I cannot wait to get out of this place. Some job this is. I get sexually harassed by my boss and always smell like gas. I keep hoping that at some point things will get better, but I'm starting to wonder if that's possible. I thought they were and seemingly they did. But they didn't. Hell, I couldn't explain it myself if I tried.
As I walk down the street, I see him. He's sitting alongside that yellow building that used to be a bait shop. He doesn't notice me. He's too concerned with whatever it is he's watching on the docks, in the water. To me it looks like nothing.
I sit down beside him, partly on the road, partly on the stones. He looks at me and smiles. "I was waiting for you," he says.
"Oh yeah?" I ask. "You almost missed me."
"Preoccupied," he says. His eyes fall back to the water.
I guess he is. So am I. Things have changed so much in the past few weeks. And every time I look at him, he is a reminder of that. He doesn't know. He doesn't know that when we slept together it was my first time. I don't know why he doesn't know. I'm not sure how, or even if, things would change if he knew.
We haven't talked about it, just like we agreed to do. I think about it all the time, almost non-stop for the past week. I suppose that it's best we haven't, because I couldn't put all these conflicting emotions into words if I tried. I'm afraid how he would react if he found out how I don't regret it like I should, how I don't feel guilty, how I don't feel sorry.
"I saw her today," he says softly. "I still don't understand how I can hate someone who I used to love so much."
"You don't hate her," I say.
"I don't want to," he says softly. "But I do."
"Pace."
He looks back at me seriously, and I am sure that he has something profound to say. "She was the person I loved with everything I had. And she . . . she just didn't love me enough."
I touch the side of his face softly. "Maybe it's best that you know that now," I say.
He closes his eyes slowly, and I know to remove my hand. "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't be dumping all of this on you."
"It's okay," I say. He doesn't even realize how much I like having him run to me when he hits a low point, and I don't know why. I think I should tell him that for some reason, but I something inside me just can't.
"I've been trying to be the best person I can," he says, "but I just keep making mistakes."
I smile softly at him, because I understand precisely what he means. "Maybe you're getting them all out of the way," I say. "Or maybe they're not as much your fault as you think," I add. He knows the many things I'm alluding to, including what happened between him and me.
He nods his head. "I feel really out of control," he whispers.
I know those sentiments well, and I wish I knew how to make those feelings go away. But I can't. Sometimes there's no cure for them. "We need to get away for the night," I say. "Let's drive up the coast or something." As much as it hurts to be with him, I can't even fathom being anywhere else.
He nods again, stands, and offers his hand to me. I less than graciously accept, and follow him to his truck. Being alone with him scares me and thrills me at the same time.
* * * * *
I watch him as he drives. It's dark, and he's covered by shadows. I can only see him occasionally when we pass under a street light. I'd like to say that he's just watching the road, not thinking of another thing. I know otherwise, though. I can see his brow furrowed, and I just wish I knew what was going on in his head.
"Where are we going?" he asks curiously, glancing at me.
I shrug. "Isn't it supposed to be the journey that's important, not the destination?"
"Speaking in proverbs?" he asks.
I nod slowly. "I'm not really sure what to say, Pace. I'm not sure what to think. But you and I . . . things aren't easy for us. And maybe . . . maybe for just one night we can get away from all this . . . crap. Maybe we can pretend to be everything we're not tonight."
He probably didn't understand what I was really saying. Maybe our whole relationship is predicated on the fact that there's always something I'm keeping from him, at least in the past few days. I don't see any other way, though. The prospect of him knowing everything is scary . . . it would change everything all over again, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for it. Although, I'm not sure if I'm ready for things to stay the same either.
That's why I need tonight . . . as an escape. For one night I can pretend like everything is okay. Maybe pretending will be enough. Maybe I'll see things clearer. Maybe I'll know what I want. Maybe I'll understand what he wants, what he needs, because I haven't figured that out yet. Perhaps that's why I'm in this precarious state where I'm not sure whether I'm coming or going. Maybe I'm just waiting to see how he feels. And maybe he's just like me . . . maybe he doesn't know how he feels.
"Do you know how many times I've wanted to be someone else?" he whispers.
"Probably as many as I have," I say.
He looks at me solemnly. "I should've known that, huh?"
"You don't know everything about me, Pacey."
He doesn't say anything for a long time, and I wonder why. "I'm sorry," he says.
I look over at him, a bit surprised. "For what?" I ask.
He looks at me seriously. "For everything."
"I'm not," I reply. He looks back at the road, but I can tell there's question in his eyes. I want to say something else, but I'm not sure what to say.
