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“Perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most — you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love.”
-Franz Kafka
There is a moment — a brief one, but a moment, nonetheless — where he thinks he might be able to do this.
And then, of course, she smiles and Pacey J. Witter is gone all over again on one Josephine Potter.
“So, I’m guessing that this means Lindley sold me out, huh?” He mentally pats himself on the back for the easy-breezy-ness of his voice, that same old devil-may-care, shrug-it-all-off attitude that had carried him so far for so many years.
Joey wrinkles her nose, rolls her eyes. Pacey’s knees tremble.
“Ah, go easy on her,” she waves her hand. “I saw you at the restaurant.”
His mind briefly flashes over all the ways that could have gone differently (what if he had seen her, too? What if she had come into the kitchen and confronted him? What if he had waltzed out to her table like it was just another one of his jokes? What then?), but he banishes the thoughts just as quickly. If there was one thing he knew for absolute certain in this life, it was that there was no point dwelling on all the things that could have gone differently.
There was only here. There was only now.
There was only her.
It’s easy, way too fucking easy, to fall back into it all. They teasingly talk about Jen, the same way they used to after school in the car, and Pacey can almost forget that, sure, it’s another school year, but they’re miles and years away from who they once were.
“We try to get together every week,” she says haltingly. “Because it’s easy to get lost in the big city.”
“Well, of course it is.” He smiles, the fondness for her almost overpowering the ache in his chest. “You don’t have enough stars to guide you.”
“You should try to come some time.” Her voice is quiet, but determined. Just like her.
So, of course he says he’ll come. When has he ever been able to say no to her?
And then they’re joking again, pretending like the months they spent together are already a distant memory that they can joke about — “We dated once, right?” — God, the words taste like ash in his mouth.
Joey brings up school, some dorky article she had to read for a science class, and Pacey’s heart feels like it might just burst out of his chest, he’s so proud. But then —
Then, she’s saying, “I think what it means is that at some point in the not-so-distant future, it may actually be possible to forget all the bad stuff and only remember the good,” and it’s like the bottom falls out of the world.
Oh, alright, maybe not that bad. But enough of a jerk to stop him short. Enough of a jolt to make his heart race.
“Forget all the bad stuff and only remember the good,” oh Jo, honey, what do you think I was doing for months on the open ocean? What do you think I was turning over in my mind the way you might turn a creek rock over in your hand?
What do you think I remember about us? And what is it you remember?
“I don't know,” he finally says, praying that his emotions aren’t telegraphed all over his face. Joey used to tease him about it, telling him he could never really lie all that well because it was too obvious when something was on his mind.
He starts again: “If you ask me, I think that's already possible.”
And Joey doesn’t smile, not exactly, but she looks at him like he surprised her, and that’s almost as good. Those were the looks he used to work for back at school, back when his world turned on her eyerolls and shoves.
It’s quiet and cool, a soft breeze blowing off the water, and Pacey thinks he might be able to do this. He might be able to rip these horrible, clawing tentacles of love out of his chest and throw them away. He might be able to be her friend. He wouldn’t mind being her friend. He liked being her friend.
That was always the fundamental difference between Dawson and him; Pacey would settle for anything Joey would give him, because he didn’t just love her, he liked her. He wanted her around, forever and always. Dawson needed everything from her, and he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — stop until he got it. And, hell, half the time, he got it and then decided he didn’t want it anymore.
But then.
But then she puts her hand on top of his, absentmindedly weaving their fingers together, and it stings, it burns, it cuts , like a knife drawn across a palm for a blood oath — I, Pacey Witter, solemnly swear to love, cherish, and pathetically drool over one Josephine Potter for the rest of my natural born days, forever and ever, amen.
Joey squeezes his hand twice, then drops it, and somehow they end up talking about college and roommates and the Caribbean and the boat, but Pacey can’t ignore the pain in his chest, the ice-cold blade seemingly lodged somewhere between his ribs.
Ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts, he chants over and over in his mind, the only thing he can do while he smiles and nods and pretends like Joey didn’t just undo all the months he spent getting over her.
When she gets up to leave, he stands, too, helping her down from the boat’s deck. He takes her hand without meaning to, and there’s that same pain.
It’s her. She’s the blade. She’s the pain.
She’s the love.
And over the course of a few seconds, as he watches her walk away, never looking back (she never looks back, I taught her that), Pacey realizes, rejects, and then comes to terms with one simple fact.
Joey Potter is the knife in his chest that he will never stop twisting.