Joey finished work for the day, ambling the sand path from the writers' room to their house. By the front door, Delia had left a stack of mail and a container with a Post-it resting on top labeled 'EAT'. Popping open the lid, Joey found generous squares of brownie on parchment paper.
Inside, Cat Stevens was in his afternoon spot, belly up, a veritable contortionist. His head and paws hung off the sofa, mid-air. With the closure of the door, he opened an eye, considered her intrusion of little significance, and closed it again.
Each day, Cat would embark on a predictable homage to the sun's rays. Early in the morning, he could be found on the laundry, his body stretched like a sausage along the windowsill. By lunchtime, he'd be on the rug on Pacey's side of the bed, and to catch the afternoon warmth he would find the sofa, seizing the last slivers of daylight.
The house wasn't their own, but the three of them weaved themselves into its lace curtains and the tapestry that adorned one of the few walls not disguised by the spines of a book.
Joey went to the kitchen, cracked open the container, shoveling a piece of brownie into her mouth. The space was compact and the drawer holding silverware often released its ornate handle into the hand of whoever was seeking a spoon. It didn't matter; the kitchen was rarely used. Pacey stocked the fridge with leftovers from the Icehouse, so that whenever the mood struck for either a Portuguese tart or a shrimp salad, she never had to go far.
They could move, they'd saved the money, but they weren't ready. Not yet. Here, they could stroll on the beach at dusk and glance out the windows and see nothing but ocean. Joey could walk twenty-seven steps and find herself at work. And, more importantly, twenty-seven steps brought her home for lunch. Home to him.
She drove to the Icehouse like she did most nights. Pushing open the heavy doors. Matt was working at the bar. He raised his head and smiled. It was busy, July busy. The kind you need a reservation to even think about eating at the Icehouse, but her favorite barstool was free. It was always free. Maybe Pacey swatted away any bar flies who dared to sit past 5 pm. Maybe the townsfolk know that it's Joey's chair, and if they dared to deposit their backsides on it, they will inevitably be moved.
It was the barstool that had close access to a power socket.
It was the barstool closest to the kitchens and the office.
It was the barstool closest to Pacey.
"Hey Joey," said Matt, pouring her a glass of her favorite Sauvignon Blanc. "He's out the back, won't be long."
She thanked him, paying a hefty tip because he wouldn't take her money for the drink, and pulled out her laptop. The file opened, displaying more white screen than words. Some days, the pages filled of their own volition. Epic sprawls of prose on any manner of topics. Occasionally they even made it as far as editing, often not. Paragraphs were inevitably deleted in fits of agitation when it seemed that no matter what she wrote, Joey Potter couldn't decide what she wanted to actually write.
During the day, she confidently strolled around a room full of novices. They sat hunched over laptops while she granted praise, closed plot holes, and offered editing advice. The students at Cape Creatives all seemed to have direction and purpose. They knew what it was they wanted to write, they just needed that final polish to hone their skills.
Joey tried it all. Science Fiction, poetry, young adult, mystery, fantasy. Attempts at each genre had proved fruitless. It seemed that everyone had a story to tell, except for her.
She opened a half-finished set of short stories, and two plates appeared beside her.
"Wild caught Alaskan salmon, seafood bouillabaisse, fennel & orange salad," his lips grazed her ear, voice husky and low, hand still holding the plate.
Joey closed the laptop, inclining her head towards the man behind her.
"With the dijon vinaigrette?"
"Naturally," Pacey grinned, kissing her neck twice, and sat to her left. Like her own chair, the one beside it remained vacant most nights. That was, of course, when Pacey was not upon it, sharing dinner.
Resting her chin on her hand, Joey gazed at him. "I have said it before, and I'll say it again, but if you keep feeding me this much, you will have to roll me out of here."
He shrugged. "At least I'll know you aren't hungry."
"Hunger is an impossibility with you around." Joey picked up a fork, spearing an orange segment.
