A/N: Mmkay. Because I think the last chapter was lamely short and nothing really happened, I am updating today. :) So! Thirteenth chapter. Unlucky, ooh. -love- Desireé
Chapter Thirteen, Common Ground
Do you really wanna know how I was dancing on the floor?
I was trying to phone you when I'm crawling out the door
I'm amazed at you, the things you say that you don't do
Why don't you wreck?
I was feeling lonely, feeling blue
Feeling like I needed you
Like I'm walking up, surrounded by me
A&E
-'A&E', Goldfrapp
After replacing the battery, Troy found himself walking in circles around the apartment, holding the phone like it was a precious infant ready to explode with noise. He finally collapsed onto the couch and stared at the screen, willing it to light up and say 'Restricted' again like it had earlier. He wanted so desperately to hear Gabriella's voice again; he wanted to hear her tell him that it was all one big mistake and that she wanted to come home. But then Cassandra's face popped into his head and he sighed, head tilted back against the armrest. Remember you hot model wife, Mr. Bolton? She's due back tomorrow morning, in case you forgot.
Suddenly the phone's ring tone—the fruit sounding one that he made a mental note to change—filled the room after what had certainly been somewhere between four and five hours of pacing; he saw the caller ID. Evans, Sharpay. She meant well, surely. She wasn't trying to kill him with her constant phone calls and somewhat high-pitched squeals every time he picked up. No, she wanted to help. "Get dressed!" she commanded when he began the routine hello. "We're going out."
"What?" he asked, confused as he sat up. "Sharpay, I'm married, you know, and you're engaged to Milan—" She interrupted him again with a faux yuk-yuk, and Troy smiled.
"I'm not talking about just you and me," she chided impatiently. "I'm talking about you, me, and Milan. I can't imagine why you haven't met him, so I think it's time for a little man bonding. He's taking us to Charm, that new restaurant near the Plaza? I'm uberexcited; it's going to be amazing. The wine list is supposed to be a foot long, and the live band has played at celebrity weddings like Brad and Angie, and Nicole and Joel! Even on the East Coast, Hollywood comes in all shapes and sizes."
Unlike his catwalk prowler wife, famous names didn't impress Troy. "Sharpay, uh, man bonding really sounds, er, great—but I'm not up for it today. Not to mention it's only two o'clock in the afternoon, Shar. Plus, I highly doubt Milan has a lot to offer me anyway; the guy's a designer-turned-model. It's like… Asking a Hummer enthusiast to bond with a global warming protester. We have nothing in common."
Sharpay hmphed, her tone bleeding with scorn like she knew better. "Says you," she sneered, but he could tell she was curling her hair or putting on make up—something to keep her happy. "You haven't even met him, so you can't be quick to judge. Now, get a nice jacket on and maybe shave, you get that shabby street urchin look sometimes and it's not very attractive. We'll be there to pick you up in one hour, okay? We'll go out to Central Park or something and then go to an early dinner. Oh, I almost forgot, don't wear any blue, I'm planning on a yellow dress and the last thing I need to look like is the color wheel, it's a despicable format, actually—"
"ItalkedtoGabriella," he suddenly said, as if just realizing this major news would be of some use to Sharpay. She stopped, squeaked, and Troy repeated his words, nodded at his lap. She gasped and he flicked his hair out of his eyes. "Yeah. This morning."
There was a short pause before, "And you didn't even think to tell me?"
He paused for a second, considering this. "Well, no," he said finally. "It wasn't actually a big conversation. I dropped the phone, and the battery fell out, and the number came up as restricted…" He trailed off, hearing his own lamentable story with some contempt.
She sighed and Troy heard what sounded like a hand being clapped to a forehead. Sharpay was still melodramatic Sharpay. "You, my friend, can be oh so lame," she said, and he mumbled a halfhearted response. "But that's what I'm here for. Milan is also a great therapist. Be ready in—actually, now ninety minutes, okay? I have to hear how you ended up talking to this woman that's been MIA for thirteen years." The line went dead and he pressed 'end', before staring at the screen again. Why the hell hadn't Arielle called back? Then he realized maybe, just maybe, Gabriella didn't want to talk to him.