* * * * *
We finally stop at some deserted beach off the freeway. I'm not sure where we are. It's late now, probably around one in the morning, if not later. I'm not sure why he stopped here, considering we have the beach at home, but he stops and I say nothing.
He gets out of the car slowly, stretching his back before hopping up on the hood of the truck. He sits there, still, watching the ocean. I, in turn, watch him. He looks back at me through the windshield, and motions for me to join him. I get out of the car, take his hand, and sit beside him. "What are we doing here?" I ask.
"It's just as good as any place, right?"
"I guess," I say, looking out at the dark sea. The moon is barely even a crescent, so there's not much to see tonight.
He's quiet, looking at nothing. I pay close attention to the sound of the ocean as the waves crash. I need to tell him, but this seems like the most inopportune time to have this conversation, especially after all I wanted to do was get away. "I talked to Dawson today," I say.
He looks back at me, and I can tell he's surprised. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I shrug. This time I refuse to look at him. "He wants me back."
Pacey says nothing. I desperately want him to say something. Any other time he'd jump at the opportunity to give me bad advice. His eyes stay focused on the moon.
"Say something, Pace," I say quietly.
"Is it what you want?" he asks me, not moving his eyes.
I shake my head. "I'm not sure what I want anymore."
He nods. "Things have changed."
"What should I do?" I ask.
"You should do whatever feels right," he says.
I watch him for a moment. "That's not very definitive advice," I say.
"I don't have the answers," he says. "Nothing makes sense anymore. The one thing I used to know for sure . . . was that you and Dawson . . . there was something right about it."
"You don't know that for sure anymore?"
"Even you don't know that for sure anymore," he says, looking as if he wants to smile.
"And how did you know that?" I ask, out of curiosity more than anything.
"I know you," he says, looking sidelong at me. "Maybe not as well as I should. But confused shows on you."
I don't know if he's complimenting me or attacking my character, but the comment seems innocent enough. He's probably right to recognize my confusion. "It's just that," I begin, consciously breaking his gaze, "I don't understand why a few weeks ago we couldn't be together, and now . . . everything's fixed? I don't understand that."
"Sometimes it takes a man a long time to realize what he's given up; to realize what he thought were good things were mistakes and what he thought were mistakes were really the good things. Sometimes you do something, and it doesn't start to make sense until long after it's happened."
"That's happened to me," I say absently. I look back at him seriously, and I see that his face looks tired. "I don't think it explains Dawson."
"Are you afraid?" he asks.
I nod my head reluctantly. "I think so, Pace. Maybe it won't work out again. Or maybe . . . the one thing I wanted isn't what I want anymore."
"How can you know that for sure?" he asks.
"I can't," I say softly.
* * * * *
I've gone and done the wrong thing for the right reasons. Maybe I knew what I was doing when I got into that car with him, because here we are alone together in a motel, physically away from our problems. I feel like I'm creating more.
I'm getting too attached to Pacey and it scares the hell out of me. If I do that, what am I going to do when this is over? And I know that it will be over, most likely sooner than later. It's only a matter of time before this ruins everything; it's only a matter of time until things go awry and we have to discuss what happened--what's happening--between us. And I don't want to do that.
I just want it all to go away. I just want these feelings to stop, to go away before I start to love them, because I don't want to miss it when it's gone. This is so much like the rest of my life: No matter what I do I lose. In retrospect, I've already lost.
He comes out of the bathroom tentatively. I'm almost positive he stayed in there out of fear. We never should've put ourselves in this position. Yet, here we are.
He stands on the opposite side of the bed and picks up a pillow. "I'm going to sleep in this chair," he says, pointing toward a wooden chair that sits under the picture window near the door on the opposite wall.
"You don't have to do that, Pacey," I say quietly.
"I have to."
"Please don't," I say softly. I want him to stay. As sad as it is, I want to be with him in any capacity I can.
He looks tenative for a moment, wrestling with what to do. But he slips underneath the sheet, but turns his back to me and stays near the edge of the bed. I tuck myself inside the covers, and I watch the back of his head, the strong muscles in his back. I remember what it was like for him to hold me. I'm surprised that I don't cry. I just lay in the dark, my head so chaotic with thoughts I can't even keep them straight.
I decide to ask him, although I'm not sure if he's asleep or awake.
"What are you so scared of, Pacey?" I whisper.
The room is eerily quiet. It almost seems as if he's holding his breath. I know that he must be asleep or that he doesn't want to answer.
Then I hear it. It's soft and faint as it leaves his lips. Although it seems to take him a long time to think of how to answer, only a single word leaves his lips.
"You."
* * * * *