Career Tip #16
When changing employers, research the company culture, growth opportunities, and leadership style. Negotiate your salary based on market value, not just your past pay. Leave on good terms by giving proper notice and maintaining professionalism—your reputation follows you.
Joey Potter is late.
Pacey works the rewind machine and watches the clock. He even checks the calendar to make sure it is, in fact, Tuesday.
The store is oddly quiet as he waits.
Finally, the door chimes and Joey ducks in, brusquely pulling the vest over her arms.
"Sorry I'm late," she glances at the time.
His hands are deep in pockets to keep from touching her. "No need to apologize. This is truly momentous. Today will live in infamy as the day Miss Josephine Potter was nine minutes late to work. Honestly, I was considering calling the cops and reporting you to missing persons, if only it wouldn't directly page dear old dad."
She approaches the counter. "No need to alert the authorities, Pace. I'm alive and well."
He reaches for the hooks of her jeans, but reconsiders. "I'll confess, I was a tad worried. Is everything okay?"
"It's fine. I was watching Alexander, and Bessie got caught up at the grocery store. I couldn't exactly leave an infant to his own devices so the residents of Capeside can rent a copy of BMX Bandits."
"Well, everything is under control here. Your exceptionally organized boyfriend was two minutes early. I've already put aside the holds and started on the returns."
"Haven't I trained you well?" She grins.
Mouth agape, he puts a hand to his chest. "Trained me. I trained you."
"Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
He scoffs. "Ungrateful."
"The new releases have just arrived. They're in a box out the back. They need to be labeled and scanned in." He bobs his brows and hooks a thumb. "Would you like to come and see them?"
Joey glances around the empty store and out to the sidewalk before following him out the back.
"If I'm being honest, I harbored some minor concerns that you were avoiding me because you weren't feeling okay with what happened at the ruins," Pacey begins when they're out of sight of passers-by.
She takes a step towards him, perfection in a green knit sweater and faded Levi's. "You think I wasn't happy with our date?"
"Well, I," he stammers.
She backs him into the photocopier. "Our date - was perfect."
"Good, I'm glad you feel that way because -"
Joey cuts him off when she kisses him, hurried. Her hair, not constricted in a ponytail, swoops against his collarbone when their lips meet.
The door chimes, and they jump, pulling back to solitary spheres. Joey touches the flush of her lips, pulls at her sweater to straighten it.
"I"ll take this one. I owe you some work with my tardiness," she disappears out the front.
Pacey braces himself on the copier, tells himself all is fine.
Edna Hubbard is one hundred if she is a day. Arthritis pulls her fingers into gnarled twists, making it difficult for her to grip the video cases. So Joey strolls beside collecting the film options and they chat about her great-grandchildren, or the weather, or her husband who passed in '86.
Joey is patient. She never rushes the interaction.
Watching them, Pacey presses random keys on the computer, a few clicks of the mouse. He wants to watch Joey without the side dish of worry that someone will notice his gaze.
He's sick of hiding, of pretending. Masking his feelings for Joey Potter is an impossible mission.
They make their way to the counter, and Joey hands over the three titles for rental. Pacey scans and checks them out.
"Mrs. Hubbard, so good to see you again. How are you holding up?" he asks.
"I'm alive," she replies, without a hint of sarcasm. "This week, anyway."
"You look pretty spry to me. And you've got an excellent selection," he considers the films in his hands. "Humphrey Bogart. Rock Hudson. Those heartthrobs will keep you out of mischief."
She tilts her head in a smile, and for a moment, she's young again. "You're a devil, Pacey."
"Why thank you," he snaps the video case shut. And then, without a prior thought he says, "Did you know that Joey and I are dating?"
Joey's eyes bug.
"That's lovely," Edna barely glances between them before stuffing the videos into her wheeled carryall and leaving.
"What on earth are you doing?" Joey punches Pacey's bicep.
"Testing the waters. I guess I just wanted to see what would happen if I told someone."
"Edna Hubbard isn't exactly your target audience to gauge a reaction."
