you are the surf that i am walking towards: 1/4
full notes, disclaimer, etc. in the master post.
01
the golden state wins again
Mud, clouds, mountains, dirt roads, rain, ocean mist, fog, crags, mud.
Mud.
Jared is exhausted with Canada.
For the moment, the elements have stilled. The lead clouds that had been whistling across the sky all morning have lost their momentum and simply hang there, heavy and silent, one endless shadow. The wind has dropped and the rain has soaked down into the grass and the dirt, making scene set-up a nightmare. The atmosphere is fresh, chilled, and soaks into Jared’s clothes while he waits.
The fourth season’s shooting is winding down; so much so that Jared’s begun counting down the days by showers left in Vancouver. Four more and the one after will be back home in Los Angeles, land of sun and healthy sweat and the glitter of a woman’s high heels against Hollywood Boulevard.
It looks so good from here, Jared thinks, with cold mud caked to the brown leather of his generic boots and cheeks that are red and stiff with constant blasts of wintry ocean winds. With 5am make-up calls, with shoots that start at sunrise and don’t stop until the moon has made its quiet wander from one end of the sky to the other. With blessed sleep the ultimate - neigh, the only - goal for nearly his entire stay.
He may play with it, bait it, enjoy watching it; but Canada is an animal and it has nearly eaten him through.
Jensen sits beside him, brother-in-arms for the duration, sole comrade on the muddy Supernatural battlefield. He stares vacantly into his lap, wrapped up in a thermal blanket and spinning the silver ring on his finger. Jensen’s hair is flawless; ready for a scene at the drop of a hat. Beneath the blanket he has that busted up leather jacket, a black tee-shirt, and a pair of jeans that Kripke would never admit to budgeting $600 for.
Jensen’s gaze lifts to watch a couple of crew hands wrestle with how to fix down the lighting in the position that’s been lined out for them. His cheeks are red, his lips are white, and his eyes are shadowed with blue. The wear shows on him like a mismatched suit.
“Soon,” Jared says.
“Hm,” Jensen says.
“We’re out of here soon,” Jared continues. “No more shitty weather, no more up at dawn, no more sitting around for six hours out of a fourteen hour day. Four more showers and we’re back home, baby.”
Jensen gives a huff, unamused, but he’s smiling. It’s like a frown. “Yeah,” he says. “L.A. Out of the frying pan and into the other frying pan.”
Jared huffs too, a wry smirk, because, that’s so true. And Jensen’s not excited to leave, and maybe now Jared can stop pretending he is, too.
Time off; struggling to find a purpose again, having to work to give meaning to a single day. Signing on for a new project he isn’t committed to. Avoiding simple tasks - going to the post office, mowing the lawn, doing laundry - because it seems like they don’t matter.
Land of air that boils and changes color and slowly smothers the unassuming.
“Least you got somethin’ to look forward to,” Jensen says, staring into his lap again.
And Jared nods. He’s got a wedding to plan. He should be more excited. It’s just that he’s so displaced from it right now. The Supernatural set revolves around speed, accuracy, weather, and leading men. It revolves around him and Jensen being on their A game all the time. He isn’t allowed the luxury of being distracted by anything else; even things that are life-altering important.
He looks at Jensen for a long time, and Jensen refuses to return it.
Least you have someone to go home to.
Least you’re in love.
Least you’re not alone.
They sit quietly, and the morning drags on through heavy skies and saturated grounds, and Jared wants to put a hand on Jensen’s shoulder and say it’s all right, but it’s not, and Jared knows that, so he keeps his hands to himself.
When the sun comes out on the last day of shooting, the crew is all winged spirits and spiraling laughter. Energy picks up like a hurricane, knocks over everything its path. Waiting and setting and moving and transferring are easy. The landscape isn’t a troublemaker anymore; it’s organic. The locations aren’t out in West Nowhere; they’re authentic. Furthermore, the show isn’t just a clusterfuck of rapid-fire scene set-ups; it’s a cult classic. It’s the best thing we’ve ever done.
When the sun comes out, Jensen is up on two gravestones in a half-split, singing a B-52’s song and doing the mashed potato. He is trailing Jared to the catering tables, jamming toes into the backs of Jared’s knees and making him stumble. He is belting out “Moon River” in his best fifties swing, complete with expansive arm gestures, face tilted up to the clear sky.
