Thanks for the reviews! I know it's depressing, but I can't stop. I guess I'm angsty these days; you know how it goes. Please keep reading, and let me know what you think.

Blood pounded sickly in my temples. The anger, so familiar now and so overwhelming in its very existence, boiled inside of me, making my stomach clench uncomfortably as I stood rigidly at the window and stared out at the meaningless lights of a city I would never call home. She was probably still standing where I'd left her, wearing that simple black dress that made her look so beautiful I couldn't stand it, afraid to follow me into the bedroom. And that was good; it was better that way. I was afraid, too. Afraid of what I might say to her just now. Of what she might say. Of looking into her face and seeing any trace of what I'd seen there the night I went to her office to surprise her with roses and a promise and found ... what I'd found.

If I saw guilt in her eyes tonight, I might have to accept the truth I've spent the last seven months holding off with every fiber of my being. The truth about Joey Potter and Pacey Witter, and how they're destined to tear each other apart.

Joey Potter. My God, was there ever a time when this woman didn't have a hold over me? When I try really hard, I seem to remember a point in my life, a million years ago, when she was little more to me than a symbol of life on the creek, of the life I was supposed to lead. Of the life my father had led, and my brother. Just another smart-ass, middle-class underachiever who would live and die in Capeside because that's all he knew. Bound to settle—always, on everything—because he was too blind to believe he deserved more. Too blind—or too smart.

What died the night I opened her office door and found her in the process of undoing us wasn't my love for her. Hell no. That would have been easier, of course. If I had a choice, I would have turned my back, ignored her pleading and her tears and her empty cries for forgiveness, and caught the first train home to Capeside to live my life as I'd always expected to live it. Simply. Honestly. Maybe boringly. But the way it should've been.

I didn't have a choice, though. I never have, where she's concerned. She is my blessing and my curse. I gave in to her with his blood drying on my knuckles. I wish I could say I didn't cry.

She caught my hand in the middle of the street and I swung around to yell at her, and her wet, shiny, lost eyes drilled into me, straight into my heart. If I'd had a chance in hell of walking away, which I don't believe I did, it died the moment she pierced me with those eyes. She seemed so ... shattered. She cried and clutched my hand in a death grip and begged me not to leave her.

"You're everything to me, Pacey, you're everything, please believe that. Please, baby ... please don't walk away from me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Believe it or not, I actually had to fight the urge to pull her into my arms then. Even though her white shirt had come untucked and there was lipstick smeared around her mouth, even with those signs of betrayal staring me in the face, my base instinct was to comfort her. Isn't that screwed up? I wanted to comfort her. If you've ever been in love you might understand. If you've ever pinned your dreams and your heart and your soul to another person, put yourself at the mercy of their whims, and seen yourself every time you looked into their eyes, you probably do. If you don't, you never will. I resisted holding her, but it wasn't easy.

We walked all the way home even though it was so cold I couldn't feel my fingers and the tears were practically frozen on my cheeks. We would have walked home if we were in Capeside, and I refused to cater to the ways of this city at this particular moment in time. It would have seemed disloyal, somehow.

She stayed several paces back the whole way, lagging behind me like a bad child. It was the way she'd been with Dawson all those ages ago, desperate for his approval, his blessing, so childishly afraid of his anger that she'd been willing to cast aside her own desires to accommodate his. I might have hated her for that, if I had the option. I didn't.

That night had been seven months ago. We'd gotten through it, but not past it. I'd forgiven her because I had to. When, six weeks later, I'd finally recovered enough to ask the question I'd been so naively and romantically anticipating that night, she had accepted in spite of the fears I knew she still harbored. And there was happiness; of course there was. We were in love, we were happy. I forgave her ... but I didn't forget.

Apparently she did. If she could think it was okay to accompany that asshole to a party she'd wanted me to take her to, if she thought nothing of wearing that dress I'd given her and looking so damn beautiful for the man who had almost spelled the end of us, then obviously the night in question wasn't as indelibly etched into her brain as it is mine. Obviously it hadn't been the wake-up call that it was for me.

Now, I stepped away from the window, draining the last of my beer. I decided I needed another one. When I opened the bedroom door, she jumped a little and looked at me with wide eyes. She wasn't crying. She was sitting on the barstool at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine before her. I walked past her to the refrigerator, smelling her perfume (she'd worn perfume for him, I thought bitterly), and I could feel her eyes on my back as I bent down for a fresh bottle.

"Pacey," she said in a near-whisper, her voice hoarse and timid.

I straightened up and looked at her blandly, waiting for her to go on. Apparently she had spoken before she knew what she was going to say, because her eyes drifted back to her wineglass and she traced the rim with her index finger.

Several moments passed, filled with things we didn't say. I mentally tried and rejected several attempts to put into words the nagging questions that were all tangled up in my head. "Are you sleeping with him?" "Why are you doing this to us?" "What's happening to you, Joey?" "Who are you?"

Nothing seemed right. When the phone rang, she jumped again, but neither of us reached for it.

I leaned across the counter to peer at the caller ID window. "Barber, Matthew." The name glowed up at me in sick green letters like a slap in the face, and I looked at her with what probably came across as an expression of disgust. In fact, that's probably what it was. "You'd better get that, Jo," I said in a tone that was a horrible imitation of good cheer.

I took my coat off the rack by the door and walked out. I couldn't bear to stick around and see if she was going to pick the phone up.