He was seeing things. That had to be it. But blinking his eyes in rapid succession did nothing to diminish the sight of her, so small, on his front porch.
He was drunk. For sure he was still drunk. But upon remembering the one and a half beers that he and Karen had nursed over the course of a three hour baseball game, he knew that couldn't be the case.
He had fallen asleep on the couch after Karen left, and his subconscious was cruelly trying to backpedal all of the forward progress he'd made on letting her go. But there was no way that any dream of his had ever been filled with her scent, had ever brought a cool breeze to his cheeks. His dreams weren't vivid enough to picture the individual beads of sweat gathered at the crown of her forehead, or the way he could see each individual piece of hair that had mussed its way out of place.
His fingers itched to reach out, to smooth her curls back into place, to assure himself that she was really, truly standing in front of him. But the sight of her, standing on his porch in the early autumn coolness, that same woman whose image he'd been pushing from his thoughts for the entire time it took for the leaves to bud, bloom, and start changing colors again, had him frozen to the spot. Hearing her voice across telephone lines earlier that evening had him stumbling over words and forgetting how to breathe, but he'd had the mask of an entire state line to cover for that. Now, standing the same distance from her that their old desk space had covered, he was curious as to how his body hadn't yet melted into the floor.
It must have been quite the sight: he was standing with his door wide open, sockless feet ending his jean and t-shirt ensemble, which was topped by hair that had been pulled messy in frustration of Kurt Benson giving up 4 runs on his start and a perfect "O" in the center of his face where his lips had been pursed shut just moments ago. The silence lasted literal minutes, with her eyes flicking from his toes to his nose to his eyes and back, while his eyes could do nothing but stare, glued to her own dark irises until they were both startled by the wind that picked up and all but pushed her forward.
He could feel her body's presence now, no longer five feet away and outside, but the energy washing over him like a tidal wave, forcing his eyes closed and pushing his own weight even more so against the frame of the door. When his eyes slowly peeled themselves open, both fearful and hopeful that she would be gone, the intensity in her eyes was the only thing that kept him upright.
"Uhm…"
"Hey."
Words tumbled together, whispers barely distinguishable from the air that was making her curls dance around her pale face.
"You wanna-"
"Can I-"
Worlessly, he stepped aside, and her propinquity finally surrounded him, shifting the air in his otherwise stiff condo to one that was almost overwhelmingly suffocating. This right here, this frightened looking woman, was the source of his undoing, the reason he spent the first month of his residence here with eyes dried and cracking and his head in the toilet. She had taken the light in his life and rendered it useless, not just burning out the lightbulb, but shattering it underfoot and refusing to buy a new one. And yet somehow, the suffocation was freeing, constraining him in a way that made him remember what it was like to want someone so much that it hurt. It reminded him just how much his body ached to hold her, to love her, to never let her go. That was the way it should be when you loved someone, the way your entire body aches just to be near them. It was ironic and sad and he felt his pride shatter a little, but as he found her eyes, he was home. It didn't matter how much time and effort he'd put into pushing her away, burying her under alcohol and sales calls and bags of potato chips. One look in her eyes, and that entire wall had come barreling down.
"So, uhm, not that it isn't nice to see you, but uhm...what are you doing here?"
His words were tickled with a chuckle, lips turning upward in an attempt to remind himself that mere hours ago, they were back to being themselves, reminding himself that it was possible to still be them. He hoped to take the fear from her eyes, the timidness in the way she clutched her purse, with his tone, but still she stood stark and rigid and fragile, as if she'd shatter into a million pieces if he reached out and touched her. Her eyes, bulging, feverous disks, were the only part of her body that displayed any sense of confident, contrasting emotion. Had he not submitted to eye contact, he would've assumed she was on the verge of tears, or a breakdown, or in need of immediate consoling. But the way her eyes burned into his skull, in the same way they had back in May, he knew he was in trouble.
In words that spoke decibel crawling volumes in his almost vacant entryway, she stated simply, "I wasn't done talking to you."
"Uhm…?" He was caught truly off guard, his eyes and brows twinning in confusion. He palmed the back of his head as she interrupted his immediate strain of overthinking.
