dedicated to my awesome beta, suburbs. thanks so much for your help.
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she's been everywhere and back
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"And I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool…And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything." Her eyes flashed around in a defiant way. "Sophisticated — God, I'm sophisticated!"
-Daisy Buchanan, The Great Gatsby
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"What are you thinking about?"
The grass beneath them is brittle and moist all at the same. It brushes back and forth with the push of the wind, and in the light of the moon, his eyes shine of brown charcoaled glitter and she's reminded of summertime fireflies.
She feels like she's fluttering away into night time tales, of empty conversations filled with unspoken words.
"Little things. Frivolous things."
Constellations of stars scatter across the milky, dark-blue sky, untouchable. Always so untouchable and far away.
She'd like to catch one, one of these days.
"Like?"
Time passes by slowly.
"First loves."
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He talks in his sleep.
Whispers fervently about broken homes, angry, shaking hands, and the tragedy of growing up too fast. No one will ever know. He won't let them.
She'll be the girl from a broken rich home. Not him.
She holds him in her arms and tries to uncover each and every one of their hidden meanings. His grasp on her wrists always leave marks by the early morning. They are temporary blemishes of his pain, of his past; of his fleeting childhood and loss of innocence.
She rather likes them. They're quite lovely.
Sometimes, she whispers back to him into the dead night. They're sweet nothings blended in with sweet everythings. She breathes in the scent of heartbreak and darkness, as she soothes him tenderly, kissing his moist hair and gently rubbing his cheeks.
The taste of vivid nightmares, stale fear, and sweat lingers on her lips.
And he floats away as midnight strikes.
-
The first time they fought, she left for the next flight to Paris.
The trip is still a blur. All she remembers is vodka, wine, and shots. Lots and lots of shots. And maybe some pot.
Sue her; she was nineteen. Normal nineteen years have fun. They drink, they party, they live their lives in moments of spontaneity, and kissing a different boy every other night doesn't seem half as bad when you're single.
So that's what she does for a few nights. She lives her life carelessly, recklessly and she ignores the continuous annoying beeping of her phone, at one point even turning it off completely and stuffing it in the bottom of the hotel dresser drawer, beneath her summer dresses.
She vaguely remembers one night. She remembers a boy who looks too much like her husband; she remembers breaking out into random and obnoxious fits of giggles, drunk off of a combination of alcohol and the feeling of his lips all over her face, her neck, her skin.
And she remembers, drifting to another place, a place where the hands sliding down her shoulders weren't so clammy and sweaty, but warmer, gentler. Where lips weren't as aggressive and demanding, and the breathing against her neck not as ragged and loud.
The shine of the golden band on one of her fingers catches her attention and keeps drawing her in. And the laughter dies away, the feel and power of invincibility drifting along with it.
She leaves the stranger for the next flight back to New York and gets off the plane to find him waiting, taking in the sight of her smudged bright red lipstick, and wrinkled periwinkle silk dress.
He holds her in his arms wordlessly for what seems like hours, and she wonders if he can smell everything she's done.
He never asks her about Paris.
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Her world is spiraling downward. It has been ever since she was born. She's not a cliché. God, don't ever call her a cliché. Don't call her a mess. Don't call her broken. Don't call her a disaster. But most importantly don't call her beautiful. Don't fucking call her anything.
This is real. Everything is real and she is not woeful or in need of anyone's pity. But bitterness, bitterness is fair game. She's entitled that at least, right? She doesn't care what others think. She just doesn't.
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She doesn't realize he's come home and that he's watching from the door as she dances to the beat of the music in his flannel buttoned-down shirt and shorts.
She hates wearing shorts but she feels slutty just wearing his shirt and underwear (even if no one is watching her in the safety of their bedroom) so she ignores the disdain she feels towards the white cotton shorts.
She sings along with the voice on the radio ever so faintly so only she can hear.
Her foot taps rhythmically against the smooth and sleek hard wooden floor and makes sure her leg is straight and pointed. She shakes her hips like she doesn't know how and feels more than just a little silly, but for some reason that thought makes her feel happy. She's normal. She can make mistakes. She can be imperfect. She is real.
She hears someone behind her finish the chorus and she turns around quickly, her heart hammering against her chest at the thought of being caught like this. His arms are crossed across his chest, and he's leaning against the doorframe ever so slightly, staring at her.
"Keep going." He murmurs softly and there's something about the way he looks at her that makes her want to continue, to never stop.
