XXX Jack
XXX
Jack
On my left is Charlize Theron. On my right, Mahershala Ali.
I’ve been in plenty of scenarios like this before, but it’s my very first time at the Oscars. Nothing else quite compares.
Knowing that she is sitting somewhere in the rows behind me gnaws at my focus. That we are in the same place, at the same time, and not together—my body knows how wrong that is, and I can’t quite get comfortable in my seat. I want her next to me, telling me what she really thought of all the movies that are up for awards this year. I want her hand in mine, her nails digging into my skin a little as we wait for her category to be called.
I got wind of the nominations during a break in filming and hurried online to send her a bouquet. But then I went to fill out the note, and everything I had to say required more space than there was room on the card. After a full hour in my trailer, I landed on “Well done. No one deserves this more.” I didn’t want to overstep or to have the conversation over typed missives in any medium. But that didn’t stop me from anxiously checking my texts for a message from her for days after. None came. She probably figures Delia’s assistant ordered the flowers anyway.
As the show starts and the chatter quiets, I wipe my palms on the legs of my navy tux. This is it , I promise myself. No matter what happens tonight, I’m going to find her—and do whatever it takes to get her back.
Conscious of the cameras panning the first few rows, I focus on the program as best as I can, performing the role of Good-Natured Actor Who Is Excited to Be Here. Between categories, when the show cuts to an ad break and everyone around me mingles, I crane my neck to see if I can spot CJ with the rest of the Gatsby crew. No luck.
About an hour in, it’s time: Her category is up. I sit tall in my seat as Natasha Lyonne and SterlingK. Brown do some light banter about how they never feel more alive than during sets —“sets” being an obvious play on “sex.” Sets are what make them feel alive. No matter how hard they try, they can never get enough sets . The bit is all of thirty seconds, but it feels like it lasts a lifetime. I drum my fingers against my leg and tap the heel of my shoe.
My heart contracts as Natasha reads out “CJ Ericson, The Great Gatsby ” among the nominees.
“And the Oscar goes to...” Sterling K. Brown begins.
The chhhhh sound of the opening of the envelope. The tug of the card from its sleeve. The two sets of eyes reading what it says.
My ears perk up, willing to hear CJ’s name.
“Daniela Harrelson, The Burst Nectar ,” they recite in unison.
All around me, applause breaks out. I bring my hands together and clap slowly, playing the part of a good sport.
As Daniela makes her way down the aisle to accept her award, I scan again to see if I can finally get eyes on CJ. I want to hold her hand and tell her it’s OK to be upset and that if she doesn’t want to let herself, I will be on her behalf.
I don’t hear anything Daniela says during her speech. I am busy plotting my escape. As soon as the ceremony cuts to yet another commercial, I “pardon me, pardon me” all the way to the aisle, then make my way out of the auditorium and toward the bar, which is growing busier as the night wears on.
I spot her instantly. She’s wearing a pale-yellow silk dress. It’s nearly the same color as her hair, but the liquid smoothness of it contrasts sharply with her wild waves, worn loose and free. Her eyes are focused, taking in the liquor being poured in front of her. I want to stride up behind her, wrap an arm around her waist, pull her hair to the side, and press my lips into the warm skin just behind her ear.
Instead, I watch from a distance as she and Brianna clink together two shot glasses, knock them back, and wince as they bite into lime wedges. Seeing her do something so ordinary drives me crazy, and I have to acclimate to the sight before I dare approach.
Brianna spots me and flicks CJ on the arm. CJ, who is using the back of her hand to blot the corner of her mouth, looks over to me and uses her wrist to try to shield her smile.
I have gotten a smile.
Brianna whispers something in CJ’s ear, then starts back for the auditorium, nodding her head at me as she does, like she might be rooting for me, even.
As I approach CJ, my palms are slick. When do I tell her I’m sorry? “You were robbed,” I blurt out, a little too loudly when she’s within earshot.
“Some other time,” she says, playing it off.
I have to actively work to thwart the instincts that are telling me we should be touching right now, that every part of our bodies should be as close as possible.
Now , I think.
“CJ, I have to apologize—” I start.
She cuts me off by shaking her head. I can feel my face fall.
She unzips her clutch and pulls out a piece of paper, creased crisply into quarters. She hands it to me. Am I being passed a note?
“My speech,” she says.
My jaw opens, closes.
“Of course I wrote a speech.” She laughs at herself and nods at me to proceed.
I unfold the paper.
“I’m so honored to be accepting this award. I want to thank the Academy—I’ve always wanted to say that—the Gatsby art department, the whole cast and crew, our intrepid director Timmy Gray, our producers, and the many, many filmmakers whose work has provided the inspiration that’s gotten me where I am today. No one is an island, and certainly not me. I wouldn’t be here today without the love and support of four very important people: my daughter, Agnes; my father, Stuart Blitz; my extraordinary late mother, Jean Ericson; and the man who showed me that the beauty of a passion project is that it doesn’t have to be flawless to be perfect—even if I wasn’t ready to see that at the time. Thank you.”
I drop the hand holding the paper to my side and reach for her wrist with the other.
CJ surveys the area, scanning who will see this, and what they’ll assume. Most attendees have made their way back to the auditorium now that the telecast has begun again, but there are a few who lost in their categories and are settling in at the bar.
