The pounding in Jim’s head was overwhelming, like a tiny marching band was playing their cadence on the surface of his brain. His chapped lips burned with remnants of Jagermeister and, as his crusted eyes cracked slowly open, he tasted bile there too. A flood of memories slowly ebbed into his consciousness.

Karen.

His bike in her trunk.

Promising not to throw up in the backseat of her car.

Throwing up on her shoes instead as she tried her best to help him up the stairs of his apartment. 

Somehow managing to crawl face first into his pillow, to then maneuver his body so that he wasn’t suffocating.

Although, lately, life seemed to be doing exactly that.

Moving to Stamford was supposed to be having the opposite effect. Connecticut was his proverbial bandage, but here he was bleeding right through it. He hadn’t planned on partaking in Andy’s Jagerbombs, but after the bomb that had landed in his lap a week ago, with Pam calling and having an hour long conversation like nothing had changed, only to end with nothing changing for real when she hung up, had his head in a state of never-ending pressure that he needed to release somehow.

And he finally did. All over Karen’s shoes. Oh well. At least she wasn’t the type to splurge on the stylish, expensive brands.

The clock on his nightstand blinked 2:28, and Jim groaned long and low, rolling over as he stuffed his pillow over his head in an attempt to block out all the noise.

But then, he realized, he didn’t know where exactly the noise was stemming from. 

Lifting his heavy head slowly from his stiff new mattress, a dull vibration echoed loudly between his ears. He followed the noise until he realized that his cell was buzzing right against the clock, the two devices shifting equally against one another so that the shuddering of plastic was doubled and therefore amplified. His only choice was to reach out and still it.

His arm felt heavy with pins and needles as he lifted and stretched it, his large palm engulfing the phone as his thumb flipped it open. The tiny light blinded him, seemingly filling the dark room. He squinted at the screen through slitted lids, doing his best to see through the hazy film that seemed content to remain over his eyes. He was all set to flip open his phone, turn the damn thing off, and go right back to attempting sleep, when he saw the notification that had woken him in the first place.

7 New Voicemails.

Alarm registered quickly, as thoughts of his parents, his siblings, his niece and nephews, immediately came to mind. But as he blinked rapidly, doing his best to read the name beside all of the red X’s of calls missed, a new alarm bell rang.

Pam.

Repeated seven times down the screen of his call log.

Pam

Pam

Pam

Pam

Pam

Pam

Pam

Each syllable thumped with the erratic beating of his heart as he fought against the screaming in his head to lay back down when he pulled his body into a seated position against the headboard.

It made sense now, why he was suddenly awake. The last missed call came in at 2:24, the voicemail following shortly after.

The sweat pooling at his hairline was a combination of several reasons. First and foremost, he was still wearing his work pants, dress shirt, hell the tie was still loosely knotted around his neck. Then, there was the fact that, if he hadn’t bothered to change into pajamas, he sure as hell hadn’t bothered to turn on the ceiling fan.

But as one bead slipped from his matted hair and followed the curve of his jaw, he realized that it was a perfect pair to his shaking hands.

Why was Pam calling him at two in the morning?

Something had to be wrong, which only caused the tension in his body to build. He paid no mind to the growing heat, the way his heartbeat echoed more loudly, more rapidly in his head as the blood rushed more quickly. He needed to know that she was okay.

The thought crossed his mind to just dial her back right away, but something about that list of voicemails tempted him. It was also his defense mechanism, as he realized that he wasn't quite sure if he could face her just yet. Voicemails, he could hide behind.

He entered his voicemail password, closing his eyes as the back of his head softly thudded against the headboard, and prepared to hear her voice again.

“Hey. Hi, Jim. It’s me. It’s Pam. Do you, did you know how many times I look up at your desk everyday? Only, Ryan’s sitting there now. It’s not you anymore Jim. I look up everyday hoping he’ll change into you, but it’s just stupid Ryan every time. I wish it wasn’t.”

It took him a moment, in her disjointed syntax and the slight slur of her words, to put the puzzle together. Seven missed calls, seven voicemails to match.

She was drunk dialing him.

He relaxed only slightly as drunk Pam continued rambling over the airwaves.

“It was so much better when you sat in that chair, Jim. And Ryan’s an ass. I hate him. He’s so…” 

She trailed off, and his anxiety came down another notch as he pictured her face scrunching, her eyes concentrating on something on the other side of the room, as the silence percolated, and she obviously thought of new ways to describe his old coworker.

