Author's Chapter Notes:
Well, we've reached the last chapter...hope you enjoy!
JIM
“Can you take a little longer?” I tease Pam as she fumbles through her purse. She’s been looking for her keys for a solid two minutes.
“Shut up.”
“Seriously, I’m really curious.”
“I hate you.”
I say nothing for a minute. “That purse can only be, what? Six inches by ten, twelve maybe?”
“I will smack you, Jim.”
“Two or three inches wide?” She says nothing. Her digging is getting more animated. “So we’re talking an absolute maximum of 216 cubic inches of space that you have taken,” I make a big show of checking my watch, “four minutes to look through. Do you think that’s some kind of record?” Just then I hear a jingle and Pam triumphantly holds up her keys, then gives me the finger. I laugh as she unlocks and opens her door.
“I’m glad you found that so funny,” she says, setting her purse and her keys on the coffee table after turning on the light.
“I did. I really did.”
She turns to me and shrugs. “As long as I’m amusing.”
I give her a grin. “Always.”
She bows. “I’m going to grab one of those fahn-cy beers. Would you like one too?”
“Of course.” She skips – yes, literally skips – off to the kitchen. I smile as I watch her, knowing just how she feels. Hell, if I wasn’t some 6’3” lanky dork I’d be skipping too. Instead of attempting it I wander over to her bookshelf. My eyes scan over everything: a chunk of art books, a Precious Moments figurine holding a palette and standing at an easel (I would bet anything that’s from her dad), two or three paperbacks with the with the word “shopaholic” in the title, seasons one and two of The Muppet Show on DVD. I make a mental note of that. Off to the right hand side of the top shelf my eyes stop, because nestled between a book on Picasso and a copy of Waiting for Godot is my Christmas gift from a year and a half ago. It makes me smile, and as arrogant as this sounds I know my observation of this paint color earlier wasn’t chance.
Pam returns a moment later and I nod toward the shelf. “I thought you wanted that teapot so you could make tea at the office.”
She shrugs and takes a seat on the sofa, setting the two Blue Moons on the coffee table. I join her. “I brought it home when I realized how nicely it matched the room,” she says lightly, looking at me with a half-smile. I give her a deadpan stare; she gives me an innocent blink or two. I crack first.
“Okay,” I say, laughing, “I’ll leave it alone. It’s probably for the best you don't use it, anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“Dwight stuck it up his nose.”
“What?” I just nod. “He stuck it in his nose?”
“Well not the whole teapot, just the spout,” I say breezily. Pam socks me in the arm.
“How could you not tell me that?”
“That day was traumatizing enough for me.”
She just shakes her head. “Thank God I run everything new through the dishwasher twice before I use it,” she sighs. I pick up my beer to take a sip, but her warm hand on my knee stops me.
“Wait. We need a toast.”
“Really? One toast isn’t enough for one night? It was so eloquent.”
Pam nods solemnly. “Yes, it was, but now we need an apartment toast.”
“Oh right. Sorry. Okay. Apartment toast.” I raise my beer. “To-”
Her hand, which hadn’t moved, now squeezes my knee gently. Even after holding her for almost a half hour tonight, this still sends a jolt through me. “It’s my turn,” she says simply.
“Oh. Sorry.” I’m a little surprised, but can’t help laughing as she sets down her beer and grabs her purse. “Jesus, Beesly, again with the purse? We’ll be here until tomorrow.” She raises her eyebrow and pulls her hand from her purse. I put a hand to my heart. “Oh thank God. I was afraid we’d have to toast with warm beer.” Then I stop and notice what she’s holding: her coaster from The Banshee. “How did you get that? I thought the waitress…”
“When I went to the bathroom I set my purse on top of it so I could slide it off the table without you noticing,” she explains with a tiny smile. I chuckle. She glances at me.
“I took mine too,” I admit.
Her smile widens and she starts to hand me her coaster. “Here.”
“I already know it – may the road rise to meet you, may the wind-”
“Jim,” she interrupts quietly, her eyes sparkling, “take it.”
I slowly take it from her hand and she picks up her beer again. I do the same, glancing down at the coaster.
I have known many,
and liked not a few,
but loved only one
and this toast is to you.
I look up at her again, amazed. When I think about our history together, I’ve kind of always given myself credit for making the “big” moves, even if those moves hadn’t resulted in anything good. I told her how I felt. I kissed her. I left for a fresh start. I found a new girlfriend and tried to move on. It doesn’t make me feel good admitting this, but I’d never assumed Pam was strong or daring enough to do any of it. And maybe back when I was making all those “big” moves, she wasn’t. What I’d missed over the past year we’d been distant – both physically and emotionally – was that she’d become someone who, in her own way, could do those things too. Maybe they weren’t as grand of gestures, but in their simplicity they almost had a much bigger impact. If she had left Roy a year ago for me I know we would have been happy. But with a year to change and grow, then come back together and be able to appreciate all the old and new about each other...I don't know. It's strange to say it, but maybe we'll be even better having had to wait until now.
She’s holding her beer bottle out, but it’s kind of tentative, like maybe she’s gone a little too far. I quickly clink the neck of her bottle against mine to reassure her. “Cheers,” I say softly. I take a long pull off the bottle, then sit back. “I gotta tell you, this may be the most comfortable sofa ever.”
“Thanks. It was a clearance model.”
“Way to go, bargain shopper.”
“On my salary, I don’t have much of a choice.” She runs her hand over the cushion proudly, though. “Would you like a snack or something?”
“Sure, that sounds good. What do you have?”
“Um…I don’t know. Come with me in the kitchen.” I gladly comply, especially because she’s holding my hand for the short trip. Pam opens the pantry and I move behind her, resting my hands on her shoulders. I find that since we’ve started touching, I don’t want to stop. I know that sounds a little perverted; what I mean is I feel like the guy who finally found an oasis after years in the desert. “Let’s see…I have chips.” She holds up a bag of Utz chips and shakes it; the noise betrays the fact that it’s mostly crumbs. “Then again, maybe not. Okay…um, how about cheese and crackers?”
“Sounds fantastic.”
But now she’s holding an empty Ritz box upside down. “Sorry.” She ducks her head a little. “Today’s usually my grocery shopping day.”
I lean into her and reach up to the top shelf, grabbing a box. “Let's look up here and-“ I can already feel by its weight that it’s a success- “voila! Miracle popcorn.” I reach my other arm around to open the box in front of her and pull out one last package. Pam turns around to flash me a bright smile, then ducks under my arm and pops the package in the microwave. After setting the timer to 2:43, she leans back against the counter. I mirror her pose against the breakfast bar. She’s smiling softly; I can’t help but copy that, too.
“Hi,” I say after a long minute.
She laughs. “Hey.” It’s amazing how even those two words, said in that order, mean something to us. “Do you want me to go grab your beer for you?”
“Nope.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
Another long pause. “Have anything else to say?”
I take one step closer, which basically brings me halfway across the kitchen. “I just want to stand here, with you.” Before she can respond the microwave dings. Pam casts one more long look my way, then pulls the steaming bag out. She nods to her upper right, so I open a cabinet and find a bowl. Just a few seconds later we’re back on the sofa, a bowl of hot popcorn between us.
I point towards the bookshelf with my bottle. “I was checking out your DVDs a few minutes ago.”
“And…?”
“I gotta say, I don’t think anything will go with this fahn-cy beer and miracle popcorn quite as well as The Muppet Show,” I tell her. She grins.
“You like the Muppets?”
“Um, let me think…yes. Love them. I haven’t seen the show in years.”
Pam claps excitedly and hops up to get the DVDs. After she’s loaded a disc in the player she returns to the sofa, sitting right next to me with her legs curled under her. I grin at her.
“Oh gosh,” I yawn, doing the classic exaggerated stretch to put my arm around her. “Boy oh boy.”
“What are you, sixteen?” she giggles, leaning into me.