She locks eyes with me briefly and then starts off toward a nearby hallway.
I trail her down several flights and through a set of labyrinthine passageways, my heart racing and every cell in my body on high alert, until we are in some sort of small, dark side room.
She flips on the light to reveal a beige-carpeted room with a lit mirror and vanity.
“What is this?”
“One of the old dressing rooms in the Grauman’s, next door to the Dolby.”
“How did you know this was here?”
She takes a tentative step toward me. “I miss you, Jack. So much. And I’m sorry I pushed you away.” Her eyes fall to the ground as she says this, then they find mine.
I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. I got so wrapped up in the excitement of the Cecily movie and the possibility of being able to share it with you, that I didn’t consider how wrongheaded my approach was. It was unthinking. And selfish.” I sigh. “One of the things I love about your life and my life with you is that it’s... tethered. It’s not—it doesn’t just drift wherever a strong breeze takes it. I fucked up, and then I didn’t even have the gumption to fight for you, which is maybe the most humiliating part of this whole thing. When I left...” I shake my head at myself. “Every gesture from the other side of the ocean felt lame and tepid, including and perhaps especially sending a bouquet of daisies.”
“Those were from you? There was no name on the card.” Her eyes are soft.
Right. After all of that, I forgot to sign the card. I can’t help myself. I bring my thumb to her cheek and my palm to her jaw. She leans into my hand, closes her eyes, and then grabs my lapel and pulls me to her, kissing me deeply. What starts as something slow and romantic quickly shifts to something more furious, more frantic, more revealing of the ways in which we’ve starved in each other’s absence. She pulls us apart to step backward and sit on the edge of the vanity. She leans back against the mirror and I pull her arms over her head, pin them there with my right hand, and kiss her down her elbow, across her shoulder, along the strap of her dress.
“Fuck,” CJ exhales. “Jack, can we try this again?”
I slide my hand over her neck and dip two fingers down the front of her dress, just shy of her nipple. “CJ, it’s all I want.”
“How many categories do we have until you have to present?” she asks, and I grin into her hair. I inhale like it’s my first real breath in months.
“Probably about seven. Though I’m certain Elizabeth Olsen could open an envelope without me.” I take her nipple with my thumb and forefinger and squeeze, producing a sharp gasp from her open lips.
She lifts her dress up around her waist and tilts her hips so she can frame me with her legs. “Plenty of time.”
My erection is threatening to destroy the seam of my pants, and CJ’s hand is at my fly, unzipping it and pulling my dick out of my briefs. She smiles down at it, clearly smug at having made me this hard, then dips her head to take it in her mouth for just a moment before wrapping her hand around me with a slow stroke. I push the soaked wisp of fabric serving as her underwear to the side, but as I reach to feel the wetness between her legs, she grabs my hand and stops me. My chest clenches.
She gives me a coy, bossy look. “Take your clothes off and lay them out there,” she says, pointing to the makeup chair. “So that when you get onstage, you don’t look like you just got fucked in a dressing room.”
“Say I want to look like I just got fucked in a dressing room,” I reply, but I’m pulling off my jacket and smoothing it over the seat before I finish the statement. It takes me longer than it should to undo all the shirt buttons because neither of us is willing to break eye contact as I do. By the time I reach my cuff links, she is sliding one hand between her legs, tormenting me by picking up where she cut me off moments earlier. I nearly trip as I bend down to deal with my laces, and she smirks in response but doesn’t stop.
When, stark naked, I reach to pull off the straps of her dress, she presses her fingertips down my back and pulls my pelvis against hers. “This we can make a mess of,” she says. “I picked it out for you.”
My whole body goes molten, and I moan at first contact. I slide against her, and my dick finds her opening on its own, like it knows the way. Because it does.
I brace a hand against the wall as I start thrusting, and she wraps a leg around my waist and scrapes her nails down my neck. I hope she leaves marks. I hope the cameras pick them up. Her eyes are closed, lids fluttering. Doing this again feels so right. I can’t believe we ever stopped, that I let that happen.
I angle my body so I’m pressing against her clit, the way I know she likes it, the way I know she’ll come, and every part of her grips me tighter and pulls me closer. “Jack—” she gasps, and her reaction makes me want to crack us both open. My hip presses against her inner thigh, spreading her wider still.
She cries out like she’s forgotten where we are, and it’s enough to send me over the edge. Panting into her neck, clutching her body against mine, I feel more at home than I have in years—here in this country that’s not my own, in this dressing room I didn’t know existed an hour ago, in the arms of this person who makes me feel steady, grounded, and seen.
I kiss her across her jaw, her cheek, her forehead as we both steady ourselves and properly take in this room for the first time. The quiet of this space compared to the cacophony of the ceremony we left behind feels loud in its own way. I taste and smell her on me, a sensory experience I’ve desperately missed. I want to live here, in this perfect moment. But I have to put my suit back on. I have to be a semblance of the Jack Felgate that people think they know. Which feels easier to do now that the person who genuinely sees me is here.
“You know,” she says, her mouth pressed to my ear. “We probably just had sex in the very same place as Charlie Chaplin.”
I laugh and nuzzle her neck. “Wow, and if I wasn’t hot before.”
When I put my suit back on, she adjusts my bow tie, and we head back upstairs, where I arrive just in time to present the award for Best Original Song. We don’t even stick around for them to announce Best Picture.