With Joey and the girls
gone, Pacey realized just how alone he was. He knew he would miss his
daughters, but the intensity with which he missed Joey was staggering. The
little barrier he'd made to protect himself from the pain of her leaving lasted
exactly three hours after she'd left. She had only been gone for a couple of
days, but it had gotten to the point where every corner of the house reminded
him of her, of making love to her, but that was probably because they'd made
love all over the house.
If he thought about it long
enough, he could feel her nails digging into his back, her hair brushing his
chest. His palms tingled as they remembered how it felt to roam her body, his
mouth twitched when he thought of her soft, moist lips kissing him, her tongue
enticing him, the junction of her thighs hot and wet under his probing tongue,
desperate for him to enter her . . .
It was strange, after all
the shit they'd been through over the last couple of months, all it took was
for her to go running back to Capeside to bring all of the good memories back;
to have him jerking off like a sex-crazed teenager. Pacey spent as little time
in the house as possible. He even went back to work. He'd managed to keep his
job out of pure luck and coincidence. The coincidence was that he had about a
years' worth of sick and vacation days saved up, and the luck was that his boss
was a confident young vixen that wanted to fuck him. He was also lucky that she
believed him when he promised to get it on with her once he got his act
together.
The only problem was, now
that he was back, she was starting to make overt passes at him and Pacey was
running out of ways to save himself. She was outrageous in her flirting and
needed to be stopped.
When Pacey wasn't working,
he was taking walks. He walked all around the place, not realizing where he was
going, most of the time not even noticing people as they passed by; which was
just as well, because every time he did, he invariably saw someone who reminded
him of Joey.
When he wasn't walking, he
was sitting in the diner, drinking coffee. He didn't even know what the name of
the diner was, but every night he was drawn there, and he stayed until it
closed.
The third night after Joey
left, the girl—Melanie, he had eventually learned her name was—who usually was
working whenever he was there, slid on to the stool next to him. "Can I ask you
a question?"
"You just asked me one.
Might as well ask another." He said dryly, glancing at her. She was a pretty
little thing with thick, copper red hair, remarkable clear turquoise eyes, and
skin that was tanned a deep bronze, something he rarely saw on a redhead. She
was very pretty, actually, now that he was examining her. Her body was nice
too; she had full, ripe breasts and long, shapely legs that were crossed at the
ankles. Compared to Joey, she was a field mouse of course, but without
comparison, she was very attractive.
"What's your name?"
"Why?" He asked, curiously.
"I just . . . uh . . ."
Caught off-guard, she seemed to rethink something, and Pacey guessed correctly
that she abandoned her original question when she asked, "Can I ask another
one?"
He smiled at her and
shrugged. "You should know my answer to that one." He said, his eyebrows raised
in anticipation.
Melanie was momentarily
off-guard again. The smile he just gave her took her breath away. It was
charming without meaning to be, and it transformed his face. He looked a little
boyish and his eyes, which she finally saw were much more blue than the green
or gray she'd originally thought, sparkled with amusement. They'd become sad
and lonely over the past several days instead of the cold they were before.
"Um . . ." She faltered.
She'd hesitated too long for the question to come out as casual and smooth as
she had planned it to. Frustrated, she just blurted it out. "Why do you look so
sad?"
Pacey's brows pulled
together. "Excuse me?"
"I mean . . ." The girl
fumbled with her apron with an awkwardness that women as pretty as her usually
didn't have. Usually they oozed confidence and self-assurance.
Except Joey. It had taken
months of making love to her with all of the tenderness and reverence as well
as unquenchable passion that he felt for her, until she got comfortable with
the idea that she wasn't the 'too tall girl from the wrong side of the creek'.
She said she used the phrase only once or twice aloud, but she thought of it so
much that it became a cliché in her mind.
Pacey shoved thoughts of
making love to her aside and concentrated on this pretty little waitress who
obviously had the hots for him.
"You look so lonely," she
hastened to explain. "All the time. I was—I was just wondering why, that's
all."
The girl was blushing
furiously under her tan, Pacey noticed, and he suddenly felt an almost fatherly
affection towards her, the poor kid. "How old are you, Melanie?" He asked
gently, trying not to sound patronizing.
"Twenty."
Pacey shook his head to
himself, chuckling. She was only five years younger than he, and he felt like
he was an old man. Holding out his hand, he smiled at her as she shook it with
a grip that was surprisingly strong. "The name's Pacey. Witter. As for your
second question . . ." he trailed off and shook his head. "That's a long story
better left for when I'm drunk," he paused and raised his eyebrow at her.
