Dear Jim she types and watches the cursor blink at her disparagingly. Too formal. 

The backspace button calls to her and she presses her finger down on it and starts over. 

Hi Jim and nope. Nope. That’s not it. It’s too blasé. She feels like Goldilocks, but there’s nothing that’s just right. 

It takes another twenty minutes and so many false starts that she loses track before she settles on Jim 

With that single word finalized, she takes a tea break. As the kettle boils, she seriously considers quitting her job. Michael is insisting she send this damn email because she’s the receptionist, right? So, she stops being the receptionist and problem solved. No email. It’s inspired. 

Except her rent is due next week. 

She watches the steam rise and tries to take deeper, steadier breaths. This is stupid. She shouldn’t feel so torn up about emailing Jim. 

He declared his love. She called off her wedding. That puts the ball in his court? Or maybe it’s in her court, because she didn’t tell him she called off her wedding. Kevin did though, she knows Kevin did… She’s sure Kevin told him, mostly because she strongly (and subtly, at least subtly enough to get by Kevin) suggested that he should. 

Oh god. What if he didn’t? No, that’s ridiculous. Of course Jim knows. There’s no way Michael and Dwight didn’t mention at the convention last week regardless of the whole Kevin thing.

Still, does that put the ball in her court? Probably. Definitely… All this thinking of balls and courts is stupid anyway. It didn’t matter where the ball is, because Jim has thrown his racquet in a tantrum-esque huff and stormed off the court.

That was the bottom line. She was stuck on the court by herself and Jim was out of the game. That’s what all this running away to Stamford suggested… That, coupled with him not reaching out when he heard that she called off the wedding more than confirmed that he’d moved onto the sidelines. 

The kettle whistles and she fills her teapot with a grimace. This stupid, beautiful teal teapot that stupid Jim gave her for stupid Christmas back before he derailed her stupid life. 

She leans into her anger. She lets it fuel her. She returns to her desk and lets her fingertips fly across the keyboard. 

The one word already typed mocks her. She glares at it, and finishes her stupid email. 

Jim, 

Michael asked me to forward this invite, sorry e-vite. 

I miss your stupid face.

Pam. 

She mulls it over for a moment, before changing the third line to a simple and slightly less pouty: I miss you. It‘s honest. It’s to the point. It’s doing what Michael asked.

She hits send before she can second guess it. 

Then she second guesses it. 

She forgot to mention the whole wedding thing, because can she really be sure that Kevin understood she wanted him to tell Jim, when she, you know, told him to tell Jim… 

She writes a second email. 

P.S. It’s Pam Beesly, by the way, in case you forgot who I am   

Nope, too passive aggressive. She backspaces. 

P.S. I don’t know if gossip makes it all the way out to Stamford, but I’ve got the good stuff. That Scranton receptionist? I have it on good authority that she called off her wedding. 

She hits send before she can really chicken out. If she’s on the court by herself, she may as well play a good, strong game… 

Jim’s email pings with a new alert. He ignores it, at least for the time being. Michael’s invitation isn’t going anywhere. It’s already the only thing on his mind, he doesn’t need confirmation of it to cement it into his frontal lobe. 

How can he call the office tomorrow? 

He shouldn’t be calling the office. It shouldn’t be on him. 

It’s not fair. He’s played all his cards. He’s held nothing to his chest. His hand has well and truly been revealed. 

And Pam, well, Pam threw her hand. Thinking in poker metaphors is not making this any easier on him. But, that’s where he’s at. 

Thanks to this line of thinking, images flicker through his mind in a distinctive shade of periwinkle. Images that he’s very persistently been working on erasing. 

It seems the tequila has not followed through on the promises it made him. 

He closes his eyes against the assault. Her soft I can’t and the way her gaze dropped to her hands haunt him. 

There’s nothing quite like having all your worst fears confirmed in black and white. There’s no misinterpreting that. 

The worst part is, his mind’s muscle memory had gotten so used to cataloguing every little detail when it came to her that the night where she crushed all his illusions is imprinted into his brain in perfect detail. 