“You should be in that chair,” was what she came up with, and his quick beating heart seemed to drop three feet into his stomach.

“It’s your chair. Jim’s chair. Maybe I could label it. I could take Dwight’s label maker before he gets into work. And then, then he would think Ryan took it, since Ryan sits there. Oh, you would like this prank, Jim. I’ll do it tomorrow. Or Monday. I am a little drunk right now.”

An involuntary breath of a laugh pushed through his nose in a way that was freeing, like he’d been so deprived of laughing with her that the weight on his shoulders lessened with even that simple action.

When the message clicked off, he craved the next one like an addict’s high and scrolled right on.

Hey guess what. I moved my computer so I can’t see Michael’s head. It’s working. I think I can have a career as a very specific type of decorator.

“Hey you know what? Maybe, maybe if I move my chair, I don’t have to look at him.”

She began without greeting this time, like she had simply ended the call by accident and was picking up right where they left off.

“Do you remember when you first started at Dunder Mifflin, and I had my computer on the other wall? I didn’t even have to see anyone. Those were the good old days.”

There was white static between them as he imagined her sitting and reminiscing. But then rustling filled the space, and he wondered if she was lying down and getting comfortable. He hoped, at least, that she was comfortable.

“I remember your first day. Your hair was so long. It was so long, Jim! Like a skater boy. You know, like Avril Lavigne says? He was a skater boy, I said see you later boy. He wasn’t good enough for her.”

The impromptu karaoke threw him off almost as much as the snort that emitted at the end, and he was grinning even wider now.

“Ahh,” she sighed, and the picture in his head had her laying back into her pillows, settling down and closing her eyes dreamily as the silence wrapped him in comfort.

“He was good enough for her, though. You, I mean. You’re the skater boy here. I’m making a metaphor. Like in fifth grade reading class.”

It jolted his eyes open, a twitch in his neck tossing off his comfort blanket. But not long enough for him to decipher before she began again.

“You were the reason I turned my desk chair around. I don’t think I ever told you that. Well. Now you know.”

Suddenly, she was going from wistful and carefree to trailing on the edge of a slightly angry tone. He felt guilty, like he himself had put it there.

Sudoku. Level: Moderate. Time: 18 minutes. Suck on that Halpert. 

“Hey suck face. You know what I did the other day? I made it a whole day without crying over you. A whole. Day. Suck on that, Halpert. You don’t, you don’t own me, you know? You don’t. You don’t.”

The ending of the call was abrupt, much like the immediate swelling in his throat, the sharp intake of breath. Because while the end of the call had been quick, the hitch in her voice said that it wasn’t painless.

I’ll transfer you. Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam. Hold please. Dunder Mifflin, this is-- Okay, sorry, Michael was standing at my desk and I needed to be busy or who knows what would’ve happened. So thank you. 

“I get so bored now, Jim. At work a lot, but like...life in general is boring. It’s just...I’m taking an art class. Did you know that? But it’s not exciting because I don’t get to tell you all about it. I want to. I want to call you tell you about it all the time but I just...I don’t know. I’m scared? That you don’t want to hear about it? I’m...scared that you don’t want to talk to me anymore. Is that why you didn’t answer me right now? Because you don’t want to talk to me anymore, Jim?”

He wanted to be proud of her in that moment, for taking the art class and finally pursuing her dream. But instead, the overwhelming sensation of sadness weighed on him like a truck, carried his head into his palm as her admission brought him to the edge of a spiral.

Hey what’s that word we made up for when you have a thing stuck in your shoe. Anyway, I have a thing stuck in my shoe. 

“Sometimes, when I’m sittin’ by myself, I think about how we used to make up words for things. And they didn’t make any sense to anyone but us. Remember when we were an us? I don’t have anything like that anymore.”

Hey, I have a chance to sneak out of here early and I’m not messing this up, so I’ll see you tomorrow.

“So I think, I think I’m gonna call off work tomorrow. I messed up with the alcohol tonight. I don’t feel so good, Jim. I won’t get to prank Dwight after all. ‘m sorry, Jim. I let you down. Again.”

He could still hear the tears in her voice, and now she was sniffling. The image in his head morphed, from Fancy New Beesly in her Fancy New Apartment, to Fancy Drunk Beesly lying on her Fancy New Bed, her eyes rimmed crimson while she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. The need to be there, to be next to her, to rub her back and soothe her grew more urgent. 

Calling from my cell phone. I don’t know if you guys figured out who did that to Michael’s carpet yet, but I have a theory that involves an interdepartmental conspiracy--everybody in the office. We need to talk.