"Which you're a little too young to join me in getting."
Melanie
nodded. "I'm sorry." She said. He slanted her a wry look. "About your problems
I mean," she elaborated. "Not the . . . drinking . . . part . . ." She trailed
off.
Pacey
looked down into his cup. "Ah, well . . . what are you gonna do?" he said
dismissively. "That's life."
"It
sucks." She agreed, wondering why he didn't take one good look at her and fall
in love, like she'd foolishly convinced herself he would once she got up the
courage to talk to him. She was suddenly angry with herself. She was sitting
there, fumbling over herself like a little teenybopper. And Melanie was no
little teenybopper; she had to make sure Mr. Pacey Witter knew that.
"I
heard that." He was agreeing to her disapproval of life in general, sipping his
coffee.
"And
I bet I can drink you under the table, mister."
Pacey began laughing in
surprise. He sized her up again. About five foot six, slender, not skinny, her
calves and arms toned. She looked fit and healthy, but he was sure this little
slip of a girl could do no such thing. "Sure, kid. Don't hold your breath."
"I was Keg Queen at my
after-prom party." Melanie told him proudly, defiantly.
He laughed harder. "As I
don't particularly like the idea of going to jail, I don't have the inclination
to take you up on your little challenge."
Melanie rolled her eyes and
shook her head, a half-smile on her face. The gesture was such a typical Joey
thing to do that Pacey ached inside. Where had everything gone wrong?
"There it goes again,"
Melanie said, seeing the gray look of despair descend over his face. "What
happened to you, Pacey Witter? I wish you'd tell me."
Pacey smiled and once again
shoved thoughts of Joey aside. He looked down into his cup and saw the coffee
was finished. "You don't know me, and I don't want to rest my burdens on your
pretty little shoulders," he told the girl, holding up the cup. "Uh . . . can I
get a refill here? Please?"
Melanie grabbed his cup and
strode off. She returned quickly and placed his steaming cup of coffee in front
of him. "Let me tell you something, Pacey Witter," she said, her usual
confidence coming back now that she'd finally gotten used to the idea of
talking to him. "I'm a very good listener if you ever want to talk. Don't
forget that."
"I won't." Pacey promised.
And he didn't. It only took
three more nights of spending time at the diner and talking to Melanie, that
they felt like old friends. It was on the third night that he took her to a
café, and over a cup of steaming lattés, he told her what happened.
Joey lay on her guest bed,
staring up at the patterned ceiling. It was afternoon, and Dawson had taken the
kids off somewhere. The museum or the aquarium or the movies . . . Joey really
didn't know. Ever since her emotional outpouring two nights before, Dawson had
taken the role of tour guide, dropping everything and whisking the kids off on
these daily outings. Until they returned in the evening, Joey was left alone to
completely deal with her grief without it being interrupted by having to
pretend to look cheerful around the kids. Andrea worked in a health spa in the
Multiplex Mega Mall, and Joey had the house to herself.
There was no more liquor in
the house, no thanks to Dawson; and despite the new urban quality Capeside
acquired, the nearest liquor store wasn't within walking distance. Or at least
within a distance Joey was up to walking. And in the name of friendship, Dawson
had confiscated her car keys. She was weary, and her body was tired from crying
all day and night long for the past several days. Now, she just felt empty.
There was nothing inside left to hold on to, except memories. But if she
dwelled on those too much, she would start crying again.
L.J.
hovered on her mind constantly, but so did Pacey. She missed him desperately,
and that was a little surprising, considering what an asshole he'd been acting
like for the past several months. But being apart from him, she forgot about
the past several months. All she remembered was the happy times. They haunted
her at night; memories of him smiling lovingly at her, feeling his arm slide
around her waist, protectively, but also with a possessiveness that her
feminist side refused to admit that she loved. Assailing her dreams were
recollections of the way he would kiss her, his mouth gentle and hungry all at
once, his tongue demanding, his hips pressed insistently against hers.
Joey
was in a tormented limbo of emotion. If she wasn't severely depressed, missing
her old life with her son alive and everything perfect, she was caught up in
such a yearning for Pacey that she would end up hot and sweaty, her fingers
buried in between her thighs, trying frantically to achieve the heights that
only Pacey took her to; only to end up unsatisfied, and then she would burst
into tears again. And so the cycle would continue.
