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I should have known that I was doomed from the very moment I laid eyes on him. He was an elegant, poised figure, all tanned skin and charming smiles, sitting there with a relaxed posture and a glass of bubbling champagne clutched lazily in one manicured hand.
He looked at home among the colorful throng of partygoers, no hint of tension saturating his amicable expression.
The extravagant displays of wealth that flaunted themselves in every corner of the mansion seemed to suddenly lose their luster under his inquisitive gaze, as though they had been thoroughly examined and came up lacking in the shadow of the notorious man who lingered among them.
I am unashamed to admit that I spent the majority of that evening observing this mysterious man, something about his demeanor intrigued me.
At first glance, he seemed to be just another nameless partygoer in search of a drink and a good time, but upon closer examination, I could see the sharp glint of intelligence in his gray eyes, and the way the movement of the dancers and the slightly-tipsy houseguests seemed to revolve around him like winds circling the eye of a hurricane.
So it was to my immense surprise when he suddenly stood up and began to stroll leisurely over to my table, before pulling up a chair and taking a seat.
The group of acquaintances I had fastened myself to at the start of the night, and whose names I could hardly remember, seemed unphased by this unexpected development, sending small waves and words of greeting towards the man before turning away and casually resuming their conversations.
I was still processing this new development when the man turned towards me and began to speak, “Your face is familiar,” he said curiously.
“Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?”
“Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.” I replied after a moment, attempting to recall if I had seen him before.
My search came up empty, as I am certain that I would remember if I had ever seen a face as striking as his, even in passing. His tanned skin was stretched elegantly over his handsome features, and his shining gray eyes added an air of excitement to his expressions, making a promise of endless, awe-inspiring adventure.
“I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” He said, snapping his fingers in recognition.
From there, our conversation blossomed into one of personal backstories and old war tales, the still-anonymous man eventually mentioning a hydroplane he had recently purchased.
This made me do a double take, as while I had already assumed that he came from money, he was attending one of Gatsby’s parties after all, the fact that this mystery man could drop enormous amounts of cash seemingly on a whim caught me off guard.
“Want to go with me, old sport?” He asked, “Just near the shore along the Sound.”
If my eyes had widened any farther they would have popped out of my sockets and landed on the ornate dinner plates on the table beside us.
“What time?” I managed to sputter out, still reeling with the shock that this total stranger had extended such an invitation no less than ten minutes into our conversation.
“Any time that suits you best.” He replied smoothly, either not noticing or not caring about the stuttering quality of my answer.
I was about to ask him for his name, when one of my acquaintances from earlier, Jordan may have been her name, approached us.
“Having a gay time now?” She asked, looking at me questioningly.
“Much better.” I said, gesturing toward the man sitting next to me.
In doing so I noticed that he was still holding that same glass of champagne, it seemed to be untouched.
“This is an unusual party for me.” I continued, “I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there—” I said, shifting my vague gesturing over to the small house that was barely visible over Gatsby’s sprawling garden, “and this man Gatsby, I’ve never met him before mind you, sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”
The man stared at me in surprise and confusion, wrinkling his brows as he considered my statement.
“I’m Gatsby,” he finally said, offering me an apologetic nod. “I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”
Suddenly his curious behavior, the intelligent glint in his eyes, and the way the party seemed to move and shift around him were all cast into perfect clarity.
This was Gatsby, after all, the mysterious figure that held lavish parties each night filled with shining, enigmatic attendants, and drifted through the upper rungs of society with little regard for those below him.
He smiled then, snapping me out of my reverie. This was the first time in our brief interaction that I had seen him smile, and the shining radiance of this simple act left me breathless. It was a kind, reassuring smile, the kind of smile that made you want to spill your closest-held secrets and your longest-held dreams. It was a dangerous smile, an intoxicating smile.
Then just as quickly as it had arrived, it was gone, disappearing behind the mask of polite formality that Gatsby had maintained up until this point.
It was at this time that one of the waitstaff pulled Gatsby aside, whispering to him that Chicago was calling on the wire and his presence was requested immediately.
“Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.”
Gatsby excused himself with a short bow, waving in a sort of salute as he walked briskly into the inner recesses of the mansion.
As soon as he was out of sight, I leaned over to Jordan and asked “Who is he?”
