Just like the wind and rain that erode the strongest structures, eat away at the hard foundation; I wear you down until you’re nothing.

That’s what I’ve done here. I’ve taken all that was good and strong and loyal about you and ground it down until it’s nothing but a memory. Which is really only fitting, and the reason I knew I’d find you here.

You probably think I don’t know that you come here and look out over the water, remembering. Remembering what it was like and wondering if there’s any chance for us. The answer’s no, but I think you know that too. Maybe we were doomed from the moment she sank, or maybe we were doomed from the moment we started. Maybe we were doomed the moment I allowed us to be.

The last answer seems to be the right one every time.

It’s pouring down rain and I sit here in the truck watching you as you stand at the end of the dock, staring out at the water. I wonder sometimes what you’re looking for, what you’re seeing. When I flatter myself, I imagine that you’re looking out and seeing me, seeing us, the way we were this past summer. Seeing all that we could be together. When I’m, probably, more truthful to myself, I know that you’re probably wondering about True Love, wondering where she is, what adventures you’re missing out on now without her.

And I know that, had she not sunk, you’d be long gone already.

You were never the same as the rest of us, Pacey. You were always the dreamer, not Dawson. You imagined things that none of the rest of us would dare to. You dreamed about life and moving on, getting out and being someone other than what this damn small town had envisioned for you. You dreamed about growing up. Dawson always dreamed about staying the same.

And there I go again. Bringing Dawson into it.

I can’t seem to stop. That’s my problem. Even when I’m given the opportunity to push him out of my life and move on to something and someone better, I can’t do it. Who I am is so wrapped up in how he sees me that I can’t manage to break free. You knew that, didn’t you? You knew it, but you had to take a chance, take the risk.

Do you regret it now?

I slip out of the truck and wonder if the water can wash away sin, if it can really wash away the past. My hair is stuck to my scalp and I’ve only taken a few steps. I walk up behind you, down the slippery, silver wood to where True Love used to sit, where she was when we christened her.

Well, really christened her, not…never mind.

I can’t think of a single moment of my life, since I let myself see you, that you haven’t been amazingly sexy. You’ve got that…something that just seems to exude sexual confidence, but not in a way that makes it seem like you’re bragging. You’re comfortable in your own skin, a trick I’ve never managed.

Your T-shirt is clinging to your skin. It’s white, but soaking wet, it’s see-through and, personally, I think the flesh tone is a vast improvement. I remember the feel of that skin, burning up as you touched me. I remember the taste of it, salty and warm against my lips. I remember the smell of it, rich and thick and reminiscent of our days at sea. You’ll always smell like the ocean to me.

Your jeans are wet too, wrapped around the muscle like sleek fur. I want to be wrapped around your muscles, wrapped around you.

You don’t touch me anymore. I try and figure out the exact moment it started, the last time you wrap your hand around my arm and pulled me to you, held me against you. Made love to me. I can’t remember, can’t think. I try and remember the reason, if there’s only one. I try and figure out what I did, what I said.

Or is it you, this time? Is it your neuroses that are driving us apart, driving you away?

Somehow, watching you stare out at the water like a lost soul, I don’t think so. I think I’ve hurt you, wounded you beyond repair. But isn’t it just like me to think I have that much power over you. But, then again, isn’t it just like you to give me that much power?

You’re shivering. Is it from the cold, or from my presence? I’ve made you shiver with desire; do you now shiver with revulsion? Do I make you sick or is it just the elements? I reach a hand out and touch your shoulder, feeling the sensation travel through you. You don’t turn away from the roiling water, you don’t look back at me.

“What are you doing here, Jo? You’re gonna catch cold.”

“And you won’t?”

“I don’t have some huge life spanning out before me. I’m not the one destined to do great things.” You laugh softly, self-deprecatingly. Just like the Pacey I fell in the love with last year, completely against my better instincts. My better instincts suck. “Besides, if you get sick, Bessie’ll have my hide.”

“How is it that you manage to make even the most simple statements, especially ones involving my sister, sound dirty?” How can I laugh and joke with you still? How can I pretend we don’t have this gulf between us? How can you?

“It’s a skill I developed at a young age.” You turn your head and give me a small smile over your shoulder. For the rest of my life, that image of you will be burned on my soul. Or perhaps my soul is the wrong word to use when it comes to why and how I love you. Etched on my heart. Etched in me. “Honed by years of abusive gay jokes aimed in my brother’s general direction.”

My hand keeps moving over your shoulder. I can feel the muscles there moving and I wonder if you’re resisting the urge to pull away from me. You just stand there and look back out at the water while I let my hand slide down your arm, over the bicep. I remember turning my head once when we were making love and the muscle was firm and tight; you were reining yourself in waiting for me. I continue down your forearm until my fingers lace with yours. “Come on.”

“Jo, I’m…”

“Please?” I know you can’t resist me when I ask you like that, when I pitch my voice just right, when I turn my eyes on you. I tug on your hand and you turn around. I walk with my head turned slightly so that I can watch you behind me. Your chest is outlined by the shirt, your nipples hard from the cold rain. I can feel myself getting wetter, not from the rain, but from the deluge of you.

We walk up the plank and I lead you toward the boathouse. You start shaking your head, but I ignore you, not willing to listen to excuses or reasons, not willing to let you go without something of a fight.

With the door shut, the rain is muffled. The lonely rhythm of it pounding on the roof gives it all a sense of urgency, a sense of mystery. A sense of finality. You stand there just inside the door, shifting from foot to foot.