Between verses, Jared spins on him and stares, exhausted and silently asking, how are you still going?
And Jensen dissolves into laughter, says, “Man,” and shoves Jared back into motion.
Man, I am going to miss this.
The wrap party isn’t really a party as much as it is everyone in one place at one time, drinking a beer and breathing out that long-held didn’t think we were gonna make it this time breath. The lighting is low and calming; the red leather booths are all broken in and entice a long sit. The bar itself was probably carved a hundred years ago, out of solid cedar, scuffed and worn as it is.
Jared drifts between people, and conversations, and gives as many congratulations as he receives. He keeps an eye on Jensen, and they both seem ready to fade into the background at the same time. And so they plunk down into a side booth, and people wander back and forth, to and from them, and they share nachos, and Jared tries not to act as exhausted and bed-hungry as he feels.
“So, tomorrow, huh,” Jared says, fingers absently kneading into his thigh.
He knows Jensen doesn’t want to talk about it, but that just means it’s important to him. Which is good, because it’s important to Jared too. Tomorrow: the start of their last hiatus. The first last of so many to come. It makes the chili in his stomach churn unpleasantly.
Still; to make small talk of something big reduces it’s importance. And Jared refuses to be miserable and panicky and upset.
“Don’t know about you,” Jared continues. “But I’m ready.”
I’m not ready.
“Me too.”
Me either.
Jensen is twisting his beer glass over the tabletop, tilting it, watching the brew almost slide over the lip and down the side. Jared wonders what he’s thinking; imagines it’s the same as him. I don’t ever want this to end. Ever.
“Ready to stop dragging out the engagement?” Jensen says, risking a quick look to Jared, who catches the subject change with as much grace as can be mustered.
“Totally,” he says. All breezy, no balls.
“Done with the excuses?” Jensen continues. “Ready to pick a date? Write your guest list? Invitations? Ready to stop being busy? Ready to stop giving Sandy reasons to go off on odd jobs, to bide her time until you decide it’s on?”
“Whoa, Jen. Easy,” Jared says. His vision is narrowing, the room is getting small. He is being attacked by someone he loves, and he doesn’t like it.
He’s being called out by someone he loves, and the truth hurts.
“Just sayin’,” Jensen says. His voice is softer, less accusatory. “You’ve got a nice girl waitin’ long and hard on your stubborn ass. It’s ungentlemanly; just make her damn dreams come true already.”
“I know. I wasn’t ready. I’m ready now.”
“Good. Get to it, Guns.”
And Jensen raises his glass to toast, and Jared taps his longneck to it, and they drink to his happy future.
Then the lights in the bar go up, and it’s last call. Time to go home one last time. Jared looks to Jensen - ready? - and Jensen gives a nod, drains his beer, moves to slide out of the booth. Let’s go.
The flight is early, and after two cups of dark coffee Jared still dozes off against the cold glass of his seat’s window. He resolves to sleep for two days. This resolve is broken two hours later when the plane lands and he has to drag his duffel down and listen to the pilot’s announcement.
Eighty-three degrees and sunny. Welcome to Los Angeles!
He and the ten or so other passengers on his flight emerge from the tunnel into an empty arrival gate. None of them has anyone to greet them. He thinks this is the saddest moment in his life.
He stops at a Starbucks stand and buys another coffee, and a newspaper. The girl who pours his Pikes Blend is staring; she knows him. He ignores the recognition in her eyes and turns his phone back on.
Jensen: Home yet?
Sandy: Just got here. Brought the babies - meet you curbside!
He grins, big and wide, sips his coffee, feels it all the way down to his belly.
At the baggage carousel, his are the first out. He scoops them up, drains the coffee, and heads for the exit. He is greeted outside by two hooligans with four legs, and they are almost alone on the sidewalk so he lets them bowl him over and feels so welcomed.
Sandy laughs, looks down at the three of them with fondness. “Jesus, a month! You’d think you left them in a desert to rot or something. Next time just keep them with you, huh? They were miserable. Sadie was barfing all over the place; positively sick with grief.”
