His knuckles strike my cheekbone and pain explodes inside my head as I fall back against the car, sliding to the ground.  My nose throbs and the pain is so intense that for a moment I see black.  He hit me.  That’s the only thought I can form.  Dawson hit me.

I look up and he’s staring at me, horrified by his own action.  I touch my cheek and stare back, shocked to my very core.  My vision blurs again, this time by tears.

“You son of a bitch!”

I have no idea where Pacey came from but there he is, his fist connecting audibly with Dawson’s face.  Dawson falls and Pacey grabs him by the front of his tuxedo, dragging him back up again.

“You fucking bastard, stand up!”  I’ve never seen him so enraged, his face contorted by fury as he hits him again and again.

Dawson isn’t fighting back and when he falls the second time, Pacey follows.  Holding him by his shirtfront, he punches him repeatedly in the face as I sit where I’ve fallen, here on the asphalt of the parking lot. 

The cold has seeped through the thin chiffon of my gown and numbed my legs and backside, the chill creeping steadily up my spine.  I’m shaking so hard my teeth are rattling and I can’t tell if it’s from the freezing weather or the coldness spreading inside me.  He hit me.

I stare blankly as Pacey continues to beat the shit out of Dawson right in front of me.  I’m numb inside and my world has narrowed to the throbbing pain in my face, my head beginning to pound.  Shouting voices overlap one another as people come running from the restaurant to find out what the commotion is.

It’s just noise to me as I watch Mitch Leery drag Pacey off his son in front of the gathered spectators.  I am for the most part ignored because it’s taking several men to hold Pacey back.

Through all the chaotic noise and confusion, I clearly hear Gale call out for her husband.  “Mitch.”

Mitch turns from where he’s got his arm wrapped around Pacey’s neck, restraining him as he continues to try and rush at Dawson. “Look . . .” she says, gazing at me with a stricken expression.

One and all gape at me and I realize from the shocked look on their faces, combined with the metallic taste on my lip, that my nose is bleeding.  Pacey stills and the men release him. 

Everyone stands there, staring silently at me.  Lifting a shaking hand, I wipe self-consciously at the blood gushing from my nose and I can’t handle it.  I just can’t take it.  Hiding my face, I begin to cry. 

Strong, familiar arms lift me and Pacey carries me through the crowd of onlookers toward the restaurant.  Wrapping my arms around his neck, I cling to him as he mounts the stairs. 

He holds me as if I weigh nothing as he strides across the patio toward the open doors.  I’m once again the object of speculation to those who didn’t come running with the others.  I bury my face against his shoulder as he carries me across the middle of the dance floor toward the ladies’ restroom.

Kicking the door open, he surprises the few women inside touching up their makeup.  Ignoring them, he sets me down in front of the row of sinks and turns on the tap.  Someone hands him some paper towels and he wets them, bringing them to my face.

His touch is tender and so very gentle as he concentrates on cleaning the blood from my face and neck.  The hands that just beat a man nearly unconscious are shaking as he wipes away my tears, his own eyes a little wet. 

“God damn him,” he whispers.

“I don’t know wh - what . . . he was so angry . . .”  I can’t seem to speak coherently and he quiets me with a finger to my lips.

“Shhh.”

“It hurts,” I tell him, my voice small and trembling.

He takes me in his arms and holds me, stroking my hair as I begin to cry again.  “I know, honey,” he says gently. 

My tears soak through his shirt as we stand here in the middle of the ladies’ restroom.  I can’t wrap my mind around what’s happened, and my heart can’t believe it either.  The aching in my face, however, testifies to the fact that it did indeed happen.

He hit me.