Career Tip # 11
Asking for help is a skill, not a weakness. Career growth requires the support of others no matter your level of expertise. Everyone needs advice, guidance, feedback, motivation, and support. And the only way to get that is to "ask"!
Pacey drives home.
The Witter household is loud. Pacey can hear the game from outside. He comes through the door, ignoring the eyes that follow him.
His father hadn't bothered to remove his uniform. It sits untucked over his belly. Beside John rests an obligatory stack of beer cans, more than Pacey can count. It's only 7 pm. Since Christmas, his drinking had increased, a stark contrast to the number of words shared between them since the festive season.
After the excitement of the day, of parties, candles, and storeroom encounters, every ounce of life is sucked from Pacey as he walks by his father.
He hangs the Wagoneer keys on the hook.
In the kitchen, Mary covers meals in Saran Wrap, stacking them into the fridge.
"Hey Pacey, there is leftover Hamburger Helper in the microwave," she wanders over, pressing two minutes on the timer. It hums to life, a spinning plate in yellow light.
"Thanks. What's with all the cooking?"
There is an array of meals spread across the counter. Meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, and a bake that smelled like canned mushroom soup, covered in crushed potato chips.
"I'm going to Aunt Linda's for a week or so. I'm just making some meals for you and your father."
"Why?" he asks, stealing a forkful of macaroni.
"She's been struggling a lot since Walt got sick, and you know how the kids can get."
Each word that exits her mouth is a lie. Anytime things got bad, Mary would find an excuse to depart. The event was a predictable rhythm, like the seasons. A barometer of the state of their marriage.
His father's drinking would increase, usually spurred by work-related stress. The yelling would become more frequent, the cans would pile up. The fault of his inebriation would lie with everyone but him. Mary's too lazy, Pacey's too useless. No wonder I drink was his catch cry.
The bender would reach its inevitable crescendo after weeks to months of abhorrent behavior, where he would issue a half-hearted apology and promise to cut down on the alcohol.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Pacey glances into the lounge, "So you're going to leave me? With him?"
She rests a hand on his arm. "Oh, honey, you barely leave your room when you're home. I'm sure you two can avoid each other for a week without me. You do it well enough when I'm here."
He wants to protest, but he sympathizes with her desire to leave. "Doug said I could stay at his place a couple of nights this week."
"Oh well, that's perfect then. But I will need to take the Wagoneer, so you'll be without a car."
Pacey nods, "When are you leaving?"
"I go tomorrow morning. I'll see you before school."
Forcing down dinner, Pacey takes a shower, walking into his room shirtless and dripping. Standing before the mirror on his closet door, he looks at his reflection, seeing what Joey saw.
He imagines her small palm against his chest, the way her fingers spread open. They trembled, but held steady, even as he reached out, even as he dared to touch her.
Lashes fluttering, her eyelids were translucent. The way she looked at him - indescribable.
He grips at the memory of it. Presses play. Pauses. Rewinds. Each replay brings him back to life in this long-dead house.
The phone rings while Joey is eating toast, bouncing Alexander on her hip.
"Hello?"
"This is a collect call from Plymouth County Correctional from - " the line clicks, "Mike Potter. All calls are subject to recording and or monitoring except privileged attorney-client communications. To decline this call, please press 9. To accept this call, please press 1."
Joey presses 1.
There is a familiar trill of chimes and the crackle of her father's voice.
"Hello?"
"Dad. How are you?"
"Joey. Oh, it's good to hear your voice," his tenor is just as gravelly as she remembers. "I've been trying to get through all day. No one answered."
"Bessie sometimes unplugs the phone line so that no one can wake Alexander from his naps."
"Well, that makes sense then."
He asks about her day, and it's still so close to the surface that she can only respond with, "Good."
"I'm calling with news, Joey," he says with a lilt of excitement.
"Yeah?"
"I got my parole hearing date. It's Friday."
"This Friday?"
"Yeah."
"What time is it?"
"I'm not sure yet, exactly. Suppose I'll be taken in the morning and just wait until it's my turn?"
"I have school," Joey sighs.
"It's okay. You don't need to come, maybe Bessie will?"
"Maybe," Joey slips the phone in the crook of her neck, puts down her toast, and scoops formula into the sterilized bottle. Alexander kicks in her other arm. "Her and Bodie are out for dinner right now."
"Who is looking after you?"
"I am," she touches the kettle to check that it's cooled.