Jared gives Sadie an extra squeeze - I’m sorry, girl. Never again. - and clambers to his feet. He is rumpled and dirty from the ground, and covered in dog slobber, and Sandy still yanks him in and kisses him dead. He hugs her with everything he’s got left.
He laughs when she lets go. “Jesus,” he mocks. “A month!”
“Hey,” she smirks. “I can miss you too.”
In the truck, Sandy takes the wheel and Jared texts Jensen, who won’t be on a flight until later: Eighty-three degrees and sunny. Welcome to Los Angeles!
Jared is home for two days before he realizes that maybe Sandy hasn’t exactly been waiting on his word. She’s got her shit together, in such a way that Jared feels like he won’t even be needed. They’d discussed planning the wedding together, but from the moment Jared had told Sandy, I’m ready, let’s do this, he’s had the distinct feeling that she’s gotten a head start.
Sandy is at their oak kitchen table one morning, and the sun is bright on her back, and the French press is already half-drained. She is engrossed in what she is doing, murmuring a distracted response to his Mornin’ kiss. He puts on some breakfast and studies her carefully.
She has this wedding planning book open in front of her, and it looks complicated. There are pockets, and dividers, and tab separators, and swatches of fabric. Sandy is making notes with a gold pen, which is attached to the spiral of the book with a fine white lace ribbon.
It is thick, intricate, detailed; it looks like something that came from Jared’s mama. She is obsessive, but prefers when people call it thorough, or prepared.
Jared looks over Sandy’s shoulder to stare at a photo section entitled “Inspirational Ideas For the Most Beautiful, Unique, and Memorable Wedding.” She is putting tiny stickies on things she likes. She’s keeping her notes on a separate pad of paper: gazebo, orange petals, five tiers (square), very tall centerpieces.
“But baby, they’ll be hard to see around, right?”
She sighs, French manicured finger circling a photo of a statuette vase full of orange and green flowers. “I know, but Jared, look at this. It looks so fabulous. You don’t like it?”
“You know as long as I get the final say on the cake, I’ll be happy,” Jared says. He slides an arm around her neck and kisses her temple, brushing his nose against the delicate curve of her ear. His fingers curl idly into the loose, dark hair falling around her shoulders, still knotted from sleep.
She nods to herself, and stickies it, and Jared frowns because that move always used to make her smile. He finds himself wandering away to clean up a mess Sadie left in the front hallway and thinks, it feels like I’m already married.
That afternoon in the living room, they sit in a quiet that is broken up only by mouse-clicks. Jared is on his laptop checking emails and paying bills while Sandy is sitting at the desktop, clicking through jpegs of stationary samples, making notes and trying to decide on invitations. He’d offered his opinion on a few and she’d bookmarked them, but beyond that she seems fine on her own.
Jared looks up once and then he is stuck staring at her. She’s clearly leaning toward cream colored paper with a matte finish and rosy pink detail, and now it’s about the font. In a separate window, she has an email open to Jared’s mother and is attaching files as she sees fit. She stickies something in the “invitation” section of her planner, and then feels Jared’s eyes on her.
“What,” she says absently, not looking up from the monitor. “Ugh, these are so scripty. I can’t even read this one.”
“Are we too comfortable together,” Jared says, and he really wants it to be a question but it fits, it’s exactly how he feels, and it’s a terrible, crushing weight in his chest, and he can’t be anything but honest.
She looks over to him at that, clearly confused by the tone of his voice. “Too comfortable?”
“I don’t know,” Jared says.
Sandy gets up and sits on the couch next to him. One leg folds under her, and the other knee nudges Jared’s, beckoning him to look up.
“I’ve been feeling it too,” she says softly. “I know what you’re saying. But Jared, I think this is what being in love is; being together with someone every day for years and years, it feels like this, it feels normal. People aren’t insanely passionately in love twenty-four-seven, you know? We’re happy even when we’re just sitting here, being normal, and I want to feel that way with you forever.”
And Jared nods because she’s right, but doesn’t answer. Normal. Forever. Those aren’t things he wants together, in the same idea. Being in love feels normal? Wildflowers, sharing a plate of breakfast, dancing close, poking at each other as they pass each other in the bathroom - those things are normal to her?
