Epilogue

Pam

Jim and I decided to keep our relationship secret for awhile. I guess Angela was on to something when it came to the idea of taking a year of mourning. In this case, it wasn't for me, because I knew I was in love with Jim, and I didn't want or need to wait anymore. No, it was out of respect for Roy's friends in the warehouse, as well as his family and our other mutual friends outside of work. It would likely hurt them to see that I had moved on, and for many it might seem like it was way too soon, that I'd already forgotten about Roy.

It was difficult, sneaking around, and there really wasn't the excitement of doing something scandalous or clandestine that might have been there had the circumstances been different. We would take our separate cars and meet after work, taking turns staying at our different homes, falling into each others' arms after long hours of deprivation. If we wanted to go out, we went to a neighboring town. We stopped meeting in the stairwell or on the roof at the office, although we couldn't help flirting a little, playing pranks on Dwight, eating lunch together in the breakroom. I assured Kelly we were just work friends, but I knew she wasn't buying it. Angela had warmed up a little, and had brought brownies to Jim one day by way of apology, simply leaving a tin of them on his desk, with a note that said, "Treat her right, or else. ~A."

That afternoon, I'd grinned to see Jim cornering Angela in the kitchen and giving her one of his big bear hugs, lifting her off the ground as she protested, bestowing a smacking kiss on her forehead before setting her down. She'd acted offended and huffy, but I saw her smile a little as she escaped into the bathroom to straighten her hair. The next day, she joined us at our table for lunch.

November 15th would have been my first wedding anniversary with Roy. His mother had called me, leaving me in tears at the mixture of sadness and guilt at what I was keeping from her, that I could hear her pain, still so raw and heartbreaking. Adding to the awkwardness was that it was Sunday morning, and Jim had stayed over. He held me in my new queen size bed while I cried, understanding without words that I would always miss Roy, but that it took nothing away from what Jim and I had now.

Two months later, a different anniversary rolled around, and after work, Jim and Angela came with me to Roy's grave. It was a freezing January day, the sky threatening snow. There was already about four inches on the ground and I held tightly to Jim's hand for support, my boots crunching on the half-frozen snow. Family and friends had obviously been there earlier, the fresh roses and other flowers a splash of color against all the whiteness, along with a full can of beer I guessed had come from his brother Kenny.

I laid down the bouquet of cheap pink carnations—the first flowers Roy had ever given me when I was sixteen. I squatted, reaching out to brush the snow off the top of the cold granite, read his birthdate and date of death, traced the simple epitaph: Beloved husband, son, brother, and friend. I supposed that summed it up—everyone had loved Roy, and when I stood again, Jim holding one hand, Angela taking the other, I took a moment to remember my husband.

When Roy was happy, which was usually the case, his blue eyes would sparkle and his dimples would appear charmingly as he laughed. He loved having a good time, whether it was boating or four-wheeling, camping, hunting, playing poker or hanging out at Poor Richard's with the guys after work. On the weekends his brother and some buddies would inevitably be at our house to watch football or whatever sport was in season. I would keep them in snacks and beer, listening to the yells and laughter from my bedroom. He loved a good joke, loved to tease, loved to have sex. While he was occasionally insensitive, he had a good heart, adored his mother, was loyal to his friends.

"You want some time alone," Jim whispered.

I shook my head. "No, I'm glad you both are here." I took a deep breath of cold air, ignored the warm tear I felt sliding down my cheek. "Roy," I said, addressing his grave, "I want you to meet Jim. He's a good man too, and you don't have to worry now; I have someone to take care of me, to see that my oil gets changed, to fix the toilet—okay, to call the plumber when the toilet gets clogged—" Jim chuckled beside me at the truth of that—I had recently discovered he was by no means a handyman. I squeezed Jim's hand and glanced at him with a watery smile.

"Anyway," I continued, "I'm going to be all right. I miss you, and I love you, and I will never forget you." I felt Jim bend and kiss my temple, before my two best friends pulled me into a group embrace, comforting me while I cried.

