I made coffee, pushed some bread into the toaster. I waited, staring into it, watching it brown. Then it popped, propelling the toast, it's little jump shocking me.
Spreading on peanut butter, thick, I was trying, really trying, to just think of peanut butter. Not of men who were now sleeping in my apartment, staying with me, for a week.
The house was quiet, and I didn't know if Pacey was awake yet. 7.27 am. The sun was already beaming through the windows and promising to heat up the already stifling rooms, so I put the toast on a plate and sat out on the balcony trying to get some breeze.
The front door closes and Pacey strolls inside, earphones in and wearing workout clothes. Sweaty.
I suddenly feel sweaty too.
He glances around and spots me on the balcony.
"Hey, I forgot how great it is to run around here, I checked out all the old haunts," he pulls out his headphones and rests them around his neck.
"It's already so hot. I don't know how you can do it!" I say, fanning myself.
He smiles. His hands grab the bottom of his singlet and pulls it up to wipe the sweat off his face. It is a move that takes all of about two seconds, but I'm sure time stood still. He is so muscular now, so lean. His shorts are slung low on his hips, and I can see the dusting of hair on his chest leading all the way down. I fan myself harder and look out to the city.
"There's coffee in the pot if you want some," pointing inside.
Please go inside.
Months of no sex has turned me into a total lush.
"Sure, I'll grab some in a minute," he pulls up a chair and sits next to me, casually. "Dawson sure left early this morning. I thought I heard the door close at 5.30."
I nod, "Yep, he's always up early. His office is a few blocks away. Movies to make, screenplays to write. You know the deal."
"Being the next Spielberg takes early starts?" he asks, eyebrows raised.
"That it does," I take a sip of coffee and swallow my smile.
"And what do you do with yourself now, Miss Potter?"
"Mrs. Leery," I correct him, then correct myself, "God that sounds horrible, it makes me think of Gail."
Pacey laughs, "You're nothing like Gail."
"I'm still mainly doing freelance writing, I have a weekly column in the Herald, I do occasional edits for the New York Post. I'm writing a novel now, or not writing a novel now, depending on the day, really. I have a publisher, but things just aren't coming together like I'd hoped."
"Lacking inspiration?" he asks.
"Something like that."
"What's your novel about?"
I shrug, like I don't really know and it's true, because some days I don't. "It's a tale of small town lives, I think it's a love story at its core, but as it develops, I'm not so sure if it's an optimistic tale, or essentially a tragedy at the core," I take a sip of my coffee, "I'm kind of letting the writing lead me, and we'll see where it ends up on the last page."
"Like even you, the author, will be surprised by the ending?"
"Maybe," I change the subject, I always change the subject when talking about the novel, "What about you, Pace, what about your new restaurant?"
"Just looking for a new venture, a bit of a new start." His response is clipped, and I wonder if he is filtering it, that there is something else there.
"Boston felt like a logical next step?" I ask, then wait patiently for his response.
He nods and glances at his watch, "Shit, I've gotta go. I'm going to jump in the shower." Bouncing from his chair and leaving me on the balcony with a bright, Witter smile.
I pick up my plate and coffee cup and head back to the kitchen.
"What do you think has inspired this sudden return to Boston?" Jen queries, sticking a fork into her pasta and twirling it around, shoveling it into her mouth.
"He says it's for work, but I don't know, it just seems sudden. Five years of nothing. Then he's back. Staying in MY APARTMENT!" I shake my head, "To be honest, it all feels a quite strange. Are we all supposed just to pretend he didn't drop off the face of the planet all this time?"
"It certainly felt like he removed himself on purpose."
"Hmmm," I nod between mouthfuls of garlic bread.
"Can I speculate?" Jen asks.
"Nope." I shake my head.
"Are you sure?" she looks at me, knowingly.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure!" I wave my hand at her, like it might stop her from prying.
Impossible.
"He looks good," she waggles her eyebrows, "If I wasn't already married, I'd be investigating my options."
I laugh, "You are trouble Jen Lindley."
She nods in confirmation and certainly doesn't dispute this fact.
"Those biceps... " she muses staring into the air, "that unshaved beard…"
Nope, I'm not talking about this, "How are the kids?" I ask, distracting her, or at least attempting too. I certainly didn't require Jennifer Lindley to point out all the redeeming attributes of a thirty-something Pacey Witter for me - I have eyes.
