Ellipsis
Cheers darlin'
Here's to you and your lover boy
"Are you nervous?" he asked, gaze distant.
"No. Well…maybe a little." She fidgeted with the cap of a black magic marker, unscrewing and screwing it back into place. The smell of sweat and cardboard filled her nose. It had been unusually hot for a spring day. She could feel the air's dry haze radiate through panes of dust and muted curtains.
"I'm more excited than anything."
"Yeah—fresh start."
"Exactly."
He felt something drop at the conviction in her tone—some ball of wholeness, an ember of bliss once housed in his heart. His blanket of security had been unraveling since the day she first told him. First, in the corner of blue thread held by sticky sand castles. He didn't mind so much initially—it was inevitable. Things got old, they fell apart. But when its folds of yellow camellias and midnight secrets tore under the pressure of every careless word, he cared. Maybe that was the drop, the feeling of complete emptiness. Maybe his blanket had finally reached its end.
"Can I visit?" The question was hesitant.
She smiled and looked him in the eye. "Of course."
1
Mid-October
I was never much of a socialite, never heavily regarded—or highly, for that matter. I was more than comfortable, three paces past well-known and famous. I had every connection and need at the snap of a finger. I was born spoiled, raised by a team hired to love me. But a piece of elite Zanarkandian youth? No—my blood was brewed in too much controversy. I was the product of tattoos and anger. I was stamped with a seal of disapproval before any personality, any ability to defend myself, could develop. They say children are our world's greatest treasures, but I guess that doesn't apply to children born into broken families—families exploited for the health of another's wallet.
I knew a girl, though. A girl born surrounded by a nation of love. If she wasn't a piece of regality she was the whole plate. She was art held by the hands of hope and prayer, showcased behind a pane of glass for so few to personally experience. She was the only human being blind to my misconceptions, the only person to have ever loved me, really loved me. I mean, sure, I had parents. I don't doubt my mother cared about me. You could say she even loved me. But there was always a level of distraction in her words when she spoke to me, always a slight pause between syllables to remind me that I was second place. Even as a kid I could feel it. I knew I was an accident she had to learn to accept. She didn't love me by choice and if she could, well, I would bet more money than I have that she wouldn't.
"Don't be so dramatic," Yuna said, arms propped behind her back, legs free in warm water.
"It's not dramatic—it's the truth," I countered. "Yesterday, I literally had an entire conversation with myself without any response. Nothing—zilch! She was oblivious, completely and utterly oblivious. It always happens when my dad's not around. She just…shuts down."
Yuna giggled lightly. I frowned at the expression. My ego was bruised enough.
"What did you say to yourself?" she asked in a hum as light as the air around us.
The question tugged at the corners of my mouth. Of course she wasn't laughing at my pain, she was making it better. That's what she did, she turned my depressing laments into puppies and kittens. I always found myself forcing back a smile when she spoke, half-hoping its absence would mean the end to the heartbeat drowning out my senses.
My legs kicked through the water beneath the dock. "I said that Yuna is the luckiest girl in the world to have me as a friend."
She cocked her head to me through amused disapproval. "Oh, am I?"
"Yes," I beamed.
Her smirk deepened. She looked to the water before us, inhaling a draft of leaves and sand. I was sixteen, she was just a year younger. We were at a time in our lives when meeting at that lake somehow unseen by the rest of the world had become routine. We were happy, we were careless, with her version of the word peppered in a little more maturity than mine. After all, she had always aged a few years faster, always walked one step ahead of others. It wasn't arrogant, probably not even intentional, it was just her. She had a natural stride I could never keep up with.
"I would miss you, Tidus." She moved her hands onto her lap, face lowered to the details of her skirt. "Maybe you're mother wouldn't miss you if you disappeared, but I would."
Five years have passed since that day, three since she left, two weeks since she came back, and seven minutes since her hand left the back of my arm to excuse herself from our exchange—brief and awkward as it was. I watched her walk the length of the room in a trail of gold fabric, into the crook of a pinstriped arm, with every word I meant to say hanging in the air.
"Maybe if you take a picture it'll last longer." Rikku appears to my right, quiet as a predator. She's dressed in an emerald cocktail dress, nude shoes, and tight ponytail.
"Hm?" I reply.
"Yuna." She points to her cousin with champagne in hand. "You've been staring at her all night."
"Isn't that what you're supposed to do—gawk at the bride?"
"She's not the bride yet and is that a hint of jealousy I hear?"
I scoff. "I'm not jealous."
