"Hey."

Pacey looked up from the TV screen as Dawson walked into his bedroom. "What are you playing?"

"Sonic."

"Winning?"

"How's she doing?" Pacey turned his attention back to the screen. "I mean, Joey's mom, you know."

"She's sick. Dying."

"Right." The sound of Pacey's character dying filled the quiet room. "I mean, I knew that. I was just…" He shrugged.

"My dad told me you stopped by. You should have come up."

"Nah."

"No one would have minded."

"I would have just ended up saying something stupid and hurting Joey's feelings or something." He set the controller on the floor and got to his feet. "You didn't tell her I was there, did you?"

"No. Dad didn't tell me until tonight on the way home." Dawson shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on his bed. "But we're going back to the hospital tonight. You want me to tell her?"

"No. No." He gritted his teeth as his voice cracked again. "Just…don't mention it, man. It'd just put her in a crappy mood."

"Her mom's dying, Pace. I'm sure she wants to know that her friends are there for her."

"She's got you, D. Really." He smiled, somewhat self-deprecatingly. "The last thing she needs is me pissing her off."

"You're sure?" Dawson turned off the game and the TV, tucking the controller back into its slot on his shelf. "You could have dinner with us and then ride over. I know Dad would cart you home after."

"Nah. Just…forget I was ever there. Or here." Pacey grabbed his coat from underneath Dawson's and shrugged it on. "Oh. Her school stuff is on your desk. Yours too. I picked it up for you guys. I know Joey won't want to get behind."

"Thanks, Pace. I'll tell her…" he stopped at Pacey's look. "Right. I'll tell her someone from one of our classes dropped it off."

The corner of Pacey's mouth rose in a slight grin. "Thanks, man. I'll catch you later."

The school day seemed to last forever as he stared out the window at the falling rain. It rarely rained in Capeside, but when it did, it seemed to do it with a vengeance. He sighed in relief as the last bell rang, but didn't move as the rest of the students in the class surged out the door, talking and laughing and making noise as they headed out into the weekend.

School was weird without Dawson and Joey around. He missed hanging out with them, teasing Dawson about his movies and Joey about everything. Once the rest of the students were gone, he gathered up his unopened book and headed for the teacher's desk. "Hey, Mr. Weatherly."

"Pacey."

"Anything for Dawson and Joey today?"

"How is Joey doing, Pacey?" The older man pulled a file of papers from a stack on his desk. "I'm sure this must be hard for her."

"She's…she's hanging in there." He stood there uncomfortably. "You know, it's tough. Her mom's…well, she's real sick."

"Tell her that our thoughts are with her, would you?"

"Oh. Yeah. I'm…I'm seeing her tonight. So I'll mention it. I'm sure she'll app…" His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Appreciate it."

"Have a good weekend, Pacey."

"Thanks." He left the room and stood in the hallway, not surprised that it was almost deserted. He leaned against the wall of lockers and closed his eyes, wondering if it was the weather that made him feel trapped, like the world was coming down around him.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the lone musketeer. Where are your sidekicks, Pacey? Or should that be the other way around. I think you're the sidekick, aren't you?"

He opened his eyes and gave Abby Morgan his most withering glare. "At least I have friends, Abby. Can you say the same?" He shoved off the wall and headed for his locker, gathering his coat from it before heading toward Joey's honors English class.

Abby's voice taunted him as he realized he really didn't have anyone else to hang out with at school. And he knew that Joey merely tolerated him for Dawson's sake. He sighed and shook his head. This weather was making him crazy.

"Mrs. Trainor?"

"Mr. Witter." She held out a book and a sheaf of papers. "Tell Joey to take her time. But, since I'm sure she'll ask, the actual due date is on the final sheet of explanation."

"Thanks."

"It's very sweet of you to do this for her, Pacey."

"She'd do the same for me," he stated without hesitation, though he was pretty sure he was lying. "Besides…it's the least I can do, yeah?"

"Do you know when Dawson will be back in class?"

"I don't. I'll ask him tonight when I see him. I get the impression…well, I don't think she has much longer. Mrs. Potter, that is." He backed toward the door, shoving Joey's work into his book bag. "Have a good weekend, Mrs. Trainor."

"You too, Pacey."