"Oh, I guess I forget how old you are now. In my mind, you're still twelve."
"Well, you've missed a lot."
"I have."
"Do you think you'll get parole?"
"I don't know. I'm too scared to get excited about it. In case it doesn't happen."
"That makes sense," Joey is only half listening as she pours water into the bottle up to the line.
"But I included your letter, so I think that will help."
Alexander whimpers, chubby hands lashing against Joey's chest, impatient for his dinner.
"Have they left you alone, with a baby?" Mike asks, exasperated.
"Yes. But it's fine. I watch Alexander all the time."
"You're a kid, Joey. You shouldn't be looking after one."
"There aren't a lot of babysitting options around here, what with the lack of available Grandparents. This is their first evening away. They deserve a break."
He skims past her criticism. "Well, that will all change when I get out."
"Oh?"
"It will, Joey."
She shakes the formula and lets the tip of the bottle settle between Alexander's excited lips. He sucks hungrily.
"Dad, can I ask a question?"
"Sure."
"Were you and John Witter friends once?"
The line goes quiet. Joey wonders if the call has been cut. It wouldn't be the first time a conversation from prison ended abruptly.
"Are you there?"
"I'm here," he says finally.
"Well?"
"Why are you asking that question?"
"Because I saw some photos, photos of you together, of both families together. You looked like friends, but John is now adamant that Pacey and I shouldn't so much as be friends, and it seems personal."
"You and Pacey hate each other," he deflects from the questioning.
"Again, Dad, you haven't been here in a long time. Maybe things have changed."
He detects something in her voice, something that she can't hide.
"Are you and Pacey-?" he can't finish the sentence.
"We're friends," she says, wondering about the parameters that define friends, and whether they involve touching naked chests in storage rooms.
"I'm going to go out on a limb here, Joey, and say that maybe, in this instance alone, I agree with John."
"Agree with what?"
"That may be getting close to Pacey isn't the best idea, especially not right now." The inference is loaded. Spoken like a suggestion, delivered like a demand.
"Why?"
He goes quiet again, and Joey can hear the other inmates talking at the phone bank. Voices over voices, all speaking at once, except her father.
"Dad, give me something. Please?"
"John Witter is not someone to be tested. If he says no, Joey, you heed that warning," he's terse.
"What's he going to do? It's not like he can pull Pacey out of school, or stop him from working, all because I happen to be there. We have been around each other, in each other's houses, in each other's lives since we started elementary school." Joey's voice raises despite her attempts to suppress it.
"This is my fault, Joey. I'll own that."
"So why are Pacey and I being punished for whatever happened between you?"
She hears the familiar click on the line that warns them their time is nearing its end. Two minutes left for a summation of their rivalry.
"I'm running out of time," he says, and Joey groans. "Lie low, Joey. Don't antagonize John. Trust me, his bad side is not somewhere you want to be. Put a pause on you and Pacey for a little while? Please. I can explain more when I get out. Maybe I should have explained more before, but, you were so young. There is a lot you don't know."
Alexander pushes away his bottle. Chubby legs kick in protest. Joey rocks him. "You can't say that and not give me any details."
"I can Joey. These calls are recorded. I shouldn't have even said what I did."
"I don't understand." Prickles of moisture rise in her eyes. Alexander's fussing has become wails. He refuses the rest of the bottle, echoing screams down the phone line and into the prison.
"I'm going to have to go, Dad."
"Joey," he stops her from hanging up. "I will explain it when… if I get out. But not here, not now."
"Promise?" She reaches for Alexander's pacifier, running it against his bottom lip and trying to entice him to take it. He wails louder.
"Promise."
She hangs up.
Her cold toast rests on a plate. A single bite missing.
Alexander sleeps. Only after she paces around the house with him, the even tempo of her steps on the creaky floors lulling him to rest.
Bessie and Bodie come back just before nine, flustered and missing their son.
Joey doesn't tell her about the call from Dad. "He was fine, a little cranky around seven, but he went down to sleep at around 7:30. Haven't heard a peep from him since."
Bessie can't contain her surprise. "Well, it looks like you might have to put him to bed every night. You have the magic touch."
"Nice try. I'll let you take the reins again from tomorrow."
"Thanks for doing it, Joey. Really. It means a lot."
Joey smiles. "You deserve a break sometimes, Bess. Everyone does."
"I'm sorry I forced Pacey out of our yard," she pulls off her sweater, carefully folding it. "It looked as though I interrupted a serious conversation."
