October, 2001

“Miss Potter . . . I asked you to come by my office today because, well, I’m concerned.”

Joey Potter shifted in her chair, briefly meeting her teacher’s eyes across the wide oak desk.  “Concerned?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Anderson continued, running her fingers through her dark, grey-streaked hair.  “Concerned.  Miss Potter, you’re a wonderful artist.  You’ve proven your talent by winning the scholarship, and you’ve shown remarkable potential for growth.  But since you’ve started here at Andrews, you’re work has . . . “

“Sucked,” she supplied in a monotone.

Mrs. Anderson studied the American girl sitting in the large, brown leather chair.  While she wasn’t dirty, or even unkempt, there was something about Joey’s appearance that made her seem as though she just didn’t care what people thought of her.  The only expression in her eyes, every single time Mrs. Anderson looked at her, was one of vague longing for something or someone she never spoke about.

“Well, that’s putting it rather indelicately, but yes.  Your work has “sucked” since you’ve gotten here,” Mrs. Anderson said gently.  “And if you don’t mind telling me, I’d like to know why.”

Joey looked stricken, and seemed to shrink inside herself.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’ll work harder, I’ll work longer.”

“Miss Potter, something is obviously bothering you, and it’s affecting your work.  Are you homesick?  Is it a boy?  Do you miss your family?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Anderson sighed.  “I can’t imagine how hard it is for you, dear.  And this may sound harsh, but you don’t have the luxury of not living up to the potential you showed in your application.  The school is watching the winner of the Joanne McMillan Memorial Scholarship, and you can’t afford to “suck.”

Joey nodded, catching her lower lip between her teeth.  “I know.  I’m sorry,” she repeated, gathering up her things.

Mrs. Anderson watched as the girl fled from the room without being dismissed, and her heart went out to her.

Slamming the door of the apartment she shared with two other girls, Joey dropped her bag on the floor and headed for the bathroom, glad that she’d have the place to herself for the next few hours.

She took a few aspirins for the headache she could feel approaching, and swallowed them down as she walked to her bedroom, kicking her shoes off immediately.

Joey was lost in thought as she changed into old jeans and a Capeside High sweatshirt, angry with herself for disappointing Mrs. Anderson, missing home, and so very tired of being sad.

The phone rang just as she laid down on her bed, and Joey stared at the phone, her skin tingling.  She knew without a doubt who the caller was, and she grabbed the receiver from the hook.

“Pacey!”

There was an unmistakable sharp intake of air, and Joey felt her eyes tear immediately, knowing the sound of his breath, knowing it in her very bones.  “Pacey, oh my God.  Oh my God.  I thought you’d never call.  I knew you would.  Does that make sense?”

Silence answered her, but she heard him clear his throat, and she sat on her bed, curled around a pillow, and just listened to the whisper of his breath.  She figured out quickly that he had no idea why he’d called, had no intention of speaking, and hating himself for being weak enough to call her in the first place.

Toying with the phone cord, her fingers shaking, she closed her eyes.  Tears slid from beneath the lids and she said, “I-I’m not doing so well here, Pacey.  I miss Capeside, who would have thought?  I miss Bessie’s attempt at pancakes.  I miss Alex’s constant screaming.  I miss Bodie and his words of advice.  And you . . . I miss you so much, Pacey.”

Her breath caught in her throat and she struggled to remain coherent as she spoke through her tears.  “I miss everything about you.  Everything.  I miss the way you look at me, telling me you love me without any words.  I miss the way you kiss me, your hands touching my face and oh, you’re hands, Pacey.  Oh God!” 

Her words caught in her throat and she couldn’t continue for a moment.  When she did, her voice was calmer, but no less anguished.  “I love your hands, have I ever told you that?  They’re large and they’re rough with callouses from rebuilding True Love and working on the fishing boats . . . but when they touch my body, they couldn’t feel any more gentle.  You’re touch carries more love than anything else on earth, Pacey, and I’m going crazy without it.  Without you.”

She curled up on her side, tucking her legs to her chest, the phone cord twisted in her fingers as she cried.  She could hear him sniffle, and her heart clenched painfully in her chest at the sound.  In her mind, she could picture him with the phone to his ear, trying not to cry. 

“I even miss the way you smell,” she said softly, after what seemed like an eternity.  “You have this scent about you, and it’s hard to describe.  Soap, of course.  Ivory, and sometimes Irish Spring.  And your aftershave.  Some sweat mixed in.  You always wanted to know why I stole your clothes, why I stripped the shirt off your back that one night and put it on.  That’s why.  I‘m wearing your Capeside High sweatshirt right now, but it‘s been so long . . . and I - I can‘t seem to catch your scent.”

She could hear his labored breathing, and then, from thousands and thousands of miles away came his voice, choked up and painful.  “Jo . . . “

His voice was like a balm to her soul, soothing hurts she hadn’t even been aware existed while making her ache for him even more.  She curled up even tighter, trying to stifle her tears so she could listen to him breathe.