“Just a man named Gatsby.” She replied, glancing at me questioningly.
“No, I mean what’s his story? How did he end up here in West Egg?”
I didn’t understand why a man of his social standing would choose to reside here in West Egg, but that was only one of the many mysteries about Gatsby that I wished to uncover.
Something about the way he seemed to choose his words carefully, especially when talking about his past, made me want to pry even further. To know all of the hidden details of his history so that I could gain clear access to his inner workings and point of view.
Never had someone, who until a few moments ago had been a total stranger, captivated my undivided attention so wholly, so I was disappointed when Jordan replied to my inquiry in a way that left far more questions than answers.
“Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man. However, I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she mused, “I just don’t think he went there.”
Her vague reply, coupled with the outlandish rumors I had heard earlier that night from several other guests, simply made my curiosity grow, like an itch I couldn’t quite scratch.
With quite a lot on my mind, I half-heartedly continued my conversation with Jordan. This primarily consisted of her retelling grand tales of her latest golf tournaments, she was a professional player, while I gave a small nod or grunt of acknowledgement every once
and a while.
I gave up all attempts at polite conversation as my eyes wandered over to the solitary figure of Gatsby, seemingly having sorted out whatever business had required his presence so urgently, standing atop a marble staircase, observing the ever-growing clamor of the party with a stoic expression.
Removed from the distractions of the festivities, I was able to get a closer look at Gatby’s relaxed demeanor and admire the way he was able to disappear into the vibrant crowd like a snake in tall grass.
However, one thing stuck out to me, it appeared that he had not touched a drop of alcohol. While his guests reveled in the pleasant haze of inebriation, he stood correct and alert, never having touched his long abandoned glass of champagne.
As the last song came to a close, and the dancers drifted back towards their respective tables, I noticed the same butler from before approaching Jordan.
He leaned over to her and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would like to speak to you alone.”
Jordan’s eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded and trotted quickly over to where Gatsby was standing before following him into the house.
I sat alone at my suddenly very empty table for a few moments before deciding to wander around the courtyard in search of some other form of entertainment.
After wandering around and deftly avoiding the antics of several intoxicated guests for the better part of an hour, I was relieved to see the grinning face of Jordan eagerly beckoning me over from the other side of the yard.
“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing,” She whispered to me delightedly, “How long were we in there?”
“Why, about an hour.” I replied questioningly.
“It was… simply amazing,” Jordan repeated vaguely, “but I swore I wouldn’t tell it and here I am tantalizing you.” She reprimanded herself, chuckling as she began to walk towards the gate into the driveway.
“Please come and see me… Phone book… Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard… My aunt…”
Jordan looked to be on the verge of falling asleep right there on the gravel drive as she sauntered over to an awaiting taxi. Giving me a final wave of her gloved hand, she disappeared into the misty interior of the cab and drove off into the shimmering night.
I stood there at the wrought iron gate, staring after the retreating headlights of what must have been thirty other vehicles as I pondered over what Jordan had told me.
Her meeting with Gatsby seemed to be just that, a simple exchange of words, contrary to what I had assumed when I saw them saunter off to the upper floors of the house together. It may have been the alcohol or the late hour, but a small part of me was comforted by this fact, even though I was deathly curious to know what they had discussed.
Spying Gatsby on the porch giving his goodbyes to the last remaining partygoers, I made my way over to him, wishing to apologize for not having recognized him earlier that night.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, waving off my apparently needless apology, “don’t give it another thought, old sport.”
His friendly expression, as well as the warm weight of his hand upon my shoulder, held none of the earlier familiarity he had expressed during our earlier conversation.
“And don’t forget we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock.” He reminded me cheerfully.
I had just begun to bid him a good night when the butler approached him once more and said flatly “Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir.”
“All right, in a minute.” Gatsby said with a hint of exasperation permeating his neutral tone.
“Tell them I’ll be right there… Good night.”
“Good night.” I returned.
“Good night, old sport… Good night.” He said once more with a hint of surprise as if he hadn’t expected me to return the sentiment.
Then he smiled, and the same touch of that warmth from earlier washed over me like a pleasant wave. I smiled back at him and turned back toward the gravel drive to make the short trip back to my own home, smiling softly all the way.