The house looked empty and dead. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he got angry with himself, hating the words rushing around unspoken in his head. No lights were on and the lawn was overgrown with weeds. The rain slashed down around him as he rushed onto the porch, leaving his bicycle at the bottom of the steps.

He dropped his bag in front of the door and surveyed the lawn from the higher and drier vantage point. The creek was raging, the sound like thunder as it roared past. He could just barely see Joey's rowboat bobbing in the waves.

Without thinking, he jogged down the steps and toward the dock, squatting beside the line and making sure it was secure. He towed the boat closer to the dock, fitting the oars in their locks tightly before releasing it. Soaked now, he shoved his hair back out of his face and headed for the small enclosure at the back of the Potter house.

He jerked the ripcord up, smiling in satisfaction as the lawnmower sputtered to life. Ignoring the rain and the whipping wind, he shoved his way through the long grasses, leaving a wet mat of clippings behind him.

Three hours later, he collapsed on the steps of the porch, bordering on exhausted. He tilted his head back and let rain run down his parched throat, shivering from the heat of the work and the cold, stinging rain. Forcing himself to his feet, he pushed the lawnmower back to the small room and ducked inside, inhaling gas and paint fumes as he unzipped his jacket and hung it on a protruding nail before slipping off his mostly dry shirt and using it to towel off the mower.

The jacket felt strange on his bare skin, clinging to the sweat, soaked by the rain. The blisters from the rake stung and bled as he scraped up the clippings and dumped them in a small pile beside the trashcans behind the house. He rubbed his eyes and sneezed, water flying out around him.

The wind died as he wearily climbed the porch steps again, grabbing his book bag and wincing as the canvas straps scraped across his raw hands. He hooked it over his head, settling it on his shoulder as he gathered up his bike. He stared down the creek toward Dawson's house, debating on whether or not he should drop off Joey's homework on the way home. A loud rumble of thunder, a flash of lightning and a renewal of the downpour made up his mind for him as he pushed his bike toward the road.

"You look like crap."

"Thanks." Pacey sneezed and coughed, choking for a minute. "You gonna let me in?"

"What happened to you?"

"There was a downpour yesterday. I got caught in it."

"I guess." Dawson surveyed his friend as they headed toward the kitchen. "Did you want to go to the hospital with us? We're about to head out there."

"Uh…nah. Thanks though. People are trying to get better there. They don't need me making 'em sicker." He grinned feebly. "I brought your stuff."

"You really don't have to, you know. I mean, everyone's given Joey the time off and is willing to let her make the stuff up after…well, after it's over. And my folks are willing to let me slide a little."

"It's no trouble, man." Pacey dug the stuff out of his bag, wincing just a little as he moved his hand. "It's the least I can do."

"Come with us to the hospital, Pace. Joey'd want to see you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Has she said so? Asked about me? Wondered why I hadn't been by?"

"Oh, come on, Pacey. She's too busy being freaked out to wonder stuff like that. But she'd like to see you."

"And what should I say, D? I'm really sorry that your mom's dying?"

"It's a start."

"After which she'd say something like, 'Your complete lack of real compassion just warms my heart, Pacey. You're just here because you want a valid excuse to get out of school.'"

Dawson took the papers from Pacey's hands. "She wouldn't…"

"She would."

"She would. But she wouldn't mean it."

"She doesn't need me around to make her feel worse, Dawson. Seriously."

Dawson stared down at Pacey's hands. "What did you do?"

"What?" Pacey looked down at the bandages, almost as surprised as Dawson to see them there. He'd forgotten he'd put them on last night before he'd collapsed into his bed. "Oh. Burned myself on the handle of a pan. Freaked out, and grabbed it with the other. Not too above moronly." He shoved them in his pockets then pulled one out to grab his bag. "You should probably get going. I'm sure it helps her a lot to have you there."

"Pacey."

"Later, D." He pushed through the screen door and made his way down the steps. Mrs. Leery's car pulled up in front of him, and he barely managed to jump out of the way as she pulled the emergency brake and climbed out, tears streaming down her face. "Oh…no."

She didn't hear him as she rushed past, calling for her husband and Dawson. Pacey swallowed back the knot of tears in his throat and grabbed for his bike, surprised when it jerked back out of his hand. Mrs. Leery's front tire rested on the rear tire of his bike, the frame completely bent.

Leaving it there, he grabbed Dawson's bike from against the wall of the house and hopped on it, heading as fast as he could pedal to Joey's house.

