* * *
Seven hours ago.
It took her 15 minutes and two false starts to cross the short distance from her car to the front gate of his apartment building. He was living in a large, new-looking complex called the Terrace Villas, though there was neither a terrace nor a villa in sight. Still, the front entrance was grand and meticulously landscaped, and she felt insignificant standing there next to the oversized terra cotta pots and trailing vines of bougainvillea. To one side of the heavy, wrought-iron gate there was a directory with a list of names, neat white letters pressed into a black background. She already had the entry code, but she scanned for his name anyway. It wasn't there, just a blank space next to his apartment number. She typed in the four digits she'd already memorized into the silver number pad beneath the directory. The gate opened with a loud buzz and a click.
The arrangement of nearly featureless buildings was even more corporate and generic from the inside. She passed a fenced-in pool area and took a left at the gym, equipped with row upon row of high-tech lifecycles and treadmills. The place didn't seem like Jim at all, but she couldn't really say she knew Jim anymore, so maybe it was exactly like him now. The only thing she had to compare it to was the cozy, warm little house he shared with Mark, but maybe that Jim no longer existed. The thought almost made her turn around again.
But then she thought of his voice on the phone earlier.
"You texted me," he'd said, slurring his words and tripping over the past tense.
"Yeah. Is that okay?"
"Oh, yeah, totally." His voice on the other line was a little too loud, and she could hear him take in a gulp of air. "Yeah. Text. Call. Whatever. Whenever."
"Okay." A pause. Then, "Jim, are you okay?"
"Okay? Am I okay?" He chuckled bitterly, then mumbled the word to himself, as if he'd never heard it before.
"Are you... drunk?"
"Maybe?" he'd answered, and it sounded like a question, like he was trying to get away with something.
"Oh my God, you totally are!"
"Andy made me!" he'd blurted out. She remembered distinctly the tone of his voice, raised slightly with accusation, like a scolded child telling on an older brother. Imagining the look on his face, she had to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from smiling stupid and wide.
They hadn't talked long, but when she hung up she'd felt fidgety and not quite sure what to do with herself. She had just grabbed her sketch pad and settled, cross-legged on the couch when her phone beeped. It was a text from Jim. He'd sent her his address and the door code to his apartment building along with a brief note: "For whenever."
Suddenly memory and fantasy coalesced into possibility. The next thing she knew, she was printing out a map, grabbing her keys and purse and heading out the door. There had been plenty of time to think about her impulse decision during the two-and-a-half-hour drive, but when she'd arrived at the address he'd given her, she hadn't come any closer to figuring out what to do next.
Now that she was standing on his doorstep, she still hadn't figured it out.
His door was plain and painted the color of vanilla ice cream, or a certain make of cardstock that Jim would certainly know. She made a mental note to ask him about it later, in case she needed a way to break the ice. It was a game they used to play; she would point out objects around the office and he'd name the corresponding paper color. Goldenrod. Salmon. Buff. Lilac. "I'm glad all this knowledge isn't going to waste," she told him once. He'd laughed without opening his mouth, a little snort she recognizes in hindsight as a telltale sign that his feelings were dangerously close to the surface. She wishes she'd been brave enough to see it then, or at least admit she saw it.
She could admit it now, but maybe it was too late. There was nothing here outside his home that gave her any clues about him or what his life in Stamford was like. Anything could have been behind that door. It reminded her of a short story she'd read during her single year of college, "The Lady or the Tiger?" She'd liked the story until it got to the end, which left her frustrated and annoyed. But it did teach her something important about herself; she liked closure, preferred tidy knots to loose, hanging threads.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders and knocked.
There was no immediate answer, and part of her was relieved. But the rest of her knew that it wasn't over between them. His hasty departure without so much as a goodbye had left open wounds that still hadn't healed, and wouldn't until she saw him again, at least one more time. So she knocked again.
A muffled voice came from inside. She couldn't make out exactly what he was saying. It might have been, "Hold on." Or possibly, "Come on," which would be a different thing entirely. The door had a peephole and she smoothed her hair with one hand while trying to appear casual, just in case he was looking through it.
"Holy crap." That much she could hear distinctly through the door. She laughed, and some of the tension left her shoulders.
While he fumbled inside with the chain and lock, she wrapped her arms around herself and shifted her weight back and forth. It seemed to take forever, and then he was there, in front of her, his face a mixture of confusion and delight. She silently cursed herself for somehow forgetting what it was like to be this close to him; she was completely unprepared for the flood of memories and emotions it brought back.