“Jim?”

Her voice was small, now, like she was afraid of what he would say if he was on the other end.

“I...did you know that I called off my wedding? ‘Cause everybody else does. The whole office. Somebody had to tell you. I thought maybe Kevin would, or Phyllis maybe. Or Dwight? He misses you, you know. Promise.”

At this, he chuckled, glad for the moment to break up the sadness that choked his heart.

“Maybe the whole office hates me. That wouldn’t be so crazy would it? On account of ‘cause I’m a bad person and all?”

She paused long enough for him to respond in his head, to scrunch his eyebrows and say What are you talking about? She continued as if he’d really uttered the words aloud.

“Because we...like, I cheated on Roy.”

It was an actual whisper this time, like she was still in Roy’s house trying to protect herself.

“I kind of did. I mean, we were engaged and then you and me...we...well, you know.”

His laughter now was ironic, because somewhere in Scranton, Pennsylvania, as her drunken self switched rapidly between anger, sadness, and childlike pondering, he focused on the latter, because somewhere in Scranton, Pennsylvania, in the middle of all of that, she was sheepishly referring into their night of kisses as you know, and for some reason, that was adorable to him.

“Maybe that’s why no one told you that I called off the wedding? Because I’m a bad person and I don’t deserve to...I didn’t deserve for you to…maybe there’s a...conspiority or...something.”

His mind went off in thirty different directions, trying to process the range of her emotions, the near confession coupled with the self-blame and loathing. All the while, part of his brain was still trying to picture her: the way her eyes were probably rolling up at the end as she stumbled over mispronunciations. He laughed in spite of himself.

“Anyway...it sucks. Because I could’ve just called you myself. I should’ve just called you myself. Jim? I...fuck.”

He wasn’t used to her cursing. Wasn’t used to her crying. So he definitely wasn’t used to the way her voice bit as she uttered that last word, wasn’t prepared to hear her voice hitch in the dead space for a fleeting moment before the line went dead, wasn’t at all prepared to watch his own hand reach out into the empty air to catch her before she fell even though she wasn't really there.

He was on the edge of breaking himself, his toes dangling, when suddenly, his phone was coming to life in his palm, a brand new call lighting up the screen with the only syllable in the English language that brought him to his knees.

Pam.

He was still in shock, reeling from all that the alcohol had pulled out of her system and into his voicemail box tonight. The call buzzed around his palm, waking up his every nerve ending. 

He gulped, sitting up straighter as his shaking thumb poised over the green button and accepted the call.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” greeted him to the tune of real, actual crying. “I just...I just miss you, and...and I can’t even take it anymore.”

It caught him off guard, the raw emotion that was taking the cracks of his heart, simultaneously piecing them together and tearing them wide open all over again. His jaw fell. He had no idea what to say. Still partially convinced that he was dreaming, he pinched himself, flinching when a dull pain oozed into the spot on his arm that now bore the crescent shape of his nails.

“I can’t, I can’t take it, because you might hate me, and I don’t think I can, I don’t think I...you can’t hate me Jim. You can’t...you can’t hate me when you just loved me yesterday, and now when I finally want to say it back...you can’t…”

He still had yet to say a word. And the more she confessed, the more he began to realize that if he didn’t stop her crying soon, he was going to get in a car still half drunk and drive two hours back to Pennsylvania and hold her until it was all done.

He pulled out the only syllable that he could even fathom at that point.

“Pam?”

“I...what?”

It wasn’t quite what he expected, but the crying seemed to stop for the moment as her realization unfolded.

“Hey, Pam, are you…”

“Jim? Are you...I thought this was your machine again...I--”

“No, no, it’s...I’m here.”

She was silent, but he could hear her breathing, snotty and quick as she sniffled and no doubt tried to ground herself. He waited, closing his eyes as he licked his chapped lips and caught a stray tear on its way down his cheek, willing her to be okay and to just--

“I’m sorry.”

With his eyes still closed, he could picture her eyes sealing shut, squeezing out the tears as her squeaky voice apologized for absolutely no reason at all.

“For what?” he breathed, keeping his eyes closed in an effort to see her as they spoke.

“For...I’m drunk, Jim.”

“Yeah, Beesly, I gathered that,” he chuckled as the Pam in his mind folded into herself like a child being scolded. But the Jim in his head was there, was reaching out a hand to show that--

“It’s okay, Pam. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“But I called you like...probably a hundred times tonight.”