Beside her, he cut into his salmon. His pinky finger, while holding the knife, reached towards her, until she extended her own and they touched fingerprint against fingerprint.
Through bites, they divulged details of their day. Pacey complained of a missing order of mussels from his wholesaler. Joey talked of a guest speaker that had captivated the class with her world-building techniques.
Joey sighed. "I still can't think of anything to write."
"That's because you're too busy writing about what you think people want, not what you know."
"But I don't know anything."
He shot her a disbelieving glance. "Au contraire, Potter."
"Like what? What do I know?"
"What do you like to read?"
"Virginia Woolf, Franz Kafka…"
Pacey shook his head, interrupting. "No Joey, what do you really like to read?"
"I just told you."
"No, you told me the version you tell people in your classes. That's Joey with her Master's Degree speaking, that's Mentor Joey. What is in the pile of books on your nightstand right now? Beneath the Keats and the Kafka. The ones with the spines facing inward?"
She glared at him.
He smirked in return. "You told me, the night we first met, in this very bar, that you loved reading romances. Of all the tidbits of Joey Potter information you could have divulged, you confided that one. Why?"
"I don't know. I was flirting."
Pacey threw her a look of disbelief over a julienned stalk of fennel. "You were? On our first meeting?"
"Of course I was."
"But you'd just finalized the divorce. I figured you were only being nice. You know, using me for my security services."
With an overtly casual air, Joey asked, "Were you flirting?"
"Of course I was! When a captivating woman deposits herself into my booth and tells me I must masquerade as her pretend fiancée, I'm going to flirt as though my life depends on it."
"But you had just split with Andie. You were Sad Pacey."
He shrugged. "Sad Pacey still flirts with Hot Joey."
She smiled, then sighed. "I don't know why I read romances. Because they're calm, predictable. Each of them follows a formula - meet, become friends, fall in love despite some contrived reason where it isn't possible, finally overcome said obstacle. And I know that after a last-minute misstep, I'm going to get to the inevitable happy ending. I like that kind of stability in my bedtime reading routine."
"So what about writing it?"
She shook her head, firm. "No."
"You are a literary snob, Josephine."
"Am not."
He cast a doubtful glare between mouthfuls. "Fine. I'll solve your dilemma. Here's a story for you. Your protagonist is a handsome local bar owner. He's dapper, cool, with an awe-inspiring fashion sense. You can call him Percy, you know, to keep an air of anonymity."
Joey grinned. "And what happens to Percy in this story? Is he a secret underworld figure, a brooding vampire that only tends bar at night? How does one insert a protagonist with a penchant for Hawaiian shirts?"
"I have boundless trust in your abilities, Miss Potter, to craft a spectacular tale for my alter ego."
Joey rolled her eyes.
Mrs. Bartowski arrived beside them, skin freckled from age and an impish grin on her face. Like Joey's chair at the bar, Mrs. Bartowski was another constant in their day.
"Lovebirds. So nice to see," she nudged Pacey, who put down his fork.
"June Bartowski, did you try my special lobster fettuccine today?" Pacey replied.
"I liked the breadcrumbs sprinkled on top. They were delicious." She rubbed her belly and reached across, taking Joey's face in her arthritic hands. "So beautiful, skin so soft like velvet."
Pacey gave Joey a knowing smirk, and she tried to return the look while her face was still sandwiched between the woman's fists. "You don't have to tell me, Mrs. Bartowski. Why do you think I snapped her up?"
"But you haven't snapped her up, have you?" She left Joey's face, instead pulling her hand close to her milky cataract eyes for inspection. She found Joey's ring finger unadorned. "When are you two going to make it official?"
With limitless patience, Pacey replied, "Maybe one day."
"I'm not getting any younger," Mrs. Bartowski replied.
Making an attempt at a distraction, Pacey asked, "Do you have any plans for the Forth of July?"
Mrs. Bartowski offered a puzzled squint of her eyes. "When is that?"
"On Thursday."
