He’s pretty damn sure Karen has just dumped him. 

Even though the reason he’d started dating her in the first place was to try to get over Pam, he really did want this relationship to work out. But he doesn’t know what the right thing to do is anymore. His brilliant plan didn’t work. He’s not over Pam.

And now Karen knows it. 

He should be sad, or upset, or feel some kind of real loss. But now that it’s over between them he instead feels an unanticipated sense of relief; he doesn’t have to lie to her anymore, he doesn’t have to pretend. 

Karen will be upset, though. She’ll feel betrayed, and she wouldn’t be wrong. She’ll probably hate him, and he’ll probably deserve it. He can’t even blame her. He’s not the biggest fan of himself right now. 

After the way she’d left the conference room earlier without a word, he expects her to feel all of these things, to think all of these things. Maybe to never speak to him again. What he does not expect is to find her sitting outside his building when he gets home from work. 

Karen looks over at him from her perch on his front steps as he approaches, her purse slung across her lap, her eyes red and puffy. He hates that this is all his fault; that because of his actions, she’s crying. That she’s become collateral damage of something that has nothing to do with her, something he should have been able to resolve on his own months ago. 

“Hey,” he says, which feels dumb, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

She sniffles a bit, but he knows her pretty well by now. She smoothly shifts into her game face. 

“We need to talk,” she says.

He blinks. “You mean talk, as in… break up?” 

She looks at him, surprised. Hurt, even. “Is that what you want? You want to break up?”

He doesn’t even know what he wants anymore. “I guess... I just figured this was over.”

She stands up. “I want to figure out a way to move past all this. Don’t you?”

He wants to. God, he wants more than anything to move past all this. But how? Is it fair to Karen to make her wait in the wings while he wills his feelings for Pam to just… disappear?

“I’m not sure what to say,” he says honestly.

“I want you to tell me what’s going on, Jim,” she continues. She doesn't use his first name like this, typically. It's weird. “Between you and her. If we want to make this work, you need to be honest with me.”

He doesn’t want to hurt her, that’s the last thing he wants to do. He doesn’t want to torch this relationship, either. But everything feels so hopeless right now. Dating Karen is like singing a song he doesn’t know; he wants it to sound right, he just can’t find the melody.

Karen watches him closely and he tries to look ahead, tries to look past a point where he can see this actually working, the way Karen wants it to work. He wasn’t lying when he’d talked to Michael about rebounds at the Christmas party. That’s what this is, it’s what it’s always been, and he was the one who made the mistake of fooling himself into believing it might shape up differently. Back in Stamford, when he was far away from Pam, he felt like things were actually getting better. But here in Scranton, she’s no longer just a ghost. She’s real again, and it seems like everything is only getting worse.

It doesn’t matter how much he likes Karen: she isn’t Pam. But she’s holding onto this relationship so tightly it feels like she’s pulling it out of his own grasp, out of his control.

Did he ever have control?

“I really want to try,” Karen says. “Don’t you?”

She looks up at him with hope in her eyes that’s painfully familiar. He thinks of himself last May, hearing Pam tell him no, and just wishing so hard she’d change her mind. That she’d give him a chance.

Maybe he should give this a chance, a real chance. He owes it to both of them to try. Doesn’t he?

He reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder, gives it a squeeze, forcing a smile.

“Yes, I do.”

She smiles tightly and nods. He can see relief cross her features but she hasn’t let her walls back down quite yet. 

Jim unlocks his front door and lets her in, throws his jacket over the back of the couch, drops his messenger bag onto the floor. She walks around to the other side of his coffee table, arms crossed. He remains behind the couch like it’s some kind of protective force field, arms at his sides.

“So... what exactly do you want to know?” 

“I want to know what happened here before you left Scranton,” she says. “Everything. How you left things with her. Because I think I deserve to know exactly what I’m walking into every day. You owe me that, at least.”

He takes a deep breath. She’s absolutely right, but he doesn’t even know where to start. His relationship with Pam can’t be wrapped up into a pretty little anecdotal package that ended with a neatly tied bow. And he certainly doesn’t want to tell Karen everything that happened, particularly what happened last May. It still feels sacred, something that’s his and hers alone. Sharing it with Karen feels like sacrilege.

