notverywise | (no subject)

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cameron winklevoss

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There are days when Jenny doesn't know how she ever managed to like it here. She'd say as much, anyway, though the logic still makes sense. (Of course she would have liked it. The island is exotic, beautiful, about as far from Twickenham as it's possible to get, and it isn't as if she came from a particularly good time.) It's just that, while there are times it's easier to ignore the size and limitations of this place in favor of focusing on the atmosphere, there are likewise times when the exact opposite is true, when everything feels as stifling as it did back home, when she was still just a schoolgirl, before everything turned on its head. Here as well, there's nowhere to go and nothing to do, and no way of trying to put back together the pieces of the life she left behind. In that way, it's worse than home.

Were it not for the fact that half the things on the island are apparently bloody magic (and she'll never understand that, she thinks, not in a million years, not even if it fascinated her initially), it might not be an issue at all. As it is, though, this particular day, the jukebox and bookshelf seem to both be conspiring against her, the former singing you've got me wrapped around your little finger at her as the latter is at once filled with innumerable copies of Jane Eyre upon her approach. It's more than she cares to deal with, more than she has the patience for.

She heads out of the Compound after that, in the hopes that some fresh air will do her good. Anything, really, to get away from the notion that something here knows her, knows about the life she hasn't seen fit to describe in detail to anyone. It isn't supposed to matter here, and yet it follows her around anyway; the best she can do is try to put some distance between it and herself. Not caring enough to walk all the way out to the beach, she seats herself instead on the Compound steps, concrete warm under her palms and the backs of her legs, head tipped back slightly and eyes half-closed as she draws in a deep breath. It's far better than being inside, but it leaves her distracted, so much that she almost doesn't notice someone walking up. "Hello," she says absently, when she finally registers movement, probably a few moments later than should otherwise be the case. She lowers her chin slightly, then, just a touch more serious. "I'm not in your way, am I?"

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"No," Cameron says, nodding, "it isn't." He doesn't know if they're meant to or not — people are remarkably sturdy creatures — but he knows they shouldn't have to. To him, it still seems abstract; there isn't much he's lost in his life, and certainly not like that, not in this set up which suggests everything done, every attachment formed, is doomed. There's a certain romanticism in it, in fact, but maybe that, too, is just his ignorance, his not understanding how it feels. Being without his brother is bad enough, but he'll get back home one day. It's hard and in ways he never would have expected, but it's bearable. It isn't the same as probably never seeing someone again.

He glances over at Jenny, her dark hair framing her pale face, the pretty seriousness of her, and his free hand lifts to rest on hers where it sits on his arm (there is something about the abstract, at times like this, which he suspects to be deeply personal, but he doesn't know her well enough to hazard a guess if that applies here or if he's simply imposing himself on others). It's brief, a quick gesture, before he thinks maybe that's too forward, and entirely out of place in a conversation centered on the inevitability of loss, however much held at a distance. His hand drops away again. "I wouldn't worry about it too much," he lies. "Maybe you'll be home again before it even matters."

"God, I hope not," Jenny says frankly, eyes going wide, before she can stop to consider the implication in what she's saying. It isn't, she rationalizes to herself, like it was so awful back there; she had good parents, stability. She was just also a girl who'd lost what she had heard called the best part of herself before marriage, to a man who was married, and dropped out of school and lost any chance of going to university. There would be no prospects of any kind for her back there, but then, how much better can she really have it here? (His hand is off her arm before she can think maybe she could, maybe she could.)

That's wrong, too, though. Losing something means having something to lose in the first place, and therein lies the advantage that Tabula Rasa could have on Twickenham, however painful the loss itself. Smiling a little, self-deprecating and far more natural, more confident, than she actually feels, she lifts one shoulder, keeps just as close. "Things were a bit of a mess, when I showed up here," she says simply, just this side of rueful. It's a gross oversimplification. Why should he want to hear, though, about all that happened, how foolish she was? And why should she want him to? "Stay or go, the one's practically the same as the other."

