I sit on the bathroom, cold tiles beneath me, staring at that line. White plastic, four inches long, the width of my finger. How can an inanimate object in my hands mean so much? I take gulps of water from the faucet, drink until I can't drink anymore. I need to pee again; I need to be sure.

Fifteen minutes pass like a lifetime before I can finally produce another urine sample, and I pee onto three more sticks. Four tests seem like a nice round number for a proper analysis. One could be a false positive. Four tests don't lie.

I line them up like soldiers on the counter.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

This time I watch them, but a two-minute wait isn't required. The second line is virtually instantaneous.

That line says Pacey.

That line takes me to Capeside, to a car ride on a hot day, to a talk with Bessy, to drinks in a bar, to a game of fishing, to a moment in time. A moment I hide, along with all my other secrets, lined up like lines.


We took a taxi home from the bar.

I leaned deep into the leather seats and focused on the lights passing by, blurred in my martini haze. Pacey sat back, almost horizontal, legs outstretched in the small space, his knee pressed against my own. The humidity of the day has reached its crescendo with a sullen downpour dripping in zig-zagged waves across the taxi window.

When the taxi-driver asked where we were going, there was a mutually protracted pause.

"Um," Pacey looked at me and shrugged.

"Well, um…"

"Do you wanna come to mine, for a nightcap?" he asked.

This, of course, like most ideas presented by Pacey, was a terrible idea. And not for the last time that night, I answered yes, when I should have answered no.

"Yeah, sure," I said. Pacey smiled.

We pulled out the front of Pacey's apartment, stumbling into the rain like drunken college kids. I held my handbag over my head, running to the door. This position, however, rendered my questionable balance exhausted and I tripped, falling into a bush, losing a shoe.

"Miss Potter, your grace knows no bounds," an outstretched hand dragged me up from the scratchy leaves. My veins pulsed as his fingers took mine, a jolt of electricity. He pulled his hand back, chuckled and dove it deep into his pocket.

With one shoe under an arm, we ran undercover, sufficiently drenched. The air outside was like soup, the twisted Jasmine vine winding its way across the building emitted its heady scent. Pacey unlocked the door, and we went inside.

Inside, there was only the gentle hum of the air-conditioner. The rain outside was merely a whisper tapping on window panes.

He went to the bathroom, got two towels and tossed one to me as he ran the other across his damp hair roughly. Finished, he threw it onto the back of a chair and walked to the kitchen, hair standing in wet clumps on their end. I gently massaged the ends of my own with a towel, then ran it across my bare arms, collecting stray drips.

Pacey took out an expensive-looking whiskey bottle and some clean glasses.

"Welcome to my humble abode, make yourself at home," he said, effortlessly resuming the game.

He was still fishing. I was still his bait. I could feel him reeling me in. I was nearing the boat.

"It's nice," I played along, "a little bachelor-pad for my liking, I bet you have mood lighting and black silk sheets in the bedroom, right?" I said, instantly regretting the words.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Eyebrows waggled.

I didn't dignify it with a response, instead kicking off my other shoe and enjoying the feel of the cool tiles beneath my feet, grounding me.

"Are you hungry? I can cook you something?"

"No, thanks."

"Are you sure, I make a mean pasta Primavera?"

"I'm sure you can, but no. I'm good."

He passed me the whiskey, single ice cube and swirling caramel liquid. We clinked glasses in cheers.

"To new friends," he said, smile broad and eyes glassy. Was he swaying a little, or was it me?

All I could feel was Pacey's presence, warm and familiar. His smell, everywhere, like the salty ocean. I wanted to lick his skin, to taste it.

Taking a deep breath to steady my heart rate, I scanned the room for a distraction.

"What's that?" I pointed to the photograph on the fridge. A yacht, not dissimilar to True Love.

He walked over, dislodged the magnet and passed it to me.

"This is my new baby," he smiled, "put a deposit on her last week."

"Wow."

Larger than True Love, white with a black hull. The picture is from a shipyard in dry dock, still being built. The hull is complete, missing a mast and sails.

