When we were cast away, it was a private fantasy. Just the two of us, in our own personal paradise – our own bubble.
But I know – we both know – from bitter experience, that when we leave that bubble (leave K-Mart, leave True Love), when others are involved, Pacey and I don't work.
We fight; we clash.
I weep.
(His face contorted with anger: he says he doesn't care; he doesn't know why he's with me.)
Pacey always pushes me, has always pushed me. He keeps me moving.
Dawson.
With Dawson, it's comforting. Familiar. My one constant when everything else changes.
He and I never change – never grow up... never move forward.
There is a stifling safety in that.
Eddie.
With Eddie, it's a blank slate. He never knew "Little Joey Potter", never knew to pity her or condescend. Never knew the sullen overachiever, who was still somehow judged as unwholesome, as coming from bad stock. The girl paralysed by fear of making the wrong decisions, of being found out. Of being trapped.
(He says he is trapped in this relationship – he says I make him feel like he's nothing.)
With Eddie, I can pretend to be someone else – pretend to be a rebel, pretend not to be an overthinker. He's never called me on the pretence – he's never known me well enough to know that that is what I was doing.
With Pacey... He's always called me out. He's always known when I'm pretending. He's never let me let me get away with it. He's never let me stand still.
Buying me walls, sailing away, pushing my boundaries – pushing me beyond myself. Making me acknowledge what I want; making me acknowledge my desire.
(He doesn't touch me anymore. He says he never even thinks about touching me – he flinches when I try.)
Pacey.
My rock in the storm, yet also the storm.
Familiar, yet unpredictable. Unknown maelstrom, catching me up, casting me adrift.
Uncharted waters – who knows where it would end? Where we would end up.
(What if he turned on me again?)
To kiss him then was sweet fantasy.
To kiss him now would be infinitely more dangerous.