He wants being in love to feel like being in love.
He doesn’t want to be one of those married couples who just sit together on the couch, go out with the same people every weekend, walk the dogs, get bored having sex, stop doing romantic things. He wants to be in love! all the time, twenty-four-seven, and that’s when he really starts to worry.
While they’re both in L.A., the majority of Jared’s correspondence with Jensen has to do with either Jared’s wedding or Jensen’s quest to find a new personal assistant.
Before they’d left Vancouver, Jared had offered to share his. But, he’d offered this in the presence of Annabelle, and she’d glared at him. “Share, me, huh. A girl’s wet dream,” she’d deadpanned. “Like I don’t have enough to do around here.”
There had been a beat of silence, and then had Jensen asked, “Well, do you have like. A hot older sister?” And she’d whacked him hard with a notebook she uses to list Jared’s appointments.
And so Jared gets emails upon emails from Jensen concerning interviews in expensive cafes, and Mexican grills, and nooks that serve only sushi, and one at Sunset & Vine that has a strictly-raw selection. He describes in minute detail fifteen first impressions that do not fit and then get drawn out for a half hour of salads, lemon water, crossed legs, and personal tangents.
Jensen writes, I asked what she liked best about her last employer, and she talked about a relationship that can only be described as Oedipal.
Jared writes back, So she’ll suck your dick if you remind her of her dad? Lucky.
And Jensen calls him and says, “Dude, she had issues. It was heavy.”
And then Jensen launches into his last interview, which was a total home run. He describes an inventory of perfection: she was tall, confident, had long curly dark hair, suggested that they go to the Carney’s on Ventura, and then proceeded to demolish a cheeseburger with stunning neatness and style.
“It was really hot,” Jensen says, crunching on something loudly. “She climbs mountains in her spare time. She was cut. She has to think about the whole several months in Canada thing, though. I told her I wasn’t above begging.”
“Dude, are you eating pickles for dinner,” Jared asks, half-watching the television for last night’s game scores.
“Maybe,” Jensen says. “She has Great Danes, Jared.”
Jared raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t heard you this excited about a woman since - wait, Jen - ”
“Shut up. Man, I dated Danneel, like, forever,” Jensen argues, mouth full.
“She so doesn’t count. She was a fucking bombshell, Jen - not even your type. You didn’t even try.”
“It totally counts!” Jensen argues. “We had sex all the time.”
And Jared wants to say: why haven’t you dated anyone since, what did she do to hurt you, have you ever been in love your entire life?
And Jared says: “All I’m saying is, I’m impressed. This chick must shit rainbows.”
“Kittens, actually,” Jensen replies. “They’re adorable.”
The end of hiatus comes with clouds, and no answers. Jared has dragged himself a little further on down the road he’s on, but feels even farther from knowing what he wants. He stands outside the airport, sweating, almost ninety fucking degrees, unbelievable, and checks his bags while Sandy slips an arm into his.
“But the holidays are romantic,” she’s saying. “You know we’ll both have the time. We can go somewhere snowy and gorgeous, some big pine woods cabin, and fly everyone up. And God, imagine a tropical honeymoon after a winter wedding? Divine.”
Jared nods, and it makes so much sense. So, so much sense.
He says, “Don’t forget about Sadie’s appointment with the vet tomorrow. I’ll be back down next weekend to come get her.”
“I’m just … tired of waiting,” she sighs, and they are one two completely different planets. “I understand why you’ve needed the time; I’ve needed it too. But we’re ready, aren’t we? And I can’t wait until the spring. I can’t do it.”
And Jared feels guilty, awful, for doing this to her. She wants this so badly, wants her white wedding, wants to be the Princess, the Bride, she wants the pink petals under her feet, and a rich furry hooded cloak, and snowflakes on her long, dark eyelashes.
Meanwhile, Jared still can’t get past that moment she’d said Yes.
“Think about it,” she says, and she has that tone where she knows she’s already won. They will have a Christmas wedding.
He nods and kisses her goodbye; she waves to him from the other side of the truck and then climbs in, revving up to drive back to his other world.
“Jesus,” he says to himself then, running a shaky hand through his hair and turning to find his gate.
