The Ashes Left Behind
Gratitude, thanks, and possibly my firstborn children are owed to JaycieVictory for betaing and NorahB for saving me from a legal and medical quagmire of bad writing.
Chapter Ten
The drive to Providence was mostly a silent one. Their thoughts were full of the visit ahead, and efforts at conversation were short-lived. Luckily, Jack's taste in music was a thousand times better than Doug's, and they cruised down the highway to a mix of Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, and Metallica.
Pacey was antsy. He wanted to move. The passenger seat felt confining. He should have insisted on driving. He shouldn't have skipped his run. His foot tapped out the same quick rhythm against the floorboard, no matter the song.
When they reached the Mayfield Center, Pacey didn't know whether he wanted to jump out of the car and race in to see her or turn around and drive home as fast as humanly possible.
"Well, here we are," Jack said unnecessarily as he killed the engine.
"Indeed, we are."
Jack cast him a sidelong look. "You ready for this?"
"Guess we'll find out." Pacey opened the door. After the cool, air-conditioned car, the humidity outside was suffocating. He could feel the air pressing on his skin, stealing his breath. The clouds overhead forecast a late summer storm. Pacey refused to view the oppressive gloom as an omen.
He followed Jack inside to the reception desk. Upon giving their names, they were ushered into a surprisingly bright, open room. Mahogany bookshelves lined one wall, with a cozy reading nook set up beside it, while round tables and chairs were scattered around the rest of the space. Large windows looked out into a secluded garden, and the walls were painted a cheerful, pale yellow. A petite, middle-aged brunette sat in a corner loveseat, lost in a John Grisham novel, while a fresh-faced nurse in spotless white nodded encouragingly at them from a small desk by the door.
Pacey sat on one of the well-padded chairs and tried not to slump or sprawl. He felt called to his best manners, as if visiting his grandmother.
Jack didn't sit. He leaned against the back of a chair, fingers drumming against the cushion. "So we've put this off as long as possible. Who's telling her, you or me?"
Pacey frowned. His foot resumed its relentless tapping. "I don't know. How's your bedside manner?"
Jack shrugged. "Flip you for it?"
Pacey shook his head. "My dad, my best friend. I'll do it."
Jack's spine relaxed, while Pacey felt his gut tighten further.
Pacey couldn't sit any longer. He jumped to his feet and walked back and forth between the sitting area and the door. He couldn't believe after three long months, he was going to see Andie again. Putting aside the confession he dreaded, he was, in those first few moments, going to see her beautiful smile, smell her hair, hold her close.
And all his confused, trauma-induced feelings for Joey Potter would disappear in the reality of his love for Andie McPhee.
The doorknob twisted. Pacey froze. Jack stepped up beside him. A stocky, Hispanic man in a white uniform opened the door then stepped back. Andie rushed past him, squealing, and threw herself into her brother's arms.
"Jack! I've missed you so much!" Andie looked luminous, her hair blonde again, her skin shining peaches and cream. She wore cutesy little barrettes in her hair, the way Pacey remembered, and a pink and blue sundress he thought was new.
Jack swallowed his sister in a giant bear hug. "Missed you, too. But it's good to see you smiling." He pulled back, and the siblings grinned at each other.
"Sorry to break up the Hallmark moment, but can I get a little piece of this lovefest?"
A blush rose in Andie's cheeks as she disentangled herself from Jack. "Pacey." Her voice was soft, loving, but she didn't throw herself at him with abandon, as she had her brother. She stepped into his open arms tentatively, hands sliding around Pacey's waist, slowly bringing her head to rest against his chest. Then she sighed and relaxed, her momentary bashfulness or discomfort vanishing.
For a moment, Pacey was shocked at how short she was. Then he remembered the curves of her body, how he'd wanted to protect her and save her from the very first time he held her. He pulled her tight with his right arm, while his left hand stroked her hair. "Hey, McPhee." He ducked his head to kiss the top of hers, but stopped short. "New shampoo?"
Andie pulled back, laughing nervously. "Yeah. I ran out, and Linda got me the wrong bottle. Mark said he likes this better, and Sylvie agreed, but if you don't like it, I can—"
"Who said I didn't like it? I just noticed it was different. Maybe you should be happy that after three months, I remembered you always smell like lemonade on a summer's day. But this is nice, too. Still fresh and clean, but different. What is it?"
