Life beyond Jim Halpert was a peculiar place.
He was gone. Yet the sun still rose in the east, he copier still whirred, Dwight still patrolled the bullpen like a drill sergeant, as if nothing had changed. She wanted to stand on top of her desk and expel all of the air in her lungs, shouting, "Don't you people get it?!" until her ears were the color of cherry tomatoes and her lips were blue. Did no one in this world care that Jim Halpert had vanished without a trace, without so much as a goodbye? Was everyone else simply unaffected by the fact that Connecticut had gained a new resident, six-foot-three-inches of soil now occupied?
Roy had finally begun to notice-not that she'd been encouraging him to do so. He'd been so intrusive, asking questions like, "What's wrong?" and, "Babe, are you okay?" and, "Are you going to eat dinner tonight? I feel like I haven't seen you eat in like, three days." So invasive and prying. How dare he try to console her when it was more than apparent that something was off? He offered her food that had no taste, spoke words that died flatly as soon as they hit the atmosphere. The colors she saw ran together, barren and drab and devoid of life.
It wasn't only at home. She'd become lifeless and cold in so many aspects of her day to day monotony, and in a life that subsisted generally on going to work and coming home, she was slowly making enemies of every person she held close in life. Then again, the one person with whom she held the closest bond was now farther than she cared to admit. She was bitter and abrupt with her coworkers, slamming down phones and snapping at people over questions as simple as, "Hey, Pam, could you make ten copies of this?" By the middle of the second week that people were beginning to make their own copies. It was when Michael grew concerned, diverting from his usual perplexities and bizarre demeanor, that she realized her emotions were being worn on her sleeve. She'd never heard tenderness in his voice like that, when he'd called her into his office, closed the door, and asked her if he could do anything to help. He hadn't asked what was wrong, didn't bring up his name, but it was the reflection in his eyes that told her he knew the truth.
She missed him.
And it was there, at the hands of Michael Scott, that she finally gave in to the bursting of tears that had been threatening for far too long now.
He'd wrapped his arms around her heaving body, rubbing his palms in large circles on her back. It reminded her of the way her father consoled her in childhood, loving in a paternal manner that reassured her she would eventually find a way to overcome this.
When he'd suggested she take the rest of the day, she shook her head frantically, needing only ten minutes in the bathroom to adjust the redness in her cheeks. She'd found a compact deep in the recesses of her purse and gave her complexion an evenness that would be acceptable to the general public. Once she was satisfied with her appearance, she gave herself a good long stare for the first time since he'd gone.
Her eyes were hung in a perpetually downturned fashion, their brightness gone, hidden behind hollow darkness and worry crows feet. Under the facade of drugstore powder, her skin was grey, worn from exhaustion and malnutrition and the constant weight of every sad emotion you could think to name. Her hair fell flat, curls missing their usual spring, a lasting shine of grease tugging at odd ends. It was depressing, really, to honestly take in just how much she'd let herself go. And all for what? Lost love? Because she'd missed her shot, and an entire piece of her soul was now somewhere in another part of the country?
But that, in itself, was the root of the problem.
Instead of taking charge, instead of finally standing up for what she truly wanted out of this life, she'd let it all go, blaming his timing and lack of initiative when she had been the one secretly spurring him on in the first place. She had allowed herself to be stagnant, residing in comfort over desire, and look where it had gotten her. She was a shell of her former self, hanging by threads that could only be pieced back together by her own will and gumption. With her chin held a little bit higher, she returned to her desk, choosing to meet the eyes of the several concerned coworkers who followed her back to reception. Her cheeks tinged pink, but she embraced the embarrassment, pushing past it to hold on to the hope that her fate rested in her hands alone.
Their car ride home had been silent, and she was okay with that. Her head was too busy playing cat and mouse with ideas and memories and what ifs. When the day had begun, she'd been anticipating a dreadful weekend of basketball games and unwanted touches and the desire to bury herself under blankets for seventy-two straight hours. His tentative query about Darryl and basketball tickets, knowing that her parents had planned to make the trip down for dinner and an evening out, was the fuel she didn't know she'd needed.
On any other day, the old Pam would've just given in, shed a tear, and listened to him "promise to make it up" to her.
But today, the new Pam was annoyed.
Apparently, so was Roy.
"I don't see what the big deal is here, Pammy," he began, his expression going cross as he raised his hands in protest. "It's one basketball game. You hate going to sports stuff with me anyway. And I'm sure your parents will understand. It's just one dinner. Hell, we've got the rest of our lives to make it up to them."
As the words spilled from her lips, she surprised even herself.
"It's not just one basketball game, Roy. It's every time you choose something over me."
Her eyes had made the transition from tired and lifeless to alive and on fire, mimicked in the ways that her fists clenched at her sides.
"And it's not like this is the first time! God, I've let you do this to me for almost a decade, haven't I?"
He was certainly dumbfounded, his mouth agape, eyes wide as he tried to follow the aimless pace she had begun.
"Marriage isn't about making it up to me. It's about putting me first, taking my feelings into consideration before you do something that you feel the need to back yourself out of a corner for. You've been doing this so backwards, and I've just been letting you. Well, not anymore. I'm done."
