The pounding in Jim’s head was overwhelming, like a tiny marching band was playing their cadence on the surface of his brain. His chapped lips burned with remnants of Jagermeister and, as his crusted eyes cracked slowly open, he tasted bile there too. A flood of memories slowly ebbed into his consciousness.

Karen.

His bike in her trunk.

Promising not to throw up in the backseat of her car.

Throwing up on her shoes instead as she tried her best to help him up the stairs of his apartment. 

Somehow managing to crawl face first into his pillow, to then maneuver his body so that he wasn’t suffocating.

Although, lately, life seemed to be doing exactly that.

Moving to Stamford was supposed to be having the opposite effect. Connecticut was his proverbial bandage, but here he was bleeding right through it. He hadn’t planned on partaking in Andy’s Jagerbombs, but after the bomb that had landed in his lap a week ago, with Pam calling and having an hour long conversation like nothing had changed, only to end with nothing changing for real when she hung up, had his head in a state of never-ending pressure that he needed to release somehow.

And he finally did. All over Karen’s shoes. Oh well. At least she wasn’t the type to splurge on the stylish, expensive brands.

The clock on his nightstand blinked 2:28, and Jim groaned long and low, rolling over as he stuffed his pillow over his head in an attempt to block out all the noise.

But then, he realized, he didn’t know where exactly the noise was stemming from. 

Lifting his heavy head slowly from his stiff new mattress, a dull vibration echoed loudly between his ears. He followed the noise until he realized that his cell was buzzing right against the clock, the two devices shifting equally against one another so that the shuddering of plastic was doubled and therefore amplified. His only choice was to reach out and still it.

His arm felt heavy with pins and needles as he lifted and stretched it, his large palm engulfing the phone as his thumb flipped it open. The tiny light blinded him, seemingly filling the dark room. He squinted at the screen through slitted lids, doing his best to see through the hazy film that seemed content to remain over his eyes. He was all set to flip open his phone, turn the damn thing off, and go right back to attempting sleep, when he saw the notification that had woken him in the first place.

7 New Voicemails.

Alarm registered quickly, as thoughts of his parents, his siblings, his niece and nephews, immediately came to mind. But as he blinked rapidly, doing his best to read the name beside all of the red X’s of calls missed, a new alarm bell rang.

Pam.

Repeated seven times down the screen of his call log.

Pam

Pam

Pam

Pam

Pam

Pam

Pam

Each syllable thumped with the erratic beating of his heart as he fought against the screaming in his head to lay back down when he pulled his body into a seated position against the headboard.

It made sense now, why he was suddenly awake. The last missed call came in at 2:24, the voicemail following shortly after.

The sweat pooling at his hairline was a combination of several reasons. First and foremost, he was still wearing his work pants, dress shirt, hell the tie was still loosely knotted around his neck. Then, there was the fact that, if he hadn’t bothered to change into pajamas, he sure as hell hadn’t bothered to turn on the ceiling fan.

But as one bead slipped from his matted hair and followed the curve of his jaw, he realized that it was a perfect pair to his shaking hands.

Why was Pam calling him at two in the morning?

Something had to be wrong, which only caused the tension in his body to build. He paid no mind to the growing heat, the way his heartbeat echoed more loudly, more rapidly in his head as the blood rushed more quickly. He needed to know that she was okay.

The thought crossed his mind to just dial her back right away, but something about that list of voicemails tempted him. It was also his defense mechanism, as he realized that he wasn't quite sure if he could face her just yet. Voicemails, he could hide behind.

He entered his voicemail password, closing his eyes as the back of his head softly thudded against the headboard, and prepared to hear her voice again.

“Hey. Hi, Jim. It’s me. It’s Pam. Do you, did you know how many times I look up at your desk everyday? Only, Ryan’s sitting there now. It’s not you anymore Jim. I look up everyday hoping he’ll change into you, but it’s just stupid Ryan every time. I wish it wasn’t.”

It took him a moment, in her disjointed syntax and the slight slur of her words, to put the puzzle together. Seven missed calls, seven voicemails to match.

She was drunk dialing him.

He relaxed only slightly as drunk Pam continued rambling over the airwaves.

“It was so much better when you sat in that chair, Jim. And Ryan’s an ass. I hate him. He’s so…” 

She trailed off, and his anxiety came down another notch as he pictured her face scrunching, her eyes concentrating on something on the other side of the room, as the silence percolated, and she obviously thought of new ways to describe his old coworker.

“You should be in that chair,” was what she came up with, and his quick beating heart seemed to drop three feet into his stomach.

“It’s your chair. Jim’s chair. Maybe I could label it. I could take Dwight’s label maker before he gets into work. And then, then he would think Ryan took it, since Ryan sits there. Oh, you would like this prank, Jim. I’ll do it tomorrow. Or Monday. I am a little drunk right now.”

An involuntary breath of a laugh pushed through his nose in a way that was freeing, like he’d been so deprived of laughing with her that the weight on his shoulders lessened with even that simple action.

When the message clicked off, he craved the next one like an addict’s high and scrolled right on.

Hey guess what. I moved my computer so I can’t see Michael’s head. It’s working. I think I can have a career as a very specific type of decorator.

“Hey you know what? Maybe, maybe if I move my chair, I don’t have to look at him.”