[go to part two]
01
the golden state wins again
Mud, clouds, mountains, dirt roads, rain, ocean mist, fog, crags, mud.
Mud.
Jared is exhausted with Canada.
For the moment, the elements have stilled. The lead clouds that had been whistling across the sky all morning have lost their momentum and simply hang there, heavy and silent, one endless shadow. The wind has dropped and the rain has soaked down into the grass and the dirt, making scene set-up a nightmare. The atmosphere is fresh, chilled, and soaks into Jared’s clothes while he waits.
The fourth season’s shooting is winding down; so much so that Jared’s begun counting down the days by showers left in Vancouver. Four more and the one after will be back home in Los Angeles, land of sun and healthy sweat and the glitter of a woman’s high heels against Hollywood Boulevard.
It looks so good from here, Jared thinks, with cold mud caked to the brown leather of his generic boots and cheeks that are red and stiff with constant blasts of wintry ocean winds. With 5am make-up calls, with shoots that start at sunrise and don’t stop until the moon has made its quiet wander from one end of the sky to the other. With blessed sleep the ultimate - neigh, the only - goal for nearly his entire stay.
He may play with it, bait it, enjoy watching it; but Canada is an animal and it has nearly eaten him through.
Jensen sits beside him, brother-in-arms for the duration, sole comrade on the muddy Supernatural battlefield. He stares vacantly into his lap, wrapped up in a thermal blanket and spinning the silver ring on his finger. Jensen’s hair is flawless; ready for a scene at the drop of a hat. Beneath the blanket he has that busted up leather jacket, a black tee-shirt, and a pair of jeans that Kripke would never admit to budgeting $600 for.
Jensen’s gaze lifts to watch a couple of crew hands wrestle with how to fix down the lighting in the position that’s been lined out for them. His cheeks are red, his lips are white, and his eyes are shadowed with blue. The wear shows on him like a mismatched suit.
“Soon,” Jared says.
“Hm,” Jensen says.
“We’re out of here soon,” Jared continues. “No more shitty weather, no more up at dawn, no more sitting around for six hours out of a fourteen hour day. Four more showers and we’re back home, baby.”
Jensen gives a huff, unamused, but he’s smiling. It’s like a frown. “Yeah,” he says. “L.A. Out of the frying pan and into the other frying pan.”
Jared huffs too, a wry smirk, because, that’s so true. And Jensen’s not excited to leave, and maybe now Jared can stop pretending he is, too.
Time off; struggling to find a purpose again, having to work to give meaning to a single day. Signing on for a new project he isn’t committed to. Avoiding simple tasks - going to the post office, mowing the lawn, doing laundry - because it seems like they don’t matter.
Land of air that boils and changes color and slowly smothers the unassuming.
“Least you got somethin’ to look forward to,” Jensen says, staring into his lap again.
And Jared nods. He’s got a wedding to plan. He should be more excited. It’s just that he’s so displaced from it right now. The Supernatural set revolves around speed, accuracy, weather, and leading men. It revolves around him and Jensen being on their A game all the time. He isn’t allowed the luxury of being distracted by anything else; even things that are life-altering important.
He looks at Jensen for a long time, and Jensen refuses to return it.
Least you have someone to go home to.
Least you’re in love.
Least you’re not alone.
They sit quietly, and the morning drags on through heavy skies and saturated grounds, and Jared wants to put a hand on Jensen’s shoulder and say it’s all right, but it’s not, and Jared knows that, so he keeps his hands to himself.
When the sun comes out on the last day of shooting, the crew is all winged spirits and spiraling laughter. Energy picks up like a hurricane, knocks over everything its path. Waiting and setting and moving and transferring are easy. The landscape isn’t a troublemaker anymore; it’s organic. The locations aren’t out in West Nowhere; they’re authentic. Furthermore, the show isn’t just a clusterfuck of rapid-fire scene set-ups; it’s a cult classic. It’s the best thing we’ve ever done.
When the sun comes out, Jensen is up on two gravestones in a half-split, singing a B-52’s song and doing the mashed potato. He is trailing Jared to the catering tables, jamming toes into the backs of Jared’s knees and making him stumble. He is belting out “Moon River” in his best fifties swing, complete with expansive arm gestures, face tilted up to the clear sky.