"God, what has gotten into you lately? You've been hot and cold all over the place. You on your period or somethin'?"
It was her turn to be dumbfounded, not for lack of understanding, but for the sad realization that she had truly put up with this for as long as she had. That she was actually considering spending the rest of her life with this inconsiderate dolt.
Her chuckle was cynical, starting in her belly and rising out of her throat like the witch from that Wizard of Oz movie that had traumatized her as a child. When her laughter subsided, she offered him a sad smile in response to his perpetual confusion.
"You done now?" he asked, the irony almost spouting another fit of laughter.
"Yeah, yeah I think I am."
Determinedly, she spun on her toes, grabbed the keys to her car, and left without another word. Somewhere along the way, she found herself at a gas station purchasing a grape soda, its contents empty by the time she reached her destination. Eventually, her aimless drive had found her at the edges of Lake Wallenpaupack, the early June air still breezy. It didn't matter, though. A charge of heat radiated through her core, and only grew as she perched her body on a bench, closing her eyes, taking in that night that had haunted her for so long.
She knew it at the time, was so undoubtedly aware that he had wanted to confess his feelings. But she had been scared. Scared that their friendship would change, that she would lose the Jim she had come to know and love and be comfortable with. But for what had she sacrificed all of that? When she'd masked her fear with being cold, she'd lost friendship and hope and the prospect for a life where she was unconditionally loved, and gained a wedding to a man with whom she had grown apart so long ago. It was written in his eyes, the deep forest green an intensity that she'd refused to put a name to until now. He loved her.
Or, rather, he had loved her.
The potential in those words was her new fear. Not fear of change, or moving out of her comfort zone, but the fear that she had potentially lost the greatest love that life had to offer her.
The water lapped at the dock not feet from where she sat, the crashing washing a calm across her body.
She wouldn't let fear dictate her life anymore.
And she didn't let it as she allowed the world to come crumbling at Roy's feet later that night. She stood her ground amidst yelling, tears, and the twice grovelling at her feet. She'd held her head high as picture frames were shattered, begging words clawed at her eardrums, and his tires squealed against the pavement, his anger and frustration burned down the road.
She'd called her mom, promising to come home in the morning. It was late, she was tired, and yes, she'd be okay.
Instead, she found herself curled on the couch, her head cradled against the cushion on the right side. It had been some time since he'd sat here, but in that moment, his presence saturated her, cloaking her in warmth and protectiveness and love and Jim.
As she drifted off to sleep, she swore she felt the ghost of his fingers sweeping her curls behind her ears.
He snapped his phone shut, letting it lay on the armrest of the Lazy Boy recliner. That was easily the tenth text he'd received in the span of the last four days, all of which held the same general message: She'd called off the wedding. But as he tipped his head back and let the bitterness of an east coast IPA drip down his gullet, he chuckled grimly. What did it matter if she wasn't going to tell him herself? After Phyllis' initial phone call early Monday morning, his heart had been all a flutter, his body literally lifting from his seat at the ring of a telephone or the chirp of an email notification. But as hours passed by, the realization sunk in that she was not going to call him. This hadn't changed a thing.
He had moved here for a reason.
Friday nights had taken a stark turn on Connecticut soil, from once being charged with the buzz of anticipation and filling his body with heat upon seeing her smile light up his living room, to a six pack that was downed by nine PM and a small room that never saw the light of day. The routine was simple: Get home from work, chug a beer, exchange work attire for one of the pairs of sweatpants that were piled on his bedroom floor while finishing off a second bottle, turn on the television for background noise, and allow the pain to be somewhat lessened as the alcohol did its numbing duties.
He had only been in Stamford for about a month, but the appearance of his residence screamed otherwise. Essential furniture had been pieced together so that he could properly sleep and lounge in front of the television. Everything else still sat in the boxes stacked in appropriate rooms around the condo that was too big even for him. When he needed clothes, he simply pulled them out of a box. After he did laundry, they found their way to the floor, or the top of a box until he needed them again. He found no use for the dishes that his mother had insisted on purchasing; he ordered takeout most nights, or picked up a bag of chips from the gas station on the corner. It wasn't by any means nutritious, but it quelled the growling in his stomach long enough for him to pass out before it started up again.
When his body, so run down with exhaustion, gave its final plea, he let the last of his empty glass bottles collect in the pile at the foot of his chair and dragged all seventy five inches of himself to the sheetless mattress in the one-windowed bedroom. The sole light from the moon cast a glow on the makeshift nightstand that had been created from an upturned box whose contents were probably still somewhere underneath. Its lone decoration, and only purpose, was to display the black frame housing a drawing of a simple tree. His constant reminder that, while new life could spring from nothing, his would be a constant memory, inked into the permanence that would never sprout newness behind the glass window.
Just as he did every night, he let his fingertips trace the edges of the frame, unaffected as the box caved and swelled under his touch. He tossed his phone to the floor, not bothering to sync it to the charging cord under his mattress. Tomorrow was Saturday. He didn't need an alarm.
With little effort, the week's debilitation snapped his eyes shut as they collided with the flat cotton of the pillow, his eyelids a never ending screen reel of auburn curls and lavender silk.
