Archive of Our Own ^beta

Make it count. Meet me at the clock.

April 7th, 1922

It hit her suddenly. Inexplicably. Like a punch to the gut. Knees shaking and hands trembling.

Ten years. 

Ten. 

Years. 

It had been ten years.

So many things had changed since then.

And if there was anything Rose Dawson knew, it was change.

She’d had to remake herself more than once over the years. Rebuild herself from the ground up. Pick herself back up, roll up her sleeves, grab the bull by the horns. Whatever idiom you wanted to use. She’d had to do it. Not that Rose could complain. She’d earned her freedom through work. And it was one of her greatest joys every single day she woke up.

She always had a friend and small financial help - whenever she thought Rose wasn’t looking - in one Molly Brown, too.

Rose knew change. She’d once been Rose Dewitt-Bukater, heiress and only daughter of the Dewitt-Bukater family. She’d once almost been Rose Hockley, too, and that thought still made her ill. But that girl had died years ago. Had it already been ten years since she’d been that scared little girl, engaged to a man who didn’t love her (no matter what Cal might have said, no matter what he’d bought her, it hadn’t been love, it had been about power and control and inheritance) and whom she despised? The little girl who would do everything to please her mother, who found refuge in her rather scandalous reading and artistic collection? Had she been that girl ten years ago?

That girl had sunk with the Titanic . She wasn’t her anymore.

Now, she was Rose Dawson, single mother and rising star in Hollywood.

Her work fulfilled her. That was true. But not as much as seeing  the other member of the Dawson family grow. The first day she had held her daughter in her arms, a screaming, wriggling, bloodied little creature swaddled in a soft blanket, Rose had known true love for the second time in her life. Josie Dawson was her other greatest joy. Her rock. Her sunshine. The source of her pride. Josie carried her mother’s fire and her father’s hair and eyes.

She saw more and more of Jack in her with each passing day.

Rose stared at the date on her calendar. 

Ten years. 

Something whispered within her. Rumbling in her belly. Something Rose had buried so long ago, drowned when the unsinkable ship had sunk. Not even five minutes ago, she’d been doing nothing and everything, cooking breakfast like every morning before. Until she’d cut her finger while slicing bread and had looked up at the wall. Specifically, as water had run down her hand and blood trickled into the sink, she’d looked at the calendar on the wall. 

Her heartbeat quickened. Her breath shivered in her throat. 

The urge to flee filled her to the brim.

Rose had to leave this town. She couldn’t stay here. 

She had to go back. 

They had to.

It wouldn’t be an easy task. Oh, she was well aware of that. There would be a lot of planning to do. And they were late, but she had a feeling they weren’t too late. Today was Friday. If they left Saturday… they could be there on time. On time for what, Rose didn’t exactly know. But she knew they’d be there on time. They would have to book train tickets,  pack their bags, and travel for… oh, possibly less than a week. If they were lucky. 

But they had to. They simply had to.

Rose shut off the water and, after wiping her finger on a clean towel, left the kitchen. She found her way up the stairs, past her bedroom, to Josie’s room, where she found her daughter sitting at her small desk by the window. One leg was crossed over the other, her foot dangling to the side. Light poured in around her, making her golden ringlets shine. Josie looked up from her work. Sharpening her charcoal pen. Rose smiled. Josie had been taught years ago to be careful with knives. An advice Rose should probably heed.

As she watched Josie, Rose couldn’t help but think about Cora. The little girl she’d befriended on board the ship. Josie was already older than she had been. Ten years ago.

Pushing the thought aside, Rose finally said:

“Josie?

“Yes, Mom?”

“I think… I think it’s long overdue that we take a little trip, don’t you think?”

Josie’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.

“A trip? Where?”

“What do you say we go back to New York for a few weeks?”

Josie’s jaw dropped. She stared at Rose. Gaping. Silence settled between them. Rose’s hand automatically rubbed her other arm. Nervousness bubbling inside her.

“I…” Josie cleared her throat. “That would be amazing! But why now?”

“Well…” What could Rose say to that? “I think I have some unfinished business there. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun! You’ll be able to see all your pen pals from New York…”

“Mom.”

“...and I’ll help with your schoolwork…” 

“Mooooom.”

“...and I know I would be uprooting you but…!”

“MOOOOOM!”

Rose’s mouth clicked shut.

“What?”

“When do we leave?”

Rose blinked. She felt her own eyebrows knitting together into a frown.

“I’m sorry?”

Pulling on every syllable like an elastic band between her fingers, Josie repeated:

“Wheeeeen dooooo weeeeee leaaaaave?”

Rose’s mouth hung open for a second. Then, she smiled again.

“How about tomorrow?”

Josie’s smile matched hers. Creasing the dimples on her cheeks.

“That sounds perfect.”

And so, that morning after calling the school to announce that Josie wouldn’t be able to go to school for the next few weeks thanks to “family business” and, subsequently, watching Josie leave for school, Rose stood in her empty bedroom. Her suitcase opened. She hesitated. For just a moment. Before she walked over to her closet. She pulled apart a part of the wall. And pulled out a small, thin box.

It was the first thing she packed.

April 10th, 1922

Josie Dawson was a born artist, but she was also a curious mind.

And curiosity thrived on change.

Others would say Josie’s life was propelled along by change. That would be true. Her first few years had been spent in their tiny apartment in New York City. Small and dusty and cozy and wonderful. Shared with more people than Josie cared to remember. Then Mom’s job had taken a turn for the better and they’d moved to sunny California. Josie remembered those travelling days as fun and a nice change of pace. With more landscapes and people to draw than ever. As Rose Dawson became a renowned actress around the city, every day, more and more people craned their necks to take a look at Mom. Josie’s days were filled with changes and changes of pace.

That would be true. To a point.

But if there was any word Josie would use to describe Mom, and going further, her life spent with Mom, it would be stagnant.

A word she’d just learned in class. 

Stagnant. 

As far back as Josie remembered, Mom had been a ray of sunshine under dull, gray skies. But there was also a part of Mom - the part she didn’t want Josie to see, the part that restrained Mom from talking about anything from before Josie was born - that couldn’t be hidden from her. Sometimes, Josie would come home and find Mom under the covers. Crying after work. Or she’d hear Mom screaming awake from a nightmare about rising waters and coldness, so much coldness. Those nights were usually spent eating food in bed in the warmth of Mom’s embrace. Listening to their breathing. To their heartbeats. Taking comfort in each other. 

Simply living.

When Mom’s friends came to visit, Josie would sometimes hear that they were concerned. But their concerns were usually misguided. At best.

“Come on, Rose! When are you going to find love again?”

“You’re going to find someone! I’m sure of it!”

“And he’ll treat you right! I know he will!”

But every time, Mom, as she’d stroke her golden ring, would answer:

“I’m fine. I have Josie.”

But it never seemed enough for Mom’s friends.

And honestly, Josie had a feeling it wasn’t enough for Mom either.

Not just yet.

Which wasn’t to say that Mom didn’t live life to the fullest. She danced, sang, laughed, read, painted, baked, sculpted… They shared their love of art and Mom would create or work with anything she could get her hands on. From pies to pottery. Their walls were full of cheerful sights, bright sounds and mouth-watering smells. 

But after those nights spent in bed, Mom would humour her friends and go on a date.

Or two. Or three.

And it’d never work out. 

Not because the men weren’t nice. They were, Mom would tell Josie. But there was always something that didn’t click. Something missing.

There was a part of Josie that knew it was about Dad.

Josie didn’t know much about her father. She knew his name. She knew they shared the same initials. J.D. She knew he liked to write his  initials at the bottom of every drawing, so Josie did the same. To feel a little closer to him. And Josie also knew he’d had the brightest smile, the loveliest eyes and the most inspiring way of life.

But she didn’t know how he had died. 

Before she was born. 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Mom would always say when Josie asked.

Yeah, right.

As Josie sketched the smelly man who shared their compartment and as their train rumbled on its way to New York City, she wondered how much her life could change in the coming days. Josie hoped it would. 

In fact, Josie had a feeling that if Mom didn’t find what she was looking for in New York, she’d stop looking. She’d move on.

Josie still couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing.

She’d just have to wait and see.

April 12th, 1922

Nick Carraway’s life had taken a rather strange turn indeed.

Then again, after the Great War, nothing had ever been the same. But the way his life had taken a strange turn had happened not four years ago in the trenches, in mud and in nightmares, but only a few months ago, under autumn’s fiery colours. Nick had moved from his good old Midwest to New York City’s suburbs. Winter had settled in, bringing its cold and snow, but nonetheless, New York and its surrounding areas had been as lively as ever. Parties were kept inside and underground. Just like alcohol. During those wintery days, Nick had eventually been found by Jay Gatsby and invited to one of his aforementioned parties. And now that the world had turned  to spring, the parks and yards were crowded with laughter and cheer. In the backyards of some of the most popular parties, alcohol flowed. Jazz fluttered in people’s ears, pushing people along, making them dance. 

Since that party in winter, Gatsby had taken Nick under his wing. Not that he’d ever asked him to. Gatsby had his way of making you feel understood. Respected. 

Every few days, whenever he could, Nick would visit the hermit who hosted the best parties in town. Even if he considered Gatsby his friend now, Nick still felt that sometimes, it was hard to tell with the man. He was a puzzle he had to decipher.

There was no puzzle more… puzzling , in fact and for lack of a better word, than this man himself. Jay Gatsby was a mystery he still needed to solve.

The only clue Nick had in Gatsby’s case… was that he knew the man was lonely.

Tonight, Nick was at one of Gatsby’s parties. Sunshine had disappeared some time ago, leaving the guests in darkness under twinkling stars and buzzing golden electric lights. Morning would come, sooner rather than later, but for now, it was time to forget. And yet, as was his usual now, Nick was taking some respite from the festivities. He walked down the mansion’s silent halls, gazing at nothing and everything, all sounds muffled in his ears, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors.

Finally, Nick stood at a window, looking out upon the vast backyard. 

No wonder Gatsby was lonely. One of the richest men in town, if not the richest man in town, he never joined in on the parties and stalked these empty hallways.

Day and night.

“Hey, old sport.” 

Nick spun around. Turning away from the window. Too fast. Stars danced in his eyes for a moment. Until his gaze landed on Gatsby. Who was standing in the shadows. Back leaning against a wall and arms crossed over his chest.

Something was going on.

“Hey.”

Gatsby opened his mouth… but seemed to think better of it. He closed it again. Lips forming a line. Nick frowned. What was going on? Was there something wrong?

Nick waited. He waited for long, long seconds.

Until...

“There’s something I need you to do for me.”

Nick arched an eyebrow. 

“Something?”

“Yes. Something important.”

“Oh. I…”

“Look, Nick.” Gatsby pushed himself away from the wall. He rubbed the back of his neck, head bowed. Nick grew anxious at that. Gatsby  never called him Nick . “I wouldn’t trust anyone to do this. It’s… It’s really important and… It would mean so much to me. I don’t… I’m probably bothering you, but you’re my friend and I trust you and…”

“I’ll do it. Whatever you ask.”

Gatsby gave him a smile. A rare smile during his parties.

“Thank you. I’d like you to deliver an invitation for me.”

Nick blinked. Then, he nodded.

“Of course.”

Soon enough, Nick found himself in the possession of a deep red envelope. Marked with the name of a woman he’d never heard of. Rose . The paper weighed in Nick’s hands. Weighed down by emotion. This Rose was important to Gatsby. He could see it in the man’s eyes. Hopeful and hurt and… humble.

He wasn’t getting any closer to deciphering Jay Gatsby, wasn’t he?

“I’ll do whatever you need.”

April 14th, 1922

Josie found it two days after arriving in New York.

The last two days had been magical. Josie had met her oldest friends in Central Park, had gone to the movies and they’d even gone dancing. They were currently on their way back to their hotel under the sunset after dinner, eating ice creams and laughing at ancient jokes. They’d taken the train from Manhattan back through to the suburbs. And now here they were. Walking outside. Lights twinkled at windows, a cool breeze ruffled their hair and the last of the sun’s rays warmed them up. 

Josie looked over at Mom. She looked truly happy. All wide smiles and lines creasing the corner of her eyes. Josie had rarely seen her this happy.

New York was good for her.

It was good for the both of them.

Their hotel in the suburbs welcomed them. Shielding them from the cool spring air. The door clicked shut behind them. They hung their hats and scarves on hooks by the door. Bessie Smith sang on the radio, voice crackling and popping with static. Josie fell on the soft mattress, her sketchbook on her lap, while Mom took a seat by the window, gazing outside. Josie started to draw Mom. Her long hair fell in curls around her shoulders, freed from their faux bob. She rested her chin on her hand. Elbow against the windowsill. Back arched forward. Eyes lost in the distance.

Josie found it purely by accident. She’d been pondering what to draw, wiggling her pencil around, when it had flown from her fingers. Josie dove under her bed. No pencil. She patted around the floor. No pencil. She finally found it when she took a peek behind the dresser. Along with… something else.

An envelope.

“What’s that, Mom?”

“Hm?”

Josie straightened her back, sitting on her knees. She put the deep red envelope up to her face. In fancy letters was the name Rose inscribed in bright white ink. And nothing else. It smelled… weird, too. Weirdly intense. Like… rose water?

She offered Mom the letter. 

“Look! It’s been… stuck between the wall and the dresser.” 

“Oh. How unfortunate. A housekeeping mistake, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” Leaning on her hands, Josie spoke, voice coming out of her mouth faster than her brain processed the words: “What is it? What does it say? Who is it from?” 

Mom sent her one of her looks. “Give me a moment, will you?”

“Sorry.”