He rounds the counter and bestows a covert kiss at the base of her neck, a daring hand on her hip. "I really enjoyed saying it out loud."
She relents. "You can say it again, as long as no one is in the store next time."
"I'M DATING JOSEPHINE POTTER!" he yells from deep in his belly. Around her, he is untethered.
Immediately, Joey slinks behind the counter and crouches down. "Pacey! What if someone hears you?"
He follows her, ducking below the line of view. "You said I could say it."
"Not that loud."
He puts his forehead against hers, kneels down to her level. Lips a breath from her own and whispers, "I. Am. Dating. Josephine. Potter," into her mouth.
"What would I do without your unhinged behavior?" she whispers back.
"You'd be bored. Wondering what on earth you used to do with your days until you stepped into this store and pulled on that alluring black vest." He adjusts her name button.
"You know it's not forever," Joey's voice cracks. Balancing on her heels she stands up straight.
"You working here?"
"Yeah." An outstretched hand pulls him to stand.
"I know," he says as a handful of teenagers flow through the door reeking of cigarettes.
Chocolate eyes consider him for a beat before she returns to the aisles, a toppling pile of videos in her grasp.
Pacey Witter carves himself into two, a neat slice down the middle.
One side is his home life, where bravado masks fear. Tiptoeing past a reclining chair and listening through door cracks at his father's nightly swings between comatose and inebriated fury.
The other side exists wholly for Josephine Potter. It feels brave and fearless, full of wisecracks and bubbling affection.
In the Witter home, anger and blame entangle, snarling in his chest, forming a giant ball.
It seeks a home, an outlet, and he never knows where to place it, to release the burden of its weight.
Sometimes he gives it to his mother whose betrayal made a tinderbox of their home.
Sometimes he gives it to his father - a menace and a tyrant.
But mostly he carries the silent load, splitting himself into pieces to bear it all.
Pacey is standing on top of the dining table. He has his best dress pants on, the kind that only make appearances for funerals, or celebrations.
"Hold still," Mary scolds, missing a pin in his ankle by a scrape.
"How much longer will this take?"
"As long as it takes if you keep growing upward, Pacey."
She has let the sad scrap of his pant hem as low as it will go and is trying to fashion it into a salvageable item of clothing.
Pacey watches the bob of her cropped hair.
"Can I ask a question?" says Mary.
"I suspect one is coming, no matter my answer." He replies, trapped on the table.
"Have you been spending time with Joey?" The question is delivered in a measured tone, as if they're discussing what is for dinner.
"At work, yes."
"And outside of it?" She folds up the hem and checks it's straight.
Pacey considers his answer, surveying the dining room from his vantage point. "Perhaps we have had opportunities to catch up outside of work."
She nods, as though it was clear all along, but doesn't offer a follow up question.
Pacey wades through the temporary silence with his own inquiry. "Have you seen Mr. Potter since he got out?
Mary snaps her head up at him. "Absolutely not."
"I just meant, have you seen him around? Like at the Save Mart, or at the gas station. It's a small town. It's easy to run into people."
"No, Pacey. I haven't. And I'm happy to keep it that way." There is resentment in her tone.
When considering their affair, Pacey always saw the deception, all falsehoods and covert meetings. He didn't examine the depth of his mother and Mike's relationship beyond it, the years they spent together, risking it all, risking her husband's wrath.
What must have been love between them, to survive it all, only to end abruptly with Mike's arrest. Pacey wonders if they ever had a goodbye, or if they would always be unfinished.
"Did you know he was dealing drugs?" he asks, watching her for telltale lies.
She fastens another pin without looking at him. Her answer is clipped. "No."
"Did you suspect?"
"Never," she says, and the pain is evident.
"I don't understand," Pacey muses. "Why would someone with no history of drug use suddenly start to deal? He had a family, he had young kids, a business..."
"I don't know, Pacey!" She cuts him off. "But I know this line of questioning is officially over." She motions to the front door, and with it the knowledge that John Witter and his police cruiser could appear unannounced passes between them.