"Oh, that can't be true," Cameron says, expression turning immediately, if briefly, apologetic. She would know better than him, after all, whether or not it is, but it seems to him as if it must be an exaggeration. His life was messy when he arrived here, too, but that doesn't have to be the whole story. She has a future back in her world, a family, a home; it can't be so hopeless, this mess, that it would make her want to give all that up. Things are problematic at home and he knows he's looking forward to years of painful litigation upon his return, but at least back there, he'd be able to do something to fix the tangle he's made of things. It's his responsibility to see to it that things progress as they should. Maybe it won't work out like they want, but at least he'd know he made the effort. "I'm sure whatever it was, when you get home, you'll put it right. It'll be good just to be home."

It isn't as if she wouldn't try. Jenny will concede that much, knows, at least, that when she's already lost everything, has to start completely from scratch, then there's nothing at stake, no reason not to do whatever she can. She just isn't sure there's anything she can do. They won't let her back to school, and there's no other way to take her exams and apply for university; there was a time when Miss Stubbs would probably have been an ally, but Jenny doesn't know now if the woman would even speak to her, with the way everything ended. It's all too uncertain, and here, none of it matters anyway. "It will," Jenny allows; there's a but implied in her tone anyway. "It is nice to be away from all of that, though, not knowing how it'll work out. Some things aren't so easily fixed." Some things, one can't get back at all.

Some things can't be fixed at all, a fact Cameron has learned with startling clarity in recent weeks, as if he had never before known this. In a way, he never had. There's a difference between knowing this is so, that some things are beyond repair — say a dropped plate, Limoges porcelain scattered in surprisingly dangerous pieces, cobalt blue and white across a polished hardwood floor — and knowing that there are things in his own life he left too late, mistakes that he can't put right. He can try, but even he, for all his stubbornness and his code of honor, knows that, now they've lost the website, there's no regaining that ground, that he waited too long, that the best they can hope for now is vindication and, perhaps, for the damn thing to be shut down or — he doesn't know, actually, what the best is, but it isn't what it should have been, and that's on him for waiting.

He looks over at Jenny, brow furrowing slightly. It's hard to picture her as the kind of girl with much in her past which needs must be rectified. "Well, with a little cleverness and determination," he says, "I'm sure you'll find a way. It can't be that bad, can it?"

She could tell him, of course. It would probably be the obvious, most logical response, to explain that yes, it can be that bad, that determination won't get her back into school or undo the fact that she lost her virginity to a married man, that cleverness doesn't always get one anywhere, one of the reasons why she went in another direction. It reminds her of what Miss Stubbs said, asking if it was clever Jenny or pretty Jenny that David liked; she set clever Jenny aside, but she isn't sure he really cared about either one. It wasn't as if she'd been the first, knowledge that still twists something in the pit of her stomach, though at least it's also proof that it wasn't solely her own naivete that got her into such a position. Comparatively speaking, she'd been lucky. It just doesn't feel like it.

When it comes down to it, though, she just can't give all of that away and ruin this just yet (she's given too much away as it is). That doesn't mean she can lie about it, either. She'll just have to hope that a half-truth will suffice. "When I said that I'd never be able to go to Oxford because I showed up here, that wasn't... entirely the truth," she says, uncertainty in her eyes as she looks up at him, expression nothing short of apologetic. "I wasn't going to be able to go anyway. Things happened, and I -- I left school without taking my exams. Just before I showed up here, I was told that they wouldn't let me back in to repeat my final year. That was what it all came down to, at least."

Cam slows to a stop, his hand finding hers again. "That's awful," he says. "I'm sorry. I... couldn't you go back to school later? Or transfer? Independent study or delayed exams or — there has to be some way you can make it up." He doesn't know her situation, he's aware, what kept her from finishing to begin with, but there must be options. Some things in life, yes, there's just one way to do them, but usually there are options, choices, possibilities, and a bright girl like her will find a way to take care of whatever it is and finish in spite of things. It may look dire now, and all the more so for being far from home, but he still believes, whatever may have happened, hard work and diligence will get her where she's meant to be. Maybe he's just naïve or ignorant, but he still has faith in that.

Even as he offers answers, he has questions, but they aren't his to ask. If she's been made to leave school, there's a reason, but he's still virtually a stranger in spite of their budding friendship. It isn't his place to pry. He's made it clear he's willing to talk; if she wants to, that's in her hands.

