Page 1 of Gatsby's Starlet
PROLOGUE
THE HOUSE ALWAYSfelt bigger when it got dark,not in a good way, not like there was more room to play, but in a stretched-out way, like the walls were slowly pulling apart and the ceiling kept lifting higher, and every little sound, even the small ones like someone shifting their feet or a chair scraping soft across the floor or someone breathing too hard, didn’t stay where it started but carried, sliding down the hallway and around corners until it felt like the whole house could hear everything all at once.
Like it was listening.
Waiting.
Henry had learned how to be small, even though no one had ever told him to, like it was something his body figured out on its own, and he sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the television, staying very still while the black-and-white light flickered over his face and the rest of the room slipped into shadows that didn’t feel as real as they did during the day. He never turned on the lamp beside the couch, even though it was right there, because the light made everything too clear, too close, like it might show things he didn’t want to see, while the television pushed everything back, made it feel distant, like the people inside it lived somewhere nothing from his house could touch.
There was laughter filling the room, but it wasn’t theirs, not real laughter, because it sounded too perfect, like it always knew exactly when it was supposed to happen, rising and falling at the right moments while the man on the screen stood in a cleankitchen and spoke in a calm, even voice, not loud at all, saying, “We’ll fix it together,” like it was easy.
Like it was something you could just decide.
And then it would be true.
Henry kept thinking about that word, together, and he didn’t really know why it stayed stuck in his head like that, because it was just a word and people said words all the time, but this one didn’t go away, it just sat there, like it was waiting for him to understand it properly, like if he figured it out then maybe something else would make sense too, something bigger that he almost understood but not quite.
Behind him, a chair scraped hard across the kitchen floor, loud enough that it cut through everything, and his shoulders tightened right away even though he didn’t turn around, because he already knew what came next, like it always went the same way, like it always did, his father’s voice getting louder and scarier, and his mother’s voice answering back softer, already sounding sorry even before she said anything, like she knew what she was supposed to say.
On the television, the mother was smiling, laughing as she wiped her hands on a towel, and she looked like nothing bad had ever happened to her, like no one had ever grabbed her too hard or made her flinch, like she didn’t have to think about what she was going to say before she said it.
Something broke in the kitchen, Henry flinched even though he tried not to, his fingers curling into the carpet like he could hold onto it, like it might keep him where he was, and he leaned closer to the television without turning around, because if he didn’t look then maybe it wasn’t as real, maybe it would stay behind him where he couldn’t see it, and if he watched hard enough then the sounds wouldn’t follow him all the way into his head.
“Please,” his mother said, and her voice was so quiet it almost didn’t feel like a real word, like it could disappear before it even reached him.
On the screen, the man pulled out a chair for his wife and put his hand on her back, not pushing her or making her move, just resting there like he wanted her to feel safe, like he was making sure she was okay, and Henry watched that small thing very carefully, like it mattered more than everything else, noticing how no one on the screen raised their voice, and no one flinched, and no one had to think too hard before they spoke, like everything was already the right way before it even happened.
Behind him, something heavy hit the wall with a loud thud that made the pictures in the hallway shake, and for a second the laughter from the television didn’t feel strong enough, like it was slipping, like the other sounds were getting closer.
So Henry reached out and turned the volume up.
The laughter got louder and louder until it felt like it was filling up the whole house, like it was pushing everything else back, like it was trying to cover the walls and the floor and the hallway and make it all the same as the place inside the television, where the light flickered softly and nothing looked broken, just shapes and shadows that didn’t hurt to look at. In that world, fathers talked in calm voices and didn’t shout, and mothers didn’t whisper into their hands, and everything felt like it stayed where it was supposed to stay.
Henry knew it wasn’t real, not really, he knew that, because it was a show and shows weren’t the same as real life, but it still felt more real than the house behind him sometimes, or at least more like how things were supposed to be, like there were rules there that people followed and didn’t forget.
Then the shouting stopped.
The silence that came after felt different, heavier than the noise had been, like it was sitting in the walls and waiting, like it wanted him to turn around and see what happened next.
But he didn’t.
He stayed where he was, breathing slow and quiet, watching the television as the family on the screen sat together at the table, their hands brushing without anyone pulling away, their voices warm and easy, like nothing bad was hiding anywhere nearby.
One day, he thought, slowly, like he had to be careful with the thought so it didn’t break, one day he would have something like that, something that didn’t get loud like that, something where people didn’t have to whisper or be careful all the time, even if he didn’t know yet how to make it happen, just that he wanted it to.
The laughter kept going, bright and fake but safe, filling up the room until it pushed everything else far away, and Henry watched until the show ended and the screen went dim, and the house behind him got quiet enough that it almost felt normal again, or close enough that he could pretend.
And in that long, stretched-out quiet, he made a promise to himself, not saying it out loud, just holding onto it in his head like it was something important he wasn’t allowed to lose, something he had to keep even if everything else changed.
He wouldn’t be like that.
He wouldn’t.
Even if he didn’t know how yet.
CHAPTER ONE
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER
