This time, she was wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants-green, pink, and purple-and a grey Valley View hoodie. Her hair was up. Her glasses were on. His heart was finally at peace, and the smile stretching across his lips resonated that truth.
She welcomed him in quickly out of the cold, and they stood in the front entrance as he removed his shoes.
"So, I have to know: what the hell possessed you to go on a run-not only at eleven o'clock on a Saturday night-but in this cold ass weather?"
Jim chuckled. He wasn't used to hearing Pam curse, but every time he did, the Pam-centric part of his brain (the part that he sometimes wanted to beat with a hammer) saw that as a glimpse into her life that not everyone got to see. She was opening up to him, inviting him to see her true self.
Or, she's just referencing the fact that you're a dumbass for going on a run in 9 degree weather. She ain't wrong, Halpert.
"Honestly, Pam? I have no idea what possessed me," he began with a nervous chuckle. "I think I was just going stir crazy and couldn't fall asleep. Figured a little midnight workout might help my cause."
"And did it work?"
"Well Beesly, I'm standing in your living room wide awake. What do you think?"
She returned his sly smile with a sheepish grin of her own before turning towards the kitchen.
"We'd better warm you up then!" she called over her shoulder.
While his eyes observed her pulling two mugs from a cabinet, his brain was imaging several other activities that they could do together to "warm him up." The thought of heading back outside for another quick jog around the block was suddenly very insistent.
"Do you like your hot chocolate made with milk or water?" she asked, pausing at her open refrigerator.
"Is that even a question?" He folded his arms and cocked his eyebrow teasingly. "Anyone who makes their hot chocolate with water over milk is a caveman."
She shook her head, cackled more than he'd expected her to, and plucked the milk carton from her refrigerator door.
"Well, I guess I'd better start calling Roy "Fred Flintstone" then."
He always tensed at Roy's name. But knowing he'd just inadvertently given him a nickname-although a negative one-suddenly nauseated him.
"Oh my god, Beesly, don't tell me you're marrying into a family that drinks hot chocolate water!" he began, striding over to claim his stool at the breakfast bar.
"I know, I know. It's so weird," she agreed, pulling the milk-filled mugs from the microwave. "The consistency is wrong, the flavor's all wrong. It's like, why would you settle for something mediocre and bland when there's such a better alternative right there in front of you!"
The irony was screaming at him as he stared into the powder-clad milk, twirling his spoon nervously, watching the solution blend together. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to regain his composure.
"Ha, yeah, you're exactly right."
"Do you like whipped cream, or marshmallows?"
"Uhm, both, obviously," he answered her seriously. She laughed, and greatly obliged, plopping in several marshmallows before squirting a heaping helping of whipped cream on top of his mug.
With their beverages in hand, she headed into the living room, not even beckoning for him to follow. It was expected. And he immediately followed her, pushing the thought of "lost puppy" from his mind as he reclaimed his spot on the right side of the couch. She sat next to him with her feet tucked underneath, her body facing him more so than the television. They set their mugs on the coffee table to cool. His tension quelled more easily than it had the last time, and he found his eyes drawn right away to the coffee table. Her sketchbook lay open, with several assorted pens and pencils scattered around it. Without hesitation, he picked it up.
"Do you mind?" he questioned. Art was personal. He knew that. But Pam had always been so open with him about her drawings and paintings. The immediate shake of the head and, "No, go ahead," prompted him to lay eyes on her work in progress.
To the casual observer, it was a simple winter scene: a quiet house on a quiet street blanketed by snow. But to Jim, the little things jumped out at him first. The snow was undisturbed, save for one spot of the lawn where footsteps led to a driveway. The tire tracks went down the street to the left, then off the page. There was a dim light on in the front window, presumably from a television, not a lamp. One of the lights on the garage was burnt out; his first thought was that she hadn't yet finished, but he also knew that everything in her art was done with intention. The owners of the home had obviously been too lazy to change it.
After giving himself a few moments to truly observe her work, he glanced at her waiting expression, lip pulled nervously between her teeth.
"Pam, this is awesome. I love all of the little details. Seriously, you've got to get your stuff out to more people."
She let out a breath (why had she been holding her breath? Was she nervous about what he'd say? Knock it off, Halpert!), and grinned a large, toothy grin. Out of all of her pieces of art, that smile was truly his favorite.
"You really think so?"
