Oh, goody -- "Songs From Dawson's Creek Volume 2." Well, all except for that whole "oh, goody" thing. And probably that whole "Songs" thing, strictly speaking.
Dawson mopes back to his car to find Joey in the parking lot, also moping. "Still here, huh?" She says she's "just thinking." "Highly overrated activity, if you ask me," Dawson cracks. Well, nobody did, Nappy Gilmore, so stow it. He offers her a ride, and she says she'd like that, and she's pretty clearly making more out of the offer than he intended.
Back on the beach, Fab says goodbye to Andie and says she should look him up if she ever comes to Paris. Then he wiggles his eyebrows at Danny and leaves the two of them alone. "That, uh, goes for me too, you know," Danny monotones. Andie can't believe he'd still want to hang out with her after everything he heard her say that day; Danny can't believe it either. Andie jokes that she liked him better before he spoke English. Amen, sister. Then Danny lays a line on her about "a question in French, it's very popular," and asks if he can kiss her. "Oui," she says dizzily. Danny leans in, they start kissing, and then there's a quick and really obvious He's Not Really Straight, Folks cut to…
…the PB&B front lawn, where Joey tries to draw Dawson out on the subject of his new photography hobby. He says politely that he picked it up over the summer, and he didn't think he'd grow to like it as much as he has, and then he switches gears to passive-aggressive and remarks that that's always the way. Joey asks what he means, and he says with melodramatic bleakness, "You don't choose what you love, it chooses you." And now, I'd like to take a moment to describe Dawson's hair, which looks like the bastard child of Steven Seagal's and Mike's from Real World London. I mean, it's not as bad as last season's hair…well, okay, it is just as bad, but in a completely different way. But at least it has one mitigating factor: I don't think he'll run his hands through it nearly as often, since they'd probably get stuck there. Joey comes back down the steps a little ways and sighs, "Dawson…I'm very sorry." Dawson starts to get the cat's-behind look, then drops his head instead, thank the merciful heavens, and makes a little huffy noise. "I'm sorry for everything that happened last year and…for doing what I had to do," she goes on. "It -- I know how difficult it was, and probably still must be." Joey, please. Drop the chalupa. He left you no choice; stop apologizing for living your life, for fuck's sake. "It wasn't easy," Dawson grits out. "Thinking about the two of you together, every day, every night…" He trails off with a small nostril flare. Joey says, with much embarrassed shrugging and covert glancing, that he's the only one who hasn't asked "the big question." She obviously wants him to ask it, though, which icks me out. Dawson snipes that he's the only one whom "the answer could potentially kill." Heh -- and oh, how we've all dreamed of that day. Joey tells him to wait there, and she goes inside to get his gift. Dawson takes off the wrapping to find a brick, which Joey says came from "Hemingway's home in the Keys."
Oh my god. Warning: falling bile. Okay, first of all, it's not just "in the Keys," it's in Key West, so just say "Key West." It's only the most famous Key, and when you visit Key West, you drive past the Hemingway house like five times a day. Second of all, I've visited this house, and it's not made of brick, because you can accuse Hemingway of a lot of things, but "being dumb enough to build a brick house in a subtropical climate" isn't one of those things. It's stucco, people. STUCCO. No bricks. And third of all -- hi, it's a museum. It's a landmark. It's not a crumbling manse in the middle of nowhere; it has a preservation committee and a full staff. Everything's roped off and guarded, and you can't even go all the way into most of the rooms, much less stroll the grounds with a chisel and break yourself off a piece of literary history. I mean, they have signs everywhere: "Do not touch walls." "Do not touch books." "Do not touch fountain." "Do not pet cats." "Do not pick up cats." Again, I've visited the house (and I petted a cat illegally, if you must know), but really, it's not difficult to find these things out even from the comfort of a Los Angeles apartment. The writers could have learned all of these facts in exactly six seconds by using a newfangled gadget I like to call "the Internet." And fourth and lastly, why the hell would Joey bring Dawson a brick from Hemingway's house anyway? Hemingway didn't make movies; Hemingway didn't take pictures; Hemingway never lived on Cape Cod, to my knowledge. Hemingway lived in Europe and Idaho and Cuba, and he wrote books. Maybe they've heard of a couple of them. Dear writers: You don't write well enough to make up for stupid shit like this. Do your goddamn homework. Signed, everyone. PS: If you must work in a Hemingway reference, why don't you pay him homage by shooting yourselves in the head?