Tucking her hair, Joey shakes her head. "It was nothing. Just chatting about our long day at work."
Joey sings out a goodnight before leaving Bessie and escaping to her room.
Closing the bedroom door, she strips down to her underwear and finds some pajamas. Instead of putting them on, she turns toward the mirror on her dresser, seeking her reflection.
This is what Pacey saw.
Unfiltered Joey. Vulnerable and raw.
Lilac bra, smooth skin. The two freckles on her ribcage, beneath her breasts. A scar on her stomach from the time she tripped and crushed a garden gnome at six years old.
She runs her fingers down her side, just like he did. Trickle traces of touch down a long torso.
Swallowing, the goosebumps come back. Storeroom flashbacks.
Pacey pulses through her veins, a want for him entirely new.
She glances at the calendar on the wall. Waterfalls of the World. Friday is only four days away. In four days her father could be back, sitting on the couch with Bessie, watching television.
The goosebumps disappear, and Joey turns away from her reflection.
The school bell rings and brakes screech to a halt beside Joey. Pacey grins at her, kicking his leg over and pushing the bike to keep up with her.
"Hey," he smiles, a hum of shyness on his lips.
Joey doesn't slow her walk or offer eye contact. "What's with the Huffy?"
"Mom's gone to my aunts. I am officially a Witter without a Wagoneer."
She considers the bike. "If you think I'm riding the handlebars home from work, you've got another thing coming."
"Yeah, we might have to suck up to Bessie for a ride."
Her gait increases. Pacey struggles to keep up with her. "Hey, slow down!"
"Sorry Pace, I'm late for History."
Stopping, Pacey watches her disappear around the side of the building.
She closes her eyes, ignoring the agony of walking away from him, the way it pummels a hollow in her chest.
Behind a large Oak, the police cruiser blends in with the other cars, dropping off kids at school. At first, Joey doesn't give it a second glance.
But while making her way down the pathway, she can see a figure watching her from the driver's seat. Reaching for the straps on her backpack, she pulls the bag tighter, focuses on her tennis shoes moving across the concrete, convincing herself that he is the product of an overactive imagination.
Joey steals another glance in the cruiser's direction.
It's gone.
Just a line of cars, a yellow school bus.
She runs up the stairs and through the doors.
Jen sits at another table for lunch, which means it's official. Head bowed, Dawson prods at his pizza.
"Eat something, Dawson," says Pacey. "Getting dumped is no excuse for food wastage," he reaches to steal a fry from his friend's plate.
"I didn't get dumped," Dawson corrects. "It was mutual."
Pacey glances at Joey, biting back a smile. Averting his gaze, she wrestles open her ketchup packet.
"Mutual or not, you're sad. I get it, I really do. What can we do to cheer you up?" Pacey looks around the room for ideas. "We could set you up with someone else?" His eyes land on a table of females. "Tina Merchant has always had eyes for you. I could have a word..."
Joey scoffs as ketchup spills over her fingers. "Pace, they broke up less than twenty-four hours ago. I'm going to assume a rebound isn't on the cards just yet."
"What he needs is a distraction from his misery."
"Misery must be lived to be moved on from, trust me. It's the sad truth. He needs to ride it out," she says.
"He could ride it out with an enthusiastic blonde," Pacey grins wide, trying to elicit a reaction.
"Gross." Joey shakes her head and licks the ketchup from her thumb.
Pacey shifts in his seat. He doesn't fire a comment back.
"Jen's blonde," Dawson laments and rests his head on the table.
"Do you want to go to the movies tonight? That always makes you feel better." Pacey seeks a distraction.
Dawson shakes his head.
"No movies? Wow, the depths of your misery are unchartered," says Joey.
"Why would I subject myself to the Rialto, sitting in the very same seats that Jen and I shared so many happy memories? Even thinking about the smell of popcorn makes me sick."
Pacey reaches into his backpack and pulls out a Science notebook, landing it in front of Dawson.
"I've got it. You need to harness that despair. Your quest to write the ultimate screenplay begins here, friend. Put pen to paper. Let that blockbuster angsty drama spring forth from your heartbreak. Boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, girl dumps boy, etcetera, etcetera."
Joey stares at Pacey, shaking her head. It's the first time she has made eye contact all day. He reaches across the table and pokes her arm gently with a plastic fork. Lightening quick reflexes, Joey grabs the fork and drops it onto the notebook.
