking up from a very long dream and needed to get out of bed to make it all real. But he knew that all of it—getting maced by a guy like Dwight, losing the girl to a guy like Halpert (and then apparently having Halpert not even interested in the girl, if he was to believe Pammy, though he thought she might be missing some things), getting fired—it all made him a loser in their eyes. He wasn’t trying to judge them—maybe they’d still accept him, they had a long history—but those weren’t the influences he needed in his life right now.

And Kenny was family, but he wasn’t enough. He’d been all aboard the Halpert-murder train, after all, and while he was a loyal guy and a good guy and someone Roy was definitely not cutting out of his life or anything, he was still bound up in all that. Roy needed some space from that kind of thinking, and hanging out with Kenny was an invitation to wallow in it. To feel sorry for himself. To think all the thoughts he’d finally realized he needed to be better than.

No, he needed the warehouse guys. It was Darryl after all who’d told him he shouldn’t go after Halpert, time and time again. It was Lonnie who’d, with a small shrug and a clap on the shoulder, started picking him up for work every day when his license was suspended after the DUI. It was Madge who silently cut him off every time the group went out drinking and gave him the stink eye if he tried to get more. They were supportive in the right way, and he needed them now.

But because of that, he had to come by. Not a lot, and not when he expected to see the upstairs people, of course, but enough to still be “part of the group,” you know? He’d meet them out in the parking lot and head over to Poor Richard’s together, or pay Lonnie back by giving him a ride to the poker game. He just wanted to still belong, and they were at least willing to tolerate that, if not always happy to have him.

It was one of those days when he pulled up to the Dunder Mifflin parking lot and realized he had made a grave miscalculation in assuming the office staff wouldn’t be there.

It didn’t take long to figure out why they were all outside: that idiot Michael was up on the roof, and…well, after the DUI and The Incident combined Roy didn’t like to joke about suicide, but it looked like one except that he couldn’t believe Michael would do that.

He looked around and he saw them. Pammy and Halpert, standing next to each other. Not holding hands or anything—in fact, further apart than he’d usually remembered them being, if he was honest—but cooperating, talking to each other, gesturing towards…was that a bouncy castle in the back lot? He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on there. But as he sat in his truck—and thank god no one had noticed him, he really wasn’t supposed to be there—he watched the two of them.

He watched how Pammy seemed to have more backbone in her stance than he’d remembered, how she held herself tall and talked with a little more assertiveness (he couldn’t hear the words, but he could sometimes see her face, and he could see the others’ reactions to her well enough). He watched how Halpert seemed…well, weird. Like he was having to hold himself back from something, or remember how his body worked. Roy could recognize it from the time he’d pulled his ACL back in sophomore year of high school: there was that period of re-acclimation when you’d technically healed but you didn’t trust your body to distribute weight properly, when you could cut on the leg but didn’t. And that was the most dangerous time, because your whole body was ready but you were using it wrong. You were more likely to reinjure yourself by compensating than you would be by just going for it—so you needed your mind to catch up to your body. Halpert looked like that, like there was something going on upstairs that wasn’t letting him act like his body wanted—needed—to do.

It was funny. He’d spent so long looking at Halpert, straining for evidence of whether this guy wanted to steal Pammy, that he was almost as familiar with Halpert’s behavior as his own. So he could tell: this guy still wanted Pammy. And he was willing to bet—if anyone would be dumb enough to take that bet—that that was what was pulling Halpert off. For some reason he couldn’t relax into his old routine, his old familiarity with Pammy, and it was throwing everything else off. Too bad, since Pammy obviously had a thing for the guy, and if he’d just get back to normal—plant on that leg, make the cut, drive downfield—it’d probably all work out.

Or maybe not. It wasn’t his business anymore. But he wished Pammy well, and it was obvious by now that she wanted this, so he wanted it for her too. He was proud of her though: she wasn’t pining, she wasn’t begging for Halpert’s attention, she was just being her. And while Roy was still sad that being Pammy now apparently meant that she couldn’t be part of Roy and Pammy, he was glad she could still be herself.