"I don't know," Jenny confesses, softer suddenly, feeling so much like the girl she's tried not to be. It's the first time she's ever actually admitted as much, if not to herself, then certainly out loud, Cameron being by far the easiest person she's found to talk to thus far. She hates it, how incredibly young she's sure it makes her seem when she wants little more than to be the opposite, but it can't be helped. With the subject at hand now, there's only so much pretending she can do, and anyway, this is, she thinks, the actual worst of it, the not knowing. If she had an answer one way or the other, it might all be a little easier, but she has nothing save for her imagination, and it's difficult, sometimes, not to look at that whole situation through a worst case scenario lens.

Glancing briefly at where his hand rests over hers, she draws in a breath. "It all seemed rather improbable, at the time," she continues, as if that alone could serve as an explanation. "And there's nothing I could do about it here, anyway." Her life in shambles, and her a world apart from any of it — it almost seems fitting after everything else, in the very worst sort of way.

Jenny has, until this moment, seemed like a bright creature — not careless so much as casual, a trait Cameron likes, if only because he's not always wholly capable of it himself, at least with people he doesn't know well. There's a softness to her now, clinging around the edges, that makes him want to draw her to him and say it will all work out, say it like a promise. He'd make things right if he could, even without knowing what it is he would need to fix or if it's even possible. He would make it possible. It just isn't right that a nice girl should have to put up with those kinds of worries so far removed from the ability to try and fix it.

"No, there isn't," he says instead, gentle but firm. "As long as you're here, it'll have to wait."

From anyone else, to anyone else, it might sound harsh, but as it stands, Jenny can only be appreciative of what he says. It's simple, it's honest, and after so long getting neither, both are appealing in ways she never expected them to be. She wants it to be alright, but he doesn't know what happened, and he can't make it so; as nice as consolation would be, there's none to be given, not with any certainty. Besides, she doesn't mind waiting. Some time away to live a life apart from all of that, it's bound to do her good. It won't change anything when she gets back, but this is still a welcome indulgence, at least some of the time.

"It will," she agrees lightly, summoning up a small smile, though it's resigned more so than hopeful. "Until then, there's no point in making too much of it."

"No," Cameron agrees, nodding slightly, "none at all, when you could be making much of whatever... all this is. A... break. A chance to recuperate and plan ahead. Take a breath. It's okay to let it go for now." It's easy to say. He's been telling himself all this nearly since he arrived. It's just difficult to take at face value when there's still a part of him that feels he could get home if he tried hard enough, that he needs to go back and put things right, though the truth is, it's much, much too late for that. Maybe from where he stands, that's not so, but the fact is, what's done is done and they've lost — a settlement isn't a victory, it's only the barest admission of guilt, and the fact they took it is proof they aren't sure of their own history. It's a damning affair, and his best bet is to learn how to take his own advice.

In the moment, at least, Jenny wants nothing more than to let go of it, to let go and hold fast to him instead, Cameron seeming strangely like the first real hope she's had, the first person in her corner, regardless of what he doesn't know. In a way, it feels almost like he's a symbol of what might have been — he's well-educated and worldly both, some strange middle ground of what she wants and what she knows she needs, what could have been just within her grasp but was let go of, foolishly, naïvely. It is, perhaps, because she wants to that she knows she can't. Someday, farther down the line, when they've known each other more than a scant few minutes (that feel like much more, somehow), she'll tell him the whole truth of it, what she did and why her future seems so bleak, but this is too nice for now, nothing she wants to weigh down with such dismal talk. He's right. This is a break, and what good is a blank slate if she drags her past along behind her? "That's what I'm hoping to do," she says, an admittance in and of itself. There are some things done that she can't undo, physical proof that what happened did indeed take place, and someday she'll have to face that, but it isn't as if she has any reason to be thinking that far ahead just yet. The rest doesn't need to define her. "You're the first person I've told about any of it."

As it is, she's told him barely anything. Cam can't help being curious, of course, deeply so, why someone like Jenny would think herself so utterly without prospects, why she would keep such a burden on her own shoulders with no one to help her carry it. For a moment, he wants again to pull her to him and say it will be alright, as if he can somehow put right the unknown things she's left behind just by offering a little comfort when he can't even be sure it's wanted or warranted. He just can't help the impulse to be of use if he can, especially to the women in his life.

He offers her a small smile instead, slowing almost to a stop so he can look at her without leading her into a tree or anything like that. "I'm honored," he says, and means it wholly. That she thinks she can trust him on so brief an acquaintance is a gesture of faith in him which he himself lacks these days, more often than not. "And if there's anything I can do to help, you only need say the word."