She began without greeting this time, like she had simply ended the call by accident and was picking up right where they left off.

“Do you remember when you first started at Dunder Mifflin, and I had my computer on the other wall? I didn’t even have to see anyone. Those were the good old days.”

There was white static between them as he imagined her sitting and reminiscing. But then rustling filled the space, and he wondered if she was lying down and getting comfortable. He hoped, at least, that she was comfortable.

“I remember your first day. Your hair was so long. It was so long, Jim! Like a skater boy. You know, like Avril Lavigne says? He was a skater boy, I said see you later boy. He wasn’t good enough for her.”

The impromptu karaoke threw him off almost as much as the snort that emitted at the end, and he was grinning even wider now.

“Ahh,” she sighed, and the picture in his head had her laying back into her pillows, settling down and closing her eyes dreamily as the silence wrapped him in comfort.

“He was good enough for her, though. You, I mean. You’re the skater boy here. I’m making a metaphor. Like in fifth grade reading class.”

It jolted his eyes open, a twitch in his neck tossing off his comfort blanket. But not long enough for him to decipher before she began again.

“You were the reason I turned my desk chair around. I don’t think I ever told you that. Well. Now you know.”

Suddenly, she was going from wistful and carefree to trailing on the edge of a slightly angry tone. He felt guilty, like he himself had put it there.

Sudoku. Level: Moderate. Time: 18 minutes. Suck on that Halpert. 

“Hey suck face. You know what I did the other day? I made it a whole day without crying over you. A whole. Day. Suck on that, Halpert. You don’t, you don’t own me, you know? You don’t. You don’t.”

The ending of the call was abrupt, much like the immediate swelling in his throat, the sharp intake of breath. Because while the end of the call had been quick, the hitch in her voice said that it wasn’t painless.

I’ll transfer you. Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam. Hold please. Dunder Mifflin, this is-- Okay, sorry, Michael was standing at my desk and I needed to be busy or who knows what would’ve happened. So thank you. 

“I get so bored now, Jim. At work a lot, but like...life in general is boring. It’s just...I’m taking an art class. Did you know that? But it’s not exciting because I don’t get to tell you all about it. I want to. I want to call you tell you about it all the time but I just...I don’t know. I’m scared? That you don’t want to hear about it? I’m...scared that you don’t want to talk to me anymore. Is that why you didn’t answer me right now? Because you don’t want to talk to me anymore, Jim?”

He wanted to be proud of her in that moment, for taking the art class and finally pursuing her dream. But instead, the overwhelming sensation of sadness weighed on him like a truck, carried his head into his palm as her admission brought him to the edge of a spiral.

Hey what’s that word we made up for when you have a thing stuck in your shoe. Anyway, I have a thing stuck in my shoe. 

“Sometimes, when I’m sittin’ by myself, I think about how we used to make up words for things. And they didn’t make any sense to anyone but us. Remember when we were an us? I don’t have anything like that anymore.”

Hey, I have a chance to sneak out of here early and I’m not messing this up, so I’ll see you tomorrow.

“So I think, I think I’m gonna call off work tomorrow. I messed up with the alcohol tonight. I don’t feel so good, Jim. I won’t get to prank Dwight after all. ‘m sorry, Jim. I let you down. Again.”

He could still hear the tears in her voice, and now she was sniffling. The image in his head morphed, from Fancy New Beesly in her Fancy New Apartment, to Fancy Drunk Beesly lying on her Fancy New Bed, her eyes rimmed crimson while she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. The need to be there, to be next to her, to rub her back and soothe her grew more urgent. 

Calling from my cell phone. I don’t know if you guys figured out who did that to Michael’s carpet yet, but I have a theory that involves an interdepartmental conspiracy--everybody in the office. We need to talk.

“Jim?”

Her voice was small, now, like she was afraid of what he would say if he was on the other end.

“I...did you know that I called off my wedding? ‘Cause everybody else does. The whole office. Somebody had to tell you. I thought maybe Kevin would, or Phyllis maybe. Or Dwight? He misses you, you know. Promise.”

At this, he chuckled, glad for the moment to break up the sadness that choked his heart.

“Maybe the whole office hates me. That wouldn’t be so crazy would it? On account of ‘cause I’m a bad person and all?”

She paused long enough for him to respond in his head, to scrunch his eyebrows and say What are you talking about? She continued as if he’d really uttered the words aloud.

“Because we...like, I cheated on Roy.”

It was an actual whisper this time, like she was still in Roy’s house trying to protect herself.

“I kind of did. I mean, we were engaged and then you and me...we...well, you know.”

His laughter now was ironic, because somewhere in Scranton, Pennsylvania, as her drunken self switched rapidly between anger, sadness, and childlike pondering, he focused on the latter, because somewhere in Scranton, Pennsylvania, in the middle of all of that, she was sheepishly referring into their night of kisses as you know, and for some reason, that was adorable to him.

“Maybe that’s why no one told you that I called off the wedding? Because I’m a bad person and I don’t deserve to...I didn’t deserve for you to…maybe there’s a...conspiority or...something.”

His mind went off in thirty different directions, trying to process the range of her emotions, the near confession coupled with the self-blame and loathing. All the while, part of his brain was still trying to picture her: the way her eyes were probably rolling up at the end as she stumbled over mispronunciations. He laughed in spite of himself.