It was still silent, looking somehow more forlorn in the bright sunlight. He dug in the flowerbox that hung from the window beside the door and found the spare house key, unlocking the door and letting himself in to the dark room.

It smelled like loneliness. Normally, the house smelled like something Mrs. Potter had just made. Bacon or cupcakes or pancakes or potatoes or something else that just seemed to smell like home to him. He looked around the living room and picked up the mail that lay scattered in front of the door.

He straightened it out and set it on the table next to the door before moving into the kitchen. Clean dishes sat in the rack, long past dry. He put them away as well as he could, going from his scant memories of being in the kitchen without the intent of stuffing his face and from what he found whenever he opened a cupboard door. He rinsed out the few cups that sat in the sink and upended them, leaving them to dry as well.

His hands stung as he moved into the bathroom, making sure that it was clean. He grabbed fresh towels from a linen closet and replaced the ones that hung there limply. He shoved them into the hamper just inside Joey and Bessie's room, then stood in the open doorway.

He felt as if he'd entered some sort of inner sanctum as he moved into the room. It smelled of something flowery, which he was pretty sure was Bessie's perfume. There were clothes piled beside the hamper, and he imagined that they'd been dropped there in some hurried attempt to stumble into something clean before rushing back to the hospital once more.

He scooped them up, not looking at the individual fabrics, too afraid he'd find something that would slip into his unconscious and torture him via his newly acquired nightly problem. He shoved them all into the wicker basket and looked around the rest of the room.

The beds were perfectly made, not slept in for days or weeks. He'd forgotten. He moved over to the matching twin beds and ran his fingertips over the quilted spreads. He knew Joey's mom had made them. Knew somehow that on the bottom corner, if he lifted it up, there would be a stitched inscription. Had Dawson told him?, he wondered as he lifted it, reading the pale pink words.

"To Joey, Love Mom. Christmas, 1990."

He quickly dropped the quilt and smoothed it down, leaving the room in a rush. He stopped outside their parents' room, backing away down the dark hall, unable to even touch the door.

She was gone.

He'd never known anyone who had died. Never thought about death except in Dawson's movies, where it was all about monsters and superheroes and sword fights. With Dawson's movies you saw death coming and it was something you could fight.

He felt the tears start again and he shook his head. He had no right to be here. No right to touch these things and these people and he wondered what it felt like to be dead. Did she hurt up to the end? Had she said the things that she wanted to say? Had she done the things she wanted to do? Did she have regrets or sorrows that she'd carry with her or would they be gone, lifted like some mantle from her shoulders?

He turned to leave, to flee the hallway that seemed to grow darker as it neared her door, only to find himself staring at her picture. It was her and Joey and Bessie when Joey was about six. Joey looked sweet and innocent, and Bessie looked like she was about to become a beauty queen. And Mrs. Potter…Joey's mom…she looked alive.

But she wasn't.

He dug the key from his pocket and headed for the front door, locking and closing it behind him. His chest was heaving with frightened breaths and tears he couldn't quite control. He sobbed silently, slumping down in the corner of the porch as night began to fall.

He wondered if death made you beautiful. Not Mrs. Potter. The casket was closed and she was gone. He knew that. He knew that when someone died, their body was just this lifeless husk and you couldn't even see the person you thought you knew. He knew that somehow. Maybe Dawson had told him that as well.

But Joey. And Bessie.

They both looked so sad and tortured and so stunningly beautiful that he couldn't look at them for more than a few seconds. Bessie had a handkerchief pressed to her mouth and she couldn't seem to stop crying, but he couldn't see the puffy red eyes or red nose or any of the other side effects his sisters always got when they watched some stupid movie or got their hearts broken by the guy of the week.

She just looked beautiful.

And Joey. She didn't cry at all. She just stood there, all stoic and brave, as people walked past them, offering condolences and words that he could tell meant nothing. Mr. Potter was sitting at the end of the pew, not looking at anything, not talking to anyone. His face was buried in his hands, his shoulders moving with the steady rhythm of guilty tears.

He saw his parents move past them all, stopping to shake hands and offer kisses and empty promises of food and help and encouragement. His dad kissed Joey's cheek, then Bessie's, but he moved past Mr. Potter as if he didn't even exist. His mom followed suit, although she touched Mr. Potter's shoulder before continuing past the casket.