***
The next morning I rose early to get ready for my spontaneous meeting with Gatsby. Still exhausted from the eventful night before, I blearily tugged on a simple dress shirt and slacks, preparing myself for yet another day of intense emotional whiplash.
Making my way over to Gatsby’s beach, I caught my first glimpse of the hydroplane. It was a sleek, magnificent work of machinery, painted a bright red with stark white accents. Its pontoons were balanced precariously atop a pearly sand dune, crystalline waves lapping softly at its base.
Wrenching my eyes away from the fabulous aircraft, I caught a glimpse of Gatsby’s tall frame waving to me animatedly from the cabin of the plane.
Once I was within earshot he called out to me, offering down a hand to help me clamber my way gracelessly into the plane’s interior.
“Good morning old sport! I was starting to worry you wouldn’t make it! Here, take a seat. I'll get us in the air in just a moment.”
Gatsby was clad in a white, linen suit, his wealthy attire making me stick out like a weed amongst roses in my simple day clothes. A reassuring nod from Gatsby made me forget my concerns as I took the seat on his left, bracing myself for the turbulent ride.
“Forgive me if this is a foolish question,” I asked a touch nervously, “but have you ever flown this plane before?”
Gatsby let out a rich, breezy laugh, the sound filling my ears like the ringing of a wind chime.
“Of course not old sport! I did tell you yesterday that it was new, did I not? But not to worry, I got my pilot's license back in the war, you’re in good hands.”
He threw me a mischievous wink and I stuttered over my next words, the sentences churning into meaningless garbles before dying on my tongue.
We sat in comfortable silence while Gatsby started the aircraft’s engines and began to lift us into the air.
I clutched my armrest so tightly that my knuckles turned white as the plane rocked with the force of the ocean breeze, but as we rose farther into the cool air and began to coast in lazy circles around Gatsby’s manor, I began to slowly relax.
Releasing my death grip on the armrest, I peered over the side of the craft and caught a glimpse of sprawling emerald lawns, golden sand, and the vast expanse of a sapphire-blue sea.
Slowly relaxing into the ebb and flow of the winds that gently rocked the cabin, my eyes trailed over to the man next to me. His tan skin was illuminated by the warm light of the still-rising sun, and his amber-colored hair was tousled from the cool sea breeze that flitted around us like playful sprites.
He must have noticed my lingering gaze, as he turned to me questioningly, flashing that same charming smile that had captured my attention so wholly at the party last night. I blushed furiously and turned my head to stare determinedly out of my own window.
“So old sport,” he inquired “what do you think of it?”
I considered for a moment, taking in our vibrant surroundings and the fresh, young air of spring. It was an air of change I decided, an air of new beginnings and fresh opportunities.
“It's wonderful Gatsby, truly. I feel sort of free in a sense, like everything below us is so small that it doesn’t matter as much anymore.”
Gatsby’s bright eyes flashed with pride, and he seemed to hesitate a moment before speaking.
“Yes it does seem that way doesn’t it.” He added softly, lost in thought.
He snapped himself out of his reverie with a brisk shake of his head, and all of a sudden his cheerful demeanor returned in full force.
The next hour was spent in pleasant conversation, however, it was unlike any exchange I’d had until meeting Gatsby.
Instead of a polite measured discussion of the week’s events, broken only by the occasional mention of politics or the weather, spending time with Gatsby was intoxicating. He asked thoughtful and in-depth questions as if he legitimately wished to hear your opinion, and he artfully dodged any inopportune lulls in conversation through his witty humor and intelligent responses.
Several times I found myself caught in peals of aching laughter, my lungs struggling to regain control of my breath as the sounds of our shared joy echoed across the cerulean sky.
***
Over the next few weeks, I spent the majority of my free time with Gatsby, either at one of his glamorous parties, each of which I received an invitation to in the same looping script, or being whisked off to various lunches with enigmatic associates and business partners.
Generally, I’d be exhausted after even one day of intense social interaction, but being around Gatsby was refreshing, and I craved the time we spent together. I had gotten a taste of his fast-paced, whirlwind of a lifestyle and had immediately become hooked.
Or maybe I was simply hooked on the man himself. My quiet, solitary life by the sea now seemed unbearably dull, and I latched on to every opportunity I had to simply be around this mysterious, golden man whom I still had yet to figure out.
