Send me your comments, criticisms & compliments ... please?
Classification: Dawson/Joey, but Jen, Jack, Pacey and Andie are in the background.
Spoilers / References: Another set-in-the-future piece (not a high school reunion in sight, though). It is written entirely from Joey's point-of-view over a year-long period, and incorporates flashbacks to events from the past.Before I get any flame e-mail telling me Dawson would never act the way he does in this story, let me say three things: 1) you can't predict the future. 2) people change. 3) nothing is forever.
Title Reference: Taken from the film of the same name, starring Michael Keaton and Nicole Kidman. It's a movie which deals with mortality -- life and death and the struggle inbetween those two points. While the movie is a complete work of fiction, the events of this story, though somewhat embellished, are not.
The opening bars of the next track on the tape began. I took my eyes off the road for a split second to turn the volume up as high as it would go. Bessie had played ABBA incessantly when she used to babysit me as a little girl, and I had always associated the group with the rare happier moments of my childhood. Infectiously cheerful music, which I took great pleasure in singing along to loudly, although admittedly, slightly off-key.
"...Waterloo, couldn't escape if I wanted to ... Waterloo, knowing my fate is to be with you ..."
As I shook my head back and forth, I could almost visualize flashing disco lights pulsating along with the beat.
"... Whoa-oh-oh-oh Waaaaterloo --"
I stopped singing abruptly. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed my worst fear.
"Aw, shit," I muttered, and immediately hit the brake. Manoeuvering the car onto the side of the road, I sighed to myself and snapped the stereo off. Tapping my fingers nervously on the steering wheel, I stared absent-mindedly at my engagement ring. Since I had gotten engaged, one of my favourite pasttimes had become wiggling my fingers back and forth in the sunshine and watching the diamond sparkle in the reflected light. It mesmerized me, always reminding me that whatever ups and downs I encountered in daily life, there was great happiness on the horizon. It was a promise of a wonderful future to come.
The crunch of footsteps on gravel grew louder as I waited for the inevitable.
"Good afternoon," the officer said crisply, taking off her mirrored sunglasses. "Can I see your licence and registration, ma'am?"
"Hi," I sighed. My voice sounded utterly defeated, even to my own ears.
"Hey you," Dawson smiled at me softly. I waited for him to ask how my day had gone, but he turned his attention back to the TV, so I took the initiative.
"How was your day?" I reached over and ruffled his hair, propping myself up against the wall. "How was work?"
He shrugged without taking his eyes from the screen. "Work was ... work. You know. The usual."
I nodded sympathetically. Sometimes, I wondered if there was a kernel of truth in Ms. Kennedy's cruel and scathing assessment of Dawson's cinematic potential all those many years ago in sophomore year. His film career hadn't quite taken off the way he anticipated. He hadn't gotten into UCLA or NYU, and had to settle on majoring in film at the University of Massachusetts. As an undergrad, he had sent several small but impressive movies and a couple of screenplays to all the major studios, but the Hollywood talent pool hadn't showed even a ripple of interest. After graduating, he hunted high and low for an elusive position in the film industry, to no avail. Finally, out of desparation and to pay the bills, Dawson had been forced to throw his pride and dignity out the window and "temporarily" take over as manager of Screen Play Video, where he had worked during high school, after Mr. Olson, the owner, had retired. That was two years ago. It was honest, albeit low-paying work, but somewhat spirit-crushing for an aspiring filmmaker.
"How 'bout you?" Dawson asked.
I always felt a twinge of guilt when he asked me this, like I didn't really have the right to complain, because comparatively, I had fared the better of the two of us in the work world. The art phase I went through in high school had subsided by senior year. I came to the realization that though I enjoyed painting as a hobby, it wasn't practical enough for a real career choice. Instead, I turned my attention and creative energies into writing, and had surprised myself by receiving a full scholarship to the Journalism program at Concordia. I turned it down, however, for a partial scholarship at U-Mass, where Dawson was. No regrets, really. It was scary enough entering the post-secondary world, and what I had termed "people soup" -- all those strangers in my classes and dormitories and what not. I needed a friendly face to get me through it. We were both eighteen, and had been dating on-and-off for almost three years by that point, but things were becoming fairly serious. I mean, it was Dawson, you know? I figured we were going to be together for the rest of our lives anyway, so what difference would it make if the "rest of our lives" started in university?