Blond eyebrows pull up in skepticism. I notice Rikku's makeup is different tonight—more heavy than usual. A shade of bubblegum pink coats her lips, her flush is a bit deeper, her cheekbones a bit brighter, and dramatic winged eyeliner magnifies the black swirls of her eyes. It's pretty, she looks pretty, but I think I prefer Rikku a little less polished. It matches her personality better.
"It's just weird, you know?" I revert back to the original question. "She's only twenty-one. How are you supposed to know who you want to spend the rest of your life with at twenty-one?"
Rikku shrugs at the question. "I'm only eighteen."
"I could never imagine asking a girl to marry me now."
"No offense, Tidus, but you're not exactly the poster boy for monogamy."
My eyes narrow. "I've had girlfriends."
Her hand pats my shoulder as if to say "whatever helps you sleep at night."
"All right, all right." I shrug off her sympathy. "There's an open bar here and if I'm not drunk by the end of the night it's been a wasted one."
"Champagne's good." She tilts her flute; I cringe in response.
"I was thinking of something a little stronger."
"If you get plastered tonight and make a fool of yourself Yunie will not be very happy."
I should be used to her response by now, I've been hearing it for years. There's always a warning, a wave of alert, not always spoken, but hidden behind sharpened eyes and long exhales. Sometimes it's done out of concern, but more often than not it's pity. Pity for me, my behavior, the horrible life I must have endured as a kid without any say. I am the way that I am because I was forced into it, subjected to it. Poor, poor me, they say. But I still find myself offended at the warning, at the expectations based on nothing.
"Sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree," I voice my thoughts. I mean for my tone to be as hard as it sounds.
"Tidus," she replies through an sigh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that."
Despite my desire to stay stubborn, I know she didn't. "It's okay." I nudge her with my elbow. "Cheer up, I'm just being a baby."
"You are a bit of a baby, aren't you?"
I force a laugh. "So which way to the bar?"
She points to the opposite end of the room through a hall connected to an area meant for appetizers and bad first dates. A long metal bar stands against the back wall framed by an impressive collection of top-shelf alcohol. I order Bourbon neat, because I'm a man and that's apparently what we do. The bartender repeats my order with a tumbler trailing to my side. The drink brings me back to my father's particular interest in whiskey, and his lazy attempt to hide it from me. He made stealing alcohol easy back in the day. Bottles were littered everywhere, some half-used, some never touched. I was the guy in high school who catered parties for free thanks to his famous dad's addiction.
"Party boring you that much, eh?" a thick Besaidian accent booms over the bar's music.
"The tab is open for the night—I couldn't resist," I reply.
Wakka takes a seat next to me, onto a bar stool of metal legs and teal suede fabric. The whole venue is a mix of masculine severity, high ceilings, dark lighting, and sudden bursts of the same awful shade of blue. It's a restaurant I've never been to, but evidently popular.
"Lulu sent me to get her a drink. What the hell do women normally order anyway?"
"I wouldn't put Lulu as one to order something normal. Try blood? Venom? Your tears?"
He shoves me and I nearly spill my drink on the person to my right. "Hey!" I cry, rubbing my suit to soothe the pain and wrinkles. "I'm only kidding, geez. I don't know—try a martini or something."
"And what are you drinking?" He peers into my glass.
"Bourbon." I take a deep sip. It tastes like high school.
I hear Wakka order domestic beer and a glass of wine. Of all the things, I think, but I guess that's Lulu and Wakka—safe and domestic. They've always known exactly what they did and didn't like in life, sticking to a level of comfort some would call boring. After three years of dating, at the respectable ages of twenty-five and twenty-seven, they got married, had a kid two years later, and now live life drinking beer and wine in a modest C-South brownstone, not because they can't afford anything bigger—the Abes pay Wakka well enough—but because they don't want to—as plain and simple as that. In a twisted world of voodoo dolls and black magic they make happiness look effortlessly attainable.
"Nice place, ya?" Wakka pours his beer into a chilled glass. "Yuna sure knows how to pick 'em."
I have to actively concentrate to hear his words. The place is upscale and loud, and I can't tell if I'm in a restaurant or club. A room of conversation fights against the deafening vibrations of surround sound speakers. They quarrel for dominance until my sobriety fades the power trip into one, infuriating source of noise. Though the more private space of the actual party is quieter, it's massive size and vaulted ceilings emphasize every echo of marital enthusiasm and I don't know which annoyance I prefer.
"It's a little loud."
Wakka's laugh cuts through the white noise. "When did you become such a grouch?" he mocks.
