The rest of the summer continued much as it had begun. Dawson going to classes, Jack and Jen to work, and the three of them hanging out. On the town and in the living room. Only, Jen didn't dare ask what Dawson had dreamed about that caused him such stress. And Dawson didn't approach the topic of Jen's behavior on July 4th. Things were a little strained between the two, but improved as time passed.
Jack could tell that something had changed between the two. He tried to get information from Jen, but she refused to answer any questions about Dawson. So, Jack tried Dawson. It took more than one try, but eventually Dawson broke.
***
August 10, 2002
"Come on, Dawson, spill. I'm sick of tiptoeing around this anymore. Are you mad at Jen or something?"
"God, Jack, no." Dawson looked appalled at the suggestion.
"Then what is it, I know something's different between you two. I want to help you too, but Jen's not talking either."
"Well...." Dawson stood up from his place at the kitchen table and started to pace. "While you were in Providence over Fourth of July, something happened."
"I get that." Jack rolled his eyes, then narrowed them, considered. "'Something'? You don't mean...."
"No." Dawson whipped around to face Jack. "It's not like that. I'm not sure how much I can tell you, or if it would be possible for you to help, but here's the condensed version."
Dawson recounted the story of their trip to the Independence Day party, and his dream the next morning. Leaving out some of the details about how Jen was treated by her parents and her parents' friends.
"So that's what happened. I'm confused. That dream was so vivid. I know that it reflects my inability to help Jen with what she's going through, but how can I change that?"
"That dream sounds... Vivid. That's for sure." Jack smirked a little at Dawson.
"Funny," Dawson replied sarcastically.
"Dawson, you're right. There's little I can do to help. But it seems that you can help. You need to talk to Jen. Whatever happened, it seems that she trusts you and needs you. Talk to her."
"We'll see. She hasn't exactly been receptive to this topic, but I'll try."
"Tell you what, I'll disappear tonight. With the two of you alone together, it'll be harder for Jen to evade you."
"Thanks, Jack."
***
"Dawson, this feels strangely like a set up. Jack's mysteriously disappeared. Here we are cozy on the couch watching bad TV. And now you bring out the skeletons in my closet for a show." Jen stood up from the couch and wandered around the room. Stopping at the window to look out at the street. "I don't appreciate this."
"Jen, I'm sorry that you don't appreciate the way that I went about it, but you have to confess that you've been avoiding any sort of serious conversation with me since the fourth."
"No, I don't have to confess, since everyone already knows. I've been avoiding this for a reason." She waited a beat before continuing. "I don't want to talk about it. And, as I recall, you didn't want to talk about that dream you had either."
"No, I didn't. Still don't. But Jen, that was just a dream. It didn't happen. What we need to talk about is real."
"No it's not, Dawson. None of it's real. The relationship with my parents, my happiness in New York, and least of all you as my boyfriend." As she spoke she walked toward him, stopping to stand between him and the TV. "You want to talk, then you talk. You were pale as a ghost and sweating bullets when I woke up. Talk about that," she exclaimed, then sat down on the coffee table so that she was knee to knee with Dawson, the challenge evident in her voice.
"Telling you will be embarrassing and uncomfortable for both of us, is that what you want?"
"Yes, that's what I want," she confirmed.
"All right." He sighed and ran his hands through his hair.
Facing Jen, looking at her for any reaction, Dawson told her his dream, in exacting, excruciating detail. As Jen's eye's widened with shock, he felt his back prickle with discomfort. When he finished she said nothing. The silence hung between them, loud as any siren.
"You wanted to know," Dawson's voice trailed off. She continued to stare at him, her eyes showing disbelief and indecision. Finally she spoke, quietly, sounding like a frightened child.
"That's it, Dawson. I don't know how, but that's it." Her eyes filled with tears. Tears that tore him apart with concern and confusion.
"What's it, Jen? What are you talking about?" He moved forward on the couch so that he could grasp the hands that dangled limply between Jen's knees.
"Dawson..." Her voice broke and tears began to escape from her eyes. "Dawson, you dreamt about my life. That was the fork that led me down this path."
"Jen, I don't understand what you are talking about. That wasn't your life, it was just a dream. Please, just talk to me, I can't stand to see you like this." His hands released hers so that he could use his thumbs to gently wipe the tears from her cheeks.
Jen brushed his hands away, running her own palms roughly over her face. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head in an effort to compose herself.
"That hurt, scared woman that you dreamt about," she began calmly. "That was me, I was 12 years old when I was raped. Beaten and raped." She let out a shallow, shaky breath. Dawson continued to stare at her, not speaking, barely breathing for fear that Jen would close back up and walk away. When she didn't continue, he couldn't bear the silence.
"Jen, that wasn't your fault," he whispered.
"I know that," she pushed away from him. "Don't you think I know that by now?" Her voice raised in indignation. "But, I didn't know that then." Her voice was somber now. "The child inside me died that day, and I sought comfort by giving away what had been so brutally taken from me. My innocence."
Dawson didn't know what to say. If there was anything to say. They both remained in the same positions. Dawson sitting forward on the couch, Jen on the edge of the coffee table facing Dawson. As the tension in the air began to fade, Jen's shoulders slumped and her head dropped.
Dawson took her hands again, and pulled her toward the couch. Once she settled next to him, she turned, and began the story of her life. Dawson listened quietly and held her hand.
"So that's what brought me to Capeside. My parents still don't know. No one knows, except my therapist," she laughed weakly, "and now, you."
He looked into her clear blue eyes, depthless in their emotion. He pulled her close to his body. With his arms around her, he buried his face in her shoulder. His heart broke for the girl that was, and wept for the woman she had become.
"Jen," he said, after his emotions had leveled. "I want to tell your story."
"What? What are you talking about, Dawson?"
"I want to write a screenplay about what you've just told me, and how you came to tell it to me. True stories are always the most poignant, and I think..."
"No!" She interrupted. "Dawson, I told you this because I trust you. You can't use it for a screenplay!" She backed away from his embrace.
"I know you trust me, and because I know you, and I care about you, I'll be able to write your story with sensitivity. Look, Jen, I really want to do this. I know that you are uncomfortable with anyone knowing what happened, but no one will need to know it's about you. Really, it'll just be me, you and my professor, if I use it in a screen writing class, and he wouldn't know who it's about. He'd never even meet you."
"Dawson, I know that I can't stop you if this is what you want to do, you know all of it already. I would just hope that you have more respect for our friendship than that."
"Jen," he sighed. "You know I won't do it if you don't want me to."
"Thank you." She leaned over to him and placed a hand on his cheek.