“She was with someone else,” he says. “You know that guy Roy? Works in the warehouse?”

He omits the information that they’d been engaged. Revealing she’d canceled her wedding after he left might indicate this situation has a level of seriousness even he can’t comprehend. 

Karen looks surprised. “Wait, what? When was this?”

He sighs. “Right before I transferred. I was already all set to leave. We were at a party, you know, and basically, I told her I…” — he downgrades the truth, again — “...had a crush on her, and she just…” he scrambles for what to say. Does he tell her they kissed? That Pam kissed him back?

That at no point in this story does the part where he got over her ever take place?

“Well… we kissed.”

Karen flinches. “You kissed Pam?”

He nods.

“Like, a kiss kiss?”

“Yeah, but that was it.”

That was it.

She looks confused. “But… you told me she didn’t feel the same way.”

“She didn’t,” he says. It’s the one thing he’s certain of. “She doesn’t.”

Karen looks skeptical. He knows what she’s thinking, because it’s the same thing he’s been thinking for months: he and Pam kissed. It had been a two-way street, if only for just those few seconds. He doesn’t know exactly how to tell her that what he’d felt from Pam while he kissed her and what she’d told him after it happened was the most intense emotional whiplash he’d ever experienced in his life. That the incongruity of her actions and words still haunt him to this day. So he leaves that part out.

“So… you made a move on her while she was with someone else and she told you no? That’s not really what you said before.”

He pauses, considering. It’s sort of the truth, but what makes it a lie is still burned into his brain: that reciprocity. Her hand on his chest, on the back of his neck, the way her lips moved against his: tentatively at first, yes, but then very deliberately. She hadn’t said no, at least not right away.

“It was just a kiss.” 

Just a kiss. And on the long list of diversions and dodges and omissions, it’s the biggest lie he’s told his girlfriend thus far.

Karen looks at him dubiously, like she's searching his face for the lie again. He’s been lying to her since the day he met her, of course: by presenting himself as available, as someone dateable, someone in good working order. But the other day in the coffee shop was the first time she’d actually caught him in one. The fact that she’s starting to hone this particular skill makes him uncomfortable.

He tries to read her expression. Is she buying any of this? Part of him hopes she does, part of him hopes she doesn’t. The biggest part of him wishes he’d never gone out with her in the first place.

“Karen-”

“I feel so stupid,” she huffs, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table, her back slightly to him. “I told her things about us. Personal stuff. And she never said a word about any of this.”

He isn’t necessarily surprised that Pam hadn’t mentioned any of this to Karen. Why would she? But he can’t help feeling a tiny thrill inside that perhaps that moment, that kiss, was just as sacred to Pam as it is to him. Then he immediately chastises himself for even entertaining such a notion, for continuing to allow these tiny slivers of hope to weave their way into his mind.

Karen twists her neck around to look at him. “I told her at the Christmas party she should go out with Roy, and do you know what she said about that stuff you just told me? Nothing.”

He shrugs. “I guess it’s just… a little awkward for her. Or maybe she just doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal. I don’t know.”

“Well, you should have told me.”

He nods. She’s right. He’s the one who encouraged her to follow him to Scranton. He’s the one who told her just the other day that he’s glad she’s here. He’s the one who had decided to jump into this relationship with her when he was nowhere near ready. 

“You’re right, I should have told you. I guess, at the time, I just thought maybe… you’d be weird about it. Since we all work together.”

She looks contemplative, and he thinks of what she’d asked him today, the way she’d just come out and said what was on her mind. He admires that part of Karen a lot, probably more than anything else.

Do you still have feelings for her?

He’s tried so hard for months to forget all of this, all of Pam. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and coming back to Scranton, directly into this entanglement between the three of them, was probably not the best way to do that. But all it took was one good prank, one good laugh for him to realize the truth: that today is the first time he’s really felt like himself in months. And he liked it.

Yes, he still has feelings for Pam. Yes, he’s still in love with her. 

Yes, he never stopped loving her.