Lying
on the bed, Joey began to assess her life as of now. Her son was gone, but she
couldn't think too much about that, because although it felt like she'd cried
an ocean and couldn't cry anymore, she knew she would begin to cry again. And
although she'd finally allowed herself to cry, she didn't want to now, not when
she wanted to think.
So
Joey pushed the thought away. There was nothing she could do about it; he was
gone. Now she had to work on not losing everyone else, like Dawson said. Her
daughters were fine. She probably needed to pay more attention to them, to make
sure they were doing okay, especially Casey. But Casey seemed to be doing
better. Her blue- and green-flecked, green-rimmed golden eyes had regained a
bit of their former sparkle, and she matched wits with Seven just as well as
how Pacey and Joey used to when they were that age; if not better. At
four-years-old, in addition to her above average intelligence, Casey had the
edge of the city to her advantage when it came to crossing swords with the laid
back, five-year-old Seven who grew up in the suburbs of L.A.
So
that only left one thing. Pacey.
Her
husband.
She
had to focus on their present problems instead of dwelling on nostalgic
memories of the way things used to be.
Joey
stood and strode out to the balcony, taking a seat on the rocking chair.
Propping her feet up on the rocking ottoman, she crossed her arms over her
stomach and leaned her head back, letting the early autumn breeze cool her
face.
Capeside,
her childhood home, where the creek ran smoothly and she'd fallen in love.
Twice. And only the second time mattered more than anything else in the world.
And now . . . now everything was falling apart, her marriage, her life,
herself. And she didn't want that to happen.
She
wanted Pacey back. He had called a few times, but he spoke only to the girls
and didn't ask to speak to her. Refusing to be hurt over that, Joey resolved
that when she went home, she would not get into any more arguments with him,
she would break down his defenses, and together, they would deal with their
grief. And that would be that.
It
sounded so simple, that Joey was almost ready to pack up and leave right then
and there. But she knew it wasn't that simple, and she had to plan everything
she said carefully. She spent the rest of the day thinking about that, about
Pacey. By the time Dawson returned several hours later, Joey had carefully
formulated a brilliant plan as to what she would say to Pacey, a plan that
would fix everything; a plan that she knew she would forget the second she laid
eyes on him.
"Hey,"
Dawson said, coming out on to the balcony. "I brought you something."
Eyebrows
raised, she looked at him expectantly. "You didn't have to do that, Dawson."
She informed him.
"Of
course I didn't." He said. He took her hand and pulled her up. "Come on."
When
they went downstairs, the kids were gathered in the living room, playing with a
bunch of toys. "Where'd all this come from?" Joey asked. Dawson began to
answer, but her daughters saw her, and ran up to her.
"Mommy,
look what Uncle Dawson bought us!" Casey said, her little face tanned a deep
bronze, but flushed with excitement.
Aliya
shoved a Barbie up to Joey to inspect. "Yook!" she said. "Dis mines, Mommy!"
"'Look,
this is mine', sweetie." Joey corrected, taking the doll and pretending to
examine her closely. It had dark hair and an olive complexion, like Joey and
her daughters. "Did you say—"
"But Unca Dawson say I could
keep it." Aliya said, her face losing its excitement. Joey was confused
momentarily, but then she understood and handed the doll back.
"It
is yours honey, you just said a few words wrong and I was fixing them for you."
Joey explained; although she did have the urge to revisit childhood, keep the
doll for herself, and watch Barbie's perfect little face melt into a gooey mess
in the microwave. Ever since she was little, she hated Barbie dolls on
principle and bought the girls as few as possible. The principle was that they
were anatomically incorrect, which would alter a child's perception of beauty,
consequently lowering their fragile self-esteem as they grew into adolescents.
Even more abhorrent, to Joey, the dolls promoted anti-feminism, despite the
fact that the plastic blonde bombshell managed to become an astronaut, a
doctor, an Olympic gold medallist, a veterinarian, as well as many other things
that took quite the long time to achieve.
Pacey
always used to disagree. He thought that by allowing the girls to play with
them, they saw all the things that they could be. In fact, he always argued,
Barbie was a Renaissance woman, and because of her sheer versatility, she
should be crowned the Queen of Feminists, and should become the international
symbol of feminists and the feminist movement.
After one such argument, Joey
took Casey's talking Barbie and pulled the string a few times. After hearing a
few 'Hey, let's go shopping's, 'I can't wait to go to the beach with
Ken', and 'Let's go to the ice cream shop's in that annoyingly
chipper, airhead Valley Girl voice, he humbly conceded the battle to Joey, and
no longer spoke in Barbie's defense.
