Chapter Nine
Dawson was certain that he was about to lay his very last cards down on the table, that he was playing the final hand in a decades-long game. After the argument with Joey, he'd wandered for a while - just thinking things over, and he believed he'd finally pinpointed exactly where he'd gone wrong.
The best way to set things straight was to repair the worst of the damage first. If he could do that, then the rest of the job should be relatively easy. And the first step was to make amends with the one person that he'd hurt the most.
He'd made his way down to the Marina, to where the Skittish Kitten was moored.
Now, standing with his hands on his hips and staring at the man on the yacht's deck, he found himself wondering when the skinny, smart-mouthed boy he remembered from his youth had transformed into someone that he wouldn't think twice about casting as the lead in one of his movies. Why was it that he hadn't ever recognized Pacey's potential? The star quality that had proven so elusive during casting for The Creek virtually exuded from his every pore. He'd been such a natural when they were making that Sea Creature thing, too. Jeez, and he called himself a filmmaker...
A giggle reached his ears and he glanced towards its source, noticing a couple of teenaged girls a few berths further down the pier. They were staring too. In fact, they were practically drooling over the side of their daddy's luxury cruiser. As he watched, one of them took a photo with her cell phone, shared it with her companion and then began thumbing the keypad with a shockingly rapid finesse, apparently spreading the word about this manly specimen to her socialite friends.
Pacey wasn't aware of his audience, though he couldn't have been playing more to them if he'd tried. Shirtless, he was coiling a length of rope around his forearm, lean muscles bunching and rippling with the movement. The sun had gilded his already bronzed skin, and the breeze ruffled his thick hair like an indulgent old friend.
As he truly took in the full picture though, Dawson had to bite back a grin. Because as undeniably handsome and sea-god-like as Pacey appeared right then, there was one dead giveaway that he hadn't entirely let go of that younger version of himself.
The loudest pair of board shorts that Dawson had ever borne witness to were slung low on his narrow hips. The bright blues and greens of the floral pattern, and the electric orange piping a vivid technicolour contrast to the tan of his bare chest. They practically screamed 'obnoxious' – a definite throwback to Old Pacey.
It only was when he turned to sling the coil into a nearby container that Dawson noticed the tattoo.
The flat muscular plane along the rear of his right shoulder was adorned with a large black-and-grey rendering of a familiar-looking yacht, sailing at full clip on a stylized ocean, white-crested waves rippling beneath a starlit night sky. The elaborate lettering on the scrollwork beneath it could be read quite clearly:
True Love.
As beautiful as the artwork was, the sight of it was jolting. This was a distinctly New Pacey attribute; the man he remembered wouldn't have had a tattoo – not in a million years.
"Nice ink, Pace."
Pacey shot him a sharp look, at first startled to see him, and then checking to see if the compliment was sincere or not. After a moment, he nodded. "Thanks." Then, realizing that Dawson was seeking an explanation, he shrugged and added, "It's pretty old now; I sometimes forget it's even there."
"When did you…?"
"Oh, ah…the summer that Jo finally made her French connection, I got myself the hell out of Capeside as well. I had to go get my head on straight. The last time that was necessary I'd spent my summer crewing in the Caribbean, but this time around one of my former shipmates and I wound up in Miami. There's this cool shop in South Beach that's…" He stopped and frowned, as though he'd suddenly realized who he was talking to. "What are you doing down here anyway? Looking for trouble?"
"I already found it, actually. Or it found me. That's why I'm here. Look, I suppose you're going to find out soon enough, but…um…"
"What did you do?" Pacey's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint sparking to life - one that only proved to make Dawson even more nervous.
"Joey hit me," he blurted.
"Good for her. What did you do?"
"The same thing I always do. I opened my mouth and then I stuck my foot into it. Both feet. And it landed me on my ass."
Pacey just stared at him, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and for a second there Dawson thought he was about to pick up where Joey'd left off, but then he scoffed and shook his head. "Just another case of the chronic Leery Syndrome then. Nice to know some things never change." He picked up another coil of rope from the deck and tossed it in after its companion.
"I'm glad my crippling affliction amuses you." Pleased that he'd managed to get though this latest confrontation still breathing, Dawson gave the vessel a once over, taking in the sleek lines and the gleaming navy-coloured hull that was obviously yet another tribute to the lost True Love. "She's a beautiful boat, Pace. You taking her out?"
"Yeah. Just a quick run around the bay before the regular family trip on Sunday."
Dawson nodded, taking a moment to gather his courage. "Well, if you're in need of a first mate, I'm volunteering." He tipped his chin at the gangway. "Permission to come aboard, Captain Witter?"
There was a long pause as Pacey contemplated his answer. "Granted," he said, and then raised a cautioning finger, "On one condition. Two, actually."