"I don't want to talk about the kids while I'm enjoying a nice adult lunch with you." More pasta went in, "They're fine, by the way, nothing new to report. The usual. Fighting, yelling, mess, meh."
I know Jen doesn't enjoy talking much about the kids with me.
Of course, Jen can tell what I was thinking, "Are you okay? Really? Are you going to try another round of IVF?"
I shook my head. "No, the doctor thought that three tries were as good as an option as any; we were pushing it by going for four rounds. I don't think it's going to happen this way for us. Maybe we need to start looking for a surrogate? I don't know," I sighed. "We're about $50,000 down at the moment. We're going to have to save up a bit more before we can even think about going down that route. Dawson's filtered every cent into the movie, so maybe we can try again if it's a success?"
"Wow," blanched Jen. I nod.
"I think I need a rest from it all. The hormones, the waiting. It's just all stress. I need to try and relax, think about something else for a change."
Jen smirks.
"Maybe, Jo, the universe knew exactly what it was that you needed and sent it right to your doorstep?"
"Don't you start Lindley!" I warn.
She cackles. "Oh, don't tell me you hadn't thought of it already."
Maybe I had. Maybe I hadn't?
I open the door, put my handbag down on the counter and am greeted up close by Pacey.
He should come with a warning, or maybe a cat-bell around his neck.
"Potter, where have you been?"
Still shocked by his up-close greeting and general presence in my doorway I reply, "Lunch with Jen, did I need permission?"
"No, no, no. Sorry," he settles himself "I'm just heading out to check out this potential restaurant space downtown. Care to come along for a ride, I could do with a second set of eyes?"
He puts on his super-please face. Doe-eyes pleading.
How do I say no to that?
I had promised myself to write at least two chapters today. I glance at my laptop, then back to him.
"Come on Potter, live a little, ignore your homework for just a few hours," he picks up my handbag and slings it onto my shoulder. If I'm being honest with myself, I would never pick the laptop over Pacey.
"It's always you luring me to the dark side. It's amazing I ever got any work done at college."
"I can't help it. You're so fun to distract and annoy."
It seems I'm going with Pacey without confirming it verbally because I'm locking the door and following him out to the car like a trail of breadcrumbs.
We walk through the car lot. I look around for the Witter Wagoneer. Force of habit. He takes me over to a white Ford Explorer parked next to my car.
"What are you smirking about?" He queries.
"I've just got visions of Patrol Cars, the Witter Wagoneer, the college red mustang, this seems so… vanilla."
He pats the roof. "This, my dear, is a rental. I still have to buy a car. Audrey got mine in the divorce, haven't really needed one in New York."
We get inside. "But thank you for reminding me," his hands circled the steering wheel, "I might have to go back to my roots and get a nice police cruiser," I roll my eyes dramatically.
"I don't believe successful chefs with restaurants featured in Gourmet Traveller should be driving around town in old Police Cruisers."
Pacey pauses, before putting the key in the ignition and turns to me, "You stalking me, Potter?"
I snort, "No, not stalking!" I backtrack. It's not a good idea to tell him I've followed his rapid rise to culinary fame, keeping magazines and trolling internet articles about him.
"Jen saw it in a magazine, she showed me."
"Oh, is that so?" he grins and starts the engine.
"Hey, I thought it was great, I mean you're the closest thing I know to a celebrity right now. Sometimes I even use your name to book into fancy restaurants here in Boston. I call up and I ask for a table for two, the name's Joey Leery, but I used to be friends with THE Pacey Witter." I tease him, "Once they pick themselves off the floor from my shameless name dropping–I get the reservation every time."
He laughs, his breathy and cheerful laugh and his shoulders shudder. I can't help but laugh too.
"It's the Michelin star, isn't it?" he asks, "I think that's what really puts it over the line."
"That's my favorite thing about you now."
"I'm glad it makes you happy Jo."
"Oh, endlessly. Only one thing that could make my happier…"
"Let me guess…" he chuckles, "two Michelin stars?"
"You got it!"
We drive downtown. The traffic isn't terrible, and we make good time. Pacey chats, effortlessly. Not stopping. He talks like no time was ever lost, as if he'd just been on holiday and returned. I realize that in reality, he knows very little about my life now. He doesn't know anything about what I'd been through in the last five years. Dare I say it, but I wasn't the same person then. To be honest, I'm not sure I know who I am now. Pacey doesn't seem to mind, though. He seems to think I was still the same old Joey Potter and treats me as such. So maybe, just today, I would enjoy the simple old-school banter and relax.
