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The first time she does it, it’s simply to answer a question: how quickly can she pack the essentials and make it out to the car? She doesn’t know exactly why she wonders; something, surely, related to a friend having to pack an overnight bag during a pregnancy or an episode of Oprah or something. She does it quickly, her fingers snatching clothes, makeup, her cell phone, and she jams it all into her duffle bag that she’s had since high school and when she finds herself standing by the door to the truck, she’s a little bit out of breath. It takes her ten minutes that first time, and when she gets back inside, she realizes she’s forgotten to pack her toothbrush or any underwear.
The second time it’s when she remembers the first time and wonders if she can improve her time and the items she selects. This time, it only takes her eight minutes; this time she determines that, if she were to really need to get out of the house quickly, her makeup can be consumed by the fire.
“The fire;” that’s what she calls it in her mind—the reason she’s doing this. Preparing for a fire. The third time she tries it, she’s simply bored; nine minutes, that time, because she’s out of practice.
It isn’t until the fifth or sixth time that her eyes, looking frantically around the room in her haste to beat her previous time—seven minutes—land on a picture of herself with Jim, taken in the office during one of Michael’s parties.
Her heart lurches in her chest, but that doesn’t stop her from snatching it from its frame and carefully slipping it into her bag.
After that, she never forgets the picture. The number of times she’s raced herself becomes blurry in her head. The time she does it after she and Roy fight at the Dundies, she gets a little braver, choosing not to stop timing herself until she’s in the truck with the door closed, key in the ignition. She never turns the key for fear of alerting Roy to what she’s doing; for fear of having to explain herself, the fact that “the fire” is starting to resemble a warehouse worker at Dunder Mifflin, Scranton.
She gets to a point where she can do it in four minutes or less; her brain goes into overdrive and her nimble fingers calmly wrap around three t-shirts, a work shirt and skirt, a pair of jeans, two bras—once, a nice lacy one that she never, ever wears, that somebody had given her as an engagement present; that time was the day she and Jim had played jinx and she forced herself to believe that it isn’t his grin she was seeing in his mind when she stuffed it into her bag, feeling the redness traveling up her cheeks. She comes to quickly recognize without looking what two t-shirts feel like instead of three, can race across the surface of her bureau and pick up all of the necessary items without even really having to think about it, without making a sound. She takes a gamble one day on having to explain herself and buys herself a pretty new duffle bag at Marshalls that’s on sale (so Roy can’t complain about her spending money); it’s a light cream color and is covered in sage green daisies and is made of a satisfyingly sturdy material and has nice brown leather straps. It suits her, she thinks. She can’t imagine ever getting the chance to use it on a trip somewhere, but still, every day, now—sometimes twice a day—she packs her belongings in it and races it out onto the curb.
My name’s on the loan, too, she thinks as she sits in the truck, heart pounding, terrified for a reason she can never really explain, even to herself. He couldn’t get mad at me for taking his car, because it’s our car. But every time, she talks herself out of turning the key. It will wake Roy up, she thinks on nights when she packs and runs just to avoid spending any more time lying beneath the weight of another sleepless, wordless night. It will make him laugh at her, she thinks when she tries to come up with a reason for why she’s doing it—Oprah is still the only thing she can come up with, even though she can’t remember the last time she’s even seen the talk show. Sometimes she tries to think of the last time they’ve laughed together, shared a smile, a knowing look. She works to conjure the image in her mind—a mind swimming with plans and pranks and grape sodas and jelly beans—and when she does, she feels so guilty that she slinks back into the house and slowly puts everything back, just as quietly, ending with her duffle bag on the top shelf in her closet.
And then one day, she doesn’t stop.
Iridescent blue taffeta rustles as she packs clothes, a barrette, deodorant, hair product, her toothbrush, a hairbrush, her shoes. Her breathing is as slow and low as she can get it while her heart pounds in her ears. Racing against the clock, against herself, against her heartbeat, she stows one thing after another in her pretty new duffel bag, her heart skipping a beat as she frantically searches her underwear drawer for the picture of her and Jim, hidden away from the prying eyes of a jealous fiancé. When her fingers wrap around it, her heart soars and her eyelids prick with tears of relief and she yanks it out, closes the dresser drawer as quietly as she can, and slips out into the night.
It takes her three tries to turn the key and two to get into first gear, and her hands are shaking with the fear of Roy catching her, but as she drives away the shaking stops and the weights on her shoulders lift and finally she has to laugh at how free she feels for the first time in…well, for the first time she can remember.
His eyes are red and swollen and disbelieving and, if she isn’t mistaken, angry when he throws the door open to find her on his front step, hands gripping the handles of her bag so tightly her knuckles are white.
“Ask me again,” she breaths when he gives her a questioning look.
“Pam,” He says softly, his head bowed, unable to look at her.
“Ask me again,” she says again. It’s a command, not a question.
“Ask you what, again?” He asks, his voice tired and broken and small.
“Ask me if I’m going to marry him,” her voice is breathless and choked with tears and excitement and love and hope.
“Pam…” his voice trails off, and then he leans his head against where his hand is gripping the doorframe and he asks, “You’re really gonna marry him?” His voice is weary, pained, begging her to give him a different answer and shadowed with indifference.
“No,” and without another thought she drops the bag she’d been packing every day—sometimes twice a day, sometimes three times, once even four—and flies up into his waiting arms, her hands diving into his soft, beautiful hair for the second time that night to pull his lips closer to hers.
It takes her three years and three and a half minutes to pack the bag she leaves Roy with. And it takes her three and a half seconds to know she’s made the right decision.
Author's Chapter Notes:
The idea for this one-shot came to me out of the blue and I couldn't not write it--scratch that, I couldn't write it fast enough. Anyway, here it is--hope you enjoy! -s*
Chapter End Notes:
I just wanted to add this to say, while I know the 7 reviews I've gotten for this story is by no means a huge number, each one has been like a wonderful little present; thank you, thank you, thank you to each of you who has taken the time to leave a comment, I cherish each one b29; -s*
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