I can remember the first time I heard his voice.

Not the very first time. Not when I was young enough to be honest, not when pulling my hair, and water fights were the complexities of our relationship. Not his first word, or my own; those memories are locked somewhere else, someplace maybe one day I’ll be strong enough to look back on.

But the first time it really mattered, after five years apart. After wondering if he’d changed, hoping he had, praying that he hadn’t. After trying to imagine if he still had that same, familiar lilt in his voice, After all the time trying to figure it out and not giving him the chance to let me know, to find out.

Or myself.

I almost wished it wasn’t him. I almost didn’t turn my back, almost didn’t catch my breath and clutch my hands to fists in my lap. I almost wished I’d never loved him at all, and that it didn’t bother me, seeing him again, after this long.

Almost.

Then again, I’ve never been that good at lying to myself.

“Joey Potter. Well if it isn’t the small-town girl we all love to hate?”

The inflection at the end of his sentence was insulting, and he knew it. Almost as if he really had to ask if it was her. Something caught in Joey’s chest, and she froze, eyes locked on her fingers, wrapped tightly around a wine glass. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, and hated him for a moment.

“Pacey.” The word caught in her throat, catching on her breath, and she hated herself.

She could imagine him smiling grimly as he stood, still behind her. “So it is. Isn’t this a surprise?” He sounded dry, hard calculated, almost as if he had been expecting and dreading this moment for an eternity.

Maybe he had.

“What are you doing here?” She winced, realising how defensive, and ultimately defenceless she sounded.

“I’m here for Mark. Enjoying a little of the good man’s food, drink and company before heading to Motel 47 across the street.”

Mark. An old, old friend.

“He told me you weren’t coming.” Inside, she was cursing him profusely, cursing Mark, cursing herself. “You?”

Joey turned in time to see him raise an eyebrow as he brought his glass to his mouth, took a sip. The wine was blood red, and made her stomach turn. “I didn’t think to ask,” he told her finally, a small smile playing on his mouth.

As if he had just won the upper hand.

Pacey saw her skin pale, and frowned in held-back anger. “What, you thought I’d forget it’s his twenty-third birthday party?” His mouth curled into a cold smile. “Or is it just that you’d anticipated me boycotting it due to a certain ex?”

A certain ex. Is that how he saw her? Joey struggled to breathe calmly, ignoring the wave of nausea that rose up from her stomach.

“Of course not,” she whispered. “Besides, I doubt it would be a problem for you.”

“And why is that?”

“You’ve always mastered indifference, Pacey. It’s the one thing you excelled at.”

She smiled a little as she brought the glass to her mouth, watching his own face change for a moment before she threw her head back, downing the contents in one go, feeling the thick, red liquid stain the back of her throat.

“And you still have a mouth on you Potter. Of course…” His eyes darkened. “We already knew that, didn’t we?”

“We didn’t.” Regaining her composure, she was glad she hadn’t balked at the frosty sexual innuendo. “And I see you haven’t changed.”

She was right; he hadn’t changed. He still looked the same, sounded the same, smelt the same…

Dear God, it was best not to think of that.

“A little, maybe. A few years older, a few years wiser.” He raised an eyebrow. “But you have.”

Joey looked up, startled by his comment, and only then seeing the curious looks some of the other guests were throwing her way. Struggling to compose herself, she pulled her back behind her ears with one hand, smoothing it down. She met his eyes.

“I have?”

“Yeah.” He turned away before she could see the pain in his eyes. “I used to like what I saw.”

Pacey felt the glass crack under the pressure of his hand as he walked quickly away, before he had a chance to see the look on her face. Before he had a chance to tell her he was sorry, tell her that he didn’t mean it, the chance to take it all back.

Before he had the chance to let her screw him over one more time, pull his heart from his chest and throw it carelessly away. Someplace where he still couldn’t find it.

Before he had the chance to love her all over again.

He couldn’t give her that chance. Not this time.