Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight 
The winter here is cold,
And bitter
It chills us to the bone.
I haven't seen the sun for weeks,
Too long too far from home.
It feels just like I'm sinking,
And I claw for solid ground.
I'm pulled down by the undertow,
I never thought I could feel so low.
Through all the darkness I feel like letting go.
If all the strength and all of the courage
Come and lift me up from this place
I know I can love you much better than this.
Full of grace, full of grace,
My love.
It's better this way, I say,
Haven't seen this place before
Through everything we say and do
Hurts us all the more
It's just that we stayed too long
In the same old sickly skin.
I'm pulled down by the undertow
I never thought I could feel so low
In all the darkness I feel like letting go
If all of the strength and all of the courage
Come and lift me up from this place
I know I can love you much better than this
Full of grace . . .
I know I can love you much better than this . . .

It's better this way.

-Full Of Grace

Sarah McLachlan

"How long will you be staying, Joey?" Andrea asked over dinner. Joey rescued Aliya's half-filled cup of juice from spilling and then set it out of her reach. She glanced at Andrea and shrugged.

"I'm not too sure. No more than two weeks, Casey has to start kindergarten soon. But if it becomes a problem, I'll just take a room at the Marriott. I'm sure they built one here too." She said sarcastically.

"No, they didn't." Dawson said, smiling sympathetically.

"It would be no problem," Andrea offered, her eyes sparkling warmly. "I would love for you three to stay as long as possible."

Joey smiled at her. Her sweetness was a little annoying at times, and her beauty made Joey feel like she was an awkward teenager again, but she knew she probably would stay as long as possible. Andrea Taylor Leery was almost as tall as Joey, slender like the prima ballerina she used to be, with a thick curtain of jet-black hair that reached almost to her waist, a pink rosebud of a mouth, perfectly blemish-free, porcelain skin, and large sapphire blue cat-eyes.

Pacey had stared open-mouthed at her when he first met her in the theatre at Dawson's movie premiere—his first directorial effort—and as soon as Dawson and his then-girlfriend turned away, Joey punched him in the stomach and didn't talk to him for the rest of the evening. He never gave Andrea a second glance after that, and made it up to Joey in bed late that night, and thinking about it brought shivers of pleasure to Joey, even now, six years later.

"Be careful. I'll probably take you up on that offer." Joey said belatedly.

"I would love it if you did, Joey," Andrea insisted. "You and Pacey never spend enough time with us."

Joey smiled a little uncomfortably. She wondered why it was that every beautiful woman from New York that was or used to be Dawson's significant other wanted to be best friends with her. She didn't get it.

Casey saw that her mother wasn't paying any attention to her, and seized the opportunity to kick Seven under the table. "Ow!" he shouted. "She kicked me!"

"Casey!" Joey said sharply.

Seven grabbed up his spoon and threw it at Casey.

"Seven!" His parents chorused.

Casey ducked, and when it sailed past her, she shot back up in her seat. "Why'd you do that, stupid?" Casey shouted indignantly.

"Why'd you kick me, dummy?"

"Farthead!" Casey shouted.

Aliya stared in fascination at the exchange.

"Casey!" Joey said sharply.

"Seven!" Dawson yelled.

Joey rubbed her eyes in exasperation and her gaze fell on Seven's little friend Elliott, who was spending the night. She noticed that the dinner plate in front him was affording him a wealth of quiet diversion.

"Seven! What's the matter with you?" Andrea chided. "You never throw things at people. Ever."

"She started it!" Seven whined angrily.

"Casey, apologize." Joey ordered.

"No."

"Apologize, right now!" Joey thundered.

"Sorry." Casey mumbled immediately.

"Seven," Dawson prompted. "You too."

"I'm sorry."

Joey rolled her eyes and shot Andrea a wry look. "Well, by the end of the next couple of weeks, you'll be ready to put us out. Especially if my daughter keeps picking fights with your son." She gave Casey a meaningful glare.

Andrea smiled sagely. "They'll be crying like babies when it's time for you three to go back home."