And she starts again and somewhere in the middle he joins her and she can't stop laughing and giggling as he picks her up and spins her around in his arms. She puts her palms against his cheeks delicately, rubbing a few curls away in distraction and all of a sudden he stops spinning her around and she feels light-headed and dizzy.
He holds her there in place and unconsciously she feels her legs wrapped around his waist tightly for security as gravity and stillness sink in into the pit of her stomach. He's staring at her with emotions that flit by and around so quickly she just can't catch up or hold them long enough to decipher their meaning.
He kisses her forehead. "You're beautiful," he whispers truthfully and there's something about the way he says it, the way he looks at her that makes her believe that just maybe she is.
That maybe she just doesn't have glittering blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. That maybe beauty isn't about intricate sophistication or dolled up glamour, but about the way a boy looks at you and can see right into your soul and speak the world's truth into you with the simplest words, with the simplest of gestures.
She wants to contemplate if this is love, if this is what they mean when they say never let go; but her mind skips around and her breathing becomes too erratic for her to concentrate as his mouth dips down to the skin right below her neck and his slender fingers pry open the buttons of the shirt she's wearing precisely.
The world spins around them and the lights dim in her head. He's the only one that's ever made love to her, for her.
-
When they first met he promised her they'd travel the world together. 'Seeing the world all by yourself can make you feel so lonely sometimes,' he had whispered into her ear as they had looked down from the rooftop into the New York City streets.
She had laughed and leaned forward to kiss his mouth in delight.
When they got married, they visited as many countries as they could. From stolen kisses under the Eiffel Tower in Paris and thrilling escapades across bustling streets of Barcelona to quiet embraces in front of mosaic-tiled walls of the Taj Mahal of Agra, she saw the world through different, more curious eyes than she once had before.
They travel for amusement and discovery less and less often though, and soon he tells her he prefers the homeliness and comforts of their Manhattan loft. He keeps himself shut behind closed doors where time is frozen and never moves forward.
She watches his promises slip through his fingers without a care.
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She's feeling more needy and depressed than usual one day. It agitates her to no end, makes her restless and she needs to forget about the feeling, needs to feel loved.
They're in Japan and Connect 3's international tour for the summer officially ended the night before, so now technically she has him all to herself.
He's still sleeping and she can't bear to sit in the armchair any longer.
She walks over gracefully, crawling into the bed, and he mumbles something about sleep. But she hardly takes notice, too busying studying his features, before finally coming to a conclusion.
He's lovely, almost like an angel, and she wants him. She wants to feel protected. She wants to feel a sense of shared corruption and tainted innocence. She wants to believe in gray shades and clashing ideals with all her heart, that is if she does indeed have one. She wants all that right here, right now with him.
She feathers his jaw line with butterfly kisses, but he doesn't react. So she starts to slide her hands stealthily under his shirt, and he grumbles about not being in the mood for this right now.
She pretends not to hear him, smirking against his neck and whispering suggestively, begging him to please wake up. And she lets her hair fall in his face, but he wrinkles his nose, ordering her to stop with that edgy tone he only uses when he's annoyed.
Her voice gets whinier, the haughtiness more visible, as she gets on top of him and tries to wake him up, rubbing her fingers against his cheeks. He has to give in eventually she thinks. No one can resist her. And Nate should be number one on that list.
He won't relent though, not even close, turning to his side unwaveringly, thereby making her fall off onto the cold, empty space on the other side of the hotel bed. He yawns something about 'later' before dozing off again.
A rush of anger charges through her and she jumps out of the sea of blankets and proceeds to stomp into the bathroom and lock herself in there.
"Thanks for pretty much implying I completely turn you off! Why did you ever marry me?" She remarks in a biting tone, slamming the door behind her.
From the other side of the door, she hears a tired and crabby groan. "Honestly Tess. Are you really going to do this right now?"
"Leave me alone, asshole." She hisses, eyes stinging with tears, and she doesn't know why she feels so lonely, so hopeless, so empty, but it's getting to her. It's finally getting to her, after all these years, after finally finding someone she thought she could share her life with.
She hears the sound of blankets being thrown off impatiently, and the sound of noisy feet against the padding of the carpet. She can't help the triumphant but sad smile that appears her face. Somehow, everything seems just a little half-hearted.
"What do you want from me, Tess?" His voice sounds exhausted and desperate and she feels ashamed suddenly. He always makes her feel so ashamed, like she did something wrong and she can never go back; sometimes she forgets why they got married in the first place.
