Pam had had a great week.

OK, by most standards including her own, Pam had had a really shitty week. She’d broken up with her boyfriend—fiancé—of ten years—three—and even though he hadn’t set a date for the wedding in three years, that hadn’t been a pleasant experience. He’d cried, which she couldn’t remember seeing him do in the past except when the Eagles were knocked out of the playoffs, and he’d argued, and he’d offered to set a date (June 10th had magically appeared out of thin air at the moment she’d said it was over). But none of it had moved her. Or rather it had, but only to convince her that no matter what this was the right decision. The last two weeks she’d been paying close attention to him and their relationship, trying as hard as she could to make it work for her.

But it wouldn’t work for her, and that was true whether or not Jim/Scranton (who she was more and more convinced were the same person, especially after that prank moment online and the first date conversation) was really interested in her. Jim could laugh at her and say it was a prank ten years in the making—that he’d gotten the job at Dunder Mifflin knowing it was her and built all of this up as a gigantic farce—and she’d still not want to be with Roy. The truth was that of the three men in her life, or rather (she though) the two, he was the one who didn’t care about her. Not just who cared about her least; she wasn’t sure he cared about her.  He cared about the Pammy he’d built up in his head, the one who happily made his dinner and sat quietly by while he was watching TV, the one who would marry him and continue on doing the same thing every night. But he didn’t care about her, Pam, the one actually living her life. He didn’t care about her art, or her dreams for doing more of it. He didn’t care about her thoughts and feelings, or what happened in her day. He didn’t care that she didn’t actually like football, or that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to root at a hockey game ever since their first date. He didn’t even notice that she spent half of their waking time “together” online paying attention to someone else. Or rather, he did; when she stopped going online and started paying attention to him instead, he asked her why she was bothering him all of a sudden. She was done. They were done.

She was staying with her parents for a few weeks while she figured out where she was going to stay. He could have the apartment; it was all his decorations anyway since she hadn’t dared to do any of the exciting things she’d originally planned with the space. And that alone should have been a sign, she realized  It wasn’t her apartment. She’d get a few of the appliances and the furnishings in the split, but nothing there was firmly hers except the computer. And that she’d brought with her when she moved out, along with a suitcase full of clothes.

That was the first half of her plan, a necessary precondition for the rest of her life. She was not half of Pammy-and-Roy anymore. She was just Pam. Or maybe Morgan. The second half of her plan was the scary part, even if the first half should have been. The first half was just housekeeping in a sense: doing what had to be done.

The second half was the giant leap.

She was pretty sure Jim was Scranton—or was that, Scranton was Jim? She’d known him longer online after all. The coincidences were just too much, and after she’d set what she thought of as a very good trap for him online last week, she’d become even more sure. That Dwight prank was too recognizable—just like her first date story. But the second part of her plan required a big gesture to let him know that she knew. And to psych herself up for a big gesture, she needed proof. Not “I’m pretty sure these things are parallel enough that they must be the same” proof. Not “I tricked you into saying you pulled the prank I already knew you pulled” proof. Physical proof. Something that showed her Jim was Scranton, something undeniable and incontrovertible, something that couldn’t just be in her own head. Then she could unleash her inner kraken, and make the grand gesture that had been bubbling up inside of her ever since she’d started to suspect.

It was convenient that Jim picked that week to host a barbecue at his apartment and she’d get physical access to his stuff for the first time.

She hadn’t told him—or anyone at the office—that she and Roy had broken up. Ostensibly this was to allow him to save face with the warehouse workers; it wasn’t their business, so until she had a new apartment and he could invite the guys over for a poker night without her stuff there and make the official announcement to them, they were keeping it on the down low. But on her side, it was really to give her space: space to breathe without Kelly chattering about her newly single status, but also space to plan and plot. It was really important to her that this went well.

So she showed up to Jim’s without an excuse for Roy’s absence save for the bare fact that “he didn’t feel like coming.” And that was enough. She realized to her chagrin that no one really expected Roy to act like he was a friend to her friends. Another red flag she’d ignored.