Mom ripped the letter open with efficient hands. Paper crinkled under her fingers. A light pink piece of elegant cardstock appeared from inside the envelope. Mom turned it around. Almost immediately, one eyebrow rose up. Mom squinted her eyes.

“It’s for me.” 

“Yes, I figured it’s for you. But what does it say? Who sent it?”

“How peculiar. This is... an invitation. From Jay Gatsby.”

“Jay Gatsby?”

“Yes. I think… remember the mansion down the road? The one my friend Jordan talked about? She said it was owned by a man named Gatsby.”

“And what are you invited to?”

Mom’s gaze glided over the cardstock. Eyebrows knitting together. It wasn’t a long invitation; it took her maybe a grand total of thirty seconds to read it. But to Josie, those seconds seemed to stretch into hours. Finally, Mom set down the invitation and looked up. Her voice sounded confused, maybe even baffled, when she said:

“He’s… inviting me... to a party.”

“A party? Really?”

“Yes.”

“What about me? Am I invited?”

Mom turned the piece of cardstock around. Nothing was written there. 

“It doesn’t say. Well, if you aren’t and they ask any questions, I’ll just say you’re my daughter. If they stop you at the door, then I simply won’t go. How does that sound?”

Josie chuckled.

“Sounds great, Mom.”

“It starts in an hour. Do you want to go?”

“Of course! I’d be delighted.”

“Then put on your best dress.”

They walked all the way to the mansion. Shoes pounding the pavement. Jay Gatsby’s mansion wasn’t exactly far. Mom had been right; it was just further down the road. But it still took them a while to get there. Because they stopped at the gates. Looking at the lights shimmering in the dark. Half-hidden behind two rows of tall trees. Jazz drifted to them, as did laughter and cheer. Josie pulled on her jacket. She’d decided to wear her Sunday dress, the best one she had. And yet… she had a feeling she’d be underdressed at this kind of event. 

Had you seen that house?

“It looks…”

Mom trailed off. As if unable to find the right word. Josie offered:

“Extravagant?” 

“Yeah. That’s the word.”

Josie seemed to see something behind Mom’s eyes. Memories? From a life long ago?

She couldn’t quite tell, though, because Mom pulled her by the arm - as gentle as always - towards the gate. Where two guards were waiting. They didn’t make a fuss. As soon as they saw the official-looking piece of cardstock, the guards let the both of them pass. Without a word or a second glance. Josie and Mom walked on the side of the dirt pathway. The wind’s shivers in the trees were interrupted, at times, by honking horns and cheerful guests on their way to the mansion. Passing them by in shiny cars. Josie held on tight to Mom’s hand.

She’d never seen so many rich people in her life.

And that said a lot. Since her Mom worked in Hollywood.

The mansion finally appeared in its entirety, many stories high. Josie broke her neck trying to take it all in. It was beautiful, with tall white walls, deep blue roofs and even a turret or two. This looked more like a castle than a house, if you’d have to ask her. And she knew nobody would ask. As soon as Josie and Mom finished climbing the front steps, they were ushered in by a butler. Josie barely had the time to take a glimpse at the ostentatious décor as they were guided to the back of the mansion. The butler almost pushed them through the tallest doors she’d even seen and into the backyard.

A party at Jay Gatsby’s turned out to be incredibly boring, Josie soon found out.

If there was anything Josie found boring in life, it would be A) being surrounded by strangers, B) having nothing to do while being surrounded by strangers, and C) navigating a backyard while having nothing to do while being surrounded by strangers who also happened to be very drunk. Drunk on illegal alcohol, she’d have to add. Not that she’d ever say anything if a police officer asked. Besides, some of these people, even the rare ones that weren’t already drunk… they were so… plain… weird.

They kept whispering to themselves. Pointing at people.

“Do you think that’s Gatsby?”

“Surely not! I know him and that’s not him.”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do. Why else would I be here?”

“What does he look like, then?”

“Um… well…!”

They had all come to this party. Hosted by this man. Gatsby. 

And yet no one seemed to know who he was or what he looked like.

“I’m sure we’ll get to see him tonight,” said a man who was talking with Mom as they stood by the buffet table. “Or maybe tomorrow night. Or the night after that.”

“Oh, I hope we see him! I’ve only been invited for tonight.”

The man stared at Mom.

“You’ve been invited? No one needs an invitation to Gatsby’s parties!”

Josie tapped her glass. Filled with water, thank you very much. She looked at all those people, all those rich people who had too much money but didn’t know what to do with it. So they wasted their lives away, dancing and laughing. Fun was allowed, of course! Josie wasn’t a killjoy. But this felt… too grand, too extravagant, and yet too boring at the same time. Music played, but she had no desire to dance. Only to watch Gatsby’s guests.

These people hadn’t taken anything seriously since 1918. They deserved it, Josie supposed. She’d been too young to really live through the Great War. But she knew it had killed more than they could count. And left many more to pick up the pieces.

Mom, though, unlike Josie, seemed to get along well with these people.

Like an actress in a well-rehearsed play.

Or in a movie, Josie should probably think. That seemed more appropriate.

Endless, mindless chatter fluttered to Josie’s ears, accompanied by the band playing. She knew nobody and nobody seemed to know anybody. That wasn’t the point of this party. Nothing about this was meaningful. The life of the rich and famous.

That is...

Until Josie saw the man staring from the back of the crowd.

He was standing in the middle of the crowd, and yet Josie could only look at him. There was nothing unsubstantial about those eyes. Those tearful eyes. That man looked like he carried the world inside of him. Like there was so much he wanted to say, so much he could say, but no way of saying those things trapped inside him. He looked like he didn’t belong in this crowd. He only stood there. Staring.

There was something more about this man. Josie knew it.

At first, Josie thought he was looking at something over their heads. But he wasn’t. He was looking at Mom. At her face. At nothing but her face. As if she was high above. High above him. In a class of her own.

His eyes were glued to Mom.

Until he caught Josie’s eye.

Then, he ran away.

“I’m going for a walk, Mom,” said Josie automatically.

“All right. But don’t stray too far, all right?”

“Promise, I won’t!”

Josie put down her glass on the buffet table and started after the man. She walked until she was out of sight from Mom. Then, once Josie was certain Mom couldn’t see her anymore, she started to sprint. Sneaking between the guests’ legs. Walking under the waiters’ silver platters. Dodging fur coats and shin-length dresses. 

All that time, she only looked at one man.

He disappeared inside the mansion. 

Still, Josie followed.

The crowd trickled down as she climbed the steps back inside. Soon, there were only a few chatting guests and the staff, walking around, shouting orders, mumbling agreements. The man climbed the great staircase. Josie  followed. The man trotted down a long hallway. Josie followed. The man pushed open a door. Again, Josie followed.

She stepped in the doorway.

And stopped.

She was in a library.

Of course, this mansion would have a library. But what Josie hadn’t expected was what kind of library it would be. It was a big one. A gigantic one. All walls were covered in dark wooden bookshelves. There were books by the hundreds. Perhaps by the thousands. They were all there, covering the walls. From floor to ceiling. From her feet to high, so high, above her head. The smell of old books filled her nostrils.

The man stopped in the middle of the room. Catching his breath.

He hadn’t been running, and yet… he was out of breath.

As if there was no other way to escape.

“Hello?”

The man didn’t turn around. He kept his back to Josie.

How rude.

“Sir, I can see you’re there. Hello?”

Finally, he turned around.

Josie didn’t know what she’d expected when she’d noticed that man in the crowd. Or when she’d run after him. In any case, she hadn’t expected to see… a boy. He was a grown-up, of course he was, but he also looked so… young. So vulnerable. He was a frightened boy. A boy who was running away. Not just from her. He was running away from… something. Something she still couldn’t figure out.

“Are you a ghost?”

It was the first thing that came to Josie’s mind. The first thing that broke the silence like glass on the floor. The first thing that seemed to make sense. How do you make sense of a boy - man - who lived all alone in a place like this?

Because she had a feeling he wasn’t a guest. 

Though she didn’t ask.

The man blinked slowly. Very slowly. 

Once. 

Twice.

“A... ghost?”

“Yeah.” Josie walked further into the library, her footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet. “Are you a ghost? No one seems to see you, you live in a big old house and you’re so silent, it’s like you’re not really there. Like a ghost.”

The man looked around. As if baffled.

“I can assure you. I’m no ghost.”

Josie nodded. Somewhat reassured.

Ghosts, she didn’t know how to deal with. But living people, she did.

“Why were you running from me, sir?”

The man opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked tense for a moment. Until his shoulders drooped. Relaxed. Accepting. 

“Because I’m a coward.”

“Come on.” Josie rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I am.” Josie put her hands in the pockets of her dress. “Besides, it’s not a nice thing to say. It’s not a kind thing to say either. And it’s easy to say unkind things. Mom always says to be kind to oneself. After all, we’re our own best friend.”

He nodded. As if he understood so much more than he let on.

“Your Mom is very wise.”

“That, she is.”

Another moment of silence settled in. He stared at nothing but her. At the ground. At his feet. At the rows upon shows of shelves sagging under the books’ weights. Until the man shared a glance with her. Heaving a heavy sigh, he took a seat. Not behind the expensive-looking desk on that expensive-looking leather chair. But on the floor. His back against a bookshelf. Josie plopped down next to him. A foot away. It was the only thing she could do. Besides, her feet were starting to ache from standing around. Doing nothing.

For a moment, they were silent. Then the man started to talk. Waving his hands.

“Do you ever just… know you have to do something but you can’t find the courage to do it? Or you feel like you’re going to explode at the mere thought of doing it?”

“Like when you get butterflies in your tummy?”

“Yes! Butterflies. Exactly.”

Josie considered it for a moment.

“I know what that feels like. When I have to talk in front of my class.”

“It’s difficult for you? Talking to a crowd?”

“Oh, definitely. I hate it. All the other students… They’re all just… there. Staring at me. While I have to remember what I have to say. I freeze up, usually. It hasn’t affected my grades, though. I mean… I don’t think it has. Yet.”

“Don’t worry. I bet you’re very good in school. Your Mom taught you well, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

Another moment of silence. Interrupted by... Boom! Boom! Boom! Josie and the man looked as one towards the window. Out there, fireworks exploded. They watched as a myriad of colours danced in the night sky. Casting light upon the bookshelves. Bursts of blues and reds echoing in her bones. Finally, Josie had to ask, without looking at him:

“Were you really running from me?”

“... No. No, I wasn’t.”

“You were running from my Mom.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you went and talked to her, you know.” Josie looked at him once more. She waved a hand. “I bet she needs it, even. We arrived two days ago - we’re from California - and while she’s been talking to her friends… I don’t know. It feels like there are more words she wants to say. But she doesn’t know who to say them to.”

“I see.”

Boom! Boom! Boom! More fireworks burst through the sky. 

“My Mom...” started Josie. It took her a few seconds more to continue: “She’s looking for someone. She’s been looking for a long time. Mom is… Well, she’s lonely.” Josie paused. Taking a deep breath. “My Dad’s not around. He died a long time ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” 

The man toyed with his ring. Twisting it around his pinky. He didn’t say anything more and Josie didn’t either. It was almost a companionable silence, now.

Boom! Boom! 

The floor turned to pinks and oranges.

Josie grinned. Teasingly. She sent him a look. From the corner of her eyes. 

“My Mom is really pretty. I understand if you feel intimidated.”

He arched an eyebrow. Somewhere between bemused and amused.

“‘Intimidated?’” He parroted. “That’s a big word.”

“You said it. I’m good in school.”

Josie nudged the man with her elbow. In return, he chuckled. Not quite a laugh. But halfway there. His chuckle bounced around the walls. Warming them. 

“I said that, didn’t I? You miss nothing.”

Josie shrugged.

“My Mom always says I can read people easily. I see them.”

The man’s face fell. There was no amusement in his eyes. He gazed at Josie with… not a small amount of shock. Or maybe thoughtfulness. He blinked. Rapidly. His eyes gleamed. Gleamed with tears. With memories. He stared at her for a few seconds. Mouth in a thin line. Until he rested his head against the bookshelf once more.

“I once knew a man like that. A man who saw people.”

“You knew him? As in, in the past? What happened?”

“Oh, nothing happened,” he answered, waving a hand. “I simply haven’t seen him in a while. We… drifted apart. So to speak.”

“I see.”

Boom! Boom! Boom! The walls shivered as fireworks exploded. The big finale. They remained in silence. The man twisted his ring, Josie tapped a rhythm with her fingers on her knees. They looked at the fireworks. Until they were gone. The show was over. Finally, the man turned to her. With a small smile on his face.

“Hey. What do you do for fun? We’re stuck here for a while. Unless… if you want to go back to the party… just tell me and you can…”

“No, no, no. This is fine.” 

Josie looked around. Fun, huh? What did she do for fun?

“Do you have a pen and some paper?”

“Pen and paper. Coming, right up!”

The man pushed himself off the floor and rummaged through his desk’s drawer. Soon, he returned. Holding a long, large and thin book, a few sheets of paper and a pen. Josie balanced the book on her knee, using it as a makeshift table. Josie moved around, using her legs to rotate her body until she was facing the man. She looked at him. Then at the paper. Then back at him.

“All right. Don’t move.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

She offered him a smile.

“I’m going to draw you.”

“You…” The man’s eyes widened slightly. “You like to draw?”

“Hm, hm.”

“And you want to draw… me?”

“Hm, hm!”

“All right.” The man put himself on his back. Lifting one leg over the other. Hands behind his head. In a rather silly pose. He offered her a grin. “Do you like this pose?” 

Josie swallowed a chuckle. 

“No!”

He moved again. Down on his belly, hands holding his feet.

“How about this one?”

Josie giggled. The man smiled his first real smile, then. But Josie swallowed down her laugh and pouted. Arms crossed over her chest. 

