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eideticmemory · 4 years ago

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TWO GHOSTS II | MATTHEW G. GUBLER

It’s been 15 years. 15 years has to be long enough . . . right? Part 2! Read Part 1.

Set 15 years after the end of Ever Since New York, so give that a read first!

Word Count: 3.1k.

Warning: Usual angst, porn, and poor communication amongst characters.

SOUNDTRACK:

After Hours - The Velvet Underground

Mr. Loverman - Ricky Montgomery

Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now - The Smiths

“Ramona . . .” you whine.

“I know . . . a mess.”

“I, uh,” you set your phone down, keeping Ramona’s voice on speaker. “I have to get out of this hotel, I have to get home.”

“[y/n], no.”

“No?”

“No.”

You begin changing out of your pajamas, your hands trembling as you slip on a pair of jeans. “Are you telling me I can’t go home right now? Seriously?”

“Seriously. Unless you wanna get swarmed by paparazzi, and risk leaving the hotel at the same time as him, you need to stay put.”

“This . . . this . . . is a mess. This is a huge mess, I — Ramona, I’m leaving.” You ramble, grabbing your things from the bedside dresser.

“[y/n] [y/l/n].” Ramona says, sternly. “You are my boss, but I have direct orders from your publicist to make sure you stay put. So, sit down, chill out, I’ll be there in five. And, honestly . . . you should have some wine.”

“Wha — wine? It’s seven in the morning.”

“Y’know what? You deserve it. Be there soon.”

She was already on the way when she hung up, and when she knocks on the door, you’re sat criss-cross on the bed, sipping a glass of wine. She’s right, you deserve it. You hold the fragile cup in your hand as you open the door, and she waltzes her way in.

“You calm now?” she asks.

“Medicated,” you shrug, holding the glass of wine up in the air.

“Perfect . . . so, were you ever going to tell anyone that you used to date Matthew Gray Gubler?”

You scoff, wander through the hotel room, “I didn’t date Matthew Gubler,” you take a seat on the bed.

“Okay, were you going to mention that you used to fuck Matthew Gray Gubler?” She crosses her arms.

“I . . .” you stutter, go silent in response.

“Oh, God,” she groans.

“It was a long, long time ago! It’s no one’s business, and there’s hardly any proof that it’s anything but a rumor.”

“No proof? —“ She shakes her head, pulling her iPad from her bag. As she clicks a few buttons, she adds, “Did you not see what people were saying? . . . The pictures?”

“Pictures?” You gasp, setting you glass down. “What pictures?”

Ramona sighs, and hands the iPad over to you, avoiding eye contact. You slowly take the device from her hands, and let out a shaky breath.

“The first two were posted a, um, John Hearse on twitter . . .” she explains.

“I mean, if you and Gube just . . . I’m gonna say it - fucked - one good time, the two of you could get over this whole rivalry already.”

Ramona’s words start to fade, to rescind to dust and ash, as you absorb the image in front of you. It’s old . . . and slightly blurry, but you recognize every face. John, Steve, Matthew . . . and you, sat in his lap, head on his shoulder with a huge, bright smile on your face. Matthew had his hand on your waist, practically gripping your shirt in his hand, keeping you close. The next picture, he was making you laugh, all three of you, as you looked, lovingly, into his eyes.

They were posted in response to a final picture, of you and Matthew reuniting. You looking, literally, like an idiot, in the daze of seeing him and recieving a hug. Some professional photographer had captured the whole thing.

John’s pictures are captioned: Whoaaa glad to see these two back together!

“They used to be, heh,” you chuckle dryly to yourself as you read the tweet outloud. “Inseparable, wow. Remind me to call John up later and yell at him until he cries.”

“Wh — what happened between you two?”

“Me and John? Nothing much, we were good friends,” you shrug.

“No — [y/n], c’mon . . .” Ramona groans.

“It would take,” you sigh. “So much time, and so much energy for me to tell that story right now. I don’t have it in me, Ramona, I just . . . I just want to go home.”

“The place is surrounded by paparazzi, they’re harassing every celebrity that leaves the building, and I’m pretty sure your high on their watchlist right now.”

“Yeah, I’ve mastered the art of ignoring them, I’ll be fine, just call me a ride, please,” you grumble, setting the iPad down and rising to your feet.

She sighs, giving in, giving up, “There’s one waiting for you out front.”

“Thank you,” you nod.

Your belongings are removed from the room first, carried down by an accommodating bellhop. Ramona followed you down to the lobby, trailing you, like she always did. But keeping a closer eye on you than usual. You stopped in front of the revolving door, lips pursed in a look of annoyance as you came face to face with the hoard of paparazzi.

They noticed you through the glass before you had the chance to take a breath, and if you stood still for too long, you feared it would show as weakness, a reason to be suspicious. So, you held your head up tall, took in a deep breath, and stepped into the spotlight.

You’ve mastered the look of constantly-tired-business-woman-chic. Today, you’re running off a cup of coffee, and as always, throw on jeans and a graphic t-shirt. Comfortable shoes, because those heels destroyed your feet last night.