"She hasn't seen the water yet, hopefully in a month or two."

I ran a finger across the photograph, finding memories of running to the dock, finding True Love gone, finding him gone. The realization of what I wanted a day too late. A day I sealed my fate, firmly in the arms of Dawson.

That day was a lifetime ago, two marriages ago. Irretrievably in the past.

"Where will you go?" I asked.

He took the picture back, placing it front and center of his stainless steel fridge and shrugged.

"Day trips for a while. Once the restaurant is up and running on its own steam, I might take a few months, find some blue waters, some white sands."

"That sounds divine, Pace."

"Maybe, one day," he said, pausing, taking a sip, eyes narrowed on the photo, "you could come out for a day, help me test her out?"

The atmosphere suddenly became heavy. I reached for a lifeline to break it.

"That's great and all, but, we just met, I'm hardly going to go out on a boat with you, alone. For all I know you could be an axe-murderer disguised as an attractive, mid-thirties bachelor."

He turned and winked, remembering the game. The one I was done playing at least an hour ago. But the game is easier to lean into, a crutch to dissolve those laden moments where we can't outrun our history.

"Attractive, hey?" Of course, that's the only word he heard.

I rolled my eyes, "You're incorrigible."

"I try," he said before adding, "I promise, no axes on board."

"Well then, if it's an axe-free zone. I will certainly join you," I said, smiling.

He laughed, but it held traces of bitterness in its notes.

"Maybe I should have promised that all those years ago," he said, voice low, looking into his drink, slipping out of character yet again.

I couldn't find words for a response, instead feeling the familiar tug to run. A creaking silence ensued. Biological impulses resurface when Pacey is around. The magnetic poles, the never-ending push and pull between us.

He runs. I run. We should join a marathon and get it over with.

But no. We stood together in his small, fancy kitchen, closer than friends should. If I outstretched an arm, it would touch him. It would fall upon his shoulder, or maybe his chest. So I kept all limbs tight by my side, clinging to my glass like a lifeline.

I took steadying sips in the silence, watching his neck, Adam's apple gently bobbing, covered in a fine smattering of brown stubble.

I should put my shoes back on. I should go home to my own house, the one I share with my husband. I should walk away from this man.

Shoulda. Coulda. Woulda.

Instead, I said, "Pace, pass me your phone."

He eyed me quizzically, reached across the counter and handed it to me.

"Unlock it."

Grinning, he obeyed.

I opened up the timer and press stop.

302 minutes, 17 seconds.

"Hey!" he saw what I was doing and grabbed for the phone. I pulled it away, "What are you doing? I'm going for a record!"

"What record?"

"Longest fish ever," he replied smugly.

I rolled my eyes, passing him the phone back.

"I don't want to play anymore, Pacey. I want to be us," I gestured between us.

"Us?" he asked with a cocked eyebrow like I'm crazy, or dangerous or both.

"Joey and Pacey," I said.

I took a step toward him.

He mirrored me, taking his own step forward.

His eyes morph to the darkest of blue-grays. I recognize those eyes, I've seen them before. He doesn't blink or speak, holding my gaze.

At this point, it wouldn't be an outstretched arm to reach him, a breath would do it.

I repeated myself, almost in a whisper, afraid I'd lose my nerve, "I want to be us."

It was all he needed to bridge the gap, to incline his head, forehead against my own, eyes hungry. I understood entirely, I was starving. He hesitated, fighting the never-ending battle with himself. I raised trembling arms around his neck, feeling the hot skin at his hairline. I looped my fingers together and pulled his lips towards mine.

Why was it always like this with him?

Like… completion.

The kiss was primal, white-hot need, snaking down my insides, pooling at my toes.

He lifted me onto the counter, velvet crush of lips and staggered breaths shared, my legs constricting around his waist, drawing him to me. It's there I found him endlessly hard, pressing directly into my heat. Our kisses, messy and desperate, like the only kisses I'd ever known from Pacey, frenzied lips on borrowed time. I grabbed at his shirt and forcing it over his head.