“Somewhere around there.” It’s not a stretch; most of the night that’s how I’ve felt. We settle in to watch two great episodes (one hosted by Steve Martin, one by Madeline Kahn), singing along with the theme song and laughing at the goofy skits. I really do love this show, and I love that she loves it. What I love more is having her cuddled up to me on her clearance model sofa, my hand resting on her bare knee like it’s the most normal thing that could be happening right now. As I glance over to see another laugh light up her face, I’m reminded yet again what I love the most.
When the credits have rolled Pam looks to me. “Still love the Muppets?”
I nod. “It’s amazing how some things hold up over time. It’s just as good I remember, if not better.” I think about what I’ve said and everything it applies to. Pam smiles, no doubt thinking the same thing.
“So, she says, tracing a circle on my wrist. It’s a little distracting, in a good way.
“So.”
“I have one more surprise, if you think you’re up for it.”
I scrunch up my face in thought. “I think I’ll be okay.”
“Good!” With that she’s off the couch and heading off down her hallway.
“Wait…where is it?”
“My bedroom!” she calls. Okay. I’m slightly more than intrigued.
“Can I have a hint?”
Her head pokes around the doorframe. “Well, it’s small and it’s pink and it’s…fun,” she replies, biting her lip and ducking back into her room. Look, I think I’m a pretty sensitive, reasonable guy, but I’m still a guy. I’ve seen a few...shall we say, adult films, and I think I’m pre-wired to have my mind start hanging out in the general vicinity of the gutter after a clue like that, especially when it’s something in her bedroom. The look on her face didn’t help. My heart starts pounding.
“Oh really?” I manage, somewhat casually.
“Yup! I found it when I was cleaning today.”
All right, well, that changes things. Not that I don’t want to see Pam in anything small, pink and “fun” – believe me, I wouldn’t be upset - but if she’s putting on some piece of lingerie she had from back when she was with Roy… I shake my head, too creeped out to even entertain the idea.
“No what?” she asks, catching me as she reemerges. Thankfully I don’t have to worry about that scenario because she’s still in her same top and skirt from before. She is, however, hiding something behind her back.
“Nothing. Whatcha got?”
“You sure you’re ready?” she questions, bouncing a little.
“I’m sure.”
Pam pulls her hands from behind her back. “Ta da!”
“Oh my God!” I cry, laughing. She’s holding a small black case that I haven’t seen since before I left for Connecticut. “Pass the Pigs!”
It’s quite possibly the goofiest game ever, but Pam and I are nothing if not big supporters of the goofy. All it consists of is two tiny rubber pigs that you toss like a pair of dice, earning points based on the positions the pigs land in – positions with ridiculous names like the Oinker, Makin’ Bacon, and the rarest of all, the Double Leaning Jowler. The number of hours we’ve logged playing this is incalculable. We played at lunch. We played on break. When really bored, we’d IM the other, saying only “pigs?” and knew to grab a random stack of paperwork and head for the conference room. If someone came in we’d just grab the pigs, hold them under the table and pretend to be hard at work. We were so obsessed that we not only named the pigs (Sir Porkington and Li’l Squealer), but started developing strategies to get the best scores – none of which were feasible, by the way, because the game is about as random as you can get.
Pam takes a seat on the sofa again, taking our pink friends from their case. “I thought I’d lost this at work,” she explains, “but I guess I must’ve brought it home at some point.” She doesn’t need to say anything else.
“I completely forgot about it!”
“Remember when Dwight went on and on about how it was just a stupid version of some British dice game?”
“How could I not? It prompted the great Bacon Week Prank of ’05.” (Not that involved, really – Dwight just got bacon mixed in anything he ate for a week. On a sandwich? Okay, but in the cake at his birthday party? Classic.) She holds the pigs out to me. I shake my head. “You first.”