He just hoped Halpert noticed.

Something had changed with that dumbass on the roof, and Roy could see the gathering outside breaking up. Before someone could see him and call him out for being there, he texted Darryl that he’d meet the guys at Poor Richard’s, turned the truck, and gunned out of the lot.

He didn’t need to look after Pammy anymore anyway. It wasn’t his job. She could take care of herself.

Was it weird that she liked watching Dwight and Jim pretend to be each other?

OK, it was probably a little weird. But it wasn’t because she was turned on by Dwight-as-Jim (thank God) or even Jim-as-Dwight (a bigger risk, since Jim doing pranks was her favorite version of Jim, but a) it was Dwight and b) she was practicing being more rational about Jim after his last bout of assholery after The Incident). And it was only partly because it was a prank (or really a pair of them, one by Jim, one on Jim). She loved pranks, and she loved the all-out, in-depth nature of this particular prank. The best pranks were the ones you really leaned into, committed to with no sense of shame or hesitation: or at least, the ones Jim did that for. She was well aware that for all her love of the pranks and her active and willing participation in them, before Jim left for Stamford she’d never actually fallen into one with that full lack of shame or hesitation that she now craved. She’d always kept a little of herself not aloof but separate; if she’d been asked (which thank God she was almost never asked) she’d have called that Roy’s part of her, the part that couldn’t risk going entirely all in with anything Jim-related.

Of course, now that she thought about it, Jim never did either, at least not on the ones he included her in, because it turned out he was always keeping that little bit of himself back that refused to tell her how he felt. Not that she could blame him exactly, but she could tell now in her memories when those moments of reservation had kicked in: when exactly he’d decided not to tell her, or not to commit to the little bit of push that would have made his feelings completely and undeniably visible. She didn’t blame him for it, anymore than she blamed herself for keeping that little bit of herself apart from him. They hadn’t been ready, they hadn’t been quite there yet.

Now, though, she found herself yearning for that kind of commitment, even if it was only as best friends, even if a little bit of him was hanging back (Karen’s part, she supposed). So it was a delight to see him fully commit to this particular bit, even if he could only fully commit because she wasn’t directly involved. It reminded her of the Jim she used to know, the one she missed because he hadn’t really come back. Some ersatz Jim had come back in his place, with the same face and the same smile but different eyes. Slide-y, avoidant eyes that only seemed to show the feelings she was used to recognizing in them in little flashes that she wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t imagined. Eyes that were completely hilariously surrounded by giant Dwight glasses this morning.

But it wasn’t the prank that actually made her enjoy their dueling imitations, or at least not only and maybe not even mostly the prank. It was the chance to think about what exactly made Jim Jim and what made her feel the way she did about him. The chance to see what elements of Jim were still in his Dwight and which elements of Jim Dwight’s Jim was and wasn’t able to imitate.

It was the chance to reflect on all that had happened and all that she wished had happened, and on what it was she missed about Jim. It wasn’t posture or the facial expressions or the lack of seriousness about his job. It wasn’t the clothes (god knew it wasn’t the clothes) or the hair (although if he really got a haircut like she’d overheard Karen telling him he ought to get, she might throw something) or even the way he looked at her. It was something about Jim himself, something that was still there when he was being Dwight, something beyond bears, beets, and Battlestar Galactica—something that even Dwight’s surprisingly accurate Jimpression (and yes, she’d decided, portmanteaus were a perfectly legitimate kind of pun) couldn’t capture.