"What is your problem?" Pacey coughs.
"You and your terrible advice."
"I'm just trying to help a friend in need."
"Not one of your suggestions resembles helping," she snaps.
Pacey blinks once, twice, to decode her sudden tone.
"You two reverting to adversaries sure isn't helping," Dawson interrupts.
Pacey shakes his head. "Okay. Seriously, Dawson, what do you need? We have the night off work tonight. And I'm gonna be honest, I don't think you should be alone right now."
"I got a bunch of rentals yesterday."
"Oh, we know," says Pacey.
"The new release of Seven Years in Tibet is in there. We could watch that? You know, movie nights, just the three of us, like old times," Dawson looks hopeful.
Joey opens her mouth, but Pacey interrupts. "Did you rent anything less depressing? You know, on account of cheering you up from your misery, not adding to it?"
"I also have Scream," Dawson suggests.
"That's marginally better, I guess." Pacey nods. "A psychotic menace terrorizing teens will snap you out of your melancholy."
"So you'll come?" Dawson asks.
"Of course," says Pacey.
Joey pushes away her fries. "I'm sorry to rain on the Slasher Film cheer-up brigade, but I already have a prior engagement."
Pacey's expression falters. "Hot date?"
"No. I already promised Jen this morning that I'd be part of her cheer-up squad. You know, female solidarity and all that."
"People who dump people don't need cheering up," spits Dawson.
"I thought you said it was mutual?" Pacey asks, finger on his chin.
"They do, Dawson," Joey stands, collecting her tray. "And Jen asked me first, I'm not going to bail on her."
"Good to see where in the pecking order a lifetime of friendship gets you, Jo," Dawson says bitterly.
Joey grips the tray. "Exactly Dawson. For the last few months, you have gone from being my best friend to barely acknowledging my presence in a room, all because you got yourself a girlfriend. And now that you don't have one, you decide I should come running? Is that what you want, me to bail on Jen, the exact way you bailed on me?"
Dawson searches for a response. When he can't find one, Joey continues. "I sympathize with your heartbreak. I really do. But by the sounds of it, Pacey's got it covered."
Slack-jawed, Dawson listens to her. Without giving him a response, Joey dumps her tray and leaves the cafeteria.
Pacey bites back a smile.
In the last two classes of the day, he chases Joey from room to room, but she slips away before he can steal the chair beside her. Normally, he would bestow protracted eye rolls in her direction, even a wink or a sympathetic smile over Mr. Carlson's meandering descriptions of romanticism in 19th-century literature.
He tries to let her shift in demeanor go unnoticed. Write it off as a miscommunication, not a paradigm shift. Not a direct result of what happened between them yesterday.
When the final bell rings, he's the first out of the classroom, and beside her locker, in wait.
She doesn't come.
He stays until the hallways are clear of bodies.
"What are you waiting for?" Dawson calls out, his voice echoing across the linoleum.
Pacey gives the hall a last glance, and lies. "I was supposed to get some notes from Joey."
"I saw her leave with Jen."
He pushes off the locker, throwing the backpack over his shoulder. "Oh well, I'm ready when you are."
They leave. Dawson doesn't notice the way Pacey's jaw tightens.
The sky is brewing something ominous when Jen and Joey arrive at Gram's house after school. Pacey's bike rests at the side of the Leery house. Joey's eyes settle on it for a moment before they scurry inside to warm their cold limbs and put the kettle on to boil. Gram's house smells like a thrift shop, like mothballs and expired perfume. They eat stale cookies and walk up the stairs to Jen's bedroom carrying hot cups of tea.
Lounging upon the duvet, Jen looks at her friend. "I appreciate you coming, Joey. I know the boys are hanging at Dawson's, and that he would have wanted you there."
"It's taken me a long time to realize that I don't need to come running every time Dawson calls."
"I'm afraid, now that we're no longer together, he may call on you a lot more."
"Oh, I'm sure of it. He'll probably come banging back to Screen Play sniffing around for his job back."
"Do not give it up for him," Jen warns.
"As much as it was a necessity at the time, the place is growing on me. I'm not ready to give it up just yet, even for Dawson."
Joey wanders the room. While Jen fishes the teabag from her cup she steals a glance out the window, towards Dawson's bedroom.
"What do you suppose they're talking about?"
"You," Joey smiles sweetly. "Dawson is devastated. You will be the topic of conversation, the inspiration for many a lovelorn screenplay until the next bombshell stumbles into his view."
