Pacey's apartment is ready, he takes his duffel bag and leaves, with promises of dinner at his place next week.

I'm relieved.

It's not that I didn't enjoy the company, but I needed some air. To be deprived of something for so long and then have it return is confronting. My mind needed some time to play catch up with reality. And I needed a break from those eyes, that face—his attention, his interest, waiting, sipping his beer, a blue ocean of depths watching me.

When something happens, and you never discuss it, you never acknowledge it, did it even happen? For some time, I'd convinced myself that night was a dream.

Too much alcohol, too many emotions, and an overactive imagination.

Surely it was a possibility?

Or, maybe it was a way of dealing with my guilt. A way of living my life with Dawson, marrying him, pretending that I was only his. Shaking it all off as an aberration.

But he was back.

It was real.

I had an affair with my best friend, and so did he. And, it would appear that he came clean and told Audrey about it. So why was it I'd never told Dawson?

I am awake early in a house that is strangely quiet. Dawson was gone before the sun rose and left me in bed, tossing and turning. Unable to find sleep again, I pull myself from the covers, pour a coffee and tackle the mountain of washing that accumulated while our guest was here. I'm folding and matching socks. R

Riveting stuff.

My phone buzzes.

7.03 from Pacey Witter Moving sucks, remind me never to do it again.

I feel my lips curl into a smile as I read his message.

7.05 from Joey Leery True Story. Aren't you rich and famous now? Can't you pay minions to do it?

7.06 from Pacey Witter I do not allow minions to touch my precious personal possessions. They do not treat them with the care required.

7.07 from Joey Leery And yet you're summoning me for assistance? Boo Hoo! Lift your boxes and get to work.

7.07 from Pacey Witter Your arms are big and strong… care to assist?

7.08 from Joey Leery Leave me alone. I'm busy and very important. Who else could possibly match THE future famous director Dawson Leery's socks?

7.09 from Pacey Witter It sounds like critical work. I always knew you were destined for greatness, Jo.

I roll my eyes and throw the phone down.

7.10 from Pacey Witter Pretty please?

7.11 from Pacey Witter Can you really say no to my sad face?

7.11 from Joey Leery Quit being a big man-baby. You have been out of my house for 18 hours. You CAN do things for yourself, you know? You managed it for years…

7.12 from Pacey Witter I will pay. Pizza, beer.

7.13 from Joey Leery Are we still in college?

7.13 from Joey Leery Can't you cook now? Surely you could lure me with truffled eggs or some fancy foam on top of caviar on top of grilled asparagus or something else ridiculously complex?

7.14 from Pacey Witter I would. But I haven't been grocery shopping yet.

7.14 from Joey Leery Fine, whatever.

7.15 from Joey Leery I'll come over after breakfast.

7.15 from Pacey Witter Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou!

7.16 from Joey Leery Yeah, yeah. Don't forget my payment.

7.17 from Pacey Witter As IF you would let me forget. See you soon. xo

I leave the pile of washing and grab my keys. After only eighteen hours apart, I'm driving to his apartment before I even realize what I'm doing.


Pacey sits on the floor, pulling clothes out of boxes and sniffing them before placing them on the ground.

"Why are you sniffing them?" I ask, horrified.

"I've had some of this stuff in storage for years. It smells like a thrift shop," he throws a blue hawaiian shirt to the side in disgust.

"A good rule. If you haven't worn the clothes in a few years, you don't need them. You need a dump pile." I grab a nearby trash bag, shake it open, and toss the shirt inside.

"Hey, this is expensive stuff!"

"Fine," I shrug, "It can be a thrift shop pile then if it already has the odor."

He throws another Hawaiian shirt at me. I unconsciously put it to my face and inhale. Bad idea. I can't smell thrift shop. The only scent I catch is unmistakably Pacey, and it elicits a flash of memory, one that I don't want to relive under his scrutiny. I scrunch my nose up and put it into the bag.

Great cover, Joey.

Pacey looks around, clearly overwhelmed at the boxes that surround him. "Maybe I should get rid of it all and just go buy everything new?"

"Like a cleansing thing? Or like a lazy thing?"

"Like a cleansing thing. New life, new stuff?" He shrugs and keeps going through the boxes.

"It's a big change. Maybe you should get some new things, make it your own?"

"So you're thinking new Hawaiian shirts?"

I punch him on the arm and he feigns injury.