She doesn't respond. She doesn't know how to. And eventually, she hears him sigh exasperatedly, muttering something incoherent under his breath about women and melodramatics.
"I don't know." She whispers to no one in particular, staring into the mirror from inside of the bathtub where she sits cross-legged, long after he's gone back to bed and fallen fast asleep again.
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Sometimes at night she lies awake next to him and can't help moving closer to put her ear against his chest so she can listen to his heartbeat for hours and hours. It's always soft but consistent, never letting her down. It murmurs to her that he does love her, even when he looks at her in disgust, even when he looks at her hopelessly and declares emptily that he can't do this, he can't live like this, can't live like this with her.
It tells her not to cry and promises to always love her, even if in the end they have to go their own separate ways. And she wants to believe in it with every fiber in her but it can't even subdue the aching of her own heart these days.
And suddenly her breaths are shallow and sporadic and her body shakes and suddenly his limbs come alive and somewhere in the background she can hear a husky, sleepy voice ask her something. But all she can do is shake her head and keep crying and she feels him taking her in his arms, feels his lips on the top of her head, and his body covers her slightly and she loves how warm and safe he makes her feel.
She wants to be like this forever. She wants this damp summer air mingled with tears and sweat and breathes to never drift away from her. She doesn't want him to get away with her heart and never come back. It's the worst nightmare she can imagine.
She swears she doesn't want anyone else near her but him.
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She's never told him this, but she'd gone to more than just a few of his concerts when they were younger.
She sat in the middle and watched all the girls scream and shout at the top of their lungs, chanted the lyrics breathlessly, as he sang on the stage to the music.
She watched the way their fans' faces turned wet with tears and emotions, as he and his best friends sing his ballads against the music labels' wishes, and she watched the way his face always morphed into pure, temporary bliss as his eyes scanned the crowd, fans in every direction. She watched as he turned away, playing on in the background with his acoustic guitar. She wondered at that moment if she was the only one to notice.
She watched herself fall for him with all the other million girls sitting there in the giant stadiums, theatres, auditoriums, as the boys shared their music, their stories, little bits and pieces of who they are.
Sometimes, she still likes to sit in the middle of the sea of crowd, in the midst of uncontrollable and naïve happiness, among the jumping and dancing posters and Connect 3 tour shirts.
No one notices her (for once); they're too busy being wrapped up in something bigger than themselves.
She likes it this way. She likes being a stranger again, likes playing the part of just another random girl in the crowd, and knowing he's completely oblivious to her. His eyes sweeping over hers, never catching her, not once.
And it's comforting, to be just another nameless face in the crowd again.
He's a star - a forever burning flame in this vast universe, emitting light to everyone in this overcrowded, suffocating room. A distorted knight in shining armor till the curtain falls.
Falling is such an absent-minded, abstract action. There's an echo of a faint melody; she can hear it and it reminds her of why it's so easy to fall for him.
She wonders if anyone else can hear it.
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He returns from an album promotional party one night to find her smoking in their bed. She hasn't gotten out of the bed once that day, save for that one time she needed to take a shower.
He sighs exasperatedly. "Jesus Tess. Are you serious? Stop smoking in there. Do you know how hard it is to get the awful stench of smoke out of those sheets?"
She doesn't move or attempt to absorb his words, blowing out another wisp of smoke and growing enamored with the shape it makes. All of a sudden, she finds everything so funny and she can't stop laughing and her sides are hurting from how hilarious everything is.
How ridiculous are the authentic Egyptian cotton sheets and the fact that she probably smells like smoke and he hates the smell of smoke but sometimes he still kisses her so hungrily, like if he ever stops she'll leave him and never look back.
"Tess, why are you laughing?"
"Tess, stop laughing."
"What's wrong with you?
"Are you high—drunk—Tess? Tess!"
She's so far away and no one can catch her and she looks at him through glassy eyes as he sits down next to her and pats her cheeks repeatedly, trying to sober her up, trying to get her back. His eyes are clouded and his face has lost all its color.
She's still laughing and everything is morphing together, everything is coming together, and there's no happy or sad. There's nothing; there's everything; there's something.
"Do you know how much I love you?" She chokes out and she wraps her arms around his neck sloppily, breathing in his scent. He always smells so lovely and— clean.
He stiffens in her embrace automatically. "Tess." His voice calls out warningly and she giggles into his skin — such soft skin — like those Egyptian cotton sheets.