"Mhm, absolutely. Pam, this is really, really awesome. I mean, your art tells stories. Look, there's someone's footprints leaving, the lights are still on; you could interpret so much from this one."
She was chewing her lip again. Wasn't responding. Instead, she was staring from the drawing back to Jim and back to the drawing again.
"I'm sorry," he began. "Did, did I say something wrong? I'm totally looking at this wrong, aren't I? See, this is why I don't go to art museums-"
"Jim, it's okay." Suddenly, an embarrassed smile was twisting onto her lips. "I just...no one has ever taken the time to look at the details of my art. Most people would've seen a house, but you...god you actually see it."
He felt proud. Sad, but proud. He felt sad for her, that her talent didn't get to shine as much as it should. He felt sad that, while she acknowledged that he "saw" his art, she didn't truly realize how much of her he saw.
He felt proud of her for taking the risks that she did.
He also felt proud of himself for understanding art.
"Glad to be of service, Beesly." He bowed, or, bowed as much as he could in a sitting position. "If you ever need someone to interpret your art, give me a call anytime, day or night, rain or shine."
The words left his mouth before he was able to realize the invitation that he had just handed her. If she called, he would answer. Without question. But that was notgoing to help him in his quest to fall out of love with her. She laughed at his retort, but he would've bet his entire year's salary on the fact that she wasn't laughing for the same reasons that he was.
"So, how much does a lesson from the Beesly School of Art run these days? I think it's about time I graduated from exclusively drawing stick figures."
"You want a drawing lesson? Really?" Her eyes lit up, seeming to shine behind her frames.
"Absolutely. Lay it on me, Beesly. I am more than willing to pay you in jelly beans."
She giggled, grabbing a few pens from the coffee table and sliding closer to Jim.
"The first lesson's free, but after that, I'm gonna have to start charging you. In the form of food, of course."
He returned with a smile as she turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook.
Now, she was sitting cross-legged, her right knee practically overlapping his thigh. Wanting, needing to calm his nerves, he grabbed his mug of hot chocolate. He no longer needed it for the warmth, but it did give his mind something else to focus on-now the scalding sensation on the roof of his mouth-rather than how good it felt to have her so near.
"Now, before we even start, you need to answer one very important question for me: pencil or ink?"
She was facing him now, a drawing pen in one hand and a pencil in the other. Her head was cocked to the side, and her eyebrow went with it. She was trying to be serious, she truly was. But in Jim's head, she was a picture of adorable.
Stop it! Stop that right now or I'll turn this car around and you will go home, mister!
It was then, rethinking her question and observing the choices that were displayed for him, that he realized the opportunity that sat in his pocket.
"Definitely ink. I get too smudgy when I try to draw with pencils."
"A wise choice, Young Halpert." She handed him the pen, their fingers brushing briefly during the exchange. He wondered if he would have a burn mark in the morning where her fingers had trailed across his hand.
She shifted the sketchbook so that it was laying open in her lap, but also situated partially onto his thigh so that he could see what she was doing. It was so intimate, yet so natural. Surely, she was feeling as pulsed with electricity as he was?
As she began her lesson, ink creating vivid lines on a blank canvas, he recalled his plan, and reached into his pocket, making sure to obscure the small bottle from her sight.
"Now, we're gonna start with your basic tree. The trick to drawing, honestly, is to not think too much about it. If you to focus too much on being perfect, you're going to drive yourself insane. Just go with what feels natural."
He watched her hands as they delicately sketched the rough outline of a tree trunk, ink seeming to create a story of images on the paper. It was a just a tree, but to him, it seemed like so much more. What had begun as just a basic shape, something that could've been traced, eventually sprang to life, details seeming to have emerged from thin air. With different thicknesses and line strokes, leaves and branches and gaps of light where the invisible sun shone through appeared. It was like watching a magic show-but not one of Michael's magic shows, where the tricks were corny and often ended in failure. He was watching something appear from nothing from the hands of Pam. He would have sat there watching her draw trees forever.
But suddenly, she was shifting the sketchbook farther onto his lap, urging him to begin with the basic shape as she had done. His fingers fumbled at first, but eventually he had the basic outline of a tree drawn. It resembled some of the drawings that Toby had hung up in his cubicle from his 5 year old daughter. But then again, so did Pam's piece, to begin. But she had added life, and that was what he was going to set out to do.
