Her phone rings as she walks towards the subway. "Hey."
"How was it?" Jim asks. His excitement is palpable on the other end.
"A lot of introductory stuff. I feel a little overwhelmed."
"I'm sure you did great. Did you make any friends?"
"Sick of me already, Halpert? There were a couple girls who were close to my age."
"You tired?"
"A little. Why?"
"I'm invading your kitchen later, Beesly."
"Fine by me. I was just about to hop on the subway and then I should be back in an hour or so. Pick me up?"
"Wow, listen to you already sounding like a city slicker." She blushes and laughs a little. "But yeah, that's perfect timing."
"Good. I'll see you in a little while."
"Bye." She smiles and slips her phone back in her pocket. Things with Jim were going well. She had been a little hesitant to jump into another relationship so soon after Roy, but they weren't taking things too seriously. They hadn't told anyone at work. They figured that would be like shooting themselves in the foot.
She and Jim hung out in the evenings, usually at his place. (He had the bigger TV.) She made fun of him for liking old folks shows like Law & Order or Jeopardy. He made fun of her for never having heard of Laguna Beach and then getting sucked in during one of those Saturday marathons. They talked about going out on a "real date," but with Pam going to New York every week, they had put it on hold.
Her parents had been surprised about Roy and pleased about the design program. Her mom kept saying she could already tell Pam was happier. She hasn’t mentioned Jim too much--a few times--telling her mom they were hanging out more.
She's enjoyed her first weekend in New York. Although a lot of it was spent indoors, she got up early on Saturday morning and found a nearby coffee shop where she sketched until noon. She loves the bustle and energy of the city. It's something new and a nice contrast to Scranton, but she's tired of sleeping in an unfamiliar room and she wants to feel Jim snake his arms around her waist as they stand in his kitchen making dinner.
On a whim, she spent some of her downtime looking at various apartment listings online. Rent was outrageous in all parts of town and the closest she could find to being reasonable was $2000 a month for a single near Columbia. She can see them cramming their things into a tiny apartment, not being able to get the couch through the door, and always smelling curry from the Indian market next door.
She looks up as the subway's brakes squeal, signifying a stop. She stands up, grabbing the bar while she waits for the doors to sigh and slide open, and she steps out of the car, smelling the damp air of the subway station. She always enjoyed coming to New York and riding the subway, wondering if she blended in as a New Yorker or if others could tell she was just a shy girl from Scranton.
She buys a magazine for the train ride home, but decides to sketch instead. She draws the long, tall grass as they pass through the Meadowlands, the brownstones she walked by on Saturday, and a quick sketch of her hotel room for Jim, biting her lip as she concentrates on the shading. She likes to leave tiny details of herself in the pictures: her reflection in the train window, her cell phone on the bed, or a barrette on the nightstand.
She had been anxious about her weekend in New York and as she steps off the train in Scranton, she feels warm and reassured. She grips her bag, her hands a little sweaty as she looks for Jim, thinking how intimate it is, picking up someone. It reminds her of something, from a movie maybe.
She spots Jim standing in the lobby, his hands in his pockets. He's looking in the other direction, but when he turns to see her, his face breaks out into a grin and he sort of jogs over to grab her bag. "Hi," she blushes as he leans down for a kiss. "I've got a question. Kind of random."
"The best kind."
"What's that thing Billy Crystal says in When Harry Met Sally about dropping off people at the airport?"
"That it only happens at the beginning of a relationship?" Jim chuckles.
"Well, I hope that's not true. But I was thinking of that, I don't know why."
"Did you ever see Forget Paris?"
"I don't think so. Is it funny?"
"Hilarious. We can watch it tonight if you want."
"That sounds great, actually. I just need to veg out."
"Long weekend, huh?"
Pam rubs her eyes as she gets into the car. "Just lots of explanations and being cooped up inside." She studies him as he slides in next to her. "I missed you."
"I couldn't tell from the five hundred calls this weekend." He rolls his eyes and she swats him on the shoulder. "I missed you too," he says more seriously.
"How was work on Friday? Did Dwight do anything interesting?" She yawns and leans her head against the window as they drive.
"Interesting? No. Weird? Always. It was pretty quiet."
Pam collapses on her couch when they get home and Jim takes her bag into the bedroom.
"No falling asleep," he calls. "I want details while I'm being your man slave."
"Man slave?" She snorts.
"Yeah, picking you up, cooking dinner." He pokes his head around the corner. She reaches up and pulls on his shirt.
"You can be my man slave anytime," she murmurs as she pulls him for a kiss.