***
This thrilling dream all came to a crashing end one steamy summer morning in the tea garden of the Plaza Hotel.
I sat at a far corner table with Jordan Baker, whose company I had grown to enjoy immensely over the past few months.
She wore her hair in the same severe bob, her slender nose, and chin pointed up in a haughty manner that clashed with her soft, secretive tone.
She leaned across the table as soon as I sat down, not wasting any time in getting straight into whatever she had called me there to talk about.
“Gatsby has asked me to pass on a small… request to you.” She started, speaking more hesitantly than I had ever heard her, normally she spearheaded conversations with a blunt confidence that would have made more sensitive men tremble.
“But there is something I think you should know first.” She paused as if waiting for my confirmation to continue.
“Go on then.” I said, looking at her expectantly.
“Well,” she began, “It was October of nineteen-seventeen, I was going to make bandages for the Red Cross when I was stopped by an older girl in my neighborhood. Her name was Daisy Fay, she was only two years older than me, but was by far the most popular young lady in Louisville. Sat next to her was a young soldier and they seemed to be so engrossed with one another that she didn’t notice me until I was practically stepping on her front porch.
“She tore her attention away from the young man and greeted me, asking if I was on my way to make bandages for the Red Cross. I said that I was, and I couldn’t help but notice that even while Daisy's attention was on me, this soldier of her’s stared at her with such adoration that I thought that must be how every young girl wants to be looked at.
“I found out later that his name was Jay Gatsby, and it would be four years until I would see him again, although I wouldn’t connect Daisy's young officer with the eccentric, wealthy figure he is today.
“A few years later Daisy got married to a man from Chicago seemingly out of the blue. Tom Buchanan was his name, I’m sure you’re familiar, a large brute of a man, but they seemed happy together. I saw them in Santa Barbara soon after their honeymoon, they would sit in the sand together with his head in her lap, Daisy looking at him with unfathomable delight.
“Six weeks ago I asked you if you knew Gatsby from West Egg, at that little get-together we had with Daisy and Tom, remember? Well later that night, after you had left, she woke me up with the strangest expression on her face and asked ‘What Gatsby?’ After I had described him she said that he must be a man she used to know, still with that strange expression on her face.
“I was half asleep at the time, so it took me until the next morning to connect Gatsby with the officer I had seen alongside Daisy all those years ago.”
Jordan paused to take a deep, long-suffering breath, before continuing.
“All this to say, Gatsby wants to know if you’ll invite Daisy to your house for tea some afternoon and then let him come over.”
A sour twinge settled in the pit of my stomach, curdling my good mood from this morning. Despite my bitter feelings, I kept my tone carefully neutral.
“Did I have to know all this before he could ask a simple favor?”
“He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be offended.” Jordan said placatingly, seeing right through my calm demeanor.
“You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.”
A question still tugged at me, a suspicion that I ached to confirm, and yet desperately wanted not to believe.
“Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?”
Jordan’s explanation was swift.
“He wants her to see his house, and yours is right next door.”
“Ah.” I replied, unable to say much else.
So my suspicions had been correct. What I assumed was an offer of friendship, was simply a way to reunite with his childhood sweetheart. A means to an end.
Jordan cleared her throat, startling me out of my reverie.
“So, what should I tell Gatsby? Will you do it?”
I sighed, but I already knew what my response would be.
“I’ll do it. I just thought- never mind.” I sighed again, cutting myself off from saying anything I might regret later on.
Jordan examined my countenance with an almost pitying expression, before standing to collect her things.
“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, and…” I trailed off once again, staring down at my shoes contemplatively as she turned to go.
She looked at me once more with that same pitying expression, but this time I saw a glint of recognition in her eyes.
“And then there are people like us.” I thought I heard her mutter as she strode away, but I was too lost in thought to be entirely sure.
***
I contacted Daisy that night to invite her over for afternoon tea. She readily accepted, raving about how long it had been since we’d had “Just a good old chat between friends, I am your cousin after all Nicky you really must invite me over more often!”
The next day seemed to come all too quickly. Gatsby was surprisingly willing to let me organize the proceedings with little interference.
That is if you ignore the inordinate amount of flowers that now decorated every free surface in my little cottage.
Earlier that morning, a herd of blank-faced workers had marched through my front door, quite unannounced, and unloaded what must have been an entire jungle’s worth of flora onto my living room carpet.