"What's that?"
"First, that you never again call me Captain Witter. I am not my Pop. And, as much as the man did to redeem himself before finally leaving this earth, I hope to never become anything like my Pop, so any suggestions of a resemblance, no matter how accurate or pertinent they are, are just too horrible to contemplate. And secondly; once you're on board, all past prejudices are to be left ashore where they belong. I don't tolerate such self-indulgent nonsense on my boat. Comprendes, mi amigo?"
"Aye, aye." Dawson saluted, failing to hold back the burgeoning smile. This was going much better than he had expected.
Then again, he was going to be out in the middle of a large body of water with Pacey. Alone. His smile faltered. They'd never had much luck with nautical outings; maybe he should have thought this through a bit more.
Busy mulling over the very real possibility of his death at sea, he'd already hauled the mooring lines in before what Pacey had just said finally registered.
John Witter was dead?
"Um...Pace?"
"What?"
"I'm sorry about your Dad."
An uncomfortable silence descended. Pacey sucked in his cheeks, a sure sign that he was holding something in, but he didn't look up from fiddling with the satellite navigation display. He swallowed heavily before answering. "Um, yeah. Thanks."
Another long pause. "You named your son after him."
That observation earned him a dead-eyed stare, though the hurt simmering under the surface revealed what a painful subject this obviously was. "Is there a point you're trying to make?"
"No." Dawson studied the back of Pacey's head as he hunched back over the little computer screen, suddenly feeling as though he was in the midst of a huge life-changing epiphany.
He'd always thought that Joey was his muse, that her ongoing presence was the sole inspiration for all of his work, but here was another person that he'd known his whole life, someone who was more complex and layered and multifaceted than he could have possibly imagined - a man who somehow managed to be both flawed and perfect, someone so beyond the stereotypical cad that he'd been cast as.
He'd once called this man his best friend. He hadn't even scratched the surface.
"Pace…"
Pacey held up a hand without even bothering to turn around. "Don't," he said. "I don't wanna hear it. No past prejudices, remember?"
Dawson frowned. "I just wanted to say…"
"That you're sorry. I know, okay. I heard you the first time. And the one after that, and so on and so on. It's called beating a dead horse, D. Forget it and move on. Although...you never did quite master that, did you?"
"No. Though, I see you're still quite adept at bringing the flippancy to awkward moments."
"Well, I try."
Dawson decided to go for it. "You hate me, don't you?"
Pacey gazed out over the water, silent.
"I understand if you do. I mean, the way that I've acted…and the…"
"Hate's a relative term," Pacey finally said. "It could very definitely have applied at various points over the course of our association, but if you're asking if I hate you now, right at this moment? Then the answer would be no."
Dawson sighed, relieved. "You don't?"
"I resent that you've been at the source of some of my and Jo's more difficult relationship hurdles, but I don't think it goes any deeper than that at this point."
"That's…that's very reassuring actually."
"Glad I could be of service." Pacey suddenly swung around and faced Dawson head on. "Okay, so here's where I really gotta know something, 'cause it's bugging the hell out of me." He leant forward, elbows on knees. "What happened to you?"
"Huh?"
"Something must have brought about this fantastic new Leery persona. You're all about making apologies now, so what changed? What was the catalyst? Some spoilt Hiltonesque starlet dump you, and you felt the need to come crawling back to Jo again? Pick up where you left off?"
Dawson frowned. "Not to be pedantic, but aren't you breaking your own rules regarding prejudices right now?"
"My boat, my rules." Pacey leant back again, tucking his arms behind his head.
Dawson snorted at the familiar show of cocky posturing.
"And here's an even funner question for ya – are you ever, ever gonna ask about Jen and Amy? Or are you more interested in your former 'soul mate' than your child and her mother?"
The question hit its mark like a sniper's bullet and Dawson dropped heavily onto of the Kitten's padded seats, deflated and defeated. He spread his hands in a hopeless gesture. "Jen won't talk to me."
"I'm shocked," came the deadpan reply.
"I'm not. I mean, not really. I understand how angry she must be, how...hurt and betrayed and resentful, and she's been hanging on to that for a long time. It might take her even longer to let go. What I don't get is how you guys could just drop the news on me like that, with no warning whatsoever. No matter what I've done in the past, I didn't deserve that."
"Ah, well. You'll find the launching pad for that particular bombshell was located a little closer to home."
There was a long pause as Dawson contemplated the implications. "Mom knew?"
"I don't think it was an absolute certainty until the wedding plans were under way, but you, my friend, were set up by the best." Pacey waggled a finger, one brow arched. "Must be where you inherited that mile-wide manipulative streak."
Dawson levelled a withering glance in his direction, but Pacey just grinned.
"Beer?" he asked cheerfully.
TBC…
