Sometimes words do not say enough.
Pacey lay sprawled on his back in the middle of Audrey's bed, dressed only in a white t-shirt and boxers, staring up at the ceiling above. Audrey, I don't know what it is that you want me to say. I mean, I'm really sorry, he had said, the night before. But when he looked into Audrey's eyes, he saw only resignation and wariness there. She asked him to come inside, to hold her, and he had done so, without hesitation. Because it was what he should do. What he wanted was another thing entirely. Hell – what did he want these days? He rolled over and punched at Audrey's fuzzy hot pink headrest, feeling futile.
Maybe words say too much.
Audrey was crying when he came back in from the hallway, after he sent Joey off into the earliest hours of a new morning. Quickly flipping off his shoes, he yanked his loose tie from around his neck, and slipped into the bed behind her, asking her what was wrong. She rolled over, sudden; so he kissed her, soothing. And then, as they always did lately, they had sex to ease the pain. The last time was three weeks ago – a vast eternity in Audrey-land. Damn, that was an unkind thought. He was an ass. But he did not want to be an ass.
Things could be said to make things all better.
Pacey knew this. He had said such things before. Said them, and meant them. When he had asked Audrey to be his girlfriend during Spring Break in Florida, he had meant it. When he told her at the beginning of summer, on the intercom at the airport, that she was amazing and she rocked his world, he meant that too. When he told her he loved her on the phone yesterday afternoon, before the incident-that-caused-the-current-strife occurred, he certainly meant what he said. These things, so full of meaning, he would never say lightly.
But then, there are the things you do not say.
Understanding gazes and teasing glances shared, while settled on a bench in a deserted dormitory hallway, passing the time with an old friend. Unspoken remembrances of a shared past inserted between name-that-moment asides, personal updates, a never-expected literary conversation, and the ever-present banter. And then, a disquieting look saturated with meaning. After that, hushed comfort from a brief tangle of fingers, resting on her knee.
Sometimes, words are not needed at all.
Restless, Pacey rolled off of the bed and onto his feet. He strode the small length of the room, back and forth once, and had turned to start another leg when his eye caught the edge of something sticking out from beneath Joey's bed. He went over, leaned down, and plucked it up from beneath the hanging comforter that barely brushed the floor. Joey's tattered, used copy of Jack Kerouac's On the Road.
Figures, Pacey thought, recalling one of last night's literary references -- The road is life. Hell, this road he was traveling on right now was a damned long and winding one. As much as Joey seemed to think he was on a new and improved path, he, himself, was lately feeling only swerves and bumps on this particular journey. As he flipped through the remembered pages, he idly wondered if she needed the book today. Should he bring it back with him, to his apartment? Was she even still at his apartment? Shit. Why was he even thinking about Joey in his apartment at all? There was still Audrey to contend with.
As if he had conjured her, his thoughts suddenly powerful and magic in that instant, Audrey re-entered the room. She seemed tired and a little jumpy. He went still, the book open in one hand, the other paused in the motion of turning yet another page of it. They looked at each other. Pacey closed the book, resolute, and took a step toward Audrey. She stayed him with an upheld palm.
"Let's just forget about last night, okay? Just go on like it never happened. You're here, and that's all I need. It's all I want."
"So what do you want to do now?" he asked her, treading careful, his eyes caught on her fragile gaze.
"I'm going to take a shower. And then we'll go to your apartment. I'd like to stay with you for awhile. Is that okay?"
"Yeah, sure," Pacey said, coming over finally, wrapping his arms around her. Audrey grabbed onto him, returning the hug. "Joey might still be there. She stayed over last night. So we could be alone," he added, by way of explanation.
He felt Audrey's hold on him tighten for a fraction of a second, and then she sighed and burrowed her face into his neck, nodding. Frowning, he ran a consoling hand over her back and smoothed a gentle hand through her blonde hair. She released him then, and without looking at him, abruptly turned to walk into the bathroom.
"Audrey," Pacey said, her name springing out between them to halt her retreat. Something beneath these recent words had left him perplexed, bemused, even a little sad.
Turning back, she stood there, on the threshold in front of the door, staring at him. He saw pain in her eyes and a strange, feverish look he was not sure how to read. It looked like a tortured version of hope. He wanted to make things better. He wanted to help her heal. He thought about what he could say to soothe her, to reassure her, to bring back meanings that would make her feel whole again. Deep down, he knew that what he should say was, "I love you and nothing else matters to me but you."
What he said was, "Never mind."
And beneath the words, meanings shifted but stayed buried, for now.