Then as quickly as they had arrived, they were gone, leaving me to find a spot for each of the plants that didn’t constitute a serious tripping hazard.
Once the confusion of the sudden delivery had worn off, making all of the final preparations was quite simple. I picked up a small assortment of lemon cakes from my local bakery, and set out a table and three chairs in the backyard.
These later proved to be unnecessary, as a heavy downpour of rain soiled my chances of dissipating at least a portion of what was sure to be a painfully awkward interaction into the warm summer air.
Daisy arrived a little after four, and I escorted her, somewhat self-consciously, into the greenhouse that was once my living room. She peered curiously at the abundance of greenery but graciously abstained from making any snide remarks.
No sooner had I sat down in the seat opposite her than I heard a commanding knock on the front door.
I stood with a long-suffering sigh and excused myself for a brief moment.
“Who is that?” Daisy called out to me questioningly as I made my way down the hall.
“Oh just a close friend of mine, do you mind if he drops in for a bit?”
“Oh, not at all!” Daisy replied in that cheerful way of hers, “The more the merrier!”
I sighed once more, before opening the door to the drenched, slightly shivering figure of Gatsby.
Despite the water dripping from his suit, his posture was relaxed and casual, but there was a nervousness in his eyes that I had never seen before.
Without thinking, I dragged Gatsby, soaking, through the door into the warm interior of my entryway.
Wiping the excess water from his face with my handkerchief I scolded him saying “What were you even thinking Jay? Dragging yourself over here in the pouring rain without so much as an umbrella? I’ll be shocked if you don’t catch a cold.”
When did I start referring to him as Jay?
His eyes widened at the use of his first name, and I braced myself for the inevitable correction, but it never came.
He smiled softly at me, not quite the joyful, energetic smile that had so enraptured me during our flight in the hydroplane all those weeks ago, but something warmer, more fond.
After a slight pause I smiled back, but the moment was broken by Daisy’s shrill voice drifting over to us from the living room.
“Nicky dear, are you still there? I would love to meet this friend of yours.”
Gatsby’s eyes snapped up towards the door, and I was reminded of why he’d made the short trip here in the first place. I bit back another sigh and began to escort him into the living room.
The moment Daisy laid eyes on Gatsby she let out a sharp gasp, her face turning pale as a sheet. The pause that followed was suffocating, as though a heavy blanket had been draped over the room.
Daisy was the first to break the silence, “I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.”
Gatsby, seemingly unable to summon the courage to reply, simply nodded awkwardly.
After another moment of unbearable silence, in which I searched desperately for any sort of conversation starter, only to come up dismally empty, I excused myself from the stifling air of the living room.
I hoped, foolishly perhaps, that giving the two former lovers some privacy would also give them the courage needed to sort out whatever delicate feelings still lay unresolved between them.
I seemed to have guessed correctly, for when I re-entered the room, Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and Gatsby was smiling his usual, charismatic smile.
“Say old sport,” he said, turning to face me “Why don’t you show Daisy and her husband around one of my parties sometime? I have a rather large one planned this Friday if you’re interested.”
This last offer was directed at Daisy, who sent him a watery smile in return, her voice wavering softly.
“That… That would be lovely Jay. I’ll try my best to persuade Tom, but you know how he is with parties.”
She shot Nick a knowing look.
“Oh, of course, no pressure, no pressure at all.”
Gatsby sent her another of his glowing smiles, and I felt something sour crawl its way into my gut.
I made myself scarce with some half-hearted excuse, and exited the room once again.
On my way out the door, I caught a glimpse of Gatsby shooting me a concerned frown, but as I turned back to get a closer look, it was gone, his attention focused solely on Daisy.
***
Friday evening I greeted Daisy and Tom at Gatsby's front gate. Daisy appeared ecstatic, the small feather attached to her bejeweled headband bouncing up and down in time with her spirited gate. Tom, on the other hand, looked as if he had swallowed several angry bees on his way over.
Daisy eagerly accepted my proffered arm and began chattering excitedly about five different things at once, switching topics so quickly that I had to do a double-take each time she opened her mouth.
Tom gave me a stern grunt of what I assumed was acknowledgment as we began to make our way up the winding gravel drive.
