The amber color of the Jack Daniels paired nicely with the rich, sticky brown of the Coca-Cola. He marveled at the way the two liquids danced together, fizzing and popping before becoming one. Once his concoction had settled, he held it to his deep green eyes for inspection, waiting for the last of the bubbles to dissipate before finally knocking back a hearty swig. After the week he'd had, the immediate warmness that settled over his body was definitely welcomed.
He hadn't participated in a serious jinx since grade school, but her insistence that the rules were "unflinchingly rigid" and the way that she literally skipped around like a schoolgirl upon realizing that he would be held under this torture for hours had him wrapped around her fingers.
As if he wasn't already.
The entire morning was a catch-22: while he was subjected to silence until just after lunch and unable to comment on prime Dwight debauchery, the way her eyes lit up, her smile positively glowing each time she saw him struggling, made him weak in the knees. It was a new, strange sort of intimacy that he hadn't known existed until he'd lost at a schoolyard game. He couldn't have cared less that he was losing out on sales. He made up for the typical snarky comments bringing her laughter in the ways that his own misery was putting a smile on her face.
But all in good fun, of course.
The true pain came when she had, unbeknownst to her, broke his spirit over a mid-morning break. If he could truly tell her anything, then why was there still a shiny band encircling a finger on her left hand? Why, after all these weekends of time spent together, spent intimately together, was she still making a conscious choice to be in a toxic relationship? He'd "told her everything" short of I'm in love with you. As his face fell in that realization, the cognizance that, if he were to truly "tell her anything," that statement was all that he was holding back, he let his face fall, not caring one ounce that his true colors were as exposed as if she'd painted them there with the art supplies he knew she kept tucked away.
He'd spent a good amount of time that night holed up in deep thought. There was a moment, perched on the desk chair in his bedroom, enveloped in choice by total darkness, that he was transported back to his high school days; moments with "that scary music" as his mother so lovingly referred to it, blasting out of the speakers as he contemplated the meaning of life. He'd always done his thinking better with the lights off; less sensory stimulation and more space for his brain to have a clean slate, he had convinced himself. No matter what path his dancing cognition wandered down, he always seemed to wind up at the same place: Why don't you just tell her already?
It wasn't that the thought hadn't crossed his mind. But as he recalled a scene not so many weekends ago that ended with her literally running from his bed in a panicked haze, he was reminded of the sheer truth of the matter: she was engaged, she was confused, and if he was being honest with himself, she was scared. She'd said that she needed time, time to sort and process and figure it all out. But what did she need to figure out, exactly? Were they even on the same page? Was this all just a waste of time?
Drowning the second third of his much-more-Jack-than-Coke, more memories of their week trickled into his wake, the nervous tingles stemming from a mixture of guilt and the alcohol that was slowly making its way through his bloodstream. When he'd vented to Toby, it had been as a friend. Toby was the only other sane person in that office aside from Pam, and he very well couldn't tell her that watching her plan her wedding was actually slowly killing him. Although the "complaint" (was it really a complaint? Wasn't it just expressed frustration?) had been withdrawn, he'd seen the dead look in her eyes when he'd confessed that it had been him. He'd never really been that blatant with her about his feelings. They'd dance around the subject with You should break up with him's and You deserve so much more's and stuffed crust pizza to boot. But that was all Jim seemed to be good for: skirting the issue. He thought that his subtleties would nudge her in the right direction. Instead, they'd gone and gotten him caught with his foot in his mouth, all progress they'd been making halted in that cold stare she'd given him, a simple "Okay" being her only response to his slip-up.
But at the same time, he pondered, slugging back the rest of his drink, he had every goddamn right to complain, to have her feel just a sliver of the pain he'd been carrying since he saw that ring on her finger all those years ago. There was no way in hell she wasn't feeling this too. Or, at the very least, that she knew about his feelings for her. To call her that thick, or to think that she could play him this hard? He couldn't imagine her being that person. So he shoved those thoughts from his consciousness, choosing instead to replace them with another mind-numbing beverage in the dark confines of his bedroom.