I remember the last time we were here, when everything was fresh and new and exciting and scary. When everything was a stolen moment that we treasured, viewed with eyes black with discovered passion, felt with emotions intensified until it felt like we were the first people ever to feel this way. Want this much.

I remember how it felt the first time you kissed me, I remember how it felt the first time I touched you. I remember the guilt and the fear and the desire and the lust and how I’d never wrapped my legs around a guy as he kissed me and how I never wanted to leave this room that smells of diesel oil, rust and salt.

I remember what it felt like to be a slave to the feelings in my heart and body, without letting my mind get in the way. I remember what it’s like to want you so much I’d die if you didn’t touch me.

You remember it too; I can see it in your eyes. It’s like this place has a magic for us, one that will keep us locked in some wanton embrace for eternity. I reach out to you and touch your cheek, stroking the slightly stubbled flesh with my fingers.

Then suddenly, I’m against you and you’re kissing me. Your hands frame my face, holding me there, inhaling me. All I can think of is how much I love you as we kiss, devouring each other, sucking on lips and nibbling on flesh. We move and spin, winding through the tight area, slamming into rudders and oars and other boat paraphernalia.

Suddenly, I’m pinned to the counter, your body hard against mine. You move down to my neck as your cock grinds against me, my hips meeting yours with unleashed passion. It feels so good to have you touch me, I don’t mind the gritty, dirty surfaces. I don’t care that my clothes are dripping. My sweater is thick with water, weighing twice as much as it did when I put it on.

As I reach down and grab the bottom of it, pulling it over my head, something in my mind reminds me that this used to be yours, and the last time I saw you wear it was the last time we were here. I toss it away, my wet bra almost invisible against my skin. My nipples are hard against the thin fabric, wanting the heat of your mouth.

You hold my breasts in your hands before you bend your head and let your hot breath caress the aching tip. Your hands slip down and grab my hips, lifting me onto the counter. I moan, the sound lost in the rain, as I wrap my legs around you and pull you closer. I can never get you close enough.

Then your mouth is on me and it’s hot, just like I knew it would be. Your fingers shove the lace out of the way so that you can whip my skin with your breath and tongue. I love how you don’t care how I react to the things you do, don’t care about my pleasure, but manage to satisfy it with every movement.

God, my whole breast is in your mouth and you’re sucking on it hard, your teeth grating against the puckered nipple. Your hand kneads the other one and it hurts in the cold, steamy room, but I don’t stop you. I throw my head back and moan, feeling wetness seep into my rain soaked jeans.

I jut my hips forward, feeling the counter cut into my thighs. “God, would you fuck me?” I can barely get the words out. My breath is constricted in my throat, in my chest. My voice is thick and hot and low. I grab your head and pull it away from me, my breasts hanging out in the cool air. “Pacey, fuck me.” I’m imploring you now, begging.

Your hands move to my jeans and you unfasten them. I marvel at your hands, so big and strong and yet so delicate on my skin when you love me. I lean back as you slide the zipper down, and as soon as it’s taken care of, you grab my hips and pull me against you, stumbling backwards. Your hand behind me sweeps the counter clean and you set me down again, tugging my jeans toward the floor.

I don’t care about anything other than lifting my hips, letting you strip me. My jeans spiral downward and you tear the thin fabric of my panties, ripping them out of the way. You’re on your knees in an instant, moving in on me. I moan before your tongue even touches me, hot just from the anticipation.

Your thumbs part my lips, spreading swollen flesh to show you the hard nub of my clit. You ignore it, eliciting a frustrated whimper from me, halted by the feel of your tongue sliding inside me. It fucks me slowly, wantonly. You push it so far inside me, I feel it along my spine, like it’s licking every nerve ending I possess.

I grab your head, tugging at the short hair as you pull away slightly, sucking at my labia. The sensitive skin tingles as you use more pressure, letting one thumb slide over to rub my clit. I’m thrashing now, my fists pounding on the counter as you move down my body then run you tongue along the entire length of my pussy. It starts thrusting again, filling me, before moving to take over for your thumb, sucking and licking, flickering over flesh too sensitized, too tender.

You slide your fingers inside my tight channel as I come, pushing through the hot rush, thrusting up into me. I’m beating your shoulders, wanting your cock, not your fingers. I tear at your hair, wanting your tongue away from my clit, not wanting to completely lose control before I fuck you, before I feel you buried inside me. I want to feel your hips against mine as your cock slides in slowly, pushes harder and faster until we’re both in a frenzy of movement that only stops when we’re spent, too tired to come anymore.

Your fingers move faster, your thumb now flying over my clit, your mouth sucking on the soft mound of skin above, your teeth teasing and pulling at short, dark hair; introducing pain into my pleasure. My nails sink into your shoulders and my legs lock around your back. I lean back and let loose a howl of satisfaction, my body jerking so hard I slam the back of my head into the window, breaking the glass and letting the cold rain pour in.

You move away from me, breathing hard, your face wet from something other than the rain now. Grabbing my sweater, your sweater, you wipe it all away and toss the soiled cloth at me. You shake your head in denial, in refusal, in something and back away from me.

The rain washes away the remains of loving me as you head out into it, happy to be back in the eye of a storm rather than in the center of my turbulence. I slide down off the counter and dress myself, wondering if I should feel shame, dirty, cheap. Wondering, as I slide on the sweater that once smelled like you and now smells like me, if I’ll ever see you again after this.

I shut the door of the boathouse behind me as I leave, one last lingering glance at the counter. Before, it was all about who should be the first to go. This time, it’s all about being the last.