It was something about the way he filled a space, the way his very presence resonated with hers deep under the skin. She couldn’t possibly be fooled by either impression, not because they weren’t good but because she could not even imagine walking up to Jim-as-Dwight, even from the back or by surprise, and not knowing it was Jim. Of course she could pretend not to, because the whole point of pulling a prank on Dwight was willful apparent ignorance that there was a prank at all, but she couldn’t see herself doing it for real. Likewise, even if she didn’t see Dwight-as-Jim’s face or posture, even if she caught the barest glimpse of him from the side of her eye, she’d know it wasn’t Jim. It just wasn’t. Dwight was…well, kind of her friend, but he wasn’t Jim. And Jim was a complete asshole sometimes and hadn’t been treating her right ever since he’d dropped out of her life like a gravity ride at Six Flags, but he was still Jim. Still the best friend she’d ever had, the person she knew the most about and knew the most about her, the person she couldn’t possibly ignore even if she wanted to.

She knew Jim. And she was pretty sure he knew her. The next step was reminding him of that. She needed to find a time, a space, an opportunity (and of course the guts to follow through on that opportunity) to tell him that he needed to come back. That he could stay with Karen or not, he could still be in love with her or not, but he owed her at least an acknowledgement of who they were to each other. That if she couldn’t ignore him, he damn well couldn’t and shouldn’t ignore her.

He’d looked so disappointed when she’d said “we’ll always be friends” all those months ago. Well, if he was going to be disappointed about that, what right did he have to stop being friends with her? He owed her the friendship if nothing else; even if they weren’t ever going to be more than that, even if he no longer wanted to be more than that (hell, especially if he no longer wanted to, now that she did), didn’t that mean that they should at least be that? She’d settle for that. She really would.

But she needed to remind him that those were his options: that and more than that. Less than that wasn’t fair to either of them, and he needed to snap the hell out of whatever it was that was going on.

He’s no longer trying not to notice her.

Not because it wouldn’t be a good idea; the woman sitting—no, simmering—beside him on the bus right now is still here, and she’s still the reason it would be a very good idea if he could manage to not notice Pam for at least a little bit. But he’s not going to do it. He’s hardly noticing Karen, actually. The mere fact that she’s even vaguely impinged on his consciousness right now is an indication of how simply volcanic her expression and her body language are, because if she were even merely angry—say, as angry as she was the night he told her he still had feelings for the woman who’s actually taking up his focus right now—he wouldn’t be aware of her at all. He’s only paying attention to Karen with his hippocampus, the little lizard fight or flight section of his brain that will tell him when it’s safe to move.

The rest of him is firmly focused several seats forward, on the back of a head covered not in straight black hair but curly hair whose exact color has defied his description for years: redder in some lights, blonder in others, a mousey brunette right now under the influence of darkness. Only he would never call it mousey.

He’s no longer trying to ignore her because he’s found that he can’t—that when he does, it hurts him, it hurts her, it even hurts people like Karen who might think otherwise, because it makes him less himself. He’s beginning to think it might make Pam more herself, given the display he just witnessed at the beach—or if not more herself, because the Pam he remembers is quieter and more passive than that, more the Pam she could and should be, the Pam he’s always seen in her, the Fancy New Beesly she has apparently embraced becoming.

At least one of their evolutions is for the better, he reflects.

He’s not really any happier with how things have been since his return than she is—that’s why, he thinks, her outburst struck him quite as hard as it did—but he’s still not quite ready to go back to how things were either. He notices that even on an endorphin high from the coal walk, even cloaked in righteous indignation (and deservedly so), even with all the momentum in the world behind her back, she never said she loved him. She never said she wanted to actually be with him. She never said any of the words he’d wanted to hear ever since Casino Night.

Well, that’s not true.

Because she did say “I called off my wedding because of you.” She did say “I didn’t care…until I met you.” So maybe he’s not giving her enough credit, because he sure as hell isn’t brave enough, coal walk or not, to announce to her that he misses her, that he’s disappointed that they aren’t together, that he wants more from her. So maybe he ought to give her a break for that little “I’m not” at the end of the rant. If only it didn’t remind him so much of “I can’t”—of the idea that she might not want Roy but she doesn’t want him either. She just wants him back as her friend.