Jen sighs. "He will recover. It will only take a day or two. Enough time for him to realize that we were lovers of the convenience kind, not the star-crossed kind."
"I think you're giving him too much credit. Dawson and self-awareness are not things that go hand in hand."
"The first breakup is hard. I remember mine. I don't think I got out of bed for a week. His name was Michael Barlson II - Never date a guy who has numbers after his name. It's a prelude to disaster. He was the first guy I thought I loved, but it turned out, I was one of three girls in his rotation. What about you? Any terrible breakups in your past?"
Resting back on the bed, Joey shakes her head. "You have to have boyfriends to have breakups."
"How are things going with Pacey?"
"What does Pacey have to do with my lack of a boyfriend?"
Jen laughs. "Everything."
Pulling a mauve cushion from Jen's bed, Joey covers her face.
"You can't hide from me!" Jen snatches it away.
"I can try."
"So, tell me everything."
"There is nothing to tell," Joey shrugs.
Her friend shakes her head. "Something happened, didn't it?"
"Yes, and no."
Jen props herself up with more cushions, crosses her legs, and clasps her hands together in front of Joey. "Okay. I'm ready. Tell me everything. There is no detail too small."
Before Joey begins her fastidious description of their storeroom encounter, she smiles at Jen. "I will tell you. But first, I want to say something."
"Sure," Jen sips her tea.
"My whole life, I've never had a female friend. Sure, I've got Bessie, but she's a big sister and so much of growing up she wanted very little to do with me. I've had Dawson and Pacey, but that's it. When you came to Capeside, I wasn't so sure of the idea of a girl coming into our little world. But I think that was only because I'd never really known one before, not one like you. So I think what I'm trying to say is, I'm glad to be here with you. I know Dawson wanted me there, but I wanted to be here, with you."
"You're not so bad yourself, Joey Potter. I haven't exactly been flush with female friends myself, so it's nice," Jen smiles. "But sucking up to me isn't going to get you out of telling me what happened."
Joey exhales slowly. "It's important to note that this tale I'm about to tell you doesn't have a happy ending."
"Quit stalling, Jo, and just tell me."
Taking a final glance out the window, Joey begins.
Pacey thumbs through the collection of Screen Play rentals that Dawson has lined up in front of his television. "Keith really should have a maximum rental clause for his discount days."
Dawson lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't answer.
"Do you want to watch something, or are you too busy lamenting the loss of your teen love?"
"Busy lamenting," he responds.
"I can see that," Pacey flops down beside him, staring up at the ceiling, squinting, looking for what Dawson can see.
"Okay. Let's lament. Brood. Marinate in the melancholy together."
"I'm not melancholy."
"Well, what are you?"
"Devastated. I think I am going through the stages of grief."
"What stage are you up to?"
"Stage one. Denial. I still think she's going to walk right through that door. It's a Monday after school. That's what she does every Monday. We would go downstairs, split a bag of Ruffles and spend the entire afternoon talking or kissing."
"Stage one, hey? There are still a lot of stages to go."
Dawson nods sagely.
"How about I go downstairs, and I grab us a bag of Ruffles? We can talk, but no kissing, alright?"
Dawson forces a smile. "Alright."
Pacey skips down the stairs, fumbling through the cupboards that he knows harbor the salty snacks. He grabs two cans of Coke, pausing to glimpse out the window towards Gram's house, then takes the stairs back up, two at a time. He throws the bag of chips onto Dawson's chest.
"Okay, talk. But just know that I will not trash-talk Jen, I happen to believe that she is an exceptional girl. Sure, I'm sad that you two broke up, but I hope that someday in the future, we can all stay friends."
"I'm not going to trash talk her," Dawson pulls open the packet. "I still love her."
Pacey sighs. "Did she say why she wanted to end it?"
"She said she didn't feel the spark anymore. That there wasn't that adrenaline rush you get, the butterflies in your stomach when you're with someone."
"Did you still feel them?"
"Yes," Dawson huffs as though the question itself is ridiculous.
"I don't understand girls," Pacey sighs.
Crunching a chip, Dawson says, "One minute you're about to have sex, and twenty-four hours later, you're single."
"You were about to have sex?" Pacey can't hide his surprise.
Dawson nods.
"Maybe it just took a big event, something like that almost happening, to make her realize it wasn't right." As the words come out of his mouth, Pacey closes his eyes. His hand comes up, rubbing at the spot on his chest where Joey touched him only yesterday.
