Candy | Part Two | M.G.
Part One
A/N: this is my entry for sophie's 900 followers challenge! this story is based on the movie the great gatsby.
Request: this one by @maggiescarborough
Michael Gray x Reader
Word Count: 2374
Type: some fluff, mostly angst, death
Summary: Y/N has been living a life without Michael, when all of a sudden, he reaches out to her.
“Sweetheart, be careful!” you shouted, watching your daughter run along the dirty streets of Nottingham. She was wearing a pretty baby blue dress and two adorable pigtails.
You were head over heels in love with that little human. Even though you weren’t even close to being as in love with her father, you were more than grateful to him for having given you the loveliest daughter and he treated her incredibly good. Always bringing home gifts and flowers, making her giggle and scream of joy. But while the spark between father and daughter was as present as ever, the spark between husband and wife was gone.
You didn’t blame him in any way. You knew, it was just as much his fault as it was yours. The undying love you had once proclaimed to each other when you were just nineteen had disappeared and now, at the age of twenty-six, you were living two separate lives in one household.
You knew, your marriage couldn’t go on like this forever, but both of you were not ready to let each other go just yet. Because while you had been in love, you had been perfect. He was attentive, kind, and hard-working. So, the topic of divorce hadn’t come up.
“Mummy, I’m sorry,” you heard your daughters voice peep. You lowered your gaze, noticing that the once blue dress was now covered in mud.
“Oh, Irma, what happened?” you sighed, trying hard to look stern, even though she looked so very silly.
She pouted. “I fell over … there was this stone in my way … stupid stone …”
You let a snort escape your nose. “Yes, stupid stone, indeed.”
Your hand reached down to grab your daughter’s. “No need to be upset, we’ll be home soon.”
There were only a few streets left until you reached your apartment. As you arrived at the front door, you told Irma to wait, while rummaging through your purse to find the bunch of keys.
“Do you want to check if we’ve got any mail?”
Your daughter nodded enthusiastically.
You handed her the key to the letterbox and picked her up by the waist, so she could reach. Her tiny hands clasped the keys tightly while opening the box and letting you grab the letters.
You smiled at her as you put her back down. “Good job!”
You opened the door and let Irma rush up the stairs to your floor.
While skimming through the envelopes, a dark red one caught your attention. It was addressed to you, the handwriting delicate and beautiful, although clearly that of a man. Intrigued, you flipped the envelope over.
The name written on the back made you frown, confused. Michael Gray, Watery Lane, Small Heath, Birmingham.
Who was Michael Gray and what did he want from you?
You hurried up the stairs, almost as quickly as Irma, and immediately searched for a letter opener. Impatient, you pulled out a kitchen knife, after giving up your quest only five seconds in.
The ripping sound of the envelope paper filled the silent space. Irma had vanished into her room, meaning that your entire focus was on this strange note.
Dear Y/N,
I am aware, that I have probably waited too long to write to you. It had been greatly challenging to find your address. To be honest, I did not expect you to be living in Nottingham, since your father had always expressed his wish for you to take over the farmhouse one day.
Not having you in my life has been one of hardest things to deal with after moving away. I very much miss our conversations and our friendship. In that regard, I would like to invite you to my dinner party, next Saturday. Perhaps we could catch up and I could introduce you to my mother. I am certain, she will be very fond of you.
Michael
Michael …
You whispered his name, letting it slowly roll from your lips.
Your heart was pounding in your chest, hands shaking, having trouble holding on to the paper.
Never in a million years did you expect Henry Johnson, your Henry Johnson, to come back into your life.
He had left. Without a word. Leaving you with thousands of unanswered questions. Questions, you had wanted to confront Mr. and Mrs. Johnson with, but neither of them would talk to you about what had happened. No one ever mentioned Henry Johnson again, leaving you alone and deeply heartbroken.
This letter answered maybe three of those questions. It didn’t satisfy you in the slightest way. So much was still unexplained, and you instantly knew that you had to see him.
And as it seemed, he wanted to see you, too.
It wasn’t hard thinking of an excuse to give your husband. Telling him you’d be going out for drinks with a friend was all he needed to hear to nod at you and let you know that him and Irma would be having a lovely father-daughter night.
He still made you smile. He made you happy because he made your daughter happy. You knew there was no reason for you to feel bad, but a tiny piece of your heart ached after the lie left your tongue. He deserved something, someone good.
Saturday couldn’t have come around any faster. Irma was able to sense your tension, asking you what you were looking at, when your eyes jumped around the room, asking you if you were cold, when she noticed your hands being shaky.
“Mummy’s just very excited to have an evening off with her friend, you know? Are you looking forward to spending some time with daddy?”
“He said he’s going to let me have ice cream for dinner!” Irma giggled, a wide smile on her face. Her cheeks were flushed, giving them the rosiest colour.
“Did he now?” you replied, raising an eyebrow playfully.
Your husband gave you a funny look when he saw you putting on a yellow, sparkly dress. He had gifted it to you on your first wedding anniversary, but you had only worn it once since then. “Too provocative” you’d call it. You felt his stare and were thankful that he decided not to comment on your outfit.
“Have fun and be careful, yeah?” he told you while you were slipping into your coat.
You smiled at him, hoping it would give him reassurance. “Of course, always.”
Then, you left your apartment and rushed down to swiftly hop into the taxi already waiting for you.
Birmingham was disgusting. So, you were glad when the taxi drove towards the country, in the direction of a beautiful, massive house, built between fields of wheat and grass.
What became of you, Henry?, you asked yourself, admiring the building, clearly only affordable by a wealthy man.
