The year was 1963. He'd been eighteen years old, freshly out of high school with the world at his feet. Eighteen years of his father's weary frown, of his mother's worrying and his family's expectations, of teachers trying to tell him what to do and who to be, of exams and classes and stifling events where he was bored out of his mind. He'd been bored out of his mind for eighteen years. High school was finally over, he was officially an adult and capable of making his own decisions, and the world should have been at his feet.
And they were telling him it wasn't.
They were telling him he'd go to Yale, to more classes and more exams and more professors, that he'd graduate to a job in a plush office in his father's company, marry his perfect girlfriend and raise two perfect children and go to dinners and galas every night and be on his best behaviour forever.
Eighteen years of pretending to be a gentleman, a perfect son, a model student, a devoted boyfriend, whenever it was required – and for what? To be told that this was his fucking life, for the rest of time? He loved his parents – as much as one could love parents, frustrating as they were – and he loved his girlfriend, adoring and uptight and spoiled and manipulative – but he was sick to death of all of it. He wanted to live, for God's sake. Not the same bars and the same parties and the same scotch that his parents turned a blind eye to; he wanted to get out. He wanted to see things. He wanted to do whatever the fuck he wanted, when he wanted. Just once. If he went to Yale then he'd never get out. If he went to Yale then he was stuck on the same course, forever. Then he'd never have the chance again.
So he'd smiled for his parents as he'd picked up his graduation certificate, smiled as he'd shaken the hand of the headmaster who'd told him what a brilliant future he had ahead of him. His girlfriend had wrapped her arms around his neck, delighted for him and just as excited about her own graduation next year. He'd gone out that night, said goodbye to his parents and picked his girlfriend up in his town car, headed out to a high-class bar with his friends to celebrate their futures.
He'd thrown his cash around, bought round upon round of drinks – champagne and whisky and martinis for his girlfriend, surprised when she'd knocked them back because she never normally liked to drink. But they were all celebrating. The conversation had buzzed with excitement – for the future, for their new selves – and he'd wanted to laugh at them, because how the hell did they think anything was ever going to change as long as they stayed here? The freedom got smaller and the responsibility got bigger, till they were all miserable versions of their parents who indulged in the occasional seedy affair or prescription drug problem for a thrill – because that was the only excitement they'd ever get in their lives again. One of his closest friends had thrown him a smirk, dark eyes – the guy was a year younger than him and had real potential, but he'd never get out either. It was all scotch and women now, but come a few years, the guy would have a business degree and be sitting in his father's office too, with no idea how he'd got there.
The guy had smirked at him and, at the end of the night, helped him pick his girlfriend up from the bar where her own blonde best friend had dragged her. The martinis had gone to her head; precisely why she never drank. He'd said his goodbyes, taken his girlfriend from his friend, and headed back into the town car to take her home. Like a good boyfriend. It wasn't till she was vomiting out of the car while he held her hair – and she was terrified that somebody would see – that she'd started crying. She'd wanted tonight to be the night. She'd even booked a suite to surprise him. That was why she'd got through so many martinis, of course. He'd felt bad then – hell, he'd been the one, throughout their whole relationship, always trying to push her further, to let him put his hand up her skirt and under her shirt – and now here she was, finally telling him she was ready. He'd known what a shit he was as he'd kissed the top of her head and wiped away her tears and told her they'd have other nights. She probably wouldn't remember in the morning anyway. He'd made sure she got up to her penthouse, and then he'd gone back to his own home while his parents were sleeping, packed a bag, and gone straight to Grand Central Station. Dawn had just been starting to streak the sky.
And at 5.45, Carter Baizen had boarded a train leaving Manhattan and refused to look back. At 5.45, Carter Baizen was a free man.
A/N – Now, I promise I will NOT neglect 'In This City' as a result of this fic. But I've had this in my head for a while, and I figured with 'Homecoming' finally almost complete...? This was partially inspired by watching 'Mad Men' and 'Catch Me If You Can' – the period, I mean, not the plot. And don't worry, it won't be just Carter. Though I have to admit that my love for his character grows the more I re-watch those few Gossip Girl episodes that he's in. Seriously, show – why did you not keep him around? The story will become clearer next chapter - points if you can guess who his girlfriend is? Although it's not exactly subtle heh. Reviews would be hugely appreciated to let me know if there's any interest :)