After, of course, he had a little bit of fun first. He made some offhanded comment about being embarrassed, not wanting her to watch his process, and easily uncapped the bottle. As he added small strokes to "create the illusion of leaves," just as she had shown him, he let it loose. Making it seem as though the pen was exploding, he squirted a large stain of disappearing ink right at her sweatshirt.
"Oh SHIT! Pam, I'm so sorry! I must have been pushing too hard." He feigned innocence fairly well, perfecting his craft over the year. If Pam's art medium was drawing, his was definitely painting his face with faux emotions.
She jumped back at the sudden onslaught of wetness, her eyes popping, mouth dropping, a tiny squeal escaping her lips.
"No, it's okay, really. I'm just gonna go blot this before a stain sets in."
He didn't dare chuckle until after she had left, but as he was reacting to the success of his prank, his laughter suddenly caught in his throat. For the very first time, he was alone in her living room. He only had a few moments to truly take it all in, and he absorbed just as much as his mind would take in.
Aside from the sketchbook, he saw no traces of her art anywhere. No Pam originals on the walls, no easel by the window like he had always imagined. Not even a box of crayons on the bookshelf. As his eyes wandered more, he began to wonder why.
The movie collection was about half macho dude movies (obviously Roy's), mixed with equal parts romantic comedies and cult classic films. He recognized several copies that he owned as well, and decided for his own well-being that the shared titles were all Pam's. There were several framed photos on display: many of Pam and her parents, Pam and her sister, Roy and his brother, Roy and his friends. Only one frame housed a photo of the couple together. It appeared to be a picture taken at a high school prom. Pam's hair had a little bit more volume than it did now, but her smile was the same. She and Roy were in one of those phony prom poses, and although he looked entirely uncomfortable, she seemed to be having the time of her life.
As he wondered what it would've been like to know Pam at that age, he heard her footsteps coming down the hallway towards him.
"I don't know how you did it, Halpert. I honestly don't know how you did it." The grin on her face was paired with eyebrows that reached her bangs. Jim could only cross his arms in victory, the smug smile only serving to fuel her eyeroll.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. You might want to call the company that makes these faulty pens. I wouldn't want any of your drawings getting ruined here, Beesly."
She sat back down on the couch, still wearing the now unstained hoodie, and grabbed for the hand that still clutched the bottle of disappearing ink. It was incredibly easy for her to pry the bottle from his clutches, for as soon as her hands were-deliberately-on his own, his jaw dropped slightly, and all control of his body was lost to her touch.
Thank god she hadn't noticed.
It took her words to shake him from the trance that his body had succumbed to.
"Where did you get this?" She was holding up the bottle for him to see, which he was grateful for; without the visual aid, he would probably still be lost in his thoughts.
"Won it at the arcade. Best hundred and fifty tickets I've ever spent. Well, three hundred, technically. I actually got two bottles. This one's actually for you. I thought it might come in handy at work."
He offered her a sheepish grin, and after she had realized that the weapon was a gift, she smiled, settling back down into her drawing position on the couch.
"Thanks, Jim. We're going to have a lot of fun with this." She set the bottle carefully in front of her on the coffee table, replacing it in her hands with the mug of forgotten cocoa. She sipped as he continued working on his tree. It was nowhere near as perfectly imperfect as hers, but that didn't matter to Jim. The two trees side by side on the paper represented them. One was tall and awkward. One was shorter, full of life.
"Not bad for your first try. We'll keep practicing. You'll be Bob Ross quality before you know it!"
We'll keep practicing. What in the hell did thatmean?
"You're only missing one thing: sign that bad boy."
He chuckled. "Sign it? For what?"
"It's the first Jim Halpert original! You have to sign it so that, when you're a famous tree drawer, I can sell it for big bucks on eBay."
She was trying her hardest to stay serious, but just as Jim was an ameture artist, Pam was an ameture bluffer.
"Alright, but I'll only sign my side if you sign your side."
"Deal."
After both signatures were penned, she carefully tore the page out of her sketchbook, then down the middle. She handed her half to Jim, and kept his neatly inside the front cover of her sketchbook.
"Hey now, what's this?" he questioned.
"I told you: this is going to make big bucks one day. Consider it your lesson payment."
He scoffed at her, shaking his head as he reached for his hot chocolate, that had officially become the perfect drinking temperature.
After a couple minutes of comfortable silence, both of them paying half their attention to what was on TV, Pam spoke.