Daisy’s beaming smile fell slightly at the sight of the tumultuous sea of unruly guests that had congregated on the neverending expanse of Gatsby’s front lawn.
Making our way through the pressing throng of people, I caught sight of Jordan making pleasant conversation with a young woman dressed in an elegant red dress.
I caught Jordan’s eye and sent her an encouraging wink, she sighed and waved me off with an exasperated hand.
I chuckled before steering Daisy and Tom away from the two women, not wanting to disrupt their exchange.
After much jostling and wading through crowds of drunken partygoers, we finally made it to the center of the festivities.
Tom’s sour demeanor brightened immediately at the sight of several free-flowing bottles of champagne and other strangely colored liquors, Daisy only pursed her lips.
I considered inquiring after what was troubling her, but she took my curious gaze as permission enough.
“It’s… much louder than I was expecting.”
I couldn’t help but bark out a surprised laugh that I quickly tried to stifle with my sleeve. Daisy shot me an offended glare, but it held a little bite.
“I assumed that you would be able to hear the commotion from across the bay,” I chuckled, “Gatsby isn’t exactly the most subtle of people.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.” Daisy muttered back, almost bitterly, “Where is he anyhow? I did come to this party at his invitation after all.”
I peered across the dance floor for a glimpse of blond hair and tan skin, feeling as if I was searching for the parent of an impatient child.
I finally found Gatsby lounging in his usual perch at the top of the central staircase.
His light pink suit and honey blonde hair seemed to glow with an almost ethereal radiance in the soft light of the evening, and it was with a great effort that I tore my eyes away from him to take Daisy’s arm and lead her over to the staircase.
Her stormy expression, which had become gradually more and more disgusted as we passed several tables of scantily clad dancers and highly intoxicated partygoers, suddenly cleared.
She practically flew up the marble steps, catapulting herself into Gatsby’s arms with a dramatic sigh.
“Everyone here is so dreadfully loud Jay, how ever do you manage to throw these parties each week without going deaf?”
Gatsby laughed in his usual charming manner, but I could sense a touch of discomfort underneath his amiable demeanor.
“Oh you know,” he said offhandedly, “You get used to it after a little while. Besides, when they aren’t roaring drunk, most of the people here are quite interesting to talk to.”
I gave a snort of laughter, but Daisy only wrinkled her nose in distaste, still clinging to Gatsby as if he were a lone tree in a tropical storm.
Gatsby carefully disentangled himself from her firm grasp, taking a step back before bowing dramatically and extending his hand toward her.
“It’s a lovely evening for a dance don’t you think? Would a fair lady such as yourself care to join me on the floor for a song or two?”
Daisy giggled and gladly accepted his hand, allowing herself to be led down the staircase toward the dance floor.
I rolled my eyes at his theatrics and chuckled softly as he twirled Daisy into a cinematic foxtrot.
Despite the gaiety of the scene unfolding before me, I couldn’t help but bite back a small frown as that same sour feeling from before clawed its way into my stomach and up my throat, curdling my once good-natured mood.
Deciding that drowning my inner conflicts in a bottomless glass of champagne seemed like a rather attractive option at the moment, I began to make my way over to the rather large table of drinks in the far corner.
I had just acquired a long-stemmed glass of some gold liquor that I assumed to be champagne,—you could never be sure at one of Gatsby’s parties, he liked to mix things up every once and a while—when I heard a high-pitched, blood-curdling squawk.
The once raucous sounds of the party were sent to a grinding halt. Even the jovial music, from a live orchestra of course, faltered for an uncertain moment.
I whipped my head around and saw a large crowd of people gathered around Daisy and Gatsby.
They had stopped their graceful dance and were now standing several feet apart. Gatsby looked mortified, his striking features colored a deep red. Daisy’s expression was murderous, her face also tinted a deep crimson, as she pointed an accusing finger at a young woman who bore the same embarrassed expression as Gatsby, although it was more fearful than guilty.
With a start I realized that it was the same woman who had been talking to Jordan mere moments before. She clutched an empty wine glass in one pale hand, and it was at this moment that I noticed the sickly yellow stain that had begun to seep into Daisy’s dress like a splash of liquid gold.
“She spilled her drink on me!” Daisy shrieked, “Oh you must have done it on purpose you- you,” Her cheeks puffed out with rage as she searched for a proper insult.