Dawson slides off the bed and reaches for a video. "Can we just watch a video? I don't want to talk about it right now. I need the comfort that can only be delivered in a ninety-minute screenplay, where, in the end, the couple is happy, or the killer is found, or the good guy gets the girl. I need to escape reality."
"You know what?" Pacey reclines on the bed. "I think I need that too."
It's late when she finally leaves.
The screen door of Gram's house closes softly and Joey walks down to the dock. She sees his figure in the darkness, hesitating for a moment before continuing forward.
"This looks like an ambush."
"Yes, I believe it embodies all the elements of one," Pacey says, emerging from the shadows, wearing the scarf she gave him. The wind gusts around them, freezing blasts against pink cheeks. Joey's row boat knocks against the dock and the trees bend in the onslaught as though trying to touch the ground.
"Aren't you supposed to be consoling Dawson, not waiting outside for me?"
"I'm going to consider him suitably consoled. Two movies down, he's out like a light."
"So, what are you doing here?" there is a bitter tang in her voice that speaks from depths of before. Before Screen Play, before they shared memories like trading cards.
"Well, I'm waiting for my friend. You know, the one who has been avoiding me all day. The one who, only yesterday, told me she felt alive in my presence, and today, scurries into the shadows every time I attempt one-on-one conversation."
She stares at him, coat flapping at her thighs.
"Have you changed your mind, is that it? Did what happened in the storeroom scare you? It's okay, Jo. It scared me too," his tone has none of the before they shared. It's raw and soft, and scratches at the walls she hastily tried to rebuild against him.
Joey shakes her head, walking to the dock. Pacey follows behind her.
"Jo, it's too rough out there. Look at the waves. Call Bessie to pick you up," he has to yell over the wind.
"My seafaring ways have seen worse than this," she replies. "I'll be fine."
"In the dark? Really?"
She climbs down the ladder, struggling as the boat batters the pylons. Pacey leans down and offers an outstretched hand.
"Climb back out, Jo. It's too dangerous."
She ignores him, climbing into the boat. When she tries to reach out to release the rope, it lists and sways, preventing her from reaching it.
"Can you untie me?" She yells.
Pacey shakes his head. "You're seriously going to row away, in this weather, to avoid me? There is no way I'm going to untie this thing."
"I'm not avoiding you. It's late, it's a school night, I'm going home. This is my transport." She points to the rope, but he just shakes his head.
"You're an ass," she yells back.
"Yes, you've told me that before. And I'm going to add that, right now, you aren't the most amiable."
After another attempt to reach it, Joey loses her footing and falls onto the floor of the boat. The tempo of the waves pushes her back and forward, lurching with the swell.
"Are you okay?" Pacey makes his way down the ladder, holding the boat steady against the pier with his grip.
"I'm fine," Joey dusts herself off and reaches for the ladder, pulling herself up and onto the safety of the dock. Pacey follows.
"At least a hint of sanity has prevailed today," he declares.
Joey wraps her coat tighter and walks toward the house. A dog barks in the distance. Dawson's curtain moves, but when she stops and looks up, it's still. She cannot trust her own eyes. They are telling tales, keeping her on edge.
"What have I done, Jo? Whatever it is, I'm sorry. Please. Please. Just tell me."
She reaches the side of the Leery house, sheltering behind the weatherboards.
In the calm, her face goes slack. He stands close.
Joey yields. "I talked to my dad last night."
"Oh?"
"His parole hearing is Friday. If all goes well, he might be back this weekend."
"This weekend?"
She nods.
"How do you feel about that?"
"Terrified."
"Jo -" he reaches for her, but she pulls away.
"Bessie and I are in a good place, you know. Bodie's there and we've got a routine with Alexander. For the most part, it's calm. I go to school and I go to work and it's predictable, comforting even." She rests her head against the Leery house. "Is he going to come back and ruin it all? Is it going to be chaos, and police, and secrets?"
"I can't imagine him being back in your life. It seems like so much has happened."
"What if I'm not sure I want him back in my life? Sure, I wrote the letter to the parole board like Bessie asked, but I'm not sure the words were genuine." She takes a breath and looks into the darkness of the angry water. "He told me he agrees with your dad."
"What?" Pacey's brows knot.
"You heard me. And then he warned me about him. A proper warning, Pace. He says there are things we don't know, and that he will explain, but not until he gets out."
