"Ummunghuhmm..."
Jen paused in front of the mirrors as the low, strange moaning sound emanated from behind the closed door of Joey's bathroom stall. "Jo?" she said tentatively. "Are you okay?"
"Ummungh..."
"I'm taking that as a no. Are you sick?"
"Oh God. Jen ... Uhhh."
"Okay, sweetie, can I come in?" She tapped on the door, and it swung open on a very pale-faced Joey. Her dark hair hung in startling contrast to her skin, tousled and falling untidily to her shoulders. She was bracing herself with her hands on the knees of her jeans, looking like every bad night of drinking Jen had ever experienced.
"I'm gonna puke," Joey said sadly. "The room is spinning."
"I think it's you that's spinning," Jen said sympathetically, rubbing her arm. "Go on and puke; you'll feel better."
"Damn Pacey."
Jen couldn't suppress a smile. "Damn Pacey for what? For giving you, a grown woman, some drinks on the house when evidently you can't hold your liquor any better now than you could when we were in high school? Give him a break."
"Stop," Joey said in a strained, wavery voice. "Stop being practical. I feel like shit, and I want to blame him."
"Yeah, well I feel like shit, too, but the man I could conceivably blame is pretty much the last person on the face of the earth I want to think about."
Joey swallowed hard, painfully. "Yeah, well at least you're nauseated for a purpose."
"Drunkenness serves its own purpose. I mean, hey, if you would let yourself cut loose tonight, you might just stop being your own worst enemy and manage to at least patch the holes in two people's lives."
Grimacing against another wave of nausea, Joey shot her friend an irritated look. "What ... what's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Jen said innocently. "Look, I'd try to get it out of your system if I were you. I'll go get you a glass of water, okay?"
She nodded, and Jen squeezed her arm comfortingly and left the bathroom. The boys were engrossed in some obviously hysterically funny bit of shared history when she returned to the table. They looked up at her with wide grins still shining on their faces.
"We have a minor casualty," she said. "I need to take her a glass of water."
"Is she okay?" Pacey asked immediately.
"Just a few too many of Pacey's Happy Hour Specials, I think. She'll be fine."
"Bathroom?" he asked, already getting up and heading off in that direction. Jen nodded and watched him hurry away.
"Now that's devotion," she remarked jokingly. "How come I don't get that kind of treatment?"
"Oh, you mean begging you until I'm blue in the face to go to the hospital when you have a fainting spell isn't showing enough concern for your well-being?" Jack said without warning, the sudden edge in his voice making both Jen and Dawson jerk their heads up to look at him and gauge his degree of seriousness. It was obvious he wasn't kidding.
Jen winced. "Jack. My dear. I'm begging you not to start again."
He shrugged. "Fine, but just so you know, the lipstick can't hide everything."
And here we go. "Now what the hell does that mean?" she said irritably.
"Forget it."
"No, Jack, I'm not going to forget it. Now I've asked you kindly to mind your own damn business, but you seem to be having trouble complying. What exactly do I have to do?"
"Go to the goddamn doctor! I mean, come on, Jen, today wasn't the first time this has happened; you're passing out left and right, and in case you've forgotten, it's not just yourself you have to worry about anymore."
"That's enough, Jack, you're crossing the line. Get off my back," she snapped, uncharacteristically angry. "I'm not going to tell you again." Glancing at Dawson, who was twisting his napkin in his hands and looking very uncomfortable, she took a deep breath and mumbled, "Joey needs water." Turning her back, she started away with a half-full glass of ice water sweating in her hand; as an afterthought, she spun back toward the table and fixed a steady gaze on Jack. "Oh, and next time you have a heart-to-heart with Grams about the well-being of everyone's favorite headcase, tell her to mind her damn business, too. I don't need you two making things out to be worse than they are."
She reached the bathroom, her heart pounding in time with her head. She opened the swinging door so hard it slammed back against the wall. The sight that greeted her almost made her forget her anger at Jack, and the now-familiar feeling of worry and the strange breed of lightheaded despair that he had stirred up again.
Pacey and Joey were sitting together on the black leather couch just inside the door, the same couch Joey had collapsed onto when the girls had first entered the bathroom earlier. She was slumped over, her hands covering her face, crying into them. Sobbing, actually. Pacey had his arms wrapped tightly around her, his lips pressed into the dark shimmering softness of her hair, holding her as she released emotions that probably were a lot closer to the truth than she would ever admit without the aid and the shield of alcohol. Drunkenness serves its own purpose, Jen had told her. It can patch hearts, it can expose hurts, it can make you or break you or drive you back to the person your heart still belongs to. Watching the two of them, the purpose of this particular instance seemed perfectly clear.
Joey didn't look up from the haven of Pacey's arms when Jen made her noisy entrance. Pacey did. He met Jen's eyes, and in that single look, she saw the unadorned pureness of his feelings for the woman he held, the love that had never for a single moment let him out of its grasp--for Jen had realized long ago that it was love that did the holding. Anyone who thinks it's the other way around, that a person can choose to hang onto or let go of love, that any mere mortal has that capacity, is sadly mistaken. Love does the holding.
She set the water glass down next to the sinks, gave Pacey a solemn wink, which he answered with a grateful smile, and slipped back out of the bathroom.
For a moment she just stood there outside the door, pressing a hand to her lips as she felt her own wave of nausea threaten to come over her. She closed her eyes and waited for it to pass. "Not now, baby, please," she muttered. "Can it wait till the morning? It's been a long day." An eternity of several moments passed, and so did the nausea. She relaxed and walked over to the railing that overlooked the water in the near distance, not wanting to return to their table just yet. The moon glinted off the surface of the black water in pinpoints of brilliance. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered a little.
"Hey there," a voice said from behind her.
"Hi," she responded without turning around.
"Look, Jen ..."
"Don't. Please? I'm going to pack up tonight and head back in the morning. At this rate we're going to keep going until one of us kills the other, and I don't want to end up in jail and pregnant. It's just not classy."
"Jen, shut up a second. I was going to say I'm sorry. I did cross the line, you're right. I shouldn't be pushing you right now. I know you'll do what you need to do."
She turned around and looked up at him, into the clear, forthright eyes of a person she'd spent a good portion of her life loving in heartbreakingly hopeless ways she suspected he would never really understand. And if he, the person who knew her better than anyone in the world, couldn't understand, then maybe the truth wasn't even so important. Maybe he never needed to know that he was the closest she'd ever been in her entire life to fulfillment. Maybe she should try to forget that fact, as well. She let him pull her into an uncomplicated, apologetic hug, and she buried her face in his chest.
The two who kept throwing away their own fulfillment were behind a door scarcely 50 yards away from the embracing best friends, one of them still sobbing her heart out in her hands, the other trying desperately not to be torn apart by polar emotions, knowing that the moment would eventually end no matter how badly he wanted it not to, and that he would be right back where he'd started. They both would.