He’s angry now, but not at Karen. And not at Pam, either. He can’t be mad at Pam for any of it. It’s not her fault he chose to throw himself back into a situation he knew would be trouble. 

And it’s not her fault she doesn’t love him back.

Karen eyes him closely, as if she sees right through him. Then she asks him the question he dreads most of all. 

“Do you want to be with me, Jim? Really?”

He could say no. He could end this right now. But then where would he be? He’d be in the exact same place he was eight months ago: stuck at the same job, pining after the same woman, with absolutely nothing to show for it. 

Karen’s been so up front about this, so honest. So magnanimous about his embarrassing admission, and she wants to be with him so much she’s willing to try and look past it. She’s making an active effort. He should, too. Doesn’t he deserve a fresh start?

He wants to get over Pam. He wants to, badly. The only thing he wants more is to be with her, and that isn’t going to happen.

“Yes,” he tells Karen soberly, and he truly believes he’s telling her the truth. “I really do.” 

She nods, tears welling in her eyes, and moves over to the couch, climbing onto it, facing him, taking his hand over the back of the headrest. 

“Then I think it’s time we really opened up to each other,” she says. “Lay everything on the table, and see where this can go. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, and he puts his arms around her, feeling immense relief. He isn’t sure if the source of the relief is Karen not being mad at him anymore, or if it’s just that he doesn’t have to look her in the eyes anymore. But the feel of her arms around him right now is more welcome than he would have even imagined an hour ago.

“We’re gonna be okay,” she says into his ear. He wants to believe her.

He considers telling Karen “I love you.” He has a sneaking suspicion it’s what she wants to hear, what she needs to hear to trust him again. 

But he doesn’t love her, not yet. And he will not lie to her about that.

Maybe he’s been an asshole, but he isn’t going to be that kind of asshole. 

***

Jim awakens groggy, his head pounding. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d had so much alcohol. He isn’t much of a drinker anyway, and he’s surprised he’d let the night get away from him like that.

Water. He needs water. 

He makes his way to the kitchen, noticing his bicycle is parked in his living room. It’s not where he usually keeps it, but he guesses that makes sense in this kind of situation. 

Bits and pieces of the night before come back to him as he puts his hands to both temples. He remembers singing Indigo Girls with Andy most of all, because as drunk as he’d been, the irony of singing about how close he was to fine wasn’t lost on him. 

He then remembers passing out, climbing into Karen’s car, laying down on the backseat, passing out again, then not much after that. Clearly he’d arrived home intact and somehow made it to his bedroom, and he suspects she’s to thank for that.

He grabs a glass from his kitchen cabinet and fills it to the brim, gulps down the entire thing. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a note on the counter.

Morning, Halpert. Drink lots of water. And maybe stay 

off the bike for a while. See you Monday. :)

He smiles, warmed by her concern for him. He has a friend now, an actual friend, and for the first time since he’s arrived in Stamford he feels like he can properly acknowledge that.

He wants to text her a thank you, just to let her know he’s grateful for everything she’d done, and to reassure her he’s feeling better. He instinctively pats his pants pockets, the ones he’d worn last night, realizing he hadn’t taken them off, but can’t find his phone. For a moment he panics, then realizes he probably put it in his jacket pocket. Looking around, he isn’t sure where the jacket is, then he sees it thrown over the back of his couch. 

He reaches into the pocket, pulls out his phone, and sees something he absolutely does not expect.

Message received: Beesly

Michael just proposed to his girlfriend in front of an entire auditorium of strangers. (Spoiler alert: she said no.)

He blinks, stunned. It’s the first text message Pam has sent him since he left, and his heart reacts instantly, practically falling into his stomach. 

It had taken weeks for him to text enough people to bump her name down low enough to where he didn’t have to see it on the home screen every time he flipped open his phone. Now, he’s annoyed that he’s going to have to reach out to people he doesn’t want to talk to in order to get it off the screen again. 

He hasn’t been able to erase her number, can’t bring himself to do it. He’d been hoping she would contact him for weeks and as every day passed with no indication she was even interested in talking to him again — her best friend — he could physically feel his heart hardening. When he’d learned she’d called off her wedding and still no call came, it had practically turned to stone.