He pulls into a side street, parks the car and we walk up the street, meeting the estate agent who leans against the building, waiting with phone in hand.
"Pacey Witter?" the agent asks, holding out his hand.
"Daniel, nice to meet you," Pacey's voice switches instantaneously, he is now in business-mode. "This is Jo," he gestures to me, and Daniel shakes my hand.
"Come on through guys. I'll show you around." We follow him through the main doors into the main restaurant space as he sprouts feet squared, kitchen facilities and options for outdoor dining. I look around. It seems nice and spacious with a pleasant ambience. Large stained glass windows filter in light from the morning sun. He takes us through the kitchen, Pacey is stalking around the space, inspecting, asking crucial questions. I blink twice when I see him take out a small notepad and jot down room measurements and notes.
There was no doubt that a lot about Pacey had changed since I had known him last. In college, he floated through life, one fun escapade to the next. Most days he barely showed up to class, and when he did, he would sometimes follow me into my classes, just for something to do. He didn't seem to care in the least that his classes and my classes weren't the same. "Details" he would say, shrugging, doodling across my careful notes and flicking me with a pen to distract from the lecture.
But somewhere between college and now he found a passion with food. He started at the bottom, washing dishes and sweeping floors, to culinary school. Then Sous Chef, then Head Chef. His rise through the ranks was swift, but deserved. Pacey showed a focus that he lacked through his entire education, it appeared that he just needed to feel that connection.
My brain was taking some time to equate Pacey then and Pacey now.
I had to admit. Pacey now was growing on me.
I just wished I got to see the interim.
"I'll give you some time to chat to the wife, feel free to take your time and I'll meet you back in the lot," Daniel says and walks out the door.
Pacey looks at me, eyebrows raised and wiggling. "Wife, eh?"
I glare back at him, "You wish."
The corner of his mouth cracks into a smirk.
"What do you think?" he paces out the room dimensions with long strides and writes more figures on his notepad.
"Looks good to me. Clean, no evidence of rodents, nice and spacious, easy access. Nice big pass, excellent bar, I think even with tables there would be lots of room for wait staff to get around."
"Your waitress and bar wench days coming back to you?" he asks.
I shudder, "Unfortunately yes. Although I never worked anywhere this lovely, it's stunning Pace."
"So will you be my hostess?" he asks hopefully.
"Dream on."
Nodding, he and scopes out the rooms one more time, taking photos and returns to find me perched on a barstool. "Well, wife, shall we go?"
"What are they asking for rent?"
"I think $4500 a month."
I follow him out to the street where Daniel is waiting, playing with his phone again.
"Thoughts?"
Pacey steps forward, "I think it would suit quite well. Can we get the paperwork for me to run past my accountant?"
"How long has it been vacant for?" I interrupt.
Daniel flinches a little. "I'm not sure," he looks through his paperwork quickly. Flicking pages, "Since… about two months."
"Two months?" I repeat, feigning shock, "that's a long time unoccupied for a property on Union Street. Personally, I think $4500 a month is asking too much."
Daniel looks to Pacey, then gives me a brief sideways glance. A deep grin is forming on Pacey's face.
"Also, I saw some wiring in the kitchen that looked questionable at best, that would need to be replaced. It's a fire hazard, and there's no way we'd be able to get an insurance inspector past that."
Pacey leans back against the car. He's giving me full reign to take the lead on this one.
Daniel's demeanor hardens. He was expecting an easy day. "I'll have to speak with the owners, I'm not sure about the price. They said it's firm."
"Well, call them now," I turn to Pacey, "Pacey, when can we take over the lease?"
He thinks for a moment. "I can be ready immediately."
"Great, we can occupy as soon as we can get the paperwork settled. I think $4000 a month is a fair price, and on the condition of an electrician fixing the wiring and pest inspection," The estate agent looks to me, then to Pacey. Back to me. Finally, he dials his phone and walks to the corner of the lot to make the call.
"We?" Pacey asks, amused.
I shrug, "Hey, you wanted me to be your wife."
His face beams. "See, this is why I brought you along. You're made for this."
"I've worked in enough restaurants and bars to know a thing or two," I smile at him, "It's a beautiful space, it's going to look incredible. I just don't want you to pay more for it than you have to."
"Author and shrewd businesswoman, you're making me swoon wifey."