Honored isn't a word that Jenny would think to apply to the situation at all. Given that there's no honor in what she did, if anything, to have told him about it should be the opposite of that, no matter how vaguely it was mentioned. His reaction would be different, she's almost certain, if he knew the specifics, knew that she lost her virginity at seventeen to a married man, someone she thinks would have married her anyway without bothering to mention his wife. What he did was worse, to be sure, but she was still foolish.

"I will," she promises, a note of surprise in her voice and wide eyes, though she means it. There are things she has no intention of telling him, and he can't fix what she did, but it helps to know, to believe, that he means the offer. Just knowing that there's someone in her corner makes all the difference. "Thank you. I... I appreciate it." it's an understatement. She thinks that might show.

That there, the way her expression shifts, the measured tone of her voice — more than the rest, it makes Cameron want to find whoever got her in this trouble she won't talk about, and hurt them, at the very least make sure they never hurt her again. No one should have to be so affected by so simple an offer, least of all a lovely, bright girl like Jenny.

"Of course," he says, soft but firm. "You don't need to thank me, I haven't done anything. Come on, it's right through here." Hand still light over hers where it rests on his arm, he leads her carefully off the path and through the trees, distantly grateful for the shade and the slight respite from the island heat. It's nothing like Connecticut or Massachusetts, and while England has its summer heat, he doubts Jenny's any more accustomed to it than he is. They could both use a break, he thinks, in more ways than one.

More than content to let the subject go, Jenny smiles, following him without hesitation away from the path and towards the stream. A part of her wants to talk about it still, but that same part of her wants to talk about it and be understood, and there's no guarantee of that, no matter how kind Cameron is. Maybe she doesn't deserve understanding, maybe she got herself into this mess, but she didn't entirely dig her own metaphorical grave. Regardless, it isn't worth dwelling on and isn't worth the risk, especially not when they're so close to their destination and everything else (including him) is so lovely.

"Alright," she says, warm, eager to see what he's brought her here to show her, even if it isn't really meant to be all that impressive. It's still something, and anyway, if she's supposed to call this place home someday, she might as well get better acquainted with it, and with her new friend. "So do you come here often?"

"I've only been here a couple weeks," Cameron reminds her, "so no, I wouldn't say often, but... now and again. I like it. It's..." He trails off, searching for the word, and comes up short. "Peaceful." It doesn't quite cut it. He's yet to feel especially at peace since coming here, too distracted by his predicament and the ways in which he is entirely unable to change or fix it, although to say so would be to admit he's given her advice he doesn't know how to follow. He's not going to lie and say he's just fine, but he's more than capable of pretending to be.

"Pretty," he adds, latching onto this new description as they get closer. It isn't like the countryside in Connecticut, and it's not broad enough to row down, even if he managed to attain a boat in which to do so (the inability to keep in proper practice just makes everything that much more frustrating), but it's lovely nonetheless, even if the tropical blooms growing along the water's edge strike him as gaudy and overblown. It has its charms all the same.

"It is," Jenny agrees, thoughtful, ducking her head in a slight nod. Everything about the island is pretty, one clear advantage it has over Twickenham, despite the way it leaves her unable to do anything about the mess she left behind. He was right about that, though, that there's no point in letting it dictate what she does here; she wouldn't even want it to, when it feels too much like giving in, like letting David win, when he was clearly trying to conquer her. (In one way, he did manage that, anyway.) There's nothing but here and now, Cameron's arm in hers, the water flowing past their feet. Were she more capable of stopping herself from thinking, it might actually be kind of wonderful. "Both of those things."

She should thank him for taking her here, but she's thanked him enough; she doesn't need to hear again that she doesn't need to. The look she shoots him might as well say it all, anyway, though it's short-lived before she gives in and lets her head lean gently against his shoulder. Given that it's right there at her eye level, it seems pointless to hold off.

It comes as a surprise, the slight weight of her head on his shoulder, and Cameron is hard-pressed to ignore the instinctive temptation to rest his against hers in turn. On his part, the gesture might come across too much as a romantic one, although that would hardly be his intent and is, he's sure, not hers. His head is in too much of a spin these days for him to think of romance, especially in a place he's set on leaving as soon as possible, though she's undeniably beautiful.

