He thought he’d remembered everything.

His last memory finally comes back in late fall, while he’s burning garlic one rainy evening. He’s perched by the stove, absently stirring the sauce and staring out the window. He’s looking for Pam, who’s spent the last few days at an artists’ convention up in Manhattan, and who’s due back at any moment. They’d talked on the phone daily, but it was the first time they’d been separated for even a night since… well, since they’d decided to make a real go of everything. He misses her, misses the way her body curls against his in sleep, misses the smell of the cinnamon tea she always takes with her to bed on cold nights, misses her green toothbrush standing next to his blue one. She’d moved in so easily. His guy friends had warned him about the insidious tactics of their live-in girlfriends – first, just a hairdryer, a pair of underwear, tampons – next, they were acting like they owned the place. But Jim didn’t mind. It had felt like a natural step. And when she’d come over for his July 4th barbecue, he’d greeted her at the door with a smile and “I think you should move in.”

They moved into the house on Lake Wallenpaupack a few weeks ago. And, while they still needed some furniture (we have the most important piece already, Jim thinks with a sly smile), it already felt homey. Pam had been exceptionally gracious – not surprising to Jim – about letting him keep his basketball stuff around, his gym equipment, the hideous turtle lamp from his childhood bedroom. She hadn’t even said anything about his, er, movie collection. Just a raised eyebrow and a smirk, but no words. In response, he’d let her girlify their bathroom with scented candles, framed inspirational quotes, and turquoise towels and shower curtain. He’d insisted that her paintings be hung throughout the house – in the hallway, above the fireplace in the den and in their bedroom.

Their bedroom. He still couldn’t believe it – the luck of it. Their styles meshed perfectly in the room – his art supplies mixed with hers, a pile of clean laundry on the foot of the bed, her sneakers fit inside his by the door.

The olive oil he’d splashed into the pan is getting hot, but he’s lost in thought, so even the smell of slightly burning garlic doesn’t phase him. He hopes she’s had a good last day in New York. In spite of his missing her, he knew it was good for her. Pam had made some good girlfriends up in Manhattan and a few in Harrisburg, thanks to her artwork. He glances at the corkboard by the phone, smiles at all the colored papers there with her messages that he’d dutifully recorded over the past few days. “Your Mom called Tuesday to say hi.” “Shirley from school called Wednesday night.” “Angela wants you to knit with her and Dwight this weekend. Don’t ask.”

He glances across the room at the desk he’d insisted on buying for her. He wanted her to have a place where she could work and be independent – but he’d thought the kitchen would be a good place for it, since, knowing him and his bottomless pit of a stomach, she’d never be too far away. Her final project for art school – a series of charcoal sketches – lies, half-finished, on the desk. A smile crosses his face as he thinks of her receiving her well-earned diploma in December.

His work is going well. He’s lucky enough to be able to work from home three days a week. At first, he was doubtful whether or not it would work – would I even change out of my pajamas? he wondered – but he was thankfully able to stay motivated and on track, waking up early, showering, making a full pot of coffee every morning. Pam would wake up about a half-hour later, go running, and be out the door by 10:30 for her art classes.

He was almost done with his first year of architecture classes, and Professor DeMarco – who had taught his Intro class – had turned into sort of a mentor for him, taking Jim under his wing and setting him up with a decent-paying internship based at a strong architectural firm in Philly. DeMarco’s brother-in-law, Will, was Jim’s boss – and Jim hoped it would turn into a full-time job eventually. Twice a week, he’d make the drive to Philly, and get feedback from Will on the buildings he’d been sketching. It was a long trip, about two hours, but twice a week – Monday and Friday – wasn’t too bad. Friday nights, he arrived home around, and Pam would be waiting up for him in her pj’s, with dinner and a DVD. My idea of a perfect weekend, Jim thinks, smiling at the expression that he knew would appear on her face when she walked through the door and saw he’d cooked her a nice dinner for a change.

Suddenly, the oil from the overheated garlic pan sizzles and flies onto his hand. “Shit,” he mutters, quickly drawing his hand back and shutting off the flame. He runs his hand under the cold faucet water for a minute, then examines his fingers, which do look a little burned. There goes the idea for my own cooking show, he thinks, wondering if he’s making a huge disaster out of this whole dinner thing.

And that’s when he remembers. The memory comes back to him all at once, jarring, and it knocks him back against the counter, as if he were suddenly dizzy and needed to steady himself. Sweat starts in his palms and on the back of his neck. I thought I remembered everything, he thinks, looking out at the rain. The last memory had come back to him about mid-way through the summer, when he recalled Pam’s first day at Dunder-Mifflin and their “date” at the Italian restaurant. It was sort of fitting that that would be the last piece of the Jim and Pam puzzle to fall back into place, he thought, since they both thought that was the first time they had met. And he thought that the memory erase was totally gone, reversed, poof! – until now.

The only thing was, he couldn’t remember when it had happened.

“Oh my God,” he says aloud. He has to go check on something. Now.