"Cucumber."
Jack laughed. "Cucumber, really? Only women would ever think it's attractive to smell like a salad."
Andie pushed out of Pacey's arms and headed toward one of the circular seating areas. "Says the boy who most often reeks of a combination of CK One and sweaty gym socks." She perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair, hands folded, ankles crossed.
"So now that you're here, are you finally going to tell me what's happened?" Pacey could hear Andie's anxiety in her voice, see it in the whiteness of her clasped knuckles.
"What, what makes you think something's happened?" Jack asked, with the guiltiest face in the world.
"Please, I'm crazy, not stupid. Whenever I ask questions about Capeside, you both turn cagey and try to change the subject, and it's taken most of the summer for you to come visit. So what is it? Is it Mom?" Andie's face blanched, hands gripped her knee. But she sat, brave and quiet, sane and strong.
"It's not Mom," Jack hastened to assure her.
Andie relaxed a fraction. "Good. I know it's not Dad, since I just got off the phone with him. Is it Aunt—"
"It's Dawson," Pacey blurted out, unable to stomach twenty questions. "Dawson and my dad and Joey's, too. They were killed in a fire, not long after you left."
"What—I don't—but—how long after I left?"
"About a week." Pacey started toward her, to comfort her, but Andie stood and retreated from him, horror growing on her face. "I wanted to tell you, but the doctors said you weren't ready. They were afraid—"
"I need to see Mark," Andie said, rushing to the door. "I need Mark!" Hysteria bubbled in her words, in the lines of her body. The nurse at the desk rose to her feet, but before she reached Andie, the girl fled the room.
Pacey listened to the fading click of her shoes across the floor. He felt numb, unable to move, unable to speak.
"Wait here, please," the nurse instructed them. "I'll check on her." She left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. A minute later, another white-frocked nurse took her seat at the desk, with an appraising glance at the woman still lost in The Client.
"Sorry," Pacey muttered to Jack. "I didn't handle that well."
"Ya think?" Jack snapped at him, before taking a deep breath. "It wasn't your fault, Pacey. We never should have kept it from her in the first place. She's much too smart for that kind of deception. I'll go back to the front desk, find out where she is, see if we can talk to her." He left the room, and Pacey, behind.
Pacey ignored the inquisitive gaze of the new nurse and headed to one of the windows. A few patients milled around the flower-lined paths, while others worked in a vegetable patch. A recognizable blonde blur hurried across the grass and into the arms of a surprised, worried dark-haired boy. He held her close, whispering into her ear, one hand buried in her hair, as Andie's slender shoulders shook with weeping. After a moment, Andie pulled back slightly, said something to the young man—Mark, Pacey assumed—and then, following his response, dived right back into his arms.
The scene was piercingly familiar and separate at the same time. He had been there, in Mark's place, before. Now, he was on the outside, looking in.
The brunette nurse who had followed Andie walked up to the entwined pair a minute later. Andie stepped out of Mark's arms, but held tightly to his hand. She listened to the nurse, listened to Mark, but responded with more tears, a rapid negative shake of the head, and a string of words which included the easily decipherable No at least four times.
Pacey didn't wait for the nurse's return with Andie's refusal. He left the visitors' room, passed through the corridor, and back into reception. "Let's go, Jack," he said to his friend as he passed him at the front desk. He didn't wait to see if Jack followed.
Clouds dark as pitch hovered overhead. Distant streaks of lightning illuminated Jack's waiting car. Thunder boomed like a gunshot. Pacey tried to open the passenger side door. It was locked.
"Goddammit!" Pacey kicked the tire once and then once more. It didn't help. He leaned against the side of the car, resting his elbows on the roof, his head in his hands. Uncounted minutes passed as he numbed himself to thought, to feeling, to everything, as the heavens opened up and poured down upon him.
"Pacey! Are you okay, man?" Jack ran up to him.
Pacey laughed bitterly. "We could take inventory of the multitude of ways in which I am not okay, but during the time that would take, I would probably be struck by lightning. Twice."
"Andie asked us to come back next week, told the nurse she's not ready to talk to us yet. But we could go in and wait, if you want. She might change her mind."
She doesn't need me, Pacey thought, but aloud said only, "Let's go home."