But she had lost interest in the conversation, gaze roaming the room, before finding herself distracted by another familiar patron and waddling off in their direction.
They faced their plates again. Pacey took a swig of his beer.
"She went easy on you today," said Joey.
"Not so easy on you." Pacey ran his palm gently over her squeezed cheek.
Mrs. Bartowski, at ninety years old, couldn't remember what she did that morning, and she couldn't remember that only a few years ago she used to knit Pacey a Christmas sweater every December. But she could remember to come to the Icehouse, drink two glasses of gin fizz with dinner, and ask Joey and Pacey when they were getting married. A predictable daily routine that, despite the grandma-style face grabbing, reassured Joey of her place on that bar stool.
After dessert, Pacey returned to work, and Joey went home. Cat Stevens would warm Pacey's place on the left side of the bed until his arrival near midnight. Sometimes he was a little late, but Joey didn't mind. Those nights where he drove Mrs. Bartowski home, delivering her safely with a collection of leftovers, labeled and stacked, ready for her fridge.
At home he would shower, escort Cat from his position, find Joey dozing, and pull her close.
On the Fourth of July, Pacey took the day off. He rostered extra staff to make sure everything would run smoothly. The kegs were unloaded, the crayfish in the cool room snuggled on a bed of ice.
Joey and Pacey drove past the snake of cars that blocked the entrance to Capeside.
They arrived at Jack and Doug's house to find them standing by the grill, fussing over burgers. Jen was reclining on a sun lounge beneath a lime green parasol, Dan by her side, putting golf balls into a plastic cup.
Jen waited until they were out of the car before dropping her sunglasses down her nose. "Witter, you're late! You drive like a retiree. You've missed all the action."
Joey leaned down to kiss her friend hello.
Putting the cooler down by Jen's lounge, Pacey replied. "Lindley, need I remind you, it was your last-minute request for fresh mint, which caused our detour to the grocery store and subsequent delay."
"A margarita isn't a margarita without fresh mint," Jen grinned and Pacey presented her with the fresh bunch, like a bouquet.
A car drove down the street, making everyone turn to watch. A BMW, the top down. Inside sat a man with a bald patch, a woman at least ten years his junior in the passenger seat.
"Four," called Jen with certainty..
"Five," Joey and Doug said at the same time.
Pacey and Dan guessed three.
"Seven," Jack went with a long shot, his face curled to a grimace, reconsidering his choice.
"Six," he corrected.
Dan shot him a look, "no takebacks."
All eyes diverted to Jen, seeking clarification from the self-appointed adjudicator.
"Sorry Jackie-boy, no takebacks."
Last year, celebrating Jen and Dan's recent move to Capeside, Jack and Doug had invited everyone to enjoy a day around the grill. The meat was satisfactory, the burger buns fresh, but it was the unexpected free entertainment that had lured them back for a second year.
Jack and Doug's house was located on a tight dead-end road, just off the highway leading into Capeside. Bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic lined the roads and desperate drivers searched for a quicker route.
Most satellite navigation systems showed their street as a through-road, a quick bypass of the stream of traffic. It was incorrect, and a zoning change meant that a sprawling mansion now filled the roadway, leading the unsuspecting drivers to divert from the pack and find themselves boxed in. A row of wide elms on the east side and the mansion's stone pillar entry on the west made the narrowing road a challenge to exit.
It became a drinking game, watching the cars come down the road, dashed excitement in the driver's eyes as they had to navigate a multi-point turn. As a car approached, everyone guessed the number of movements that would be required for an escape. Wrong estimates had to drink.
Jen was a natural. Last year, Joey and the others were left with an empty glass and a hangover.
The BMW made a panicked halt. Pulled towards the elms, reversed, pulled in again, made a slight turn going back, before swinging around and exiting to rejoin the procession of cars on the highway.
"Four," said Pacey, shaking his head.
Jen chuckled.
