Thanks to Lauren and Karen, my fine beta girls.
It's strange, the things she worries about, the ideas that run through her mind just before she slides into sleep. The silly, inconsequential little, miniscule things. Like, the fact that they don't fold their socks the same way (oh how will they raise their children if they can't managed to fold their socks the same way!?) or the fact that he continues to bring home leftovers and leaves them in the refrigerator until they turn.
Or the fact that he has a lot of wall posts. A lot. Eight-hundred and seventy three, to be exact.
Eight-hundred and seventy three blurbs (from men and women she had never met, never heard him even mention), odes, pleas for visits, amusing ribs.
She has-she comes to find, after looking at her own profile-a grand total of one-hundred and eighty-four posts, seventy-nine of which are from him. Thirty-three friends in total, most of them female, the majority from high school though a sprinkling from college. Ryan and Kelly and surprisingly Darryl the only "friends" she really sees anymore, them and Jim.
Her eyes follow the arrow pointer as she clicks on 'Jim Halpert (Philadelphia, PA)' and finds herself back perusing his profile. Jessica Pomers (Boston, MA) says, "The Sox, J, the Sox! You owe me a game, lol!" Danny Zagarella (Philadelphia, PA) says, "Pimp. And fuck the flop!" Pam isn't in the Boston network, so she can't see Jessica P's profile, but for a minute she contemplates joining, just to see what he has said back to her, if anything.
Not that she cares; not that she thinks there's anything fishy going on. She's just... curious.
There are so many things she never knew about him, portions of him that unravel sporadically. That he loves wine; he loves wine. Jim knows more about fermented grapes than she ever knew possible. Old vine zins, merlots, fume... fume-something-she's-never-heard-of. And technically they still have their separate apartments, and no, technically they don't live together but half of his set of good-crystal glasses has somehow migrated into her cabinets.
Pam is beginning to appreciate fine wine paired with crappy pasta. At dinners out she will order a glass of chardonnay instead of a fuzzy navel.
She's beginning to appreciate football as well, especially because she's watching it with someone who doesn't tell her to "Shh!" every time she has a question. Jim is patient and exceedingly willing to discuss with her the banalities of the game. There's even encouragement from him to voice her appreciation for the player's well-toned backsides. (Not that they're that impressive, really; she's not an ass woman anyway.)
They both like baseball, though she's partial to the Phillies-her dad was a fan-and he's an Indians guy. There are nights spent on the couch with beer and popcorn and good-natured squabbling. Tickling often becomes central to their seventh inning stretch and more times than not the rest of the game is left to marinade while they engage in enthusiastic necking.
It's, it's a lot of things she finds out, that she is finding out, now that they're in a relationship that she feels she should have known before. Like that he has this thing against loofahs, not so much that he doesn't use them but that he doesn't like the basic idea of them. And Jim's right knee swells up when it rains, has ever since he got in a hockey accident when he was twelve.
Pam's fingers slide over the mouse beneath her hand and she taps the right key without pressing down too hard. Her nails come next, tapping against the plastic in an annoyingly staccato rhythm. There's no reason to doubt what they have, their past or their future. There's certainly no point in putting stock in a few Facebook messages, friends of his she's never met.
After all, she's met plenty of his friends from Scranton and... they're wonderful. All of them. Yes, even the females. (She only has female friends and she thinks that might be weird-is that weird?) And they're solid, they're in a great relationship... it's... great.
As she's about to cycle through his photo albums once more, she hears the key scrape against the lock; a part of her, a silly, juvenile part of her almost minimizes the page, but she doesn't. There's nothing to hide; they don't hide anything from each other. Ever.
"That was… horrendous!" he claims and she can hear his shoulder bag thud to the floor. "They closed off the inbound lane on the bridge." Looking no worse for the wear, but adorably riled, he paces into the living room and moves up behind her, drops a kiss on her shoulder.
Her heart, well, it sometimes breaks when he does things like that, sweet little gestures that take him absolutely no effort. "Are you Facebook stalking me again?" he chuckles and takes a seat on the couch, next to her. "You should log in and change my status, I haven't looked at that thing in…forever."
They make brief eye contact and she rolls her eyes, surprised that he even suggested that. "Oh yeah? What would it say, 'Jim… is pretending to be patient but is actually very antsy to have dinner?'" The laugh that breaks free from her throat sounds off, even to her.
Jim simply flings his legs up onto the couch, lays down, "Yeah, that's good. Do that." There's mirth tinged in his voice too.
"Seriously?" Pam's a little off-kilter; this is a conversation that she's never anticipated having; it seems so strange for some reason. "I don't even… have your password."
He chuffs at her, flinging his arm behind him in search of her hand; she clasps it. "It's the same as all of my passwords. It's 'password1'." Pam blinks once, twice and then logs herself out, him in and changes his status. "Done?"
"Mmm hmm," the low hum she emits stirs him from his recline and he turns to glance at her. "Surprised you haven't had your identity stolen yet," Pam tries to joke but it doesn't come off as such.
There are a few little cricks of bones as he shifts onto his stomach and glances up at her, really looks at her. "What?"
And there it is, something about the how she fell in love with him; his eyes, his compassion, consideration and patience. And no, she has nothing to worry about. All of the petty scenarios and situations she has been formulating seem to melt away with ease. "No, nothing, I was just thinking… maybe we could go on… a vacation." There's a pause. "You know, together."
A bright smile is his answer, and Jim rises up onto his elbows, suddenly very intent and interested. "Yeah, yeah-yeah. Where?" Oh he is, he is adorable.
Her shoulders roll back in a shrug as she settles into the chair, relaxing, still holding his hand. Still holding his hand. "I don't know… Boston… maybe?"
He blinks once and then grins at her, seeing right through her. Right through her insignificant insecurity. "Oh yeah… I owe a friend there a Sox game."
Her cheeks stain pink and she lowers her head, amused but embarrassed. "I read."
"Mmm hmm," he drawls and sits up. He sees though her. Right, right through her. "She wants to meet you, anyway."
This makes her grin; even if she comes to learn that he detests PBS and shitake mushrooms, loathes the color green and loves polka music… she's still the only one with the password to his Facebook.
And apparently all of his bank accounts…