He’s halfway upstairs when he hears Pam at the front door, her keys jingling in the lock. His heart leaps (his stomach simultaneously dropping) and he rushes back to the stove, trying to salvage the pasta. Which probably now tastes like cement.

“I can’t believe it!” Pam says, dropping her luggage to the floor in mock surprise. “You’re… what is this you’re doing?”

“I’m cooking,” he replies, draining the linguine in the sink. “Or trying to.” She stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek. “Hi,” he says, trying in vain to focus on the meal.

“I’m in shock. But thank you. That is the nicest surprise I could’ve hoped for.” She crosses the room, hangs up her coat. “What is on the menu for tonight?”

“Oh, you have no idea, little lady,” Jim says, shooting a wink across the room. She grins.

“I think I might have an inkling.”

“How was your drive back? How was the last day? What did they have to say about your painting?”

“Well, the drive was long – nobody knows how to drive in this weather – especially in Jersey,” she says, laughing a bit. “The last day was great. We all went around, saying what we’d learned…” She trails off as her eyes stop on the phone messages. “Oh, please tell me you’re kidding about the Angela thing.”

“I wish I could. She kept me on the phone for about forty-five minutes. I think she didn’t believe me when I said you weren’t here,” he jokes, pouring the pasta into a serving bowl and covering it with sauce. “I, uh, tried to cook some garlic, but it got a little burned. As did my hand.”

“Oh, no,” Pam cries, touching his injured hand. “Is it okay? All this, just to make me dinner. I’m flattered.”

He hands her the serving plate, and as their hands touch, she looks up at him admiringly, the steam from the hot food curling between them. “I tried,” he says, shrugging a little in this oddly endearing way. Leaning up, both still holding onto the plate, they kiss. “You’re going to make me drop this…” he says, drawing away just a bit, smirking.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Pam replies, taking the plate from him and placing it on the kitchen table, which Jim has already set. “I can just hear it now: ‘I slaved over a hot stove all day…’”

“Darn right. Here, I made a salad too – I’ll get it – it’s in the fridge. And there’s wine.”

Pam’s mouth drops open in feigned shock. “My God! I’m staring to worry that you did something wrong, Jim.”

He smiles, nervous that the food is bad. But his nervousness quickly fades as she digs in with abandon, eating the salad and the pasta with his homemade sauce without making a face or laughing at him – not that she would laugh at him, but he just wants it to be good. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. Ever.

Over dinner, he tells her about Philly on Monday and meeting the neighbors on the other side of the lake. And how they were going to have to go to the store this weekend to buy Halloween candy. “And a CD of scary music. And costumes. And decorations,” adds Pam. She loves the holiday. She talks excitedly about her art convention, the people she met there, and significantly less excitedly about her weekend date with Angela. “You’ve got to find a way to get me out of this one. Please!”

“Here, let me take care of the dishes,” he says. “Why don’t we have dessert and coffee out on the terrace. We can take a quilt or something – it’s getting kinda cold out, isn’t it?”

Pam eyes him suspiciously. “Dessert? You made dessert?”

He laughs. “No way. I bought it at the store. But the lady there said it was really good.”

“I see,” she replies, trying to sneak a peek in the refrigerator.

“Ah! Not quite yet. Just sit and relax for a minute,” he says, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll clean up as fast as I can, I promise.”

“Okay,” she relents, watching as he cleans up and makes coffee. He hands her the first mug, which she holds in both of her hands. He then takes half a chocolate cake out of the refrigerator and cuts them each a thick wedge. “That looks great.”

He follows her out onto the deck, where the air is so chilly they can both see their breath. The lake, which the house overlooks, isn’t frozen yet, but winter is definitely coming. Geese squawk loudly from overhead as they head south. “You know, the strangest thing happened to me on the way home,” she says, taking a bite of the cake. “Oh my God. This is the best thing ever.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Seriously, you did good, Jim. Here’s to a job well done,” she says, clinking her coffee mug to his.

“Thanks. Just don’t ask me to sauté garlic, and I think things’ll be fine.” Without thinking, he brushes a crumb of cake from the corner of her mouth. “So… what was that weird thing you remembered on the way home?”

She looks at him strangely. “Did I say it was something I remembered? How did you know?”

“Well, I… I guess I assumed. Was it a memory?”

“It was! It was really strange. I thought we were all done with that, you know?”

“I absolutely do.” He licks the icing off the tines of his fork and looks at her thoughtfully. “What was it that you remembered?”

“I remembered this… argument that we got into, when we both worked for Michael. I don’t know why I never thought of it before. Jan had come down to talk to the girls, and she’d told me about this internship. Like a graphic design thing that the company would help me pay for.”

“I remember that. You really wanted to go after it.”

“And you told me to.” She smiles. “Oh my God, I bet I have chocolate stuck in between every single one of my teeth right now.”

He laughs, shakes his head. “No, you don’t – you’re adorable. Keep going. Did they offer you an internship in New York or something?”