Pacey closes his mouth.
The yellowed pendant light hangs within reach. He extends a hand and wipes it across the decorative roses that pattern the glass, disturbing the accumulated dust. It falls like snow against the table.
"Seriously, Pacey. Can you not make more work for me?"
"Say no more. If I don't have to go to this soiree, we can wrap this up right now."
Pins in her mouth, Mary shakes her head. "Nice try," she mumbles.
"What is the difference if I'm there or not? Dad's going to get the award either way. And without me there, he won't have to explain my presence to all his nearest and dearest co-workers. This is my disappointment - Pacey." He mimics his father with accuracy.
"You are not a disappointment."
"Coulda fooled me."
She straightens her hunched back, assessing the hemline. "This is an important day for your father."
"Yes, I'm aware. Highest arrest record in five counties. I've heard it a dozen times this week alone."
"Don't make light of it."
"I'm not. I'm just wondering why it's imperative I attend."
"You're his son. You should be proud."
"Pride is not an emotion I'm familiar with."
She motions for him to step off the table, bringing forward a chair as his step. He doesn't use it, instead leaping directly to the floor.
"You're going. End of story."
"And if I am struck down with a rare strain of influenza? The mumps? Perhaps some bubonic plague?"
"Then I will drain your boils, wrap them in bandages, and you will still join us."
He rolls his eyes and exits to his room, closes his door, gently removes the pants with pins, and pulls on a pair of jeans.
Emerging again, he hands his mother the folded pants. "So, what you're saying is that I have to go?"
"Precisely." She moves straight to the sewing machine, flicking on the small light and moving into position. "And if you don't want to go for your dad, I'd like you there - for me."
The ball of rage re-settles where it's lived for most of his life, squarely with his father.
He leans down to her level, kisses her hair. "For you then, Mom."
Mary Witter smiles.
When Joey's serving customers, he disappears into the back room, spying their backpacks side by side.
The green army men are disappearing. There is only a meager pile left in the original packaging. He selects a soldier peering through binoculars and stuffs it in the side pocket of Joey's bag.
The door chimes, and he hears Dawson's voice greeting Joey.
Pacey zips the backpack and strolls back into the store. "No, despite my film-star good looks, I will not be strong-armed into being the leading man in your next film project."
"Why do you assume that's what I'm here for?" Dawson asks.
"Because you're nearing production, are you not? Your movie-addled brain is working on his next steps to Spielberg-ism and traditionally, that has required the free labor of your nearest and dearest."
"Is it wrong for me to cast my friends, Pace? You've got talent. The Sea Creature from the Deep would be nothing without you."
Joey stands on tiptoes behind Pacey. "Count me out too, Dawson." Before making her way behind the counter to greet a woman needing a new rental card.
"I haven't even asked you!" says Dawson.
"But you were gonna…" Pacey nods.
"Maybe. Eventually. But I'm still deep in the screenplay - really trying to put some nuance into the characters."
"Sounds like a riveting way to spend your free time."
"Says someone whose free time consists of stealing your Mom's car to drive to work, not doing homework, or pestering poor Joey."
"I consider that time well spent."
Dawson rolls his eyes.
"Fine," Pacey relents. "You said you were here for alternate reasons, of what may they be?" He waits expectantly.
"I was just walking past and thought I'd stop by to make sure you didn't throw out my name button."
Pacey shrugs. "It's probably back there somewhere in the depths of video store junk. Why?"
"I start again next week. Keith said my discount card will be here to collect too."
"Start here?" Pacey eyes his friend with speculation.
"Yeah, with Joey leaving, Keith called me to see if I was interested in returning to my old shift. So it looks like it's you and I again, just like old times."
Silence settles over Pacey. A cold realization.
Joey finishes serving the customers, attempting to mask the look of panic on her face.
Between them Dawson glances, surprised by the shockwaves rippling through the store.
Pacey doesn't speak, waiting patiently for the customers to finalize their selection, for the doorbell to jingle their departure.
When it's only the three of them left, he turns to Joey and speaks, words thick in his mouth. "You'releaving?"