They all took a drink while Jen basked in the glory. It wasn't long until another stream of cars bailed in the line to try their luck. Joey and Pacey lathered on sunblock and scored occasional wins while eating Jack's burgers, Doug's coleslaw, and drinking Jen's margaritas.
It took one more visit to Capeside before Jen abandoned the West coast, bringing Dan along for the ride. They found a two-bedroom house only a block from the Icehouse, and now, it was as though they had always been there, three couples, enjoying dinners, games nights and federal holidays together.
After the traffic had cleared and no more cars came down the dead end, Jen and Joey went inside to collect dessert. Jack and Doug's house was modern and neat. The galley kitchen overlooked a manicured rear garden with trimmed roses and a pond filled with fat goldfish.
Jen announced that in a rare fit of domesticity, she had made a pie from scratch. Standing by the fridge door, she gripped the handle.
"Promise not to laugh." Jen's eyes were crinkled, her hair now reaching her shoulders. It was lighter, bleached by days on the beach and trips on Pacey's sailboat.
Joey used her fingers to cross her heart.
Opening the door, Jen pulled out the offending dessert while stifling her cackles.
"It's a key lime pie," Jen confessed.
But it wasn't green, as tradition would dictate. It was a marbled concoction of red, white, and blue. Joey laughed while Jen drunkenly directed the funnel of a can of whipped cream onto the edges.
"Maybe I can hide it with cream," she summoned the culinary gods as the can hissed and sputtered white rosettes on the blue edges.
Joey contained her laughter long enough to ask, "Are you sure it's edible?"
"No," Jen answered.
They broke into a fit of giggles. Joey gripped onto the counter. She wasn't Drunk Joey, but the alcohol had left her a little unsteady.
"Next year, I'm going to leave the desserts to Pacey," Jen collected paper plates and spoons from Doug and Jack's kitchen, as though she knew it as well as her own. Leaning over the sink, Joey ran some water and splashed it against her face.
Jen didn't take the pie outside, instead leaving it to sit on the counter and pressing her hip against the cupboards.
"How is America's next bestseller coming along?" Jen asked.
"I don't know. You'd have to ask an author. I'm just a woman with multiple blank pages. Apparently, words are required, arranged in sentences, collated into a coherent story. I have none of these things."
Jen frowned. "I suspect that the writing of your magnum opus requires a little more confidence than you're projecting right now."
"How can I have confidence when I have written nothing? Maybe I can't write. Maybe I have nothing to say, no story to tell."
Swatting away her comment, Jen said, "Joey Potter is full to the brim with talent. Trust me, I know. I've seen what you did with some of Dawson's scripts, single-handedly reviving them from his dreary prose."
"That's editing, not writing. Sure, I can edit a story already in existence. But I can't seem to create my own."
"Why don't you write a story about a small-town girl who moves to a beach side location and marries the cute barkeep?" Jen waggled her eyebrows.
Joey cast a warning glare at her friend. "Don't you dare!"
"I would never suggest such a thing in reality. We are talking in fiction, my dear."
"You're not married," Joey retorted.
"But I'm not the marrying kind, you know that. You are, Pacey most definitely is."
Joey reached for the cream, squeezed a hefty dollop on her finger before plopping it onto Jen's nose. Jen reached out her tongue to lick it.
"Nice deflection," Jen scooped off her nose-rosette, ate it, and collected the pie.
"You will write something, Joey. It will happen, and when it does, it will be great. Shake off the negativity, and find a story that you believe in."
Joey smiled at her friend. "I'll try."
"Come on, I want to see Pacey's face when he sees my dessert masterpiece."
Holding open the door, Jen exited, presented her patriotic pie, head held high.
They stayed all afternoon, and well into the evening. Until no more cars attempted the shortcut, until fireworks whipped and trailed a rainbow over the rooftops.
Late that night, Joey still felt the warmth of the sun making her skin pink. Her throat was dry from the margaritas, her lips parched. Pacey's arm lay against her stomach. The rhythm of his sleeping breath fell against her cheek.
