Pacey trudged into the
house, feeling incredibly low. His boss worked his ass off. He took off his
jacket and threw it in the general direction of the couch. He was tired and
depressed and coming into the empty house that used to be so filled with love
and laughter brought him down lower. The fact that it had begun pouring rain on
his way home didn't help either. And the fact that the last time he'd seen Joey
had been while it was raining was particularly detrimental to his emotional
state.
He
hadn't eaten all day and wasn't hungry then, so, almost automatically, Pacey
undid the first few buttons on his shirt as he headed for the den where he'd
been keeping vigil by the phone for two nights past.
The
den was warm and inviting with a big, soft couch and a matching sofa with big
fluffy throw pillows. The carpeting was lush and dark blue to go with the blue-
and cream-striped upholstery. The walls were painted cream with blue patterned
borders. A big screen T.V. sat in front of, and diagonally from, the couch and
the sofa.
Pacey
walked over to the sofa and picked up the folded blanket he'd been sleeping
with for two nights. He went over to the couch and plopped down on it, removing
his shoes and propping them up on the oak coffee table. He picked up the T.V.
remote from beside him on the couch and clicked the T.V. on. Looking over to
the stand beside the couch to make sure the phone hadn't somehow removed itself
from the cradle, Pacey covered himself with the blanket and watched television.
It
was six o'clock on a Wednesday night and nothing was on and nothing was going
to be coming on but stupid teen angst dramas. Too depressed to be annoyed,
Pacey flipped channels and settled on a nature program about deer.
After
about a half an hour, he was glad he'd thrown all the bottles of liquor out of
the house. He was in need of a good double shot of Scotch. A couple of double
shots, actually. During one scene in the show, in which one buck was fighting
another for the affections of a doe, the reality of his situation hit him.
He
was almost twenty-six years old. A mere fourteen weeks ago, he had an
exceptionally brilliant, undeniably talented, incredibly beautiful wife, a
little boy who looked exactly like him with his mother's demeanor and smarts,
and two gorgeous, smart daughters, one incorrigibly impish who took after him,
the other sugar sweet who would never hurt a fly.
Now,
what seemed like eons later, he had a son who had been killed before he made it
to the first grade, two little girls he barely saw, and a wife who walked out
on him talking divorce, came back and made love to him, and then stormed back
out on him with a promise to call that she didn't keep. He was alone in his
house as it rained like hell outside, sleeping on the couch, waiting for her to
call, watching television, wishing he had some alcohol. The fact that he had
admonished Joey for using alcohol as an escape route made him realize that not
only was he a pathetic loser who screwed up his marriage, he was a hypocrite,
which he hated. So he was a hypocrite who hated hypocrites, which made him even
more hypocritical. And he was sinking further into depression.
Pacey's
blue eyes clouded over as he gazed blindly at the T.V. screen, holding the
remote with both hands, thinking about his wasted life, thinking about how he
managed to screw up everything. No matter how much Joey had told him otherwise,
not matter how much he told himself; he was still old Pacey Witter, black sheep
fuck-up loser. If a leopard rolls around in the mud to hide its spots, they're
still there, and the mud would be washed off sooner or later. And Pacey had
been rolling around in the mud for years, so to speak, and now, as the rain
pounded relentlessly on the windowpane, the mud was being easily washed away
from him.
The
words fuck-up and loser echoed in his mind with no indication of fading away.
He rolled his lips into his mouth and pressed down tightly, his eyes stinging
with tears he refused to shed. His father would be incensed if he knew how much
crying Pacey had been doing since L.J. died. His relationship with his father
had much improved from the time when Andie had temporarily left Capeside back
in the summer after sophomore year, but he still had a macho thing about
masculinity, and crying was definitely not on Chief Witter's list of manly man
activities.
Still,
even knowing that, his eyes became blurry, and he blinked fast, fighting it,
trying not to give in to the weakness. But his struggling was futile; his
gloominess drained his strength.
As a
tear slid down his cheek, the doorbell rang, making his heart slam into his
ribs and his crying stop. For a moment, he was frozen as the sound of the
doorbell resounded throughout the house, and an incredible wave besieged his
senses with the sheer beauty of hope. Joey.
And
he was in motion. Throwing off the covers, Pacey wiped the line of moisture
from his face and tossed aside the remote. As he rushed to the door he thought
frantically of what he was going to say that would make her forgive him.