Recovered, he replies, "You're right. When we split up, I moved into a furnished apartment, I was never really home to enjoy it, anyway. So it might be nice to have my own stuff, hang my own pictures on the wall?"

We spend the morning sorting, stacking and finding homes for everything that he'd decided to keep. I help Pacey make the bed, wipe down the kitchen cabinetry and put away toiletries. It all feels effortless like suddenly the years he was gone don't mean anything. He's my friend again. It's a nice feeling. I lean into it.

"Okay, where is my pizza?" I stand, hands-on-hips. "It's past one o'clock and well past my time for payment."

"Oh, god! I dared to forget to feed the beast. Quick," he motions, fearfully "pass me the phone!"

I throw him the phone and he orders, walks to the fridge and takes out some cold beers. He hands me one, and I walk over to a box labeled 'stuff' and open it. He collapses onto the couch and kicks his leg up onto the armrest.

I thumb through a box filled with photographs. Photos of Dawson, Pacey, Audrey, Jack, Jen, Me. They're mostly old printouts. I find one of all of us on Prom night and hold it up to Pacey.

"Blast from the past," I look at it closely, "I loved that dress."

We're standing outside the dock at Dawson's house, Gail took the picture. Dawson has his arms wrapped around my waist, a thin spaghetti strap is falling to the side, I'm looking away from the camera.

"You looked beautiful in that dress," he says, then adds, "Who's that stud in the background?"

In the photo, Pacey is standing to my left, arm casually draped around Jen. They both went stag that night.

"Look at your spiky hair, gel much? And your suit was too big."

"Don't dispute my rugged good looks, Jo. Even as a teen it was unmistakable."

"If you say so."

Pacey sips his beer quietly in thought.

I flick through more photos. Photos of Pacey as a baby. Pictures of Pacey at college. Photos of Dawson and Pacey. At the beach. Drinking. College years. Parties. Fun. The photos of Audrey and Pacey's wedding I don't look through, tucking that stack in the box.

I come to snapshots of Pacey on True Love, when he sailed away, and I stayed with Dawson. Photos I'd never seen before. An empty beach, the Florida keys, crystal blue water as far as the eye can see. The sand in the pictures is so white I can feel my toes running through it, fine grains sticking to my skin.

Missed opportunities are a funny thing, at the time it's a simple decision, but time compounds it into something much more.

"It was amazing. When I look back, I think it was crazy. A teenager alone on a boat for all that time," he appears over my shoulder and gazes at the photos as I flick through them.

"That's because it was crazy Pace."

I pick up a photo of Pacey's 21st Birthday. We're all in the kitchen of our shared house—pre-drinks before going to the nightclub. We're rosy-cheeked and smiling. Pacey is wearing a party hat and a 21 badge on his shirt. He's smiling broadly, blue eyes boring into me from the picture, just like that night.

I push it back into the pile.


Sauntering into the bedroom wearing only a black bra and my tiniest pair of underwear, I find Dawson sitting up in bed, reading. Again.

Spending the day with Pacey has had me on edge for the first time in months, and I'm looking for a release. For so long, I've felt a disconnect with my body, with myself. Suddenly I feel alive, and I want to share the feeling.

"Hey babe," I purr.

He looks up at me over his reading glasses with caution.

"Are you okay?" He seems genuinely concerned.

I prowl over to the bed and shimmy up to his side, tracing tiny kisses down the side of his neck and licking below his earlobe. He shuffles, turning me to look at him.

"Are you sure?"

I respond by kissing him feverishly on the lips, dragging my tongue across his teeth. I crawl into his lap, pressing myself against him with abandon.

Yes.

This is what I want, isn't it?

He runs his hands up my sides, lifts me and places me onto the bed, swiftly moving away from my advances. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly covered in chills.

"What the hell Dawson?" I bark.

"Jo, sorry. I just can't, not tonight. I'm sorry. It just feels…" He runs his hands through his hair, searching for words.

Blood courses through my veins so fast I can hear it in my ears. "We haven't had sex in months, Dawson. What is this? Is it a marriage? Are we just friends now? Do I repulse you?"

His hands rise and fall, trying to quiet my voice as it grows louder and louder. I silence myself and collapse onto the bed, and he wraps himself around me. It's not as comforting as I'd hoped. It's almost cold somehow.

"You know it's not you, Jo. You are beautiful, sexy, gorgeous! It's the stress of work, the movie release coming up, the IVF, the failed tests."

I nod. Because I know, I've felt all of it too. It's like an envelope of sadness. Sadness that nothing can fix, certainly not sex.