Before it's entirely off, he was back, lips on mine, tongue grazing against my own. He radiated heat, his smell more profound now, making me dizzy.

He tried to pick me up, but I lost grip and slid halfway down his torso. He fumbles with my legs and lifts me again, holding me tighter this time, and together we staggered through the hallway. I barely felt my ankle slamming a doorjamb as we pass through it.

As he carried me I pondered the scope of this development. Were we too drunk? Of course we were. But, then I had to admit that this is the whole reason I drink with Pacey. I drink to lose my inhibitions, hoping that maybe he will too. I drink so I can forget about Dawson, forget about my current life. I drink knowing that this may happen, wanting it to happen but lacking the sober courage to take action. And I drink so that I have an excuse in the morning, a reason for my behavior.

I am a terrible person.

I know.

But in that moment, wrapped around him, I couldn't summon the will to stop.

We stumbled into Pacey's bedroom, tumbling upon soft sheets. Fingertips grazing below my shirt, pulling it over my head, pressing his bare torso against my own. Sheer torture each time his lips left mine to remove another item of clothing, they swiftly scramble back, finding each other.

Down to my underwear, he drags his body down, taking deep breaths. Blue eyes look up at me hovering over my black lace panties.

"Jo?"

"Mmm," is the best response I can muster.

"Are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure."

"How sure?"

"How's a thousand percent?"

I drew him closer, desperate to feel the fullness, to expel the heat from my veins, but he slowed. Instead, tracking a series of kisses down the side of my bare torso, a protracted, delicious torture

He bobbed his head, licked my navel and said, "That's terrible maths, Jo."

"Paaace," I moaned, willing him to stop teasing.

"Okay, but if I only get you now, I'm going to take my time," he whispered.

I groaned as he chuckled in response. Hands dancing against the lace of my panties, tips of fingers trailing a path further south. Legs falling open, fingertips tracking back and forth, feeling the wetness that was soaking my underwear. His thumb circled my aching bead of flesh through the fabric. The roughness of it, the unbearable friction made me arch in delight, white-knuckled, gripping Pacey's sheets. The sheets were black, just as I suspected.

Rearranging himself between my legs, a hand steadied my hip as the other pulled the lace to one side. A gentle breath against me, hovering so close, I writhed, a puddle of anticipation. It seemed an eternity before he finally lowered his lips, taking long lazy licks across the length of my slit. He groaned, heavy and guttural as he ended his travels against my clit, pursing his lips around it, drawing it in and flicking it with his tongue. He took his time, painfully lapping before drawing it more firmly in his lips. I could feel the warmth building deep in my belly, faster than I'd ever known.

When a finger entered, edging its way inside, a gradual coaxing morphed to sodden thrusts, it was clear I could hold on no longer. Fingernails raking through his scalp, I dragged him closer. With this, his tongue became more insistent, the prickles of stubble against me, feeling the orgasm tearing through my veins as I pulsed uncontrolled around his finger. The waves of pleasure peaked and receding, left me panting and limp under him. He waited until my throws subsided before crawling back up my body, face back to my own.

He kissed with purpose, lips tasting of me, stubble still wet from my pleasure. I pulled at his jeans, which somehow had remained on in this interlude. They felt even tighter than before. He helped with the button, slid the zipper, pulled them down, letting his boxer briefs follow.

I could only see glimmers of his outline in the dark room, the lines of the muscles on his neck, his torso, his cock springing forth. Paying homage, I reached down, feeling the weight of him in my palms, the growl of his voice, pulling back and forth, swirling a wet finger across the tip. Pacey cupped my hair in his hands, tucked an errant strand behind my ear and gazed down at me. Positioning himself between my legs he gradually slipped back and forth between my wet folds. A torturous wait before he finally dropped his hips, slowly sinking inside, filling me.

Cries of pleasure tumbled in the darkness.

I lost myself in Pacey that night, and it was the best moment of five years of my life.