The game starts, but with each roll I find I can focus less and less. We’re sitting so close that our legs are pressed together from hip to knee. Every time Pam gets excited, be it because of a good roll by her or a bad one by me, she lightly slaps my knee. When she’s disappointed her head falls against my shoulder for a moment. I lick my lips and attempt to concentrate, but her warmth and closeness are taking over my senses. I take my turn distractedly and pass the pigs back to her. As I watch her shake them in her palm I study her. Her green eyes are glowing in the lamplight, she’s pursing her lips and her hair is swinging around her shoulders. Her scent – clean with some sort of flowery note – is everywhere. My heart is thudding against my ribs.
“Come on, come on—”
But I stop her by pressing my lips firmly against hers. Pam inhales sharply but doesn’t move. As I bring my hands to her face I hear the two soft thuds of the game pieces falling out of her hand. In the next few seconds it’s all a frantic jumble of arms reaching around each other and hands tangling in hair, open mouths and bumped knees, both of us trying desperately to be everywhere at once. She laughs nervously while her mouth is on mine, which only sends my pulse racing and makes me pull her closer. Finally we fall into place, two puzzle pieces fit together again, and kiss like we have to make up for all the time we’ve lost right now. I have no idea how long it lasts; all I know is that no matter how awkward it is, I already know it’ll stand forever as the greatest kiss I’ll ever experience. I thought once that that place might forever be held by the one we shared last spring, but that one signaled an end. This one represents a beginning.
When we pull apart I know – for me, at least – it’s only because we need a chance to breathe. Our foreheads are pressed together but I can see Pam’s eyes are still closed. I attempt to extract my hand from her hair as gently as possible, then bring it to her chin and run my thumb over her slightly swollen lower lip. She smiles and opens her eyes. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” she says breathlessly.
A lump rises in my throat as I smile back. “Me too,” I whisper against her lips and we come together again. This time it’s slow and deliberate, breaking up long, deep stretches with soft kisses. I don’t know if minutes are passing or hours; I’m not totally sure where I am. All I know is her. I feel one of her hands linger on my neck, then make its way into my hair. The other is squeezing my shoulder, then brushing across my shoulder blade. Mine travel over her face, down her arms, and rest against the small of her back and her hip. Her tongue carries the bitter taste of beer, and knowing I taste the same to her is more of a turn on than you’ll ever know. I hesitantly let one hand slip under the hem of her shirt, my index finger grazing the small of her back. When I hear (and, dear God, feel) her moan softly I quickly press both palms against her back and run them up and down her spine. Not breaking the kiss, I feel her bring her arms between the two of us and toy with the top button of my shirt. I instinctively tighten my grip on her and move to kiss her neck, and she takes my hint to continue what she’s doing. She quickly makes her way down the placard and slips the shirt over my shoulders, and I stop kissing her only long enough to pull it all the way off. Once I do our lips crash together and her hands sneak under my t-shirt. Her hands, which felt warm before, feel amazingly cool against my chest. I don’t know how it happens, exactly, but in the next moment she’s leaning back against the arm of the sofa and I’m over her, my knee positioned between hers. Suddenly we get more daring – a hand strokes a thigh, a finger hooks in a waistband. My hand has crept up the front of her shirt and I just barely skim the lace of her bra. There are more moans and sighs, which in turn give both of us more courage. I suddenly get a brief moment of clarity and take in where we’re at. Pam pauses too and looks up at me.
She looks happily dazed – her eyes are glassy and her cheeks are flushed. I know I probably have the same expression on my face. My hand is currently under her skirt, resting against her upper thigh. She has one hand on my belt buckle and one under my shirt. I know that if we start again, we’ll sleep together. That’s all there is to it. Having been in love with Pam for so many years, making love to her is something I’ve thought about more than I care to admit. It’s something that I want to do more than almost anything, but I don’t think we can let it happen tonight. I know it would be wonderful, and amazing, and every other adjective you can think of. I also know that it just isn’t a great idea to start a relationship on that foot. It’s not a question of morals, it’s definitely not some religious issue, it’s just that…well, if what we have is real – and I believe with all my heart it is – there’ll be plenty of time for that in the days to come. I don’t want it to be a snap decision. I feel like we owe it to…us, I guess.
That doesn’t mean this isn’t hard as hell, though.
