Dawson looked up as Pacey walked in the room, careful to school his features so that no emotion showed through. “Hey.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk to me like that, like I’m some sort of errant child who’s disobeyed you for the umpteenth time. I’m not your home improvement project, okay?”

“I didn’t…”

“And I’m not your documentary feature either.” He rubbed his eyes and moved over to the window. The back yard of the Leery house was set up with tables and chairs, ready for Kara’s party. “And, before you say anything else, I’m fine.”

“I have no doubt.” Dawson walked up and stood beside him, staring out at the back yard as well. “In fact, from the recounting of the conversation I got from Joey, I’d say you’re way past fine and right into just fucking dandy.”

“So I got angry. I’d just dealt with my wife’s funeral arrangements. For some reason, I think that allows me a little bit of leeway when it comes to being rational. Especially when I feel like I’m being stalked.”

“No one’s stalking you, Pacey.”

“Oh no. Everyone’s just really concerned.”

“Andie was our friend too, Pacey.”

They were both silent for a moment, Andie’s name like a weight in the air. Finally, Pacey nodded. “I’m aware of that fact.”

“And we don’t know anything, don’t have any answers…and before you say anything, we don’t even have the answers you do have. Maybe you don’t know why, but you know something.”

“I don’t know anything, Dawson. All I know is that I got up on a lazy Saturday morning and was going to spend the day getting ready to celebrate my wedding anniversary. But instead, I walked into my living room and found my wife lying on the white carpet she insisted on buying, her blood spread out over it, staining it like cheap wine.”

“We’re worried because you seem so calm. Like you’re in shock.”

“What else is there, Dawson?” Pacey leaned forward and rested his forehead on the glass, smiling to himself as he realized he was adopting the pose Jack had claimed as his own in the wake of Andie’s death. “There’s no one to be angry at, no real reason to lose control.”

“You just lost your wife.”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” He turned his head, his eyes pinning Dawson. “Don’t you think that it’s the first and last thought in my head every day? Every second?” He rubbed the palm of his hand across his forehead. “Christ, Dawson, I…” He broke off, his fragile mask cracking as he turned toward the kitchen. “What is that?”

Kara walked into the living room, her hand covered with oven mitts, the silver sheet in her hands decorated with fragrant steam. “I made cinnamon rolls.” She smiled and stepped closer. “I know they’re your favorite.”

Pacey swallowed thickly, shaking his head. He looked down, noticed their strange glances as Kara and Dawson both watched him, saw him start to shake all over, his body out of control as he stumbled away. “No…thank…” he turned, his stomach rebelling. He fell to the floor as he vomited, losing what little he’d eaten in a few aching heaves.

The pan clattered to the floor, the golden wood absorbing most of the noise as the rolls collided and separated, spreading cinnamon and frosting all over the ground.

Kara and Dawson both reached him at the same time. Kara bent down, her hands lost in the red mitts she wore. “Are you okay, Uncle Pacey?”

He tried to speak, overwhelmed by the sickly-sweet scent. Shaking his head, he continued retching, his empty stomach giving nothing but wretched air and bitter acid. Dawson moved Kara away and helped Pacey stand, allowing him to lean against him. “Kara, clean that up, okay? And open the door off the kitchen.”

“What’s wrong?” She looked nervously from one man to the other. “What did I do, Dawson?”

“Nothing.” He managed a smile for her, hoping that it calmed her. “I’m going to take Pacey outside, get him some fresh air.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Her concern was thick with worry and the milky sound of the onset of tears.

“He’s going to be fine.” Dawson started moving, forcing Pacey to move with him. “We’ll be outside. Maybe you could ask Jenna to bring us something to drink?”

Kara nodded, her eyes brimming with wetness. “I’m sorry, Uncle Pacey.”

He looked back at her, smiling weakly. Reaching out, Pacey grabbed her hand through the thick mitt and squeezed it before pulling away. He let Dawson lead him out onto the porch, not resisting.

“I’m going to guess that there’s a story there?”

“Why?” Pacey asked, his voice hoarse.

“Most people don’t throw up in your living room unless there’s something going on.” Dawson shrugged and settled Pacey into a chair before taking the one facing him. “So, why don’t you just tell me?”

“I woke up and went downstairs,” Pacey stated softly. There was no real emotion in his voice, he sounded flat and automated, as if he’d told the story a hundred times already. “It was Saturday, it was our anniversary. I knew Andie had some work to do that morning, so I didn’t expect her to be home.”

He looked up and found Dawson watching him, intent, interested. Shaking his head, Pacey continued. “There were cinnamon rolls on the table. She’d made them before she left. Then she’d written me a note telling me how excited she was for that night. After I read that, I walked into the living room and I found her.”

“Jesus, Pace.”

“And, if it makes you feel better, I threw up then too. Of course, we have white, shag carpet, so our clean up is going to be a hell of a lot tougher.”

“I’m so, so sorry, Pacey.”

“Her note…well, her note said that she was looking forward to that night, you know? She’d made me my favorite breakfast so that I’d make her favorite dinner.” He stopped speaking, his emotions starting to catch up to his voice. “So I don’t know anything, Dawson. I don’t have any answers at all. All I have is a dead wife and a bunch of friends who think I’m about to completely lose it.”

“Not completely.” Dawson walked over to Pacey and put his arm around him, giving him what little comfort he could.

“Oh really?”

“I’m not saying we don’t think you’re going to lose it,” Dawson reminded him, smiling enough to take any edge from the words. “We just don’t intend to let you completely lose it.”

“And I’m supposed to thank you for this?”

“You will,” Dawson assured him. “In the long run.”