"When you called the office tonight. We hung up, but I wasn't done talking to you. Ryan came back, and I was saying goodbye to him, but you thought I was talking to you and I...I didn't want to be done."
Her voice had cracked on the last word. Now, she was shaking. He could see it in the way her purse was beginning to vibrate, her knees knocked together, her bottom lip clenched between her teeth. No sooner were pools of tears sliding down her cheeks, were her lips contorting in the beginnings of a full on sob, than he was striding twice to close the gap between them and gathering her against his chest.
Her entire body convulsed against his, quivering beneath his arms despite the grip that he had fastened. She had all but melted into his touch, her arms wrapped around his chest, clutching the fabric of his back in her fists as if her life depended on it. The wetter the front of his shirt became, the tighter he held her. One arm secured her firmly to his body, holding her upright, urging her to let him be her frame, while the other weaved its way into her hair, cradling her gently to his chest as he murmured reassurances into her ears. As her body continued to crumple, and he felt his own legs giving way underneath his weight, he lowered his grip, supporting her underneath her legs to cradle her against his chest as he carried her to the couch.
He didn't bother flicking off the lights in the entryway, or giving the lamp in the living room attention. His sole focus was Pam, her throat still clogged with tears, eyes still clenched shut, her face still turned inward towards his body. Her fingers had found their way to the front, making identical grasps against the Phillies logo that was sodden with her tears.
Through his whispers, he urged her to breathe. In his touch, the way he held her and passed his fingers soothing along the skin of her arm, in circles across her back, he reassured her often that was was here, surrounding her, not going anywhere.
It never crossed his mind that Pam was literally sitting in his lap, clinging to him. His body didn't register the way she wiggled across his thighs with every jerk that accompanied her cries. It wasn't his business that her forehead brushed against his chin time and time again. His only concern was putting an end to this pain, to restoring the joy that he so often paired with those cheeks now brimming with tears.
He paid no attention to the minutes that ticked by showing no end to her inconsolable tears. Finally, under his careful Shhhhh's and whispered It's okay, Beesly; I've got you's, he felt her body begin to weaken, exhaustion winning the battle as she ran out of steam. They were still for quite some time, breathing and the occasional hiccup poking the silent cocoon that they had nestled their way into. He felt her head rustle from where she had wedged it under his chin, notice a chill as she slid her arm away from his grasp to wipe her nose on the sleeve of her sweater.
Without lifting her head, without meeting his gaze, she simply dropped her arms back to where he could cradle her before she spoke.
"God, this is so embarrassing."
In the stilled silence, he knew she had more to say, that in the way her breathing was quickening, she was thinking up the way to form sentences. So, he let her be, running his fingers softly along her bicep in a silent message, tattooing the words Take all the time you need to her skin with his fingers.
"I wanted to come here tonight and tell you how much I missed you, and how glad I was that I answered that phone tonight, and the second I see your face, I lose it."
Her voice catches again at the end of her sentence, partially in ironic laughter, and he squeezes her body tighter to him, if at all possible, as he whispers against her hair.
"Hey, hey now. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. It's okay, Pam."
Letting his nose bury itself in her curls for one more lingering second, he inhales, pulling back so that he can truly see her.
Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen. Her complexion greys in comparison to the typical glow he's used to marvelling at. Snot stains gather atop her lip, matching the tears streaks painted in lines down her cheeks.
And yet, in her state of vulnerability, her body literally shuddering in his arms, she is still so beautiful.
Her eyes, so wide and so sad, peered up, searching the forest green that belonged to him, that wanted to shout I'm sorry and I love you and Please, please stop hurting.
He let his fingers caress the curls at the side of her face, offering her a smile that said half of what he truly wanted to let tumble over his lips.
As her eyes dropped to her lap, a sigh heaving through her torso, he was reminded of their phone call earlier, of the ease in which they had found each other again. He couldn't let her go again, not as easily as he'd let the phone click into the receiver. He pulled her against him once more, his hand shifting to hold her head to his chest, where it belonged, lips brushing against her ears s he breathed words of promise to her.
"Hey, listen. If I know anything about the drive from Scranton to Stamford, you have to be exhausted right now. Why don't we both get some sleep, okay?"
