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It seemed as though the warm glow of the summer sun, unblocked by tumbling white clouds, went away as soon as it came, replaced by crisp breezes carrying delicate fallen leaves in brown and red and gold across the ground. The once-dewy blades of rolling green grass were covered with fallen plant matter that I hadn’t bothered to rake, not when there would be another blanket of them the next day.
It didn’t matter for long, of course, because not long into that stretch of cool autumn days, I moved out of the little cottage on the grounds of a Long Island mansion that I had rented for a mere eighty dollars a month. It served me well, but at times, especially after meeting the love of my life, it felt too small to house all the affection I felt.
“That’s the last box.” I set down a crate of various bits and bobs—honestly, I wasn’t even sure how I had acquired half of the items littering my home—and glanced in the direction of the owner of my new abode, a man that, if it was legal for two men to be married, I would call my husband.
Jay Gatsby never got less beautiful, not from the day I met him at one of his fancy parties. I remembered what Jordan Baker had said about preferring large parties to small ones, on account of small parties lacking in privacy, and though I had made an effort to agree with her then, now I could solemnly say that the smaller the party, the better. For example, my preferred size was two.
I set down the box and stepped over to him. He was wearing a plum-colored suit with a lavender shirt beneath, which was a choice that somehow worked against the soft gleam of his big blue eyes and beneath the gold hair that was gelled down perfectly on his head. He was smiling, which was always a treat, because his smile was one that could cut through the coldest of hearts like a hot knife through butter. His smile was what kept me sane at the big parties where it felt like the world was spinning far too fast for me to get a proper handle on it, like a beacon, and I flew to his side like a moth to a flame without hesitation.
I would have told you I hated him a few months ago, if I were to be entirely honest, which I pride myself on being despite the fact that I am not completely ideologically opposed to the telling of a little white lie every now and again, and either way there was a lot of truth to my supposed hatred of the blonde. I hated the way he made my heart race and my cheeks flush and my lower stomach form what felt like pools of honey, deep and thick and rich and so sickeningly sweet it made my supper come back the way it entered me. I hated that when I was around him, I had this almost animalistic desire to jump on him and throw my mouth against his and ravage it, then pull away and hope a string of spit still connected us.
A few months ago, I’d have said he disgusted me, but I was really quite disgusted in myself.
I believe it was Lucille McKee who had convinced me otherwise.
I had been regularly spending long hours with her husband when I had the time, hours that, on that particular Wednesday, Lucille informed me he enjoyed quite greatly.
“He likes it a lot.” She had set a plate of sandwiches and tea down on the table beside me, apologizing for the fact that my regular ‘date’ was off on what she had initially said was a business trip.
I learned later that it was, in fact, a hook-up.
“As outgoing as he is, I think part of him gets discouraged. People aren’t often…accepting.”
Now, despite my knowing both McKees for a while at the point, and having even spent some, admittedly, drunken quality time with the male half of the pair, I hadn’t the foggiest idea what she was implying. She must have noticed the confused look on my face because she smiled and poured more tea as she explained.
“We often get told we appear to be in a sort of loveless marriage.” She sat down beside me and took a sip of her own tea, holding her pinky finger in the air like royalty. “And that’s not entirely true, I’ve considered Chester my best friend for years now…there is truth in saying we don’t love each other in the natural way that everyone claims a man and a woman should. Do you understand, Mr. Carraway?”
Oh, I understood, and I wasn’t fond of the implication. That night with Chester had been fully alcohol-induced, I had been drunk for the second ever time in my life.
That’s what I told myself, anyway.
“I suppose I do.” I bit into a sandwich, attempting to fill my mouth and avoid talking, which did not work.
“In fact, I assume he’s out with some fellow now. It’s been regular, someone named…oh, I don’t remember. As long as he and I are married, though, we’re free from the eyes of the public.” She sighed into her teacup and I began to wonder why in the world she was telling me all this. Eleven in the morning was a bit too early to have her honesty be sourced from whiskey or perhaps wine. Unless, of course, she honestly thought I was like her too?
“It was only a fluke, with me.” I said slowly. “But I have nothing against it. Against you.”
She cocked her head to one side, likening her to a dog, and a confused one at that. “Are you not a homosexual? I suppose I assumed because you kept coming back.”
“I…I don’t know.”
I left, and left the letter Chester sent a few days later on the kitchen table too. The sick sort of guilt hung heavy inside me for days, in my stomach whenever I wanted to eat, in the backs of my eyes when I wanted to close them for the night and in their lids when I had to get up and face the day. My mind was plagued with thoughts of Gatsby, who I had taken a liking to in a way I had convinced myself was platonic, or idolizing.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
I tried my best to shake the thoughts out of my head. After all, I was still with Jordan Baker, I couldn’t love men if I was quite literally dating a woman! It turned out, she had a handle on the situation as well.
“Sit down.” She had ordered me, twirling her golf club in her dominant hand, and thus inclining me to do as she said, which was not hard, but rather annoying as I had just stood to meet her at the front door.
