***

Of course, I knew in my heart that he would never call. Just as I knew that he could easily arrange it so that we would never have to see each other ever again.

I don't know why I didn't go after him when he left my apartment. I don't know why I didn't run after him and insist that we talk, really talk, right then and there. Maybe it was the old me, back to haunt me after all these years, to force me to keep repeating the same mistake over and over again. Caught in an endless loop of fear and cowardice and resignation.

I felt it back then, all those years ago, when the exact same emotions kept me from going to him and asking him to stay. I felt it when I stood there on the Leerys' front lawn, knowing that at that very moment, he was preparing to set sail so that he could be away for three months, so that he wouldn't have to deal with me, wouldn't have to see me.

I didn't have the same luxury. Because I stayed, and while he was learning to set himself free at sea, I was tormented everyday by constant reminders of him. Little things and silly places that brought me back to when we had been the way we always were, annoying each other endlessly but also knowing instinctively that one would forever be there for the other.

I stayed, and I lived with my decision, enveloping myself in the familiarity and security of being with the person with whom I had always thought I would share the rest of my life, and squelching the small part of me that rebelled against my choice. Letting it fester inside of me while I convinced myself that that was the way it was supposed to be.

That summer went by in a blur. September loomed and everyday I woke up with a heavy, aching weight in my heart, wondering what it would be like to see him once he got back, wondering if he had forgiven me.

I never knew when he arrived. I never heard a word from anyone, and as much as I wanted to ask his brother where he was and how he was doing that it almost hurt to think about it, I never could.

I didn't see him until at least a month of school had passed. I was late, walking as quickly as I could to first period, when there he was, standing at his locker. It almost felt like I had been kicked hard in the stomach. The air rushed out of me so fast, I thought I would collapse in the middle of the hallway.

He looked… healthy. Tanned and strong, with his hair shorn so short my fingers ached to touch it. He looked back at me with eyes bright blue against the sun-flushed color of his skin, his face never betraying even an ounce of what he felt, slowly closed his locker, and walked away.

My eyes stung painfully as I stood there, classes forgotten, my heart feeling like it was dissolving in my chest and caving in on itself until there was nothing left. I wiped furiously at my tear-drenched face with my hands and hid in the girls' room for an hour, alternating between blinding guilt and unbearable, undeniable regret.

He avoided any sort of contact after that. And I let myself believe that I was fine even while my heart felt like it was breaking every time I forced myself to face the fact that he had learned to let me go.

***

"Going out for lunch?" Lauren asks cheerfully from her desk as I walk by.

I spare a glance her way, but my steps toward the elevators don't falter. "Yes. See you later."

It takes effort for me to keep my feet moving, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other while my stomach knots itself into tight coils of fear and uncertainty.

I attempt to rehearse my lines in my head during the cab ride to his office, arranging what I need to say. But the hard, insistent thudding of my heart in my chest keeps me from holding down one single coherent thought, and by the time we pull up to the front of his building, my throat is as dry as a desert.

I had tried calling him twice this morning. Both times, he was either 'in a meeting', or 'indisposed'. My palms dampen as I ride the elevator up to his floor.

"Ms. Potter!" His assistant exclaims in surprise as I head straight for his door. "Mr. Shafer is busy," she says frantically, trying to block my path. "Please take a seat while I go in and tell him that you're here."

"No, that won't be necessary." I tell her firmly, my hand on the doorknob. "Thank you."

Pacey is standing behind his chair when I come in, staring out the window with his hand rubbing the back of his neck. My heart clenches as I remember the last time I saw him in that stance.

He turns in surprise, his expression remaining blank as he sees me. "It's alright, Carol."

His assistant closes the door quietly behind her. He stays standing there, looking at me expectantly.

"How was your cocktail meeting?" I ask casually.

He shrugs. "Fine."

Thick silence hangs in the air. He has no intention of saying anything else. I press my palms against the material of my skirt and will myself to go on.

"Pacey…"

He stiffens and keeps his eyes fixed on me.

"What did you want to talk about yesterday?" I try to make myself sound upbeat.

"Nothing." He replies shortly.

"I find that a little hard to believe," I tease him lightly.

"Joey, what are you doing here?"

We look at each other, at an impasse. Neither one willing to make the first move.

"I'm sorry," my voice breaks. Hot tears well behind my eyes, threatening to spill over any second.

He looks away, his lips pursing into a grim line. Then he shrugs and asks as he glances back, "Sorry for what?"

"For everything. For what I did to you in high school, for not asking you to stay. I wanted you to stay." Hot tears well behind my eyes, and I know that I am a few short seconds away from breaking down in front of him. "I just couldn't ask you because…"

A sardonic laugh fills the quiet room before I can continue. "What brought on this sudden bout of tiresome teenage angst?"

Confusion clouds my face as I hurriedly brush away the solitary tear that has slid down my cheek. "Pacey…"

"Maybe you should start calling me Nick." He sits back down behind his desk. "I don't know what you expect me to say, Joey." He leans back against his chair and looks away, spending a few long minutes to think before going on. "We're two mature, consenting adults. We had sex. I'm sorry if I did anything to imply that…" Shaking his head, he starts rifling through the papers on his desk as if I wasn't even there anymore. "But if you expect me to suddenly start spouting words of undying love and devotion, I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment. I don't have time to play adolescent games."

His words crash into me with enough force to almost send me reeling backward. I feel like my throat has closed up so tightly, I wouldn't be able to speak even if I knew what to say. I will the scalding tears brimming in my eyes not to fall.

The huge, aching weight in my chest blends with anger and shame, magnifying the painful churning inside me. "Go to hell." I turn to the door and walk away, ignoring the way my heart feels like it's being physically torn in two.