“It was only seven,” he brushed off, their hands linking in his mind, as her chin rose enough for him to see that her eyes were still wary. “Well, technically eight now, but…”

“Eight’s a lot though too, maybe.”

“Yeah, but maybe not.”

He tugged on her hand in his mind then, her head raising slightly more with each affirmation.

“I’m...sorry for waking you up then.”

“Nah, don’t be,” he encouraged. In his head, they were seated next to each other on her bed. His legs were stretched all the way to the end, just as they were in his own bed. He tugged on her hand, pulling their sides flush as their bodies faced forward. “I actually, uh...I fell asleep in my clothes. Your wake up call got me into my pajamas. Or, at least it will after we hang up.”

“Oh my god, Jim. You’re not going to...strip on the phone...are you?”

He could see her cheeks turning pink beneath curls that were probably starting to fall this late at night.

“No,” he chuckled. “What kind of phone call do you think this is Beesly?”

“Mmm...Beesly. I’ve missed that.”

He chuckled more softly, reveling in the way she skipped around their conversation in her drunken state. They hung again in silence until he couldn’t stand to not hear her voice.

“So...you uh...how much exactly did you drink tonight?”

“Oh, I had some wine, Jim. There was lots of wine.”

With his eyes still closed, she was nodding over exaggeratedly.

“Apparently,” he chuckled. “And, uh...why was there so much wine, exactly?”

In his head she was hesitating now, turning her head away to mask her emotions in his mind. He wanted to see so badly what expression she wore as all of her walls came crumbling down. But he didn’t push, only sat patiently, realizing that if he had to stay awake until the sun peeked over the horizon that he wouldn’t hesitate in doing so. 

“Because of you,” she finally admitted, though it was low enough that he could barely hear. “It was because of how, you know when I texted you tonight and then you didn’t answer? That’s why I had so much wine.”

Mind Pam was sitting up a little straighter now; though her eyes focused on her lap, her posture exuded a newfound courage.

“I was sad that you didn’t text me back so I had a pity party because sometimes you’re allowed to feel sorry for yourself. Did you know that, Jim?”

He chuckled again, letting his tongue gather another stray tear.

“Yeah, I hear that pity parties can be good for you. I’ve had my fair share of them myself lately.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “It’s on account of me isn’t it?”

He hesitated as he pondered his options, deciding to follow her down the path of candor that the night had taken on.

“Yeah. Yeah, Pam, a few of them were definitely on account of you.”

“Only a few?”

“Well, yeah. There were a couple Sixers induced pity parties along the way, too.”

“Oh. Good,” she breathed, and because she was still drunk, she thought he was serious, so he was laughing quietly to himself when she continued. “Maybe next time we should just book the parties together. The pity parties, I mean.”

“Good thinking,” he agreed. “It’s probably more environmentally friendly that way.”

“Right. Save the trees. And the beets! Oh my god, Dwight would be proud of us, Jim!”

He found the constant stream of laughter refreshing, realizing that at almost three o’clock in the morning, he probably wasn’t ready yet to decipher all of her messages and all of her bombshells. This, he could do.

“Hey, listen, Pam, I don’t mean to...it’s like, really late, and--”

“Oh, you should probably--”

“Oh, no, I just thought you…”

As their words tangled together, he drifted back to a week prior, when their phone call had ended without closure and a million other questions were tacked onto his list. He didn’t want tonight to end that way.

“Pam, are you...are you okay?”

She was silent, and he leaned forward, resting his forehead in his palm as he listened to her breathing and pretended to be there with her.

“I...well no, not really.”

He let out a low hum, breath pushing out of his nose in a long stream as he tried not to crawl into the phone to get to her.

“I’m just really sad that you’re gone, and I wanted you to know that.”

Her voice was so small, and he could tell by the way that her words came out slowly that she was doing her best to take back control from the wine. 

“I miss you too, Pam,” he finally admitted. It was the best choice, the easiest one to make right now, surely better than, I loved you yesterday and I still love you today and please just be here with me now. That could wait for the sober light of day.

“Well, we should probably fix that then.”

It was there again, the sudden change in inflection as he pictured her eyes popping out, her eyebrows climbing on her forehead in a way that screamed Duh, Halpert! He pinched the bridge of his nose in a way to keep himself grounded to his bedroom instead of out of bed and climbing into his car.

“Yeah, probably,” he chuckled. “But probably not tonight, though.”

“Aww. Well that’s dumb.”

“It kind of is,” he agreed lightheartedly.

“Then what about, maybe we could fix it tomorrow?”

