Eyes swollen, head pounding, curled on the couch where I spent the night. Fingers play with stray threads on cushions, pulling them until they tear tracks across the surface.
I'm supposed to be in New York for a meeting with my publisher, I call through a half-hearted apology complaining of a gastro-bug. Then I message Jen.
8.48 am from Joey Leery: Dawson found out. He left last night.
8.49 am from Jen: Holy Shit. Be there in 20.
I throw my phone down and contemplate freshening up before Jen arrives. I am aching, exhausted from it all. The fight, the crying, the mere thought of it makes my bones ache. I fall back into a light sleep before I hear a key in the lock.
"What the hell happened?" Jen stands before me her hands in the air.
She's wearing workout clothes, hair tied into a tight bun, low on her neck. I suspect I've interrupted her morning yoga class.
Palms cover my face as I try to shrink away from having to verbalize this to anyone, even Jen.
"Dawson found out," I say, voice small.
"Oh my God, did Pacey tell him?"
"No, god, no! It was Audrey."
Jen nods, sits beside me, pulling the blanket up around my neck. She rubs my back as I talk.
"It was horrible, so much yelling. He's so fucking mad. Not that I blame him." I scratch my messed up hair, "I don't know why I never thought he'd actually find out. Somehow I thought the secret would just stay that way, a secret, forever."
Jen eyes me warily. "I've gotta be honest Jo, the second Pacey came back to town you had to expect this was a possibility, surely?"
I nod.
"Are you mad at Audrey?" she asks.
"No, she's the only person telling the truth. I can't really be mad at her for that."
"Have you told Pacey yet? Dawson is going to kill him."
"No." I look at her with shock, the idea hadn't really crossed my mind. "Do you think he would? No." I try to convince myself.
"You should call Pacey, give him some warning. It's only fair."
I grimace.
"What? What's going on with you two? Apart from the obvious."
"Nothing exactly. We haven't really spoken since we went to Capeside." I pull my blanket up a little higher. "We had a bit of a fight." I lie. What's another falsehood thrown in the growing pile?
Jen shakes her head at me, "At least text him Joey, don't leave him in the dark."
I pick up my phone and send off a quick message.
10.13 am from Joey Leery: Heads up. Audrey told Dawson what happened. He left last night. J.
I stare at the screen. I can see that he has read my message.
Those three little dots dance.
…
…
…
Then nothing.
On Saturday, you have friends, confidants, a husband. By the next Friday, you're sitting alone in your apartment. Jen, my only ally is in Washington for work.
When events such as these happen, people must pick a side, rarely can the circle of friends continue unhindered. I'd fractured it, possibly irreparably.
Jack is screening your calls. Doug is furious to finally discover the reason for the breakdown of Pacey's marriage. Dawson boarded the first plane to LA and has severed all lines of communication. I'm not sure if it's appropriate to box up his things, or leave them until we officially 'talk'. Maybe the conversation we had would be our last. But I call him nonetheless, seeking closure, seeking familiarity, seeking the chance to apologize, properly.
Another voicemail. He is a ghost.
My other ghost still hasn't reappeared. Pacey has answered no texts, no calls, nothing since Capeside. He conveniently found a need to return to his New York restaurant. I feel abandoned, alone. It's just penance for my sins. I lean into it, this existence I've created for myself.
So, I sit in an apartment that has Dawson's name on the lease, on a couch that he picked out, surrounded by his things. Movie posters adorn each wall, DVD's pile to the ceiling. It's my apartment too, but I see no traces of myself within it. I'm not sure why I never noticed it before. Apart from my books in the bookcase, you would be forgiven for thinking that Dawson lived alone.
Maybe he did.
Roused from my reverie by a sharp knock, I peel myself from my couch groove. Making my way to the door I take a second to pray to the universe, I know who I want to be behind it.
Please.
Please.
Eyesocket to the peephole, I squint and focus, letting my hope fall away as quickly as it comes.
It's Bessie.
While not my chosen prayer, it's the next best thing. I take a deep breath. Steady myself and open the door.
"Bess, what are you doing here?" I feign surprise.
Bessie, who I'd concealed this from the longest, through fear that the only family member I had left would treat me with the same disdain as others. That she'd look at me that way. Forever tainted.
It was only a matter of time.
She walks through the door, looks around at the disorder, and studies me, brow furrowed.
"I think you have some explaining to do."
I run fingers through my hair, "Bess…" I start.
"Joey, why didn't you call me? Why do I need to hear that you and Dawson have split up from Gale of all people!"
There are wine bottles, takeout containers, blankets strewn around. I turn, embarrassed, and collect them, focusing on the mess, not the reality, not having to admit to her my misgivings.
"Joey," Bessie places a soft hand upon my own, steading me. She takes the boxes, places them down and sits on the couch, amongst my fortress of blankets and pillows. A makeshift sleeping quarters I'd crafted for myself so I didn't have to return to the bedroom, to our bed. She points to the spot beside her and I obey, sitting.
"What happened?" she asks. Apparently, the Capeside grapevine was light on detail.
Thankfully.
"Dawson left," I say, shame tinges my cheeks red.
"Look at you. When did this happen? You look terrible, you've lost weight," she pulls my shirt out, revealing my thin frame with an abundance of excess fabric.
I sigh, turning away, avoiding the hard stares of an older, and wiser sister.
"About a week ago."
"Did you guys have a fight, was this about LA?" She's up, pacing now.