Between verses, Jared spins on him and stares, exhausted and silently asking, how are you still going?
And Jensen dissolves into laughter, says, “Man,” and shoves Jared back into motion.
Man, I am going to miss this.
The wrap party isn’t really a party as much as it is everyone in one place at one time, drinking a beer and breathing out that long-held didn’t think we were gonna make it this time breath. The lighting is low and calming; the red leather booths are all broken in and entice a long sit. The bar itself was probably carved a hundred years ago, out of solid cedar, scuffed and worn as it is.
Jared drifts between people, and conversations, and gives as many congratulations as he receives. He keeps an eye on Jensen, and they both seem ready to fade into the background at the same time. And so they plunk down into a side booth, and people wander back and forth, to and from them, and they share nachos, and Jared tries not to act as exhausted and bed-hungry as he feels.
“So, tomorrow, huh,” Jared says, fingers absently kneading into his thigh.
He knows Jensen doesn’t want to talk about it, but that just means it’s important to him. Which is good, because it’s important to Jared too. Tomorrow: the start of their last hiatus. The first last of so many to come. It makes the chili in his stomach churn unpleasantly.
Still; to make small talk of something big reduces it’s importance. And Jared refuses to be miserable and panicky and upset.
“Don’t know about you,” Jared continues. “But I’m ready.”
I’m not ready.
“Me too.”
Me either.
Jensen is twisting his beer glass over the tabletop, tilting it, watching the brew almost slide over the lip and down the side. Jared wonders what he’s thinking; imagines it’s the same as him. I don’t ever want this to end. Ever.
“Ready to stop dragging out the engagement?” Jensen says, risking a quick look to Jared, who catches the subject change with as much grace as can be mustered.
“Totally,” he says. All breezy, no balls.
“Done with the excuses?” Jensen continues. “Ready to pick a date? Write your guest list? Invitations? Ready to stop being busy? Ready to stop giving Sandy reasons to go off on odd jobs, to bide her time until you decide it’s on?”
“Whoa, Jen. Easy,” Jared says. His vision is narrowing, the room is getting small. He is being attacked by someone he loves, and he doesn’t like it.
He’s being called out by someone he loves, and the truth hurts.
“Just sayin’,” Jensen says. His voice is softer, less accusatory. “You’ve got a nice girl waitin’ long and hard on your stubborn ass. It’s ungentlemanly; just make her damn dreams come true already.”
“I know. I wasn’t ready. I’m ready now.”
“Good. Get to it, Guns.”
And Jensen raises his glass to toast, and Jared taps his longneck to it, and they drink to his happy future.
Then the lights in the bar go up, and it’s last call. Time to go home one last time. Jared looks to Jensen - ready? - and Jensen gives a nod, drains his beer, moves to slide out of the booth. Let’s go.
The flight is early, and after two cups of dark coffee Jared still dozes off against the cold glass of his seat’s window. He resolves to sleep for two days. This resolve is broken two hours later when the plane lands and he has to drag his duffel down and listen to the pilot’s announcement.
Eighty-three degrees and sunny. Welcome to Los Angeles!
He and the ten or so other passengers on his flight emerge from the tunnel into an empty arrival gate. None of them has anyone to greet them. He thinks this is the saddest moment in his life.
He stops at a Starbucks stand and buys another coffee, and a newspaper. The girl who pours his Pikes Blend is staring; she knows him. He ignores the recognition in her eyes and turns his phone back on.
Jensen: Home yet?
Sandy: Just got here. Brought the babies - meet you curbside!
He grins, big and wide, sips his coffee, feels it all the way down to his belly.
At the baggage carousel, his are the first out. He scoops them up, drains the coffee, and heads for the exit. He is greeted outside by two hooligans with four legs, and they are almost alone on the sidewalk so he lets them bowl him over and feels so welcomed.
Sandy laughs, looks down at the three of them with fondness. “Jesus, a month! You’d think you left them in a desert to rot or something. Next time just keep them with you, huh? They were miserable. Sadie was barfing all over the place; positively sick with grief.”