The other night when they’d finally spoken on the phone, all of that changed.

He looks at the text again, reads it a few times. She’d sent it last night. He can practically hear it in her voice, which makes him ache, since it’s the way she should be telling him this bit of gossip. In person. In the kitchen, or the break room, or maybe the parking lot.

God, that fucking parking lot.

He doesn’t want to do it, really, but the temptation is too great not to scroll up and read some of her older messages. 

Message received: Beesly

Nice job. Impressive as usual. 

The message was sent in May, of course. He searches his memory for context and remembers: she’d sent this one right after their impromptu mind-control prank on Dwight. 

He scrolls up a bit more.

Message received: Beesly

Roxanne is playing in the grocery store, and I started humming along. Thinking I might have to give Scrantonicity a chance after all.

Message received: Beesly

They’re having a 2 for 1 on fabric softener, you good? ;-)

Unable to help himself from cracking a smile, he closes the phone and puts it back into his pocket, unsure of what to do next. He wants to text her back more than anything, but he also knows doing so would be taking a step backwards, not forwards.

She just wants to be his friend, of course. She isn’t interested in more. And if that’s the case, can he be happy with just Pam’s friendship? Can he have her back in his life this way? Just a tiny digital presence, a bunch of ones and zeroes that will never amount to anything real? Could he get used to living inside that friendship without a shred of hope?

And if any of this is possible, is he even ready for it?

As if compelled by a force stronger than his doubts, he takes the phone back out of his pocket, opens it, and reads Pam’s message again. 

It’s an odd comfort to know that she had a reason to text him, an excuse. This isn’t some kind of signal or proposition, as much as he’d like it to be. They are so far past that he can’t even see the possibility in the rearview anymore.

Maybe it’s safe to text her back. Maybe not texting her back would have more meaning than if he does. 

He starts composing a reply. He types it out, erases it, retypes it and edits it until he thinks he has something he’s happy with.

Wait, do you mean Carol the realtor?

His thumb hovers above the “send” button for a long time before he finally presses it. He tosses the phone down onto the coffee table like a loaded gun and stares at it, waiting. Within thirty seconds, she texts back.

Message received: Beesly

Yes!! It was so awkward, he was so upset. But I felt kind of bad for him.

He’s so shocked by her prompt reply, he doesn’t know what to say next. 

He completely understands why she’d texted him this particular bit of information about Michael. There was probably no one else who could understand the humor of it the way he could. But at the same time, there's something profoundly sad about Michael Scott's particular brand of self-sabotage, and while most people might brush it off as absurd or unworthy of compassion, he and Pam -- together -- always seemed to just sort of get it.

He looks at the clock: it’s 7:30. He tries not to imagine her laying in bed, alone, holding her phone, waiting for his response, but surely that’s exactly where she is, what she’s doing. He can’t delay too long, or she’ll think he’s deliberately avoiding her.

He composes another message, double checks it, then hits “send.”

Sounds very… Michael.

Immediately:

Message received: Beesly

It really was. I think you would have enjoyed it.

He waits for at least two minutes, then realizes that her last message hadn’t really left the door open for either of them to say anything further. This could very well be the end of it. He’s relieved and devastated all at once. But then the phone vibrates once again.

Message received: Beesly

Sorry we got cut off the other night, btw. Dwight took Ryan on a sales call together and when they got back Ryan looked like he’d really been put through the wringer. 

The relief wins out. This is okay, he thinks. We’re just chatting. What’s so wrong with that? He types his reply.

At least he didn’t end up dead in the woods somewhere.

He waits again, and is rewarded again.

Message received: Beesly

Well, now I don’t have to give you 30 bucks. ;-)

He grins, remembering a bet they’d made last year. Ryan was still a temp and Pam had insisted he’d leave Dunder Mifflin before becoming a salesman. Jim knew better.

There’s still time.

She doesn’t reply right away, and he doesn’t want to be the last one texting. So he sends another.

Maybe I should call Ryan and warn him about Dwight?