"Just some old stuff from the past came up."
"Old Stuff? What is that, Joey? What stuff?" Her voice shrill, invoking memories of childhood chastising.
"It doesn't matter," I wave her away.
"I'm just going to keep asking you, Joey. I will live here, move into your bed until you tell me."
I laugh softly, which makes her smile.
I take a steadying breath, then another, "Something happened with Pacey."
Bessie exhales deeply and rolls her head back, looking at me with those all-knowing eyes.
"Something so serious it made Dawson leave you?"
"Yes."
"I can't say I wasn't a little concerned at his re-appearance."
I scoff, "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"What?"
"If I'd have been putting on bets ten years ago for future couples, I would have laid it all down on you and Pacey."
"Well, you would have lost a lot of money," I snap back.
She ignores me and makes a knowing shrug.
I cross my arms like a petulant child, "Well, that's just ridiculous."
"Is it? Really, Joey? Clearly, I was right."
"If you thought this all these years ago, why didn't you tell me?" I spit out.
Bessie stands in a motherly fashion and starts picking up the takeout containers. She places her nose in one, sniffs and recoils.
"And what, Jo, what would you have done? Left Dawson? I told you time and time again to go out there, explore your options, but you didn't. You remained tethered to him, despite the fact that he was clearly wrong for you."
"Again, you could have told me this, explicitly years ago. Not just an explore your options, a 'Joey he is not the man for you,' might have done the trick."
She laughs with derision, "like you would have listened."
"See, this is the thing Bess, no one was surprised when I told them, or when they found out. Not one person, apart from Dawson of course, he seemed to be in shock."
"That's because he's too full of his own self-importance to ever notice anything other than how it directly relates to him. Dawson spent years melding you into his version of who he thought you should be. Your friendship with Pacey was all about you, he never asked you to be anyone else. Your relationship was organic, which makes the chemistry you two have so apparent."
I lay down on the couch, exasperated. Confronted with the notion that my relationship, my marriage was fodder for ridicule, but also with the notion that every single word Bessie said was true. Dawson didn't really care about me, he cared about how I related to him. It was all around me, evidenced in the apartment that was void of me.
"Imagine your whole life, Bess, your whole life being told that you're someone's soulmate. It takes away your power to the point that you believe it. Two halves, one whole, all that bullshit."
"Do you even believe in soulmates?" she asks.
"No." Soulmates are fiction. Every aspect of my life proves that.
"I slept with Pacey the night before my wedding," I say, sharp and cutting, to shock her, mad that she's laying all this on me now.
It works. She stands, frozen, a Chinese Box in hand.
"All this time? Years?"
I nod.
"That's why he left?"
I nod again.
She sinks back down beside me.
"I'm sorry, Jo," she whispers.
"What are you sorry for?"
She runs a hand down the side of my hair, "That's a long time to deal with that secret, and a long time to live unhappily. I'm not saying what you did was right by any means, but I'm sure you've punished yourself sufficiently."
"I deserve everything I get, Bess. They were my decisions. My decision to sleep with Pacey, my decision not to tell Dawson."
Bessie pauses for a moment, considering, "Do you love him?"
"Who?"
"Dawson."
Without hesitation, I answer, "No. I haven't for a long time."
"And Pacey?"
This time, I can't find the answer and instead sink lower into the blankets.
Weeks later, the apartment is cleaner; I don't sleep on the couch anymore.
I harassed Dawson's management into giving me his new address, boxed up all his stuff, and had it shipped to LA. I cleared out all the terrible furniture that Gale had bought us when we first got married. A gaudy love seat, velvet. It belonged in a baroque castle, not in a modern apartment. Pete, a Jamaican artist who lived below, helped me to carry it down the stairs and deposit it with a 'FREE' sign on the sidewalk. It's been a week, and it's still there.
I remove the wedding photos from the walls, they leave eerie white patches below. I don't know what to do with them, so they sit in the hall in boxes, gathering dust.
After everything is cleared out, I'm welcomed with a blank space. A couch, a television, my laptop on the floor (the coffee table was Dawson's).
I put the coffee machine on and stand, back against the counter and check my phone for the tenth time this hour.
Nothing.
At this point everyone has found out. Everyone knows who I am. An adulterer. A cheater. My messages are always quiet now.
There is only one person I want to talk to, and I haven't heard from him for well over a month.
The coffee is ready, I pour it into the mug, wrap my hands around the porcelain and bring it to my face. The aroma hits me. But it's not the pleasant smokey beans that I'm used to. It's horrible, smelling rancid, like decay. My stomach turns, I run to the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet.
This is the last straw. For some time now I've been struggling to keep food down. At first, I thought it was shock. That I was so repulsed by myself it manifested itself into actual illness.
No.
How much longer could I deny the thoughts that lingered in the back of my mind?
As I sat on the floor of the bathroom, I reached underneath the cupboard and pulled out a box of pregnancy tests—50 of them. IVF rounds make for a cache of pregnancy tests available at any moment of the day. I pull one out and stare at it.
The tests themselves flood me with anxiety.
Lines. Always one.
Each time I'd stare at the space the other line should be and attempt to will it into existence.
I haul myself off the floor and pee onto the stick, throwing it on the vanity. I refuse to look at it for the required two-minute wait, so I take the opportunity to brush my teeth vigorously and stare out the window. I rinse and spit, glancing ever so slightly to my right.
And there, clear as day, even from a distance, is not one, but two blue lines.