He runs his fingers through my hair, as a mother would to a child.

At some point, I finally fall asleep in my husband's arms.


"Grams?" I use my key to open the door and call out, looking around.

"Not home?" Pacey queries and I walk into the kitchen depositing the paper bag of groceries onto the counter.

Pacey and I have started falling into a routine the last few weeks. Now that he is settled into his place and working on the restaurant, he finishes early some days. Invites me for lunch somewhere fancy, to 'get to know the competition'. I relent because, let's be honest, sitting and working from home most of the time is boring, and I'm easily distracted. He shouts me lunch, and we sometimes walk along the harbor, sometimes explore old hangouts.

Today, I'm trying to find Grams because it's my week. We each have a rotation week in a month to visit Grams, take her supplies, check on her wellbeing. Jen calls it the 'unofficial grams check' because it seemingly operates without her knowledge.

"Back here," I can hear her call from outside.

We move through the house to the yard. She's getting up slowly from a garden bed and brushing herself to get the dirt off.

"I didn't know you were coming by today dear," she says before seeing Pacey behind me, "My goodness, as I live and breathe is that Pacey Witter?" she takes his hand in her own arthritic one and squeezes. Pacey reacts by giving her a hug.

"I heard on the Boston grapevine that you were back in town." Grams looks him up and down, taking in his increased frame size since childhood, "Still handsome as ever I see, and single now too I hear."

Pacey smiles. "It's good to see you, still taking care of this place all by yourself?"

"Age is but a number, Pacey, my legs and arms and mind still work perfectly fine. A little slower than they used to, but more than enough to get the job done."

Grams moves from the garden and motions for us to follow her to the house. The lines on her face are a little deeper, her hair still drawn into a low bun on her neck. She's still the same Grams, adopter of random Grandchildren and lover of all. Still undoubtedly the group's best listener, willing to bestow sage advice whenever requested, or not requested, for that matter.

She sees the groceries on the table and shakes her head gently.

"It must be Joey's week, then."

She motions to us to sit at the table, and questions Pacey on his last five years. Grams pour us some drinks and places cookies onto a plate, sitting back down. He tells her the story, which of course she knows already. But she wants to hear it from him, listening intently.

When he's done she shuffles to the fridge and pulls off a torn page from a magazine and places it in front of him. It's the write up about him Gourmet Traveller. She spins it around and reads from it slowly.

"Hand rolled casarecce with pork sausage enlivened by the subtle touches of white wine and radicchio, fresh shavings of pecorino and toasted, crumbled hazelnuts."

She pauses and looks at him.

"When, Pacey Witter, are you going to make me that dish?"

"I would like that too. Now I'm hungry," I add.

Pacey laughs.

"Whenever my friends come over, I show them this article and tell them about the time I taught you and Jen how to make my apple and rhubarb pie. And you couldn't even properly peel an apple."

"I will have to credit you with that one, Grams. I had no clue. That pie is amazing, I would put it on the menu but I've tried to replicate it, and it's just not the same as yours."

"Come around next week, it's Jen's week on geriatric-watch I believe, and I'll make it for you."

Pacey looks at me and smiles.

"How is Dawson's film going?"

"Good, the final editing is finished, it's ready for audiences now."

"Well, I'm looking forward to seeing it at the screening. Are you coming, Pacey?"

I look at Pacey and smile, eyebrows raised. "Yes Pacey, are you coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it," and picks up his first cookie. I've already eaten three.

As we chat, I remember how much of our life as teenagers was spent hanging with Grams. Sitting at her worn dining table, eating cookies with her was a staple of Capeside life. Even all these years later, it still feels good. Feels like home.

"I hear you're running a new venture in culinary expertise in our fair city of Boston?" she asks Pacey.

Pacey nods, "That's the plan."

"Well, put me down in the reservations book for opening night. I'll have the casarecce," Grams says.

She sits back against his chair. "So what's this?" she points his finger back and forth between us, "Are you both on week three of look-after-the-old-woman duty now?"

I cough, "No."

Pacey looks at me, eyebrows raised, then smiles.

"I figured you'd have some making up to do, considering what happened with the wedding," she drops casually, the kind tone of her voice softening the swift sharp blow.

I sink into my chair.

"I wish I could have been here," he looks genuinely regretful.

"Joey was so upset." Grams picks up a cookie and looks at me, "She's not an emotional sort, as you well know, but it was a rough day. We all missed you."