Jared gives Sadie an extra squeeze - I’m sorry, girl. Never again. - and clambers to his feet. He is rumpled and dirty from the ground, and covered in dog slobber, and Sandy still yanks him in and kisses him dead. He hugs her with everything he’s got left.
He laughs when she lets go. “Jesus,” he mocks. “A month!”
“Hey,” she smirks. “I can miss you too.”
In the truck, Sandy takes the wheel and Jared texts Jensen, who won’t be on a flight until later: Eighty-three degrees and sunny. Welcome to Los Angeles!
Jared is home for two days before he realizes that maybe Sandy hasn’t exactly been waiting on his word. She’s got her shit together, in such a way that Jared feels like he won’t even be needed. They’d discussed planning the wedding together, but from the moment Jared had told Sandy, I’m ready, let’s do this, he’s had the distinct feeling that she’s gotten a head start.
Sandy is at their oak kitchen table one morning, and the sun is bright on her back, and the French press is already half-drained. She is engrossed in what she is doing, murmuring a distracted response to his Mornin’ kiss. He puts on some breakfast and studies her carefully.
She has this wedding planning book open in front of her, and it looks complicated. There are pockets, and dividers, and tab separators, and swatches of fabric. Sandy is making notes with a gold pen, which is attached to the spiral of the book with a fine white lace ribbon.
It is thick, intricate, detailed; it looks like something that came from Jared’s mama. She is obsessive, but prefers when people call it thorough, or prepared.
Jared looks over Sandy’s shoulder to stare at a photo section entitled “Inspirational Ideas For the Most Beautiful, Unique, and Memorable Wedding.” She is putting tiny stickies on things she likes. She’s keeping her notes on a separate pad of paper: gazebo, orange petals, five tiers (square), very tall centerpieces.
“But baby, they’ll be hard to see around, right?”
She sighs, French manicured finger circling a photo of a statuette vase full of orange and green flowers. “I know, but Jared, look at this. It looks so fabulous. You don’t like it?”
“You know as long as I get the final say on the cake, I’ll be happy,” Jared says. He slides an arm around her neck and kisses her temple, brushing his nose against the delicate curve of her ear. His fingers curl idly into the loose, dark hair falling around her shoulders, still knotted from sleep.
She nods to herself, and stickies it, and Jared frowns because that move always used to make her smile. He finds himself wandering away to clean up a mess Sadie left in the front hallway and thinks, it feels like I’m already married.
That afternoon in the living room, they sit in a quiet that is broken up only by mouse-clicks. Jared is on his laptop checking emails and paying bills while Sandy is sitting at the desktop, clicking through jpegs of stationary samples, making notes and trying to decide on invitations. He’d offered his opinion on a few and she’d bookmarked them, but beyond that she seems fine on her own.
Jared looks up once and then he is stuck staring at her. She’s clearly leaning toward cream colored paper with a matte finish and rosy pink detail, and now it’s about the font. In a separate window, she has an email open to Jared’s mother and is attaching files as she sees fit. She stickies something in the “invitation” section of her planner, and then feels Jared’s eyes on her.
“What,” she says absently, not looking up from the monitor. “Ugh, these are so scripty. I can’t even read this one.”
“Are we too comfortable together,” Jared says, and he really wants it to be a question but it fits, it’s exactly how he feels, and it’s a terrible, crushing weight in his chest, and he can’t be anything but honest.
She looks over to him at that, clearly confused by the tone of his voice. “Too comfortable?”
“I don’t know,” Jared says.
Sandy gets up and sits on the couch next to him. One leg folds under her, and the other knee nudges Jared’s, beckoning him to look up.
“I’ve been feeling it too,” she says softly. “I know what you’re saying. But Jared, I think this is what being in love is; being together with someone every day for years and years, it feels like this, it feels normal. People aren’t insanely passionately in love twenty-four-seven, you know? We’re happy even when we’re just sitting here, being normal, and I want to feel that way with you forever.”
And Jared nods because she’s right, but doesn’t answer. Normal. Forever. Those aren’t things he wants together, in the same idea. Being in love feels normal? Wildflowers, sharing a plate of breakfast, dancing close, poking at each other as they pass each other in the bathroom - those things are normal to her?
