“Merry Christmas, Dawson.”

I turn from the bar and my half-hearted attempt at conversation with Gretchen, who’s too busy to really talk, to find Jen standing behind me. 

It’s a moment before my jaw begins to work again, having certainly dropped to the floor the moment I laid eyes on her.  Her hair, messily curled with tiny fabric poinsettias haphazardly woven through the blond strands, cascades over her bare shoulders.  I have no earthly idea how her silken red dress is staying up, with it’s scandalously plunging neckline and no visible means of support.  She’s wearing strappy red high heels and she laughs at my reaction, twirling her tree-tinsel boa as she turns in a circle to make sure I fully appreciate her dress.  I do.  I really do.

“My Christmas just got a whole lot merrier,” I tell her, and she grins broadly.

“Come dance with me,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me off my stool. 

I shake my head emphatically to no avail as she leads me determinedly toward the dance floor.  “I don’t want to dance, Jen.”

“Well, I do.  And this dress is meant to be shown off,” Jen tells me as she turns back toward me near the center of the dance floor.  She smiles up at me, taking my hand and guiding it to her hip as if I’ve never ever danced before.  Entwining her fingers with mine, she says sweetly, “So quit your bitching, Dawson, and just . . . dance.”

“Okay,” I sigh, beginning to lead us in a simple dance to some carol sung by some indiscernible singer. I see this as the Cheer Dawson Up tactic it is, but I don’t really care.  Every man here sees that I’m dancing with the hottest woman in the room.  Unless, of course, Joey has arrived and I didn’t notice. 

She tries for small talk, but the question she really wants to ask is plainly written on her face.  She’s worried about me because of last night. 

“Ask.”

“Are you okay?”

She didn’t even wait a beat before asking.  “Yes, I’m okay.”

“Are you really?  Because you seemed completely wrecked last night,” she says.  As if I forgot the reason, she explains to me what I saw last night.  “I know it’s not easy, Dawson.  Seeing them, talking to them after watching them have sex last night.”

God damn it.  “You make it sound like I got some sort of voyeuristic pleasure out of seeing my soulmate screw my ex-best friend.”

“No, no,” she says quickly.  “I was there when you were spewing venom in your truck last night, remember?  I know you didn’t get any thrills out of it.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snap at you.  I’m just . . . “

She looks up at me with overly-made-up concerned brown eyes.  “I know, Dawson.”

She knows.  Well, hey world, guess what?  Jen knows what it’s like to have your heart yanked out by the person you’re in love with and handed back to you by their lover, your very best friend.  Lucky me, to have someone in my life who’s been stabbed in the back by her two closest friends and now has to watch them, happily in love.  Oh wait.  She doesn’t and she hasn’t.  I forget sometimes; she seems so sincere when she says it.

My expression betrays me because she sighs, exasperated.  “Okay.  So I don’t know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“But I can still empathize, Dawson.  And I know it has to be incredibly hard,” she says, and I begin to feel badly about possibly overreacting to her. 

There’s a trill of feminine laughter from behind me and it’s her.  She’s arrived at the party, and she’s giggling at some clever thing he’s just told her.  I can’t even look.  “Harder than I thought,” I manage to get out.

“Dawson . . . “

“So, where’s Jack?”

She closes her eyes briefly, obviously deciding whether or not to accept my inelegant change of subject.  She nods before saying, “He’s currently complimenting Joey on her dress.  She looks beautiful.”

“I’m sure she does,” I comment casually.  Of course she looks beautiful in whatever it is that she’s wearing, most likely a black spaghetti-strapped floor-length gown, and of course I don’t want to talk about her.

“Aren’t you going to look?” she prods.

“No.”

“Dawson, you’re going to have to deal with them as a couple.”  And I’ve done so well with that, haven’t I?

“Not tonight, and not at this party,” I tell her as we continue to dance.

Her eyes are so sad, pitying even.  Wonderful.  Oh, and look.  Now she’s determined.  “You can’t run from them, Dawson.”

We turn then, and my mouth opens to reply but my gaze is caught by something else, stopping me from speaking.  I have an inexplicably clear view through the crowded dance floor to where he’s dipped Joey over his arm and she’s giggling, delighted in a way I never made her. 

I refocus on Jen as he leans down to kiss her.  “Yes, I can.”

I leave her in the middle of the dance floor and make my way through the dancing couples to the French doors overlooking the ocean and the side parking lot.   The cold air sucks my breath away as I make my way across the patio to the shadowed corner near the building. 

Sitting down in one of the incredibly cold metal chairs at a small table, I sigh and realize that once again, I’m sitting outside in the middle of December, coatless and alone.  The last thing I want to do is go back in there to get my coat.  Oh yeah.  My coat is still in Joey’s room.

Joey.  God, it even hurts to think her name.  How can I do this?  How can I look at the two of them, touching and laughing and kissing, and choke back the bile that will undoubtedly rise in the back of my throat?  I don’t even know how I feel about the two of them anymore.

Well, I pretty much know how I feel about Pacey.  I can’t fucking stand him.  But Joey?  I don’t know anymore if I love or loathe her. 

I’m so confused and I feel like I’m never going to feel solid ground beneath my feet again.  But I know one thing.  I’m not going to sit out here in the freezing cold and feel sorry for myself.  I’m not going to let them drive me away from my own parents’ party.  I’m going to go back in there, apologize to Jen, and try to enjoy myself.

I’m standing up when the doors open and music and laughter spill out into the cold night air.  And there they are, Pacey and Joey, walking out to the railing at the edge of the patio, hand in hand.  This is the best party ever.