Luckily, before she could dig herself into a deeper hole, Gatsby put a consoling hand on her shoulder.
“Daisy I- I’m terribly sorry. It must have been an accident, I can buy you a new dress if you wish, this did happen at my party after all.”
The last part of his statement was said with a sheepish glance down at his shoes, it was clear he was ashamed, but he seemed to be recovering quickly, his dark blush quickly receding.
Daisy whirled around to face him, knocking his hand off her shoulder in the process.
“That’s right. This is your party, Jay.” She spoke through clenched teeth, spitting his name out of her mouth as if it were poison.
“If I hadn’t come to this cesspool of- of filth and raucous misbehavior none of this would have happened!”
She marched towards her husband, who was standing at the edge of the crowd chatting in hushed tones to a young dancer clad in a shimmering dress.
“Tom, we’re leaving.”
He seemed reluctant to abandon his newest distraction, but he tore himself away with a nod and flirtatious wink that had Daisy rolling her eyes in disgust.
The imposing pair strutted their way out of the crowd unhindered, guests scrambling to get out of their way.
Slowly, the party began to regain some of its former vigor, hushed whispers of confusion and several snide remarks cutting through the heavy silence.
I looked over at Gatsby anxiously, expecting to find him staring helplessly after Daisy, a despondent look in his eyes.
Instead, I was quite surprised to find him looking over at me with his eyebrows creased in confusion.
He began to step toward me but paused, hesitating for a moment before making up his mind and walking over.
“Old sport, could you see me in my study for a moment? There are,” He paused again, trying to find the right words, “Some things I would like to discuss.”
I nodded solemnly and followed him into the upper levels of the mansion.
Gatsby gestured towards a large oaken door at the end of a winding hallway and ushered me inside, shutting it firmly before taking a seat in a plush, leather armchair.
I took the seat opposite him and looked up expectantly.
He didn’t speak, seemingly lost in thought as he stared out the large, ornate window that took up most of the far wall of his study.
Unable to bear the silence any longer, I spoke softly, trying to keep my voice carefully neutral.
“Jay, are you quite alright? That was… Quite the scene back there.”
To my surprise, Gatsby began to laugh, a hint of hysteria in his tone.
“That’s just it old sport,” He breathed an exasperated sigh, still grinning madly, “I’m fine! I threw this whole damn party for her, hell, I hosted all of these foolish parties in the inane hope that she would attend. And the moment she does, the moment everything I’ve been striving to achieve for the past five years is within my grasp, it fails horribly, and I’m not upset at all!”
I stared at him, open-mouthed, this fiery outburst so contradicted everything I had learned of Jay Gatsby up until this point that I was left at a loss for words.
“And this stupid giddiness that’s plagued me from the moment I met you,” He punctuated this statement with a wild gesture in my general direction.
At this point, I was blushing furiously, and I began to wonder if this was all a dream. A confusing, fantastic, wonderful dream.
Gatsby barreled on, unphased by my silence.
“I was in love with Daisy old sport, I really was, but that was years ago. And now I can’t help but think that what I truly wished for was to go back to those happy, straightforward days before the war. Back when everything was so much more simple.
"But I realize now that living in the past isn’t doing me any favors, and that warm, excited feeling that’s plagued me all summer? Well, when I was dancing with Daisy, laughing with her like it was 1917 again, that feeling wasn’t there. Not even a trace. But I’ve just realized that feeling wasn’t there for her. It was there for you.”
His voice became softer, less erratic, and I gasped sharply, my already flushed face darkening even further.
“You’ve been there with me every step of the way Nick, you’re the most loyal person I know, and your blunt honesty, your humor, hell your company alone is intoxicating. I- I don’t quite know how else to phrase it Nick, I think I might-”
Emboldened by Gatsby’s heartfelt show of emotion, and rather unable to come up with an adequate verbal response, I sprung out of my chair and strode over to him, taking his face in my hands and smashing our lips together.
That seemed to shut him up nicely, and I let out a contented sigh as we parted. I examined his expression carefully, searching for any signs of discomfort, but found only that glowing, radiant smile that had so enraptured me all those months ago.
I smiled back, feeling as though I was once again soaring through the air in that magnificent hydroplane, my worries left behind on the ground to be forgotten.