She had to know.
She had to know.
There was no way she could cognizantly choose to spend time with him, to run to him whenever things with Roy became too much to bare, to share the warmth of his body and not feel the pulse that hammered with each of her intentional touches.
As the glasses drained more easily, he found himself proud of his actions, glad that he had only offered an explanation and not an apology. What was there to apologize for? Having feelings? Loving her?
It had been the last straw, the one that broke the proverbial camel's back. That lifeless look in her eyes, like she didn't even care one lick about his feelings, had driven him over the edge. Making the drive to corporate was impulsive and rash and almost senseless; he'd almost turned around quite a few times. But upon hearing of the opening in Stamford, knowing that he'd be able to put all of that distance between them, those cold eyes drove him to nod in understanding at Jan's offer. He'd have time to think about it of course.
If she hadn't figured it out by now, she probably never would.
He had to take the transfer.
For his own sanity, if nothing else.
Of course, making that decision on four hours and too much alcohol would be incredibly irresponsible, and his mother would give him a stern talking to and a good long cry if he ever decided to leave Scranton, but the more he thought about his newfound option, the better a two and a half hour distance seemed.
She could plan her wedding from two and a half hours away and he'd never know the difference.
When Roy bumbled into the office to see her for lunch, and they'd share some flirtatious banter, he'd be in an entirely different state.
But at the same time, who would be there to wipe away her tears, to hold her, to tell her that everything would be okay?
Part of him ached to remain in that role.
A larger part of him, one fueled by bitterness and Jack Daniels, quipped a stern, "Fuck that," as he trotted back into the kitchen for a third, and probably unnecessary refill. She had a fiance. Soon, she'd have a husband. She didn't need a damn shoulder to cry on.
The soft knocking stopped him from tipping the bottle enough to topple the liquid into his glass. When he opened the door, her eyes were no longer cold and uncaring, but glassy and swimming with emotion. He was in that state of tipsy asperity that had him simultaneously wanting to scoop her into his arms and slam the door in her face. He chose the middle ground of opening the door rather over-exaggeratedly and waving his free arm for her to come in without much more of a greeting. To say he was shocked when she went straight for the kitchen and poured herself a drink would be the understatement of the year.
Her small frame perched on the edge of the chair she had sat in meer days prior, happily munching breakfast and sharing casual conversation. Tonight, with hollow, dark eyes, she traced the rim of her glass after she had already had herself a hearty sip, her eyes switching from fixing attentively on her drink to covertly observing his actions from a lidded gaze. He stood cautiously behind the chair across from her, one hand resting on its back, just watching. He gave up after a minute. He shouldn't feel like a prisoner in his own goddamn house. It was his stark actions, loud movements that finally drew her out of the haze that she'd been in since deciding to make the drive to his doorstep.
He'd opted for just Coke this time, and, in an effort to spur her words first, sipped so slowly on the carbonation that it resembled the way you'd take the communion wine at church on Sunday morning. The buzz he'd received from his earlier indulgences gave him the want to stare her down gently, making sure she knew he was aware of her presence, that he wasn't backing down, that she came here with a purpose and he wasn't going to let her avoid that. Finally, sighing in defeat, the words lodged themselves from her throat into existence.
"I was an ass to you."
His lips fought with him, wanting so much to curl upwards at her use of profanity. The hardened part of him won out, keeping his deepest desires at bay in order to hear the rest of her confession, nodding slightly to encourage her to continue.
"You were only being honest with Toby. And the fact that you had him take it back so you wouldn't hurt my feelings? God, Jim, that's just so you."
At this, he allowed the slightest hint of a smile, ducking his eyes bashfully to draw away from his smirk.
"Anyway. What I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry for being so...so cold to you. You didn't deserve any of that, especially after how...just how incredibly wonderfulyou've been lately. And I went and ran all of that over with a train, all because you didn't want to listen to me planning my wedding while you were trying to work."