Jack unlocked the car, and they piled in. Given the deluge, Jack, being the responsible driver he was, drove at a crawl. A mile down the road, he turned down the radio and said, "You shouldn't read too much into it, the Mark thing. He's just a friend. They've gone through a lot of the same things, but...you shouldn't be jealous, Pacey. She doesn't love him."
Pacey watched the rain splatter the windshield in blinding thickness. "She never mentioned him to me. Not once, in any letter or phone call. I've heard about Linda and Sylvie, Vincent and Tomas, Dr. Bennet and Nurse Janine. Until today, I didn't know Mark existed."
"Maybe she felt weird talking about him to you. They've been helping each other through this, like you and Joey. You haven't exactly been forthcoming with Andie about your new best friend, either."
"I couldn't because I wasn't allowed to tell her about the fire. What's her excuse?"
"Same as yours," Jack shot back. "She's recovering from trauma, however she can. Don't be a hypocrite, man. Or a jealous ass."
Pacey was self-aware enough to admit he was jealous. But more than that, he was pissed. He was mad at Andie for lying to him, and at himself for lying to her. He was bone-deep furious at his father for a lifetime of telling him he wasn't good enough, and at himself for proving Pop right. At the Leerys, for leaving; at Doug, for staying. At Mike Potter, for being the idiot who started the whole damn mess. He was pissed at Dawson for dying, which didn't make any sense, and at himself for living, which was messed up on a whole other level. He hated this Mark guy he'd never met for being the arms Andie ran to and hated himself for not caring enough to run after her. He hated a fucking fortune teller he met for five minutes one day because she was right about Andie and right about him, and he was so sick of watching the remnants of his fragile happiness crash to the ground.
Worse than all the rest, he hated that never, not for a moment, not when Andie ran into the room, not when he held her close or saw her smile, had he forgotten the shifting shades of Joey Potter's eyes.
Pacey had Jack drop him off at home, not the Potters'. He didn't trust himself around Joey, not with how today had gone, the way he was feeling. He didn't mention that to Jack, but he thought Jack knew anyway. The storm had followed them all the way, and Pacey was soaked in the short run from Jack's car to his porch.
Gretchen was the only one home. She was in the dining room, surrounded by boxes, piles of sorted papers spread out on the table. "Pacey! This is a rare honor. Between the look on your face and going out in this weather, I'm guessing fight with Joey?"
"Good news: you can safely cross detective off your list of career choices and spare the world another Witter in law enforcement. Haven't seen Joey since breakfast. My friend Jack and I went to visit Andie."
"She of the desperate phone messages and pastel envelopes?" Gretchen gave him a sympathetic look. "Want to talk about it?"
"Almost as much as I want a red-hot poker shoved in my eye."
"Ouch. Got it. But for the record, I'm fantastic at sisterly advice, and it's a limited time offer, since I'll be back at school soon."
Pacey felt a pang of regret at the reminder. He should have made more effort to spend time with his favorite sibling this summer. But he was in no way tempted to change his mind with regards to Andie. "What's all this?" He gestured broadly at the controlled chaos. "It looks like H & R Block threw up in here."
"You're more right than you know. It's Pop's papers, from the den and the attic. Apparently, the man never threw away a receipt. I've found ones from before he and Mom were married."
"Does that surprise you? We all got the lectures. 'Always get a receipt, and a man will never have to—'"
"'Take you at your word.' Yes, I know. I just don't know who this man is that's going to care how much Pop spent on a roll of toilet paper and a pack of bologna in 1976."
"Why are you going through all this, anyway?"
"Told Dougie I would. Mom won't touch it, and it needs to be done." Gretchen shot him a sly look. "Don't suppose I could bribe you to help with sandwiches, popcorn, and a constant supply of soda, could I?"
Pacey considered his limited options for spending the afternoon. "Throw in a Snickers bar, and I'm sold."
"Never go into finance, Pacey. You're a pushover, for which I thank you from the bottom of my soul. Okay, so any receipt over five years old, automatic trash. More recent ones, I have in folders with the tax returns from those years. Legal papers are in this file, medical here, insurance and other financials here." She patted the stacks in turn. "I've come across some of his notes on cases and set them aside for Doug; they're on his chair. Pop saved a bunch of news clippings about his cases and career; for now, they're in this box. But I'm thinking of scrapbooking them for Ma before I leave.
