Pining for Paris/Jim Halpert

Chapter 2: The Sales Position

A week had passed since I'd met Jim. On my way to work at my dad's, I couldn't help but think about him; I'd almost forgotten how dreamy he was, how goofy — I would have forgotten had I not wrote it all down in my journal. But every time I thought of him and his near-perfection I thought of our last moments before I left, when we talked about Pam. How he has feelings for her. Every time I think about it, it hurts a little.

Which is totally ridiculous, I told myself, because I didn't even know him. I knew four things about him, which is not nearly enough to make a valuable, accurate decision on how I feel about him. It was ridiculous, right?

I pulled up to the car park around 9am and locked it on my way into the building, sheltering from the pouring rain. By the time I walked into my dad's office, I knew something was up. I knew this because my dad was drinking tea, which he only drinks when he has to tell me something important. He was rubbing his hands anxiously, and looked relieved when I showed up.

"Dad? You okay?" I asked as I put down my bag and took off my jacket.

"Yeah-yeah. Uh, I just, I gotta talk to you, baby." I furrowed my brows and sighed, anxiety building in my chest.

"What's going on?"

He took a heavy sigh before speaking. "You can't work here anymore."

"You're firing me?" I couldn't believe it — my own dad?

"Baby, listen — yes, I am, and you know I don't take pleasure in this Paris, but you're a woman now, you are your own person. I'm your dad, and I'll always be your dad, but when you work here, it's like you're depending on me all over again like you're a child," he admitted. "I want you to be financially independent. I want you to visit me, of course I do, but I don't want you to be tethered to me anymore."

I could feel tears dotting my eyes. "Daddy, I didn't think that's what I was doing..."

"I know baby, but listen. You're gonna thank me for this one day. Also, I didn't pay you much at this job and I know you're struggling. Get a real job, Paris. One that isn't managed by your old man."

I inhaled deeply, realizing he was right. I had rent due, and I barely had enough food to eat in my apartment. I needed a real job. I didn't say anything, but simply listened to the sound of the rain pattering outside.

"Your mom—"

"Oh god, come on Dad."

"Hey — your mom, she was financially independent at 16 —"

"I'm not a dancer, Dad. I can't do that shit. I'm not Mom and this isn't Paris in 1975."

"I — honey..." He took my hands. "What I'm trying to say is that she did it, and she was really happy because of it. I just want that for you too."

I detached our hands, and again I knew he was right. It still hurt, not just the firing, but the fact that he brought up Mom. I rubbed the thighs of my jeans and told him I needed some air. I grabbed my jacket and my cigarettes on my way out and could barely contain my tears, let alone my feelings.

I reached outside and stood in front of the lobby, leaning on the building, realizing I forgot my umbrella. I stood in the rain and looked at the big dumb grey sky and wanted to scream. I lit a cigarette, my hands shaking, and dragged it for a long time. And I couldn't help but cry; cry because I was getting soaked and my jacket was leather and cry because my mom was dead and because she was financially independent by 16 years old and I could barely go a day without talking through my feelings with my dad. I breathed in the wet September air, which chilled the tears on my face. I felt empty.

A yellow car rolled into the lot and I stepped on my dead cigarette before lighting a new one. I wiped the tears from my face, but that probably didn't do any good because I got really red whenever I cried. I prayed that the rain wouldn't make it noticeable.