Correction: Didn't want to listen to you plan your wedding to that neanderthal of a man, period.
"God, I'm such an ass."
"Jesus, Beesly, calm it down with the swearing over here. I'm gonna make you start adding quarters to the swear jar in a second."
He couldn't help it. The quip slipped out, and the fraction of a smile that she finally cracked was all worth it. She was like a drug; he'd get his high any way that he could and regret his choices later. Their laughter was short lived. He didn't know what to say. Yes, you were being kind of an ass didn't sound appropriate, but denying how she'd hurt him wasn't it either. He was done being a pushover. So he settled for silence, finding a keen interest in the bubbles fizzing to the top of his soda. Her posture mirrored his, staring intently at the liquid pooling in the bottom of her glass, not quite enough to cover the bottom anymore as she swished it from side to side, watching as the molecules raced for space to occupy.
"Jim?"
Her voice was small, almost frightened in tone.
"Yeah?"
"Why did it bother you so much that I used work time to plan my wedding?"
And there it was. The opening for his floodgate. The opportunity he'd been searching for not moments before her arrival.
Because I'm in love with you. Just say it, you idiot. Tell her the truth. Make this all go away.
Instead, the emptying glass in his large hands was once again holding his interest, words becoming mush as they travelled from his brain to his cottony tongue.
"Um, I mean...Pam…"
It was her turn to sit and stew, eyes trained on him, encouraging him to just say it.
To just tell her why.
It had been itching, clawing at her frontal lobe since the moment she knew the complaint was his.
Why?
Why had her best friend been upset that she was planning her wedding at her desk?
He should be happy for her, ecstatic that she was finally getting her happy ending.
But that question begged the same answer as so many others.
Why was her best friend upset that she was planning her wedding at her desk?
Probably the same reason that her best friend had come over in the middle of the night to fix the broken toilet that her fiance had left behind.
The same reason that her best friend had opened his door and hers time and time again to simply be therefor her.
The same reason that her best friend had that same dopey grin on his face whether she was cuddled against his chest or sitting across from her at the breakfast table and putting up with her morning breath like it was his favorite thing in the world to do.
So why wouldn't he just say it?
When Roy had left her tonight with no more than, "Jet ski weather, baby! See you Sunday!" she hadn't even flinched. Truth be told, Jim had been on her mind far before Kenny had called. She was secretly hoping something would pull Roy away, because deep down in her core, she needed to see this side of Jim, this side that harbored the only true anger she'd ever seen directed towards her. Though frightening, she welcomed it, but only because she longed to know its source, to know if the shit storm that had swallowed her head over these past few months was warranted.
The deep breath he took was fueled by the air she held.
"I just don't know how much longer I can go on watching you act like this is...right. Like this is the way that you're meant to spend the rest of your life, and that you're actually okay with it."
The stunned expressions were almost mirror images, save for a height difference. He hadn't expected to be so blunt, but once the words were out, he felt immensely lighter. Her body was awash with contrasting bouts of chills and heat, as if trying to decide what to feel.
"What...what do you mean?"
She needed him to keep talking, to make her deepest truths a reality rather than holed up deep inside of her.
He was extinguished, but he pressed on, sighing as he realized that the front he had tried to convince himself existed where in which he stood up for himself paled in comparison to pleasing her.
"C'mon, Pam. Look around you. Look at where you are right now. It's Friday night. And you're here."
"I came here to apologize."
She was quick to defend herself, not letting him off the hook that easily. She just needed to hear him say it, just once. To make it the truth. To wake up the part of her that had been asleep for so long that she couldn't do it on her own. She needed Jim to be her proverbial Prince Charming.
He ran his fingers through his hair, avoiding the stares that seemed to be following him wherever his eyes went, leaving him no room to hide.
"What do you want me to say, Pam?"
"I want you to tell me the truth."