When he didn’t say anything else, she spoke around the lump in her throat. “The way you look into my eyes when we make love, I miss that, too.  How you hold my face in your hands and hardly ever let me close my eyes when I come, because you want to see my expression.  I miss the way you fill me so completely, and I love the way my body seems to have been made exclusively for yours.”

He coughed quietly, and she twisted the cord around her fingers even further.  “I miss falling asleep in your arms,” she continued.  ‘I didn’t have much opportunity to do so, but those times I did . . . I never slept so soundly than when I drifted off listening to the beat of your heart.”

She began to cry in earnest then, the sobs racking her body as she clutched the phone so tightly her knuckles whitened. 

“I can’t do this, Pacey, I can’t.  I don’t want to.  My artwork is suffering, and there’s so much pressure because I’m the American who won the damn scholarship, and everyone is watching me and I’m so lost without you, Pacey.  I’m lost and alone and I‘m starting to wonder what the hell it is I‘m doing here.”

In the silence that followed, she could hear his jagged breath, and begged him silently to talk to her, to ask her to come back.

“Did I ever tell you,” he said, struggling to get his voice under control, “how very proud of you I am?  For winning the scholarship in the first place, for having the guts to study in a foreign country? You’re there because all you’re life, you’ve wanted to get out of Capeside, and make something of yourself.  You’re there to become an Andrews educated artist, Jo.  So do it.”

He took a deep breath and said softly, “And when you do . . . I‘ll be waiting.”

Before she could respond, he’d hung up.

Across the Atlantic, Pacey Witter sat on the edge of the bed in his darkened Boston efficiency, tears flowing unnoticed down his face as he rested his head in his hands. 

All night long, he’d had problems sleeping, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed to talk to him.  He’d quelled the urge, just like all the other times everything in him had screamed for him to call her.  But this time, for some reason, he’d felt like there was something . . . wrong.

So he’d kicked the covers off and turned on the light, reaching for his discarded pants.  Pulling out his wallet, he had opened it up and reached behind a picture of the two of them on True Love, and brought out a worn and tattered piece of paper.

He’d dialed her number a hundred times.  A thousand.  Always hanging up before the connection went through, afraid that the sound of her voice would break him.

But this time, he’d let the phone ring, his hands sweating nervously. 

And she’d known it was him.

He hadn’t trusted himself to speak, afraid he’d ask her to come back.  Knowing she’d give up her dream and come running if only he’d ask.

He hadn’t meant to hang up on her, but he couldn’t stand it anymore.  Couldn’t listen to the love of his life bawl because she couldn’t be with him while she lived her dream of studying abroad, knowing she wanted to come back home just as much as he wanted her to.

Frustrated, he flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about his life.

When he’d found himself in Boston the day she left, he’d simply stayed.  He’d gotten a job that very day in a steel factory desparate for help, and he’d found this grungy little apartment soon after.  He’d applied at a community college, and had his brother Doug bring his things from Capeside.

He barely recognized his own life now.  He attended class from eight until two, taking courses in early childhood education.  After that, he barely had enough time to get home and shower, shove something in his mouth and head off to the factory, where he worked like a dog making car parts from three to eleven. 

Most nights he came home too tired to think beyond eating and showering, his muscles sore and his back aching.  Each night he’d fall into bed, exhausted, knowing he’d have to get up at seven the next morning and start all over again.  And each night, he’d lie awake, sleep eluding him, and he thought of the one thing he never let himself stop long enough to think about all day long.

Her.

When her roomates came home hours later, they found a different Joey Potter than the one who’d been living with them for the past few months.

The two girls, Mel and Ashley, stood in her doorway and simply stared.

Music blaring, Joey sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, sketching.  Papers littered the bed, were strewn across the floor around it, and for the first time, she seemed . . . almost happy.

“Joey?”

Joey looked up, seemingly startled.  “Hi, Mel!”

“Are you okay?”

She nodded distractedly, glancing around her bed and picking up another pencil.  “I’m fine.  Why do you ask?”

Ashley lifted a discarded paper from the floor, examining it.  “Because we’ve never seen you so . . . alive.  Cheerful.  And this is damn good, Joey!”

The American girl smiled, and for the first time since they’d met her, the smile reached her eyes.  “I’ve been inspired.”

“I’d say,” Mel commented, looking at the sketch over Ashley’s shoulder.

She’d sketched a man, nude, with amazing, life-like detail.  Every paper on the floor also depicted the same man in various poses and stages of undress.  The expressions varied, sometimes the man appeared happy, sometimes sleepy, sometimes just relaxed.  But in every drawing, his eyes were the same.  Loving.

“Thanks,” Joey said, barely registering their existence, her hand flying over the pad as she sketched furiously. 

Mel and Ashley exchanged a look and left Joey’s bedroom, which she didn’t notice, either.

Joey laid down her pencil and massaged her aching wrist, a smile still hovering around the corners of her mouth.

His words were exactly what she’d needed to hear. A swift, yet loving, kick in the ass to remind her that by God, she was there for a reason. 

And back in America, he was waiting.