“Anyway...it sucks. Because I could’ve just called you myself. I should’ve just called you myself. Jim? I...fuck.”

He wasn’t used to her cursing. Wasn’t used to her crying. So he definitely wasn’t used to the way her voice bit as she uttered that last word, wasn’t prepared to hear her voice hitch in the dead space for a fleeting moment before the line went dead, wasn’t at all prepared to watch his own hand reach out into the empty air to catch her before she fell even though she wasn't really there.

He was on the edge of breaking himself, his toes dangling, when suddenly, his phone was coming to life in his palm, a brand new call lighting up the screen with the only syllable in the English language that brought him to his knees.

Pam.

He was still in shock, reeling from all that the alcohol had pulled out of her system and into his voicemail box tonight. The call buzzed around his palm, waking up his every nerve ending. 

He gulped, sitting up straighter as his shaking thumb poised over the green button and accepted the call.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” greeted him to the tune of real, actual crying. “I just...I just miss you, and...and I can’t even take it anymore.”

It caught him off guard, the raw emotion that was taking the cracks of his heart, simultaneously piecing them together and tearing them wide open all over again. His jaw fell. He had no idea what to say. Still partially convinced that he was dreaming, he pinched himself, flinching when a dull pain oozed into the spot on his arm that now bore the crescent shape of his nails.

“I can’t, I can’t take it, because you might hate me, and I don’t think I can, I don’t think I...you can’t hate me Jim. You can’t...you can’t hate me when you just loved me yesterday, and now when I finally want to say it back...you can’t…”

He still had yet to say a word. And the more she confessed, the more he began to realize that if he didn’t stop her crying soon, he was going to get in a car still half drunk and drive two hours back to Pennsylvania and hold her until it was all done.

He pulled out the only syllable that he could even fathom at that point.

“Pam?”

“I...what?”

It wasn’t quite what he expected, but the crying seemed to stop for the moment as her realization unfolded.

“Hey, Pam, are you…”

“Jim? Are you...I thought this was your machine again...I--”

“No, no, it’s...I’m here.”

She was silent, but he could hear her breathing, snotty and quick as she sniffled and no doubt tried to ground herself. He waited, closing his eyes as he licked his chapped lips and caught a stray tear on its way down his cheek, willing her to be okay and to just--

“I’m sorry.”

With his eyes still closed, he could picture her eyes sealing shut, squeezing out the tears as her squeaky voice apologized for absolutely no reason at all.

“For what?” he breathed, keeping his eyes closed in an effort to see her as they spoke.

“For...I’m drunk, Jim.”

“Yeah, Beesly, I gathered that,” he chuckled as the Pam in his mind folded into herself like a child being scolded. But the Jim in his head was there, was reaching out a hand to show that--

“It’s okay, Pam. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“But I called you like...probably a hundred times tonight.”

“It was only seven,” he brushed off, their hands linking in his mind, as her chin rose enough for him to see that her eyes were still wary. “Well, technically eight now, but…”

“Eight’s a lot though too, maybe.”

“Yeah, but maybe not.”

He tugged on her hand in his mind then, her head raising slightly more with each affirmation.

“I’m...sorry for waking you up then.”

“Nah, don’t be,” he encouraged. In his head, they were seated next to each other on her bed. His legs were stretched all the way to the end, just as they were in his own bed. He tugged on her hand, pulling their sides flush as their bodies faced forward. “I actually, uh...I fell asleep in my clothes. Your wake up call got me into my pajamas. Or, at least it will after we hang up.”

“Oh my god, Jim. You’re not going to...strip on the phone...are you?”

He could see her cheeks turning pink beneath curls that were probably starting to fall this late at night.

“No,” he chuckled. “What kind of phone call do you think this is Beesly?”

“Mmm...Beesly. I’ve missed that.”

He chuckled more softly, reveling in the way she skipped around their conversation in her drunken state. They hung again in silence until he couldn’t stand to not hear her voice.

“So...you uh...how much exactly did you drink tonight?”

“Oh, I had some wine, Jim. There was lots of wine.”

With his eyes still closed, she was nodding over exaggeratedly.

“Apparently,” he chuckled. “And, uh...why was there so much wine, exactly?”

In his head she was hesitating now, turning her head away to mask her emotions in his mind. He wanted to see so badly what expression she wore as all of her walls came crumbling down. But he didn’t push, only sat patiently, realizing that if he had to stay awake until the sun peeked over the horizon that he wouldn’t hesitate in doing so. 

“Because of you,” she finally admitted, though it was low enough that he could barely hear. “It was because of how, you know when I texted you tonight and then you didn’t answer? That’s why I had so much wine.”

Mind Pam was sitting up a little straighter now; though her eyes focused on her lap, her posture exuded a newfound courage.

“I was sad that you didn’t text me back so I had a pity party because sometimes you’re allowed to feel sorry for yourself. Did you know that, Jim?”

He chuckled again, letting his tongue gather another stray tear.

“Yeah, I hear that pity parties can be good for you. I’ve had my fair share of them myself lately.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “It’s on account of me isn’t it?”

He hesitated as he pondered his options, deciding to follow her down the path of candor that the night had taken on.

