It's nearing midnight. The apartment sits quiet as I tap away in the dark, the light from the laptop illuminating my face. The trip to Capeside had done what I'd hoped, it had cleared my mind. In the month since I'd returned, the words I'd been searching for flowed with the force of a broken dam.

I pause for a minute and glance at my phone, typing another text to Pacey. He would be closing up the restaurant now, still awake.

From Joey Leery: You free for a coffee tomorrow?

I keep sending these messages to him and they remain unanswered. He's busy, I remind myself.

We were all invited to Pacey's restaurant opening, which had been a grand affair. But despite the dress I'd bought for the occasion, the makeup carefully applied, and the soft smile I'd delivered across the room. He made his way around each table and hadn't breathed a word to me.

When he finally made his way to our table, he stood beside Jack in his chef's whites. He told us about the courses in-depth and then departed, without so much as a glance in my direction. I never had a chance to tell him how beautiful the space was, how he'd honored the history of the building, but made it his own. How the crème caramel tasted like heaven, from the crack of the sugar crust to the way it dissolved on my tongue, like a vanilla kiss.

I check my phone. No response.

Dawson's flight from LA is delayed, again. So I bask in the last few moments of quiet I have. Before he comes back and I'm forced to have some real discussions with him. Ones where I tell him that I'm not going to move to LA. I'd put off this talk as long as possible. He'd made three trips there in four weeks, all without me.

Bessie's words had resonated. This was my life too, I didn't need to meld my existence into his. We were a couple, sure, but two separate people with separate dreams.

I dreaded the conversation. So each minute that passed meant another minute I could be alone, in the quiet.

A key in the front door eventually turns and I snap my head up, watching the lock move. Dawson enters and closes it louder than appropriate for this time of evening. He looks at me wordlessly, goes to the fridge and takes out a beer. I save my document and creep into the kitchen towards him. The streetlights ricochet scattered beams across his troubled face.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask, voice tentative.

He turns away from me, head down.

I approach him and rub his back, the way he likes, "Come on, Dawson, it's okay, did you have a bad day?" I draw circles with my hand.

He shrugs from my touch and stalks to the other side of the kitchen.

"Come on, what happened?" I press. Imploring him to look at me.

Dawson is silent, drinking his beer. He rests against the counter.

He draws a labored breath and starts speaking, "I had brunch with Audrey today in LA, before my flight," he says finally. Quietly, watching me, awaiting my reaction.

I try not to flinch, willing the muscles in my face to remain passive. But what I mask on the outside, inside my heart rages, beats quickening.

"Okay?"

He is silent again, finishing his beer in a quick gulp before going to the fridge to get another. He loosens his tie and throws it onto the counter lazily.

Dawson is trying to find words. I've lived with him for years, existed as his soulmate for longer. He takes protracted moments to process. Each second that ticks past incrementally speeds my pulse rate.

"Is it true?" he asks.

I freeze, mouth suddenly dry.

"Is what true?" I almost can't get the sound out, my tongue like sandpaper. When I do, I barely hear them over the crashing sound of my own heart drumming through my veins.

"Did you fuck him?" he says, voice eerily level. Eyes finally meeting mine.

I don't reply. Can't reply.

"Did you fuck my best friend?" He is suddenly screaming at me, spitting with rage and venom, unmoving. Anger drips from his pores. He takes a deep breath and repeats himself. "Did you fuck my best friend the day before our wedding?"

Moving back, I creep out of the small space with him. Not afraid he will hurt me, just afraid.

I blink away tears that blur my vision.

Words to respond don't come, I lay my face in my hands. My silence is tantamount to an admission of guilt.

"Are you fucking kidding me!?" He jumps from the counter towards me. Beer breaches the rim and spills from his bottle.

I hang my head and focus on the pale puddles on floorboards.

I'm going to be sick, I'm sure.

"Why?"

"WHY!?" He yells.

I hold up my hands, "I don't know! It was a mistake."

He laughs, over and over again. He is laughing at me, tears in his eyes.

"There I am, sitting, enjoying my avocado sourdough toast and Audrey asks me how on earth I got over what happened. And then I sit there, like an idiot, like I'm the only person in the world that doesn't know that my wife fucked my best friend."

"Daws.."

He cuts me off, "Fuck you!" a shaking finger points towards my chest, only inches away. "No wonder he bailed, he was running away, the coward."

I think about defending Pacey, offering an explanation, but now is not the time.

"Tell me, do you love him? Does he love you?" He spits, laughing.

The words slice, but I refuse to let it show.

I move to him and attempt to take his hand, to calm him.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what to say." Tears are coming now, hard and fast, "I'm so sorry Dawson." Words I should have said five years earlier, before all of this mess, and just walked away.

He lets me hold his hand for a moment before ripping it away and stalking into the lounge. I follow him.

He spins around, finger again pointed towards me.

"Have you been fucking him the whole time since he's been back?"

"God, no Dawson."

"Let me rephrase that, have you fucked him since he's been back?"

I search for a word, any word, but I can't find one.

Dawson laughs again. The laughing much scarier than the yelling.

I want him to keep screaming at me, to yell, to get it all out. To tell me all the horrible things I know I am. All the things I've hidden from everyone, from myself, for years. A cheater, a liar, an adulterer.

"You get it, right? You see why I'm mad? My entire marriage is based on a lie."

I nod, agreeing.

"On our wedding day, on our Honeymoon, when we were in Bermuda, he was inside you just days earlier! That's fucked up, right? You see that, right? And at no point in five years of marriage, could you tell me, your husband the truth?" He yells, shaking with rage.

I pad small footsteps away from him, finding solace in the wall behind me. Because I'm sure I'm going to collapse, my legs can't carry me any longer. Tiny cold beads of sweat form on my forehead.

"I don't know what you want me to say?" I open my palms, surrendering.

"Nothing," he backs away, suddenly calm, "Nothing. It should be easy for you, Jo. You did it for five years."

He goes into the bedroom, leaving me alone by the wall. I'm struggling to breathe. My head hurts, my chest hurts. I'm not sure what to do.

Appearing with a full duffel bag, he passes me, grabs his keys, and turns on his heels, voice seeping with derision. Strangely calm.

"I'm so fucking glad we didn't have a baby, Joey," and slams the door behind him.

I stare at it. The room's still dark, it seems to have gone into shock. The yell of stinging words, then nothing.

Silence.

I'm alone.

A strange sensation runs through me. I'd imagined this scenario playing out over the years with varying outcomes. In all of them I was broken, devastated by the horror of him finding out. But now, this reality just feels like relief.

The cold sweat comes back to my brow. I run to the kitchen and vomit into the sink.