Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald

by Therese Anne Fowler

forever wanting to be old enough to be old enough.

“What story will our kids be telling about us someday, do you suppose?” “It’ll be a lot more romantic than two senators matchmaking,” I said. “They’ll say that we were meant to be together no matter what. For us, stars aligned, the gods smiled—prob’ly there was a tidal wave someplace, too, and we just haven’t heard about it yet.” “A Homeric epic, it sounds like. Have another glass of champagne and tell me more.”

I rested my head against his shoulder and we watched the sun set, just like you might see in the movies. We’d worked hard to create this lovely, new domestic bliss, and before Gatsby’s publication, right up until the book was printed and put into the hands of both the reading and the reviewing public, it looked as if we might actually succeed. Wait: if I leave it at that, it’ll sound like the novel’s disappointing performance is to blame for the disaster we made of our lives, and that’s not really so. Ernest Hemingway is to blame.

We were always being introduced to someone who knew someone whose husband was or brother was or great old friend was connected to someone or something we simply had to see. This happened so often that I’d stopped paying attention to the connections and concerned myself only with the results.

A roomful of dancing, sweating, laughing people is a beautiful thing.