Thirteen years was a very long time and most anything could happen in a span of that long, however the teenager in him hoped she was just as miserable as he was. That way, they'd find at least one common ground among the sea of differences they couldn't seem to cross when they were younger.
TYWY
"He just hung up?" Arielle asked skeptically, taking a seat next to Gabriella and pushing the phone's cradle back and forth as if checking for loose parts inside. "This thing is defective; our father does not just end calls like that without saying goodbye or anything." Her heart dropped for a second as she thought, What if they really fell out of love? "Let's call him back," she said firmly, just as the dark-haired woman reached over to hold a hand over hers.
"No," she replied. "I don't want to interrupt his day, and I'm sure that very slight conversation was as much of a shock to him as it was to me." She added silently, He sounds the same, like he's doing well. That isn't fair.
There was awkwardness in the room, tapping on their shoulders and reminding them in a manner as if to say, Um, excuse me? You guys can't just weasel your way into a 'Leave It to Beaver' lifestyle. You have to suffer first. Gabriella sank lower in her seat, trying to focus on the splinter sticking up from the table probably older than she was. Arielle thrummed her fingers atop her knee, begging God or anyone who was listening for a conversation to brew between the three of them and salvage their reunion. Harris came to the rescue: "Does Sampson have a park?"
His mother glanced at him. "It's probably ten degrees outside," she said, in a warning voice that hinted to her secret enthusiasm for a day trip. "We'd have to load on the clothing. Did you guys bring parkas?"
Neither of the teenagers answered at first, before Arielle offered, "Well, um, we have like trench coats. New York City usually has outdoor heating." She paused, before smiling. "Oh! But my coat, it's double-breasted and raspberry colored, and just the absolute cutest accent to my hair, which is like almost white blond but still kind of dark like my dad's." Her face heated up when Harris whispered, "Rambler" and Gabriella burst out laughing.
"Well, it does play up my highlights!" the girl said indignantly, glaring down at her hands, promptly interesting. "Let's just go to the park."
And then they made a memory, one that should have come a long time ago. Gabriella pushed them on the swings; cleared the snow off the slide so they could skid to the bottom on their feet; laughed when Harris tried his hand at the monkey bars but then fell from the icy grip. Suddenly these two children, people who were strangers to her and vice versa, were components in her life, and it was a nice thought for once. Gabriella, the black sheep, wasn't alone now.
TYWY
The first thing you could think when you saw Milan Bauer-Cresson was probably: What. A. Ham. He wore a navy blue ensemble and matching silk tie (despite the obvious time of day and even though Troy remembered Sharpay had specifically asked him not to wear any of that color, due to her yellow attention-getter sack dress) and had curly jet-black hair, with eyes to match. His naturally straight teeth with their shocking white color hit Troy's glance and the artist flinched. "Nice to meet you," he said with a wince, shaking hands as Sharpay giggled and came up behind her fiancé.
"And you," Milan returned, voice surprisingly deep in spite of his slim build. He was wiry, like a gymnast, with protein muscle and long legs like a track star's. "My little Shar-Star has told me so much about you, I feel like I know you already."
Cue fake-laugh. Troy forced a smile and even managed a little ha-ha for good measure, which seemed to please, ahem, Shar-Star. "Can I get you guys anything while we're here?" he asked, motioning toward the kitchen, but the drama queen shook her head and ushered them to the elevator.
"We're not going to be late for this!" she instructed them, pressing the down button over and over. It reminded Troy of Arielle, whose restlessness always made him nervous. Sharpay finally slipped between the cool metal doors when the red light above them lit up, waiting anxiously for her other two dates that night to follow suit. "I spoke to Marielisa from the photo shoot last night, and she said Charm is to die for. I am so happy I chose today to wear this." She pointed to her brick red chemise and Milan kissed her affirmatively. So much for yellow.