Her head shifted up and down, edging his t-shirt slightly up his torso. But she didn't move, other than to cling to his chest more, to adjust her legs, to bury herself deeper within him than the thought possible. So they stayed, nestled together on the couch, until some time later when he felt her grip go lax and her head get heavier. He peered around her mass of curls, finding closed eyes and full lips. She looked like a child, cradled against him so snugly. When he was sure she was asleep, he lifted her effortlessly to his bedroom, pausing to replace her uncomfortable work attire with a pair of his old pajamas. He kept his eyes to her hands, her eyes, her toes; she barely registered his movements, but unconsciously followed his fingertips as they gingerly replaced stiff fabric with soft cotton that had been well worn.
It took everything in his power to pick his legs up and move his body to the couch that he knew was too small for his lanky body. He'd left Mark with the sectional, after all. But as he brushed the curls from her face, letting them splay across his pillow, he settled for a kiss on her forehead before shutting the door behind him.
She awoke with his scent in her nose, wrapped around her like a sheet, cradling her head like a pillow. Light wafted in through the curtainless window, and as her eyes blinked rapidly, adjusting to the forcefulness of the sun, she took her time in acknowledging how her night had transpired.
She had not passed through his doorway deliberately, stood her ground, and told him every feeling she'd been having since his first day at Dunder Mifflin. No. Instead, she had sobbed in his arms, fallen asleep in his lap, and somehow ended up asleep in his bed, wrapped from head to toe in his clothing. Sitting up in his soft, clean sheets, she pulled the collar of his large Eagles t-shirt up over her nose, dually to hide from the embarrassment that was freshly washing over her, and to bury herself in him.
When she'd spent time in his old bedroom, it hadn't been hard to do. Posters, knick-knacks, and framed photos oozed Jim. It wasn't just the clothes thrown haphazardly on his desk chair and the piles of paperwork that were neatly cluttered on his desktop, but the sense that he'd left his imprint on that room in his shared townhome. But here, in Stamford, Connecticut, with walls whose whiteness resembled a psychiatric ward, and boxes who acted as a skeletal frame for all that remained of him stacked around her, the only Jim she could find was inside of this t-shirt. As her eyes wandered, taking little time to absorb the lifeless environment, she came to the disparaging realization that this was all her fault. She had made him this way. Had forced him into a life that wasn't motivated enough to put his pants in a dresser drawer.
She was too tired to cry more, too dehydrated to allow her body to do more than stick her head in his kitchen sink. As if he had read her mind before the thoughts had even transpired, her gaze fell upon the glass of water balanced carefully on his makeshift box table. A note floated freely next to it, his familiar scratching lines causing her pulse to quicken.
Beesly-
I had to run into work today, at least until lunch. Trust me, I wanted to be there when you woke up, but I also wanted you to get your sleep. Hopefully you can see the sentiment in that.
I already called Toby to let him know you wouldn't be in, so don't freak out. There's waffles in the freezer and a fresh toothbrush in the bathroom. I have cable and internet, so hopefully you don't get too bored.
I left my cell and work numbers, too, in case you need anything, like to know where the extra towels are, or to have me rush home and fend off a three-headed monster. I promise I'll be back as soon as I can.
See you soon
-Jim
Prison Cell # (Work): (203) 555-8024 x6002
Cell: (570) 555-1872
Monster Hunters, Inc. Hotline: 1-800-WE-HUNT-U x911
Running her hands over the fresh lines of ink, she smiled a genuine smile for the first time since she'd set foot in his condo, unwarranted by awkwardness or embarrassment. She gathered the glass of water in one hand and held up his large pajama pants in the other. Upon setting her feet on the ground, she realized that, somewhere along the way, he'd managed to put a pair of gigantic socks over her size 7 feet.
Oh, Jim.
He truly did think of everything.