He keeps her where she is, not shying away from her, not trying to move closer or take advantage of the moment. He ought to suggest they sit, but he doesn't want her to think he's trying to pull away. "I thought you could use a little of both," he says instead, head turning slightly toward hers so that all he can see is dark hair.

It's ridiculously unfair, Jenny thinks. If she didn't know better, she'd wonder if all of this was somehow planned, mad as the mere idea is when they've known each other for maybe an hour at most; she ought to be more careful anyway, but that isn't her primary concern. What she doesn't understand is how he knows all these right things to say, on top of being just about anyone's definition of perfect. Somewhere, there has to be a flaw, some horrible thing that will make him totally unappealing if and when she ever finds out about it. For now, she has to bite her tongue to keep from asking if he could actually even be human.

"I could," she says, soft, grateful. She wouldn't have thought of it herself like that, but it's true and probably has been for a while, there's no doubt about it. Sooner more likely than later, it will lose its novelty, become just another aspect of this place, but in the moment, it's lovely, and so is her present company. "Are we staying for a bit? It's not like there's anywhere to be, is there?"

"I haven't got anywhere else to go," Cameron offers, stepping slowly back, hand moving to her elbow. It's a strange feeling, if he's honest, knowing he has nowhere to be, nothing he's meant to be doing — no classes, no studies, no practice, no races, no home life, nothing whatsoever to tie him down to any given moment. It could be freeing. For him, it feels the opposite. There's something claustrophobic about all that open uncertainty, the lack of direction. "We could sit a while, stay. If you like."

She's the one who suggested it, in essence, but still, he doesn't like to presume, even as he heads over to find a clear spot in the grass below a tree. By the water is always the best place to be, he figures, and not even because of his natural bias, the fact he spends — or used to spend — most of his waking hours on the river. It's just cooler here, next to running water, beneath the shade, and they could both use the respite.

"I would, yes," Jenny says with a slight nod, clearly pleased with the response. Really, there's just no reason not to, and with that being the case, she's content to let this last for as long as possible, fairly certain that it's the best she's felt since arriving here. That lack of obligation helps, too, though that isn't always so; there are days she imagines Oxford and the education she'd have gotten to have there, all of it just out of her grasp, and wants nothing more than another chance, the emptiness here only exacerbating it. For the moment, it just leaves her clear-headed, something that she suspects has to do with the distraction of someone to keep her company, even if they're quiet about it. She follows along easily, all warmth and mostly hidden self-consciousness, still taking in everything as she does. It really is a beautiful spot, cooler and secluded, quiet but not eerily silent the way some of the corners of the Compound are. "I'm glad you brought me here."

The thing about the stream is, it's not near wide enough to row in. Cameron knows that makes him strange, that this is what he thinks of, but it's worth considering; he's been without practice for a while now, except in a very makeshift way, and it's dissatisfying. He misses it, unfathomable though that may be to some people, the sense of being a part of something joined to the tranquility of making his own way.

She says that, though, and when he smiles back at her, it's genuine. "Me, too," he says. She's virtually a stranger, but maybe that's part of the appeal — she's just a sweet, charming young girl with no real idea what any of it means, what he's dying to go back to or done wrong, what's waiting for him when he gets back. He's not the kind for denial, but there's something precious about being able to step away from it all for a little while, if only when it comes to conversation. "And glad I met you. It's not nearly as nice here without good company."

"It's not nearly as nice anywhere without good company," Jenny points out, her own way of agreeing. What really matters is that it's applicable here, that it's one of the first times she's been able to say so at all. There are a few other acquaintances she has whom she's become fond of, but this is somehow different in how he's gone out of his way, made her feel a little less out of place. (Really, it reminds her from the beginning, but she's deliberately not thinking about that; she may not know Cameron, but she likes to think she knows enough to tell that he isn't like that, not at all.) Regardless of what she keeps to herself, that's something she could thrive on, if anything meaning all the more for those things she hasn't said. That she's glad she met him, too, at this point, she's pretty sure goes without needing to be outright mentioned, evident as it is in the way she looks at him. It might just be the best thing that's happened to her since she showed up here, though to be fair, there's little there to compare to. "I don't imagine this would be an exception."

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