His heartbeat was back to being erratic, and he was no longer in his head with his real eyes closed and his pretend eyes trying to read her, because her real self was making plans, and suddenly, he didn’t know what to do. Here she was, albeit drunk, but making confessions that he had only ever heard as monologues that he’d written in his head, where he gave her the script, and their movie had a happy ending every time. Now that it was potentially becoming his reality, he was stuck.

“Unless, you’re still mad at me and you don’t--”

“No, no, that’s not it,” he quickly amended. “I’m just...thinking.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I’m just sittin’ here, so let me know when you’re done. Maybe I could brush my teeth while you think.”

It was the push his body needed to relax, because much to his amusement, she really did get up, bring the phone with her into the bathroom, and began clumsily brushing her teeth. He pieced his thoughts together while imagining her in his bathroom instead, taking her toothbrush from its place next to his in the cup while he waited for her in bed.

When the faucet turned off and she said, “Alright, Halpert, I’m all done. How’s the thinking going over there?” he was as ready as he was ever going to be.

“It’s going alright, I think,” he began, listening for the rustle of her sheets to stop before continuing. “So, I think that tonight was...I’m glad you called, Pam. But…”

“Aww, crap. There’s always a but, isn’t there?”

He chuckled, wishing he could be there to tuck a fallen curl beneath her ear, to cup her cheek and look into her big green eyes as he promised her tomorrow.

“I think that you’re drunk, and I’m kind of still drunk, and--”

“Wait, oh my god, you’re drunk too? Jim! What are we going to do with us?”

“Hey,” he managed as laughter awakened his lungs, “can it over there, Beesly. I’m better off than you are, at least.”

“Sorry. Shutting up.”

“Anyway,” he continued. “We can definitely fix it tomorrow. Because I’m going to call you tomorrow. And we’re going to talk about all of this when we’re both sober. How does...that sound to you?”

“It sounds like Dream Jim is playing mean tricks on me again.”

He cocked an eyebrow to no one in particular.

“But you’re real Jim, right?”

“I am real Jim,” he nodded, not entirely caring that she couldn’t see him.

“And real Jim is going to call me tomorrow?”

“Real Jim is going to call you tomorrow.”

“When I’m not so drunk?”

“Right, when you’re not so drunk,” he chuckled, his head spinning as he wondered if he was talking to Dream Pam after all.

“Okay. ‘Cause I would really like that.”

She sounded so childlike, as he pictured her curling her body into herself under the covers, the comforter folded under her chin as she cuddled the phone closely.

“I would really like it, too.”

He let his entire body sink against his bed then, his head cradled by a pillow while the sheets hugged his frame. He closed his eyes, listening to her breathe as he said a silent prayer that this wasn’t all a dream, that she would still feel the same way in the morning.

“Hey Jim?” she said, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Yeah?”

“Just...because I don’t know if I’ll remember to say this tomorrow. You know, without the wine…”

He waited on baited breath.

“It’s the same time zone, Jim. But I hate how far away we are.”

He struggled to hold it together as the grip he had on his phone tightened. Biting his lip to keep himself sane, he nodded quickly, pushing a stream of air through his nose.

“I fucking hate it, too, Pam.”

He could hear the tears in her laughter, but didn’t have to wonder long.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that word.”

“Good,” he laughed, shaking his head as his own tears slipped past. “Then you know how serious I am.”

Her breathing became his soundtrack over the next several minutes as he chose not to sit and process, but rather, to enjoy her overwhelming presence. There would be time for processing tomorrow, he realized. But for now, his body needed her to survive, and he absorbed her, breathed her in like oxygen, and let himself remember what it really felt like to exist.

When he heard her breathe sharply and mumble a sleepy Sorry, he chuckled.

“Getting sleepy over there?”

“A little,” she managed, and he heard her adjust her position.

“Get some sleep then,” he said, his voice soft and sweet as he tried to push back the thought that he wasn’t able to wrap himself around her as her breathing slowed for the night. Not yet, anyway.

“I just like being here with you though. I don’t want to hang up and lose you again.”

“You won’t,” he interjected, each syllable so thick with promise that he hoped she could feel it in her bones. “You won’t, Beesly.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

It was their goodbye, their see you later, as his near dead phone clicked shut before he put it on the charger.

He knew the hangover wouldn’t come, because suddenly he was immensely sober. As Pam ran through his veins, he closed his eyes and willed her image back into his room, into his bed, her head on his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around her, around the promise that tomorrow would bring.