Five Four Ways Pam Leaves Roy (And Maybe One Way He Leaves Her)

One

--

She realizes he's drunk. She can smell the alcohol on his breath as they dance, Roy almost stumbling as the boat rocks and dips. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Jim, who is sitting alone and looking sort of lost.

She closes her eyes and thinks things will change now.

At two a.m., Roy is still sick and she abandons the bedroom, creeping into the living room, half lit by the moon. She sinks down on the couch, shifting her body this way and that, trying to get comfortable. She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, her excitement from the evening waning. Her thoughts keep going back to Jim's face. She can't help but remember how Jim smells like clean laundry and shaving cream, and now when she goes to the lake, she'll remember how quiet it was out there on the deck of the boat with him. She twists the ring on her finger.

When she peeks one eye open the next morning, the sun is streaming through the blinds and Roy is up, loudly crunching on his toast. She cringes, realizing that Roy's eating habits are only the beginning of what grates on her nerves about him, and she sits up.

"You were dead," he chuckles. "It's almost eleven. I'm going to my brother's to watch the game."

"I thought we were going to have lunch with my mom." She clearly remembers discussing this last night as they drove back from the cruise.

He shakes his head, putting his plate in the sink. "She just wants to see you anyway." He moves towards the bedroom, and the words tumble out of her mouth.

"Is anything going to change?" He frowns at her, confused. She didn't think so.

Two

--

Both Pam's parents are supposed to walk her down the aisle, but she's not thinking about that right now. She's hoping that when she gets done "preening" in front of the mirror—she uses the word loosely, because she's trying to act the part of a typical bride—everyone will already be lined up for the processional. The coast will be clear.

As she scurries down the hallway, in the opposite direction of the sanctuary, she can hear the soft hum of music, and imagines all of her officemates, sitting there, waiting. She wonders which one of them will tell Jim first. Kelly is the gossip, but Pam knows Phyllis sends Jim emails. One day, she'd caught sight of his name as she walked by Phyllis's desk, a sting pricking her chest.

She opens a side door, breathing in the fresh air, and realizes she doesn't have a getaway car. Julia Roberts always had a getaway car (or horse.)

She knows there is a nice neighborhood nearby, so she heads that direction, opening her cell phone. The phone rings three, four times before the voicemail picks up. "Remember how we made fun of that runaway bride? And how she had those bugged out eyes like a cartoon character? You might want to look for me on the cover of People. I'll be waiting for my book deal." She snaps her phone shut, smiling. The bus pulls up a few minutes later.

She asks the driver what line she needs for Stamford.

Three

--

She's having trouble with the hands. She takes a sip of lemonade, her mother's special recipe, and frowns at the sketch in front of her. Something's not right.

She hears Roy pull up and she tucks the sketch book away. When he enters, Roy is grinning broadly and she immediately wonders what he's done. He leads her outside and her stomach plummets when she sees the bright blue truck in the driveway.

"Isn't it nice? Pammy?" He asks, watching her closely. She tilts her head and he rushes past her, unlocking the doors and tells her to try out the inside.

"It's…" She smoothes her hand along the dashboard. "Expensive. We're getting married."

"Not this second."

"No, but, we'll need things—we'll want to buy a house or a second car and we can't do that if you're--" She stops herself, knowing she's gone too far.

His eyes flash as she steps down from the truck. "What? Working in the warehouse? Well, what are you, Pam, the CEO?"

"No Roy, you know I didn't mean--"

"What do you want me to do, Pam? Maybe I could become a salesman, yeah, like that damn Halpert. I bet you would like that, wouldn't you?"

"What are you implying?" She swallows, thinking of her sketchbook inside.

"I see the way he looks at you, Pam, I'm not an idiot." Roy crosses his arms.

"Roy, no, I--"

"Your sketchbook." He interrupts, sighing heavily. He looks tired suddenly. "Come on, Pam. It's pretty obvious. Why can't you just admit it?"

She reels back as if she's been slapped. "Admit what? What exactly do you think happened? God, I thought you knew me better—I trust you, Roy. But if you don't--"

"Then go."

His words are harsh and final. He pushes past her, slams the truck door and starts the engine. She watches as he pulls out of the driveway, tears in her eyes.

That night, she and Jim go around the house, packing boxes.

Four

--

Pam sinks down onto the couch when she gets home. She looks around the apartment and tries to imagine what it would look like to an outsider. Would they be able to tell two people lived here? That they were trying to combine their lives? Would they be able to tell they were in love?

She tucks her legs under her, suddenly feeling overshadowed, almost unwanted as she surveys the apartment. Roy's big screen TV, the table his mother gave them, the beer cans spilling out of the trash. Roy loved her, but she was beginning to wonder how they knew what love was at all. Maybe it was more than familiarity, comfort, and routine.

I wanna be more than that.

Her life had been on this nice, simple, straight path until Jim came along. And now she was beginning to realize she didn't want that path, but there were no forks in the road, no way to get across to another path, another choice. Now Jim was practically offering her a ride to get somewhere new.

You have to take a chance on something sometime, Pam.

 
Five

--

They go to Poor Richard's and she is still wearing her costume. After his third beer, Jim fingers one of the felt ears with the faux fur. Pam lets him slip them off her head, his fingers softly brush back her hair when it gets caught and she smiles a little too widely at him.

She told herself she wouldn't drink too much, but she dances in place as she watches Jim and Ryan play pool. She thinks Jim wins, but she can't remember, because he's escorting her outside to his car.

It's starting to rain, just a little, and the drops plop noisily from the trees onto Jim's windshield as they sit inside, the radio turned down to a low hum.

"Sometimes I don't want to marry Roy." She hears Jim's sharp intake of breath and for a minute she doesn't think he's going to respond.

Jim speaks carefully and she can almost feel the careful weight and measure in his words. "No one is forcing you."

She leans her head against the window, the glass cool to the touch. "What would I do?"

"Pam," he sighs. "Maybe I'm not the best person to ask."

"But I only care about your answer." She looks over at him and she notices how his hand rests on the parking brake. She puts her hand over his. "I could be an art teacher." Jim nods, his eyes connecting with hers. His fingers are in her hair again and Pam lets out a breath as they trace along her neck. His breath is in her ear, on her neck, by her cheek. When he presses his mouth to hers, his lips are warm and taste slightly salty. His lips slide gently over hers and his thumb traces her cheek, right in the place where her dimple shows when she smiles. She presses into him, her mouth opening to his.

She keeps her eyes closed until the kiss is over, letting the warmth spread through her body, her eyelids heavy as she lifts them open. Jim's looking at her, half his face bathed in the pale yellow-white light of the streetlight. She presses her fingers into his neck and pulls him back towards her.

There's her answer.