Seven and Casey were too busy glaring at each other across the table to hear what Andrea said and launch an indignant protest accordingly.

The days passed at Dawson's house pleasantly. Joey passed her time reading books and walking along the creek behind Dawson's house. At least that hadn't changed. The creek had remained undisturbed, and in a few places, like behind Dawson's house, she could forget that Capeside had changed into an infuriating little baby-city. At least some parts had remained intact.

Casey spent less and less time with pretend L.J., and more time with Seven and his friend Elliott. She'd found she rather liked staring at Elliott, and he seemed to like looking at her too. But whenever they began doing it, Seven would get mad and suggest they play tag or something else. Aliya would tag along everywhere they went and Casey made sure she was never left behind.

Late on the third night, Joey was stretched out on the chaise lounge on the balcony. It was quiet, and everyone was sound asleep, except her. She was enjoying the cool breeze outside, sipping from her glass of Bacardi Limón on the rocks, staring at the sky. At Dawson's house, she hadn't consumed as much as she usually did, but a night hadn't passed when she didn't drink enough to get a suitable buzz. Because, however, her tolerance had skyrocketed, it took a lot to get her there. Dawson noticed, and it was the first thing he mentioned when he joined her outdoors, too excited about his upcoming project to sleep.

"You drink quite a lot, don't you?" He remarked casually, sitting on the rocking chair beside her and propping his feet on the rocking ottoman in front of it.

Joey's gaze shot to him, her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about, Dawson?" She asked, feigning insulted incredulity.

"You bought that bottle of rum today. Why is it half-finished? Better yet," he interrupted her before she could speak, "why aren't you anywhere near trashed?"

Joey stared at him intently, without really seeing him, and Dawson couldn't figure out if she was either fishing for excuses or if she was trying to figure out if she should tell him to mind his own damn business. Apparently, the former won, because she gave him a soft, amused smile.

"Andrea and I had some earlier," she said smoothly, despite her hesitation, "and we spilled it in the kitchen. It got all over the floor. You didn't smell all that alcohol when you came in?"

"No I didn't," Dawson said, swinging his legs off of the ottoman and sitting up. "And I wouldn't have, because Andrea is allergic to rum. As you well know." He said pointedly, reaching forward and picking up the bottle of Bacardi Limón.

Joey winced inwardly. She could kick herself for not remembering that. God, she, Pacey, and Dawson had teased Andrea mercilessly about it when they'd found out. It was such an odd thing to be allergic to.

"Oh." She said lamely, not knowing what else to say, staring down into her glass as if it were a crystal ball which would tell her when Dawson would go back inside and leave her alone.

"Well?" He pressed, rolling the bottle between his hands.

Joey searched her mind for reasons as to why her tolerance had gone up, knowing that nothing but the truth would be acceptable. "Well, what?" She asked, stalling for time.

"Don't play dense, Joey," Dawson said stubbornly. "You know what I'm talking about. Either you've been drinking a little more and more over the past couple of years, or you've been drinking a lot recently. Although I know what the answer is, I want to hear it from you. Which one is it?"

Automatically, Joey lifted her hand and knocked the contents of the glass back, and then chewed on the ice, not saying anything to him. She wondered if she should even bother telling him it was the former when they both knew it was the latter.

"If you know what it is, then don't waste time asking me what it is." She said sensibly.

"It would be better for you if you admit it."

Joey snorted indelicately. "This is hardly a habit-breaking meeting, Dawson. I don't have to stand up and recite my name and tell you what kind of addiction I have."

Dawson stared at her. Sitting beside him was his best friend in the world. She was in so much pain and it was killing him that he couldn't reach her. "Of course you don't," he said gently, "but Joey, you don't have to drink either."

Joey didn't say anything.

Sighing, Dawson closed his eyes and tried to think of another way to reach her. "It's because of Joseph, isn't it?" He asked softly. She struggled to answer him, but before she could form the words, he was answering his own question. "Of course it is because of him, I mean, why else would you be drinking so much, you always used to be so strong."

