DISCLAIMER: I don't own Dawson's Creek--it's just a very-guilty pleasure that I don't like people to know about. It'll be our secret, 'kay?
The Open Window
Dawson looked at his phone.
He wanted it to ring. He wanted someone, anyone, to call him, to act like everything was normal. He wanted to have a conversation that was casual and friendly, instead of stilted and awkward.
Dawson didn't want to look at his phone.
He rolled on his side to face the window. It was open, as always, posing a silent invitation that was never answered. The curtains billowed in the breeze, but he could still see the dock that was so close, but that Joey hadn't stepped on for almost two years.
One year, nine months, four days, two hours, seventeen minutes, and no phone call.
The phone rang, and he snatched it out of its cradle. He didn't care that he sounded childishly eager when he said hello.
"Hey."
He didn't have to think of who it was. His gaze was automatically drawn to the portrait that his Aunt had painted for him years ago. It still hung on his wall.
He couldn't help the almost-forgotten emotion that welled up at the sound of her voice. Joey.
"Dawson, listen, I know you didn't want to talk to me ever again, not since I destroyed our relationship, betrayed your trust, and all that, but—I need a favor."
She didn't sound contrite. She sounded casual. She didn't care that she was tearing him up inside, that the sound of her voice brought back the worst days of his life.
He should hang up the phone.
"A really small favor, but we're doing this project…" she went on, but Dawson wasn't listening.
Hang up the goddamn phone.
Instead, he heard himself ask what she needed, if he could help, and he closed his eyes tightly. His hands clutched the receiver with a grip that left his knuckles white with strain.
"We just need to borrow your camera. I don't have one, and Pacey's brother won't lend us the one from the station."
Pacey. If the sound of Joey's voice made him ache with pain, just hearing her say his name made him pale with fury.
With effort, he whispered that he didn't have his camera, he broke it and threw it in the water, off the docks that she never stepped on anymore, that she hadn't rowed to in weeks, months, years—
A click. A dull tone. She'd hung up on him.
He didn't bother to put the phone back on the hook. She wouldn't call again.
That night, for the first time since he was six, he closed his window.