The Gay Gatsby

Chapter 1: Coffee with a Spoonful of Hate

Authors Note: If you've gotten this far, then thank you! I really appreciate anyone showing interest in my work. This story is the product of my love of writing, The Great Gatsby and gay couples. It's very cliche so read at your own risk. I'll try to update as frequent as possible, but as a procrastinator, that might be an issue. Without further ado, here is chapter one.

Chapter 1: Coffee with a spoonful of hate

"You can't repeat the past."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Chance

I stood in a coffee shop as I mulled over the 'advice' my father had given me that morning.

I was young and vulnerable and I thought it had been a good idea to attempt to voice to him my plans to study art in university.

He had always been against my pursuit in art. His greatest disinterest wasn't because he disliked the hobby. No, it was actually the opposite; he himself had been an artist. He had pursued it when he was young and had used his skill to forge himself his own career.

My dad had made a living painting amazing things for years. He sold them to the people who wanted them and usually made a pretty penny per piece. And even if he hadn't lived in luxury, he had been happy.

Though everything had changed when he had fallen in love.

You probably know that artist's are terribly sentimental.

My dad hadn't been an exception.

He had fallen for a girl like rain fell from the sky in a storm; violent and dangerous to those in its midst.

He had loved a girl who hadn't loved him.

Or at least, she had thought she did.

She had fallen in love, not with my father, but for what she believed he could become.

She hadn't fallen for the artists but more so for the man she believed would stem from the depths of the artistic distraction.

The moment she had met him, she had wanted him to quit his art.

They lived in ignorance of each other for years. They disregarded the discernible truths almost perpetually.

They lived, they married, and they had a child.

Though, soon, as the child grew, so did the lies on which they're relationship had been founded.

I had been 3 when my mother had left.

All the details had been cloudy. My young mind had only understood one thing; Mommy doesn't love daddy, but daddy still loves mommy.

I had been angry and frustrated. I had been taught that love was the strongest emotion one could feel. I didn't believe that anyone could just stop loving someone.

It had taken me years of understanding and prying to finally understand the truth about my mother. I realized her depart from our family was an inevitability.

My dad had known that it was the art that had driven her away and thus spurned his blaring hatred for the hobby.

I was young and vulnerable.

And oblivious.

When I had voiced my confession about studying art, my dad had frowned and had fought with me.

Though at the end of our argument, he simply looked at me, anguish evident in his eyes.

He had spoken in clipped words, "To quote one of my favorite novels, 'Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages you've had."