He'd heard the Leerys talking quietly before the services had begun and knew they'd paid for the flowers that seemed to adorn every surface. There were roses and daisies and carnations and lilies…tons of lilies. He'd always hated them, knowing they stood for death and decay, thought they smelled like what death smelled like.

Dawson stood behind her, his hand in the small of her back. Pacey moved around the outer edges of the church, observing everyone, hoping no one would notice him. His suit was too big, black pants that had once been Doug's, taken up about four inches. The jacket was his father's, the sleeves pinned under. The shirt was his own, but the tie was someone else's as well. His brother-in-law's, he was pretty sure. Either way, he felt encumbered and out of place.

"I'm so sorry, Josephine."

She must hate this, he thought, knowing that she despised her first name. People kissed her and touched her, and Dawson didn't move from behind her. For a long time Pacey watched them, wondering if there'd be anyone who would do that for him. Help him stand when his knees were weak.

"How are you doing, my dear? She's with God now. He'll hold her in his hand until you're together again."

Joey stared up at Mr. and Mrs. Ryan, not seeing them, he was sure. "She suffered so much pain." He was surprised by her voice - that she spoke, that she sounded so different. Maybe this was when she changed, her body becoming something different like his was every day. "How could God let her do that, Mrs. Ryan? How?"

"Your mother understood that what is sweet often only comes as the price of bitterness."

"She was never bitter." Tears finally stood in Joey's eyes and he watched in a sort of desperate fascination as they trickled down her cheeks unheeded. "She was so sweet and so loving and so perfect and your God took her away from me."

"Jo…" Bessie's voice was soft and couldn't seem to break through Joey's pain.

"I'm twelve years old and your God took away my mother!" Her voice rose, verging on hysterical, verging on screaming, and for some reason, he felt relieved, glad that she was feeling something. "I need her! I still need her and he took her away!"

"Joey." Dawson's voice caught her attention as he took her elbow and turned her to him. She fell into his arms, crying as he led her out of the room, out of the church. Pacey followed at a discreet distance, watching as they walked away, heading for Dawson's house.

He felt like a burglar or a peeping tom as he climbed the steps slowly up to Dawson's bedroom. He paused just below the top, listening. His heart sped up as the bathroom door opened and she walked out, no longer in some sheath of mourning, but in jeans and a shirt that made her look like Joey again, although she was no less beautiful than she'd been in the church.

"Thanks for getting my clothes."

"I figured you wouldn't want to wear that dress all day."

"I didn't."

He climbed up onto the landing and moved to stand beside the door, out of their line of sight. "Have you had a chance to do any of the reading for English?"

"Not a bit."

"Me either."

"I really appreciate that you stopped by the school all the time and picked this up for me."

"No problem. Really."

Pacey smirked. He should have known that Dawson would take the credit. He was surprisingly fine with it, glad that she didn't know or suspect somehow that it was him.

"Have you…" she paused, and he could imagine her biting her lower lip like she did all the time. "How's Pacey?"

"Pacey?"

"Yeah. Your best friend? Remember him? I haven't seen him in weeks."

"He's fine. He was at the funeral."

"Yeah? I didn't notice much. She hated lilies, did you know that? Even though her name was Lillian, she thought they were ugly." She was quiet, but he could hear her moving around the room. "So, how is he?"

"Pacey?"

"Yeah. Pacey."

"He's fine. He was sick for a while. A cold or something."

"Is that why he didn't come?"

"What?"

"To the hospital."

Pacey turned so that he was facing the wall, his head resting against it as he listened to them talk.

"Not that it matters. I mean, he probably would have just pissed me off, right?" She laughed sadly. "I mean, that's what Pacey does, right?"

"Right," Dawson agreed softly.

"Now that he's hit puberty, he was probably running around chasing after a cheerleader or something."

"Maybe…"

"I don't know why I would expect anything else."

He pushed away from the wall, walking down the stairs as if in a trance. He'd guessed correctly, known somehow that she'd think that way, feel that way. But it still hurt. He glanced down at his hands, still tender from the work he'd done in her yard just a few days ago. He managed a smile as he closed the front door silently behind him. He'd done the right thing. He'd been there for her. Even if she didn't know it.

The door closed behind him and upstairs, Joey stood at the window and sighed, the words barely loud enough for herself to hear. "But I missed him."

08/25/01