She found two different clothing options neatly folded at the foot of his bed, alongside her work attire from the previous night, that he had washed? Curiously, she ran her hands softly over the two different basketball short and t-shirt combinations. She'd guessed correctly that these were older, from his younger days as maybe a high school or college student. The material was worn, well used, with Nike logos that had faded into near oblivion, the symbols only still present because the sun had worn the sticker's imprint into the cloth. These clothes would fit her better, wouldn't take so much effort to hold up. Removing the big-and-tall sized t-shirt, she folded it neatly next to the other piles, mimicking her actions with his green plaid pajama pants. As she let his blue and white basketball shorts dangle a little less loosely from her hips, she felt her breath hitch in her throat as her fingers landed upon the stickers that were still clinging to the back of the t-shirt he'd laid beneath it. For the first time, she knew what it felt like to wear the name HALPERT across her back. While it still ran to the tops of her knees, she found a comforting warmth swimming in his clothes.
True to his word, she found a box of waffles in the freezer, a toaster, plate and utensils already freshly laid out for her. While she munched on her breakfast, she let her eyes wander, taking in the rest of his condo that seemed to reflect the dreary, hospital-esq ambience that she had awoken in. A chill passed between each tip of her spine, sending a shudder through her body that the warmth of the waffles couldn't overcome. She washed and dried the plate, letting it echo in the cabinet that was otherwise barren, before letting her feet that were lost in socks five sizes too big carry her body past every stark white wall in his new home.
She'd become at least partially familiar with his living room the night before, but in the morning light, she noticed the fresh scrape marks across the carpet that led from indentations, those lines telling a story of newly moved furniture. She could picture it now, his lanky body perched on the recliner that had been pushed hastily to the side, eyes glued to the television night after night. Gulping down the fresh whimper in her throat, she continued on, noting the boxes that he had piled neatly in the corner that still held him. She imagined his lava lamp, stacks of books, that French cyclist poster, and his boombox, all going months without seeing the sun. Her fingers itched to unfold the cardboard flaps, to unearth him, spread his true self around this depressing excuse for a living environment, but she also knew that it wasn't her place to do so.
Instead, she continued her silent traverse, taking note of the near full bottle of detergent that stood alone in his laundry room, no fabric softener in sight. His fridge was barren, save for the bottle of maple syrup and the remains of a six-pack. True to his word, there was a fresh toothbrush laid next to a tube of toothpaste on the edge of the sink, but aside from essential soaps and a stick of deodorant, it was as if she were in a hotel waiting for its guest to arrive. It was so odd, and yet so representative of the shell of a man who she knew inhabited this space. She needed to leave, if just to catch a breath of fresh air and remind herself that this was not who he was, that her Jim was buried somewhere in those boxes, and that her mission today was to put those pieces back together.
She returned to the bedroom, reaching to the floor to find the heels he had peeled off of her the night before, and removed her freshly charged cell phone from where it was anchored to the wall. It wasn't until she had perched on the edge of the bed to add heels and her cardigan to her already strange ensemble that she noticed it.
There, perched on the makeshift nightstand, was the only decoration he'd bothered to unbox.
It was her tree. That stupid little tree she'd drawn all those nights ago. That she'd signed. That he had taken home, and apparently framed. Her fingertips brushed across the frame, memories of all those nights spent together on couches, sharing snacks and hopes and dreams and laughs, that rejected the tears. Setting it back down on its perch, she found her purse, a spare set of his house keys, and headed out the door.
Luckily, the Stamford Target wasn't too busy at 10 AM on a Friday, so the stares she received went mostly unnoticed as she tried on a pair of black workout pants and store brand tennis shoes. She'd pulled the tags off, keeping the outfit on for the drive back to Jim's, grateful that she still had the MapQuest directions in her front seat. She was concerned as she placed the key in his front door to an already unlocked house, but the sight that greeted her upon kicking her shoes off made her chest simultaneously soar and tighten.
He was hurrying from the bedroom to the bathroom, her name reverberating through empty rooms and off walls who had nothing to stifle his concerned yells. She saw his messenger bag tossed to one side, jacket in a heap on the floor, shoes still probably on his feet. As he rounded the hall back into the entryway, a wave of relief washed over him, the redness in his face disappearing as his eyes found her.
"Hi." Her lips were curled into a small smile, her purse still slung onto her shoulder.
"I...I thought you'd left."