"Are you going to actually work there? Or do you just start these fancy restaurants up and watch from the sidelines now famous chef boy?"
He points to himself, two thumbs to his chest, "Head chef, right here."
I raise my eyebrows, "Good."
Pacey and I wait for Daniel's return. He leans against the car. His body so long. We don't speak, he just looks at me. It's awkward and a little confronting, but I like it.
Daniel returns after some negotiating. "Okay, if you can occupy within the week, two months' rent in advance they will accept your offer."
They shake on it, and he leaves with promises to email over the paperwork this afternoon.
"Can I buy you a drink to say thanks, you just saved me thousands of dollars a year?" he asks.
"I guess you could twist my arm," because how does one say no to a drink with Pacey Witter?
I'm not ready to go home, not yet.
We drive through downtown, pulling up next to a row of restaurants and coffee shops East of Boston University. I know exactly where Pacey was taking me. We walk in silence to one of our old hangouts Hell's Kitchen. As a group, we would regularly frequent it, always packed with college students, half-price Fridays, and a slack approach to checking ID. I tended bar there for the better part of college, and Pacey also spent the better part of that time sitting at the bar, annoying me there too. It was a glorified dive, dark and dingy with peeling, sticky countertops. As we round the corner, we both look around, a little lost.
"Um, are we on the right street?" Pacey peers up and down the road. The street is almost unrecognizable from our college days.
"Wow, look at it! Talk about gentrification!" the bar had been opened up, concertina doors opened out to sidewalk tables, soft music playing and a wall of indoor plants spilling out onto the road. It's full of mustached, bearded twentysomethings in button-down pressed shirts drinking espresso martinis.
"Imagine the tips if you worked in a fancy place like this in your college days," Pacey muses, hesitating slightly.
"Well, they still sell alcohol so you can still buy me a drink," glancing at the multiple paged menu comprising $25 cocktails and tapas.
Pacey touches the small of my back as we enter. I feel his fingertips touch me through the silk of my shirt. Large hands, long fingers. They almost burn the skin beneath the fabric. He is all physicality; I remember it now. He needs touch, it's nothing more, nothing less. A way he communicates, a warmth about him that's casual and attentive. Sometimes Dawson can go days without touching me. And when he does, the touches feel cold, hollow.
The waiter arrives and we order drinks and a share plate of cheese. Pacey orders a whiskey neat, me a dry Martini. The alcohol goes down easily, along with the conversation, so we order another.
Pacey's eyes dance above his menu at me, "You know you still look exactly the same? It's like you don't age," he leans closer, inspecting my face, fascinated.
I grimace and shrink back away from him. "Oh, boy, you're dreaming. Let's not talk about how many grey hairs I keep having to pull out." He shakes his head, unbelieving.
"Trust me, Witter. It's not pretty. My boobs have dropped at least an inch."
Why? Why did I say that?
He laughs loudly, shaking his entire body.
"No way, I don't believe it. Of course, you could always show me. You know, just to make sure," he smirks and looks down, wiggling his eyebrows. There's old Pacey, back with a vengeance.
I roll my eyes and look around the room, choosing to ignore that one.
"Okay, tell me what it's like to be a famous director's wife?" he waggles his eyebrows.
"Not sure about the famous part. Well, not yet anyway. It's pretty tumultuous. Dawson finds a producer, gets the go ahead, gets the funding, the likelihood the movie will get picked up and actually play in cinemas is about 3%, otherwise it's straight to DVD. So to make sure it gets seen, it's schmoozing and events to try to get some hype built up, maybe get to a film festival. Black tie events, celebrities, Los Angeles, back and forth again – rinse, repeat. It's not really my scene."
"So it's safe to say Josephine Potter will not be the next red carpet star on the arm of her famous husband?" Pacey says, then pauses, correcting himself, "Leery."
"Dawson mostly goes to the functions solo, I tried for a little while, It's better if I just stay home. You know how he gets when he focuses on something. I may as well not even be there. I only go to the big stuff now."
"Let's face it. We always knew Dawson was destined for a life in the dramatic arts. He's got talent, hopefully one day people can see his vision. Dawson's one of the good ones," Pacey smiles. "You know that, he's just a nice guy, he deserves to have a win with his career. And it sounds like you're happy, it sounds like you grew up together and made it work." He pauses, sipping his drink "He's a good husband," he adds. It floats in the air for a minute. Is it a statement, or a question? There is a slight inflection in his tone that makes me question it.