“Yeah. Yeah, Pam, a few of them were definitely on account of you.”

“Only a few?”

“Well, yeah. There were a couple Sixers induced pity parties along the way, too.”

“Oh. Good,” she breathed, and because she was still drunk, she thought he was serious, so he was laughing quietly to himself when she continued. “Maybe next time we should just book the parties together. The pity parties, I mean.”

“Good thinking,” he agreed. “It’s probably more environmentally friendly that way.”

“Right. Save the trees. And the beets! Oh my god, Dwight would be proud of us, Jim!”

He found the constant stream of laughter refreshing, realizing that at almost three o’clock in the morning, he probably wasn’t ready yet to decipher all of her messages and all of her bombshells. This, he could do.

“Hey, listen, Pam, I don’t mean to...it’s like, really late, and--”

“Oh, you should probably--”

“Oh, no, I just thought you…”

As their words tangled together, he drifted back to a week prior, when their phone call had ended without closure and a million other questions were tacked onto his list. He didn’t want tonight to end that way.

“Pam, are you...are you okay?”

She was silent, and he leaned forward, resting his forehead in his palm as he listened to her breathing and pretended to be there with her.

“I...well no, not really.”

He let out a low hum, breath pushing out of his nose in a long stream as he tried not to crawl into the phone to get to her.

“I’m just really sad that you’re gone, and I wanted you to know that.”

Her voice was so small, and he could tell by the way that her words came out slowly that she was doing her best to take back control from the wine. 

“I miss you too, Pam,” he finally admitted. It was the best choice, the easiest one to make right now, surely better than, I loved you yesterday and I still love you today and please just be here with me now. That could wait for the sober light of day.

“Well, we should probably fix that then.”

It was there again, the sudden change in inflection as he pictured her eyes popping out, her eyebrows climbing on her forehead in a way that screamed Duh, Halpert! He pinched the bridge of his nose in a way to keep himself grounded to his bedroom instead of out of bed and climbing into his car.

“Yeah, probably,” he chuckled. “But probably not tonight, though.”

“Aww. Well that’s dumb.”

“It kind of is,” he agreed lightheartedly.

“Then what about, maybe we could fix it tomorrow?”

His heartbeat was back to being erratic, and he was no longer in his head with his real eyes closed and his pretend eyes trying to read her, because her real self was making plans, and suddenly, he didn’t know what to do. Here she was, albeit drunk, but making confessions that he had only ever heard as monologues that he’d written in his head, where he gave her the script, and their movie had a happy ending every time. Now that it was potentially becoming his reality, he was stuck.

“Unless, you’re still mad at me and you don’t--”

“No, no, that’s not it,” he quickly amended. “I’m just...thinking.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I’m just sittin’ here, so let me know when you’re done. Maybe I could brush my teeth while you think.”

It was the push his body needed to relax, because much to his amusement, she really did get up, bring the phone with her into the bathroom, and began clumsily brushing her teeth. He pieced his thoughts together while imagining her in his bathroom instead, taking her toothbrush from its place next to his in the cup while he waited for her in bed.

When the faucet turned off and she said, “Alright, Halpert, I’m all done. How’s the thinking going over there?” he was as ready as he was ever going to be.

“It’s going alright, I think,” he began, listening for the rustle of her sheets to stop before continuing. “So, I think that tonight was...I’m glad you called, Pam. But…”

“Aww, crap. There’s always a but, isn’t there?”

He chuckled, wishing he could be there to tuck a fallen curl beneath her ear, to cup her cheek and look into her big green eyes as he promised her tomorrow.

“I think that you’re drunk, and I’m kind of still drunk, and--”

“Wait, oh my god, you’re drunk too? Jim! What are we going to do with us?”

“Hey,” he managed as laughter awakened his lungs, “can it over there, Beesly. I’m better off than you are, at least.”

“Sorry. Shutting up.”

“Anyway,” he continued. “We can definitely fix it tomorrow. Because I’m going to call you tomorrow. And we’re going to talk about all of this when we’re both sober. How does...that sound to you?”

“It sounds like Dream Jim is playing mean tricks on me again.”

He cocked an eyebrow to no one in particular.

“But you’re real Jim, right?”

“I am real Jim,” he nodded, not entirely caring that she couldn’t see him.

“And real Jim is going to call me tomorrow?”

“Real Jim is going to call you tomorrow.”

“When I’m not so drunk?”

“Right, when you’re not so drunk,” he chuckled, his head spinning as he wondered if he was talking to Dream Pam after all.

“Okay. ‘Cause I would really like that.”

She sounded so childlike, as he pictured her curling her body into herself under the covers, the comforter folded under her chin as she cuddled the phone closely.

“I would really like it, too.”

He let his entire body sink against his bed then, his head cradled by a pillow while the sheets hugged his frame. He closed his eyes, listening to her breathe as he said a silent prayer that this wasn’t all a dream, that she would still feel the same way in the morning.

“Hey Jim?” she said, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Yeah?”

“Just...because I don’t know if I’ll remember to say this tomorrow. You know, without the wine…”

He waited on baited breath.

“It’s the same time zone, Jim. But I hate how far away we are.”

He struggled to hold it together as the grip he had on his phone tightened. Biting his lip to keep himself sane, he nodded quickly, pushing a stream of air through his nose.