"And this pitiful pile," she pressed one in the middle of the table less than half the height of the others, "is family memorabilia. Most of it is stuff about Doug. There are some letters from Ma when they were dating. Those are...disturbing, I do not recommend. In case you're wondering, the only visual proof I've found that you and I exist are our birth certificates, which I put in the legal pile, and a receipt for a Barbie Dreamhouse Santa brought me when I was seven."
Pacey was too busy trying to keep his sister's instructions straight to be more than distantly disappointed his father saved no mementos of him. "That figures. Anyway, what of mine would he treasure, my first detention slip?"
"How about those handprint Father's Day cards we made him every year?" Gretchen sounded angry, but the puffiness around her eyes said she had cried at least once today. "They might not have been high art, but they should have been more important to him than," she grabbed a paper slip at random out of a box, "the memory of buying a bunch of bananas, a gallon of milk, and two dozen eggs in 1992."
"If it helps, we did exist in '92 and probably contributed in some way to the consumption of said items."
Gretchen wadded up the receipt and threw it at him.
Leaflets proclaiming Witter for Sheriff. Articles about budget increases and community policing. Receipts for groceries, for gas, for car parts. These were the remnants of John Witter's life.
Nothing about this chore was fun. Before an hour passed, Pacey knew why Gretchen was both frustrated and teary; he felt the same himself. Every stupid, meaningless scrap of paper was proof their dad had once been alive and now wasn't. But there were no mysterious notes from beyond the grave, no deep secrets which suddenly enabled them to comprehend the man who had raised them.
The closest Pacey came to a revelation was when he found an old letter rejecting his father from the police academy. It was saved alongside the next year's acceptance letter. "He might have mentioned this one of the thousand times he was giving me shit for being a failure."
"What's that?" Gretchen was tying off another overflowing trash bag.
Pacey handed her the letters. "In case you were at risk of believing Pop was a perfect man."
She read them then gave them back to Pacey. "Here. You should keep them. They're as much closure as you're going to get."
Like most things in life lately, closure felt hollow.
Gretchen left for work shortly thereafter. Pacey kept sorting. He had nothing else to do, and he'd done little enough to help his family since the fire. But the effort was more depressing alone, without Gretchen to joke with.
Pacey's eyes burned. The print blurred. He pressed his fists to his eyes again and again. He would not cry over the bastard again, damn it. Not over a bill for fishing tackle, or memories of countless fishing trips which ended in humiliation and despair.
The sound of a key in the door could not have been more welcome. Pacey went to the kitchen and grabbed a bag of chips and a new soda. By the time he returned and found Doug studying the papers on the table, he had pulled himself back together. Enough to be the glib smartass his brother expected him to be.
"Deputy Doug, home from another day protecting Capeside's upstanding citizens from the dark and dastardly criminal element. What say, brother, catch any repeat jaywalkers today?"
Doug gave him the stern, official stare. "What are you doing home? Bessie finally come to her senses and throw your slovenly butt into the street?"
"For your information, I am here on a mission of mercy, saving our sister from the tedium of sorting through Pop's nearest and dearest possessions."
Doug's expression softened, posture relaxed. "It's good of you to help, Pacey. I'm gonna go change and heat up some chicken marsala I made yesterday. There's enough for two, if you'd like some."
"No, thanks." Pacey held up his recent acquisitions. "Got all the sustenance I need right here."
"You ever happen to notice how sugar and salt are the smallest area of the food pyramid, little brother?"
"Relax, Mom. Gretchen made me something earlier. She also put aside some of Pop's papers for you. They're on your chair."
"I'll take a look after dinner." Doug went upstairs to change into his civvies.
Pacey went back to work.
When Doug warmed up his dinner, the spices in the sauce masked the smell of chicken, for which Pacey was grateful. Joey had suggested the week before he try reintroducing meat to his diet in baby steps, maybe cold cuts in a sandwich. Pacey acknowledged the sense of that—sliced turkey would hardly trigger memories of charred flesh—but there lingered a quiet revulsion at the idea of eating something once alive, now dead. God, how Pop would have lambasted his squeamishness.
Half an hour later, Pacey was down to the last box, and Doug was going through their father's notes and casefiles. They didn't share jokes or tell stories like he had with Gretchen, but they weren't fighting, either, which was new for an evening alone with Doug.