“Be serious, sir.”

“All right, all right. Enough messing with you. Got it. How about this?”

This time, he sat up. Legs crossed, chin resting in one hand and elbow resting on his leg. His other arm fell limply on his other leg. The man looked at her seriously. Calmly. Josie grinned at that. 

“Much better. Now stay still.”

She started to draw.

Jose drew for a while. Pen scratching against the paper. Creating shapes that would, she hoped, look like the man. She focussed on his face, his collar, his eyes and his hand on his chin. She drew until her hand ached. She drew until she was done. Finally done.

“There! I’m done.”

The man nodded. He rolled his shoulders and made his neck crack. Then, he reached for her drawing with one hand. Before he reached it, though, he froze. Fingers still. A voice had called a name. Echoing on the mansion’s walls. 

“Josie?” 

They shared a glance.

“Josie!”

Josie looked over her shoulder. Towards the empty doorway.

“That’s my Mom. I’m coming, Mom!”

Josie scribbled down her initials at the bottom of the page. She dropped the book, pen and paper, and, her drawing in hand, scrambled to her feet. The library was oddly quiet, now. As quiet as a library was supposed to be, anyway.

Josie’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh! I almost forgot. This is for you.”

She offered her drawing to the man. Josie was halfway out the door, trotting along, when she heard him say slowly, carefully:

“Thank… you. J. D.”

Josie ran away. She found Mom by the staircase, at the end of the hallway. Mom dropped to her knees. Josie was about to talk when she found herself pulled into a hug. A bear hug. A “you did something wrong and never do it ever again!” kind of hug.

“Josie! My God! Where were you? I searched everywhere for you! No one knew where you were! You scared me! Never do that again, do you hear me?”

Josie bowed her head. Chin resting in the crook of Mom’s neck.

“Sorry, Mom.” 

“It’s okay, Josie. It’s okay. I’m just glad I found you again.”

Josie closed her eyes. Breathing in Mom’s perfume. Then, she pushed herself away.

“I made a new friend, tonight!”

Mom put her hands on Josie’s shoulders. 

“Really? Who?”

“I think he’s a ghost.”

Mom’s eyebrows reached her hairline.

“A ghost?”

 “Yeah. A ghost. He’s really sad. Aren’t ghosts supposed to be sad?”

“I don’t know. Are they?”

Josie shrugged. “This one was, anyway.”

Mom nodded. Josie found herself dragged down the staircase and out the door. Back to the front yard. Mom had had enough of rich people for over a lifetime, she commented. Making Josie laugh. Under an inky black sky, they walked down the road towards the gates. Retracing their steps. Hand in hand. They walked in silence for a while. Until Mom asked:

“Did he tell you he was a ghost?”

Josie looked up. “Hm?”

“Your new friend. Did he tell you he was a ghost?”

“No. He told me the opposite, actually.”

“Then why…?”

“Isn’t that exactly what a ghost would say?”

Mom chuckled. A chuckle that travelled down the dirt pathway, that brushed against the trees. A chuckle that sounded like it would fit well with the man’s. Oddly enough.

“You’re probably right.”

April 14th, 1922

Jay Gatsby felt numb. He felt as if his whole world had been turned upside down, as if he was outside looking in. 

For years, he’d cultivated this image of himself. This persona. Jay Gatsby. He’d created this man from the ground up. Born from the sea. Born from tragedy. He’d shouldered this new life - this life of luxuries, this life of richness, this life that she had once lived - like an expensive fur coat. Soft and heavy and stuffy and stifling. He’d become Jay Gatsby. Playing along like an actor on stage. Always surrounded by an audience. Always studied. 

But nothing about this role satisfied him.

He wasn’t Gatsby. He’d never been him.

He was Jack Dawson.

Or was he? Jack was dead. He’d gone down with the ship.

No. No, he hadn’t. He wasn’t Gatsby.

He was Jack.

Jack Dawson. The poor orphan boy from Wisconsin. The boy who had gone through the ice when fishing with his father on Lake Wissota. The boy who had left home when he became alone. The boy who had found friends across the world. The boy who had found companionship with a lady who was so out of his league. The boy who hadn’t allowed her to die in those frozen waters. The boy who had let her live.

He was the poor boy who had been allowed a second chance, it seemed.

The boy who still had nothing to lose. 

Only a part of him had gone down with the ship.

Well, that was what he’d once thought. Had been convinced of. Until he’d seen her walking down the road. Until he’d seen her chatting amicably with one of the guests.

He still remembered her laugh, her face, her whole self. To think he’d fallen so hard in so few days, on the grandest ship in the world, with the most wonderful girl… woman… he’d ever known. She’d been a whirlwind, a tornado, bringing him along with her for the ride. She’d been his shining star. 

Before those days, she’d barely had the time to live. And after that, after that door and those cold, terribly cold waters, he’d thought her fire had been extinguished.

He’d thought she was dead.

She wasn’t on any survivors’ list. 

She was gone.

But then his eyes had found her daughter’s in the crowd. 

She had that same fire in her. 

Her mother’s fire.

Jack didn’t move. He didn’t move until the guests were gone. Until everyone was gone. Until all cars had disappeared down the road. Until the mansion was once more peaceful and quiet. Until he could barely see the drawing in his hands. Until he put it down on the floor. Until his eyes blurred with tears. J. D. She shared his initials. 

But she wasn’t his daughter.

He wondered who Rose had married after Titanic . He hoped he’d treated her right.

Finally, Jack pushed himself off the floor, stretched from his uncomfortable position and walked over to the window. Standing there. Hands clasped behind his back. Memories of a past he’d once tried to forget flooded him.

That girl. 

Josie. 

“My Mom always says I can read people easily. I see them.”

Jack swallowed.

She was her… She was her daughter . 

Alive and well. 

Living.

He’d never forgotten her voice. 

“You have a gift, Jack. You do. You see people.”

“You jump, I jump. Right?”

“To making it count.”

“This is impossible. I can’t see you.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Jack! This is where we first met!”

“I love you, Jack.”

“Jack? No, Jack. No!” 

“Jack? Jack!”

“Gatsby?”

He jumped. Out of his skin. 

“Don’t call me that!”

Spinning around, Jack faced a man in a tux standing in the doorway. For one second, he didn’t recognize him. For one second, he saw Caledon Hockley. Until he remembered. Of course. This wasn’t Hockley. He wasn’t on a ship travelling upon the Atlantic. He was on firm ground. In his mansion. And he was facing Nick Carraway. His friend.

Nick walked further into the room. He blinked.

“What?”

Oh. He’d snapped. Jack’s shoulders drooped.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Are you…” Nick toyed with his fingers. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he answered too fast. “I’m all right, old sport. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve been standing alone in your library and looking wistfully out the window for I don’t know how long? Gatsby. What’s going on?”

“I…” 

Jack took in a deep breath. Then, he straightened his back. 

“I need to make a telephone call.”

“A telephone call? At this hour?”

“Yes!” Jack walked around a confused-looking Nick and stood behind his desk. He rummaged through drawers. Hands shaking. “I need to call the florist. I… I need to make this big. I’ve been waiting ten years for this. It has to be phenomenal, no, extraordinary, no, impeccable! Nothing has to be out of place. Nothing. And I… I need… I need roses. Red roses. How many roses do you think should be enough?”

“How many roses…? But dear God, what for?”

Jack stopped. Blinking. He stared at Nick. Mouth slightly agape. 

Oh. He didn’t know. 

Well, of course he didn’t know.

How could he know?

Still, Jack found it hard to find the right words. How could he convey what had happened tonight? Or in the past few days? In what other words but:

“I think I found the love of my life.”

“You think?”

“I do! She’s… She’s here. She’s in New York. I haven’t seen her in so long. In ten years! But I know it’s her. She hasn’t aged a day.”

Nick nodded. There didn’t seem to be much to say on his end.

Jack rummaged through his drawers some more. Finally, finally, he found the florist’s business card. He knew Old Man Fletchley well. The man who owned the shop. The man who had helped Jack settle in New York after the sinking. From whom he bought all his flowers for his parties. Never roses, though. That didn’t seem appropriate. 

Until now.

“I’ll make it a thousand.”

A beat. Another confused look from Nick.

“A thousand?”

“No, no, no! Make it ten. Ten thousand roses.”

“Ten thousand roses?!”

“Of course!” 

Jack ran his hand through his hair. Tangling his ring in his hair. Jaw clenched. Two fingers of his other hand held up Old Man Fletchley’s business card. 

“Wait. Do you think that’s enough? Or maybe… maybe it’s too much? She… She came from a family with high standards. From a world unlike anything I’d seen before. I’m sure she cut all ties with them, but I still want the best for her. She deserves it.”

“I… I think that should be enough, then.”

“Good. Ten thousand roses. Good.”

“But you’re going to have to wait until tomorrow to make that call.”

Jack opened his mouth. Closed it.

Ah. Yes.

It was, indeed, pretty late.

“You’re right.”

“And she’ll have to be warned first.”

“I’ll send for a chauffeur. That’s not a problem. She’s staying at a hotel down the road. That’s how I… I saw her walking… That’s not the point. She’ll get here in no time.”

“And you’re going to need to take a deep breath.”

“A deep breath.” Jack obliged. “Yes.”

That deep breath didn’t last long, though. Jack’s mind worked a mile a minute. Everything he’d done, all the parties and preparations… it had all come down to this.

And it made his hands shake. He couldn’t stay put. Not now.

“I need… I need to find something.”

Jack walked past Nick and disappeared down the hallway.

“Gatsby! What, now?”

Jack’s footsteps glided over the carpeted floors. He found his way to his bedroom, not really seeing anything, not really feeling anything. As if he truly was a ghost. The ghost of his former past. But no. He wasn’t a ghost. His heartbeat drummed in his chest too fast for him to be dead. Or maybe he had been dead. And he was coming back to life.

Like a butterfly erupting from its cocoon. Breaking free.

“Somewhere…” Jack opened his wardrobe. He started to pull out clothes upon clothes upon clothes. Until a pile fell at his feet. “It must be here.”

“What are you doing?” asked Nick, somewhere behind him.

Jack didn’t listen.

“Where is it? Where… is… it?” 

“Gatsby! What has gotten into you? What…!”

“Ah! There!” 

Jack’s hand pushed a small button at the far back of the wardrobe. The clicking of clockwork filled the room. Jack heard Nick’s jaw hit the floor. The wardrobe’s false bottom popped open. Inside… he found a package carefully wrapped in brown paper.

Jack took a seat on his bed. The package resting on his knees. Rough and crinkling under his hand. It was large, thick and soft. 

“What is that?” 

Jack looked up at Nick. Smiling wistfully.

“It’s my old life.”

He unwrapped the package with revering hands. Inside were, at first, his old clothes. His suspenders, metallic clasps scratched and aged. His shoes, well-worn and with holes in their soles. His trousers, scratchy and faded. His shirt, with its sleeves too big and its thin fibers. Would these clothes still fit him? After all these years? Would they fit him like a glove or feel strange and unfamiliar? Was he still the man who had worn these so long ago?

“They’re…” Nick seemed to consider his comment. “... a poor man’s clothes.”

“Yes, they are.”

Jack set the clothes aside. Then he turned to what else was in the package.

His art supplies.

They weren’t the same ones he’d used when he’d drawn her. Obviously. Those had gone down with the ship. Along with that same drawing, he presumed. And all his other drawings. Were they still in Hockley’s safe at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean? 

Jack opened his fabric case. He almost wept at the sight.

He hadn’t drawn in years.

Where had he been, all that time? Swallowed hole by grief?

“What are you…?”

“I need to draw.” Jack looked up at Nick again. “I… I feel like I need to draw.”

“You draw? Since when?”

“I haven’t in a long time. What should I…?” He looked around, mostly ignoring his friend’s confusion. His eyes landed on the only flower in his room. “Oh! Of course.”

With careful fingers, he picked up the red rose from its vase on his bedside table.

It would probably find itself amongst its kind tomorrow. Ten thousand and one roses.

“Hold this for me.”

As Jack offered Nick the rose, he seemed to balk.

“I’m sorry?”

“Hold this for me and don’t move. I haven’t drawn hands in a while, but I shouldn’t have lost it all. At least I hope I haven’t. It will only take a moment. I promise.”

“A moment. All right.”

“Take a seat.” 

Jack moved to sit in a chair by the wardrobe, using his long, thin sketchbook as a desk of sorts. One leg was crossed over the other, his foot dangling to the side. Nick took a seat in another chair by the dresser. He held the rose in his hands, wrapped around the stem. 

Picking up his charcoal pencil, Jack started to draw.

He drew for a long time. Like Josie had. He drew until he felt comfortable with the movements that had once been second nature to him. He drew until it was past midnight. He drew until Nick himself grew uncomfortable.

“So, um…”

“Don’t talk. You move your hands when you talk.”

“Sorry.”

The only sounds they could hear were the wind scratching against the window, the cuckoo-clock somewhere down the hall, and Jack’s pencil scratching the paper.

“You… used to draw a lot like that?”

“All the time. Yes.”

“Really? Why did you stop?”

Jack let out a sharp breath through his nose. Not looking up.

“I told you not to talk.”

“Ah! Yes. Sorry.”

Jack pushed out a breath. He straightened his back. Truth be told, he’d only said that to avoid answering that question. He was already done. 

“Here. Take a look.”

Jack offered Nick the sheet of paper. His eyes widened.

“Gatsby! You’re better than I thought.”

Jack snorted. “Thanks.”

“No, no! I mean it. You’re good.”

Jack smiled as he tucked his art supplies back in its fabric. He hadn’t had a friend in years. For a moment, Jack’s heart ached. In his own way, Nick reminded him of Fabrizio. Of course, they weren’t the same. Nick was infinitely more awkward than Fabri had been. But it felt good to have a friend. For once.