"It was fine, really," I turn to Pacey, trying to shake it off, he looks devastated.

"Okay," I stand up suddenly, changing the subject "We had better go, I have a deadline to make tomorrow."

We say goodbye and promise to meet up at Dawson's screening. Grams walks us out onto the porch, waving as we get into the car.

I buckle my seat and start the engine. I can feel Pacey looking into me.

"It's so good to see Grams looking so fit and healthy."

"Yeah," I nod but can't turn towards him.

"You know why I couldn't be at your wedding, right Jo?"

He reaches out as though he's going to touch me, but seems to re-think it and instead runs his hands back and forth on his thighs.

I stare at the steering wheel, looking at all its interesting crevices.

"I know," I mutter, putting the car into gear.

We sit in silence for a while before his hand encircles my arm and turns me towards him.

"No, Jo, I'm sorry. For all of it. For not being there when you needed your friend there. But I just couldn't be, not after what happened. I couldn't look at Dawson, Audrey, myself in the mirror. I couldn't look at you… marrying him." He sighs and presses his head against the headrest. "I used Audrey's family drama as an excuse, and I ran away from everything because it was the easiest thing to do."

I turn, and I can see Grams, still standing on the porch, watching us, concern in her brow. Pacey looks up and sees her too and with this, he retracts from his gentle hold on my arm. I put up my hand in a casual wave and pull out onto the street.

The truth was, Pacey leaving made everything easier. It was easier to move on. To try to forget.

Easier for me to lie.

To Dawson.

To myself.

So I wasn't mad at him. I was sad.

Sad that we lost five years of friendship for one stupid night. I wasn't sure I was ready to admit to myself that I was also sad that he left that morning. That it was a one night mistake to him. Something he wasn't willing to work through or fight for.

He just left.


I've positioned myself in my favorite morning spot. A pile of fresh newspapers uncracked beside me. A big pot of tea on the coffee table, a bagel and glasses perched on my nose. The prospect of a quiet Sunday reading before me.

The weather is still unseasonably hot, so all the windows are open to get a breeze filtering through.

Grunts and sighs are coming from down the hall as Dawson burrows through the draws. He is searching for his notebook.

It's Sunday which is movie morning. Dawson takes the time each week to go see a new movie, with his trusty notepad and any poor sucker who is unlucky enough to get dragged along.

Pacey is this morning's victim.

Dawson and I had moved past our bedroom episode the other night by doing what all couples do with a gaping problem in a relationship—ignore it.

There is a knock at the door. I reluctantly drag myself off the couch and open it to Pacey, in sunglasses, blue shorts and a white t-shirt leaning against the door jamb.

"Dawson!" I yell, "Your date's here!"

Against my better judgment, I let my eyes glide over Pacey's form. He seems to do the same to me.

"Are you not joining us today?" he asks.

I shake my head, "I have had my fair share of film review dates thankyouverymuch."

"Can't even lure you with popcorn and a coke?" he asks, "My treat."

"I've eaten enough fake butter movie popcorn for two lifetimes, Witter, you'll need something better than that to lure me out."

He looks at my little reading nook set up on the couch.

"Quiet morning at home?"

"That's the plan."

"Where's D?"

"He can't find his notebook, and he's having a little breakdown," I explain.

"Oh god. A notebook?"

I smile. "Yeah, I hope you're prepared."

"Is he going to take notes during the movie? He's really amped things up."

"Yes, he is. It's terribly embarrassing. I'm just so glad it's you, and not me."

"You sure you don't want to come?" Pacey pleads.

"I have a date with my newspapers. But thanks for the invite."

He glares at me, disappointed.

"When you're having the obligatory de-brief on the film afterward, be sure to inject the words Noir and The Male Gaze somewhere in there, and you'll be fine," I say, patting him on the arm.

Dawson comes out of the room, notebook in hand and a smile on his face.

"Found it," he beams, holding it up.

"Goodie!" says Pacey.

"Now don't eat too much popcorn boys."

"Yes, Mrs. Leery and I'll have him home by 6 pm," Pacey salutes me.

Dawson stops and gives a quick peck on my cheek before he starts out the door.

"See you Wednesday," I say to Pacey, who is still leaning on the door frame.

"I'll be there. I even got a new suit for the occasion."

"Fancy," I smile. Pacey finally straightens and moves to leave.

"Nice outfit, by the way," Pacey quips as he closes the door.

I look down and realize I'm wearing only an oversize t-shirt and underwear.