“I fucking hate it, too, Pam.”

He could hear the tears in her laughter, but didn’t have to wonder long.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that word.”

“Good,” he laughed, shaking his head as his own tears slipped past. “Then you know how serious I am.”

Her breathing became his soundtrack over the next several minutes as he chose not to sit and process, but rather, to enjoy her overwhelming presence. There would be time for processing tomorrow, he realized. But for now, his body needed her to survive, and he absorbed her, breathed her in like oxygen, and let himself remember what it really felt like to exist.

When he heard her breathe sharply and mumble a sleepy Sorry, he chuckled.

“Getting sleepy over there?”

“A little,” she managed, and he heard her adjust her position.

“Get some sleep then,” he said, his voice soft and sweet as he tried to push back the thought that he wasn’t able to wrap himself around her as her breathing slowed for the night. Not yet, anyway.

“I just like being here with you though. I don’t want to hang up and lose you again.”

“You won’t,” he interjected, each syllable so thick with promise that he hoped she could feel it in her bones. “You won’t, Beesly.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

It was their goodbye, their see you later, as his near dead phone clicked shut before he put it on the charger.

He knew the hangover wouldn’t come, because suddenly he was immensely sober. As Pam ran through his veins, he closed his eyes and willed her image back into his room, into his bed, her head on his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around her, around the promise that tomorrow would bring.

The absence of a hangover was expected, as Jim woke with clear eyes and a head swimming with hopeful thoughts. Before he let himself drown in overthinking, he grabbed his cell, solidifying the truth with seven voicemails still in his inbox, and one answered incoming call in his call log, affirming that for twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, she had been his.

Joining the red and green streak of Pam calls, he also had an outgoing call to his boss, Josh, from earlier that morning, stating that he wouldn’t be coming into work. This, of course, came coupled with two texts: one from Andy Bernard, and the other from Karen Filippelli.

Do Not Respond

Tuuuuuu-naaaaaa! Couldn’t handle what the Nard Dog was cookin’ last night?!? Rest up, Big Tuna. I’ve got plans for us this weekend… ;O)

This, he chose to ignore, and immediately delete. If the message didn’t exist, he didn’t have to acknowledge it, right?

Karen 

You know, I had to wear a different pair of shoes today because of you. I was so looking forward to shoving them up your butt.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he pieced together a response.

Sorry about that, Filippelli. If it makes you feel any better, I got it all out on your shoes last night. I owe you lunch on Monday. And maybe a trip to the outlet mall.

After clicking send, he scrolled further down in his text messages, finding exactly what he expected after his conversation with Pam in the early hours of the morning.

The text from Pam remained unopened, below the two from his coworkers, one from his brother, and one from Kevin about fantasy football.

He gulped, wondering what about the message had sent her into a tailspin that conversely dumped sixteen ounces of wine through her veins in one sitting.

Pam

Oh my god. Jim. Michael just proposed to Carol. In front of Kelly’s entire extended family. God do I wish you were here to see this.

His chest clenched with the weight of missing her message, of the secret plea that he easily deciphered as the safe, Pam Beesly version of reaching out with her God do I wish you were here to see this. 

If he had read the text when she had sent it, he undoubtedly would have been off in his own tailspin, talking himself out of overthinking, because of course she didn’t really wish I was there and it was only to see Michael. She didn’t miss me or anything. 

But she did miss him. And it wasn’t about Michael. It was about him, in her secret way of burying her true feelings, only this time, the true feelings were about him. And this time, he didn’t have to wallow in his own sea of convolution, but knew for certain that right now, she missed him. Right now, she wanted him. And when she finally woke up, the knots would be untangled into an uncomplicated line of her truth.

--

Her head weighed like a ton of bricks, but the illusion of being stuffed with cotton tricked her into picking it up too quickly, only to be dragged right back to her pillow in a dizzying spell. Her alarm blared like the speaker to her clock was lodged between her ears, buried deeply into a place that rattled her brain. She extended her arm, heavy like lead, and swiped furiously at the bedside table until the only noise in her head was the residual ringing that bounded from ear to ear in mockery.

Seven AM was far too close to three AM and waking up in a pool of sweat with Jim’s voice still painting her ears like a ghost only twisted her stomach further. Dreams were a real bitch sometimes.

A drafted text to Dwight was sent, informing him that she was ill and wouldn’t be making it in. For some reason, he had been nothing but kind in her time of picking up the shambles of her life. She took his Affirmative. Feel better. I expect you here on Monday as sweet, and pinched her eyes closed to get in a few more hours of sleep. As she began to doze, she willed her dreams to pick up where they had left off, with Jim on the other end of a middle of the night phone call, his laughter cradling her closely, his I miss you and I fucking hate it too holding her close so that she could pretend she hadn’t lost him for just a little while longer.

It was after 11 before her eyelids were complaining at the screaming sun that pried them open. She rolled towards darkness, but the stark white walls in her new apartment reflected the brightness on both sides, trapping her in an annoying embrace that lifted her into a half seated position against the headboard. She squinted both eyes, burying her fist in one as she attempted to combat the light. But it was no use. For the amount of darkness that had clouded her life in the past several months, the light sure was being a bitch today, too. 