And to be fair, he wants that too. He’s beginning to realize that he may never get over wanting to be more than that to her, but he can’t deny that not being her friend at all is worse. That being in her life (he still sees her in the reflection of his monitor every time it’s off) and not being in her life is worse than being “just” her best friend. What gives him the right to make both of them miserable just because she won’t date him, anyway? He owes them both more than that. And yes, that means he owes himself too, because all of this has been killing him. He’s been going intentionally numb in order to avoid feeling what he feels, and that’s just plain dangerous. He can’t and he won’t do it anymore.

What does that mean for him and Karen? For a start, probably another awful long conversation tonight, because she’s going to want to do that (fun!). Then…who knows. He can’t really think about that until after the interview for the job in New York—even though he know he really needs to think about it before, because Karen has been making loud repeated sounds (sometimes called “directly saying it”) about both of them moving up there if one of them gets the job. And in a Pamless universe, that would probably be a good idea, even though he also strongly suspects that in a Pamless universe they wouldn’t be having that conversation quite as urgently.

But he doesn’t live in a Pamless universe, and he doesn’t want to live in a Pamless universe. He lives in a universe where Pam Beesly works at the same office of Dunder Mifflin as he does, and where they are supposed to be best friends. And he’s been completely fucking it all up by pretending she doesn’t exist.

That would be a complete dick move even if she were still the same Pam he’d left in May—even if she were married to Roy (which God forbid—which he guesses, in a way, God did, via Dwight’s pepper spray…and Pam’s honesty. Never forget Pam’s honesty). If she were married to Roy he could plead self-defense, but it would still be a crime. But she’s not. She’s not even dating Roy. And she’s not the same Pam; she hasn’t stagnated, hasn’t backslid, hasn’t diminished herself. She’s stood proud and firm and walked forward into the future even though he abandoned her, and she’s chosen—chosen—to ask him to join her there. Maybe not as her boyfriend/lover/husband/everything like he has to admit he’d like to be, but as her best friend. As the man she thought he was—he thought he was—and not this asshole he’s been. She’s willing to look past it, to accept him. And he loves her for it.

Thinking about loving Pam makes him realize something else about her outburst tonight. His initial reaction—mostly in self-defense—was to get angry. To ask himself what right she had to stand up there and say those things and jeopardize his relationship with Karen and the whole office like that. To want to tell her off for it. Where did she get off bottling up those feelings, not telling him how or what or why she felt things and then dropping it all in his lap and going and sticking her feet in the water?

And then it hit him. This was what Casino Night was for her, except this was dropping a ream and Casino Night was a whole truckload of paper from the warehouse. Because he knew everything she was saying. He already felt guilty for not coming to the art show, for not being a better friend, for not doing everything she’d said. But he hadn’t faced it straight on until she said it. And then she walked away. Except where she was walking away to soak her burning calluses, and she’d be back (as she was back) on the bus home, he’d walked away to fucking Stamford, Connecticut without saying goodbye. He’d dropped a giant load of emotion in her lap—Pam Beesly’s, who took a full minute to react when he told her the mixed-berry yogurt she was about to eat was expired—and expected an instant reaction. How could he be so stupid? More importantly, how could he be so thoughtless? If he, Jim Halpert, who had already told Pam he loved her, already digested all that information, was debating how to react to her much more minor announcement (not that it was actually minor, or he didn’t care about it, just that it wasn’t “I’m in love with you”), how could he expect that much more out of her, completely unprepared?

He was an idiot, that’s how.

And Pam deserved a better response to her declaration than she’d given him—not least because he’d been more of an asshole to her than she’d ever been to him.

It just couldn’t really happen with Karen sitting next to him.

But he’ll think of something.