Sitting down again before they see me, I watch as she shivers delicately.  Of course she’s cold, she’s barely wearing anything.  Unlike the classy black dresses she always looks beautiful in, the white chiffon gown she’s got on only looks demure from the front, with a straight neckline from shoulder to shoulder.  Her back is completely bare, with material pooling right at the point of indecency.

Ever the gallant gentlemen, Pacey shrugs out of his tux jacket and she smiles up at him adoringly as he holds it open for her to slip into. It’s oversized on her frame, hiding the smooth expanse of bare flesh, and suddenly she’s Joey again.  Not some inexplicably underdressed version of Joey, but my Joey.  Only she’s not mine anymore.  God, I hate this.

“Thanks,” she says, the warmth of her breath mingling visibly with his, they’re standing so close together.  The moonlight is so bright that I can see them clearly from my shadowed corner, and I get bonus audio through the clear night air.  Great, thanks.

“Have I told you how absolutely beautiful you are tonight, Potter?” he asks her, touching her face and tenderly sweeping aside a curly tendril that’s escaped from her upswept hair.

“Only a dozen times or so,” Joey responds, smiling up at him.  They’re about to touch foreheads, I just know it.

Oh, but no.  Wait.  First they have to kiss.  Lingeringly, no less.   Now he rests his forehead against hers, staring into her eyes.  Isn’t that just a wee bit too up close to be looking in someone’s eyes?  Apparently, they don’t think so.

After a few moments where they seem to be communicating through the direct touching of their craniums, she leans her head back and kisses the tip of his nose before asking, “So why are we out here, Pacey?”

“Well, Jo, while we were talking to Jack and Jen, something occurred to me,” he says, his thumbs idly stroking her cheeks as he continues to hold her face in his hands.  “This being Christmas Eve’s Eve and all, we’re not going to have a moment alone together over the next few days, what with my sisters and nieces invading Capeside tomorrow.  And then your grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and snarky Potters from all over the tri-state area are going to start arriving in the morning.”

“Yeah, about that,” Joey begins, her fingers playing with buttons on his vest. 

“About what?  Not having time together or your cranky relatives?”  Even I’m confused by what she’s referring to.

“It’s just, well, okay, what are you going to wear?” she asks.  “When you come over for Christmas dinner?”

“Worried I’m going to embarrass you?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.  Even from where I sit I can tell he’s not offended in the least and is merely mocking her.

“You always embarrass me,” she replies.  If only she meant it, but no, her sarcastic retort is ruined by the loving smile accompanying it.  “And that’s okay, I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Good, cause I plan on being a constant, public embarrassment to you for the rest of your life,” he says.  Oh God.  “See, I was listening when you went on and on about setting attainable goals for myself.”

She laughs before tugging on his vest, composing herself.  “I’m serious, Pacey.  Normally I don’t see anything wrong with your fashion sense, however questionable others might find it.” 

“But . . . ?”

“But . . . I don’t want to be dragged into the kitchen again by my grandmother and my aunts, asking why I let you into the house wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt and baggy jeans,” she says.  “So do you think you could put away the printed bowling shirts and wear that dark green cable knit sweater?  And those charcoal gray pants you have?”

He’s all amused though he’s trying not to laugh outright.  “Wait a minute.  Let me get this straight.”

She sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes.  “It’s not that hard a concept to grasp, Pace.  I just want you to dress up a little.”

“I have to wear socially acceptable clothes to your house, a house I’ve sweated my ass off working on by the way, so that your relatives don’t haul you off and ask you why you can’t dress your man any better?”

“Yes,” she responds immediately.  God, do they have to argue or banter or whatever over every little thing?

“Okay,” he agrees.  Why don’t they go back inside so that I can go back inside?  I don’t want to be listening to this. 

It’s Joey’s turn to narrow her eyes, her half-grin signaling more banter to come.  “What is it, Pace?”

“What is what, Jo?” he returns oh so wittily.

“The deal.  What’s the deal?  There has got to be at least one string attached to that simple reply,” she needles him.  “I can’t have it that easy.”

“You know, I was just thinking.  Does this work both ways?“ he asks her, grinning fully as his hands slide inside the jacket to her bare back.  I can’t repress the shudder the very sight induces.  “If I wear what you want me to wear, will you wear what I want you to wear?  Cause really, Jo, that scratchy maroon dress you have seems like something you‘d enjoy wearing all day long.” 

“Why can’t you just be nice to me?  Why can’t you just say 'Yes, Jo, I’ll wear something nice one day out of the entire year?' ” she asks, thrusting her lower lip out and pouting.  The Joey I once knew would never resort to pouting.

“Why can’t you just shut up, for once?  And kiss me while you’re at it, would ya?”

She leans up on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck, and I have to look away.  They continue to kiss as I contemplate getting up and going in, for all they’d notice.  I’m about to do so when they break apart audibly.

“Hey, Pace,” she says, and when I once again refocus on the two of them, her wrists are linked behind his head and the smile she bestows upon him is soft and full of love.  I can’t ever recall her looking at me the way she’s looking at him right now; it’s freezing cold and she’s warm inside, because of him.  Him, for God’s sake.

“Yes, dear.”

“Don’t call me that, for one thing.  For another, this is our first Christmas together.”

His expression softens and if they touch foreheads again I’m going to scream.  But no, they don’t.  Thank God. 

“The first of many, Jo,” he tells her, and they stand there in the freezing cold, smiling adoringly at each other.

The urge to vomit is growing nearly impossible to quell.