He's right—I'm being uncharacteristically grumpy. Truth is, I actually enjoy being the center of attention. I like people and their noise. When you grow up with less than aware parents you're sort of forced to find new ears to fill.As a kid, I loved to imprint myself into anyone who walked my way. I didn't necessarily fit into a mold or clique. I was a little bit of everything, well-known for reasons both within and outside my control. Getting drafted straight from high school only added to my extroversion. You can't live through the publicity of blitzball without complete comfort in yourself.
"I'm not," I reply and throw back the rest of my drink. "Let's go back. It's more fun in there."
Wakka and I leave the bar to the main event, moving through dark corridors of spaced off dining rooms. I spot celebrities, socialites, athletes, and oiled politicians. In between the fame dots the rest of Zanarkand's wealth dressed in stiff suits and gowns. From one extreme to another, we enter the party's private dining hall filled with more religious figures than A-East Temple. Yuna's fiancé has infected the entire guest list. Praetors, maestors, and titles in between infiltrate the space from end to end. I move with Wakka to a corner from yesteryear, where people I haven't spoken to since high school huddle under a cloud of familiarity.
"Thank you," Lulu says to Wakka as she takes her wine. Rikku stands next to her sipping the same glass of champagne from before. She, Lulu, and Wakka are the only people I've managed to stay close to over the past three years. It's a funny thing to see a group of such opposite lives remain as tight-knit as we have. They're my version of the dysfunctional family people hate to love.
"I'm so hungry," Rikku states dramatically. "When is this cocktail thing supposed to be over?"
"Should be soon," Lulu says coolly behinds sips of wine. "They've stopped serving the hors d'oeuvres."
Wakka shakes his head. "Tiny cheese and fish eggs—I don't get the point."
"To convince everyone you have class," I say. Lulu shoots me a glare from behind her glass. "I'm kidding! I like caviar."
"We should be grateful to be here," she begins. "An engagement is a huge turning point in somebody's life. To be able to share this with Yuna is an honor."
Rikku and I exchange looks. Lulu isn't one to turn to words when it comes to silencing our annoyances. She's more of the let-me-stare-you-into-cardiac-arrest kind of girl. Luckily, before anyone can reply, the dining chairs fill and we all silently slip to our designated seating.
One long table, rustic and dark, sits twenty-four in the middle of the room. Impressive chandeliers run parallel to the table twenty meters higher, and smaller versions of the same furniture space the perimeter. Yuna and her fiancé sit center, side-by-side with a diffusion of people running left and right, from most to least important, family members to colleagues. Rikku sits to Yuna's right and an older couple, Baralai's parents, his left. I sit diagonal from Yuna—a spot that sparks a bit of arrogance in me. Maybe it's coincidence, maybe there is no real hierarchy to the seating arrangements, but I convince myself otherwise and send my regards to the people cast off to the surrounding tables.
The food comes out in a gradual pace, accumulating from light to heavy. First, the edamame and drinks, then the refills, salads, soups, and more refills. Finally, to Wakka's delight, the main course is presented. I steal glances at Yuna in between bites of ginger lobster and white rice. She sits hidden behind a window of conversation, consumed in Baralai's presence. Three years, I think. This is the night I had envisioned nearly every night for the past three years—seeing Yuna again, hearing her voice, responding back, hungrily making up for lost time. But tonight, three feet from her attention, I don't hear the laughter falling from her smiles, or catch the blue and green eyes veiled under rows of dark lashes. We don't speak over each other anxious to play catch up, or ditch the crowd to run to our lake. None of the naïve scenarios I let consume my mind come into reality tonight. Instead, barely arms length away, I feel farther from Yuna than I ever did living on opposite ends of the world.
I feel the back of my pocket vibrate against my seat. A saved number in the form of one name flashes against the glass of my cell phone. I roll my eyes and end the call. It takes two more rounds of vibrations and mute buttons to finally convince me to answer. I excuse myself from Wakka and Lulu who are seated to my right and escape up the room's imperial staircase to an empty terrace.
"Hello?" I ask, though obviously aware of who it is.
"Bad time?" she counters.
"Is it ever a good time?"
"For the star player of the Zanarkand Abes? I'd say so."
"What do you want, Niki?"
"Just calling to remind you of tomorrow's events." I internally groan at the upcoming lecture by my very talented, annoyingly punctual manager. "You have a seven o'clock wake up call and a car will be at your apartment by eight o'clock to drive you to B-South for your shoot. Then you have a corresponding interview over lunch. The car will take you to the gym afterward for your personal training and then back home. You'll have a few hours to rest and prepare until eight p.m. for the A-East Annual Benefit Ball, hosted by none other than the Zanarkand Abes. I'll have your suit cleaned and pressed in time. It's going to be a long day, Tidus, so please, for the love of good publicity, don't stay out too late tonight."