She showed up “just in time” for the tour, though she expected Jim had been holding it for her, and she walked through his apartment marveling at how much it looked like him. She didn’t know Mark—or rather, she knew him doubly through Jim’s and Scranton’s occasional comments about him, but didn’t know him personally—but he was either very like Jim or he’d ceded decorating to his lankier friend, because the apartment simply looked like an extension of Jim’s personality. She loved it. As she was beginning to realize she loved him, and might have done for a lot longer than she’d ever known.

She slipped out of the tour at Jim’s bedroom, sliding onto his bed and looking around her. She gasped as she recognized a piece of art by the desk in his room that she knew she had painted. But she couldn’t remember when. Had that been something she’d shown to Jim, to Scranton, or to both? She suspected that it was older than Jim’s employment at Dunder Mifflin, which would make it the proof that she needed; but she wasn’t sure enough. It was corroborating evidence, but not sufficient. It did pique her curiosity, and she rummaged around on his shelves with a determined air. There had to be something…ah. There. His high school yearbook. If anything would prove that Jim was the kid she’d started chatting with in high school, it would be a record of his time in high school.

As she pulled the book from the shelf she saw Jim loom in the doorway and then slide carefully into the room.

“I thought we’d lost someone.” He grinned at her.

“Just taking a pitstop.”

“The bathroom’s down the hall. Or didn’t you pay attention?”

“Well, I was all gung-ho for the tour, but then the tourguide kind of sucked.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. His grin widened.

“I’ve heard that several times. I’m thinking of firing him.”

“Oh no, you couldn’t do that. I don’t think he has the skills to get another job, or any other prospects. You couldn’t do that to his family.”

He doffed an imaginary cap to her.

“As you say ma’am. Now, what souvenir have you picked up there?”

She turned the book over in her hands. West Scranton High School it said on the binding, with Invaders on the cover. She flipped it open, looking desperately for a picture of young Jim—though she wasn’t sure what it would reveal, since she’d never seen WScranton8 in the flesh, at least not by that name.

“Ooooohhh no!” She pointed at his picture in twelfth grade.

“Oh yeah.”

“You were so dorky!”

“Thank you.”

“It’s cute.” She said it without thinking, but realized it was totally OK now. She was a single woman. She could think—and say—things like that. But Jim didn’t know, so she enjoyed the slightly goldfish-like expression on his face.

“Any other pictures of you in here? Anything dorkier, if possible?”

“Well, there’s a few of me on the basketball team, but I’m not sure they’re what you’re looking for if ‘dorkier’ is your goal.”

“Someone’s got an ego about his basketball skillz.”

“Hey, you’ve seen me play. And was that skillz with a z?”

“I have. And it was, you have good ears.”

“Not in that photo I don’t.”

They laughed together as she flipped the pages. Soon she found the posed photograph of the basketball team, Jim kneeling in front row with his arms around two buddies and a big, bold 8 on the center of his chest.

“Oh my god, his screenname was so unoriginal. How did I not guess that?” was the first thought in her head. This was quickly replaced by a warm feeling of peace and joy. It was definitely time for the second part of the plan, though it would have to wait until tonight.

Speaking of waiting, the kisses she really wanted to land on Jim’s dorky face right now should probably also wait until phase two was complete. She pulled herself together enough to say “no, still pretty dorky,” as she smiled up at him smiling down at her.

A crash from downstairs brought them out of the mutual reverie of smiles and Jim reluctantly (it seemed to her) motioned towards the door.

“I better go see what that was.”

“Yeah. You better.”

“Be good.”

He slipped out, and she grinned, hugging the book to herself.

Phase two was going to be fun.

She spent the rest of the party socializing and spying on Dwight and Angela, whom she’d become more and more certain were in fact an item. She tried confiding her suspicions to Phyllis roundaboutly, which turned out to give her a wonderful opportunity to have fun with her secret singleness.

“So, Phyllis, have you heard anything about any secret office romances?”

“You tell me. Well, you do mean you and Jim right?” Phyllis was suddenly flustered. “Oh God. I am so sorry, I thought, you guys hang out all the time and you're talking all the time. I'm sorry!”

“It’s OK, Phyllis. I just didn’t know you thought that was a secret.”

And with that, Pam Beesly sashayed out of the party and back home to prepare the second phase of her two-phase plan.

Or rather, being Pam, she carefully made her goodbyes to everyone, apologized for leaving early, and cleaned up a few plates and dishes on her way out.

But it felt like sashaying either way.