"Wait, when did you go to the arcade?"
Nervously, Jim rubbed the back of his neck and took a long swig from his mug.
"Uhh, tonight, actually. Right before I went on that run."
"Oh." Her voice went tiny again. He hated that he noticed these things about her. Was she wondering who he was with? Was she upset that she hadn't been invited?
"Weekend out with the boys?" she asked. He could sense the hesitation in her voice.
"No, not really. I, uh, I kind of actually went by myself." He paused. "I know. I sound like a total loser. You can go ahead and tell me."
"You're the farthest thing from a loser, Jim," she began, taking a drink from her mug. "So what games did you play?"
The hesitation in her voice faded, bringing with it a heightened volume. She was always quieter when she was unsure. Why did she suddenly have more confidence?
"Well, Pam, I don't know if you're aware of this, but you are currently sharing a couch with Scranton's very own Skee-Ball master."
"Really?"
"Really, really, Beesly. I'm pretty sure I became the hero of more than one ten-year-old kid tonight. I reset the high score on every machine in that place."
She giggled, taking another drink from her mug.
"See, when you talk like that, you kind of get your 'loser' title back."
He was about to come back with a clever quip, anyclever line, but the words caught in his throat.
Her face was partially hidden behind her mug, head cocked to the side, smile wide with laughter. Her bangs had fallen so that they rested on top of her glasses, just enough to probably be a little bit annoying. If he knew her well enough-which he did-she'd brush them back in the next sixty seconds. A smudge of whipped cream crinkled with her nose as she laughed.
"At least I don't have whipped cream on my nose."
That's it? That's your comeback?! She's right, dude. You definitely earned that "loser" status tonight.
But as soon as the words rolled off his tongue, she was blushing in that mixture between shy and embarrassed. Her fingers flung to her nose, wiping furiously, but in the process, she had smeared some to her cheek. Without thinking-or maybe thinking with courage, finally?-he brought his thumb to the side of her face, a whispered, "Here, lemme help you with that," somehow forming on his lips.
It was quick, he was gentle, and yet somehow, their eyes seemed locked for an eternity. Her lips had parted slightly, and-had she leaned into his touch? No, of course she hadn't.
But just like that, the moment was gone.
Shit shit shit SHIT, I am DONE, I am so DEAD. The thoughts raced through his brain and ran laps across his face. But she was calm, if not, a little flustered. She returned a shy smile, a whispered, "Thanks," and then offered to take their mugs to the kitchen sink.
He was preparing himself for the worst, preparing to be asked to leave, and walk out her front door like a puppy that had just peed on the carpet and had to sleep outside. That image was shattered as soon as she returned with a bowl of popcorn.
"Midnight snack?"
She sat down next to him, farther away this time, as the bowl of popcorn took up residence between them. He couldn't say that he wasn't a bit disappointed, but as they began to reach for popcorn, he suddenly realized that their hands would be mingling in the bowl, and he was oddly okay with the arrangement.
"Weren't you supposed to be hanging out with your brother tonight?" she questioned, eyes remaining on the TV.
"Yeah, I was, but he got sick. Came down with the flu or something. I'll catch up with him some other time. How was hanging out with your mom, by the way?"
"It was fun. It was definitely nice to see her."
"Oh yeah? Did you ladies get a lot of shopping done?"
"It was more browsing than shopping," she laughed.
"Well, at least you got a manicure out of the deal."
She turned to face him, faux shock painting lines on her face.
"What?" he chuckled. "Your nails look nice. You usually have them in such neutral colors; the sparkles are a fun change of pace."
She pulled her hands out of the bowl of popcorn and examined the manicure that she'd gotten earlier. He was right. She typically painted her own nails, and she was running out of boring shades of pink. This time, she'd gone for a lavender, with an accent of gold sparkles on each of her ring fingers. She didn't think anyone would take note. But Jim had.
"Well, thank you, Jim." Her warm smile was all the thanks he needed.
Midnight began the 2 hours of Boy Meets World, and the marathon picked up where they had left off. Popcorn was munched on as Cory and Eric finished their road trip. Eventually, the bowl was empty, and Jim found himself saddened at the fact that her touch would once again be absent. During the last commercial break, Pam brought the bowl into the kitchen, and returned to her spot, taking up the space where the empty bowl had just been. As the next episode began, she turned to face Jim.
"Hey, do you mind if I sketch a little while we watch?"