She notices him hanging on the edge of the doorway before he speaks—before he knocks, even, it’s like there’s some kind of sixth sense involved, and it’s a little freaky but she doesn’t really care because he’s here and that’s all that really matters. Once he does knock her attention is so focused on him she forgets what she was saying, forgets everything except the sound of his voice, which sounds like Jim. It sounds like “the mixed berry yogurt you’re about to eat is expired” (a conversation she’s embarrassed she remembers, but which shocked her so much with the realization that this man cares and you care that he cares and this matters that she stood stock still for an inordinately ridiculous amount of time before thanking him and throwing it out) and it sounds like “you’ve got to take a chance on something sometime, Pam” only the subtext of “with me” is now the main text and she doesn’t have Roy or ten years of history to worry about (only four years of history with him and six months of Karen, and Karen is his problem anyway, though she hopes he’s dealt with that before asking her) and it sounds like 27 seconds of silence on a boat on Lake Wallenpaupack (and yes there are sounds of silence, thank you very much Simon and Garfunkel, but that’s not exactly what it means) and what it really sounds like is “I’m in love with you,” only she doesn’t just get to hear it once, she thinks she might get to hear it every day for the rest of her life, and she gets another chance to answer him and this time she’s going to get it right goddamnit. And she manages to say “yes” and he’s saying “it’s a date” and suddenly she feels like she’s found the end of the sentence she was trying to get out last May, and it’s “I can’t wait.” Only she will wait, but it’s OK because she has a date (a date! With Jim!) and he hasn’t actually told her when the waiting will stop but she figures they’ll figure it out because if they’ve gotten this far there’s really no way they’ll fall at the last hurdle, right?

She notices his presence strewn throughout the office, too, when she finally makes it out of the little conference room: he’s not there anymore, but there’s a little Post-It stuck to her monitor saying “gone home to freshen up pick you up your place 6:30?” with a little smiley-face drawn in the corner and she thinks she could kiss the paper she’s so happy. But it’s not just the little smiley-face or the Post-It that tell her Jim’s been here (her Jim, not that impostor who’s been hanging around the last few months). The angle of his chair is that little bit askew that tells her he sat down and got up in a hurry (making dinner reservations maybe, or forwarding his calls to voicemail?). The stack of papers on his desk, which has been alarmingly organized for the last few months, is back to what she thinks of as its native state of disarray, with everything all hodgepodge (she smiles as she remembers every time she’s teased him about it and his constant response: “I’m getting to it.” Well, he got to it, and now she’s so, so relieved it’s gotten away from him again). She can’t really imagine that he’s actually bothered to go through anything in that stack but it seems like a sign from God, like some sort of cosmic signal that everything is as it should be, like the stack of paper heard him ask her out for a date and just sagged itself back to normal. She even notices the angle of the computer monitor, because it’s off and she’s standing where Jim usually sits to look at it, and it’s reflecting back her own empty chair. And she’s pretty sure he would have had no reason to move it today (she wasn’t even at her desk when he was here, she was in the conference room after all) so what does it mean that it was pointing at her? How long has that been going on?

She doesn’t have time to think about that though because she has to get everything settled so she can get home and get ready by 6:30, and so she’s sitting back at her desk and tidying up when she notices a few other things.

There’s a folded up piece of Dunder Mifflin medium-weight stock (eggshell) stuck under her keyboard that says “you don’t need to dress up,” and when she picks it up and looks on the other side because she can tell there’s writing there too it says “I think you look lovely in pink.” There’s a postcard sticking out of her purse that she doesn’t remember owning: the backside says “it’s a little far away for tonight, but maybe some other time?” and the front is one of her favorite Rothkos from the Met, a delightful splash of red on canvas. And finally, as she manages to get her coat on and hurry out the door at five, there’s a sheet from a memo pad stuck unobtrusively in the pocket of her coat that just says “I could never forget you. Can you forgive me?”

She makes it to her car before she breaks down and cries, but no further, because on the windshield of her car, where a cop would put a ticket if you parked illegally, there’s a single Gerbera daisy. It’s kind of battered by the wind outside, but it’s definitely the thought that counts here, and she slides it out from under the wiper and sticks it in her hair on an impulse.