Something intelligent and well thought out and sincere that she would love. But
all he could think of telling her was that he loved her and that he was sorry.
No other words could come to mind but I love you, Joey, I'm so sorry, I love
you, I love you so much.
When
he reached the door he took a brief moment to take a deep breath before opening
it.
Melanie.
Pacey
felt his spirits plummet like two hugging elephants leaping from the Empire
State Building. He stared blankly at her, not knowing what to say, wondering
why in hell she was there. It was no secret how she'd found where he lived;
there was only one Pacey Witter listed in the Manhattan edition of the White
Pages.
"Pacey,
thank God!" Melanie cried, and her arms went around his neck. "I'm so glad
you're okay."
She
was dripping wet from head to toe, and was making him the same way. He
disentangled her arms from around his shoulders. "Yeah," he said dully. "Why
wouldn't I be?"
Melanie
stared at him, searching his face, her hair plastered to her head, strands of
gleaming copper red clinging to her cheeks. "Why didn't you call or anything?
When you didn't come back Tara and I were worried sick. Almost everyone at work
all of a sudden had some kind of life-or-death or family crisis so I had to
take over their shifts. If I hadn't had to work my ass off we would've come
searching for you a long time ago. What the hell happened to you?" Her
turquoise eyes looked genuinely concerned, and he felt a twinge of guilt for
not contacting them. They were his friends, after all; they'd helped him and
listened to him and provided him with a home when he couldn't bear to be in his
own.
"Come
in." Pacey said monotonously, stepping aside. She hated cabs, so he knew she'd
walked all the way from her house to his. Why the girl didn't have an umbrella
was beyond him. And he couldn't just tell her to go back simply because he
wanted to be alone and the only company he craved was that of his wife and
daughters.
Melanie
hesitated before stepping inside. Pacey silently led her through the house and
Melanie, quieted by his mood, followed him mutely to the den. "Stay here. I'll
bring you something to wear and then I can put your clothes in the dryer." He
said listlessly.
"Thank
you."
"No
problem."
Melanie
stood in the middle of the cozy room, watching Pacey leave. Something was
definitely wrong with her friend. He looked so . . . lifeless. When he left,
she wandered to the mantel, looking at the framed pictures that crowded the
top. There was the requisite wedding photo and Pacey looked handsome in his
tuxedo, beaming proudly and lovingly at his admittedly beautiful wife. Her hair
was long and glossy, wavy and dark, with huge, sultry, downward-tilting hazel
eyes and a full, pouting mouth. There was another picture with the couple,
obviously on a picnic, Pacey looking incredibly sexy in a wife beater and khaki
shorts, sitting on a blanket, his arms around Joey, who was sitting
cross-legged between his legs, giving a dark-haired baby girl a bottle. In
front of them a blond little boy was sitting, stuffing a sandwich in his mouth.
A little girl was napping beside them.
It was a very poignant
picture, and they were a beautiful family. She looked at the other pictures,
baby pictures and toddler pictures of the kids, the little girl with the
beautiful gold eyes, Casey; the cherub-like little girl with eyes like her
mother, Aliya; and the little boy who looked just like Pacey, L.J. There were
also many family pictures with different combinations of the five, sometimes
with other people that Melanie couldn't identify. When Pacey talked, it was
only about his wife and his kids, and sometimes about his brother and his
oldest friend—Dawson, if she remembered correctly. Melanie sighed and looked at
a picture of L.J. in a black and white soccer uniform, his arm around a yellow
and black soccer ball, grinning proudly. It was incredibly sad that tragedy
took that gorgeous little boy away from Pacey and Joey.
Pacey
returned a short time later and handed her a bundle of clothes. He'd taken off
the shirt she got wet when she hugged him, and was wearing only a wife beater.
She tried to ignore it without success. "Change in here. I'm going to get
something to drink. You want something?" He asked.
Melanie
nodded. "Yes, please."
Pacey
left again. Melanie looked at the clothes he handed to her, a white t-shirt and
a pair of gray sweatpants. With a pang, Melanie remembered that a white t-shirt
and a pair of gray sweatpants had been what Pacey was wearing the first time
she'd seen him. Angry because she still had feelings for him, Melanie mentally
scolded herself. A friend. That's all she was. And she told herself
firmly that she was quite okay with that. And as she changed, Melanie decided
that she was going to figure out what was wrong with him. Tonight. And she was
going to try to help him.