Later, Angela and I met the warehouse guys, Kenny, and some of Roy's other friends at Poor Richard's. Jim hadn't come, which was okay, and entirely appropriate, but Angela and I drank several shots amid endless toasts of remembrance, and old stories about Roy. Daryl Robinson had to give us both a lift home.

Hungover, I barely heard Jim's call the next morning.

"Hello," I croaked into the bedside phone.

"Hey. You don't sound so good. Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah. That's okay though. I had a little too much to drink last night. I need to get up anyway." I clutched my pounding head, my stomach lurching sickly, and I lay back down in misery.

"Can I bring you anything?" he asked sympathetically.

"You definitely don't want to see me like this."

He laughed softly. "Hey, Beesly, been there, done that myself. Not since college, mind you…"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. I'll be fine. I just need to take a shower, throw up, have some tea and toast—not necessarily in that order. I could use a favor later though, when I'm a little less hungover. Could you take me to pick up my car please? I had to get a ride home last night."

I could almost hear him frowning. "You should have called me."

"It was late; I didn't want to bother you."

"You can call me anytime Pam, for anything, you know that right?"

"Yes, I know, thanks. But hopefully you'll never have to pick me up drunk from a bar ever again. I'm too old for that crap."

He laughed. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I said the same thing last time I went out with Mark and the boys."

I started to laugh too, but I moaned involuntarily when it hurt my head.

"I'll let you get some more sleep, or hug the porcelain god, whichever way you're leaning at the moment."

"Gee, thanks. I'll call you later. Love you."

I had about hung up when I heard him say: "Wait—what did you say?"

"Huh?"

I thought a moment, then realized what I had said to him, albeit absently. I guess it was so a part of my feelings now, that in my hungover state, I hadn't been thinking clearly enough to filter my words.

"Are you still drunk, or did you really mean that?" His voice was hoarse, tense, anxious for my reply. I swallowed against my queasiness. Not exactly the way I wanted to confess my true feelings for him.

"I uh, I'm still a little drunk I guess, but I meant it. I mean, I do. Love you, I mean," I finished lamely, feeling sicker by the minute.

"You do?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause, and suddenly I felt very unsure of myself. We hadn't said those words out loud yet, but I was pretty sure we were both feeling it, and had been for some time.

"I'll be right over," he said suddenly.

"Wait, no—"

"I for one am not drunk, Beesly, and I'm not going to say this over the phone."

"Oh, God," I managed, the bile rising in my throat. "I gotta go—"

When my stomach was completely empty, I managed to get myself in the shower, as hot as I could stand it. When I came out, it was to the smell of toasted bread and the sound of a teakettle. He'd let himself in with the key I'd given him a week before. Feeling shaky, I brushed my teeth.

Wrapped in my robe, I walked back into my room just as he entered with a tray of tea, toast, and ibuprofen. I blushed furiously, still reeling at what I'd admitted so unromantically.

He set down the tray at the foot of my bed and drew me in for a hug.

"Hey," he said, a smile in his voice, his chin on my wet hair. "Did you get it all out of your system?"

"I think I got my entire system out of my system."

He chuckled, then stepped back a little to look down into my face intently.

"Are you sobered up now?"

"Mostly," I said, feeling my face flush, my heart pound. My stomach turned over, though not from the hangover.

"In that, case…" he took a deep breath, and I felt his hands tremble a little where they rested on my shoulders. "I need to tell you…I love you too. So much, Pam. I've wanted to tell you for months now, but I was worried it was too soon…"

"Me too," I said, my voice barely above an astonished whisper.

He grinned from ear to ear, then he bent to kiss me, hesitating at the last moment. "You're not gonna throw up are you?"

"I don't think so."

"Worth the risk," he muttered, before pressing his lips to mine.

It had all been worth it, I thought, as his mouth moved lovingly over mine—all the pain, all the grief, all the letting go. I wrapped my arms around him and held on to joy.

The End

A/N: Thanks so much for reading!