In the limo (a stretch, specifically ordered by the power couple), Sharpay poured herself some champagne and smiled at Troy next to her while Milan made a phone call. "Spumante?" she recommended, handing a glass out to him. He took it and studied the liquid carefully, as if looking for hints of poison. She giggle-scoffed, before taking the drink and sipping it pleasantly. After a few seconds, "Voila. It's not contaminated, Bolton. My evil streak died out some time in college. And yes, it is two o'clock in the afternoon. But the bubbly stuff is just too good to resist, so who could blame us? Or me, for that matter."
He shrugged and took the drink from her, taking a swallow before making a very disagreeable face. "Wow," was all he could achieve without any more discomfort showing up in his body language. Sharpay laughed and her shoulders went up slightly, collarbone dipping in toward her neck.
"Some people don't like it at first," she said apathetically. She stole a glimpse of Milan, still politely turned away on his cell phone, before looking at Troy. "So. What happened?"
He stared at her for a moment. "What happened with what?"
She rolled her eyes, silently saying Duh, half-wit. "With Gabriella," she supplied, and seeing him still frown made her add bluntly, "Over the phone!"
"Oh." The blood began to rush to his head again and he sniffed, involuntarily sucking in a whiff of the white wine. Troy coughed for a moment, clearing his throat and trying to catch his breath. "Well, Arielle called. And I hadn't talked to her in a while. We just kept leaving phone messages and I had talked to—" He stopped, and then glared moodily at the speakers across from them. "April."
The limo lurched to a stop and the noise level grew outside. They had arrived at Central Park. "Your sister?" Sharpay asked, consuming the rest of her beverage heartily. "What about her?"
"She was in on this," he groaned, fishing for his cell phone in his pocket. "God, I've talked to her like a thousand times, and she didn't even bother to tell me." Before he could dial the Boston number, Sharpay stopped him with a resolute grasp over his fingers.
"Uh-uh, not right now. You need to have fun, just forgot about these troubles and dance for a little while! If Gabriella's anything like I remember, then the kids are in good hands. You don't always have to be the responsible adult, Troy, sometimes that's what the nanny is for." She tugged on his hand as they slipped outside, obscured by the dim street lighting and one of her mandatory bodyguards. He laughed as they walked inside.
"Gee, Shar, you're going to make a great mother one day."
"Puh-lease, my kids are going to be famous before they even make it to the delivery room." Inside, the music began, and thoughts of Arielle, Harris, and a woman he knew named Gabriella began to drift to the back of his mind like distant fog, bound to return after the recent weather forecasts predicting mostly sunshine with the slight chance of rain—or in this case, his past.
TYWY
The wind picked up and Arielle shivered as she sat up, twisting her body slightly so she could observe her attempt at making a snow angel. Beside her, Harris was staring up at the sky, and beyond him, Gabriella was doing yoga poses—even though she had never taken yoga in her life. "Did you love our dad?" the blond girl asked. Her voice was nervous, unconfident; she had broken the rule, the unwritten guideline that required no conversations mentioning the past.
Gabriella stopped doing what she thought could be called 'turtle' and glanced at the child, thirteen and curious and unbelievably nosy. Then, she glanced at the dark-haired boy, and he returned the favor from the corner of his eye. His face read an apology, and she nodded slightly. "Yes, I did," she finally said quietly, contemplating whether to elaborate or wait for more questions. There were so many details, so many additions to the story that would have enlightened the entire world.
But there were no more inquiries. It seemed this answer, although it didn't explain anything at all, was enough satisfaction for Arielle, who stood up and began walking back in the direction of the shop. Harris watched her for a second, sighing sadly. "I think she wants everything to be normal—for everything to suddenly turn around like in the movies. She wants to make the happy ending come true, to save the day and be responsible for the satisfying outcome," he explained. "But I think you know the ending to this, and it's not the cinematic one Ari was hoping for."
"I bet you got your intelligence from your mom's side," she said, smiling slightly. He smiled back and she reached over to rest her forehead on his shoulder, wishing she didn't feel like she was embracing a stranger.