Disclaimer: Belongs to Aaron, Disney, Touchstone, etc.
Don't sue.
Notes: For Pene, by way of the Secret Santa. Thanks to
Kim for the beta.
*
Nobody thought going to Anthony's was a bad idea
tonight -- everyone's so happy that *anything* would
seem like a good idea. Dana's even *estactic,* or so
she's telling everyone.
"I'm a ball of joy," she says, because she's already
drunk off her ass. She thinks she could bounce off the
walls.
(Later, the show will fall apart again, and she'll
wonder if it wouldn't have been better for Quo Vadimus
to go right past them, to let them all separate when
they still could've looked back on the experience
wistfully.)
Natalie and Jeremy are sitting next to each other, so
no one has to be held against their will. Dan, hardly
cheery as of late, seems genuinely happy.
(She will never see him that way again.)
Dana gets up, starts doing her dance of joy, tries to
find a way to work Quo Vadimus into a song. And she's
so drunk that she believes it works. Strangers stare,
and Casey does too, watches her with a smitten smile.
She's not sure if she wants that anymore.
(She'll never know what she wants.)
Jeremy and Natalie leave together. Dan leaves alone,
and he swears he's not going to call Rebecca. He
ignores Dana's yell of "Protest too much!"
Somehow, she and Casey find themselves alone on the
sidewalk. People are still moving, because this is the
city that never sleeps. The greatest city in the
world.
And now none of them will ever have to leave.
(Years later, she will forget what New York looks like
at night, the city reduced to a blur of lights and
scattered noises. It'll be like she never lived her
dream. She won't find new ones to chase after.)
They stare at each other, silent and smiling. It
occurs to her that she might be sending him signals
that she doesn't want to transmit, but the sheer joy
will rob her of rational thought. That used to be his
job, she thinks, then quickly dismisses it.
Tonight is just a night of good. Uncomplicated good.
"We still have a show," Dana says.
"I know. You've said that twenty times."
"Well, I was going for thirty. We still have a show,"
she continues, a singsong lilt creeping into her
voice. "We still have a show. We still--"
Then, he's kissing her -- sudden and messy, not at all
like that romantic aww-shucks first one. She wants to
pull away, but something in his beer-flavored mouth
keeps her still.
(Long after their second -- and final -- kiss, she'll
start to recall his drunken pawing as something
romantic. That's when she'll know that something's
truly wrong. Or that she was truly wrong about
everything.)
Finally, she pushes him away. "This doesn't seem like
moving on."
"It could be," he says.
"It's not," she says, and his face freefalls into
disappointment.
(She will regret this tack later.)
"I thought you wanted this," he says.
"I did," she says. She wanted him, just like she
wanted Gordon, Sam, all those men before. And she's
decided not to be the one with such an easily bruised
heart.
(She will think about her decision, count up all the
debits and credits, decide that disdain for love is an
even bigger cliché than the emotion itself.)
"Oh," he says slowly. "I did, too. I still do."
"We can't keep doing this," she says. "You were
right."
His frustration turns to anger, a low-grade form that
seems more like sadness, less like rage.
(It will only hurt her much later.)
"This," he says, "is your fault. You wanted to make
this as hard as possible."
"I wanted to make this easier."
(She'll try to remember a time when she made anything
simple. She will fail.)
"This is not my fault," she continues.
"It's mine...."
"No," she insists.
(She will consider their years of unresolved feelings,
remember Lisa and his decisions, and she will blame
him. She will pretend none of it matters. He won't
feel a need to try again.)
"So," he says. "This is really over."
"It has been," she replies.
He walks away. Tears don't form in her eyes. Not this
time.
(She will never let herself cry again for what they
might have cost themselves.)