“You look ill.” She threw herself down beside me. Evidently my McKee-induced fits of panic had left me green and slightly thinner than usual. “And I know why. It’s not really fair of us to not see this through proper, don’t you agree?”
There were many times in my life where I was left clueless by a woman, and like with Lucille a few weeks before, this was one of them.
“Our…relationship? Is this a proposal?”
“What? No, idiot! Look, I haven’t been totally honest with you, I quite thought you saw it when I did!” Her hands balled into fists and I was slightly worried she was going to beat me. She did not.
“Saw what, exactly?” I felt as though I were about to be reunited with the bowl of oatmeal and honey I had eaten prior, the sinking feeling returning to the depths of my stomach. If I hadn’t known exactly where the feeling came from, I would have called it deja vǔ.
“You and your obsession with your neighbor! You asked me on dates to cover that up, didn’t you?” Her face took on a grim expression as she realized that I did not, in fact, ask her out for this reason. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
She stared at me blankly. “You didn’t stop to think for one moment that we’ve just about never had a romantic interaction?”
“Uh…no.”
“You know what, Nick? You’re dumber than I thought.”
That night, I couldn’t even bring myself to lay down. My thoughts swam with memories of everything that had happened, and it was enough to make my head hurt like hell. Chester’s letter still sat unopened beside my fruit bowl, my so-called lover had ditched me on the assumption that I didn’t want the same as her, and god dammit, could Gatsby have chosen any other night for a roaring party? The last thing I wanted was to go over there and see Jay Gatsby, the most beautiful man on the planet.
So, with my newly discovered love for self-torment, I dug my finest suit out of the back of my closet and changed into it, straightening my tie, and hopefully the rest of me, along with it.
I had discovered by that point in the summer that the best way to avoid your problems was to drink until you were unconscious on your extremely attractive neighbor’s front lawn, so the moment I set foot onto his property, my only goal was to cause myself the worst possible hangover the next morning. I passed by people I knew: Jordan Baker was there, leaning against a wall and talking flirtatiously to a girl in a short silver dress. I noticed a few other West Eggers; regulars, people I would no doubt have to avoid in order to keep my new, pressing secret to myself.
God, what had my life come to?
I was already on my third glass of something or other, I was too, I believe determined is the word, to figure that out, when all of my worst nightmares became reality and I went crashing into Jay Gatsby, and when I did, blushed so red you would have thought he asked to kiss me on the mouth. With a chuckle, he helped me back to my feet.
“Careful where you step, old sport.” He held both of my shoulders to stabilize me, and I was picturing some obscene things in my head as his eyes locked on to mine. “Wasted already? The sun’s barely set!”
“I am not!” I replied, a little too loudly and some nearby heads turned, which did nothing positive for my outright humiliation. I cleared my throat, and then repeated myself in a quieter voice: “I am not.”
“Good to hear.” He clapped me on the shoulder and I wanted to beg him not to let go. “Good to see you came by, as well. Normally you’re one of the first to arrive, you worried me.”
I was hinging on his every word as though each were sent from heaven specifically for me, which was stupid, or, I thought it was the night after. To this day I swear I saw a flicker of something in his gleaming blue eyes.
Today, I know that that something is undying love.
The party roared on for hours, and with every sway of a woman’s hips, every blare of the brass band, every overjoyed howl of laughter, I had another drink. Before I knew it, I was so unsteady on my own two feet that I was oddly reminiscent of a fawn.
“Need some help there, old sport?” He was one of the only people left. The sun would be crawling into the sky from the east soon enough, and nobody wanted to stick around to see it. Anyone who remained in the mansion’s grand halls was like me: drunk as all hell.
“M’fine.” I managed to mumble. Even in my heavily intoxicated state, I knew that bodily contact was a bad idea. Drunk Nick did a lot of things that sober Nick has come to regret.
“Are you sure?” He sounded concerned, and that was attractive, and oh god, I was gay and a sinner and an all-around mess of a man, because Jay Gatsby was here, doting on me and part of my brain was sitting back, watching the show, and telling me to get hammered more often if it meant this kind of attention. “I want to be sure you can get home by yourself. Maybe…it’s safer for you to stay here?”
I grinned at him, a full, toothy smile, and promptly passed out on his floor, flat on my face in a puddle of discarded bourbon.
I didn’t wake up until past noon the next day, and when I did, I was instantly met with a splitting headache and an anxiously pounding heart. I was under several layers of very expensive looking comforters, laying on a luxe feather pillow, and at the foot of the bed, a stack of velvety soft blankets was folded for my comfort. There was a thick scent of ocean breeze and wildflowers, which my brain, even through all the throbbing pain, managed to clock as Jay Gatsby’s cologne.
I wanted to throw up. I had never hated myself more than I did in that moment, surrounded by the one smell I wished more than anything I would never have to pick up again.
I pulled myself up against the headboard, wincing as my eyes met the light from the window that overlooked the bay. The curtains had been drawn as if in some sort of routine. Someone had been here, and judging by the sound of footsteps down the hallway, that someone was coming back.