He wants being in love to feel like being in love.
He doesn’t want to be one of those married couples who just sit together on the couch, go out with the same people every weekend, walk the dogs, get bored having sex, stop doing romantic things. He wants to be in love! all the time, twenty-four-seven, and that’s when he really starts to worry.
While they’re both in L.A., the majority of Jared’s correspondence with Jensen has to do with either Jared’s wedding or Jensen’s quest to find a new personal assistant.
Before they’d left Vancouver, Jared had offered to share his. But, he’d offered this in the presence of Annabelle, and she’d glared at him. “Share, me, huh. A girl’s wet dream,” she’d deadpanned. “Like I don’t have enough to do around here.”
There had been a beat of silence, and then had Jensen asked, “Well, do you have like. A hot older sister?” And she’d whacked him hard with a notebook she uses to list Jared’s appointments.
And so Jared gets emails upon emails from Jensen concerning interviews in expensive cafes, and Mexican grills, and nooks that serve only sushi, and one at Sunset & Vine that has a strictly-raw selection. He describes in minute detail fifteen first impressions that do not fit and then get drawn out for a half hour of salads, lemon water, crossed legs, and personal tangents.
Jensen writes, I asked what she liked best about her last employer, and she talked about a relationship that can only be described as Oedipal.
Jared writes back, So she’ll suck your dick if you remind her of her dad? Lucky.
And Jensen calls him and says, “Dude, she had issues. It was heavy.”
And then Jensen launches into his last interview, which was a total home run. He describes an inventory of perfection: she was tall, confident, had long curly dark hair, suggested that they go to the Carney’s on Ventura, and then proceeded to demolish a cheeseburger with stunning neatness and style.
“It was really hot,” Jensen says, crunching on something loudly. “She climbs mountains in her spare time. She was cut. She has to think about the whole several months in Canada thing, though. I told her I wasn’t above begging.”
“Dude, are you eating pickles for dinner,” Jared asks, half-watching the television for last night’s game scores.
“Maybe,” Jensen says. “She has Great Danes, Jared.”
Jared raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t heard you this excited about a woman since - wait, Jen - ”
“Shut up. Man, I dated Danneel, like, forever,” Jensen argues, mouth full.
“She so doesn’t count. She was a fucking bombshell, Jen - not even your type. You didn’t even try.”
“It totally counts!” Jensen argues. “We had sex all the time.”
And Jared wants to say: why haven’t you dated anyone since, what did she do to hurt you, have you ever been in love your entire life?
And Jared says: “All I’m saying is, I’m impressed. This chick must shit rainbows.”
“Kittens, actually,” Jensen replies. “They’re adorable.”
The end of hiatus comes with clouds, and no answers. Jared has dragged himself a little further on down the road he’s on, but feels even farther from knowing what he wants. He stands outside the airport, sweating, almost ninety fucking degrees, unbelievable, and checks his bags while Sandy slips an arm into his.
“But the holidays are romantic,” she’s saying. “You know we’ll both have the time. We can go somewhere snowy and gorgeous, some big pine woods cabin, and fly everyone up. And God, imagine a tropical honeymoon after a winter wedding? Divine.”
Jared nods, and it makes so much sense. So, so much sense.
He says, “Don’t forget about Sadie’s appointment with the vet tomorrow. I’ll be back down next weekend to come get her.”
“I’m just … tired of waiting,” she sighs, and they are one two completely different planets. “I understand why you’ve needed the time; I’ve needed it too. But we’re ready, aren’t we? And I can’t wait until the spring. I can’t do it.”
And Jared feels guilty, awful, for doing this to her. She wants this so badly, wants her white wedding, wants to be the Princess, the Bride, she wants the pink petals under her feet, and a rich furry hooded cloak, and snowflakes on her long, dark eyelashes.
Meanwhile, Jared still can’t get past that moment she’d said Yes.
“Think about it,” she says, and she has that tone where she knows she’s already won. They will have a Christmas wedding.
He nods and kisses her goodbye; she waves to him from the other side of the truck and then climbs in, revving up to drive back to his other world.
“Jesus,” he says to himself then, running a shaky hand through his hair and turning to find his gate.
[go to part two]