"I thought you knew," Dawson says, his voice tense with discomfort. "I didn't steal the job, Pacey, really."
"It's fine Dawson," Joey reaches beneath the counter and pulls out his old button and the discount card, handing it over. "I made you a new one."
"Thanks," Dawson inspects the silver disk in his hand.
"When do you start?" Pacey asks Dawson when Joey has yet to reply to his question.
"Saturday," he answers.
"Saturday?" Pacey pulls his eyes back to Joey. "That means today is your last day."
Joey stares at the floor.
"I really didn't mean to come and drop a bombshell. I figured you two had discussed this," says Dawson. When still no one speaks, Dawson edges backward towards the door. "I'll leave you be. Enjoy your last shift, Joey. I'm sure Bessie will be happy you're back at the Icehouse."
The bell chimes as Dawson leaves, and they stand in silence. On the television, Little Women plays. Beth on her deathbed, Jo by her side.
"How long have you known?" he asks, unsure which part of her face to investigate for the truth.
"Around two weeks."
"Because Bessie wants you back at the Icehouse?"
"My dad does. He says they're getting busy again, with the warmer weather."
Pacey nods. "How much of it is because he doesn't want you here with me?"
Joey shrugs, they both know the reality.
"Why, Jo? Why did you call Keith and quit, and let weeks pass without telling me?"
She bites at her lip, blinks away at something in her eye. "I don't know."
"So you lied to me? Pretended like nothing was wrong?"
Joey reaches out, takes his arm, and forces his eyes onto hers. It's closer than they dare to show in the storefront. "No, Pace. I wanted to enjoy my last shift with you, the way it's always been. I wanted us to eat sandwiches and talk nonsense. I wanted you to play silly games, and tease me, and kiss me, and then drive me home like always. These last few months have been like magic, and I wanted to squeeze all I could out of them."
"When were you going to tell me?"
"Tonight, on the drive home."
"Jo-"
She grips him tighter. "We knew I would go back to the Icehouse, remember? That you only had to put up with me until the summer crowds came back. Remember how much you wanted me to quit? Well, you finally got your wish," she teases, detaching the button from her vest and handing it to Pacey.
"I never wanted you to quit," he says. "Even then."
Through her sorrow, Joey forces a smile. "Can we try to make tonight like normal? Please. You, and me, and a video store."
"And tomorrow. And Saturday? When am I going to get a chance to see you? Does this mean we're over too?"
She shakes her head. "We have school, and lies. We'll make it work."
"But you'll be working and -" he begins, but Joey shushes him.
"This is it, Pace. Tonight is all we've got here, so we can make a choice, we can be sad about it, or we can enjoy our last night as co-workers."
"I wish you told me," he whispers, fossicking through the moments of their last weeks together in search of a sign.
Joey's eyes well, she looks away. "I didn't know how to say the words."
He slides her name button into the back pocket of his jeans.
The sky is violet. Artful brushes.
The kind of sunset to watch on the sand with a girl by your side. But they're stuck inside. The light still reflects off Joey's hair, and he doesn't need a beach.
The usuals appear, Doris and Al. Pacey loses at rock, paper, scissors and has to call Vincent Scott about his late fees nudging two years overdue.
It's their golden hour, the quietest moments from eight until nine on a weeknight, where only the truly dedicated venture after dinner to seek out their video viewing.
They spend most of it alone, talking. Where Joey vacuums and Pacey follows her, stepping over the cord as it drags, annoying her.
And he knows now why she didn't tell him, why she couldn't.
Their survival is bound to these moments, before going back to quiet homes, to cold shoulders and Keystone cans lined up in a row. He wonders what they'll be able to salvage from the relationship. Time is precious now, soon it will be rare.
Computer off. Display lights on. Main lights off. Vests hung on the hook.
Joey flips the sign to CLOSED and he hesitates in the darkness.
"Pacey-" she begins and he turns toward her in the black.
