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Author's Chapter Notes:
Okay, so . . . I don't like this one. I feel really lame in saying that because I rarely actually like what I write and that's what prevents me from like, finishing things. But since I've decided this is just going to be three short parts I'm like . . . what the hey.
Still not mine, at all.

I know I'm awake, but from habit I don't open my eyes.

You might think, from the insanity of the night before, that I would be confused as to where I am. But I'm not.

I am in Jim's arms, my head on his chest, breathing in his fabric softener. Where else would I be? Where else would I be this comfortable?

I don't want to move.

His undershirt is soft against my cheek and my fingertips rest softly on a tantalizingly warm sliver of skin where the cotton has ridden up. I pull my hand over the exposed stomach and hold back a laugh when one of his arms twitches and pulls me closer.

"Pam," he says, voice low and close to my ear. "That is so not fair."

I smile and hum into him. "I know." My hand splays over his abdomen. "I have to go."

"I know." And his hand rests over mine.

+


Roy shouts, and I need out. As I turn to close the door, he kicks the chair and my heart breaks a little when he collapses into it and sobs.

A little.

I return to Jim's with my bag and my left hand feels lighter than it ever has and I'm liberated. Free.

I don't go inside. On the steps I say, "Jim, I need time." He nods and he understands and when I tell him I'm taking time off he just hugs me and I kiss him swiftly.

"See you soon."

"Take care of yourself, Pam. Good luck."

+


On Saturday, Mom hugs me twenty-two times and Roy calls thirty-nine. I find a little blue car in a driveway down the street from my parent's house and it's for sale. I get a good deal, and Mom helps out a bit.

"Anything you need," she says, dabbing her eyes. "Oh, my baby." Hug twenty-three follows.

On Monday, I find a tiny apartment but know it's mine immediately because of the small balcony off the bedroom. I paint all of my three rooms on Tuesday.

Roy has called a total of one hundred and forty times, and left fifty-one messages. Mom adds a dozen more hugs to her list.

Wednesday, as I lie on the couch in my scarcely decorated living room, Jim calls.

"Work is terrible," he confesses, "without you there. I mean, really. Dwight needs a severe pranking. And Michael is, well--Michael. I'm sorry to say."

I laugh. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

"Ryan is the receptionist. He thinks I'm gay now."

"Ouch."

"I'm telling you, Beesly, we need you here. If I have to see Ryan give me the 'Is my coworker straight? Because he keeps looking at me longingly . . .' look one more time--"

I fall a little more, for him, and I don't know if next Monday can come soon enough.

+


Sunday night finds me at the supermarket and attempting to move as little as possible.

"Shit!" I curse under my breath, rubbing my shoulder after a few achy hops for the eggs. "God dammi--"

"Anything I can help you with, ma'am?" a voice comes from behind me.

"Yes, those eggs, up there, could you reach them? Thanks so much, sir, I--" His snort cuts me off, and I turn.

Jim says, "You called me sir," with a ridiculous giddy grin on his unshaven face.

"Dammit, Jim!" I launch myself at him, laughing, punching his shoulder. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow."

"Whoa there, Beesly. What happened to you?"

"Rearranging furniture," I wince. "All afternoon. Heavy stuff."

He looks hurt, his lips pulling down at the corners in disappointment. "You could have called me. I do have these hideously large muscles."

"Yeah, I could have, but Jim? I needed to do it myself."

+


I don't have eggs. I need an omelet and I don't have eggs.

There's a knock at the door.

"Pam?" he says, handing me a carton. "You forgot your eggs."



Chapter End Notes:
Yeah, I've been having a bad day. Reviews might make it better, even if they're not entirely positive. I like feedback in general (but especially constructive compliments!).

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