(And yes, I know what statement follows that.)
Summoning every ounce of willpower I possess, I bring my hand to her face instead and give her a smile. “I think maybe I should get going,” I say softly, stroking her cheek and watching her eyes for any sign of hurt. She blinks once and her eyes seem to come back into focus. There’s a long pause, but she finally nods.
“Okay,” Pam agrees, placing her hand over mine, and I can tell she knows why I suggested it. I give her one more kiss, then we slowly sit back up. I put my shirt back on in silence, but she lets out a laugh. “Look!” She’s pointing at the coffee table. Two tiny pigs are balancing precariously, each resting on one ear and its snout. I laugh too – it’s a Double Leaning Jowler, hands down the hardest roll in the game. In all our hours of play we’d never gotten even one. Pam smiles beautifully. “What are the odds?” she asks. I laugh again, then take her hand as I stand up. We walk together to the door and she holds my one hand with both of hers as I slip my shoes on. Once I’m done I take her in my arms.
“Thank you, for tonight,” she says in a whisper. I kiss the top of her head.
“Thank you too.”
Pam pulls away from me and leans against the doorframe. I do the same, facing her. “Karen will be back tomorrow?” she asks, her eyes shifting to the ground before she meets my gaze again. I just nod and take her hand again. She slowly nods too, biting her lip. I squeeze her hand.
“It’s going to be all right,” I assure her. She smiles faintly.
“I know, I just…” She shrugs. “I just want to be ready.”
I smile too and dip my head. “Don’t worry,” I whisper in her ear, giving her a soft kiss and opening the door. “Good night,” I tell her as I turn to go. Before I can take another step I feel her grab my hand. In a flash she’s in front of me, standing on tiptoes in bare feet. She pulls my lips to hers and surprises me with a searing kiss.
“Good night,” she seconds after we part, darting back into the house before I can respond. I take a deep breath and walk to my car, grinning like a fool.
----
“Hello?”
“Hey Beesly.”
“Oh, hey Jim.”
“I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“No, just having a boring night at home. Same as usual.”
“You didn’t do anything fun tonight?”
“Lemme think…nope. Not a thing.”
“Oh. Well that’s too bad.”
“You’re not hanging out in a parking lot again, are you?”
“Funny enough, I am.”
“You need to break that habit. You’re going to start creeping people out.”
“You’re probably right. Thanks for the advice.”
“No problem. Hey, speaking of advice, how’d that date turn out?”
“Not too bad. Actually, pretty damn great, if I do day so myself.”
“Congratulations.”
“Yeah. I’d have to rank it…well, at least in my top fifty dates of all time.”
“You’ve been on fifty dates?”
“Wow. Uncalled for.”
“Sorry. Good for you. Do you think you’ll see her again?”
“Well, that’s what I’m calling for. I need one last bit of that good advice.”
“Sure.”
“I was wondering if it’d be too forward to call her and ask her to keep her entire weekend open.”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Do you think she’d want to spend that much time with me?”
“I think she’d be thrilled to, unless she discovered something really, really embarrassing about you on the date…y’know, like that you read—”
“Thankfully, nothing like that happened. At all.”
“Oh good. Then yes, I think you could consider her yours for the weekend.”
“Awesome. Then it looks like I’ve got an amazing weekend to look forward to. How about you?”
“Eh. I’m sure it’ll be okay. Nothing special.”
“That’s too bad. I hope that changes.”
“You never know.”
“All right, well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for your help.”
“It’s my pleasure. See you in the morning.”
“’Night, Beesly.”
“’Night, Jim.”
Chapter End Notes:
Pass the Pigs...just in case you were curious. Best pig-related game ever, y'all.
I can't begin to say how happy and humbled I was to have one of my first stories here so well-received...I've got more, if you're interested...? :) Thanks for all your kind words and do take care!
I can't begin to say how happy and humbled I was to have one of my first stories here so well-received...I've got more, if you're interested...? :) Thanks for all your kind words and do take care!
Little Comment is the author of 7 other stories.
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