Jack wrapped his art supplies and old clothes back in the brown paper.

Well. That was that, he supposed.

Another awkward silence. Jack put his art supplies back inside the wardrobe and started packing up the clothes he’d dropped to the floor. Nick helped him out. Without a word. Once the room was tidy once more, Jack sat back down on his bed. Nick dragged a chair so he sat opposite him. And there it was again. Another awkward silence.

“So,” started Nick, carefully once more. “That girl you were staring at.”

“She’s not just a girl. She’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known.”

Nick nodded again. Hands raised defensively.

“My apologies. Let me rephrase that. That woman. That little girl’s mother. Who is she? When did you two meet? What’s the story there?”

Jack let out a heavy sigh. He rubbed his face with one hand.

“I need to come clean. Don’t I?”

“It would be appreciated.”

“I figured.” Jack dropped his hand. “But I warn you. It’s a long story.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Good.”

The silence stretched between them one last time. 

Then, Jack started.

“It was ten years ago. I wasn’t called Gatsby, back then. My real name is Jack. Jack Dawson. My mother was Elizabeth Gatz. My father was Jack Dawson, Senior. On April 10th, 1912, I bet everything I had in a game of poker and won White Star Line tickets for me and my friend Fabrizio. That day... we boarded the R. M. S. Titanic. ”

April 15th, 1922

Thaddeus Fletchley was woken by the telephone ringing.

“What was that?” asked Thaddeus.

“The telephone,” answered his wife Lizzie. “Go get it.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because I’m sleeping.”

With that, Lizzie rolled to her other side. And promptly fell back to sleep.

Driiiiiing! Driiiiiing!

Thaddeus groaned. He was going to have to get up, wasn’t he? He pushed away the warmth of his covers. Pulled on his slippers. And started down the stairs. He walked past his son Michaelis’ bedroom door, then past his son Lawrence’s bedroom door. Snores followed him down the stairs. Thaddeus daydreamed about his bed. But the telephone still rang. 

Grabbing the receiver, he barked:

“What?”

“Old Man Fletchley?”

His half-asleep brain didn’t recognize the voice.

“Who is this? Why are you calling me at this…”

He looked at the clock on the wall. 3:00 AM.

“At this hour?”

“It’s your old friend. Jack.”

Thaddeus frowned.

“Jack? Jack who?”

“Yes! I mean, no! I mean, yes! It’s Jack Dawson! Gatsby!”

Thaddeus almost dropped the receiver.

“Gatsby! Jack! Kid! For the love of God, what’s gotten into you? Do you know what time it is?!” 

“I need flowers. Lots of flowers.”

“Flowers? For your party? It’s three in the morning! Couldn’t this wait?”

“No, no, no. Not for a party. There’s not gonna be a party tonight.”

“No party tonight? But you’ve never cancelled in years!”

A second of pause. 

“You’re right, I shouldn’t cancel.”

Thaddeus let out a heavy sigh. He rubbed at his tired eyes.

“What is this really about, Jack? It’s been a while since you’ve used that name.”

“I know. It’s… She’s here. She’s in New York. Alive. I… I found Rose, Thad.”

Thaddeus’ mouth fell open. At first, he couldn’t talk. But then, he squared his shoulders, straightened his back, put his hand to the receiver and called over his shoulder:

“MICHAELIS! COME DOWN HERE! RIGHT NOW!”

In record time, thirty seconds later, Michaelis was stumbling down the stairs. He slid down the last few, putting on his slipper. The other was nowhere to be found.

“Yes, Father? What is it?”

“We open early.”

“We what?!”

“You heard me right. Go get dressed. It’s an emergency. For Gatsby.”

At the sound of that name, Michaelis straightened immediately. Before Thaddeus had to say it twice, he was running up the stairs again. His door slammed. Leaving the air impossibly silent, this early in the morning. Thaddeus took in a deep breath. Then, his voice steady, the voice of a man used to command, he said in the telephone:

“Meet me at the shop. I’ll be right there.”

April 15th, 1922

Rose hadn’t bought a new dress in ten years.

Not since the sinking.

A rising star in Hollywood, you’d think she’d buy her own dresses. But most of the outfits she wore in front of the cameras belonged to the studio. And while she was gifted dresses by admirers on some occasions, she wasn’t well-known enough to buy the newest fashions. 

It hadn’t been practical. New dresses weren’t cheap. Everything she’d had before the sinking had either gone down with the ship or been left in her mother’s possessions. As she’d cut all ties with Ruth Dewitt-Bukater, Rose had decided the next best thing would be to use her meagre sewing skills to make her own. That had gotten her her first job as a seamstress, in any case. Therefore, she made her own. And whenever Josie managed to tear apart one of her dresses or on Josie’s birthday, Rose would make her a new dress. A family tradition.

But today, Rose felt this had to change.

She didn’t know exactly why. But her trip to New York had been filled with what seemed like new beginnings. Ten years later, maybe what Rose needed was a fresh start. So she followed her intuition. Wherever it led.

Today, under a cloudy grey sky that announced a storm, her intuition led her, Josie, Josie’s friends and their mothers to Macy’s.

Ding! 

A small army of women and girls exited the elevator. They marched as one towards the evening wear section. Some people stared, but nobody really cared. A day out was long overdue. And they would make the most of it. Around Rose, there was nothing but chatter. About what type of dress would fit her best. About the weather. About the girls’ classes and how well they were doing in school. About nothing and everything.

Rose smiled at the sight of the women around her. Before the sinking, she hadn’t had many friends. Jack had been one, of course, along with Fabrizio, Tommy, Helga, Molly and Cora, and of course Thomas Andrews, the kind architect who had given her his lifebelt. And now she had friends. This wasn’t the same inane chatter Rose had grown up with. This one was alive. This one invited Rose to participate. This one didn’t talk over her.

This one was fun. 

“Mom!” 

Rose looked up. She’d been lost in thought, examining a particularly pretty lavender dress. Josie’s voice had snapped her out of her reverie. 

“Helen, Anna and I, we’re going to the girls’ section. We’ll be right back!”

“All right, Josie! But don’t stray too far.”

“Promise! I won’t!”

Right. As if Rose hadn’t heard that before.

“What about this one?” 

Margaret, Anna’s mother, pulled a gingham dress off the hanger. Blue and white. Rose eyed it critically. A finger tapping her chin.

“A little childish, perhaps?”

“Hm. I suppose.”

Clicking sounds echoed as they pushed the hangers along.

“And what about this one?”

Clara, Helen’s mother, showed her another dress. Deep green. Rose grimaced.

“That one makes me think of my mother!”

They all burst out laughing.

Their search turned out fruitless, though. Nothing seemed to fit what Rose had in mind. Whatever she had in mind. Nothing satisfied her gut feeling. Soon, Rose was starting to lose hope. Her back already ached and she didn’t want to spend her entire day here.

“Nice one, you’re looking at.”

Rose jumped. This wasn’t either Margaret’s or Clara’s voices. She spun around. And came face-to-face with Jordan Baker. Rose’s frown turned into a smile.

“Jordan! How good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too. Having no luck?”

“Unfortunately. I’m looking for an evening gown.” 

“Come with me. I know exactly where to look.”

Rose trotted after Jordan. Away from the rack Margaret and Clara were currently examining. And towards another section. A more... expensive section. Rose cringed. She probably couldn’t afford anything in that section. Still, Rose didn’t want to be rude. So she followed along. Maybe, just maybe, an affordable dress might appear amidst the beautiful, shimmering gowns. Rose tried not to look envious.

She avoided the price tags at all costs.

“So,” said Jordan with her usual sharp aloofness. Hiding behind her façade. “You were at Gatsby’s party last night.”

“I was. Were you?”

“Indeed, I was. I didn’t have the time to come talk to you, though. You were gone before I had the chance.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Josie had gotten away from me and I went looking for her.”

“I see.”

Click, click, click. The shiver of a train. The glamour of a skirt.

“This Gatsby,” started Rose cautiously. “Do you know him?”

“Everyone knows Gatsby. Richest man in town, they say.”

“Is there anything about this man that isn’t hearsay? Do people even know what he looks like? I’ve heard people whispering and taking bets about his appearance.”

Jordan shrugged.

“He’s a hermit. But why wouldn’t he be? Rich men tend to have their ways.”

“Oh!” Rose snorted. If only Jordan knew . “I’ve known my fair share of rich men. Believe me. I hope he’s not like them.”

I hope he’s not like Cal, anyway, she almost added. But she kept it to herself.

Click, click, click . The ruffle of feathers. The softness of silk.

“Why are you here?”

Rose blinked. Looking up at Jordan for the first time in a while.

“Hm?”

“Why are you here, Rose?”

“I’m shopping. Why do you ask?”

“Don’t play that game.” Jordan sent her a look, one eyebrow arched and lips pursed. “You know what I mean. Why are you here? In New York? You haven’t been here in years. Why come back on such a short notice? Why now?”

Rose looked away from Jordan’s scrutinizing stare. Back at the shining gowns.

“Maybe I needed a change of scenery, for a while.”

“Just maybe?”

“Look.” Rose was the one who sent Jordan a look, this time. “I felt like I had to. All right? It’s hard to explain.”

“Simple as that. You had to?”

“Why the sudden interest? Why do you want to know?”

Jordan’s stare never wavered. 

“I can read between the lines, you know. And from what I’ve read in your letters, you’re not as fine as you let on. It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to turn to others in times of need. You don’t have to carry that weight on your own.”

Rose didn’t know what to say to that. She exhaled.

“Thank you for your concern. It means a lot to me.”

“Not a problem.”

Rose took a look at another dress. Gazing at it. Gazing through it. She wasn’t really looking, at this point. Eyes glazed over.

“I think… I might be looking for a ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“Yes. A ghost, an illusion, a dream. Whatever you want to call it. I’ve been keeping it to myself all this time. Ever since Josie was born. I’ve been burying my past. Rebuilding myself anew. From the ground up. But there’s this weight I carry. I feel like I’m following after something that doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

Rose closed her eyes. Hand gripping the smooth fabric. Tight.

“I’m not fine.” She opened her eyes at that. “I know I’m not. I’m working every day to be better, to prove to myself that I’m better, that I’m not what my parents used to want for their daughter. I’m doing this for Josie, for myself. And yet… I feel like somewhere, out there, is something missing. I’m my own woman. I don’t need a man to exist. But…”

“But you can’t deny it. It’s about Josie’s father. Isn’t it?”

“It is. No one has compared yet.”

“You need time.”

“No.” Rose said it forcefully. Pushing out the emotions she’d held inside for too long. With only a two-letter word. “I don’t need time. I’ve had time. I need closure. That’s why I’m here. I feel like New York can give me closure.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I hope so, too.”

Jordan nodded. Then, one of her eyebrows quirked. She pulled a dress from the rack.

“How about this one?”

Rose’s mouth fell open. It was a beautiful dress, shin-length of course, and yet it looked… familiar. Not exactly the same. But somehow... it brought back memories she’d buried alive to the surface. It was of the deepest blue, with a square neckline, cinched with a wide belt made from the same fabric as the dress at the waist and with elbow-length sleeves. Black appliqué shimmered in the department store’s artificial light. For a moment, upon looking at this dress, Rose heard the rushing and growling of the open ocean. She felt the sea air on her face. She felt her eyes gazing at him. She felt his own looking back at her. Smiling.

“Shhh. Give me your hand. Now close your eyes. Go on!”

Rose swallowed. She blinked quickly.

“It’s beautiful. I love it.” 

But then Rose took a look at the price tag. She flinched.

“Oh! No, no, no. I can’t… No, I can’t afford that.”

“Nonsense!” Jordan waved a hand. “Let me split the difference.”

“Jordan…!”

“Don’t do that. I’ve missed a lot of birthdays. Let’s say this is for all the important dates I’ve missed. Oh! And how about we go look for a similar dress for Josie? You two would be adorable in matching outfits. Come on, follow me!”

Rose followed after Jordan’s quick steps. She couldn’t talk about the emotions roaring inside her. Not now. So she deflected. She turned the topic away from her.

“What about you, Jordan?” asked Rose. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I just want to admire the fine wear.”

As they briskly walked past one of the department store’s employees, Jordan winked at the young woman in uniform. Rose chuckled. Just one step behind.

“You liar.”

Five minutes later, Rose and Josie were pushed in the changing rooms. And so, it was under cloudy skies that Rose and Josie returned to their hotel with their brand new dresses on. They probably stuck out like sore thumbs, in their gleaming gowns in the middle of the afternoon, but none of them cared. The taxi driver stopped behind another car parked in front of the hotel. After Rose paid their fare, they rushed through the humid air. 

As soon as the doors closed behind them, the skies cracked open. Rain poured upon the pavement. A wall of water hissing and growling. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared.

It looked like something out of the movies.

Josie burst out laughing. Earning herself stares from the hotel’s guests and staff.

“Well, that was lucky!”

Mother and daughter walking as one, they stepped in the elevator. Weighed down by paper bags, they waddled along the hallway, arms spread out on either sides. That is, until they reached their room door. It unlocked with the rattling of a key. Once inside, Rose stopped short. Looking down at her bedside table. 

There was… an envelope. There.

Josie, behind her, asked:

“What? What is it?”

Rose walked into the room. Letting Josie step inside. They dropped their shopping bags on the bed. Almost absent-mindedly, Rose untied her hair. 

“Another invitation? From Mr. Gatsby, I suppose?”

This time, though, there was no name written on the envelope.

Nothing.