"Maybe love slave is a better term," he breathes as he sinks down next to her. She skims her fingers across his chest, making him jump.
"Either one is acceptable." She giggles as he nuzzles her neck. Sometimes it strikes her as odd how comfortable she is with Jim already. She doesn't have anything to compare it to, really, and she knows she and Roy were young, she had been ridiculously shy, not only about what she said or did with him, but what he thought of her. Even after they had been together for so long, she sometimes felt self-conscious if Roy's friends were talking about girls, wondering if Roy would like her more if she wore different clothes or worked out more often.
It shocks her how much Jim is in awe of her, but thrills her too. It makes her feel sexy, something she would never describe herself as. She taps him on the butt as he gets up, pulling her up to help him in the kitchen, or at least keep him company while she talks about her weekend.
They talk a lot, she's noticed, and she has these fleeting moments where she's afraid she's going to tell him all her stories, but she doesn't think she would mind too much. She loves listening to him talk, his voice low in her ear, and the vibration in his chest when she's lying against him in bed.
As much as Jim teases and laughs and talks, he can be quiet too. She likes him when he's restful and thoughtful, but sometimes she looks at him or asks what he's thinking and she catches a glimpse, a crack in the veneer of funny, cheerful Jim. Instead it’s the guy who she had hurt for so long, who wears his heart on his sleeve, and who is still a little lost. She wants to fix it—the part that hurts him—but then she wonders if she would know him anymore.
She sits on the counter by the sink, swinging her legs a little as she watches him work. He hums under his breath. She smiles as she listens to him sing some unknown melody as he chops vegetables, the sudden sound of the knife on the cutting board breaking the silence. He catches her watching him and he smiles to himself, but doesn't say anything. She likes the way he looks in her kitchen. He doesn't have to stand on his tiptoes to reach where she keeps the wine glasses, and he opens drawers and cabinets easily, because he knows where everything is. When he comes over to the sink to drain the pasta, she puts her hand on his shoulder and kisses him. His fingers are a little damp from the steam as they trace along her neck and shoulder, but with the way he pulls on her bottom lip, she doesn't care.
The apartment is dim when they settle onto the couch to watch the movie, a lovely purplish indigo color she identifies with summer evenings. Jim opens a window and she can feel the cool breeze on her skin, her arms breaking out in goosebumps. He pulls her close as the opening titles come up, because he knows she'll get cold. She lets her head rest on his chest and his arm wraps around her waist, his hand splayed across her hip.
His voice deep and low in her ear makes her jump awake and she can tell by the dark, deep purple outside that it's late. The rise and fall of his chest is broken by him chuckling, because she hasn't moved. She murmurs something; she thinks she asks him to take her to bed. He assents, planting a kiss on her temple. She doesn't undress, but watches sleepily as Jim slips off his shirt and pants, the bare skin of his back standing out in the darkened room. She feels the weight of him next to her and finally allows herself to close her eyes again.
This is how it goes for a couple weeks. They try to steal moments at work, because every Thursday evening, Pam repacks her bag, and every Sunday, Jim picks her up at the train station. She's always exhausted from the weekend, but glad to be home. She tells him about making escapes into the city—down to the park to capture the blur of colors on the carousel and up to Columbia to sketch the students out on the lawn, bent over their books.
Arriving at the Scranton train station on Sunday evening, Pam looks around for Jim. The lobby of the station is by no means bustling and it's easy for her to see he's not there. She figures he's running late and goes out front to see if she can spot his car. After sitting out on the curb for twenty minutes and continuing to scour the parking lot, she starts to worry. He doesn't answer his cell phone and she has to take deep breaths to remind herself that he's probably just some place where he can't hear it. She calls the house to make sure and is relieved when Mark answers.
"Hey, Pam," he greets warmly.
"Is Jim there?" She asks, trying not to sound stressed.
"Um, yeah. Doesn't he usually come pick you up?"
"Usually," she answers, ignoring the tightness in her chest.
"I'll tell him. Can you wait another ten minutes or so?"
"Yeah, no problem." She frowns as she hangs up the phone. It wasn't like Jim to forget. Maybe his allergies had flared up over the weekend or he'd gotten some sort of virus at work.
But when a car pulls up in front of her a few minutes later, it's not Jim, it's Mark. She can't stand up. "Is—Where's Jim?"
Mark sighs as he picks up her bag. "I didn't want to tell you over the phone, Pam."
Her heart's hammering in her chest and she can't move. "Oh my God, is he okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, he's fine. He's just been really down this weekend." Mark extends a hand to her and she manages to pull herself up. Her legs are a little wobbly and Mark steadies her. "I think he got some bad news at work on Friday."