It’s a short walk to the car, but a million and one pictures are taken of you. You smile, respectfully, do a little wave. Don’t want to look too bitter. You drown out the questions, drown out the comments, because you swear if you hear his name, you’ll roll your eyes.

Ramona gets into the car after you, and closes the door. You let out a long sigh, and sulk in your seat. “This sucks,” you mumble, the car staring the ten minute drive to your home.

“Okay, [y/n] Gubler,” she replies.

“Hey!” You sit up. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” she whines. “I knew something was off last night. I could’ve helped you avoid him, I could’ve gotten his car towed, I could’ve sent him the wrong address. You just have to communicate.”

“That is . . . unprofessional, and Matthew Gubler is, apparently, very professional. And he . . .” you trail off.

“He . . ? What?”

“He, donated a very healthy amount of money to the program, which, has nothing to do with me, by the way. None of it has anything to do with me, he’s just . . . professional.” You roll your eyes.

“What the hell happened between you two?” Ramona asks, noticing your shift in tone.

“Ooh, damn!” You ignore her, looking out the window. “We should’ve stopped and grabbed donuts.”

“Fine,” she surrenders.

You were surprised to find no paparazzi surrounding your penthouse building. Ramona had packed away all your belongings, and sent someone inside to place them in your apartment.

“Stay off social media,” she tells you before you leave. “Okay? No posting.”

“Silent stalking, only. Got it.”

You hold your phone in your hand as you walk into the building, ride the elevator up to the fifth floor. It’s quiet, and it’s what you need right now. To be home alone, with your thoughts.

You crash onto the couch, face first, and groan as you roll over. Last night should’ve been joyous, and fun, and it was. But, it was supposed to be the end. It was supposed to bring peace, knowing that everything you worked for, payed off and went out with a bang.

But, because of him, and John, and these stupid pictures, it’s far from the end. A whole new storm has started, and it’s making you nauseous.

Yet, you can’t keep yourself offline. You spend hours scrolling through tweet upon tweet, instagram post after instagram post, and each and every comment is as gut wrenching as the last. The internet’s made up it’s mind, and you and Matthew Gubler are the perfect couple. You fit together, you look right together, you have history together.

A history that was better left buried.

Because, when it comes up, when you think about, and you think about that one decision that could’ve changed everything . . . you crack. You spiral. You can’t shake it for days. Weeks. You think about him, and what you could’ve been.

It’s a hurricane, and it sweeps you up everytime, even when you know it’s coming.

There’s a knock at the door, and your heart drops. It’s naive, and childish to think that maybe, just maybe, it’s him. Coming to apologize for being a dick. But the idea of it has you racing to the door, and flinging it open before you can think about it.

“Hey, Aunt [y/n]!”

“Hey,” Claire smiles. “We brought donuts.”

This is better.

The seven year old held onto your hand as you guided her and her mother in your apartment. “Oh, my goodness,” you beamed to Dorthy, earning a bright smile from her. “Is Roni with you?” You turned to ask Claire.

“She had to help her mother with something today, but I told her that I had to help you through a serious crisis.”

“Ah,” you nod. “You’ve been online, huh?”

You take a seat with Dorothea on the couch, turn on the TV. “Wanna pick something to watch?” You smile, and she nods happily, taking the remote from you.

You join Claire in the kitchen, and she hands you a cookies and cream donut. You hum happily as you take it from her, take a seat on the counter, “God, thank you.”

She nods, “Yes, I’ve been online. I’ve been tracking everything about you and your big, big night,” she chuckles. “So I was ready to run over here when I saw those pictures going around.”

“You saw them?” You gasp, horrified, with the donut hanging from your mouth.

“Oh, yeah, I don’t remember when they were taken, though?”

“Vegas, 2001,” you tell her. “You didn’t — you didn’t come with us.”

She sighs, tilts her head at you, “[y/n] . . .”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you nod, reassuringly. “I’m not going down a Matthew rabbit hole. Not right now. Y’know why? Because he is an ass, he’s rude, and disrespectful, and stirs shit up for no reason, and —“

“Whoa!” Claire exclaims. “Did I enter a time portal to 1999 or something?”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes.

“[y/n], you knew seeing Matthew was a possibility last night, and that it would bring back all these emotions, and you swore you could handle it —“

“I did handle it! I handled it very, very well. He’s the one who lost his cool. You should’ve heard him, Claire,” you ramble. “Nothing I did tonight has anything to do with you? I’m a professional? I didn’t do it to cushion your feelings? He’s a dick! He — he threw everything in my face the minute he could, and now my name is connected to his, our history is out there for everyone to see, and . . . he probably fucking hates me,” you laugh.

You laugh.

It’s a dry laugh, a sad laugh.

Claire frowns, and steps over to you, putting her arm around your shoulders.

“He hates me,” you say. “And he probably has every reason to. But I can handle it. I can handle the emotions, I’ve handled them for a long time,” you look at her. “And it’s not my fault if he can’t do the same, right?”