With eyes clenched, she blindly reached for her cell phone. The previous night’s dream still tiptoed across the surface of her body, and she figured the only surefire way to rid herself of missing him once and for all would be to pop into her outbox, delete the unreturned text message to Jim, and cleanse herself of all of their supposed contact. 

Until the next time her fingers had the urge to dance across her keyboard in betrayal, and then the cycle would inevitably begin again with a fresh wave of pain.

Her fingers ignited though as she flipped her cell open in her palm to a new text from the exact person she was trying to eradicate from her subconscious.

The rest of her body caught up quickly, the prickle in her skin spreading everywhere as her mind buzzed, piecing her night together by the time her thumb had navigated her to the call log.

Outgoing Calls:

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

Eight times. Eight times she had somehow skated around her own self imposed warnings to fucking call him in the middle of the night? Drunk?

She was going to vomit. She was going to puke all over her brand new bedspread and there wasn’t a damn thing anybody could do to stop it.

The air in her lungs was coming in desperate pants and she had a fleeting wish for a brown paper bag before her vision became too spotty.

The calls began after midnight, the last one edging on almost three-AM, 12:37:04 taunting her from the place in her mind that still identified that conversation as a dream. But it was apparently real, and realer still as the two-minute reminder from the buzz in her hand alerted her to the still unopened message that she had waiting from DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

Hey there, Ace. Just making sure you made it through the night okay. Let me know when you’re awake and functioning enough for me to give you a call. 

She gulped, feeling redness buzz through the skin of her cheeks as she read and reread and reread his message a half-dozen times before realizing that they did talk last night and he wanted to talk again today and did I really tell him all of those things though? Fuck me fuck me fuck ME.

Standing, her feet carried her back and forth over the plush carpet that was just now getting accustomed to her footprints, the carpet of her brand new bedroom in the apartment whose lease proudly bore one name. The apartment whose walls were still white because she wasn’t allowed to paint them and were bare because she wasn’t allowed to put holes in them and whose rooms carried a lot of mismatched second-hand furniture because she was just starting out.

The apartment, whose sole decoration so far, aside from a half-dead potted plant in the living room and a few stray Bath and Body candles, was a teal teapot, and a small frame that bore a grainy, black and white yearbook photo of a boy with too-big ears and a dorky smile.

She paused in front of the small table from Goodwill, the best end table of the bunch, that she had chosen to hold her most prized possessions. Lifting the photo, she smiled wistfully as she ran her thumb over his cheek. Underneath the lid of the teapot, she unearthed several new additions to their inside jokes that she herself had added after his departure: a yogurt lid hot-glued to a string of paper clips, a stack of multicolored sticky notes with various shabby cartoon drawings, an unopened packet of instant coffee in his favorite flavor, and the lone pen he had left behind on his desk.

She became more grounded with each item that passed through her fingers, and once the tingling settled to a dull buzz, closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed before flipping open her cell phone.

Her fingers shook as the fumbled over T9 and took way too long to manage Hey. I’m awake and mostly functioning, which was a total lie, because sweaty palms and a pulse of 130 and my bones trying to jump out of my skin barely constituted as functioning, but all the same, she was suddenly desperate to hear his voice in the sober light of day. She thought about busying herself while she waited for his return text; maybe a plate of dry toast and the half-bottle of Gatorade she had in the fridge would settle her stomach. But as soon as her bare feet hit the floor, a chime resounded from her sheets.

Suddenly, food sounded like the opposite of a good idea.

DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT

Good to hear. Give me 5 to finish up the dishes and I’ll call?

By the time she had finally decided on a response--mulling between Sounds great and I can’t wait and Sure! That gives me just enough time to throw up and I love you and I miss the shit out of you and ultimately deciding on the first option--three of her five minutes were spent. The remaining two were enough time to swish and spit a shot of mouthwash, and throw on a sports bra. Both were things that he wouldn’t be able to notice, but for some reason, she felt more comfortable talking to him with fresh breath and her girls hiked into place.

The phone vibrated with the steady rate of her heart as soon as she had situated herself against the headboard--he really did have impeccable timing.

“Hello?” whispered past her chapped lips as her eyes fluttered closed and she tried to will herself into his presence instead of talking to him through a piece of worn plastic.

“Hey.”

It was only a single syllable, but its thick, sugary texture was enough to crank the temperature in her body and liquify her muscles to the point of near collapse that almost had the phone falling from her already shaky grasp.

--

She was silent, save for the breathing that he had trained so long to listen for over the five-foot gap between their desks. 

“I just wanted to clarify that, uh, that this is Real Jim,” he joked, remembering how easily it was that just last week, they had slipped into a comfortable banter.

“Oh, good god,” she replied, and immediately he could see her forehead falling into her palm. “I can’t believe I said that last night.”

Her words dripped with embarrassed laughter, and for a moment, he regretted bringing it up.

“It’s okay,” he tried to salvage. “I’m just wondering what Dream Jim’s rap sheet looks like at this point.”

“Oh, it’s quite extensive,” she quipped back, that still ironic chuckle pushing her words along. “He should probably be locked up at this point.”

“Oh really?” he challenged, crossing his free arm over his torso to tuck his hand in the crook of his elbow. 

“Yeah,” she snorted, ultimately letting the tail end of the thought finish itself with, “Dream Jim can be a real asshole sometimes.”