Pacey swipes a palm across his face. "So you just revert to the old cutting banter? We can't go from being enemies to friends, back to enemies again just because your Dad says so. It doesn't work like that."
"Well, maybe it should. Maybe we shouldn't be pushing the boundaries. Maybe you should listen to your parents. Maybe I should listen to what's left of mine?"
"So that's it, is it? One phone conversation with your father and it's over?"
She can't bring herself to tell him about the police cruiser watching her at school. Telling him would begin a chain reaction that she isn't prepared to incite.
"I don't know!" she huffs, exasperated. "I'm scared."
"Of?"
"Of your Dad. Of what he might do to you if we don't heed his warning. I'm scared of why it is that my Dad agrees. I'm scared of what all of this means! Everything, everyone, is telling us no."
"Who gives a shit what anyone else says?"
"I do!"
A swoop in his gut sits low. He reaches out for her hand again, but she pulls it away. "You're going to pretend like what happened in the storeroom didn't happen?"
"That's precisely what I'm doing."
"Why?"
"Because I can. What's the endgame here, Pacey? Your Dad is the town Sherrif. Mine is the town criminal. They're oil and water. And what's more, they both don't want us even as friends, let alone…"
"Let alone what, Joey?"
She shakes her head.
"Say it, Joey."
"You're a real ass, you know,"
"You've called me that twice in one night. It might be a record."
"Well, it's warranted."
"I know it's not ideal, whatever transpired between our parents. But Joey, I need you as my friend. We can forget what happened in the storeroom at work yesterday. It's gone, forgotten. But just be my friend, please. I have one safe person in my entire world right now, and it's you."
To keep her hands from reaching out to him, Joey dips her hands into coat pockets.
"I'll be your friend, Pace. But I think that right now, that's all we should be."
Combined relief and disappointment battle inside him, and he nods. In another time, he might hug her, but not now, not today.
"Next time you find out something like that. You come and tell me, okay? Running away isn't going to solve anything," he says.
"Sometimes it's easier. It's easier to avoid the problem than talk about it, or confront it. Teenagers are supposed to worry about school and about friends. They're not supposed to worry about how their dad's parole is going to mess with the delicate balance of their hometown and their friendships."
"Our quest to be normal teenagers is eternal, Potter. Maybe one day we'll get there."
The screen door of the Leery house flies open and slams again in the wind, making them both jump.
"How did you go with Dawson?" she asks. "Is he okay?"
"He's heartbroken, but he'll live."
Joey nods. "There's a bit of that going around at the moment."
He scratches at his jaw. "Do you want me to call Bessie? Get you a ride home?"
Joey shakes her head and points to the Huffy leaning against the wall.
"You're kidding me, right? Your protests regarding riding the handlebars were robust only a few hours ago."
"I thought you wanted to be friends again. Now you won't even take me home on your bike?" she smiles, and the night is instantly illuminated.
Pacey grabs the handlebars and climbs onto the seat. "Just for the record. The last time I did this, we were probably eight. There is no guarantee I won't crash."
Foot on the center bar, Joey pulls a leg across and gets her balance on the handlebars. She wobbles. Pacey reaches out to steady her, then pulls back.
"You got this?" he asks.
"No."
"Well, you better, because I can't see," he flicks on his front light. "So you're going to be my eyes."
"Eyes. Check." Her hair whips in the wind.
"Are you ready, Potter?" He steps a foot onto the pedal, endlessly happy to be back in her orbit.
"I'm ready."
Pushing off, the tires gain momentum and Joey laughs as Pacey struggles to steer. The pedal-powered light grows bright, then dull with the revolutions of his feet.
Pacey crouches in her slipstream. The tassels of her scarf blow in the wind and dance across his neck.
How could something so perfect, be forbidden?
"Left," she calls out. "Pothole!" and he steers around it.
There's no cassette player, no leather seats, or sluggish heating to warm their fingers.
"I'm sorry this can't be easy," he says as they make a slow turn at Richmond Street, cutting behind the playground.
"Me too," she says, and the words float past his ears before being swallowed by the wind.
When they pass Mr. Lynch's perfectly trimmed Boxwood hedge, Pacey asks. "Do you want me to share a memory?"
Joey shakes her head before tipping it back, looking up at the blackened sky. "Some nights, I don't want to hear a memory, Pace. Some nights I just want to make one."
Pacey pedals. Joey holds on tight.
Two friends, making their way home.