Your taxi stopped in the driveway, letting you get out without offering to open the door for you.
The driveway was covered in gravel. Your high-heeled shoes sunk into the stones, making it difficult for you to walk to the entrance.
“May I help you up the stairs?”
You lifted your head to find out, who the deep, cold-sounding voice belonged to. And with once short glance you knew it was him.
“Hen–”, you started, but immediately fell silent. You weren’t sure if you could ever get used to his new name. Of course, he had gotten older, just like you had. Still, he looked so much like the boy that used to chase you through the meadows, making you squeal with delight.
He didn’t correct you. Instead, he got a hold of your lower arm, helping you find the stability you needed.
“Thanks,” you mumbled, trying your best not to show the tremble in your words. This wasn’t the reaction you imagined you’d have when seeing him. You expected to be nervous, even scared.
Not … sad.
But this wave of sadness overcame you without any warning, sending tears to your eyes.
“I am so glad you decided to come, Y/N,” Michael said. Suddenly, his cool fingers reached below your chin, forcing you to lift your head.
He frowned when he saw the salty water run down your skin. “There is no need to cry, love.”
But there was. There were so many reasons for you to cry. The anger you had suppressed all these years, every single tearful night missing his presence and the obvious fact that you had always imagined spending the rest of your life with him.
“You broke my heart, Michael. And I don’t know if I can ever forgive you,” you sobbed. “I don’t even know who you are anymore …”
Michael didn’t say anything. He simply pulled you into a tight embrace. His physique was strong and protective. But his touch felt cold. Just like the tone of his voice. Something had changed in him. Something had happened, because you remembered his hugs being warm and affectionate.
You and Michael spent the entire evening together. Not even once did he leave your side, even though he was the host of the party and the other guests probably expected him to mingle and chat.
That night, you asked him all your questions. Every single one that had kept you awake so very often.
But Michael, he kept silent. He always responded something, though never what you wanted to hear. He liked changing the topic or formulating his words in the form of a riddle, giving you more questions than answers.
Clearly, he did not want to speak about what had happened.
“You’re very nosey, do you know that?” he said, taking a sip of his whiskey.
You sighed. “None of this makes sense … why won’t you tell me?”
“All you need to know is that I have missed you every second of the time we spent apart.”
“Why didn’t you come and visit me?”
He lowered his gaze. “I wanted to, so bad, but I couldn’t …”
“But why?” you exclaimed, desperately.
“Do you like to dance, Y/N? What about a dance?” he proposed, changing the subject once more.
You loved dancing, so you gave up trying to get him to open up to you and accepted his offer. And you danced, for longer than you had anticipated.
All of a sudden, you gasped. “What time is it?”
“Pardon?”
“What the time is, Michael,” you repeated.
“Almost one o’clock, why?”
You abruptly let go of his hands. “I need to go, I’ve already stayed way too long!”
Michael did not understand. And after the little information he had given you, he did not need to understand.
Luckily, Michael knew better than to continue asking questions. The last thing he whispered to you was: “Before you go, can I make you an offer?”
After that party, all the open questions about Henry Johnson in your head had been replaced with the words of his proposal. A proposal so bold, almost ridiculous, yet so captivating. And you would be lying if you said you hadn’t been considering taking it. It made you feel awfully guilty, but you couldn’t help it. This boy … this man had a grasp on you like nobody else ever would. He had been the one since the very beginning. Nothing in your life had changed that. Marrying the sweetest guy in town, having the most beautiful daughter, none of it had changed how you felt about Henry Johnson. And even though you knew absolutely nothing about him, this stranger, was what your heart needed and craved.
He had given you two weeks to think it over. Even though, from the moment you got into the taxi to drive home to your family, you knew what your answer would be.
And on that Sunday morning, at the exact time he had told you, you picked up the receiver.
“Call me at precisely one o’clock in the afternoon. I will be waiting for your call. I promise, I can give you the world.”
There was nothing left for you in Nottingham. Absolutely nothing. And knowing that Irma would be well served in the hands of either parent, your decision was made.
You needed a breath of fresh air. You needed an adventure. You needed anything but a normal, everyday routine.
...
On Sundays, Michael usually worked. Just like any other day.
This Sunday, he was in his office, as usual, but not to go over finances. He was hovering over the telephone, placed in the centre of his desk. Waiting for a call.
He had wanted to tell Y/N all about his new life. He had wanted to explain to her why he left the country and decided to join his mother’s family business. He had wanted to confess his cocaine addiction to her. He had wanted to talk about the nightmares he’d been having ever since he’d had his head through that noose.
He had wanted to pour his heart out to her, but he was too afraid that his words would scare her away. He didn’t want that because he needed her. More than she needed him.
She was going to call. He could feel it in his gut.
She was going to call.
His eyes were fixated on the phone, not letting it out of his sight even for a second.
She was going to call.
Suddenly, he heard his office door open. No knock, nothing.
His eyes wandered to the figure standing in the frame. In his hand was a gun. Pointed directly at him.
“What the fuck is going on?” Michael barked annoyed. “Who the fuck are you?”
“You!” the man shouted, hands shaking violently, “You and your family of devils, you ruined my life!”
Michael’s expression grew angry. “Get the bloody hell out of my office!”
“My son’s dead because of you!”
“I said get out!”
The man was enraged. Michael could swear he noticed a vicious flicker in his eyes.
“And I said, my son is dead because of you,” he repeated.
Before pulling the trigger. First on Michael, then on himself.
And while two bloodied, lifeless bodies slid to the ground, the telephone started to ring.
The shrill sound filling the atmosphere.
Leaving her with countless unanswered questions, once again.
And a shattered heart.