That was ambiguous enough for him.
"The truth? You mean, the fact that I hate seeing him hurt you, every single day? That I hate watching your spirit break and the little pieces that make you, Pam, my best friend come apart like a friggen cookie crumbling? Is that what you want to hear? How much that tears me apart?"
She was stunned, but in a way that made the blood course through her veins in a new, invigorating way.
"Do you want to hear how much I both love and hate that you have to run to me? That I want nothing more than to comfort you, but that I damn well shouldn't have to do it, too?"
She nodded quicker now, watching as his eyes welled with tears caused by pain and anger.
"I don't know how much longer I can watch you put yourself through this, Pam. And when I had to watch you sit at your desk and work out the details of how you're going to pledge your life to him for...forever. I couldn't take it, Pam."
He's called her by her name so many times now that it's got her dizzy in the head. She isn't "Pam" unless he's serious, and if it wasn't the impact of the words, it definitely shows in the way that he addresses her.
"So…" she began, her eyes searching his, urging him to just tell her, "tell me what you want then, Jim."
He searches his kitchen in a discreetly frantic matter, wishing for the answers to appear on the walls, when suddenly he does get his answer. It is not in words, nor gestures, but in the way her ring catches off the dim fluorescence that he finds his words.
"I want...I just...I want you to be happy."
And there it was. His cowardice, absolutely building up everything she'd been chinking away at, and deflating him like a popped balloon.
She has nothing left in her as she stands from the table, depositing her glass in the sink before she takes his hand. He doesn't question her as she draws him up the stairs, leads him to his bedroom, and pulls him down atop his comforter, clutching to his chest for dear life as she nudges her head under his chin, her legs folded neatly across his. She can't find it in herself to do anything more than simply be here. She can't find the words to say, the means to tell him that this, right here, is her happiness. She settles for silent tears, his breathing quick under her cheek, his stiff arm that finally relaxes and curls around her, securing her safely to his side.
It is in these moments, as her breathing becomes slower, hours later, that he pictures the two opposing directions in which his life is trying to pull him. One to taking a risk on love, the other to Stamford, Connecticut.
She is positively asleep when he finally shifts them enough to pull the spare blanket off the end of the bed, tucking one side snugly under her body. He strokes her curls, hugging her as tightly as he can, as he gives those words a test run, realizing that he has to make a choice.
"I love you, Pam."
It is barely a whisper into the night, caught in her curls, sticking to them like a web. It feels so good, so freeingto finally let those words become a reality. But he knows by the slow, shallow breathing that she hasn't heard them. But she will. Because he can't make this decision without giving her all the facts, without laying it all on the line.
Her face is a tattoo of worry as she sleeps, the lines in her brow deepening when she wakes to the shrillness of his bedside landline. Somewhere in the night, they had shifted; he was wrapped around her from behind, one arm underneath her side, no doubt tingling and asleep. But when his right arm reached behind them to answer the call, his left stayed rooted to its spot, still holding tightly against her waist. She, in turn, scooted back farther, her chin nudging into the crook of his arm as if trying to bury herself as deeply into him as she could possibly go.
At their proximity, she heard his sister on the other end of the call confirming plans for a late brunch. She felt him hang up the phone, then move his right arm back to squeeze around her for one more lingering moment before words tickled her ears, his breath hot against her skin.
"I should probably get up and get ready."
She nodded, an mhm escaping as they both reluctantly peeled themselves away from his bed, clothes from the night before wrinkled and stained with the scent of one another.
The walk to the front door was silent, the embrace immediate and expected. The way she threw her arms around his neck and stood on her toes so that her cheek was resting against his chin, however, was not. It was her lips pressing softly to his cheek that truly threw him for a loop, making the urge to hold her tighter all the more insistent. When she finally pulled away, rocking on her feet, her eyes were a darker green, searching his almost blackened pupils for one last shred of anything. In his silence, she offered him a soft, "Bye, Jim," and was gone.