Nervousness bubbled up inside her. Inviting her to open it. This felt… secret. Important. Somehow. Fingers itching with anticipation, Rose picked up the envelope. It was the same as the one they’d found last night. Same colour, same rose water  perfume. Except of course, this time around, there was no name on the front. With swift, experienced hands, Rose opened it without issue. Then, she took one look at the small piece of cardstock. Turned upside down. As if in haste. She flipped it around.

Rose blanched. 

The air was knocked out of her lungs. Her knees buckled from under her. She barely registered half-falling, half-sitting on the bed.

The invitation didn’t say much. There was no official title. No mention of Mr. Jay Gatsby’s lavish parties. No address. There were no letters written in mechanical typewriter font either. Nothing was officious about this invitation.

There were only a few words written in quick handwriting. 

Words she knew well.

Words she hadn’t read in over ten years.

Make it count. Meet me at the clock.

Rose’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Mom?” asked a concerned-sounding Josie. Her voice carried from far away. As if she wasn’t in the room. Or as if Rose’s head was underwater. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

It was him.

No, it couldn’t be him. He was dead.

And yet, it had to be him. It couldn’t be anyone else. No one knew those words. No one but herself. No one knew he had written those words years ago on a doomed ship.

“Mom?”

It was him. 

She felt it in her mind. In her heart. In her gut. 

It was him.

Jack.

Rose moved mechanically towards her suitcase. She could feel Josie’s eyes piercing through her as she overturned it on the bed, tossing out any clothes or photographs Rose hadn’t had the time to unpack just yet. Slamming the suitcase upright against the bed, she felt her way along the wooden bottom. Trying to find… come on… it had to be here!

“Mom? What are you doing?”

The false bottom popped open. A gasp echoed from Josie’s mouth.

“What in the world?!”

Rose didn’t listen. For a moment, she was on the Carpathia. Travelling past the Statue of Liberty under pouring rain. She was looking at it. Pulling it out of her pocket. Heavy. Oh, so heavy in her hand. She’d kept it for ten years. Bringing it wherever she went. Never allowing anyone to know about it. Never allowing anyone to see it. And, especially, never allowing herself to sell it to get Caledon’s money.

Rose pulled out a thin box.

It was still inside. Safe and sound. 

The Heart of the Ocean.

It glinted in the light. Her most prized-possession. And yet, it was the only thing she possessed that she couldn’t wait until she’d be able to chuck it where it belonged. 

In the ocean.

Behind Rose, Josie gasped again.

“What is that? Where does that come from? How long have you had that in there?!”

Rose barely heard it. Her mind was too focussed. This was too important. She stood in front of her bed once again. Rose took one more look at the card. Holding the Heart of the Ocean in one hand and the card in the other. Weighing them.

Make it count. Meet me at the clock.

It was real. Tangible in her hand.

He was out there. 

Waiting for her.

And on her trip to New York, Rose had decided to follow her intuition.

No way in Hell was she going to stop now.

Rose dropped the thin box. She pocketed the Heart of the Ocean. 

Then, she ran.

April 15th, 1922

Josie, rooted to the spot, watched as Mom disappeared down the hallway.

“Mom? What are you doing? Mom!”

Josie picked up the invitation. Discarded on the floor. She frowned, nose scrunching up in confusion. Make it count. Meet me at the clock. How vague! What did that mean? What clock? Meet where? Where was Mom supposed to go?

Josie pocketed the invitation, grabbed her umbrella, and followed.

“Wait for me!”

April 15th, 1922

Rose ran.

She ran down the hallway. She ran inside the elevator. Its doors closed behind her. Her fingers wiggled all the way down. Fourteenth floor, thirteenth, eleventh, ten, seven, six, five, four, three, two… first floor. Rose burst through the elevator doors as soon as they ding! ed open. She ran in the entrance hall. Past bellhops. Past guests. Past the concierge and the maids and the managers. Her lungs were already pained from the effort, but she didn’t care. Rose only had one goal in mind. To find him.

Another ding! Another elevator opening.

“Mom! You forgot your umbrella! Mom!”

Rose wasn’t listening.

Rose pushed the hotel doors open and ran into the pouring rain. She ran past the car she’d seen before. Parked in front of the hotel. 

“Oh! Good afternoon, ma’am. You must be…!”

The chauffeur was standing outside under an umbrella. 

She barely saw him. A blur in her mind’s eye.

“Ma’am! I have a car! Wait!”

“Wait! Mom!”

Rose didn’t stop.

She ran. Legs aching. Chest heaving with every laborious breath. Arms swinging along. Feet pounding the pavement. Around her, the world was empty. People had found refuge inside. Avoiding the weather at all costs. Leaving Rose alone to run in the cold. Wind whipped at her face. Raindrops fell in her eyes. She never stopped. She ran in the rain. It poured and poured and poured. Unrelenting. Unyielding. Harsh. Sticking to her hair, to her limbs, to her eyelashes. Her brand new dress clung to her legs. Restraining her strides.

Rose didn’t care.

She didn’t care, she didn’t care, she didn’t care.

She only cared about him.

“Mom!”

This was familiar. She’d run to him before. 

Multiple times.

The first time they’d met, she’d been running. Running away from Cal, running away from her mother. Running towards him. Without even knowing it. 

She’d run with him through hallways and elevators. She’d run away with him.

Then she’d run back to him. Once they’d taken him away, once they’d made her doubt him. She shouldn’t have listened, she shouldn’t have. But she had. And she’d run through flooding hallways, through darkening light and electricity sparks. 

And then, one last time. She’d run to him. She’d watched him from below as she’d been lowered to sea. In that lifeboat. She’d almost left him, she’d allowed them to take him away one more time. Then, she’d made her choice. If he was to die that night, she wanted to be there with him. She’d prefer it to a lifetime of not knowing him.

She came back for him. She always did.

She ran.

“Be careful!”

Rose ran. She ran past parked cars, past lampposts, past shop windows and closed doors. New York flew by in a blur. Rose crossed the street. A car rushed by. Avoiding her at the last second. A honk sounded. Loud and high-pitched in her ears.

A warning. A call to stop. 

She didn’t. She couldn’t. 

Rose tried not to think about how that high-pitched honk sounded like a whistle.

She tried not to.

Rose ran.

April 15th, 1922

Jack was fraying at the edges.

He hadn’t eaten all day. All his miserable day. A day dedicated to waiting. He’d waited until he could call Old Man Fletchley. He’d waited until he’d received his order. And now he waited for the chauffeur to arrive. He waited for her to arrive.

Jack looked at his watch. Looked away. Looked at his watch again.

His insides felt like a piece of cloth being torn apart. An invisible hand pulling at the threads. One by one. Anticipation clawed at his stomach.

Old Man Fletchley had been phenomenal. He’d not only prepared ten thousand red roses on such a short notice, but he’d prepared a trail of rose petals as well. Dropping them strategically upon the floor. Some roses were in bouquets, appearing from inside ivory white vases of all sizes and shapes. Others were scattered around, covering every surface available. More rose petals rested upon the chimney’s mantle. Surrounding the clock. The red rose he’d kept upon his bedside table was currently attached to his lapel. Ten thousand and one roses.

Jack sat down. He rubbed his hands together. Then he rose up again.

She was coming. 

She was coming, she was coming, she was coming.

Ten years.

He’d waited ten years.

And he’d wait a hundred more for her. 

If he had to.

April 15th, 1922

Finally, finally , Rose reached the mansion’s gates. They weren’t closed, this time around. Not this time. They were open. Inviting. 

Rose turned into the dirt pathway. She stepped in a puddle and never stopped. Muddy water splashed against her legs. The whole road had turned to mud under the tempestuous rain. It didn’t let on. On the contrary. The rain poured down on her harder. Harsher. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. She was at the heart of the storm.

She was coming. 

Words from a lifetime ago flashed through her mind. Quick as lightning.

“When this ship docks, I’m getting off with you.”

They’d made plans. 

He was going to take her to the pier in Santa Monica.

She’d gone without him.

He was going to make her ride a horse like a man.

She had. Without him.

He was going to make her ride on the rollercoaster.

She had. Without him.

And in the last ten years, she’d done even more.

She’d gone ice fishing on Lake Wissota. 

She’d gone flying on an aeroplane.

She’d given birth to their daughter. Alone. At the hospital.

Without him.

All that time, she’d wanted nothing more than to do it all with him. Fishing, flying, raising their child. She’d wanted to do that with him. With no one but him.

“You're gonna get out of here. You're gonna go on and you’re gonna make lots of babies, and you’re gonna watch them grow. You're gonna die an old... an old lady. Warm in her bed. But not here. Not this night. Not like this. Do you understand me?”

They’d made these plans together, after all. Doomed plans. 

Doomed from the start.

“Winning that ticket, Rose, was the best thing that ever happened to me. It brought me to you. And I'm thankful for that, Rose. I'm thankful.”

At least, that was how her grief-stricken mind had coped with the pain.

But no. They hadn’t been doomed from the start.

They’d been more than she’d ever wished for. He’d stumbled into her life by chance, and yet it seemed like destiny. Like an outside force, bigger than them, bringing them together. Pushing them in each other’s path. They’d fit together so well. So surprisingly well. Those too few days had been the first time she’d ever lived. The first time she’d allowed herself to be free.

They’d been more than doomed.

She’d never given up on him.

Never.

Rose stepped in another puddle. More brown mud clung to her legs. Her foot almost got stuck in the mud. Her shoes were in the way. 

Rose pulled them off.

April 15th, 1922

Nothing made sense. Nothing about Mom made sense. Josie followed after her. Down the street, down the dirt pathway. Nothing about this made any sense. And yet Mom managed to surprise her when she started hopping on one leg. 

“Mom! What are you doing?!” 

One shoe flew up high. Then the other followed. Splashing in the mud.

“Your shoes! Mom!”

Mom didn’t listen. She ran away again.

Josie picked up her Mom’s discarded shoes. She ran after her.

April 15th, 1922

Rose ran.

The front yard came into view.

She was coming.

She was arriving.

April 15th, 1922

Nick closed up his umbrella under the covered porch. He shook off the water and stepped inside. Tick-tick-tick. The only sound he could hear in the oppressively-heavy air was the clock’s ticking. When Nick walked into the guest house, he found it empty.

He wasn’t in the living room.

Nick looked around.

“Gatsby?”

No. Not Gatsby. 

Jack.

What an unassuming name. Jack. A four-letter word. 

And yet, it fit him well.

“Jack?” 

Nick looked through every room. Not in the small kitchenette. Not in the bedroom. Not in the bathroom. He was nowhere to be found. As if he’d vanished into thin air.

Nick found his way to the backdoor. He pushed it open.

Nick stared.

Jack was standing in the rain. His back turned to Nick. He just… stood there. At the edge of the trees. Arms spread out under the downpour. In his pristine white suit. Ruining it. Ruining his hair. Ruining everything.

“Jack! What are you doing out there?” 

No answer.

“Jack! Come inside. You’ll catch your death!”

This time, Jack turned around. Stiffly. Mechanically. 

His eyes were glazed over. As if he was looking at Nick without seeing him. As if he was lost in the past. He probably was. Nick could barely wrap his head around… could barely imagine… the Titanic , the Great War… Ten years… what Jack had been through...

Jack pushed past him. 

Nick closed the door behind them. He watched as Jack stopped in the living room’s doorway. He watched as he slicked back his hair. He watched as he stepped inside.

Jack stood at the clock. Ticking away on the mantle.

He waited.

April 15th, 1922

Rose couldn’t wait. 

She couldn’t stop to wait. 

Every part of her ached. Ached for him, ached to be with him.

Rose climbed the front stairs. Two by two. She jumped with each step. Feeling like she was flying every time. Using both hands, she pushed the heavy doors open. Not bothering with knocking. And definitely not bothering to wait for the butler to open for her. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t. 

But as she walked in the entrance hall, under the grand staircase, she slid to a stop. Leaving muddy footsteps on the marble floors.

She didn’t know where he was.

She had to meet him at the clock.

But what clock? Which clock?

“What’s the meaning of this?” asked the butler, coming around the corner.

A familiar rage filled Rose. 

“I’m through being polite, goddammit! Now take me down!”

She grabbed the butler by the collar and put herself in his face. Staring him down. Right in the eyes. The butler’s eyes widened. Mouth agape.

“Where is he? Tell me where he is!”

“In…” He pointed behind him. “In the guest house. He’s…” 

Rose took off again.

“Ma’am!”

She heard someone rush inside behind her. Heavy breathing. 

“Mom! Wait up!”

Rose never stopped.

With a grunt that sounded almost like a war cry, Rose pushed open the backyard doors. She ran. Down the slippery steps. Flying down the stairs. Into the abrasive gravel. Past the fountain. Then into the muddy earth. On another dirt pathway. She never stopped.

Her eyes found the guest house. At the back of the property.

Far. 

Still so far away. 

There was a small spot of woodlands at the back of the property. A cluster of trees. It surrounded the guest house on all sides except the front. Making it private. Much more private than the grand mansion. Rose ran. She ran and ran and ran.

He was waiting for her there. 

She knew it.

Lungs on fire, Rose pushed the guest house’s door open. She burst inside. Bang! The door slammed against the wall. A man standing in the doorway of the closest room turned to her. Eyes wide. He looked her up and down. Mouth agape.

It wasn’t him.

That man wasn’t him.

Rose walked inside the guest house. She walked, this time. She was done running. She had arrived. Her drenched dress left a trail of mud and water behind her. Splosh, splosh, splosh. Her bare feet made a squishing sound in the otherwise silent guest house. Silent. So silent. Heavy, oh so heavy silence pressed down on her. Making it hard to breathe. Even harder after her run. Especially after her run.

Rose finally stopped. In the doorway.

The first thing she saw were the flowers. 