"What—what kind of news?"
"Get in the car," Mark tells her.
"Are they shutting down the branch?" She asks, holding her breath.
Mark shuts the door and looks at her. "They're transferring him."
"Oh," Pam lets out everything in a whoosh. Jim's okay, he's not hurt, he just had a bad day at work, maybe a misunderstanding with Michael. Surely they wouldn't transfer him. He's the second best salesman in the branch. "Does he know where?"
"He didn't want to talk about it." He shakes his head. "Maybe you can get him to talk."
She knocks softly on Jim's door and hears him mumble something. "I don't want to talk about it," Mark whispers, interpreting, as he heads down the hall. Pam opens the door. Jim's lying face down on his bed, dressed in athletic shorts and a cotton t-shirt, his blinds and curtains are shut to block out the light.
"Hey, it's me," she says softly. Jim rolls over to look at her. His hair is rumpled and his t-shirt is pulled up a little in the front, exposing his stomach. She has to bite back a smile, because he looks so adorable.
"Pam," he murmurs, his voice husky. "What time is it?" He asks, blinking at the clock. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I forgot to pick you up."
"It's okay," she sinks down on the bed next to him, brushing a kiss across his forehead. "Mark came to get me."
"Pam?" he asks, his voice choked. "I'm getting transferred."
"I know. I--" She shakes her head, blinking back tears at how torn up he is about this. "What happened?"
"Honestly, I don't know." he sighs. He's barely holding it together, she can tell by the slight quiver in his chin. She laces her fingers through his. His hand is warm and his thumb strokes hers, and she sighs under his touch. "They just said they needed to reduce numbers at Scranton, but they wanted to keep me in the company."
"So where are you--"
"Stamford," he finishes.
"It's closer to New York," she offers meekly.
He chuckles as he rubs his forehead. "Yeah, I guess it is." He looks at her, his eyes a little clearer now and leans back on the bed, letting out a sigh. She rests her chin on his chest, reaching up to push his hair off his forehead.
She props herself up on an elbow. "Do you want to stay at Dunder Mifflin?"
"I don't know," he breathes. "What else am I gonna do?"
She can see him doing so many things: going back to school, being a teacher or a coach, maybe even starting his own business. She tells him all these things, tracing invisible patterns on his chest, and they talk until the room grows dark, when she sits up and says she's hungry.
"Cold pizza coming right up." She laughs, a little relieved to see Jim return to his usual silliness for awhile.
He decides to try Stamford. She feels bad and is afraid he's putting off whatever he really wants to do, because he wants to let her get through her course before he throws any more major life changes her way. But when this finally comes up between them, Jim just laughs, tells her she's adorable, and kisses her. It's been hard for her thinking about Jim leaving Scranton. It's strange to think he won't be across from her at work, or next to her in the conference room, or hiding in the break room to keep her company as they wait for one of Michael's crazy ideas to blow over. He's been there since her first day and now for him to just be gone feels a little surreal.
On his last day, Pam waits for him, carrying one of his boxes down to the parking lot, biting her lip as she tries not to cry. It's silly, anyway. It's not like she won't see him ever again. He pops open his trunk and set the boxes inside. He glances at something in one of them and pulls out his yogurt lid medal. "I don't know if I can do this," he says suddenly, the sound of his voice making her jump.
She leans up against the trunk of his car, her knees shaky. "Then don't," she whispers. "Come to New York with me next month." The intensive part of her program starts in July.
"I have to," he murmurs. "At least for a little while, but," he half smiles. "We have the weekends."
"Yeah," she sniffles. "I know. I'm being silly."
He pulls her into him, big hands on her small waist, and looks up at the building. "No, you're not. There's a lot of…stuff that happened here."
"A lot," she agrees. She presses up on her toes to give him a kiss in the middle of the parking lot, because now she can.
Counting on the weekends, as it turns out, is a poor plan. They had spent a nice fourth of July weekend together in Stamford (New York was sticky and hot and crowded), but since then, work for both of them had increased. The projects for her program often kept her occupied on the weekends and Jim had some trouble adjusting to the work load in Stamford. He spent a couple Saturdays in the office, filling out various reports. She notices the hint of pride in his voice, though, when he tells her how much he's already sold.
New York was going through record breaking heat, but she barely has time to notice because she's always cooped up in the computer lab, fiddling with the graphics program.
She rarely gets to venture out into the city anymore and staring at a computer all day is not helping her creativity. She itches for a blank slate, a canvas that she can touch and feel. Her fingers tingle, wanting the feel of pencils or oil pastels, and her hands want to sketch loosely, gliding over the page, or work furiously on shading.