After majoring in Communications, I graduated near the top of my class. I was fortunate enough to be hired right out of school as a staff reporter at the small suburban paper in the next county where I had completed an internship during my senior year. It wasn't a dream job, but the money was okay, and it had benefits and paid vacation -- scarce perks for a recent college grad. I certainly didn't plan on building a career there, but it was the first step on the ladder. It's funny how your perspective changes as you get older. When I was younger, I used to dream of escaping Capeside and moving to the big, bad city. And then when I was actually away from home, at school, not only did I discover the big, bad city wasn't for me, but I actually missed the simplicty and familiarity of home. I didn't need the frantic, non-stop-adrenaline pace of urban living to make me happy; I had tasted it for four years and it really wasn't me. I discovered that all I really needed to make me content, to complete me, was doing work I loved being surrounded by the things and people I loved, the centre of whom was Dawson.
"Oh, fine ... actually," I remarked breezily. "I was having a great day up until about 10 minutes ago. Check this out." I thurst the yellow carbon copy at him and hurled myself down beside him. Dawson examined the ticket for a moment, then looked up.
"Sixty in a 40 zone? What were you thinking?"
"Gee, thanks for the moral support, Dawson."
"Well, you were speeding, Jo," he countered logically.
"Whatever. Everyone speeds along there! There were people passing me left and right, but no, she had to snag me. I hate women cops. If it were a guy, I probably could have talked my way out of it, or at least had the fine reduced. The bitch nailed me for the maximum."
He yawned and stretched. "Well, next time, don't speed, and you won't have to worry about paying the maximum, minimum or anything else."
I was miffed he wasn't more supportive. "Dawson! Speeding is the only vice I have! I mean, I'm not stupid about it, it isn't like I weave in and out of traffic or tear down the road in residential areas. Christ, I don't smoke, don't drink, don't do drugs ... the only slightly questionable behaviour I engage in is when I'm behind the wheel. Just because you drive like a grandmother --"
"I do not," he interjected sharply.
"You do." I laughed, but was met with a face of stone. "Well, a middle-aged woman, then."
"Not even." He sounded grumpy.
"It's nothing to be upset over," I teased and stroked Cleo, our black cat, who had come over for a cuddle. She was a birthday present from Dawson four years ago. "Hey, at least you won't get any speeding tickets, right?" My attempt at humour was met with sulky silence so I decided to change the subject. "Have you fed her yet?"
"Nope."
It figured. Sometimes, he could be so scatterbrained. "She hasn't been fed since I left for work this morning, she must be starved." I got up and walked to the kitchen, where I opened a tin of cat food. Beef, her favourite, which she devoured. "You want anything?" I hollered down the hall.
"What are you making?"
"Tea!" I shouted.
"Sure."
Filling the kettle with water, I returned to the living room, where Dawson was still intently watching the news. I waited for him to look up, or say something. When he didn't, I sighed, trying to catch his attention. That didn't work, either. I was a little disappointed. I mean, he'd probably been at home watching TV for the past three hours. I hadn't had a real conversation with him in about two days, because I'd been out late covering the municipal elections, and he'd been up early because he was on day shift at the video store this week. Lately, our schedules just seemed to conflict horribly. I was looking forward to this weekend, so we could finally spend some time together. Even though we lived in the same apartment, I missed him.
"So, anyone call or anything?"
"Hmm? No ... oh, wait, Jen called. She said not to forget about babysitting Mollie tonight." His eyes didn't waver from the television as he spoke.
"Oh Christ ... right. Eight o'clock, right?" I groaned and glanced down at my watch. Twenty minutes after six. Shit.
"Uh-huh," Dawson replied.
Mollie was the three-year-old product of Jen's three-month relationship with Cole Scott, a fellow student in Jen's first-year Sociology class at Capeside Community College. I know Jen loved Mollie dearly, but I also know she had found out the hard way that being a single mother was a very difficult life to lead. She had dropped out to have Mollie, and between working part-time and taking night school, had almost managed to finish her diploma in Social Work. Mollie was gorgeous, all blonde ringlets and large hazel eyes and delicate freckles on a perfect, tiny nose. But, being a typical child she frequently tried to test Jen's limits, and more often than not, succeeded. In fact, her temperment was so trying at times that finding a regular babysitter had become an ordeal. Jen's Grams was surprisingly accepting of her great-granddaughter, but was too frail to look after a rambunctious toddler on a regular basis. I helped out in a pinch, but did so grudgingly. Don't get me wrong, I loved Mollie, and I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual -- hell, I was one of the few people she'd actually behave for -- but she was definitely what you would call a high-maintenance child.