How could she not see the flowers first? They were an overwhelming sight. An army of flowers. A mountain. An ocean of flowers blossomed inside the living room. More flowers than she’d ever seen in her entire life were piled on every surface available. Bouquets upon bouquets upon bouquets of flowers. Some were scattered about. Others stood in vases. And a trail of petals lined the floors. Roses. All red roses. 

Then she saw him.

She could recognize him amongst hundreds. Amongst thousands. Even from behind. Even if she had her eyes closed. For a second, she didn’t see him wearing a white suit. She saw him wearing a black one. Standing on the grand staircase’s landing. Waiting for her to choose him. To choose him instead of her world. To break free.

Then she saw the clock.

It wasn’t the same clock. Of course, it wasn’t the same one. It was smaller, of a deep russet brown, ticking on the mantle. It reminded her of another clock. Not the one on the grand staircase. But the one in her suite. Above the fireplace. The one that had been present when she’d bared herself to him for the first time. That night when he’d drawn her.

Then the clock rang the hour.

Rose held her breath.

This was it. This was the moment.

He turned around.

And stared.

Oh, she must have been quite a sight. Soaked from head to toe. Hair a mess. Brand new dress destroyed. Legs and arms covered in mud and sweat and… Wait. Were those tears she was crying? Or were they the raindrops that had stuck to her face, to her cheeks, to her eyelids? Rose couldn’t tell. She barely cared. She only saw him, then. Him and his eyes.

He hadn’t changed one bit.

“Jack.”

He blinked for the first time. 

“Rose.”

Relief flooded her. His voice. It was his voice. It was him. It was really him!

She walked to him. Slowly. Carefully. All her bravado from earlier was gone. Fear clawed at her stomach. What if… what if… he didn’t want anything to do with her anymore? What if those ten years had changed her too much? What if…

What if he’d moved on?

That was absurd, of course. 

She realized that as he met her in the middle of the room. She realized that as his eyes bore into hers. She realized that as his hands immediately found hers. Warm. So warm. The last time she’d held his hands… they were ice cold. She’d thought… she’d thought the life had been drained from him.

Rose’s hand took a dive inside her pocket. Almost without her own accord.

She pulled it out.

The Heart of the Ocean.

He took in a sharp breath.

Her heart. Her own heart. She held it in the palm of her hand. 

Offering it to him. Like she had all those years ago.

He took it.

His other hand moved up. Fingers touching her cheek. Light as a butterfly’s wings.

“Are you all right?”

Rose’s entire face broke into a smile. Showing all teeth. Tears burned at her eyes. If she hadn’t been sure she was crying before, now she knew.

“I’ve never been better.”

At that, he smiled. Eyes almost closed from relief. He hadn’t changed. At all. Oh, maybe he was older. Perhaps a bit more wrinkled, too. But wasn’t she? 

Rose lunged herself at him. He caught her immediately. Wrapping his arms around her waist. Not caring about the dirt, the sweat, the mud and the tears clinging to her. Rose smiled. He hadn’t changed. He still fit perfectly against her. He held her tight. Like when she’d come back to him. At the bottom of the grand staircase. She relaxed. Entirely. For the first time in years.

“Oh, Rose,” he whispered in her hair. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. So much.”

They stayed there for a long moment. Breathing in each other’s scent and the heady smells of the hundreds of flowers surrounding them.

Soon, the flowers themselves disappeared.

There was only them. For now. 

Rose held tight. She felt him shiver against her. 

“I… I’m sorry.” 

Rose frowned. Sorry? What for?

“I’m so, so sorry.” Jack moved so he was looking her in the eyes again. Both hands now resting on her shoulders. A tear ran down his cheek. “I should have done more. I should have found you sooner. I… When the Carpathia docked, I thought you were dead. But you were out there and… I should have done more. I’m so sorry, I should have…!”

“Don’t.”

Rose put a hand on his mouth. Stopping his flow of apologies. With her free hand, carefully, slowly, never breaking eye contact, Rose took the Heart of the Ocean from him. And she put it back once more in her pocket. Safe and sound.

When she retracted her hand, Jack’s mouth stayed agape. Slack-jawed.

“You’re not mad at me,” he whispered. With a broken voice.

“Oh, Jack.”

She pressed her hands against his cheeks. 

“Of course, I’m not mad at you!”

“You aren’t? But… But…! I…!”

“Shhh. Come here.”

Rose pushed herself on the tip of her toes. She cut him off with a kiss. Claiming his warm, sweet, delightful lips with hers.

Jack melted. He pulled her flush against him. Kissing her without reservation. Without fear. Jack whispered her name. Rose hummed. Nothing had changed. He’d always known how to act with her. Where to put his hands, when to pull back or not. Right now wasn’t the moment to pull back. Rose’s arms curled around his neck. His arms wrapped around her waist once more. Jack still kissed her as if it was the first time, as if they were still at the bow of the ship. As if they weren’t in his guest house, but standing in front of the open ocean under a sunlit sky. She still kissed him as if she’d been waiting for this all her life. 

And she had.

She’d been waiting for this all her life.

Rose pushed herself away. Just far enough so she could look him in the eye.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Believe me.”

They smiled at each other. Like the kids they’d once been. Back then.

“All right. I believe you.”

Jack hugged her once more. Rose buried her face in the crook of his neck. His body moved from left to right. Rocking her from left to right. That is, until he pulled away like she had earlier. But this time, he put his forehead against hers. Gazing into her eyes.

Something clattered to the floor.

A pair of shoes. 

Her discarded pair of shoes.

Rose blinked. Wait. 

Josie.

“Oh!”

Rose looked behind her. Josie and the man she didn’t know were standing in the doorway. Watching them. Him with gleaming eyes. Her with confusion plain on her face.

“Josie.”

“What the Hell is going on, Mom?”

Rose decided to ignore Josie’s foul language. For the moment, at least.

“I know this must be quite a shock.”

“A shock?! You just ran half a mile in a rainstorm!”

“I know.”

“You could have been hurt! You were almost hit by a car!”

“That is true.”

“And why were you kissing him? You know this man?”

Rose lifted a hand. 

Josie’s mouth clicked shut.

“I will explain. All right? But first…” Rose turned towards Jack once more. She took a deep breath. “Jack, I want you to meet…”

“We met last night, actually.”

Rose cocked her head to the side. Genuinely surprised.

“You did?”

“Yes. At the party.” 

Rose turned to her daughter. Josie grinned.

“Remember my ghostly friend?”

“Oh!” Rose chuckled. “Now I know who you were talking to.”

“Your daughter is a brilliant artist,” said Jack, taking Rose’s hand and stroking it with his thumb. “With an eye for fine arts. She takes after her mother.”

Rose couldn’t help it. She smiled at that. A teasing smile.

“You have no idea.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds more. Until Jack’s thumb found the golden ring on her hand. His face fell.

“Oh, Rose! Your husband. Her father. You deserve so much more.”

“What?”

“Your daughter - Josie - told me yesterday her father died a long time ago. Was he in the Army, too?”

“Oh! No, no, no…!”

“Look at me! Barging into your lives. And after all these years… You’ve been through so much...”

“No, wait, I…!”

“And those flowers! That was the least I could do. Was it enough? Or too much? I wasn’t sure. I’ve been hoping to see you again for so long, I…!”

“Jack!”

He stopped. Finally.

“What?”

“Thank you. For the flowers. They’re lovely. But there’s something I have to tell you.”

Rose squeezed his hand. Smiling wide once more. She lifted a hand. Arm spread out. Gesturing at Josie. Still standing there. Watching them carefully.

“Meet your daughter. Josephine Dawson.”

Jack’s jaw dropped. 

“My…”

“Hm, hm.”

“Our…?”

“Hm, hm.”

Jack looked off into the distance. Mouth still hanging open. When he looked at Rose once more, his voice sounded strangely high-pitched. Cracked. 

“But…! How…? How old…? We…?”

“She’s going to be ten years old in nine months. Give or take a few days.”

This time, his eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. The weight of what she’d just told him seemed to settle in him. The weight of the truth.

“We… We made a baby?”

“We did.”

“So you… when…!”

“I was.”

Jack licked his lips. Then, he turned fully towards Rose. Taking both her hands with his. Holding onto them. As if they were a lifesaver. His lifesaver.

“Does she know?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“She doesn’t?”

“I don’t know what?”

Rose gestured at the other man in the room.

“What about him? Does he know?”

“Hey!” The aforementioned other man in the room raised two hands. Defensively. “Don’t look at me. I only learned about this two days ago!”

“Learn what?!” 

They all turned to Josie. As if looking at her for the first time.

“How we met,” answered Jack. He tore his eyes from Josie to look at Rose’s face. Gazing at her. Lovingly. Adoringly. “How the two of us met.”

At that, Josie blinked. Quickly. Furiously.

“So, it’s true. You’re my Dad.”

“I’m...”

A second. A beat. Then all of a sudden, Jack became very pale. His face fell. He buried his face in his hands. In one swift movement, he turned away from them. Facing the clock once more. Head bowed. Back broken. Breathing heavy.

“Jack?”

“Dad?”

Silence. Nothing more.

Rose looked at Josie. Who looked heartbroken. Absolutely heartbroken.

“He’s not happy.” Josie’s head jerked towards the other man. “Is he unhappy? Is he… Is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong? I can be a great daughter! I swear!”

The man offered Josie a smile.

“Calm down, kiddo. He just needs a moment. I think he’s still in shock.”

Josie nodded.

There was only silence, then. Impossible silence. 

The air became heavy once more. Heavy with the weight of ten years settling between them once more. Of course. Rose should have seen it coming. He wasn’t expecting… It was too much for him. She shouldn’t have… Maybe she shouldn’t have come…!

“She’s… my…”

Rose lifted her head. Jack had mumbled those words. Half of a phrase.

“Josephine.”

He dropped his hands. And lifted his head up. Back straight. The moment of silence stretched on between them. Until Jack’s voice rose up in the air. Melodiously. Carefully.

“Come Josephine in my flying machine. Going up, she goes. Up, she goes.”

Jack turned around once more. A smile broke his face in half. Showing all his teeth. He was crying again. But Rose knew it was from joy. 

“Balance yourself like a bird on a beam. In the air, she goes! There, she goes!” 

With a laugh, Jack took Rose’s hands in his. She found herself laughing along. One hand went to her waist, the other was in hers. Rose sang along.

“Up, up, a little bit higher! Oh, my, the moon is on fire!”

They started to dance.

“Come Josephine in my flying machine! Going up all on, goodbye!”

Jack spun her around. Dancing amongst the bouquets upon bouquets of flowers. Looking at nothing but each other. Everything blurring into a mess of colours.

“Oh! Say! Let us fly, dear!”

“Where, kid?” 

“To the sky, dear!”

“Oh! You flying machine!”

Jack let go of Rose. In one sweeping motion, he scooped Josephine up in his arms. She laughed, half in disbelief, half in joy, and wrapped an arm around his neck.

“Jump in, Miss Josephine!”

Jack spun around. Josephine laughed outright, then. 

“Ship ahoy! Oh joy, what a feeling!”

He spun around, wrapping one arm around Rose’s waist, and the family rocked from left to right. The three of them. Together.

“Where, boy? In the ceiling! Ho, High, Hoopla¸ we fly to the sky so high!”

Josephine let go. Her feet touched the ground. They all held hands. Then, they started to spin. Dancing a circle dance. 

“Come Josephine in my flying machine! Going up she goes! Up, she goes! Balance yourself like a bird on a beam! In the air, she goes! There, she goes!”

Jack then looked at the other man in the room. Gesturing at him to come along.

With a shy smile, the man joined their circle dance.

The four of them sang along.

“Up, up, a little bit higher! Oh! My! The moon is on fire! Come Josephine in my flying machine! Going up, all on! Goodbye!”

They clapped. Sharing smiles and laughter. Until their voices died down. Echoing on the guest house’s walls. Leaving tendrils of sound in Rose’s ears. They stared at each other for a moment. Then Jack fell to his knees. Arms opened wide. Sniffling, Josie wrapped herself in his arms. Her whole face disappeared against Jack’s chest. His fingers buried themselves in her hair.

“Oh, Josephine. I missed so much already.”

“It’s okay, Dad. It’s never too late.”

Rose swallowed. She was getting misty-eyed. Once again.

Her heart broke in half when Josie whispered:

“You’re going to love me.”

But Rose’s heart was mended back together when Jack answered:

“Oh, baby girl. I already do.”

April 15th, 1922

This rainy day had quickly turned into the best day of Josie’s life.

All right. Maybe it hadn’t started that great. She’d run in the cold rain. She’d run through mud puddles. She’d messed her brand new dress up.

But she’d found her father again.

And that elevated this day to Best Day Ever.

Very quickly.

Minutes ago, Nicholas “call me Nick” Carraway had shaken their hands. Cheerfully saying how nice it was to meet them. Then, Mom and Josie had been guided to a bathroom where they’d taken showers and had been given fresh clothes. So now, Josie wore an old shirt, big enough to pass for a night gown, and Mom had been given one of Dad’s - her Dad! her Dad was alive! - old shirts she’d tucked into her trousers. Their dresses would be cleaned up as much as possible. And if that wasn’t enough, new ones would have to be bought. 

Dad had then invited them to sit on couches. Taking on the persona of the perfect host. With a nudge and a wink. As Josie had sat next to Dad with Mom on his other side, and Nick on Mom’s other side, Dad had called for tea.

The butler had sent Mom a dirty look. Voice barely restrained, he’d said: 

“She’s not getting back into the house. Not until we finish cleaning the floors!”

They’d all burst out laughing at that.

With exaggerated strides, the butler had left the guest house. So now here they were. Sipping chamomile tea. Eating lemon cakes and gazing at each other. No longer awkwardly. No. Not anymore. This silence wasn’t heavy. This silence was comfortable. Snug. It surrounded Josie like a warm blanket. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you last night,” said Dad to Mom. “But I was so…”

“Scared?” Mom finished for him.

