Cappie//Casey: She smiles, but it is empty and cold and full of a world where she really doesn't love him anymore, a time he never thought would come.
Disclaimer: Naht mine.
For Margaret, my old, faithful friend. Shonna all the way. =]
Lost.
The bar is old, as old as the posh Manhattan society she lives in. The rules, like her world, are strict and enforced; polished shoes to match the polished mahogany, gleaming cufflinks and pearls to rival the shine of the marble. It is a place he never really hopes to be, and he feels wrong and out of place in his scuffed sneakers and faded jeans.
The bartender—if you can call him that, he dresses better than you do—slides him a drink, but not before he can see his bright blue eyes staring up at him from the counter, lost in the throes of unease. He shouldn't be here, he knows, it's wrong for him to be here, in a town that sleeps in satin sheets and diamond tennis bracelets, far away from the whisper of his studio in California. But he needs to see her, make sure she's real, pray that she loves him.
Sometimes, our hearts make us do foolish things.
When he walked into the hotel, it was an unexpected and unwelcome occurrence. The staff eyed him suspiciously, and pointed him to the glittering bar to wait for his visitor. They shuffled him quickly out of the views of the clientele, ashamed to provide such an intruder of low rank into their private world.
When she struts in, it's heralded. The flash of cameras announce her arrival, and like she is the Second Coming of the Lord, the staff scrambles frantically, curtsying and bowing and worry creasing their foreheads at her slightest displeasure. She answers their concerns with an acid tongue and the precise click of stilettos. And his heart jumps into his throat because after all these years, he still loves her, still adores her, still needs her.
Soft, lilting classical music fills the bar, accompanied by the murmur of fine people in the middle of fine business deals to pay for their fine lives. Women cease their muffled laughter when she enters, resplendent in a skirt and suit ensemble and emerald high heels, her blonde halo of hair pulled up in a bun, her giant sunglasses perched on the crown of her head. She carries a clutch in one hand and a constantly ringing cell phone in the other, lips pursed in concentration. Without even trying, she steals the spotlight.
With a flourish, she slides onto the soft leather bar seat. It's obvious she is no stranger to an Upper Manhattan bar. She smiles slightly to herself, spinning back and forth on the little seat, in such a way that makes her entire face light up. She's only thirty-one, after all.
He stares at her face, the face he's held so many times. He only sees her profile as she orders an obsessive-compulsive martini, like James Bond. Her suit is finely tailored, cut to her every curve in a way that is both classic and sexy, the emerald color so deep to range on black. Her long, slender legs bounce slightly in anticipation, before she finally wheels herself around to face him.
Her face is still stunning, her green eyes huge and speckled with jewel dust, her skin creamy and flawless. Everything about her is so much the same, it takes his breath away. But at the same time, everything about her is different, so different he can't stand it, but can't place it.
And then he sees the 64-carat rock on her finger, a gift from her fabulously wealthy fiancée, and he remembers.
"Hey Case," he cracks, kneading his hands across his forehead, trying to erase the sadness he can feel on his face.
"You look nice," Casey smiles, leaning forward to kiss him on his cheek. His heart jumps into his throat as he's overpowered by the smell of her, of lemon and apricots and summertime.
Her phone buzzes again, insistently, and she lifts it up, gives it a cursory glance, and snaps her bag shut.
"It's James, again," she sighs airily, waving her hand just so that the diamond catches the light. "He's always calling."
She glances up through heavily lashed eyes, and smiling playfully, asks, "Weren't we once like that?"
And he remembers their broken engagement, hears the hidden meaning behind her words, and flinches.
"We were," he says easily. "And you're as beautiful as ever. More so, even."
She laughs, and it's the same as in college, so carefree and full of hope.
"A billionaire fiancée tends to pay to keep you beautiful," she murmurs, looking down at the triple rope of black pearls she wears around her neck.
He reaches out to brush a stray strand of gleaming blonde from her face, trying to salvage the girl he once loved in the shallow shell of this debutante and page six staple, trying to see the girl who once cooked him omelets in boxers.
She smiles at his touch, but it is empty and cold and full of a world where she really doesn't love him anymore, a time he never thought would come.
"What happened to you, Case?" he whispers, and breaking the rules of this rigid little bar, this rigid, perfect world, he grabs her by her shoulders, forces her to meet his eyes. "Did they suck out your soul for the first whitened smile, or did you exchange it for a new pair of high heels?"
Her eyes narrow, and she pushes him off with surprising strength. She doesn't bother answering him, instead beckoning a guard over to her, pointing towards him with venomous eyes.
But Cappie doesn't care. Everything he loved is gone now, sucked out, dead.
He drains his drink, and pushes himself towards the entrance, past a beautiful girl with a beautiful smile and nothing else, past a world he doesn't belong to.
Bottles up, bottles up, bottles up.
End.
My first depressing C/C story ever. Guess it reflects my mood.
Like it? Hate it? Love it? Adore it?
Review.
-danielle