A minute or so passes, and he worries he’s pushed too far. Maybe she won’t respond again. But soon enough:

Message received: Beesly

I think it’s a little late for that, unfortunately. :-/

He can’t help but smile. He misses her so much, and talking to her again only reminds him exactly how much. He still aches for the “more” he’s been so accustomed to wanting, but if he can’t have that, maybe they can still be friendly, at least. And if he keeps her at an appropriate distance, maybe he can live with that.

He sends one last message, because this has been enough for today. It’s been just enough to convince him that he might actually be able to do this.

Gotta get ready for work. Bye

He considers adding a smiley face to the end of the message, but that’s something the old Jim would do. The Jim who was hopelessly, pathetically in love with her would do that. And he doesn’t want to be that Jim anymore.

He waits for a couple minutes, wishing he could just set the phone down and get ready for work without being on the edge of his seat. Finally, her last message comes through. 

Message received: Beesly

Talk to you later. 

Later. 

She’s left him an opening, she’s given him permission to talk to her again. When they’d spoken on the phone a few days ago it was wonderful, but completely unexpected. And it had ended rather abruptly. After so much time not knowing what was appropriate, not even knowing if she actually wanted to talk to him again at all, this seemingly insignificant “talk to you later” is a small morsel of hope he never thought he’d possess.

He sets the phone down to go get ready for work. His headache is inexplicably gone, and he suddenly feels better than he has in a long time. 

He gets dressed, not realizing he’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

***

She isn’t sure what to make of his last text. 

Message received: Jim

Gotta get ready for work. Bye

He’s pulling away from her again, she can tell. He’d sounded so much like himself on the phone the other night she’d almost convinced herself everything might go back to the way it was before, that maybe there’s still hope for them. Maybe they could salvage this and start over.

Now, she isn’t so sure. 

She composes her goodbye, then looks at it. 

Talk to you later. I miss you.

Her thumb trembles above the “send” button. It shakes so violently that she decides it must mean this is a mistake. 

It’s definitely a mistake. She can’t be brave today.

She deletes the second part of the message. 

***

She’s dreaming about it again. The Kiss.

Last night she’d fallen asleep on her couch watching one of the Lord of the Rings movies, half paying attention, half thinking about her kiss with Jim. It’s been sort of her routine lately. She doesn’t remember the last time she made it through a movie without completely losing the plot halfway through. 

She’d absorbed enough, however, to make a strange comparison: that their kiss is perhaps her own personal One Ring; a treasure she carries with her day after day, and while it’s the most powerful thing she’s ever encountered, it weighs on her, drains her. Makes her weak. 

It’s painful, but she still clings to it, unable to relinquish the memory. Her precious. 

Maybe it’s dumb, but she can’t get it out of her head. Maybe she needs to talk to Dwight, the resident expert, about this. 

Maybe not.

In any event, the dreams have been coming to her more frequently lately. Their kiss starts out softly, gently, the way she remembers it really happening. She’d never been kissed like that in her life: like she was the only thing that mattered, like she was, in fact, precious to him. Only now can she really appreciate how difficult it must have been for Jim to do it at all, to make that forbidden move. How brave he had to be. How important this must have been to him.

How important she must have been to him.

Reality soon ends and melds into fantasy, what she now wishes she’d done instead. She pulls him in close, her fingers gripping the base of his skull, showing him with her body what she's been unable to articulate for years. The kiss goes on for an eternity, like a looping video in her mind: his hands, the same ones that would always slap her a high five in friendship and safety, now warm around her delicate waist. His lips, the same ones that could always elicit a laugh with a grin or a joke, now eliciting a hushed moan of pleasure. She could live and die in it: what might have been. 

Eventually, they pause to catch their breath. His eyes sparkle with utter amazement.

You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that, he says. 

Me too, she replies. It’s the last time she told Jim the truth. She’d wanted to kiss him for a long time, it was simply something she’d filed away years ago as off-limits. 

Tonight, in her dream, she will remedy that. 

I want to do it again, she says this time. I want to do it forever.