"You're wrong." Joey said, desperately wishing she hadn't allowed Dawson to take the bottle from her. It would be useless to try to get it from him now. Wishing her glass was full again; Joey tipped the empty tumbler back and caught the last drops of alcohol on her tongue.

"Am I wrong?"

Joey nodded vigorously, hungrily eyeing the bottle Dawson held in his hands.

"I don't think I am, Joey," Dawson said, noticing where Joey's eyes were and setting the bottle on the floor behind him. "I think the real reason you came here, is because you're finally ready to talk about your son, but for some reason, you either can't, or don't want to talk about it with Pacey. Am I right?"

With a tug of her heart, Joey saw that Dawson was unequivocally right, but she couldn't admit it. If she admitted it, he would continue to talk, and she would start crying. She was ready to talk, but she didn't think she could handle crying. Not yet.

Joey's answer was a feeble shake of her head in the negative as her eyes began to sting and the muscles in her throat constricted.

"It's because you can't talk to Pacey, isn't it?" he asked, his expression darkening as his mind worked at full speed as he analyzed the situation. "He's shut you out, hasn't he? That's why you're here and he isn't. Pacey usually hates spending any time apart from you, and you wouldn't have left if he had to work, you could've easily spent time with us any other time. Tell me if I'm right, here, Joey. Am I close?"

Tears filling her eyes, Joey squeezed her eyelids tighter, determined not to let them out; losing the battle. Her throat began to feel heavy, and her heart was thumping loudly.

"Joey, am I right?"

A broken sob escaped Joey's lips and she suddenly sat up and swung her legs to the ground, her hands covering her face. She nodded jerkily and pressed her fists into her eyes. "Shut up, Dawson." She whispered brokenly, rocking back and forth. "Leave it alone. P-please stop it."

"Joey, please," Dawson said huskily, dying to hold her, to comfort her, knowing she would push him away. "You have to talk about this; you have to cry. It's tearing you apart on the inside, and it will ultimately be your downfall. And Joey, you're too gifted to fail. You're too special to lose everything. You have to rise above, you have to get over this."

The tears were getting harder to hold at bay. She bit down on her lower lip and rubbed the fists that she ground into her eyes. Dawson shook his head. "I could kill Pacey for letting this happen to you." He muttered.

"P-Pacey has n-nothing to do with this." She whispered, trying one last time to save herself.

"Exactly," he said, going over and sitting down beside her. "He has nothing to do with it. And you're dying inside because of that. Joey, please. Please don't do this to yourself. Please. You're my best friend and I love you and you're killing me, here. Cry, for the love of God, Joey. Please. You've gone through so much in your life, and you've been so strong. But, listen to me. The strong cry. The strong talk about what's bothering them."

Joey looked up at him then; her tear-filled, changeable hazel eyes an anguished, dark blue. "You're the bravest, strongest person that I know Joey," Dawson whispered, brushing strands of hair behind her ear. "And nobody deserves what happened to you. No one deserves to lose not only his or her mother and father but also their child. But most of all, you don't deserve to do this to yourself. By not crying you're not dealing with Joseph's death. By not dealing with Joseph's death, you're not letting him go, you're holding on. And Joey, holding on to him won't bring him back. It will only push away the people you love most. And then you'll lose them too. He's gone, Joey. Joseph is gone."

Joey finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper, "L.J."

The dam exploded.

Three months of repressed pain came surging out in the form of loud, broken sobs. Unable to take it, Dawson cried along with her as she cried, her head throbbing, her heart shattering.

"L.J. . . . My baby . . . My baby," she wailed in agony. "I miss my baby . . . I miss my L.J. . . ."

They stayed like that for hours, until daylight, Dawson's arms a warm circle of comfort, Joey clinging to him like a life-line, crying for her mother, crying for her son, crying for her failing marriage; crying harder than she'd ever cried in her entire life, her whole body jerking violently with every sob that was wrenched from the deepest chambers of her heart.