He heard a sniffle and looked up to see his brother hunched over in his chair, trying to hide his tears. Pacey froze. He didn't know if he should sneak away, pretend not to notice, or try to help. Which would Doug appreciate? Which would offend him? Pacey didn't know his brother well enough to decide; he could only follow his own instincts.
"Hey, Doug, you okay?"
A shudder wracked Doug's body. He swiped roughly at his face. "I don't know what to do without him." He held up the pages he'd been reading. His expression begged Pacey to understand. "He taught me how to be a cop, how to be a man. Everything's so easy for you. You set out on your own path a long time ago. But everything I know—good and evil, right and wrong—I learned from him."
"Have you ever considered that maybe a value system which makes you hide everything you are isn't one you should be living by?"
Doug's eyes were granite. "For the seven hundredth time, I AM NOT GAY!"
Pacey spread his hands in protest. "Who said you were? You spend a lot of time talking to Pop about musicals? Make him your chicken marsala? Give him one of your weird decoupage boxes?"
"Stop right there. Pop and I had a great relationship. Don't you dare try and poison it with your skewed view of family history."
"Nobody's arguing you weren't the golden child, Dougie. He saved your damn attendance records, for God's sake. But you just gave him credit for your entire being, and, personally, questionable taste in hobbies aside, I think that's selling yourself short."
A small smile peeked through Doug's stony features. "Reading between the lines, you just said you like me."
Pacey scowled. "I said you have a personality, not that I admire it. Give me one of your frilly boxes, and I'll chuck it in the creek."
The phone rang. Doug rose to answer it, his smile wider, showing teeth. "Whatever you say, little brother."
Pacey hid his own grin as he ducked over the last box.
He heard Doug's formal greeting, "Witter residence, this is Doug speaking. May I ask who's calling, please?"
Seriously, what was wrong with a simple Hello?
"Yes, of course, Joey, he's right here." Doug held out the phone. "For you."
Pacey felt a flutter of trepidation as he took the call. "Hey, Potter, what's up?"
"You jerk! Have you noticed this storm? How could you not tell me you were back?" He could hear the worry under her anger.
"Sorry, Jo. Guess I didn't think about it. We've been going through Pop's papers, and it's making all of us kind of a mess."
Doug snorted agreement, as he eavesdropped while looking over some newspaper clippings.
"I'm sorry, Pace. I didn't know. Anything I can do to help?"
"Nah, kind of a family thing, you know? Almost done, anyway. With the papers, I mean. Witter family dysfunction will continue for generations to come."
Doug gave Pacey a Look. Pacey smirked. That statement had been for his brother's benefit.
"Are you coming over later? Want me to save you some supper?"
Pacey fought off a wave of longing for the warmth of the Potter house and Joey's crooked smile. The fact that he wanted it so badly was precisely the reason he couldn't go. "I think I'm going to stay here tonight. But, rain or shine, I'll be over early tomorrow for our run."
"Make me run in the rain, and I'll shove your ass in the first mud puddle, run straight home, and lock you out."
"To which I say: you push me, I'll pull you, and we'll see who makes it home first."
Doug's raised eyebrow made Pacey worry that had sounded too flirtatious.
"Forewarned is forearmed." Her response was a teasing promise. He could almost see her rare, full smile, tongue poking out between her teeth.
Pacey felt warm, flushed, happy for the first time all day. All the anger and frustration melted away at the sound of her voice. That relief must be showing because Doug quit pretending to read and stared at him in an annoying, pitying way. "Uh, Potter, I'd better cut this short, but I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
"See you tomorrow, Pace." The phone clicked off.
Pacey turned his back on Doug to hang up the extension.
"Anything you feel like sharing?"
"Me? Come to you? For advice about women? No offense, Dougie, but that's like if JFK asked the Pope what to do about Jackie and Marilyn."
"Suit yourself. But for me, I'd take Jackie any day. Class, beauty, brains—everything you could want in a life partner. Marilyn had problems he couldn't fix, and, despite what the movie says, I've always preferred brunettes myself."
"But that's what you miss, my repressed brother. Jackie's the full package, sure, but Marilyn's got the sex appeal." Pacey chose to keep the subject on historical hotties and ignored any subtext—intentional or not—on the women in his own life.