"No, not at all."
The only problem was that, rather than paying attention to the fact that Topanga had just chopped off her hair in protest, he felt himself leaning as far back on the couch as he could get to watch Pam. With the only light sources being the glow of the television from the front and the soft lights of the kitchen from behind, her images were a mystery to him. He settled for the comfort of hearing lines added to the page.
Another episode concluded, and he finally gathered the courage to ask her the question that had been bugging him all night.
"So, I couldn't help but notice that like, none of your art is hanging on the walls. What's up with that?"
There was a long moment of silence, a deep breath, and deliberate cease to her drawing before she answered.
"Honestly, Jim? Roy isn't really the biggest cheerleader when it comes to my artwork."
She trailed off, seeming to sink into the couch a little bit lower, her eyes wandering to look at no particular spot on the carpet.
"If I even mention the thought of taking an art class, he gets all, I don't know, huffy about it. He says it's a waste of time and money. He thinks it's just a hobby. So I've found it a lot easier to just keep my stuff put away. Less arguments that way, I guess."
He truly wanted to cry at that moment. Not for himself, or his hurt feelings. But for her. In that moment, he didn't care that she wasn't with him, or that she didn't reciprocate his feelings. His heart was broken that the man she was engaged to be married to would put her down so easily, so frequently, that she felt ashamed to even share her dreams with him.
"Are you serious? Pam, that's awful. I...god, Beesly, I'm so sorry."
He wanted to hug her, but he knew that would be inappropriate. Or would it?
She had hugged him last weekend, hadn't she? Sure, it was a goodbye hug, a thank you hug. But this? This was so much more important.
He scooted closer to her, wrapping his arms around a body that he didn't think could get any smaller, but somehow, in those last few moments, had. And when she immediately cradled into his chest, he felt his world brighten once again. This was where she belonged. It just felt right.
They remained like that for what was, in Jim's eyes, far too short. When she pulled back, her eyes were puffy. He hadn't felt tears soak the front of his shirt. She must have been holding them back.
"If it's any consolation, I hope you never stop chasing after this, Pam. You're too good to give up. Don't let him take this away from you."
She could only offer a small smile and nod in return.
They turned their attention back to face the TV. Was she sitting closer? No, of course she's not. But her arm was not there before. Will you just shut up and watch Boy Meets World?!
Pam continued to sketch, and they exchanged laughs and offhanded comments about Cory's overreaction to Alan quitting his job. At two o'clock, with strange cartoons looming, they were both still wide awake, neither quite wanting to end what they had going on. It was Jim's boldness that brought him into the kitchen.
"Damn, Halpert, after all that and you're still hungry?"
Pam joined him, arms crossed, head cocked, waiting for him to raid her fridge.
"Oh, on the contrary, Beesly. I am simply being a nice house guest."
And with that, the sink was filling with suds, and Jim Halpert's hands were cleansing the dishes that they had used. She joined him, towel drying the two mugs, the spoons, and the popcorn bowl. As she put the last dish away, she turned to him.
"You didn't have to do that, ya know."
"Oh, trust me, I know I didn't have to, but after you slaved over a hot microwave for me, it was the least I could do."
Her giggle brought a smug smile to his own face, and they both shuffled to the kitchen, neither really wanting to admit that he should probably get going.
"So, you get to hang out with your parents tomorrow, right?" she started, after a silence that had lasted too long.
"Yup, bright and early for church and Sunday brunch. Actually, if I want to not be a zombie all day, I should probably get going."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." Her eyes found the floor, although she wasn't sure why.
"As always, thanks for the invite, Beesly. You saved me from a night of boredom."
"Anytime, Jim. Anytime."
He wanted to lean in for a hug, but knew he shouldn't. Instead, he grabbed his beanie, gave her a half smile and a half wave, and scooted out the door. He was just about to throw his car in reverse when she came running out the door in only slippers, waving something above her head.
"JIM!"
She was at his window faster than he could unbuckle his seatbelt.
"You almost forgot your picture."
Her fingers hovered inside his warming car, clutching the tree drawing that she had sketched earlier.
He thanked her, and they stood silent, staring at each other, cold, white breath intermingling over the barrier to his car. Suddenly, she was cold, and it was late, and he was reluctantly pulling away.
Before he went to bed that night, he found an empty picture frame and properly displayed the Beesly Tree on his bedside table.