I don't respond and mirror him, taking another drink.
"Were you a good husband?" I look him in the eye, holding his gaze. By the second cocktail, I felt brave.
In my head my line of questioning was treading carefully, but the rush of the alcohol flooding my veins was blurring my filters. The filters that had wrapped around me for years now. I wanted answers, but I was too scared to ask the questions. The hard ones.
This was the next best thing - Deciphering the aftermath, the marriage I didn't understand, the friendship I lost. Why? Why? Why?
How did we end up here?
He thinks for a moment.
"Not at the time, no," his fingers swirl around the rim of the glass. Concentrating. "I think I was in the wrong place to get married. In my mind, I was too young. We hadn't even lived together. That was bad. We had to get used to being married, but also exclusively living together for the first time. And I'm sure you remember, we were off more than we were on most of the time." He shakes his head, remembering. "I threw myself into opening the New York restaurant like it was an obsession. I spent every waking minute there, scrutinizing every plate that met the pass. Everything had to be perfect, no-one else could do it. When the restaurant opened, it just boomed. The reviews were great and suddenly we were booked out for months. I couldn't believe it."
"I could believe it," I say, quietly.
He smiles.
"I think I was trying to keep myself there, because I really wasn't ready to be married. You know Audrey, she's a big personality and she needs a sizeable amount of attention to go with it. I wasn't there for her, emotionally. And that was all she ever really wanted."
The waiter brings over the cheeseboard, and we both stare at it. He pauses, waiting for him to leave.
"Did you love her?"
He snaps his head up, then cocks it to the side. Surely he's wondering about the sanity of my line of questioning. But I feel his honesty, and I want to keep open this line so I can try to get some answers.
He nods. "Yeah, I think so, at least for most of it. She really loved me, which made it harder in a way. No matter how much I wasn't there, how much of an asshole I was, she was still there, she still supported me. Well, for a while at least."
"You know what always got me?" I question, "Why did you get married so quickly? It seemed so left field. At the time you guys just seemed… I don't know – casual. Then suddenly you're married. We were all so shocked."
Pacey chuckles, "You want the truth?"
I nod and wait.
Pacey and Audrey surprised us, we were all home for Christmas in Capeside. A Christmas that Pacey and I woke early on Christmas morning, sipping our coffees before everyone woke and he asked me beside the spruce pine if I was happy.
Really happy.
"Is this the life you want Jo?" The sparkle of the Leery tree behind him, casting a red glow on his brown hair, his eyes serious and imploring.
I stared at him, pondering his question. Isn't this the life I've been told to want since my infancy? Dawson and Joey. Joey and Dawson. Soulmates?
His question remained unanswered as Dawson plodded down the stairs, deposited himself on the couch and kissed me on the nose, wishing me a Merry Christmas morning.
By the time I'd wished Dawson a merry Christmas in return, I looked back to the couch and Pacey was gone.
He proposed to Audrey for Christmas that day, and they surprised us with a New Year's Eve wedding, seven days later. I sat at that small wedding by the creek. I watched the way Pacey looked at Audrey and exchanged his vows, and my breath hitched and a pain emanated from my chest, like a dagger. A dagger named Pacey that laid dormant inside me and sliced a piece of my lung.
When Dawson asked me to marry him months later the answer was obvious, so obvious it seemed rehearsed, ridiculous even. My head said no, but my mouth said "Yes."
Pacey answers my question, "On Christmas Eve I was hanging with Dawson, talking about presents, and he showed me the engagement ring he'd bought you. I don't know. I kind of panicked. I felt like I'd missed the memo we were at the marriage age. So I proposed... possibly a little hastily," His eyes roll at his own impulsive behavior.
I think for a moment, "Wait, Dawson didn't propose to me for like six months after your wedding are you saying he had a ring at Christmas?"
Pacey shrugs. "What do I know? I took too little time to decide to get married, and Dawson took too long. Can't win. He was pretty pissed at me that Christmas. He told me I stole his thunder,"
"Yeah, that sounds like him. He probably didn't propose just to make a point."
We're silent for a moment. Taking sips from fancy glasses. I notice Pacey's hands, and they look so much older. More weathered.
It's nice to talk, back and forth.
I speak, Pacey speaks, like a tennis match back and forth. I realize this isn't a common undertaking in our household. Dawson favors speaking at me, launching into monologues about his vision that can last through my entire glass of wine, or two. Pacey is attentive, always has been. He wants to hear what I want to say more than what he wants to tell me.