He tries to blink it back now, all the memories of his lowest point. It’s all too vivid and even now, the faintest waft of her shampoo is sharp under his nose. 

It makes him feel ill. He gets up from his computer, and pours himself a mug of coffee. It’s the same trick department stores use - coffee beans to cleanse the palate between sniffing different varieties of perfume. He inhales his steaming mug deeply and attempts to think about literally anything else. 

It works, almost. And then he checks his emails… 

He almost pours the entire cup of hot coffee into his lap. Two new emails. Two new emails from Pam. 

He — 

What. He rubs his eyes. Still there. He rubs them again. There are still two new emails in his inbox. They’re still from Pam. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

Obviously he has to open them. But does he want to open them? 

He could throw his computer out the window and quit his job. That’s always an option.

What does he want Pam to say? What could she say that he wants to hear? There’s such a thing as too little, too late, right? 

His heart whispers that no, there is no such thing as too late when it comes to Pam. 

Hell, he’d probably take a deathbed confession if she reached out to him. Oh. Maybe something’s wrong? Maybe? Maybe?

He needs to stop. He’s driving himself crazy. He just needs to open the damn emails. 

What if there are two emails because she didn’t even mean to send one to him, and the second one is a retraction? That’s probably it. 

His pulse continues to race. His spiraling thoughts have done little to assuage his rapidly beating heart. 

He reaches a shaking hand out to his computer mouse and brings the cursor over the first email. 

He takes a deep breath that just feels like he’s choking on air and presses into the email. 

Jim the first line reads and his foolish heart stutters in his aching chest. His eyes trace the remainder of the message. 

Michael asked me to forward this invite, sorry e-vite. 

I miss you.

Pam. 

Michael asked her to send the email. That stings. She misses him? That soothes the sting, but also stings in its own right which is a very confusing mix of emotions. It’s her own fault she misses him - she could have reached out a million times by now. 

But, and it’s an important but, she misses him. His heart thuds clumsily as he considers it. She misses him. 

He doesn’t scroll down to Michael’s e-vite. He’s already clicking into the next message. Oh. Oh… 

P.S. I don’t know if gossip makes it all the way out to Stamford, but I’ve got the good stuff. That Scranton receptionist? I have it on good authority that she called off her wedding. 

She called off her wedding, which he already knew, but that’s not the point. She’s telling him that she called off her wedding. 

She’s playing a card? 

Michael watches as the clock ticks over to 4.45pm and feels confident that he’s given Pam more than enough time. 

“Pam the mam,” he grins at her, coming to stand at reception. 

A tiny grimace plays at her lips, but he has no idea what that’s about. Women. Such a mystery. Lucky, he’s a great detective in his own right. He’s pretty good at figuring that sort of stuff out. 

“Hi Michael,” she replies. She barely glances up from her computer. She’s a great, hardworking receptionist like that. 

He leans in closer and whispers conspiratorially, “how did you go with the super important e-vite task I set for you today?” 

“Fine,” she offers him a quick, tight smile. 

“Any replies yet?” 

She drops her gaze. “Nope,” she murmurs and it’s barely more than a whisper. 

“Huh. Not to worry. I’m sure I’ll get an answer tomorrow.” He taps his fingers on the counter. Jim always used to do that when he was up here. He was such a cool guy, always had the smooth moves. 

Pam startles at the sound, eyes flashing up to him for a moment. He must have given her a small shock. That’s all. 

“Jim wouldn’t miss something important like my condo’s birthday after all.” 

Pam offers him another barely there smile. She’s extra quiet this afternoon. Maybe she’s tired, or maybe… 

“Jim misses you, you know. He told me at the convention. I’m sure he’s dying to see you,” he pauses, thinking it over, “and me, at the party.” 

“Oh,” Pam says and goes back to staring at her computer. 

When he says goodbye to her on his way out the door ten minutes later, he swears her goodbye is a little brighter than earlier and maybe he’s gotten through to her after all. 

He rewards himself with an ice cream cone on his drive home for a job well done.