“Yes. No. Worse. I was terrified. Nick left the letter at your hotel a few days ago and then you didn’t show up. For a moment I thought you’d decided not to come.”

“We almost didn’t get the message. But thanks to Josie, we did.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She nodded vigorously. “That was all me!”

Dad wrapped an arm around Josie. Pulling her against him.

She was still pressed into his warm side when he turned back to Mom. 

“Rose, I… I don’t think I’ve been truly happy since those days after I won that ticket. Since the day I met you.”

Mom stared at him. Mouth agape.

“But…! But you’ve become…! What about all... this?”

She waved her hands, lifting her arms up. Gesturing at… well, everything.

“The money, the fame, the parties?” Josie felt Dad shrug. “They don’t matter. It’s what I’ve become to those people, sure, but that doesn’t mean that’s who I am.”

“You’re not Jay Gatsby?”

“No. I never was. He’s not real. He’s never been real. He’s this illusion I’ve crafted for those people. Those parties, they… they were a way for me to get noticed. I started hosting them because... a small part of me hoped that… if you were alive… you’d hear about them and I’d… one day… find you there. But they’re not me. They’re lavish and luxurious and downright obsequious. Remember the boy who went to dinner with you? Who smiled politely, but was nevertheless able to talk back to your mother? Jay Gatsby is this person the people in First Class saw me as. This image of the perfect rich man. But that’s not who I am.” 

Dad took a pause. 

“Ten years can change a man, of course. But… I’m still Jack.”

Josie smiled into Dad’s ribs. Then, she lifted her head.

“You’re going to tell me the full story, right?”

“Of course, baby girl. Just give me a moment, all right?” When Josie nodded, Dad turned back to Mom. “So tell me. Just one word and I’ll do it. I’ll throw it all away. I’ll throw my life away. As you once did for me. It doesn’t make any sense, I know. That’s why I trust it. Or if... if you’re tired of California, if you want to go back to your old life, I can be Jay Gatsby for you. I understand. So I’m asking you. What do you want, Rose?”

“I…”

Mom’s hand moved to rest against Dad’s cheek. She looked down. Up. Down and up again. Then deep into his eyes. She squinted her eyes when she asked:

“What did you just say?”

Dad blinked. 

“Um… What do you want, Rose?”

“No. Before that.”

“I… can be Jay Gatsby for you?”

“No. Before that. ”

“It doesn’t make any sense. That’s why I…” 

Dad trailed off. As if he remembered something. Something from long ago.

Josie would bet all the allowance money she had that this had to do with their story. When they’d first met. Something important. Important for them.

“That’s why I trust it.”

Mom laughed. An open laugh. Unrestrained. Free.

“Oh, Jack.”

Mom kissed him again. All toothy smiles and wide grins.

“It’s you that I want,” Mom told Dad with certainty as she looked at him again. “And no one else. You hear me? I want that kid who laughed at the stars with me. Who saw people. Who lived under a bridge. Who only had ten bucks in his pocket. Who had nothing to offer me. Nothing but his entire life. The kid who gave his life for me. Who would do it again in a heartbeat. It’s you. The real you. It’s you that I want.”

Dad’s shoulders relaxed. Whole body slumping. His voice was soft when he said:

“It’s you that I want, too.”

Their foreheads touched. For just a moment. Then, they turned to Josie.

“So, you want to know the full story?”

Josie took in a sharp breath. Eyes widening. Legs wiggling. Hands in fists under her chin. A smile spreading on her face, she nodded at Mom and Dad. Who smiled broadly. 

“All right. But you’ll have to sit between us, first.”

Josie jumped up. Dad scooted over to the left and she dropped in the middle. 

“All right! I’m ready!”

“Good.”

Mom and Dad exchanged a glance. Then, they started.

“Ten years ago, Mom was engaged to a man named Caledon Hockley.”

“And ten years ago, Dad was playing poker in a pub.”

April 16th, 1922

Rose hadn’t been a morning person ten years ago.

As Rose Dewitt-Bukater, she had had the luxury of waking up whenever she liked - sometimes even at noon when she was much younger. That had changed, of course, when she’d had to step up and become a working woman. Then, eventually, a mother for Josie. Even if, during their trip to New York, she had the luxury of sleeping in, Rose woke up early that morning. 

At first, she didn’t recognize her surroundings. Since when did she live in a castle? 

But then she turned around and found a familiar head of blonde hair peeking from under the warm, wonderfully warm covers.

Oh! Of course!

How could she forget?

Rose pushed aside the covers. Gathering her nightclothes, she pulled on her silk bathrobe and wandered around the mansion. At this hour, there were no sounds. Her footsteps were swallowed by the soft carpet. She had to admit, this place was quite peaceful. Apart from a few members of the staff coming and going, washing and scrubbing, carrying and transporting, there weren’t many people around. So yes. This place was quite peaceful. When there weren't a million guests roaming around, partying all night. 

Rose’s bare feet guided her to the kitchens, the busiest part of the mansion for sure. Cooks, sous-chefs, bakers, and more people than she could count were already busy cooking, baking, sautéing… it seemed the kitchens never stopped for a moment. Even this early.

Except all sounds and sights stopped as everyone turned to stare at her.

Rose swallowed.

She hadn’t felt this way since...

Since going to find Jack in Third Class.

How fitting.

“I’m… Hello. I’m looking for a cup of coffee?”

George, the butler, appeared almost out of thin air. Carrying a silver platter with a few colourful cups. The nutty scent of coffee sloshing inside immediately woke her up.

“Good morning, ma’am. I was just on my way to deliver these to Master Gatsby’s room. And I thought young Miss Josephine might want some hot chocolate instead of caffeine. What do you say?”

“Good morning. I say that’s very thoughtful of you.” 

Rose picked up her cup. Then she picked up another.

“But I can bring Jack his coffee, if you want.”

“If you insist.”

“Although… Josie might enjoy having her hot chocolate brought to her by you.”

“Then I will.”

George and Rose shared a smile. There was a twinkle in his eye. A twinkle that was… rather familiar. Somehow. Though she couldn’t say why. Rose opened her mouth. She hesitated. Something had been bothering her. Since the day before.

“Look… George…”

She took in a deep breath. Then Rose bowed her head.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For yesterday. Your floors… I wasn’t myself, I…”

“No, no. There’s no need.”

A hand gently squeezed her shoulder. Rose looked up.

“I haven’t seen the Master this happy in years. I might not have seen the Master this happy… at all. I’m not going to put myself on your bad side for a little bit of mud on the floors. Though it wasn’t exactly easy to clean, if you’ll allow me to be honest.”

“I don’t mind. Honesty is something I highly value in friends.”

“Good! Then we are friends. No need to apologize, ma’am.”

“Please. Call me Rose.”

At the sound of her name, George’s smile seemed to freeze on his face. Still, he nodded. Rose nodded back. She turned around, on her way back to Jack’s room. That is, until George talked once again. Carefully. Knowingly.

“You know… I used to work for this family. The Dewitt-Bukaters.”

Rose froze mid-step. Coffee splashed around, a few drops burning her hand.

“Have I not seen you before?”

Rose turned around. She stared at him. For some too long seconds. Mouth agape and eyes wide. That was where she’d seen him before! She hadn’t been mistaken. George had seemed familiar. He’d been the butler at their mansion for years. Before Father’s death.

Rose tried her best to relax. A smile spread on her face once more.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

George’s smile matched hers.

“Right. Of course. Pardon me. I wish you a good day, then.”

“Good day to you, too, George.”

With that, Rose returned to Jack’s room.

She stopped in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. She didn’t really care for the opulence in the room. Not because the décor wasn’t breathtaking - Jack always had an eye for the beautiful things in life. Or because she was used to that kind of luxury - she had once been, when she was still Rose Dewitt-Bukater. No. She didn’t really care for the opulence in the room because her eyes only went to Jack. Sleeping soundly.

Alive. 

Not frozen forever.

Years ago, it had broken her heart knowing she didn’t have a body to bury.

Now she knew why.

Rose put Jack’s coffee cup on the dresser and crossed over the room to the tall window. One hand held on to her coffee cup while the other pushed the thick red curtains aside. Just a bit. Just enough that she could see upon the grounds. With its fountain and trees and guest house. Then, she settled in the armchair by the window. Her back pressed against one arm, while her knees rested on the other arm, and her feet dangled in the air. She faced the window. Warm and cozy.

She stayed there a while. Drinking and thinking.

To think…

If she hadn’t followed her intuition…

If she hadn’t come back to New York…

If she hadn’t, if she hadn’t, if she hadn’t…

No. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. To think about what-ifs.

She had. 

She’d come back to him.

She always did.

Rose finished her coffee cup. She set it down on the floor. For the moment.

No matter how much the world had tried to push them apart. No matter how much her mother had tried. No matter how much Cal had tried. No matter how everyone had tried.

She’d come back to Jack. 

Like she always did.

Speaking of Jack, she heard him pushing the covers aside. He soon appeared in her line of sight. Wearing only his pajama pants. A warm body sneaked up behind her. Lying down upon the armchair. A pair of arms were wrapped around her and an artist’s hands clasped on her stomach, under her arms. A nose nudged the skin behind her ear. 

“Good morning,” whispered Jack in her ear.

Rose chuckled. His voice was still raspy with sleep.

“Good morning to you, too. Though I do have to say... I think you’re in my personal space, Mr. Dawson.”

“Well, what if I like when you’re in mine, Mrs. Dawson?”

“We’re not officially married yet.”

“You’ve been using my name for ten years and you’re wearing my ring. I don’t think we need to make it official before calling ourselves that.”

“You’re probably right.”

“And besides, I like to say it. Mrs. Dawson, Mrs. Dawson, Mrs. Dawson...”

When he kissed her neck, Rose let out a little shriek. Half a giggle, half a laugh. Her body wiggled, feet kicking. Automatically. She could feel his smile against her.

“Jaaaack!”

He buried his face in her head. Leaning against her.

“Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“My name. Say it again.”

“Jack? I’ll say it as often as you want. Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack!”

Jack chuckled in her ear. Rose giggled once more. 

“It feels good to hear it again.”

“It feels good to say it again.”

Rose turned around, wiggling on the armchair. Finally, once she faced him, she took her time to look at him. He’d aged. Of course. But nothing about his eyes had aged. They were still the same blue, the same mischievous, playful eyes.

The iceberg, the War… 

They hadn’t taken his joy away.

Not completely.

“It feels like I haven’t stopped one second to process how lucky I am.”

Jack’s smile turned soft. A smile she knew well.

“You think you’re lucky?”

“I do. I don’t mean… Not just now. But also back then.”

“Back then?”

“Yes. I was so lonely. I had everything… and nothing at the same time. All I wanted was a friend. Someone who could notice me, who could listen to me, who could understand me. And then you appeared. You found me. You came at the right time.”

“Everyone kept telling me it was impossible. That a girl like you could ever notice a guy like me. I wanted you to notice me, too.”

“We’re both lucky, then.”

“We are.”

Rose wrapped her arms around him, not caring for the way they were uncomfortably perched on the armchair. For now, all she cared about was him. And nothing else. A moment of silence settled between them. Until Jack asked, voice low as a whisper:

“Why did you keep it?”

“Keep what?”

“The Heart of the Ocean. Why did you keep it?”

Truth be told, Rose hadn’t given that necklace much thought in a while. It had remained inside its many different safe places for so long. She’d almost forgotten she had it. And yet, she couldn’t allow herself to forget. It was thanks to that necklace that she had the life she wanted. Not because she’d had its money. But because it represented her freedom.

“Because…” Rose considered her answer. Until she said: “Because it would have meant giving you up. Giving my heart away. It would have meant giving in to Cal. It would have meant giving up my principles for profit. And because it survived all this time until now. How could I sell it when it holds so much meaning?”

She saw his Adam’s Apple wobble in his throat when Jack swallowed. He sounded almost… almost scared when he said:

“Do you think I’m a sellout? Or like Hockley? Because of Gatsby?”

“Absolutely not. You said it. You’re willing to give it all away. To give it away for me. Cal was - probably still is - an irredeemable bastard who couldn’t allow himself to lose control over his life. Who couldn’t allow himself to lose control over me . You could never be like him. You… You gave your life for me, Jack. You could never be a sellout.”

“Thank you.”

“No. Thank you . I could never thank you enough for what you did for me.”

Eyes closed, she pressed her forehead to his. They breathed in the same air for a moment. Enjoying each other’s presence. The touch of a hand. The weight of a body.

Rose only opened her eyes again when he spoke once more.

“You know… You said it to me, but I never said it back.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

Rose’s heart grew twice in size. Upon hearing those three little words.

She knew it already.

She’d known it for a long, long time.

But it was still surreal. To hear him say it.

“I love you, too.”

With that, she kissed him full on the mouth. Tasting of coffee and morning breath.

Jack hummed. Rose chuckled into him.

His hands travelled up and down her back. Hers did the same. They were getting a little… a little handsy . Or perhaps... tactile . Half-sitting, half-lounging on that chair.

Until the bedroom doors burst open.

“Mom! Dad!”

Rose pushed herself up. Her upper body resting on her hands.

“Josie?”

Josie, indeed, was standing in the doorway. With a bright smile and a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. Josie giggled.

“What are you guys doing there?”

“Nothing. What is it? Is something wrong?”

Josie shook her head.

“No, no, no! Everything is great! This place is fabulous! My room was so big, my bed was so comfy, I had the best sleep in my life! And just now… did you know the butler could bring us hot chocolate in bed? I didn’t know he could do that! I still can’t believe it! That’s amazing!”