The feeling warms me from the inside, or maybe it's the alcohol?
"Did you file for divorce, or did she?"
"Jesus, Jo," he runs his hands through his hair, "Why do I get the feeling I'm being interrogated?"
I shrug. Because you are.
"She did, officially," he takes a drink.
"Was there a tipping point, or did you just know it was over?"
He picks up the knife and slices into the Brie, placing it on a cracker with a grape and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, thoughtfully. Then rubs his fingers together to rid them of crumbs.
"In the end, she couldn't forgive me."
"For what?"
"Cheating on her."
Dawson made an effort to come home early and prepare dinner. No ramen over the sink tonight for me.
Roasted Salmon with baby potatoes and fennel was on the menu. It was quite the fanfare. I secretly considered if he was trying to impress the chef house-guest.
I set the table inside as it was a little milder tonight.
"How did you go today?" Dawson queries, placing the full plates in front of us. I had to admit; it looks and smells pretty amazing. Pacey's face agreed.
"Excellent. All signed off on the restaurant space. Jo here pulled through and harassed the poor man into giving me a good deal."
Dawson's eyebrows raised and looks at me "I've still got it," I reassure him with a smile.
"I never doubted you, love," he puts his hand on mine and pats it. I see Pacey look away, focusing on his salmon.
Dawson is treading carefully with me. Every time we had another negative pregnancy test, he became softer, gentler, treating me a little like a glass that may slip out of his fingers and smash at any moment. To be honest, I felt that way sometimes myself. But when we have been through this process multiple times, all I can feel is resentment. It grates on me and even thinking about it makes the tendons in my neck tense.
We fill the evening with much more light, reminiscent conversation. We'd had enough serious talk over lunch. Beer and wine flow freely. Dawson recounts the plot of his latest film in detail to Pacey and that's my cue to get up and clear the table.
"Don't Jo," Pacey's hand is on mine, "You guys have given me a place to crash, the least I can do is the dishes," he takes them from my hands, so I sit back down and pour another wine. Dawson collects the glasses while they move into the kitchen.
I can hear them, "So are you seeing anyone, since Parker?" Asks Dawson. "No," Pacey pauses. "I was with someone for a little while, Samantha, but it just wasn't going anywhere. I'm getting to the point I need someone who I want to be in it for the long haul."
"Look at you, Pacey Witter, wanting to settle down? Man, if I told the Pacey I knew in high school that you were the first of us to get married and the one who wants to settle down for the 'long haul' you would have punched me." Dawson grins with disbelief.
Pacey sighs, "I would have punched myself," they laugh as dishes clanging into the dishwasher.
"What's Audrey doing now?"
"She's got a new guy, Matt. He seems nice. They've got a one-year-old girl, Callie."
"That's good. I always had time for Audrey; she was a good egg." Dawson comes back in and collects the napkins. Pacey nods.
"What about you guys?" Pacey follows Dawson in, "Are kids on the table for the future?"
It's an innocent question. When people ask they're just being nice, making conversation.
Dawson gives me a trepidatious side-eye.
I nod, permitting him to share.
"We've been trying, for a few years now," he pauses and puts his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, "we might start looking at surrogate options soon."
I groan and escape from under his arm, "let's not get ahead of ourselves." I open another bottle of beer. Pacey, brows raised, seems to feel the animosity on the subject.
He eyes me with sympathy, "Sorry guys, I didn't mean to…"
"No, no. It's fine, really. It's just been a long road, and it's mostly filled with shitty times and shitty medical tests and money down the drain. So we're just tired of it, tired of thinking about it, tired of talking about it." I take a big gulp of my beer and turn my face away. I don't want to look at either of them.
Dawson sits down and takes a deep breath. "Okay, enough depressing talk." He rubs his hands together, changing the subject. "I want to know something about you, Pacey."
Concern shadows Pacey's face, masked with a raised brow. "Okay."
"I want to know why you felt like not only ditching the wedding of your two best friends, but then falling off the face of the planet for five years. Did we do something?"
Pacey pauses, his eyes meeting mine ever so briefly.
Yes, Pacey, why did you bail? I want to hear the answer, but I also don't.
He looks to the floor.
I decide to step in, to save him, to save myself, "Leave it alone, Dawson, I'm sure he had his reasons."