"You got it boss," I reply through obvious sarcasm.
"Tidus?" I remain silent. "You're okay. Just—just remember that, all right?"
I close my eyes at the sound of her words. "I know," I reply.
"See you tomorrow."
The call drops and I return my phone to my pocket. I feel the bite of fresh air against my face and close my eyes to listen to the sound of Zanarkand's nightlife. The city sings behind me in tones of car exhaust and club speakers filtered by the lapse of the East River below.
"Is the party that boring?" I hear her voice drift behind me. A familiar rush of blood pulses under my skin.
"Why has everyone been asking me that?"
She walks closer to me, the sound of her words gaining intensity. "You've been out here for a while."
"Phone call," I say and catch her eyes for the first time tonight. For the first time in years.
"Is everything all right?"
"Peachy," I smile.
She moves next to me after returning the gesture. Her hands rest on the balcony's railing and blue and green look to the open water before us. A draft moves through the air and she inhales a shiver, moving white hands to her exposed upper arms. The night is dipping into winter temperatures and her dress is strapless.
I follow her goose bumps from wrist to shoulder. "You don't have to wait out here for me, Yuna. It's pretty cold out."
"I'm fine." She smiles to reassure me. I roll my eyes in response.
"I know," I say. "You're always fine."
I remove my suit jacket. She's always fine, always capable. She is modest and headstrong and the need to break her barrier creeps through me again as it used to in the past, when she'd break out into frustrations so few ever saw. I place my jacket around her shoulders and she pulls at its lapels, accepting the offer. A paradox of tension and serenity vibrates through our silence. I want to say something but forget how to speak.
"I'm sorry, Tidus," she finally breaks the silence.
I don't say anything.
"I'm sorry for not…for not telling you." Her voice lowers just below the sound of the wind. "I didn't know how to tell you."
"A newspaper," I say after a long pause. "I don't read newspapers, but I walk past them every day in the city. That's how I found out—a newspaper headline." She bites into her bottom lip. "I had no idea you were even dating anyone."
"We met on my birthday." I hear the sting of tears hang to the end of her sentence.
"Last year?"
She shakes her head.
"This year?" I hesitate to continue in hopes of being completely wrong, but she doesn't interject and I've guessed correctly. "That…that was four months ago. You've only known him for four months?"
Her eyes remain locked into mine and this time, she nods.
"Yevon, Yuna, that's fast."
"He's a good guy."
I want to ask her if that's supposed to mean anything to me—to her. I want to ask if being a nice guy obligates her to marry him, if not swearing her life to his will turn the guy into a fiend, but my conscience is active tonight and I refrain from shoving my foot into my mouth.
"The engagement is going to be long," she continues to defend. "We haven't planned anything yet."
"No—you have to get to know each other first." Never mind, my conscience has flown out the window.
Her head lowers and I see a hand move across her cheekbone. I made her cry within five minutes of our first conversation in three years and suddenly, I feel like the worst human being in the world.
"I'm sorry, Yuna." My voice softens ten degrees. I place my hand under her chin to face her toward me and thumb away any persisting tears. Maybe the move is inappropriate and maybe someone with walk outside and get the wrong idea (or the right idea, really), but I don't care. I don't care what anyone who isn't Yuna thinks at the moment, because despite not being able to remember the last time we ever this close, she is and always will be the most important person in my life.
"I didn't mean that. You know, no matter what, if you're happy, I'm happy." She nods and I drop my hands to pull her into a hug. "But next time you decide to get engaged feel free to give me a call, okay?"
Her arms move around me and I feel the vibrations of her laughter on my chest. "Hopefully there is no 'next time,' but I do promise to call...for lots of other reasons."
"Good." I move back, hands resting on her covered shoulders. She smiles up to me the same smile she held the night before she left, when summer choked at our goodbyes and we justified the silence under the fallacy that nothing would change. At least her smile didn't.
"We should go back," she says. I nod, she nods, and neither of us move.
"I missed you." The words come out with a surge of relief, like I had finally let out the knot in my throat suppressing every honest thought.
"I missed you too, Tidus."
I drop my hands from her frame, satisfied with the turn of our conversation. We cross the length of the balcony into the restaurant's second floor, where the sound of the party below carries into the hall's open archways. Yuna stops just before the staircase to hand me back my jacket. She gravitates toward the right handrails, one hand gripping the bar, the other lifting the hem of her dress.
"Need help?" I offer my arm in substitute of the handrail. She wraps her thin arm around my own, sealing the gap between our sides. I smile inwardly at the feel of her next to me. Yuna is in my life again and for now, the burn of torn thread remains peacefully numb.