Pacey
walked slowly to den, carrying two glass mugs full of soda with ice, hoping
Melanie had enough time to change. Catching her in her birthday suit would not
be a good thing. Not that he didn't trust himself, he prided himself in his
fidelity; but he already felt a little like he was betraying Joey by having
Melanie in the house without her there. But he couldn't just send her back out
it the torrential rain. It wouldn't be right. And although he was currently
down in the dumps, he sure hadn't lost his sense of human decency.
He
knocked and waited for Melanie's okay before he opened the door. She was curled
up on the couch in the clothes Pacey had provided for her and the blanket over
her lap. He saw her pile of clothes on the floor beside the couch and reminded
himself that he had to take them to the dryer. "I want you to tell me what
happened." She said firmly, staring him down.
Pacey
drew his brows together and handed her a mug as he sat down next to her,
forgetting about her wet clothes altogether. "What are you talking about?"
Melanie
took a sip before answering, "When you left, you were in a good mood, and you
were intent on having a good time playing Monopoly. Now, you look like how you
did when I first met you."
"And
how was that?" Pacey asked, trying to decide if he should tell her, knowing he
would.
"Lifeless.
Unresponsive. Impassive. Get a thesaurus and pick any synonym to 'not the real
Pacey' that you like."
Pacey
sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. "I need a drink," he said
resolutely, standing, not caring anymore if he was a hypocrite. "A really hard
one. Come with me, missy. We're taking a field trip to the liquor store."
"Ready
to put my tolerance to the test?" Melanie questioned, quirking an eyebrow at
him. Finally he was showing a little bit of life. Just a little, however.
"Hey,
do whatever you want. I'm not gonna stop ya."
Joey
sighed and looked at the clock on her desk. Eight ten. She should've been on
her way out by eight, but she'd promised Troy the day before that she would
close up, and she had forgotten all about it.
Cupping
her chin in her hand, Joey impatiently tapped her pen on her desk and bounced
her heel up and down on the balls of her feet as she gazed at the computer
screen. She made a mental note to demand from Troy that they buy faster modems
for the office computers. It had been a laborious day, and Joey was eager to
finally talk to Pacey and work things out. They'd been both stubborn and
passive for way too long.
Joey
grabbed the mouse and began moving it around and clicking until she got to
FreeCell. Before she began playing the card game, however, she looked at the
download time for the program. Eighteen minutes seemed way too long. It had
been downloading for a half hour already, and it all it would do was update the
existing program.
She
sighed heavily and returned to FreeCell. She played the game absently; she was
a pro. Instead, she thought of her daughter. Casey. She had a fight the first
day of school. Joey punished her accordingly, but secretly she was pleased her
daughter didn't take the shit that the other little girl had been shoveling at
her. Joey would've done the same thing, minus all of the swearing, however.
When they were little kids, Pacey had done all the cursing, mostly just to make
Joey blush. Casey claimed she heard the words on T.V., and Joey told herself to
monitor the shows Casey watched more closely.
"Isn't
there something else you should be doing besides playing FreeCell?" Troy asked,
walking into the office, carrying a bunch of folders. He hadn't even glanced at
the monitor, but he knew her well.
"Not
right now," Joey retorted, still playing the game, her chin still nestled in
her hand, her elbow still propped up on the desk. "And if you hadn't tricked me
into closing, I would be home by now, talking to Pacey."
"I
didn't trick you. I told you I had a date. You offered. I accepted," Troy shot
right back, filing the folders away; something Joey would usually do. "So don't
blame me. How was I supposed to know that tonight was the night you decided to
go back to your husband?"
Joey
rolled her eyes and changed the subject. "We need a faster modem. If I don't
die before this finishes downloading, I'll definitely be certifiable. Guaranteed."
"So
get one," he said easily. "You handle everything we buy around here."
Joey
grinned at him. "I really should own this whole place."
Troy
glanced over at her. At twenty-five, Joey certainly made her mark on the place.
Without her, it would still be an unnoticed art gallery, its individuality
outshined by the sheer size of the competition. "Maybe." He agreed.
Her
grin widened. "Without me, you'd be completely lost." Joey teased cheekily.
Troy grinned at her. She was tired, but her hazel eyes sparkled and he could
see a dimple on her chin peeking out from the cover of her palm. When she
wanted to, she could be cute as hell.