He enthusiastically complies, and her lips cling to his once again, feeling so right, so perfect. He breathes soft sighs of satisfaction as they kiss, the corners of his mouth curling up into a triumphant smile as he pulls her in even closer. There is no Roy, there is no messy moral dilemma here in her imagination.

I’m in love with you. 

He says it again, that phrase she’s been hearing over and over in her head, like one of those songs that burrows its way into your mind until it’s all you can think about. The melody is so familiar it’s soothing. Like any good earworm, however, she doesn’t know all the words, so her brain starts making them up, filling in the blanks. Here and now, it doesn’t matter what is right and what is wrong: this song – their song – is perfect.

I’m in love with you, too, she tells him at last, and he smiles in relief. 

I know you are, he replies. I always knew. I knew you could be brave, Pam.

Bravery. That’s exactly what this is, and just like the One Ring it makes her feel powerful, like she can do anything. Like she can leave the man she’s settled for to be with the man she knows she really wants. Like she can leap across an endless ravine, or climb an impossibly high mountain, or walk through fire. 

He lays her back onto his desk, scattering his binders and framed photos and everything else to the floor. It doesn’t matter that they’re in the middle of the bullpen, it doesn’t matter that someone could walk in at any second, that cameras are surely lurking around somewhere. She’s never wanted anything the way she wants this, right here, right now, with this man. And tonight, she will finally go after what she wants.

Their kiss grows more intense and he moves his hand behind her knee. It begins to drift slowly up her thigh, disappearing beneath her cerulean dress; higher, higher, higher…

Then she wakes up. At some point, she always wakes up. Her euphoria morphs to disappointment, as it usually does. 

When she gets to work she can’t help but stare at the back of Jim’s neck, which she finds herself doing more often after having the dreams. Typically she feels her face flush and instinctively crosses her thighs when she remembers some particularly graphic detail. Today, however, something seems off between him and Karen. They keep glancing at each other weirdly, and at one point Karen walks over and hugs him tightly, which is strange, too, since they rarely tend to show affection to each other at work (something she’s been inordinately grateful for). But the pointed look she shoots Pam after sitting down again makes her wonder what exactly is going on.

It’s none of her business, of course. 

So why does she think maybe it is?

The day proceeds like normal – as normal as a day with Michael can possibly go – and the impromptu bridal shower he’s thrown for Phyllis actually turns out to be pretty amusing. It’s been fun today messing around with Ben Franklin with, of all people, Karen. Pam is starting to see why Jim likes her, as much as she doesn’t want to. Karen can be pretty cool.

They’re alone in the kitchen now, arranging some more snacks, when the fun they’d been having takes a sharp left turn.

“Hey um, I wanted to talk to you,” Karen says, her tone getting a bit serious. “I know this is weird or whatever, but… Jim told me about you guys.” 

Pam’s entire nervous system shuts down and her brain stops working, actually ceases to function.

“What do you mean?”

”Well, that you kissed. And we talked it through and it's totally fine, it's not a big deal. It's just a kiss.”

Not a big deal. Just a kiss.

Just a kiss.

But… he was in love with her. At least, that’s what he said. Isn’t that a big deal? Did he tell Karen that? Or did he tell her it was just a kiss? Did he lie to Karen?

Or did he lie to her?

The words “just a kiss” are stuck on a loop now, threatening to supplant his prior declaration, the one she’s been reliving for months. Karen looks at her, ostensibly waiting for her to say something. To say what, exactly? To put her mind at ease at the expense of her own? To agree with her, that it was just a kiss? That it wasn’t a big deal? 

That she hasn’t stopped thinking about it since it happened?

“Wait- you're not still interested in him…?” Karen says after Pam’s extended silence, eyebrows furrowed.

Still interested? Did Jim say she’d been… interested? 

“Oh, yeah,” she says, her mind still stuck on just a kiss. She wants to shut down this conversation, run the playbook, but she’s answering the wrong questions in the wrong order. 

Karen, surprised, misunderstands her. “Really?”

Jesus Christ, what the hell was that? Her mental faculties have entirely left the building.

“Oh no, I was confused by your phrasing,” she explains nervously. “You should definitely go out with Jim. I mean, you're going out with Jim. I'm not going out with Jim.”