They slept with the curtains open, the soft fall of moonlight a summer blanket.
She ran her fingertips across his arm, down his wrist, to his hand, dipping and rising with each of his knuckles, traversing them like rolling hills. Watching him in the wee hours when she couldn't sleep was an addiction. She could have all of him, unfiltered. When her gaze drifted to his fluttering eyelids, she wondered, like so many times before it, how she ended up here.
In Capeside, with him.
It still surprised her, the unexpected path your life could take. From a divorce to a ridiculous fake-rebound to this.
Pacey.
Joey blinked. Once, twice.
She took his hand, gently pulled it up, and crawled from the bed.
"You okay?" Pacey asked as she burrowed her feet into slippers.
Joey leaned down, kissed his head. "Just had an idea."
He nodded into the darkness, familiar with her 3 am epiphanies, even if they rarely produced anything she was willing to discuss by morning.
"I'll keep the bed warm for you," he murmured into his pillow.
Joey went to her laptop. Cat Stevens raised his sleepy head to regard her appearance, rotated to the other side and resumed his slumber.
The blank page on her laptop blinded her with its illuminated white. Joey rubbed her eyes, placed her fingers on the keys, and filled it.
Pacey's footfalls sounded in the hallway just after dawn, but Joey barely registered. He showered, put on her favorite Hawaiian shirt, fuchsia flamingos, a sapphire blue background.
A mug of coffee appeared beside her, along with the scent of a freshly shampooed Pacey.
"That's a lot of words." He glanced at the screen but didn't read them, not yet, not until she was ready.
Joey lowered her wrists, saved the document, and spun in her chair, looking up at him.
"There is something different about your eyes, Jo. Do I detect a hint of writer satisfaction?"
She smiled, nodding, taking a sip of his coffee. Cat Stevens had moved from his couch to a ball beneath her feet. With Pacey's arrival, he awoke and began snaking his body around his master's ankles, requesting breakfast.
"Let me guess. Percy, the most dapper pirate in all of Cape Cod, woos a beautiful, but mysterious wench?" he teased.
Rich brown eyes greeted him in reply, the edges pointed to the sky.
"Something like that," she grinned.
"So…" he rolled his finger in circles, "the suspense is killing me. What epiphany has inspired actual, bona fide words?"
"I worked out what I want to write."
He beamed. "Is that so?"
"How do you feel about your likeness being portrayed for all eternity?"
Fingers against his Hawaiian shirt, head tilted to the side, Pacey asked, "Moi?"
Joey nodded.
"Is this likeness a positive one? Representative of only my best traits."
"It is."
"Well then, it's a resounding yes from me. If it makes you smile like you are now, I will pretty much allow anything."
Joey moved the mouse, scrolling until she reached the top of the page where the title was listed. Pacey's eyes quickly scanned the word, glancing back at her.
"Is that what I think it is?"
Joey nodded.
Sipping his coffee, Pacey considered the title and its wider implications.
"I thought you didn't write romance?"
Joey narrowed her gaze and poked him playfully in his abdominals. "In this one instance, I will make an exception."
"Seems like a captivating tale," he grinned before his eyes found the title again. Joey swiveled back in her chair to face it.
"For so long I couldn't think of my story, but I think that this is my story, at least a version of it, names redacted of course, and I'll add a little flourish here and there. But for once, this is a story I'm excited to tell, and I think I can tell it well because I lived it."
Pacey kissed the crown of her hair. "Write your story, Jo. I'm excited to read it."
The cursor flickered against the title, and he smiled.
Rebound
By Josephine Potter
Hawaii had been planned and written on their shared calendar for the better part of a year. The flights were booked before Joey finally put pen to paper, before the publishing deal was signed. So when the time finally came to pack the suitcase, it was amongst the fevered week of the book's release.
"We can cancel," Pacey offered, putting a brave face on his disappointment.
