Page 6 of Gatsby's Starlet
“You organized this,” she said, not a question.
“Yeah.”
She moved slow along it, fingers hovering just shy of the frames like she understood without being told that you don’t smear your hands all over history just because it’s there.
“By decade,” she murmured. “Late fifties there. Early sixties shift here.”
That got my full attention.
“You can tell?”
“The typography changes,” she said, squinting slightly. “Rounded fonts in the late fifties, softer colors, then the sixties get louder, sharper lines, brighter reds, and that shade of teal? It didn’t last long.”
I stared at her. “You just… know that?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I look at things most people don’t.”
“Most people just see ‘old,’” I said.
“Most people throw away cast iron because it looks rusty,” she shot back.
A short laugh left me before I could stop it. “Don’t tell me you rescue cookware.”
“Seasoning is a relationship,” she said, dead serious. “You don’t abandon it because it needs attention.”
That did it.
A big smile pulled at my mouth and stayed there, and she noticed—froze just slightly before lifting her chin like she hadn’t meant to win that round but wasn’t giving it back.
“I love this era,” she said softer. “The music. The diners. The cars. Things felt built. Not disposable.”
Built.Yeah. I liked that.
“I get that,” I said.
She stopped in front of the centered photograph. “But you didn’t just group these—youanchoredit.”
I stepped up beside her. “That’s Coon. He brought me into the club. He was… he mattered.”
She didn’t pry, didn’t push for more. “That’s why he’s in the center.”
“Yeah.”
She studied the cracked helmet a moment longer. “I’m glad you kept that. It tells the truth.”
“I don’t throw things out just because they’ve got wear.”
“Good,” she murmured. “I don’t either.”
I looked at her then. Really looked. And fuck, I never wanted to look away.
“You don’t rush,” she said suddenly, like she was thinking out loud.
“Don’t see the point.”
She glanced at the wall again. “Everything here was placed on purpose.”
“Yeah.”