Tonight is going to be a good night, she decides. Sure, things have been awkward, and she’s not sure entirely where they stand even now, but he said “date,” and this little trail of objects reminds her entirely too much (or rather, entirely, because she isn’t sure there can be a too much) of the “bonus gifts” he left her in her teapot, and she’s simply decided that this all has to be a good sign. And that means she’s going to get ready (even if she doesn’t need to change, according to the note) and she’s going to think positive thoughts. Because by now she’s pretty sure she’s earned them, and if Jim Halpert is going to finally live up to them, she’s not going to be the one standing in their way.

Their first date is a blur in his memory.

Well, actually, they’ve agreed to call it their second date, not because any individual previous encounter should count as a date (it’s not a date when the girl goes home to her fiancé), but because out of the intimate kludge of so many prior meetings they’ve decided there are at least two half-dates, which makes this their second date (he’s pretty sure she means Cugino’s and the rooftop, but he’s a little afraid to ask in case he’s making the wrong assumptions—she thinks the same, down to the lack of specificity).

So it is, by mutual agreement, their second date, which is convenient, he thinks, because it means they get to avoid any first-date jitters. Or at least that’s the hope. Of course, he doesn’t think he’ll ever necessarily get over the jitters of this is Pam out on a date with you or you actually get to hold her hand, but he feels like something is improved by at least pretending this isn’t the first time he’s gotten the chance to do it. He’s still aware of that, blindingly aware, but it’s muted somehow by their agreement—more by the fact that they’ve agreed, he thinks, than by the content of their treaty.

It’s actually a miracle he managed to have that conversation with her at all, because when she showed up at his door (and thank God she found all the notes so she knew what to do and when—but then again he didn’t really have any doubts) he was basically speechless for a good…well, how long has it been?

And it’s not because he didn’t think she was gorgeous before. He told her in the note that she didn’t have to change because she looked good in pink, and he knew the reality was that she looked good in anything and everything to him (he intentionally avoids thinking about her in the remaining available category of nothing because then he really won’t be able to function at all). But he hadn’t counted on the fact that she’s even more gorgeous when she’s happy. When she’s actually smiling at him and then the smile is widening into a grin as she makes some kind of flippant remark (he thinks it’s “you look happy to see me” but he’s not sure because again his brain has basically stopped working) and then she’s pulling him into her apartment (“well, don’t just stand there in the cold, Halpert”)? Then he’s a total goner. He’s standing here, in the entryway of her apartment, making some kind of banter about kitchens and first (or second) dates and he doesn’t even know what because all he can focus on is her face and her smile and the fact that she’s actually happy and excited and all of this for him. For their date.

She actually wants this just as much as he does, and she’s not running away from it, and the wonder of it all overpowers him.

It’s a good thing he made reservations (at Alfredo’s Pizza Café [not, he triple-checks, Pizza by Alfredo]—not usually a reservations-type spot, but he knows a guy who’s dating one of the hostesses and she’s heard the whole Pam story enough times that she gets it and she puts him in for one) because if he hadn’t he’s not sure there’s anything that would break him out of his stupor of just being with Pam. But she says something playful about when they’re supposed to be where and it reminds him of the reservation and finally he’s able to get his legs and mouth moving in the right direction with the right purpose so that they can get out to dinner.

It’s a really good thing his chivalry is on autopilot too, as he opens her door and then his own, because he’s not sure he trusts himself to really think about anything related to Pam Beesly right now without ending up in that same vapor-lock of joy that ambushed him at her place. He drives focusing very hard on the road and trying to ignore her presence in his passenger seat—kind of rude for a date, even the second, but necessary if he’s not going to crash the car. And he really doesn’t want to crash the car; he has precious cargo onboard, even if he’s deliberately not thinking about just how precious that cargo is right now (and even if Pam’s not really cargo, more like a copilot).

He lets her order (half cheese, half mushroom, with a side order of her making fun of him for not liking mushrooms and being boring) and just takes the time while she’s “deciding” (he’s pretty sure she’s known what she wants ever since he admitted where he was taking her—and even thinking that phrase, so open to delightful analysis and reinterpretation, has him spacing out again) staring at her face, wondering at the openness of expression he sees there.

He’s used, you see, to catching half-glimpses of Pam Beesly’s affection for him: stealing mouthfuls of it like Oliver Twist begging for more gruel in a workhouse. He’s used to either averting his own eyes because Karen’s watching them and he can’t be seen staring at her (or because he feels embarrassed for staring at someone he’s otherwise been so cold to) or, further ago but for longer, sifting her expressions for the merest flashes of emotion before she takes control of herself by remembering Roy or considering their audience (usually Michael or Dwight, once memorably Meredith) or whatever it was that she used to shut down those moments when she looked at him like he looked at her.  Now he’s looking at her, not just stealing glances but full-on looking, and she’s looking back at him, only the emotions aren’t tamped down, they aren’t hidden, they’re right there on the surface and he can’t get enough. It’s like drinking from a firehose when you’ve been dying of thirst, he thinks, or the moment when you go to college and realize that no one is making you get up and go to class anymore. He feels a tremendous impulse to just indulge—to just stare and stare until someone makes him stop.

But in the end he makes himself stop, because for all that he’s loving this chance to stare at her, he owes her more than a silent dinner companion with a weird expression on his face (the odds that she’s enjoying this moment in the same way as he is go entirely over his head). He cocks a grin at her and teases her about her preference mushrooms (“God, Pam, I knew you didn’t like animals on your pizza, but throwing out the entire vegetable kingdom too? What’s next, archaebacteria?”) and suddenly they’re off. It’s like he never left, like Roy never existed, like they’ve been together for years.

And when she gets a little sad in the eyes at something he says about how things were in Stamford, he notices, and they talk about it, and they work through some of the hurts they felt a year ago (he really had no idea she was ever going to come around; she really expected him to be there the Monday after; they each understand each other now, and they’re ready to move on). And when she brings up (haltingly, apologetically, carefully) the pain she caused him for the years before that, he doesn’t interrupt her or tell her it didn’t happen—they talk about that too, and they figure out what they’ve meant and what they mean to each other over pizza and drinks and a giant piece of double chocolate cake. And it’s not actually like Roy didn’t exist or Stamford never happened, because somehow it’s better, because they aren’t pretending any longer. They’re just together, and happy, and in love.

Because she says she loves him. It’s not the only thing he notices from that night, but it’s the one he’ll remember and treasure always, because it’s not a deep and giant declaration like his was last year. It’s just a matter-of-fact statement when he asks how she managed to deal with him being an asshole for the past year. “I knew it wasn’t who you really are, and I figured you’d come back to your senses eventually. And besides, I love you, so…” He isn’t sure whether there’s anything more to that sentence because he’s around the table in a single stride and kissing her and when he finally comes up for air and they go back to eating he reflects (once he’s capable of independent thought again) that he’s going to owe their waitress a ginormous tip for putting up with them.

But it’s definitely, 100% worth any tip he could imagine, because Pam Beesly loves him, and he absolutely believes her, because it’s written all across her face every moment of the night, so he can’t help but notice, because he loves her back.

And finally, finally, they’re both doing something about it.

The strangest thing about being in a relationship with Jim is that it doesn’t actually change anything, she realizes.

She knows that’s not quite true—certainly, they never spent their time in together in the supply closet in quite that way before—and she knows she hasn’t literally always felt the same way about him as she does now. When he first started, she only noticed him as a distraction, a break in the routine. Now he is her routine, but not in the way that sounds; not in the slow boring habitual way that marks the beaten path of the world, but in the way that lungs breathing and hearts beating and stomachs digesting are a habit—he’s become an integrated part of her body, with a Jim-noticing system buried deep in her medulla oblongata alongside the cardiovascular and the respiratory and all the other systems that keep her body going, and that won’t stop until she’s dead. He’s a part of her now, in a way Roy never was, in a way she didn’t ever think anyone would, and she’s happy it’s so. She’s most happy because she realizes that the last four years haven’t been a waste; the seven years before that weren’t either; nothing that she’s experienced has been valueless because if it hadn’t happened this way, if he hadn’t slipped into her life almost imperceptibly and she hadn’t had the chance to realize how important he was bit by tiny bit—and then feel the same pain he felt for so long over the last year—she doesn’t think it would have happened at all.