Rose and Jack shared a glance. Then, they burst out laughing.

April 29th, 1922

They stayed two more weeks in New York.

The day after their reunion, Jack and Nick had helped move Rose’s and Josie’s luggage to the mansion. And that night, Jack and Rose were officially married.

Her golden ring wasn’t fake anymore.

The next weeks had then been mostly meant for leisure. In the morning, Jack and Rose helped Josie with her homework. In the afternoon, they went on picnics, played croquet and baseball in the backyard, and Jack even took them to Coney Island on the rollercoaster. It wasn’t Santa Monica, he pointed out with a wink, but it would be the next best thing. During their afternoon outings, Nick tagged along. Whenever he could. And at night, Gatsby still hosted his fabulous parties, though the energy seemed… different. More inviting. More fun. For Jack, anyway. Who joined in on the dancing and cheer.

And so, as fireworks lit up the sky, Jack watched as Rose and Josie sat in the grass, pointing at the bursts of light. He’d gone to fetch them glasses of water. And now he stood just off to the side. Enjoying his view of the two ladies in his life.

The next day, Jack, Rose and Josie were goong to move back to California. But tonight, it was time for one more party. Just one more.

“So…” 

Jack turned around. Nick was standing just a few feet away. He rubbed his face.

“What will happen to Gatsby?”

One of Jack’s eyebrows quirked up. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m happy for you. Truly happy. But does that mean… Does that mean you’ll sell everything? Let the mansion go? Stop the parties? Gatsby was built on a lie, after all.”

Jack considered it for a moment.

“No, that’s not what I’ve planned.”

This time, one of Nick’s eyebrows rose up. Waiting for Jack to continue. 

“No one knows who the real Gatsby is.” Jack shrugged. “He doesn’t have to be me.”

“But… what…?”

“What if you became my successor?”

Nick’s mouth fell open. “I’m sorry?”

“I trusted you with my secret, Nick. I trust you. You’re family, now.”

Nick’s mouth hung open for a moment. Then, he said, voice unwavering:

“I’d be honoured.”

“Then it’s settled. How do you feel, Mr. Gatsby?”

Nick smiled.

“I feel pretty good.”

“Great. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Nick walked over to Jack. Until they were standing side-by-side. Boom! Boom! Boom! Fireworks exploded above. In greens and blues and purples. They looked up for a moment. Standing in silence. Until Jack turned to Nick.

Something he’d thought of for a while came back to mind.

“I’m sure you’ll find a great guy, one day.”

Nick’s head spun towards him so fast, Jack feared he’d break his neck.

“How did you…? Gatsby… Jack, I…! I’m… I’m sorry, I...”

“Hey. Don’t do that. I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re loyal and kind and… and you’re my friend. You’re my best friend. I hope you find someone who deserves you.”

Nick’s shoulders slumped. Relaxed. He looked up at the sky.

“I hope so, too.”

Boom! Boom! Boom! They stood in silence. Until they heard...

“Boys!”

They both turned towards Rose and Josie. Sitting on the grass. Waving.

“Come over here! Don’t just stand there. Join us!”

Boom! Boom! Boom! Josie gasped as they sat on the grass with them. Jack took a seat next to Josie and Nick ended up sitting next to Rose. At first, two weeks ago, Jack had seem it. Nick hadn’t known on which foot to dance when he was around Rose. But then Rose had been… well, Rose , and he’d warmed up to her. Pretty quickly. So Jack wasn’t surprised when Rose jokingly nudges Nick’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” said Rose. “I wanted to say thank you.”

At that, Nick blinked. 

“Thank… me?”

“Yes. Thank you, Nick. Thank you for caring. For caring for him.”

“Oh! It was not a problem at all. He’s my friend.”

“And he’s lucky to have you.” 

“Well, he won’t have me anymore.”

Jack couldn’t see Rose’s facial expression as she was turned away from him. But he had a feeling she was smiling. Wide. He heard a smile in her voice, anyway.

“Come on! You sound like you don’t think you’ll ever see him again. We’ll be back sooner than you think. In-between my films. And during Josie’s summer vacation. And you’ll keep in touch by mail.”

“I know. I just hope I won’t get lonely.”

“I don’t think you will. I have a good feeling about you.”

Nick’s smile reached his ears.

“Thank you, Rose.”

“You’re welcome. You’re my friend, too, you know.”

And so it was that on the morning of April 30th, 1922, Jack stood in his mansion’s entrance hall. 

He took a look at his surroundings. A long look. Gazing upon each wall, each portrait, each geometric tile on the floor. This place had hidden his sorrows, his loneliness and fears. But under Nick’s care, he knew it would become immensely more… happy. It was really the only word he could find. Nick had already started to make plans to convert the mansion into an orphanage. Where children could run around freely, educate themselves without fear of being punished, and start their lives under much different circumstances. In Jack’s grief, he’d never considered the possibility.

The parties would continue, of course. Just a little differently. 

With the kids in the empty rooms upstairs and the guests outside. Especially during the summer.

At that moment, Rose and Josie arrived, carrying their suitcases. They hadn’t taken much from the mansion. A bit of money for the road. Jack’s old clothes and some new ones. His art supplies. And that was pretty much it. Everything else, he could depart with. This wasn’t the first time he was building himself from the ground up. This also wasn’t the first time Rose was doing the same thing.

But this time, they’d build their life together.

“Ready?”

Josie made a mocking salute.

“We’re ready!”

 Rose chuckled. 

“Yes, I think we are.”

Just as Rose and Josie were walking out the door, Nick came around the corner. He’d insisted on being there to see them depart. And now was that time.

Jack didn’t think it would be this hard, though. 

It had been a while since he’d said goodbye to a friend.

He’d never gotten the chance to with either Fabrizio or Tommy, after all.

“Well,” he said rather awkwardly. “I guess this is goodbye, then, old sport.”

“Yess. Goodbye, Gatsby.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not that guy anymore. You are.”

“Of course. What was I thinking?”

Then, Jack felt it was time to leave. They shared a nod. Jack picked up his suitcase. As he was about to step through the doorway, though, he stopped. 

“Oh!” Jack lifted a finger and spun around. “Before I forget. Old Man Fletchley’s son, Michaelis, is coming over this afternoon. He wanted to talk to me about flower arrangements for the next party.”

Nick gaped at him.

“But you’re leaving.”

“I know.”

At that, Nick nodded once again. As if he understood. Though his mouth was still slightly agape.

“Right. That’s my job now.” 

“It is. But also… Michaelis is a fine lad. If you know what I mean.”

Nick’s eyes widened. His mouth fell open.

“Did you just…try to set me up?”

“I think I already did.”

“...Huh.”

“His favourite flowers are daisies. And I believe he’s also a fan of coffee. If you’d like to meet up somewhere. Like in a coffee shop.”

Before another awkward silence could settle in, Nick grinned. He waved a hand.

“Goodbye, Jack Dawson.”

Jack laughed.

“Now, that’s better. Goodbye, Nick Carraway. Or should I say… Gatsby.”

With that, the door closed behind Jack.

And another one opened.

In the form of the awaiting train car door he held out for Rose. As soon as they reached the nearest train station.

“After you, Miss,” he winked.

With a knowing smile, Rose took his hand and climbed on board the train. Jack took in a deep breath. Of fresh air mixed in with the train’s black smoke.

Jack climbed inside.

May 7th, 1922

Rose was exhausted when she pushed open her apartment door.

Their apartment door. 

She’d have to get used to that.

But she definitely wasn’t used to it as she stared at the mess they’d left behind. A few weeks ago. Before they’d left for New York. They’d packed their bags so quickly, they hadn’t cleaned up… well, anything. Except for the food in their tiny pantry and small refrigerator.

“Oh! Oh, what a mess we’ve made. Oh, oh no…!”

“Rose.”

“I probably should have cleaned before letting you in!”

“Rooooose.”

“I didn’t know we were going to have a guest! I mean, you’re not a guest, but…!”

“ROOOOOSE!”

“What?”

Jack smiled softly. His hand grazed her arm.

“I love it.”

Rose released a breath. Relieved.

“Good. I’m glad you do.”

They started to unpack their bags. There was some reorganizing to do. Especially since Rose was used to having her small closet to herself. But somehow, they managed to make everything fit inside. As soon as the last shirt was in its rightful place and the Heart of the Ocean had been hidden behind the wall, Rose looked around.

This was it.

Her new life with Jack.

She still wasn’t sure… what if he didn’t like it? What if it was too small? Too cramped? He’d once slept under bridges, of course. But… 

He must have felt the tension in the room. Jack walked over to her and took her hand in his. 

“It’s perfect. Really.”

Rose stared at him. For a moment. She wasn’t only talking about the apartment when she said:

“Thank you.”

Just as she was leaning in for a kiss, she heard, loud and clear:

“Moooom! Are you done? I want to show Dad my room!”

Rose and Jack stared at each other for a moment more. Then, they chuckled. With a grin, Jack gave her a peck on the lips and dragged her along by the hand. 

“Coming, Josie!”

A minute or so later, Rose found herself standing in the doorway of Josie’s bedroom, watching as Josie showed her Dad all her memories, all her pictures, all her drawings lining the walls. Talking way too quickly about each adventure, each friend, each stranger she’d drawn. Preparing each adventure in the future. 

Each new possibility.

Rose knew change. And change meant possibilities.

By finding Jack, it seemed so many possibilities had opened up to her.

Rose had a vague idea of what the future would hold. She knew there would be fights and shouts and tears. But there would also be joy. So much joy. There would never be a day without laughter, without love. There would never be a boring day. Maybe in a few years, Josie could have a new brother or sister. Maybe another member of the family could be adopted, too. They’d already said they wanted more children. And Nick was opening up an orphanage, so she had a feeling it was bound to happen eventually. Maybe some of these children, the ones they’d have in the future, could be named after Jack’s parents, perhaps. Or maybe Tommy - after both Tommy and Mr. Andrews - or Cora or Helga or Fabrizio or Margaret. After their friends. Most they’d lost, one they hadn’t. Speaking of Molly, there would be a few letters exchanged with her in the future. Rose was sure of it.

Some things she could never imagine. She couldn’t know that the market would crash in 1929, leading to Caledon Hockley’s suicide and financial struggles. Though they’d pick each other back up as they always did, helped by Nick. The new Gatsby. Rose couldn’t know there would be a wedding in secret. Or that Nick Carraway-Fletchley and Michaelis Carraway-Fletchley would become some of the most beloved entrepreneurs and philanthropists in New York. Especially, Rose couldn’t know, further and further into the future, long after she’d tire of acting, that they’d move to Chippewa Falls, that they’d grow old together, that Josie would have a daughter named Lizzie and that when she was going to be an old lady, with spotted hands and a wrinkled face, so much older than she could possibly imagine, she’d make a phone call to a certain Brock Lovett.

Rose had no way of knowing all of that.

But she knew life with Jack would be as perfect as it could be.

Yes. 

Life with Jack would be perfect.

“And that’s the beach I drew in Santa Monica,” was currently saying Josie. “I’m not really good at drawing horses. But I’m getting better at it! That’s what Mom says, anyway. Mom and I went horse riding on the beach, once.”

Jack’s eyes lit up at that.

“You went horse riding on the beach? Right in the surf?”

“Hm, hm!”

He pointed at the drawing. “Is that Mom there?”

“It is!”

He sent Rose a knowing glance.

“Your Mom went horse riding. Like a cowboy.”

At that, an idea popped into Rose’s head. A smile softened her face.

“Hey. What do you guys say we go?”

Josie looked up.

“We go? Where?" 

“To the pier. The one in Santa Monica.”

“That’d be great! Are you sure?”

“Of course! It’s Sunday, is it not? You only start school again tomorrow!”

Rose barely had the time to finish talking when Josie raised her arms in the air.

“Last one to put on their shoes has to buy me ice cream!”

With that, Josie rushed out of the bedroom. Running past Rose.

Again, Rose and Jack shared a glance.

They knew they were going to buy her ice cream anyway.

And maybe some beer, too. For them only. Obviously. And in secret from the authorities, too.

Chewing tobacco and spitting might be in order, too. She’d bet Josie would love to learn to spit from her Dad. She hadn’t had the time to teach her that yet.

Jack rose from his crouch. He offered her his hand.

They held hands until they made it to Santa Monica. They held hands as they rode the rollercoaster until they (almost) threw up. They held hands as they met some of Rose’s and Josie’s friends on the pier. They held hands as they explained who Jack was and though they had to stop holding hands while relieved, happy and surprised hugs were exchanged, it wasn’t long before their hands were clasped together again. Whenever their hands found each other, Rose would feel immense relief. She felt safe when Jack held her hand.

That had always been true.

It had been true when he’d offered her his hand when they’d first met.

It had been true when he’d taken her hand to teach her how to spit.

It had been true when he’d kissed her knuckles before dinner.

It had been true when he’d invited her to the party in Third Class.

It had been true when they’d danced.

It had been true when he’d made her fly.

It had been true when they were running from Lovejoy.

It had been true at the back of that Renault.

It had been true when the iceberg hit.

It had been true when they’d taken the Heart of the Ocean out of his pocket.

It had been true when they’d run through flooding hallways.

It had been true when the Titanic had sunk in the Atlantic Ocean.

And it had been true when she’d been on that door.

“Don’t let go of my hand.”

No. Rose wasn’t going to let go anytime soon.

As long as she held Jack’s hand in hers, it would be all right.

And so, as Rose walked along the beach with Jack and Josie, swinging their arms along, and as this new future opened up its doors for her, Rose knew everything would be all right. As long as they had each other, it would be all right.

In time, Jack and Rose would get to grow old together.

But for now, all that was left for them was to live.

By making each day count.