Tonight is the conclusion, the final key in lock. No more video store antics, no more tape ball or blissful minutes passed together in the Wagoneer. It's precisely what John Witter wanted. Precisely what Mike Potter wanted - their separation.
He kisses her like he's wanted to for the last four hours. His skin tingles with the ache of it. And it's supposed to be just that, the kiss he kept inside. But it isn't fleeting. It's hands, and bodies and the desperation of goodbye.
Joey reaches out and locks the door from the inside. "I'm not ready to go yet," she whispers.
He forgets to care about the time or the consequences.
Fingers grasp his own and lead him in darkness to the storage closet. Once inside, it's familiar ancient video aroma and dust all around them. Even without the lights, he knows exactly where the boxes are stacked, the mop and bucket to avoid.
"What do you want, Joey?"
"You."
"You'll still have me. At school. We'll find moments, we can meet up," he tries to convince her, and himself, but it's hollow.
"What if I want you now?" She places a hand on his chest, tugging at the bottom of his shirt.
"As long as it's not some kind of goodbye." He lets her pull it over his arms, fall to the floor.
She shakes her head, lips brushing against his. "No goodbyes."
Her hands explore from his shoulders down, over his chest, down the smooth fall of his stomach, his belly button, the dusting of hair above his jeans.
Their lips and tongues meet. Pacey groans into her mouth.
He runs his hand over the seam of her jeans and she arches into it.
All Pacey wants is his name on her lips. The breathy tendrils of her pleasure calling for him.
Ever since their Sunday day beneath the willow, he imagined it, on repeat. Chasing the feeling of her undoing, pressing pause, rewind, replay on it.
"Can I touch you?" his voice shakes.
"Please," Joey doesn't hesitate.
He unbuttons her jeans, glides his hand across her flat stomach, tries to keep his breathing steady, and fails. His hands tremble. Joey Potter is soft and absorbing.
She brings him back, kisses him for grounding, and guides his hand down to breach the elastic of her underwear. He takes instruction, and moves his hand lower, dipping his fingers ever so lightly against what he assumes must be her clit. The small bead is swollen and wet. When he runs the pad of his finger over it, Joey's knees stoop and a moan escapes her lips.
"Is that okay?" he asks.
She nods, and he continues, exploring the warm space and trying different movements. How a swirl or increase in pace makes her lashes flutter against his cheek.
Letting his fingers slide further, he's lost in the heat until it dips and he finds a place where he can extend an index finger, gently edging it inside her.
The flutters become a gasp, and she rolls her hips into him, letting him sink beyond his knuckle. When inside, he moves it, testing. Dragging it out and back into the tight space.
"Pacey," falls from Joey's lips as he continues the movement, growing ever faster and deeper.
His erection beats hot as her palm rubs it through his pants, the speed of her movements inciting the speed of his.
She is tight around him, desperate breaths on his neck while he continues. He maneuvers his hand so he can extend a finger and simultaneously find the hardened bud beneath the pad of his thumb. With this Joey falls, slips, comes undone in the storeroom.
Relentless, Pacey guides her to the inevitable ending, until he holds her upright, orgasm squeezing his finger in waves.
And it happens, vowels and consonants and "Pacey," pleasure whispered to the shell of his ear.
He kisses her, knowing he will sustain himself on the crumbs of this interaction for at least a month.
"You keep surprising me," she says, as he pulls his hand from her pants.
"You surprise me every day," he smiles, dipping his finger into his mouth in darkness.
Holding hands, she leads him back to the storefront.
They collect backpacks, lock the door and stare at the closed sign. Pacey isn't thinking about how he'll get back in the house without detection, or how she'll explain to her dad where she's been. Now that it's over all he sees is the end, when it should be their beginning.
"I want you to know something, Jo."
"Yeah?"
"In case it isn't obvious, I fell in love with you in that video store."
She smiles. "You did?"
"Yeah, I did. And I want you to know it will continue, even when we're not there together anymore."
She wraps her arms around his neck, "I love you too, Pace."
Beneath a flickering streetlight, the Wagoneer waits for their last ride home.