"You don't want to know, do you?" She replies sadly, and the reality of all this hits her hard and all of a sudden she's bawling and she hates him because he doesn't care that she loves him so much.
"Why don't you want to know? Why don't you care?" She's screaming and sobbing and he's trying to shake some sense into her but love is senseless and she loves him so much it hurts.
He's saying something about her not taking her medication today and that she doesn't know what he or she are talking about anymore.
Calm down, Tess. Just calm down.
"Tell me why not!" She shrieks demandingly and she kisses his closed eyelids and starts begging fervently against them for him to not leave her, to never leave her (even if he doesn't love her). He grips her wrists firmly, locking them in place and pushing them down and away from his face.
"Come here, Tess." His voice comes out strange, almost strained and painful and maybe even a little defeated.
She moves into his lap in a heartbeat. She doesn't need to be asked twice after all, and he holds her like a child, letting her lay back into his chest as he puts his head against the bed frame. She sighs in contentment as he rubs her shoulders soothingly to subdue her.
"I care about you so much that sometimes I don't think it's possible for me to ever care about anyone else like I do you." His voice reminds her of knights in shining armors and guardian angels for the hundreth time and he's pushing all the monsters away and keeping her safe and sound.
She feebly falls into a fairy-tale slumber, her nose slightly turned towards his flannel striped shirt, so she can sleep with the smell of him all around her.
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At Mitchie's birthday bash she can't resist stuffing down a slice of vanilla cake. It takes her five seconds to comprehend the significance of it. She's in a bathroom in less than two minutes attempting to gag herself, to get it out of her system in front of a mirror that shows a girl whose eyeliner is smudged and who might have had some sprite laced with something a little more dangerous than permitted at this type of party.
Everything feels so hazy; it's déjà vu, like she's sixteen all over again, like she's that insecure lonely girl, the one who hadn't met Nate Black just yet—
"Tess?"
He's standing there stunned, which slowly changes into anger and his mouth hardens and his eyes, his lovely brown eyes, narrow in disgust and disapproval.
"We're going home. Now." He walks away with this rigidity to him, like he's trying to keep himself from losing control.
She stands there in shock for a few seconds and then the bile finally rises up and she throws up into the sink in a rush. There's an acidic sting trailing down the inside of her throat and her veins are throbbing against her marbled ivory skin.
Success has never been carved out of so much bittersweet resignation.
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Careless words scribbled on used paper napkins, frivolous sentiments scattered across torn love letters, and dramatized emotional confessions scratched onto skin that will never be deemed worthy of attention by the world around them. They can be kept away for only so long.
Her life is high-profile and sophisticated and that's all that matters.
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He won't touch her. It's like he can't stand being close to her. The ring sits on her finger mocking her. She throws it into the laundry hamper one morning, goes to the kitchen and throws all the dishes against the floor. She snaps nastily at the maid to clean up the shards of broken china when she comes back to grab the bottle of vodka to drink along the way to her room.
She drinks alone. She drinks for loneliness. She drinks for the mirage of marriage. She drinks for aborted bliss and feigned joy. She drinks for Nate Black.
She's lost count of how many times he's found her passed out on the floor against their bed by now anyway. He stopped picking her up and tucking her into bed a long time ago.
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They don't fight a lot anymore. There are no china dishes being thrown against the wall or hard, wooden floors.
There are no fits of rage, slaps, or broken toes anymore. There are no abusive words spoken or direct confrontations.
In fact, there's hardly anything. They pretend. They ignore. They spend time together in silence with intense distant gazes from across the room.
She doesn't know what's worse. The game of dramatics and hysterics or the game of apathy and make believe.
Sometimes, he leaves for days without one word about where he's going, or for how long. Just walks out, flinging a few belongings into the back of the car, leaving her behind.
She walks around the house like a ghost, pretending not to be bothered. Sometimes she doesn't even remember getting out of bed. She lets her mind replay the scenes over and over again. The tension, the disgusted words thrown back and forth, phrases filled with ambiguity. She feels him pulling away.
He always comes back. She knows he wishes he didn't have to.
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She'd like to fall off the earth. She'd like to be the girl that never grew up, never grew old, and never lost her innocence. She'd like to be the girl that didn't ruin him, didn't bring him down with her. She'd like to be the girl that didn't drown him in her own sorrows and insecurities.
But she's a Tyler after all (no matter how hard she tried to be a Black) and that's what Tyler's do best.
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She doesn't know how they end up in the hotel room like this, but they do.