“Wow, I’m hurt, Beesly. This is the welcome that I get? After nursing you through immense drunkenness?” 

“Hey, you didn’t nurse me," she giggled. But this time, she was truly giggling instead of that laughter being fueled by nervousness, and that thought alone made him close his eyes in a moment of thanks. “If anything, you humored my drunk ass and made sure I got to bed.”

“Exactly!” he retorted with a burst of laughter. “Come on, Beesly, give credit where credit is due, here.”

“Okay, mom,” she giggled, and he could picture her rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

Their laughter danced, twining together for the first time in way too goddamn long, before the song ended and they found themselves on opposite sides of the dance floor again.

“How’s the hangover?” he finally cut in.

“Which one?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. “I thought you got like, super drunk last night?”

“Oh, right,” she brushed off, like this entire conversation wasn’t stemming from the fact that she had stuck an IV of Pinot into her veins the night before. “I mean, I have Gatorade and ibuprofen. I think I’ll live.”

“Good to hear,” he continued, airing on the cautions edge of the tide, afraid to get his feet wet still. So he let the waves of silence lick at his toes while he waited for her to speak.

“God I wish I could...I wish I could be un-drunk.”

“What do you mean?” he asked hesitantly, about 90% sure he didn’t want to hear the answer to his own question.

“You know, like...I just wish I could take back all of those drunk voicemails and...unsay all of those things and…” As she trailed off, he moved the phone away from his ear, fully intent on hanging it up, deleting her contact, and booking a plane to Australia that he would actually get on this time. It was her small voice, now timid, that prompted him to erase all of those wishes. “I wish I could...I wish I had the courage to say them in person.”

He leaned back against the headboard, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes fluttered closed, absorbing the reality of her sober words.

“I wish...I should’ve said them to your face, you know?”

He pictured her then with her words from last night, her I’m really sad that you’re gone and You should be in that chair and He was good enough for her. You, I mean all dancing off her pink lips. He pictured her calling him a skater boy, with her tongue poking through her teeth as she sang off-key. He saw her lips trembling as she said things like You were the reason I turned my desk chair around and I made it a whole day without crying over you and Is that why you didn’t answer me right now? Because you don’t want to talk to me anymore, Jim?

“And, I wish I had been sober to say them,” she tacked onto the end in a flippant way, one that was less nervous and hesitant and was just Pam. 

He had to crack a joke before he drowned in her truth.

“I don’t know, Pam. I didn’t know I needed a drunk, acapella rendition of Skater Boi in my life, and I think it would be awfully cruel of you to take it away from me now.”

“Especially after what I’ve put you through already.”

It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, wasn’t her usual quick-witted banter. But this new, honest side to her was something he was simultaneously still getting used to and craving more of with each passing second.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He pictured her nodding, pictured a small bump in her throat bobbing as she swallowed. He willed his silence to press her forward.

--

Feeling suddenly ushered by the soft wave of silence, she let the slow ebb push her.

“You didn’t deserve to be lied to that night,” she continued, watching the skin on her forearm turn first white and then raise a dull pink as her nails travelled over herself distractedly.

“What lie?”

“You know,” she said more softly, her eyes fluttering closed as she willed him to understand. “The one where I said that you misinterpreted things.”

She thought, could’ve sworn she heard him say Oh, but if he had, it had been swallowed by more silence, silence whose steady pool was only disrupted by the plick of her soft but determined “You didn’t.”

The water calmed again, though she could hear his thoughts swimmingly steadily below the surface, like fish waiting patiently for more food to drop.

“Listen, Jim,” she started, closing her eyes again in an effort to transport herself back to that night. “I was afraid. Okay? I’ll admit it. I was afraid of a lot of things. I was afraid of a lot of people and their opinions of me and I just...I didn’t put it together that the only person who’s opinion mattered to me was standing right there and telling me that he loved me until I had broken him so badly that he had to leave the state.”

She paused, giving him an opportunity to cut in, only continuing when he didn’t.

“You asked me how my hangover was, and the reason I asked which one was because sometimes...sometimes I have these dreams where I’m back in that night. I’m back in that stupid blue dress, and you’re telling me that you love me, and I say it back, Jim. In my dreams, I say it back.”

She breathed in, holding the air in her lungs as she saw him on the backs of her eyelids with tears in his eyes, but shining with hope because this time, she had said yes.

“It’s different after that,” she continued. “Sometimes, we’re in the parking lot. Sometimes, we’re upstairs, and after you ask me if I’m going to marry Roy, I say no like I...like I should have done in the first place. Sometimes, Roy shows up, and I tell him off. One time, you punched him in the face, grabbed me by the hand, and I think we stole Dwight’s car and rode off into the sunset. Which really should have tipped me off that it was a dream, because it was supposed to be the middle of the night, but anyways, that’s beside the point.” 

Her thought trailed, laughter skipping tentatively behind it before she found it again.

“But anyways. Those hangovers are the worst, Jim. Worse than when I have too much wine. Those...Dream Jim hangovers are the ones where I wake up puking because you’re not here, and you’re not coming back, and that thought alone makes me fucking sick, because I…because it’s my fault and...”

He chose then to cut in, finally casting himself out as her proverbial lifeboat.