One afternoon she can't take sitting inside anymore. She walks up, up through Midtown and Times Square, up to Central Park. When she gets there, her feet are pounding and she collapses onto a bench. Even in the shade she can feel the unrelenting heat and she brushes back her hair, damp from sweat, into a ponytail. Something about the city has changed. Nothing sticks out at her anymore. As she surveys the people in the park, she notices how slow everyone seems to be, drowsy and damp from the heat. On the streets, everyone looks unhappy and disgruntled, walking to work in their gray suits, their feet pounding the gray concrete, as they enter into the gray buildings. There's no sparkle or enthusiasm anymore. Her chest aches for something. Maybe it's Scranton, maybe it's home, or maybe it's just something she's missing.
The next morning, she passes by a little gallery she's never noticed before. She pauses at the doorway, taking a breath before she enters. The small selections of paintings are more modern, but the brushstrokes are thin and clean. Pam is in awe of the series. She lets out a small gasp at the last painting on the wall. In one half of the canvas is a lush jungle scene, bright greens, red, and yellow orange, which leads into an outline of a girl at an easel. It's eerie yet familiar and she fishes her phone out of her bag as she steps outside.
"Jim Halpert."
"I don't think I can do this anymore." Her eyes are burning with tears.
"What?"
"The program. It's not what I want—I thought it would be different. I don't want to use a computer to create art. I want to use my hands."
"You're not happy." She sighs in relief at the sureness in his tone. It's not doubting or a haughty 'I told you so' response, it's just him and he wants her to be happy.
"No," she shakes her head. "I'm not."
"I'll come in tonight. We'll figure this out."
"Thank you." Her lip trembles as she hangs up and she goes back inside the gallery to take one of the little brochures so she can remember how she changed. She likes keeping things as a way to prove she's different now and that she likes this Pam better.
When Jim gets in that evening, she practically tackles him in the hall of her studio. He catches her, laughing, his hands already in her hair as he gives her a long kiss. She feels a little silly for calling him, because she knows she doesn't look upset, but that's only because he's here and she can't stop smiling like an idiot. Her pulse is pounding in her ear and she plants little kisses all over him. He laughs, that deep chuckle in the back of his throat. and she thinks he looks handsome, dressed in his wrinkled work clothes.
"It's been awhile, Beesly." She's glad to note that he can't stop grinning either.
"Too long," she agrees, leaning in for another kiss.
"I missed you." He murmurs and Pam's still surprised how he can make her stomach lurch when he says things like that. She shows him her digs, which takes about thirty seconds, and then he furrows his brow. "So explain to me again what you said this morning."
She shrugs, suddenly solemn. "I don't want to be here anymore. I just feel so stressed and tired and not myself, and I hate it. This isn't for me, these graphics on a computer, it's so impersonal." He's quite for a minute and she's afraid he's going to call her a quitter, but it's Jim, so of course he doesn't.
"Well, I think that's okay. I mean, you came here and you tried and you didn't like it." He shrugs. "Why do something you don't really enjoy?"
"I'm still going to take art classes because I love drawing, but that's so different from this. This just seems so cut and dry."
"Yeah, of course. I'm just really glad you applied and you came. That's so great."
She blushes. "Thanks. How's Stamford?" Jim makes a face. "You know what's wrong with Connecticut?"
Jim looks puzzled. "What?"
"I'm not there." Pam expects him to laugh or smile, but he remains stoic, his gaze trained on her.
"Are—are you leaving Scranton?"
"Oh, I don't know, Jim," she presses her hand into his, hating that she gave him false hope. "I was just being silly."
"Would you think about it? If I asked you?"
"Yes," she says carefully. He presses a gentle kiss on the corner of her lips, making her exhale shakily.
"So," his breath is hot on her neck. "Are there any good Thai restaurants around here?"
"I don't know," she murmurs, admiring the way his hair falls across his forehead. "Maybe we should stay in."
She gently smudges the aquas and greens, frowning as she tries to capture the colors in the sunset glittering on the water. Her teachers praise her and encourage her to try new mediums. She starts taking advanced courses and she tells Jim she's thinking about getting her teacher's license.
She's happy, cooking dinner in his kitchen, and going to school three nights a week. She works in a tiny gallery downtown, not too far from Dunder Mifflin. She likes Stamford. There's a nice breeze off the ocean and when they drive through neighborhoods, she can see pretty stone houses with terraces.
The week before Jim's parents are coming in for his birthday, she finds a brochure for graduate school on his nightstand.
fin
mixedberries is the author of 13 other stories.
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