Ma got home a few minutes later. She yelled at Pacey for the mess in the dining room and for going through Pop's things. Doug defending him was new and unexpected and almost made it worth it.
The next day dawned bright and beautiful, which was probably for the best, though Pacey felt some regret that Joey wouldn't be able to follow through on her threat. He threw on a t-shirt and gym shorts, grabbed an apple to eat on the way, and headed to the Potters'.
Joey was ready and waiting for him, with her loose track clothes and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. It was sick how happy he was to see her, to hear her, "Morning, Pacey," and watch the corners of her lips turn up in greeting.
They piled Alexander, still in pajamas, into his stroller, with a piece of toast and a bottle of milk to keep him happy. Pacey pushed the kid, and they set off, stride for stride, in a rhythm they'd perfected over the last month. They ran along the creek road, always away from Capeside, and he didn't have to be a shrink to figure that one out. Usually, they refrained from talking, saving their breath for the run. Usually, Pacey zoned out, listening to their feet fall on the pavement, the rattle of the stroller wheels, Alexander's meaningless babble, and the cheerful songbirds.
Today, they were barely out of the Potter driveway when Joey asked, "So how'd the visit with Andie go?"
Pacey stumbled out of rhythm, more from the surprise of her speaking than the content of the question. "Quickly. I doubt she was in the room for more than five minutes. She took off when I told her about the fire." He didn't mention Mark. He wasn't sure if it was embarrassment, pride, or the whisper of a thought that it wasn't Joey's business.
"Oh. I'm sorry, Pace. That must have been rough."
Pacey grunted in response, and they lapsed into silence.
He had just about cleared his mind of thoughts of Andie and Mark and Joey, when the latter again disrupted the quiet. "Did she look well?"
Again, Pacey lost his footing and struggled to recover. "Andie? Yeah, she looked...good. Blonde again." She smelled different, she felt different, he did not say.
"They say gentlemen prefer it," Joey offered with an impish smile.
And now he was thinking about that stupid conversation with his brother last night. This was the least relaxing run he'd ever taken. Including time tests in P.E.
Joey waited a moment for him to respond. When he didn't, she said, "I worried...when you didn't come home yesterday...I wondered if Andie didn't approve of you being around so much. I mean, we're just friends, obviously, but...when I put myself in her shoes, I realized how much I would hate it, so if you feel like—"
"You didn't come up," Pacey said shortly. "Maybe next time."
"Next time?"
"Jack and I are supposed to drive up again. Maybe then she'll stay ten minutes and make it worth the trip."
A pause. A blessed minute of quiet jogging, then, "Even so, if you feel it's going to cause problems—"
Pacey stopped by the side of the road. Alexander cried as he dropped his toast. "You want to end the sleepovers, is that it? Fine by me. They were your idea in the first place, remember?"
"I remember," Joey mumbled. She didn't look at Pacey but knelt by her nephew. She soothed him with his milk, with soft words, with a touch on the hair.
With Alexander pacified, she stood and faced Pacey from the opposite side of the stroller. Her eyes were golden-brown and blazing, the set of her jaw stubborn in a way only Joey Potter could be. "I didn't sleep last night. Not a wink. And I don't know how many more nights it would take for me to get used to you not sleeping beside me, so no, I don't want to push you away. But you're not a security blanket, Pacey. You're my friend, and—after all you've done for me—I don't want to mess up your life any more than I already have."
God, she was brave and honest and so beautiful his heart ached.
"I slept," Pacey admitted. "But I had nightmares."
"The one about the fire?" Joey asked, face softening in sympathy.
Pacey nodded. "And you weren't there to talk me through it. Don't get me wrong, Dougie's all for cuddling, but he snores like a hibernating bear."
Joey smiled her crooked smile, the prize Pacey had sought. "So do you."
"Do not!"
"How would you know?"
"I wouldn't go around casting aspersions on a man's character, Miss Wakes-in-a-Pool-of-Drool."
"Have you never heard of gentlemanly discretion?" She reached over the stroller to tweak his ear. "Take that back."
Pacey ducked out of the assault and took off, Alexander squealing happily at his speed. "Catch me first."
"This is imbecilic and childish, and I hate you," Joey said, running after him despite her words.
Pacey grinned. He had never felt less hated in his life.