The lights are off and he's standing in the balcony, staring down into the city of Venice and taking sips of authentic Italian wine while she's dancing around the coffee-table.
Every move is a contradiction of eloquence and grace, and her dress rides up slightly, as she unceremoniously falls to the floor, a heap of tangled limps and waves of laughter.
"You're beautiful."
She studies his face. The way his curls sweep across his head, disheveled and tousled. The way his eyes remind her of dilated permanent ink, oh so deep and swimming, never to be forgotten. His mysteries are forever engraved with a sweep of fingers on paper, on skin.
He's the definition of dashing; he's a moody black and white movie hero with a pinch of contemplative grey shades.
But he didn't choose this fate. Then again, no one chooses to be the tragic hero in the story, the one destined to fail the girl of his dreams.
It's blinding. It's wrong. It's infallible and completely inevitable.
Memories pull at her heartstrings, they tear down at the walls of romance around them, and they aren't the same people they were when they started out. She's not that girl dancing around in his shirt and he's not sober and completely in love with her anymore. The currents are pushing him away and there's a wide crevasse that cannot be filled up with nostalgia and memories.
She shakes her head sadly.
"Not like you. Never like you."
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"Nathanial." Her voice is sharp and condescending.
"Tess." He sounds emotionless, always so careful.
By now they're so used to being hostile and cold spontaneously with each other.
She opens her Prada handbag and takes a stack of papers out. She clutches them in her hands for a few seconds and a look of uncertainty flits by in her eyes, but it's gone as her eyes glaze over with something a little icier. She lays the paper down in front of him boldly.
He still hasn't looked up, eyes still focused on the lyrics he's working on for the band.
"What is it?" He asks obviously uninterested. "Some more bills I have to pay for designer dresses that cost more than my BMW." There's a tinge of bitterness towards the end of the second sentence.
"My dresses never cost more than those damn cars. And don't even get me started on your electric guitar collection." She snips haughtily.
He gives her a withering look and she looks away, biting her bottom lip. He's the only one that can make her feel guilty. She hates it.
There's silence and she waits.
"Divorce?" The word comes out of his mouth in disbelief.
She looks at him defensively. "This obviously isn't working. We're complete opposites. From two completely different worlds. We fight more than we probably should."
"So you want to get a divorce?" He sounds hollow still, as he confirms his first question. His eyes reflecting the conflicting emotions he's trying to suppress. And he's trying so hard to go about this rationally, logically, like always.
She looks at him helplessly. "Yes."
"Fine." He stands up abruptly, taking long, swift strides out of the room, and she wants to go after him, but something holds her back.
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Sometimes she still can't believe she let him free. That she was the one to get the papers and walk away. It doesn't make her feel invigorated or ashamed. Because she's come to realize that sometimes when you love someone enough, you do things like that. Things that shouldn't make sense in her world but shouldn't have to regardless. She feels empty with him and empty without him and she might as well have let him go.
She's twenty-one years old and a divorcée.
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She's on a train from Berlin to Vienna all by herself, staring out the window briefly when she catches a pair of eyes on her.
The elderly woman in the seat in front of her in the compartment smiles at her kindly. She must have a such a good heart.
"Such a beautiful sad face you have." The woman declares almost inaudibly, with a thick German accent. She pauses for a second, observing eyes casting a shadow on her demure and hollow face. "Have you lost anything, dear?"
"No. Nothing."
(She never will.)
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It's been two years.
She moved to Paris. Her French is flawless and people find her charming and exhilarating and they smile at her, reel her in with their own dazzling smiles and it's like none of it ever happened. She doesn't hear from her ex-husband and she doesn't care. She thinks she might have started to even forget.
She keeps herself immersed in the parties and never-ending nightlife and drinks away life like there's no tomorrow and…everything is so absolutely gorgeous. She is absolutely gorgeous.
And that's all that matters for a girl like her. She knows that better than anyone else.
(She been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.)
She's been to the end of the world and back, been on the brink of insanity and returned, been loved and unloved and she remains unchanged because she doesn't need change, she hates change.
So this is what it's come to she thinks.
She tilts her head slighty upward, her eyes looking ahead with an air of defiance.
(Sophisticated — God, she's so sophisticated.)
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Inspired by Glass Passenger - Jack's Mannequin.
Great Gatsby is by the genius F. Scott Fitzgerald. Only he can come up with such beautiful storylines and heartbreaking, tragic characters that inspire shabby fanfics such as this. You can interpret this anyway you'd like.