"No!" Joey was adamant. "We are going. I am going, this is happening. I need to get away. There is nothing more that can be done."
The books were printed. Joey still hadn't received the couriered delivery that held her first copy. Jen promised to check for packages each day while she bundled up Cat Stevens for his own vacation at her house. He went willingly, pleased to be allowed unfettered access to his favorite human.
"Have an incredible trip, Joey," Jen hugged her while Pacey waited in the car.
"I will."
"You know, Hawaii is an incredibly romantic destination. Many an engagement has happened on the sandy beaches." Jen winked. "Just sayin'."
Joey shook her head. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again. You're relentless."
Jen cackled, waving goodbye as they drove away.
"You told her, didn't you?" Pacey asked as they passed the Capeside sign.
Joey shook her head, reaching for the final check of their tickets and wallets. "I am a vault."
He reached over, took his eyes off the road for a moment, and squeezed her hand.
When they touched down in Oahu, the weight of the novel that had been sitting on her shoulders evaporated.
This time, the sun was their guide. Every plan that had been squandered on their earlier itinerary by the rain was enjoyed to the fullest. They stayed at the same hotel, memories of nights spent apart in twin beds bringing them closer.
The sharks called to them, and they awoke early, diving from the boat without hesitation. Waves exhaling like breaths, they bobbed in snorkels and delved into the world beneath.
After their hair had dried crisp from the salt water, they met the celebrant on the sands of a quiet cove. Children in swimsuits splashed in the shallows nearby, their weary parents reclining beneath a sun shelter.
Toes in the sand, Pacey slipped a delicate gold ring onto Joey's finger, and she threaded one onto his. The trade winds acted as witness, carrying their 'I dos' out to sea.
Joey twisted her ring nervously as the plane sat on the tarmac in Boston, waiting for a gate. She twisted it as they taxied, twisted it as the aircraft slowly emptied of impatient bodies.
"Are your nerves on account of announcing the elopement to Jennifer, your sister, or my parents? Or is it about the book's release?" Pacey asked, pulling down her carry-on case.
"All of the above."
"Well, I can say without hesitation that the book is going to be a hit. You have nothing to worry about there. Bessie and my parents, while being surprised, will understand our desire for a quiet ceremony and undoubtedly be pleased about the lack of fanfare and subsequent cost. Jennifer is the wildcard in this situation. She will either be boundlessly excited to hear the news or smother me in my sleep for daring to exchange vows without her present."
He held her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as they walked in time with the throng of flip-flopped, tanned travelers towards the baggage carousel.
Dragging their carry-on cases behind him, Pacey led the way until they passed an airport bookstore. He stopped walking right in the middle of the thoroughfare, a tattooed man running directly into him. Pacey apologized.
"What's wrong?" Joey's brow was furrowed, following his eye line.
Pacey dodged the fleet of bodies seeking their gates and went directly to the bookstore. They stood staring at the New Releases, a fresh stack of Rebound copies on the shelf, nestled unassumingly between other hardbacks.
Joey's hand covered her mouth.
Reaching for a copy, Pacey inspected the cover. She took one too, feeling the weight of it in her hands, the embossed Sans Serif of the name Josephine Potter. The pages were crisp white; the spine cracked when opened.
Crowds streamed by them. A couple of newlyweds rendered stunned beside the New Releases, each with a shiny ring on their left hand.
"It's perfect," said Pacey. "I'm so proud of you, Jo." He kissed her.
The words in print looked even better than the proofs they'd received. Joey could not stop shaking her head, staring at the pages in her hands that bore her name.
Dashing to the counter, Pacey bought a copy, informing the distracted clerk behind the desk she needed to buy a copy herself. They took the purchase to a quiet space beside the vending machines to make a closer inspection.
Joey nudged her husband. "I added something since the last draft. See the dedication page."
He opened it again, carefully turning the pages one at a time to page six. Blank except for twelve words, center spaced, italicized.
For Pacey
The man who taught me that sometimes rebounds are forever.