Karen is looking at her like she’s grown an extra head and she can hardly blame her. She has no idea what’s even happening. She wishes she had an Excel spreadsheet open to follow this conversation. 

“You're dating him, which is awesome, because you guys are great together,” she babbles. 

Fucking hell, what is she saying? Stop talking, Pam.

“Okay,” Karen sort of chuckles. She seems amused by Pam’s nonsense, not threatened. Why should such a perfect specimen be threatened by her anyway?

“I'm not into Jim. Yeah.” Make it clear you're not threatened either, Pam. You don’t care.

Although she does care. She cares so much that the idea of her kiss with Jim somehow ending up a topic of conversation between himself and his girlfriend feels like a betrayal. And her brain is having trouble processing that Karen would be bringing it up to her now at all.

She wants this to be over, to satisfy Karen and make her go away. 

Then she wants to crawl into a hole and die. 

“So um, we’re good?” Karen sort of half-asks, half-states. Of course they’re good, because they have to be. What other choice do they have?

“Yeah.” 

She can’t believe Jim told Karen about their kiss. That kiss is the last memory she has of him before Stamford, before Karen. Essentially, it’s the last remaining vestige of them, of Jim and Pam, what they were before everything went so wrong.

Their precious.

And now it’s no longer theirs.

How dare he?

“Sorry,” Pam says, for no goddamn reason. 

“What are you sorry about?” 

She can only think of that kiss, and how powerful it had been. When he told her he was in love with her. When she'd told him no and he'd left, crying. The events that night set into motion: her confronting her own feelings for Jim, her breaking off her wedding. Now he’s up late at night talking to Karen about it, telling her it was “just a kiss.” 

She doesn’t feel powerful, not anymore. She feels invisible. Like she’s wearing that stupid ring.

Karen is still looking at her expectantly. 

“Um, what?” 

“What are you sorry about?” Karen repeats herself.

What is she sorry about? She’s sorry she told him no. She’s sorry she let him walk away. She’s sorry she was too chicken shit to call him and therefore enabled him to forget all about her and move on with someone else. She’s sorry he obviously now cares more about that someone else than he ever did about her.

She’s never been more fucking sorry in her entire life.

“Nothing,” she tells Karen, flustered. “I was just thinking of something else.”

The room is sort of blurry around her and she needs to get out of here. She doesn’t know what to think. She excuses herself to go into the bathroom, hoping by the time she gets out Karen will have finished the tray and taken it back to the conference room. Luckily, that’s exactly what happens, and when she emerges into the kitchen alone, she takes a deep breath. 

Thank god that’s over.

The next time she sees Jim he’s teasing her about dating the Ben Franklin impersonator, and it should feel the same as it always did. He isn’t behaving any differently, or saying anything differently. He even calls her Beesly.

But now, all she can think about is that moment she and Jim shared, that precious moment being picked apart and scoured by his new girlfriend until it’s whittled down to nothing. Absolutely meaningless.

Just a kiss.

Maybe that’s exactly what it is. Maybe that’s all it ever really was. And maybe Jim confiding something to Karen that she thought was sacred is proof of that.

She walks miserably back out to reception, sits back down at her desk. The bachelor party stripper is standing there, in Jim’s usual place, her hand in the jellybean jar like some kind of ludicrous farce.

“Oh my god. I would get so fat if I worked here,” the stripper comments idly.

“Oh yeah?” Pam glowers. “I lose my appetite all the time.”

She sits at her desk in a sort of daze for the next couple of hours, listening to the droning sounds of the copier, the tapping of keyboards, the occasional phone ringing. She pictures Jim in the break room, laughing about her with Ryan and Kelly and probably later with Karen. For the first time since Jim’s return, she seriously considers quitting altogether. Maybe she should move on too, for good. Why did she ever think things could get better?

That invisibility she was feeling earlier is even worse now. Would anyone miss her if she were gone? If she just up and left? 

Would anyone even care?

That kiss isn’t her precious anymore. It isn’t sacred after all. And maybe just like the One Ring – just like Jim has done – she ought to finally destroy it for good.