Dawson's home.
And this is it. I've got to do this now or else nothing will ever change.
God, I really wish that I would've listened to Pacey and let him do this with me. The thought of telling Dawson on my own didn't sound so terrifying before, but now that I can hear him walking up the steps, I feel like I'd rather jump off the roof than even look him in the eye. And I can't think of anything more comforting right now than having Pacey by my side.
But I don't feel like watching them kill each other tonight, which would most likely happen if Pacey was here.
The keys rattle in the lock and I watch as Dawson opens the front door, juggling his briefcase between his hands as he tries to take them out of the lock. He swears under his breath and drops the briefcase to the floor, managing to finally pull the keys from the door. He jams them into his pocket and picks up his briefcase, slamming the door angrily behind him, his frustration obvious.
"Bad day?" I ask from the shadows of the kitchen. His eyes dart over to mine and he frowns.
"You have no idea," he mutters, walking by me and tossing his briefcase onto the counter. It lands next to me, bringing a soft breeze to my face.
I realize that this really isn't the best time to do this. But I can't put it off any longer, because if I do, the next thing I know, I'll find myself walking down the aisle with him.
I turn around to watch him as he rummages through the refrigerator, settling on a Coke and sitting down in the stool next to me.
"What are you doing home so early?" he asks, watching me carefully out of the corner of his eye. "Don't you usually work later on Friday nights?"
I know perfectly well what he's doing. Subtlety was never something that Dawson was very good at.
I would usually be at Pacey's right now.
But I realize that he's at least acknowledging the situation... even if it is in his usual backhanded sort of way. Hey, it's better than nothing.
I stare down at the checkered counter in front of me, slowly tracing the lines between each tile with my index finger. Maybe this will be a whole lot easier to say if I don't have to look at him as he hears this. If I don’t have to see all the memories that lie in his eyes. Those eyes I turned to for for so many years. Those eyes that I tried so hard to love unconditionally. Those eyes that wanted to be everything to me, but were never quite enough.
"I thought we should talk," I say meekly.
He pauses for a moment, swallowing his sip of Coke and placing it calmly on the counter. He keeps his head staring straight ahead, never even glancing over at me as I continue to stare down at the tiles. "What about?" he asks.
I realize now that there's no going back. This is it. God, I can't believe that I've even gotten this far. I take a deep breath to help calm me. "Us," I say.
He shakes his head. "Don't, Joey."
"Don't what?" I ask looking up at him, angry at his ability to ignore all of this. He returns my stare and I can tell that he's doing his best not to look scared, but I think that he has some idea where this conversation is going. If only he knew the rest.
As I left myself look him in the eyes, I remember that they hold more memories than just the good ones. They hold all the times he turned his back on me. All the times he stood in the way of my happiness. All the times he hurt me. All the times we hurt each other.
And it gives me a strange surge of courage.
He sighs loudly, giving in. "Fine, what is there to talk about?"
I take in a slow breath and force out the words. "We can't get married, Dawson."
"What?"
"Dawson, we can't do this. We can't get married. You know that."
His brow furrows. "What are you talking about? What do you mean we can't get married?"
All my strength disappears once I actually have to say the hard part and I start to cry, hating that I have to do this to him. The tears start falling down my face. "Um, there's... I have to tell you something."
He stands up from his stool and takes a few steps away from me. "What?" he asks coldly.
I try to choke back the tears, but it's not working. My fear keeps a strong hold on me. "I've been seeing someone," I sob, dropping my head into my hands, my entire body shaking violently.
He stays eerily quiet as each second seems to last forever. "Seeing someone?" he calmy asks.
I continue crying, feeling too scared and too weak to say anything. I finally look up at him through my watery eyes and wait for his reaction, wait for myself to build up the courage to tell him the part that will surely shatter whatever is left of his heart.
He pauses again, just staring down at me with blank eyes. But I can see his chest heaving, the rage boiling underneath the surface. "Who is it?" he asks.
I drop my head onto the counter, the tears taking over my entire body again. "I'm sorry," is all I can seem to say, repeating it over and over again.
"Who, Joey?"
For a moment I wish that I was like the people who get caught cheating in the movies, the ones who always answer that question by saying that it doesn't matter who it was. But that matters now more than anything.
I can't find my voice. He asks me again, finally letting himself get mad. I close my eyes as tightly as I can.
I imagine Pacey's face and realize I can't turn back now. "It's Pacey," I choke out.
He stands silent for a second before closing the distance between us and grabbing me by the arm, wrenching my body towards his. "Pacey?" I keep my head down, unwilling to look up at him. I can feel his nails digging into the skin of my arm and I wince, the pain something else to concentrate on. "Are you fucking my best friend?" He uses his other hand to grab me by the chin and he yanks my head upwards. My eyes meet his and I nod slightly to answer him.
"You know, some part of me knew it," he spits. "I never should've trusted either of you again." He still keeps a tight grip on me. I pathetically continue sobbing. There's nothing that I can say anymore. "I can't believe you," he says, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at me. "How could you?" Did you do this on purpose?"
I shake my head.
"You did this just to hurt me. To get my attention." "No, I didn't mean for this. I'm so sorry," I sob.
"You're sorry?" he laughes. "Are you sorry for throwing away everything that we have, all of our history? Huh? Are you sorry that you ruined everything and that you did it just for the sex?"
"That's not true," I whimper.
"I can't believe how fucking stupid you are. It's just about the sex to him. He using you... and you just loved it, didn't you."
I pull my face out from his tight grip and shake my head. "That's not how it is. Dawson, we're... we're in love."
He turns his head to the door and his face tightens. "He's dead," he mutters, releasing my arm and quickly making his way over to the door.
I stumble up and try to follow him, grabbing him be the arm, but he shakes me off and continues to the door. "Dawson, stop! You have to calm down," I shout after him. He stops and turns to me, anger emanating off of him.
"Stop? Why the hell should I listen to you? You're just a whore." He reaches for the handle on the door and I scream out for him to stop again.
"Please, Dawson! Don't do this."
"Don't you dare tell me what to do. Not now," he roars, ripping open the door. "Right now, this has nothing to do with you anymore. It has to do with me and that fucking asshole!"
"Stop, Dawson," I cry. "Please! I'm sorry."
"If you think I'm going to sit by a let the two of you do this to me, you're wrong," he yells before slamming the door loudly behind him.