“No…” she trails off. “I guess there’s a distinct possibility, and I was a little nervous about it. If it happened, it might have at this convention. But when that came back to me – that you had encouraged me to pursue it when I was too afraid to – I felt a lot better about everything. It’s the first memory that’s come back to me that way in like, months.”

“Pam,” he says, putting his dessert plate down and squeezing her shoulders, “I’m totally behind you in whatever it is you want to do. I hope you know that.”

“I do. Thank you.”

He hesitates, thinking of his own recalled memory. Now seemed like as good a time as any to talk about it. The sun was going down, tinting the sky all pink and purple – they could hear the lapping of the lake against the shore, and her face looked beautiful and happy in the fading light. Still, his stomach was tense.

“I’m – I’m going to grab us a blanket,” he says finally. “You look cold.”

“Okay.”

He races upstairs, into their bedroom. Pulls his closet door open, sits down in front of it and peers inside. After a moment of searching, it all becomes clear. So it’s true. It did happen. I can’t believe I did this. I can’t imagine what I could’ve possibly been thinking at the time…

He’s almost outside before he realizes he forgot the blanket, so he pulls one off the couch and drapes it around Pam’s shoulders. She’s sitting on an old-fashioned bench, and she smiles gratefully for the warmth from both Jim and the blanket as he sits down next to her.

“Your coffee cold?”

“It’s okay, thanks,” she says, looking at him closely. “Are you okay, Jim? You seem a little… distracted. You can tell me anything, you know.”

He takes a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He really doesn’t know how she’s going to react to what he’s about to tell her. It’s going to change everything. Because even though their time together has been incredible, he still can’t ignore this deeply rooted fear that she still could leave him at any time. He’s never told her he feels this way, but he does. It’s less and less each day, but it’s still there.

“I, uh…. had a memory of my own come back to me today, too. So it’s kinda funny that the same thing happened to you. Hah.” His laughter comes out stifled, nervous.

“Really? What was it?”

“Well… the annoying thing is, I can’t remember when this happened. But apparently, it did.” His tone is serious, and she begins to look really worried. The thought that he’s upsetting her encourages him onward, and he breathes in and reaches in his coat pocket. When his hand reappears, Pam suddenly feels like she can’t breathe. “I bought this for you. At some point. Before the mind thing. I can’t remember when. I really don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it. I mean, I do know, of course I know, but we never together before… so… and now… it seemed… appropriate…” He trails off. He can’t breathe. Maybe I’m having a stroke.

“Jim,” Pam says, her brow furrowed, her eyes low, “it’s a ring.” She says it as though he just revealed to her the ten million dollars he’d stolen from a bank.

“I know.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes, and she can see his cheeks are flushed, pink. “Do you… do you want it?”

She sucks in breath. A gleeful laugh escapes her, and she takes his face in her hands and draws him in for a kiss. “Are you serious? Of course I do, Jim!”

“Oh. Good.” He laughs, feeling relieved. “That had to be the most unromantic proposal ever. I’m so sorry. If you want I can do it again. I can go uncork another bottle of wine or something. Or like, put it in your cake? Maybe that would be better…”

“Will you just put it on!?” she cries, the giggles bubbling up from within her like cold champagne. “I’m dying here!”

“Okay,” he says begrudgingly, but with a smirk. He gently slips it onto her finger, where it sparkles in the last glimmers of daylight. “Oh – it fits – I’m so glad.”

She grins, examining it for a moment, then turning her face back to his. It’s one of the millions of little things he loves about her – the way she doesn’t spend three hours staring at the diamond from every different viewpoint, measuring the carats, or whatever. Truthfully, if he had bought the ring now, he could’ve afforded something bigger – but it was okay. He wishes he could remember when he bought it – but the truth was, he knew it didn’t matter. Even if he hadn’t bought it before, he would’ve now.

“I think we should celebrate,” she was saying.

“Aren’t we?” he asks, tilting his head towards the cake with a goofy grin.

“I meant upstairs.”

“Oh,” comes flying out of his mouth involuntarily, and he’s already guiding her into the house by the hand. “We can definitely do that.”

* * *

Later, surfacing from beneath the covers, gasping for breath, their limbs still entangled, his mouth still on hers, he laces her arm across his shoulder, feels for the ring resting on her finger.

“Are you still afraid that I might leave?” she whispers, and her words jar him out of his lovestruck daze. “Because you shouldn’t be.” She kisses his neck, then nestles her head into the hollow there. With the sun set, the room is now fully dark, so he can’t see anything. All the better, because otherwise she’d be able to see the dampness in his eyes.

“Thanks, Pam. I know,” he says, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I think I’m stuck.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“I meant in your hair,” he says, laughing softly. “But also with you. And you’re stuck with me, Pam Beesley. So don’t you forget it.”

“Oh, don’t worry. There’s not going to be any forgetting around here anymore. Just lots of new things to remember.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She turns, laying her body alongside his, then reaches up to his face and wipes his cheeks with her fingers. As if she knows.