--

“Hey.” 

When he heard her sniffle, heard her whimper like a wounded puppy, he was halfway to his door with Scranton, Pennsylvania in the GPS.

“Hey, Pam, I’m…”

He was at a loss for words, where in their place he just wanted to hold her. Here didn’t seem appropriate, because there was a chasm one-hundred-fifty-four miles long between them. It’s okay felt like a lie, because it really wasn’t. His brain was still trying to piece together the picture she had just painted with her tongue, and part of it set off the alarm bells of You didn’t misinterpret a goddamn thing.

He wished for a second that they were doing this over text, or email, or something where he could sit and ponder and process what he was going to say next. But then, he wouldn’t have her steady, if a little rapid, breathing to cradle him while he worked through it. He wouldn’t have the emotion in her voice telling him that she was finally telling the truth.

He wouldn’t have her soft Are you still...fuck biting in his ear on the edge of another sob before he swooped in to save her with his own, “I’m here, I promise. I’m just, uh...processing?”

“Okay,” she choked back, sniffling. He heard a soft thud, the rustling on the other end of the line adding a tissue box to his image of Pam in her bedroom.

He was so absorbed in listening to her calm herself that it startled him when she asked, “Still processing over there?” with a nervous chuckle.

“Um, a little bit, yeah,” he said, matching her nerves as he palmed the back of his neck. “I, uh...I’m sorry that Dream Jim is being a major dickhead.”

That was what he chose to settle on. After she dumped her entire heart out and spilled it into his lap. It wasn’t quite the reaction she had been expecting, and it took her quite off guard, but cautiously, she rolled with it anyway.

“Real Pam appreciates the apology,” she nodded, doing her best to mask the way her voice was trembling. 

“Because,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken at all, “if...if it were me?”

Her eyes closed at the same moment that she pushed a hard stream of air through her nose, bracing herself for the impact of the impending wave, not knowing if it would take her away like a surfer settling in on top, or drown her to the darkened depths.

“Pam, I would’ve been there in a heartbeat.” 

Her entire body melted with his words, with the way that they were so thick with want that she could feel them squeezing her back together from across the map.

“Pam, I miss you...everyday I wake up missing you.”

“Me too,” she interrupted, not at all caring. “God, I miss you, too, Jim.”

Her fingers ached to reach out and touch him, but she settled for squeezing her eyes closed and doing it in her head; if she concentrated well enough, she could still feel his strong hands at her back, stroking her cheeks, holding her to him like their two bodies together were the key to make the world turn.

“When you called the office last week, I honestly felt a piece of my heart rebuild itself,” she admitted, clutching onto her cell with two hands unnecessarily now, because for some reason it made her feel closer to him. “And just...ever since then, I’ve been thinking…I’ve been trying to...listen, the drafts folder in my email is an embarrassing place to be right now.”

She was laughing nervously, but it was no longer the bad nervous, and he couldn’t control the tickling in his throat much either.

“C’mon, Beesly,” he offered. “You can’t give me that and not deliver.”

“Maybe I’ll show them to you one day,” she settled. “They’re basically just sober versions of what you heard last night.”

He chuckled, and she took that time to keep going.

“Honestly? This isn’t even the first time that I’ve tried drunk dialing you.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” she nodded. The liberating feeling in her veins was warm, and she welcomed it. “I’ve been...Kelly has taken me out a couple of times since...well, since you left. And...every single time I get past buzzed I...she has to take my phone.”

She ducked her head, her cheeks suddenly pink with her admission.

“Really?” 

“Really.” She nodded, despite the fact that he couldn’t see her. “Most nights, I just end up fighting with her for not letting me call you. I tried to throw a drink at her once, too, but I missed and ended up with half of a long island down the front of my brand new outfit instead.”

“Pam Beesly! God what has gotten into you since I’ve been gone?” He was laughing a big bellied laugh, and she let a smile paint her cheeks as she closed her eyes and pictured him slapping his thigh in that way he always did when he found something particularly funny. 

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I guess...sober me wasn’t exactly doing the best job of handling you being gone, but apparently drunk me really didn’t want to get over you at all.”

“Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “You didn’t want to get over me? When exactly were you under me, Pam?”

She heard him bite back his laughter, and her eyes rolled back in a way that her body thrived upon, because they were slowly beginning to click back into place.

“Oh my god-- okay Ross Gellar,” she groaned, stifling her own laughter as his turned into these little squeaks and squeals that she was dying to feel against her skin.

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

“Mhm. Sure.” She shook her head, letting a comfortable silence blanket the space between them before laying on her next retort, wishing so badly that she could be there to see his face when she said, “Those are Dream Jim moments that I’ll save for another day.”

She could picture his jaw dropping and his eyes bugging, the tips of his ears turning quickly from pink to crimson as he sputtered, “Wh-- hold on-- Beesly, you can’t--”

“I can,” she cut in quickly, before adding quietly, “I want to see you. Can I...I took today off because I thought I’d be super hungover but--”

“What’s your address?”

The last blinking minutes of their phone call consisted of making plans to meet up in the middle for lunch and deciding that they were both going to pack bags just in case, because really she just wanted to see with her own eyes that he still existed, and it would honestly be more than enough for him to hold her in the middle of a parking lot one more time.