"I
wholeheartedly concur, kid."
Pacey
and Melanie finished their tenth shot of Bacardi 151 at the same time, and
Pacey automatically refilled the plastic shot glasses. "Ready for more, liddle
girl?" He asked belatedly, already holding out the small cup for her to take.
Melanie
reached out a trembling hand. "I tole you I was Keg Queen at m'party prom
after." She garbled, trying concentrate on getting her hand to stop that damn
shaking so she could then figure out which of the two floating cups was the
real one, and which was the double. Shaking her head a little and squeezing her
turquoise eyes shut, she got them to stop seeing double, and greedily, Melanie
took the cup. She paused and stared down into the golden brown liquid. She
hesitated before drinking. Pacey had already downed his.
"Dring
me under th' table," Pacey scoffed. "Ha!"
Melanie
set the cup down and struggled to get back up on the couch and spread the
covers over her legs. How she'd gotten to the floor was beyond her. Bacardi 151
was a hundred and fifty one proof, too close to proof of rubbing alcohol for
comfort. Even in her drunken state, she knew she had no intention on letting
alcohol poison her to death. Pacey reached down, grabbed her cup and downed it.
Pacey's
attempt to drink away his melancholy was not working. Every time he looked at
Melanie he wished she was Joey, and every time he drank down a shot, he remembered
how she'd looked when he came home after being at a hotel for six days;
sprawled across the bed in gray bike shorts and a gray sweatshirt, drunk as a
mule. She claimed his presence made her sick and then proved it by upchucking
the contents of her stomach; the day after that she suggested divorce; and
three days later she'd taken off. For Dawson. She always ended up
running to Dawson, he thought bitterly.
"That's
'cause you weren't there for her, fuck-up." Pacey drunkenly reminded himself,
unaware he was speaking aloud.
"What?"
Melanie asked, his voice lifting her from the cloudy depths she'd been
gratefully sinking into.
"I
weren't—wasn't there for her." Pacey repeated, bleakly. "Loser, fuck-up,
asshole, stupid loser. Me. That's what I am. I really ffffucked up. I ffffucked
up big time this time."
"Joey?"
Melanie asked dumbly, her head rolling around on her neck of its own accord.
One minute she was staring up at the ceiling. The next minute she was gazing at
Pacey's socks without having remembered moving at all.
"Who
else?" Pacey asked. "Dawzins always there for her. Dawzins duh go-den boy.
Dawzins the hero. Big D. He's the man. Me? I'm the loser."
Pacey
thought of the things that almost made him cry earlier. His son. His daughters.
His marriage. It was all going down the drain. All of it.
The
alcohol was definitely not having the affect he'd hoped for. Instead of making
him happier, there he was, getting more depressed, unable to stop talking,
unable to stop the steady build up of tears.
"Alla
my life this time I tried t'be bedda. I tried t'be bedder f'Joey. I tried not
t'let the mud wash from my spots," Pacey said fiercely, his eyes stinging. "It
din't work." He looked at Melanie helplessly, searching desperately for her
help, for her understanding; his face tormented, his expression bleak. "She
hates me now. I don' have nothin' now. I don' have a son, I don' have a wife,
an' she's gon' take the girls from me and live wif Dawzin and his wife, and
she's gon' join their fam'ly and leave me by myself in this goddamn fuckin'
house with all of it's goddamn painful fuckin' painful ass fuckin' memories.
"I hate it here
wifout Joey," he said fiercely, glaring at the ground, tears sliding down his
cheeks. "I hate not bein' wif her. With them. I miss my fam'ly. My kid.
My boy L.J. My fuckin' God, he's dead. I loved him so much. I loved them all so
much. I love her. And them. I love her so much it hurts. It hurts like hell how
much I love her. An' now she lef' me an' she's never gon' come back." Pacey was
crying openly by now, his hands in tight fists in his lap, his short
fingernails digging into his palms in frustrated agony.
Melanie
stared at him powerlessly, his emotional breakdown taking her aback. Soon,
though, her instinct came through her intoxicated mind, and she scooted closer
and put her arms around him, his tortured anguish wrenching her heart and
making her cry with him. Pacey hung to Melanie tightly as he cried
uncontrollably, stammering sentences drunkenly, this tiny boat of comfort in a
raging sea of misery, loneliness and despair.