"Uh, no. I mean, technically I did leave. I never listened to my mother about always having a change of clothes in your car, and you are definitely not a size four." She tugged at her new pants, grinning in the hopes that he would stop looking so on edge. When his lips curled up, she set her purse down on the floor and propelled herself across the room and into his arms.
"I can't believe you're here," finally escaped his lips, brushing against her hair, after moments of an embrace that was brought tranquility to a soul that had otherwise been wound like a top since he awoke at four-thirty that morning.
"Me too," she mumbled into his chest, gripping him tighter.
Finally, he pulled back, their position mimicking one he thought he had suppressed, thought he'd effectively kicked out of his subconscious. Her hands were cradled in his, arms lingering in the empty space between one another. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't think about kissing her, hadn't noticed her eyes flicker to his lips, but she didn't need to be assaulted by physicality. Squeezing her hands, he nodded into the kitchen, letting her keep her grip on his hand as they found their bodies molded into opposite sides of the couch she had cried herself to sleep on.
The awkward aire was palpable, and he wiped his sweaty palms over his work slacks several times, averting his eyes to the white walls of the room before finding something, anything, to break the silence.
"So, uh, you didn't like my pants then, I take it?"
He saw the flicker of a grin, the hint of a spark in her eye.
"Oh, it wasn't the pants I didn't like. It was more the socks. I was constantly tripping over them. Had to do something about that. These were just on sale."
She pulled at the stretchy cotton once again, watching his grin twist into that sideways smirk that drew at the bottom of her gut.
"I've heard that Target can have that effect on women. You go in for one thing, and get trapped by everything else."
"Exactly. I like to call it Target Syndrome."
They were both proud of their ruse, not breaking character to giggle until he couldn't find words in his congested brain to keep going. As his eyes roamed the pants she'd been tugging at, fresh socks that didn't fall off clinging to impossibly tiny feet, he noticed the burgundy that still engulfed her torso.
She'd found herself a new outfit, but had chosen to remain in his t-shirt.
His smile, this time, was not so much motivated by her words, and he forced himself to quickly change the subject before he got up and did an Irish jig around the place.
"So, if you don't mind me asking, how did you find this place?"
Her eyes snapped up to meet his, the alarm wavering as he continued his bout of questioning.
"Have you been going up and down the blocks of every neighborhood in Stamford knocking on doors? Because if that's the case, then I'm surprised you made it this long with those heels, Beesly."
Her lips hinted at the smallest of smiles, so he continued.
"Did you hire a private investigator to snuff me out? 'Cause honestly, Pam, I thought I'd hidden myself pretty well over here."
Eyebrows rising, eyes widening.
"Oh, god, don't tell me you got Michael involved. See, I'm okay with you knocking on my door at ten o'clock on a Thursday night, but Michael? God, I'd never hear the end of that."
Finally, her smile was tugging up towards her ears, teeth finally making an appearance under pink-cheeked embarrassment.
"Uhm, I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to be mad."
"It's Michael, isn't it? God, I'm gonna have to go out and get new locks tomorrow."
He didn't give a damn about how she found him. What mattered was that she had. And that her demeanor had flipped on a dime from where she had been last night.
"I uhm, I kind of used my power of reception to look you up in the company directory."
Her eyes had been evasive, focusing on the fingers in her lap, the edge of the couch, the floor, before trailing up to his. With one eye pinched shut, and her lips twisted slightly in a smile of apologies, he couldn't shake the word adorable from his mind.
"Wow. You know, I've kind of always wanted my own stalker."
Her grimace unfurled itself into breathy laughter. He always did have a knack for making her smile in her weakest moments. Her Jim was still in here somewhere.
"Glad I could be of service. Did you want me to take pictures of you sleeping or steal the hair from your shower, too?"
"See, the hair stealing I'm okay with. But, to be honest with you, I look like a deformed gremlin when I'm asleep. I'd appreciate it if no one else had that documented."
With matching smiles, they settled into a comfortable silence before so's petered into the open air.
As gazes finally met, he saw something new in her eyes, something he hadn't seen before.
She was scared, definitely. But she wasn't afraid. She was strong, willing, hopeful. Scared, but full of hope.
"I'm all ears when you're ready, Beesly."
