So Shiny Jewel called upon my muses for this story and I was so intrigued by the idea that I focused and couldn't stop, churning this out in about an hour. You'll still get your other story! I'm working on it right now. ;)
The Great Gatsby does not belong to me, obviously, nor do the characters of Nashville. Oneshot. Enjoy!
Teddy Conrad had always loved The Great Gatsby. For him, it had always secretly embodied a version of his own life in a way he felt was intangible to others. Like Gatsby, he had a vision and a destiny for greatness. His standards were far beyond those of his father and his dreams for himself surpassed any notion or mention of mediocre. He would look at himself in the mirror every morning, soaking wet from his shower, and let the words run through his head:
I can do this. I can win this.
And he had.
He won the heart of Nashville royalty, solidifying his place in a paramount circle of dominance.
He won the heart of two little girls who for so long believed him when he said that he literally hung the moon.
Sure, he stumbled and eventually he fell, but he didn't let it stop him. He forged on, winning the hearts of an entire city.
He found new love; seduced by her words that what he really needed is for someone to just love him, and oh, how that's exactly what he needed.
So he got it.
He had it, and then lost it.
He lost it all.
Like Gatsby, his reign on the highest peak couldn't withstand the storm that raged around him and he came to know that his fate was never majesty; it was a conglomerate of tragedy and laughable irony.
So he sighed, closing the book again for the third time that week.
He was broken; he was a failure. Not even the corrections officer banging on his cell could shake that knowledge.
"Visitor," the man barked.
Teddy said nothing as the officer opened the door, leading him out and down a corridor of like quarters.
He knew this wasn't going to be what he wanted. He knew, despite all of his apologies and all of his begging that he wasn't about to walk out and see his family sitting there.
They'd been careful to not even return his letters or the phone calls of his lawyers.
His stomach churned as he braced himself for whom and what sat on the other side of the threshold he was trudging towards.
He closed and eyes and hung his head, allowing the officer to enter his passcode and unlock the door to the visitation area. The buzzing of the security system unlocking grated him to his very core and his shook his head, trying to rid his ears of the vibration.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to the table a few feet away.
Sure enough, there he was; the only son of a bitch he knew would show up; the only one with any reasons what so ever to see him.
Sighing, he stepped toward the table and pulled the chair out, sitting down and allowing his body to adjust to the frigid temperature of the room.
Deacon Claybourne grinned, eyeing the broken man before him up and down.
"You do orange a hell of a lot better than me."
"Wipe that smug grin off your face," Teddy bit back, crossing his arms. "I mean it."
Deacon laughed.
"What? You think I drove three and a half hours just to come and look at you funny?"
"I think you did."
Deacon chuckled and looked to his hands, allowing the grin to fade away. He brought his eyes back to Teddy, matching the icy gaze step for step.
"You know that's not why I'm here," he began. "I'm here 'cause of Maddie and the letters you've been sending her. And the one you sent me."
Teddy adjusted his gaze to the wall. He knew it was coming. He never once spent his day fearing this; it wasn't until his kingdom was crashing down around him that his insecurities started eating him alive and the scene before him became even a remote possibility. The day he was arrested, he knew it was imminent: he'd lose his little girl for good.
"Just say it, Deacon."
Deacon adjusted himself in his chair and slightly edged forward just enough to make the supervising officer watch a little more closely. The icy stare was ever so slowly subsiding into red, hot rage.
"How dare you."
Teddy shook his head.
"Deacon, I—"
"Shut up! It's my turn to talk at you now," he glared at Teddy, whose eyes said that he was inching closer and closer to just giving up. This day was 15 years in the making, but Teddy had still not foreseen it. He couldn't have; it just didn't fit what he knew. "All this crap you've given me over the years—trying so hard to let me know what a piece of shit drunk I am every day… it all makes sense now. You were a scared little chicken shit."
"Please—"
"I'm not done. The day they hauled you off, I was there for her. I held her close while she cried so hard I had to change shirts. I didn't brush her off or get mad or jealous because I know that you've always been her father. She loves you, whether I want her to or not."
Teddy sighed. Hot tears sprang to his eyes, but he was defiant in letting them fall.
"The letter I sent you, Deacon… I asked—"
"I know damn well what you asked. The answer is no."
"And what does Rayna say?"
"She agrees with me. You think I'm gonna bring Maddie down here to this place? She doesn't want to, Teddy. Unlike you, I actually care about her and what she wants, not what suits me."
Teddy looked down at his hands, clearly uncomfortable with the complete role reversal and sucker punched with the reality that his daughter really just did not want anything to do with him. He couldn't take it.
A single tear fell.
"What do I do?"
Deacon thought for a moment, forming his words and the calculated stare that went with them.
"You told me once that I had a responsibility to her, whether you liked it or not. I owned up to that. Now I'm here to tell you that you have a responsibility, too. Your responsibility is to fuck off until she's ready and you're otherwise notified. Own up to it."
Deacon stood with a jolt and without hesitating walked to the door, nodding to the officer to let him out.
He left Teddy in a pile of his own ashes; the rubble of his once grand existence; his once perfect family; his façade.
He tried to stand tall and remain stoic; he tried to convince himself that both of his daughters would come around, or that Rayna would finally just tell them to stop ignoring him. He tried to say that this wasn't the end; that Deacon Claybourne hadn't come back to win the game in the fourth quarter with seconds left.
But he couldn't, so he finally broke down.
Teddy Conrad, a man of such vast pomp and arrogance and proud perfection, crumbled to the floor in a befitting wave of sobs.
This is tragedy; this is irony.
The final line of Gatsby ran endlessly through his head; penned so effortlessly by Fitzgerald and now it haunted him.
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
There was no past; there was no beating on from this.
This was his destiny.