I had seen all the sacrifices Jen and even my sister had made for their children, even though Bessie was older when Alex was born, and had Bodie's full support. And though I admired Jen and Bess, I had no desire to follow in their footsteps. As I often told Dawson, there was too much I wanted to do in my life -- too many places I wanted to go, too many things I wanted to experience -- to complicate matters by having a child, in or out of wedlock. If I was ever going to be a parent, I wanted to be able to devote my heart and soul to my child, and, frankly, I just didn't think I could make that kind of a sacrifice. Not now. Maybe not ever. I was too afraid of screwing up, especially considering how I grew up mostly without parents myself.
I groaned. "I am so not in the mood to put up with Mollie the monster tonight, especially not after that ticket."
Dawson shrugged. "So, don't go."
"I can't, Jen would kill me. I don't know how she does it," I yawned. "School and work and being a full-time mom ... just the thought of it exhausts me."
"Millions of women all over the world do it every day." There was an edge to his voice I didn't like.
"True, and more power to them ... but I don't think I could hack it. Something would have to give, probably my sanity," I chuckled. He didn't laugh, and I didn't like the way the conversation was turning. "Um ... anyone else call?"
"No ... oh wait, yeah. Andrew someone or other. Gibson? Dixon?"
"For me? I don't know anyone by either of those names." I searched my mind for a match.
"Dixon, that was it. Andrew Dixon."
I drew a blank. "Where was he calling from?"
"Um, that place you wanted to look at for the reception ... Green Terrace or something like that?"
I nodded, it was all coming back to me now. He was the manager of this gorgeous, Tudor-style reception hall that we were thinking about for the wedding. We'd been engaged almost a year, but had made few strides in making concrete plans. We'd set the date, the 24th of July the following year, and had decided on an outdoor ceremony, but other than that, it was all up in the air. There was finally enough saved to make a deposit on the reception hall, and Terrace on the Green was our first choice. Well, my first choice. Dawson hadn't been very fussy on most of the details. A typical man, or so I thought.
"What did he say?"
"Um ... July 24th is open." He sounded less than enthused. I chalked it up to interest in what was on TV now, which was namely an A&E Biography on George Lucas.
I was beaming at his news. "That's great! Finally, something is starting to fall into place and take shape."
"Uh ... yeah." He frowned slightly. I ignored it and glanced at my watch.
"Damn, it's too late to call him back now. I guess I'll have to call him from work on Monday. What's your schedule for next week? I need to make an appointment for us to go and sign the contract." I had booked the following week, the first week of July, off work. We weren't going anywhere, and didn't have anything planned, but I was really looking forward to just spending some time alone with Dawson. I thought we could take a day trip to Providence to see my father, or maybe spend a night at a bed-and-breakfast in Boston. But even if that fell through, I just wanted to sleep in and spend lazy afternoons and late evenings cuddled with him in a blanket on the couch, watching movies. Old habits die hard, I guess.
I was so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn't heard what he had said.
"Sorry, what was that?"
"I, uh ... Joey," he sighed. "We need to talk."
"What about?" The kettle started to whistle, so I walked out to the kitchen.
"The wedding." Dawson replied flatly.
"What about the wedding?" I shouted from down the hall as I made the tea. "Don't worry, there's more than enough saved for the deposit." Dawson was sensitive about his financial contribution to our wedding fund. His parents had given us a handsome cheque when we announced our engagement last August, and Bessie and Bodie had begun saving in earnest to give us what they could. My father had surprised us both and sent a small sum of money, while my mother's sister in England had written her congratulations and sent a generous cheque. We were putting in as much aside as we could to come up with the rest. Well, I was. I made several thousand dollars more than Dawson, which I know irked him, although he didn't say anything. I was able to put aside a little bit from each paycheque into a joint account we had opened. We weren't doing too badly. It wouldn't be a gala affair, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered to me was that I was finally going to marry Dawson Leery, and I didn't care if it was in front of a Justice of the Peace with only the two of us present.
"We'll manage," I said reassuringly as I entered the living room with the two steaming mugs. "We'll just pare down the guest list, that's all --"
"No," he interrupted. "It isn't about that."
"Well, what is it then?" I passed him his tea.
Dawson exhaled slowly, then swallowed. "I ... I don't think I can do this anymore."
"Do what?" I looked at him, puzzled, and took a sip of tea.
"This ... all of this." He motioned around the room with his arms.
"I don't follow ... what don't you want to do?" I prodded gently, wrinkling up my nose.
There was a long silence. Suddenly, I felt a nest of butterflies take flight in my stomach. I had only felt that kind of nervous anxiety once before in my life.
"Marry you, Joey." He couldn't meet my eyes. Sighing, he closed his own. "I just ... I-I don't think I can."