What ravages of spirit conjured this temptuous rage

created you a monster broken by the rules of love

and fate has led you through it

You do what you have to do

And fate has led you through it

you do what you have to do

I have the sense to recognize that I don’t know how to let you go… 

-----------

When she’d asked Jan if anyone was coming back from the Stamford branch, the possibility had seemed remote – highly unlikely.  But that was the first place her mind had gone when she’d heard the news: Jim.

By the time she’d been in the kitchen with Ryan, she’d been unable to even think of anything else; being unsure of whether or not this meant she’d be seeing Jim again soon – every day, just like it used to be, oh my god – was enough to make her feel like she might jump out of her skin. 

And she almost had when Ryan had mused aloud whether or not it would be weird to have Jim back.

She had frozen then, eyes widening.  When he’d gone on to mention that he felt uncomfortable having taken Jim’s job and his old desk, she breathed a sigh of relief.

And then Phyllis had said excitedly, “I hear Jim’s coming back!”

It just hadn’t even seemed within the realm of possibility; she’d not allowed herself to even fantasize about him coming back some day.  Her fantasies had always centered more on the image of finding his Stamford address and turning up on his doorstep, maybe, or opening her own apartment door to find him standing there.

But he was coming back – and it had to be more than just a coincidence…right?

--------

For the first few months after Casino Night, she didn’t let herself even think about him for very long.  Because for weeks afterward, it all seemed surreal and distant; she herself felt like she was continually reeling, the sensation abating only after well over a month had passed – and even then, it hadn’t really gone away so much as faded into a tender, bruised feeling.

It all hung about her always, no matter what she was doing or where she was, and all she wanted was to escape it - his confession, his kiss...his absence.

Her mantra had simply been “Walk on.”  Keep taking steps forward – one, then another, then another. 

Eventually, those steps hadn’t been forced; the pain had gradually receded into the shadows, leaving her with a strangely hopeful feeling beneath the melancholy.  It was as if she recognized on an almost premonitory level that she’d been reduced to the lowest possible state, and now she’d have to begin the process of re-building her life. 

And there was promise in that somehow, no matter how lonely she felt sometimes.

It was only then that she’d been able to start to process what all had happened with Jim –almost twelve weeks after Casino Night.

She gradually came to realize that she’d made a mistake that night – such a mistake, stumbling along on auto pilot, paralyzed by fear.  She’d lied to him, lied to herself – and he knew it.  It was why he’d appeared in the office, stepping out of the shadows and striding toward her with his head bowed, hands still in his pockets, feelings all over him.

She’d been ready with more lies, more denial.

And he’d silenced her with his lips, pulling her to him in a way that told her he’d let go of the wheel, driven by the desperation.  It was a shockingly intimate moment, as if he were just telling her, I know you want me; I know you feel it, too.  

Those stolen moments – his lips on her mouth, hands spanning her waist, body close to hers – crept up on her in moments of quiet, of chaos, of the mundane. 

Always, always there.

After a while, she’d stopped trying to banish the thoughts; eventually, she’d progressed to closing her eyes, desperately struggling to conjure the way it had felt to let go in his arms, to feel him hard against her – to know that here they were.

And the world had seemed to just fall away.

But when she came back to reality, she always believed that she’d blown it forever; she didn’t even entertain the notion of ever getting in touch with him again. 

Maybe if I hadn’t kissed him back; maybe if I hadn’t been so mean, saying he’d misinterpreted things.  Maybe if I hadn’t said, “I can’t,” then admitted later that I’d wanted to kiss him for such a long time.  

 Maybe then I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering why I just threw it away, when I’d give anything now just to have another chance with him. 

She was almost certain he hated her, and really, she couldn’t blame him. 

Just walk on; keep moving forward. 

The art classes were in the spirit of that mantra, as was the blind date.  Shopping online for “after work” clothes had also been a means to that end, even though she didn’t yet have any place to actually wear those clothes; experimenting with her hair and make up was in the same spirit.

Yes, it was all in the spirit of walking on, moving forward, taking steps away from him because she just had no choice other than to do so.

And then she’d heard his voice on the other end of the phone so unexpectedly;  without even thinking she’d just blurted, “Oh my god.”

That was the moment when she’d allowed herself to start hoping that they could find their way back to one another.  They’d talked for hours, sky moving from a faded turquoise to a hazy coral, finally settling into a velvety midnight blue punctuated by glistening stars.  His voice in her ear was hoarse, slightly gravelly. 

Home.

Close your eyes, and you’re up on the roof with him, whiling away the lunch hour or escaping one of Michael’s crazy after hours exploits.  

When he’d misunderstood her goodbye to Ryan as her way of ending the conversation, there had been an awkward pause, and before she knew what was even happening, he’d said, “Oh – yeah, I should probably - I should probably go, too…”

She’d driven home frustrated and exhilarated – wondering why in the hell she hadn’t just said, No, I was saying goodbye to Ryan.  But at the same time, her head was still spinning from the fact that she’d spoken to him again after all those months – that it had been weird for the first five minutes, and for the remaining hour and forty five, like nothing had changed.

The realization that he didn’t hate her – didn’t even seem to be angry at her in the least – just amazed her.

She hadn’t slept much that night, her mind racing. 

I’ll email him next week, or I’ll text him; I’ll open up the lines of communication again.  And when he’s receptive, I’ll invite him down here to see my “fancy new apartment.” Or I’ll offer to drive up and see him.  

Because suddenly all she could think of was how badly she wanted to see his face again; it was nothing short of a revelation – she wanted him.  She wanted him, needed to see him again.

She was ready – finally - to give things a try. 

She’d felt almost giddy at the prospect, because the thing was, he’d told her he was in love with her; he’d cried in front of her, had kissed her in such a way that she’d have been unable to describe even if she’d tried.  Chaste, reverent…burning.

The night she’d found out about the merger, she hadn’t been able to sit still.  She  obsessively cleaned her apartment, partly to keep herself occupied (oh my god, how am I going to stand it, waiting the two weeks  for him to come back?), but partly because she genuinely believed that he’d be standing in her living room in a matter of weeks, surveying her “fancy new apartment.”  The anticipation crowded her throat so much that she couldn’t even eat.

Never once did it even occur to her that it might be too late.