"Pam?" he asked, squinting his eyes. The apartment was dark and she could barely make out the vague shapes of his furniture in the blackness beyond.
He opened the door a little wider and she could see him clearly illuminated in the pale amber light of the corridor where she was standing. He was wearing just a T-shirt and boxers and his hair was sticking out in every direction. She'd never really seen him like that before, at least not in real life. But it was so much better than her imagination. She hoped the shadows hid the blossoming heat she felt in her cheeks.
"Um. You did send me your address."
"I..." He opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was laughter. She smiled at him and ducked her head. Despite the fact that he was in his pajamas and she'd just appeared on his doorstep after driving 250 miles on a whim, it was the closest to normal she'd felt in months.
She liked the feeling, so she kept it light. "Sorry to disturb you. I'll just be going then."
She made a show of turning to leave, but he reached out a hand and clumsily grabbed her arm. "Whoa there, Beesly," he said slowly, his voice thick and rough edged. "You did come all this way. I mean, you might as well come in for a cup of coffee or something."
His hand encircled her entire wrist and all of her nerve endings seemed to go numb but for the places where his skin touched hers. She let him pull her inside, because breaking contact was unfathomable. The door closed behind her and he let go of her wrist, but she scarcely had time to register the loss before his hands wove through her hair and his mouth found hers in the dark. It wasn't smooth or gentlemanly, but it was Jim and it was amazing. The minty taste of toothpaste on his tongue barely masked the cough-syrupy flavor of the liquor on his breath. She felt almost drunk herself, dizzy and unsteady on her feet.
He pulled away first and leaned his forehead against hers. His hands wandered from her hair to her shoulders and their warmth seeped through her hooded sweater, past the light T-shirt underneath, through her skin and into her bloodstream. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light as time slowed and the air became still, as if the entire world was holding its breath. She couldn't see his eyes, but she imagined they were closed. It felt like that kind of moment.
In a voice so soft she could barely hear it, he whispered, "Hi."
"Hi," she offered back, and then he was kissing her again, smiling against her lips. Laughter turned into soft moans and back into laughter again. Pressed up against his chest, her back against the door, the vibrations rippled through her entire body.
"I was in bed," he said when he finally stopped long enough for them both to catch their breath. "Before. When you knocked."
It took her a moment to find her voice again. "Sorry to wake you." She's wasn't that sorry, but it seemed like something she should say.
"Not entirely sure I am awake," he said with a wry smile as he brushed the backs of his fingers softly against her cheek.
"You are," she reassured him.
"If this were a dream, that's exactly what you'd say."
If she'd been drunk for real, or just a little more bold, she would have asked him what else happens in these dreams of his, but she was just plain old Pam, so she said nothing.
His lips followed his fingers, tracing a path around the frame of her face, up to her forehead and back down the bridge of her nose to her mouth. They kissed for a third time, softer, less desperate than before. The tiny portion of her brain still capable of rational thought reminded her that this wasn't what she came here to do, that they should be talking, not making out like horny teenagers. But those thoughts were quickly drowned out by the intoxicating sensation of his lips and tongue sliding languidly against hers.
She was so lost in him she wasn't even aware he'd turned her around and moved them further into the apartment until something hard and immovable dug into her lower back. She fumbled blindly behind her for the source of the pain and encountered a wooden entry table. Reluctantly, she broke the kiss and lifted her chin, but he was unprepared for the shift in momentum and the top of her head met swiftly with his nose.
"Ow!"
"Shit! Sorry!"
He cupped his hands over his face, and she held her breath until she saw his shoulders shake and heard the unmistakable sound of his laughter. Relief flooded through her. Stepping back from the brink allowed her to smile at the situation -- because, really, it was kind of funny -- but the space was also enough to clear her head. The little voice got louder. So loud she couldn't ignore it any longer.
"Jim." He seemed to recognize her tone, and his laughter died away. His eyes went wide and the terrified look in them caused a stab of guilt to pierce her chest. She knew she was to blame for putting that look there, and it solidified her resolve.
"Maybe we should slow down," she told him gently.
He lowered his head and the tension between them ebbed a little.
"Yeah, okay," he said, his voice stretched taut. "Whatever you want."
Author's Chapter Notes:
We'll get back to the morning, but for now a little rewind to the night before. Special thanks to WhatAWaste for her invaluable encouragement and just being overall awesome.