A little bit of pain, on both their parts, was a necessary ingredient, and while she wishes she could have minimized his pain (and while they’re at it, she wouldn’t mind having had a little less herself) there’s no way she’d risk undoing a single moment of it. Because they’re here now, and if someone appeared in a time machine and offered her a ride back to the day they met, or the day he first told her he loved her, or even the day of the merger, she wouldn’t take it, because she’s finally got her hands on him (literally and metaphorically) and she’ll be damned if she’s going to let go.

She still notices him every moment they’re together—that’s actually been true for far longer than she’d have admitted even a little while ago, much less when it was all going on—only now she gets to revel in the fact that she spends almost all of her day around the one person in her life who matters most. She’s amazed sometimes at how easy it is for them to slip into this role of lover and beloved—how natural it feels to slide back into their old dynamic, only with the added benefit of a freely and fully expressed affection between them. OK, maybe not entirely fully expressed—they’re trying to be technically discreet, since they would rather not have the entire office gossip about them all of the time—but expressed, and fully understood, and out in the open.

It’s like four years of pranking Dwight and coddling Michael and just generally surviving the madness of Dunder Mifflin was just practice relationship-building. She already knows what every one of his facial expressions means (and she’s rapidly cataloguing which ones of them also have a secondary, subsurface meaning of “I love you” or “I miss you” or “I want to fuck you”—so far, the rate of translation to at least one of those three meanings is 100%). They already have a secret language and it works just as well for love and affection as it ever did for laughs—and it still works for laughs, too, she realizes. And of course, as she does, she also realizes that it always worked for love; she just didn’t want to acknowledge it back then.

In fact, if there’s anyone or anything she’s learning about, it’s not Jim but herself: she’s noticing all the ways she’s always shown him affection, her own love language if you will, only now without the thick layer of denial that she used to slather over it to make it all OK even though she was with Roy. She’s also learning just how much attention he paid to her, and how carefully he filed that knowledge away. And she knows he’s learning the same thing, learning which things he used to do that were pure pining and which were intended to actually communicate with her, becoming aware that while she might not have been able to comfort him (and she still regrets that day hotly and vividly) she knows just as much about him as he does about her. And they’re both so happy that even when they learn something painful (like the day she realizes that when he swallows hard, he’s thinking about kissing her, and remembers all the times she turned away unthinkingly—and worse, all the times she kept staring at him and breaking his heart by not letting herself notice how he felt, or the time she figures out that he knows she doesn’t like being tickled because he’d watch her with Roy, and she remembers sitting on his desk while being tickled and just wants to sink into the floor) they can actually talk about it, and process it, without being dragged down into the doldrums of the past.

That’s what she most notices about them, actually: that they just work together, that it’s easy and fun and all the things that her relationship with Roy never really was. And no, it’s not all bluebirds and puppydogs (or maybe it is, because bluebirds bite your fingers sometimes and puppydogs piddle inside when you haven’t trained them right) because they do fight, and they do disagree, and they’re not perfect. But they’re clearly perfect for each other, and she’s so glad. Because if she’d been wrong about this, she’s not sure when she’d trust herself again. And she tells Jim this and he nods, and he kisses her, and after the kiss he just murmurs “same,” and holds her hand while they lie on her bed in silence for a little. And then he turns to her and asks “was that OK? Should I have said something more?” and she pretends to get upset and insist that yes, obviously, he should have said more, and he cocks his head at her (she thinks—she’s too happy and content to really turn around and look at him, but she’s got a pretty good idea of how he moves by now) and pretends to ponder it for a little while before doing a little “eureka!’ gesture and bending down to whisper “I love you” in her ear.

And she notices that for the first time she’s in a relationship where she doesn’t have to notice when she’s happy. Because she just is.