"Did
you say thank you to your Uncle Dawson?" Joey asked, pushing thoughts of Pacey
aside.
Casey
and Aliya nodded their heads vigorously. "And we got lotsa other stuff too. You
shoulda came with us to the beach, Mommy, you woulda had lotsa fun." Casey
said.
"It's
okay, sweetie. I'm glad you had fun, and you have some great tans," Joey paused
and eyed her daughter evenly. "Were you behaving?"
"Yes."
Casey said.
"No
she wasn't." Seven said, barely looking up from the toy dump truck he was
loading a bunch of little plastic Legos in to. Casey glared at him.
"Neither
were you." Dawson said in annoyance. He turned to Joey. "They're doing better,
though. Now, it's not so much arguments as playful disagreements. They're just
like how you and Pacey were, you know?"
"I
know," Joey agreed, watching Casey as she stonily gathered up all of her and
Aliya's toys and moved them a significant distance away from Seven. "It's
weird. That would make Elliott you. And that's even weirder. Don't tell me
Elliott loves E.T. and is an aspiring filmmaker?" She asked.
"Far
from it. He hates E.T. and thinks that anything that has nothing to do with
Pokémon, Nickelodeon, WWF, and Harry Potter is stupid. If I remember correctly,
he told me once that he wants to be The Rock when he gets older."
Joey
laughed, trying to imagine the quiet little boy as the wrestling star that L.J.
himself had idolized. "That's quite the image." Joey said, shaking her head.
"Tell
me about it. Come, let me show you your gift."
He
led her into the kitchen, and then stopped, his hand on the backdoor. "Close
your eyes." He instructed, and waited until she did so. He opened the door, and
then began guiding her down the steps. "Be careful." He told her.
The
orange-yellow rays of the setting sun hit her in the face. "Dawson, if you've
built me another fence, I'm afraid I won't be able to stay here anymore," Joey
cracked, slowly taking the last step and then following in his footsteps. "You
wife's too nice for me to give in to the zealous temptation of reacquainting
myself with your big strong, manly bod."
"No, after Pacey bought you that wall junior
year, which quite came in handy when he wanted you to 'ask him to stay' which
ultimately made me lose the battle for your affections," Dawson said, guiding
her to a stop and then turning her around. "I gave up on grand gestures of
undying love. Instead, I got you this. Open your eyes."
Joey's
eyelids slowly began to rise, but when she saw what the surprise was, they shot
up. "An easel." Joey whispered happily.
"Not
just an easel. The works." Dawson expanded, gesturing to the rather large box
beside it with the words 'Art Supply Outlet' printed on the sides.
"Sketchpads, a bunch of different types of paper, paints, oils, pastels,
pencils, charcoal pencils . . . and the kids thought I was crazy when I didn't
include some Crayola crayons, markers, color pencils, sidewalk chalk and
coloring books, so those are in there too."
"I
suppose I could give the crayons, markers, and coloring books to the kids,"
Joey said speculatively. "I have some ideas for the sidewalk chalk and color
pencils."
Dawson
shook his head. "They won't hear of it. They have their own stuff and they
wrote their names on them in big letters. They want you to have it so you could
get better."
Joey
looked at Dawson, her heart in her eyes. "That was so sweet of you guys," Joey
said, giving him a self-conscious crooked smile that was so reminiscent of the
younger Joey, he ached. "I didn't know that they built an Art Supply Outlet
store here. There's one in The Village, right on West 4th; I love
it."
"It's
in the Multiplex Mega Mall, where else? I know you hate that place for
destroying our town, but, it has its good points."
Joey
smiled with him. "I guess," she hugged Dawson tightly. "Thank you for being
such a good friend."
"So I
did the right thing?" He asked, adopting the eager-to-please wide-eyed puppy
look that used to send her heart racing.
"Yes."
"Good.
I figured that for a while you wouldn't be able to sketch and paint. But now .
. ." Dawson's voice faded away as he watched her intently before finishing,
"now I think you're ready."
Joey
nodded in agreement. "I think I am too."
"I'll
set everything up in your room if you'd like," Dawson offered. "There's great
light in there. And I have a bunch of lights in the garage that I bought and
was going to use, but they were too dim for filming and too bright for the
house. You could use those too."
Joey
nodded again. "I'd like that."