Claire sighs, pushes your hair back, “No.” She shakes her head. “No, you’ve moved on. You should want him to do the same thing, and not cause anymore hurt. You deserve that.”

“Mom! Aunt [y/n]!” Dorthy calls from the couch. Her head pops up, and she grins at you two. “Best and Ballet is on!”

“Ooh, what show is that?” You chuckle, hopping down from the counter. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Hey,” Claire calls, grabbing onto your arm before you can walk into the living room. “It’s like everything else in show business, right? People will talk for a few days, maybe a week, right? And then it’ll fade. It’ll pass.”

You give her a nod, let her know that you hear her, and that you’re going to push through this. Because you have no choice. Because above being a celebrity, a figurehead, a boss, a producer . . . you’re a teacher. A damn good one, and the last person who’s going to change that is Matthew Gubler.

You pack him away. The idea of him. Tie him off with a neat, little bow.

Because the show must go on.

“Rolling!”

You walk across the studio, behind the cameras, watching your students on screen. “Can you get a wide shot? You’re not getting the best lighting, nor every student in one shot.” You say to the cinematographer.

“[y/n],” the director calls. “We film from this angle every episode. Why change it?”

“Because every episode, some of my best dancers are cut from the shot beside of sloppy angles and the light from the windows blinds the mirrors the cameras?”

“Those are things out of our control.”

“Oh, yeah?” you turn to him. “You wanna tell that to someone who didn’t go to film school? . . . Twice?”

He gulps, motions to the cinematographer, “Change the shot.”

You grin, order the camera woman to make the correct adjustments, “See?” You beam. “No glare.”

You walk off, Ramona trailing behind you, giving the director a pitiful smile. Once you’re away from the cameras, and the studio, you grumble, “Remind me to never be talked into hiring a male director again.

“You’re turning into Medusa.”

“What?” You look at her, furrowing your eyebrows.

“What? You’ve never seen Grey’s Anatomy? Medusa? Turns people into stone? A . . . bitch?”

“Actual Medusa was not a bitch, she was cursed by a man.”

“Okay, fair, you were cursed by a man —“

“Dooooon’t!” You roll your eyes. “I’m not Medusa, I’m very nice.”

“You’re nice to me, and to your students, and the nice ladies that do your hair and makeup. Everyone else, stone.”

“Stop.”

“I wish you would tell me what happened,” she groans. “It’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone! I’m just, worried about you, and a little nosey.”

“Ramona . . . it’s been how long since that weekend?”

“Well, well,” she stutters. “Only a week.”

“A week is a long time, I’ve moved on. I’ve avoided any and all questions on the subject, from everyone. I’ve been actively dodging it on social media. I’m doing well.”

She nods.

“Now,” you continue to walk down the hall. “I have a talk show interview tonight? What time do I have to be there?”

You stop when you realize Ramona isn’t following you. You turn around, and she stuck in her spot.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“Can’t move. Been turned to stone.”

You hated the Medusa comparison wholeheartedly. But, right now, you just want to yell at whoever booked you for a late night talk show. You’re tired after a long day of work, and you’re cranky, and crabby, and maybe, just maybe . . . the comparison isn’t too far off right now.

You’re charming, sure. Let’s go with that. But now, it’s all starting to dawn on you. Here, in this dressing room that’s lit up like a christmas tree. Revealing every ounce of exhaustion in your face, in your eyes. It’s nearly ten o’clock at night, and you’re placed in an elegant, black dress that stops just above your knees. Black heels cover your feet, and your hair and makeup were done half an hour ago.

You have to figure it out. You test different ones out in the mirror. Different smiles. You have to nail the I-have-to-talk-about-myself-for-an-hour-and-laugh smile. The happy, glowing, kind smile. You think you have it when there’s a knock on the door.

You keep the smile on, don’t want to lose it. You call Ramona in, and she looks at you, curiously. “You okay?”

“Yep,” you nod, brightening your smile. “Show time?”

“Are — are you having a stroke?”

“Okay, I’m trying to put on my interview face here, you’re not helping.”

“Sorry, sorry, you look great!” You smiles.

“Ramona,” you whisper, stepping close to her. “There’s a good chance they’re gonna ask me about him, right?”

She takes a breath in, prepared to answer, but no words come out. Your eyes are wide, innocent, hopeful. And she hates to lie to you.

“Yes . . .” is all she can say. “There is a, very, very good chance they will ask you about him.”

You sigh, duck your head. And when you pick it back up, your smile is on. “Okay, let’s go.” You step out into the hallway, Ramona closing the door behind you.

It was a time portal. The door. The hallway.

Matthew’s eyes land on you at the same time you see him, and you both freeze. Ramona bites at her nails, anxiously eyeing the two of you.

You feel your body, your soul, revert. Regress in every way to embody the spirit of you, at age 18, about 18 years ago.

You scoff, meaning your next words with every fiber of your being, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

TAGLIST:

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@ncsls0515

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#mine #tg #mgg #mgg fic #matthew gray gubler #esny

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