With slight unease, I got to my feet and stumbled forward, reaching out at every wall to steady myself. At the same time, the bedroom door swung open, and I was once again sweaty, flush, and face to face with Jay Gatsby.
“Morning, old sport.” He said jovially. “Well, afternoon, rather. Feeling alright?”
“Fine,” I chirped, and tried to slip past him, but he took a smooth step leftward and blocked my path.
“Are you lying to me? You were completely out of it when I brought you upstairs and I can smell the alcohol on your breath.” It took me longer than I’d like to admit in order to notice just how close he had leaned, standing at an angle, looking at me in a way I likened to a cat watching a mouse.
“No…” I said, lying through my teeth. “Of course not.”
“Stay there, old sport. I’ll have tea and a meal brought up for you, and anything else you need. Water? Aspirin? A cold cloth? Extra blankets?”
I dismissed all of this and once again tried to get around him, but he didn’t budge, and his broad-shouldered, muscular, handsome….perfect body…
He wouldn’t have been easy to move.
“I’m okay.” I lied again, giving up on my mad dash out of his house. “I must have had a lot more than I thought I did last night, but I’m okay now. I hold my alcohol well.”
“Mm, yes, of course.” He seemed unconvinced. “Your head must be pounding. Lay down, rest.”
Part of me began to wonder if he truly thought me incapable of going home, or if he just wanted me to stay. I always thought of Jay Gatsby as mostly honest, perhaps not as much so as myself, but still, honest none the less.
This, though…this made me question him.
If Gatsby really wanted me to stick around for whatever sort of companionship he imagined I would provide, surely he would just tell me, wouldn’t he? If it weren’t for the ill feeling that hadn’t left my stomach since having tea with Lucille weeks ago, I would have been happy to stay.
Now, as I looked into his eyes, my own reflection stared back at me, as if he were a lark-mirror, only it was sickening to see. Distorted and blurred and disgusting, like the sinner I was, like the insides of my mind had been corrupted, my heart unable to do its job. I sighed as I thought about my mother, who had been so overjoyed when I wrote to her about Jordan, and how disappointed she would be when she found out her thirty year old son was once again alone and loveless.
Emphasis on the alone, because once again, I knew I sure as hell was in love.
“Really, I must be going.” I threw a desperate glance over his shoulder, but with a swift motion, he grasped my right wrist and tugged, stepping alongside me and sitting me down at the foot of his bed.
“It’s Saturday, old sport, just relax. Honey in your tea? Milk?”
God, I hated Jay Gatsby.
That was my only thought as I sipped from the delicate, presumably hand-painted teacup. He had somehow gotten it made exactly how I liked it and at the perfect temperature, and besides, I was raised not to be wasteful. I hated that.
I hated his beautiful eyes that searched my soul and found every insecurity, I hated his strong arms that I also desperately wanted to fall asleep wrapped in, I hated his hair the color of the beach on a bright summer’s day, I hated everything about Jay Gatsby.
Perhaps I would be okay with being in love with Gatsby if it didn’t make me gay. Perhaps I would be okay with being gay if it didn’t make me fall for a man who would never want me in such a way. But of course, every fucking star aligned in a way I had previously thought impossible.
I polished off the tea in a few quick gulps, then slammed the cup down on the nightstand in an attempt to not have to look at it. What were the chances I could get up and go? Surely he wasn’t camping outside his own bedroom door! Surely he had better things to do!
The moment my feet hit the ground, he appeared, followed by a butler carrying a tray of freshly-made cakes and another cup of tea. Could Jay Gatsby be any less perfect, for my sake?
“Mr. Gatsby, I do appreciate all of this!” I scrambled to his side, shifting myself closer and closer to the doorway. “I do! But I have plenty of things to do back home and I find it rather unfair for you to keep me here without consent!”
Goodness, Nick, calm down, it’s not like he was trying to kidnap you! That’s what I would have told myself if I could have stepped in. Gatsby first looked to the butler, gave him a nod, and let him walk out, taking the food and drink with him. Then, he turned to me.
“I apologize.” He bowed his head in my direction. “I suppose I’m a bad host and a worse caretaker. Will you at least allow me to walk you home?”
There was a sad look about him, and it made my heart ache. He cared. He was trying to do right by me after I did wrong by him. His gaze was downcast, but I could see how milky his bright blue eyes had become.
“Please, do.” I took a deep breath, and then, gathering all my courage, I shakily reached out for his hand. To my surprise, joy, and perhaps a bit of frustration, he took it and held it tight.
The walk to my place wasn’t long, but it felt that way, because every step brought me a little bit further from morality and a little bit closer to the edge of my sanity. Gatsby had not let go of my hand, which, if I had avoided recent realizations, I would have been quite pleased about. Unfortunately, pleasing this was not.
I was just thankful that the lack of distance between his grand manor and my humble cottage was short enough that no other homes, and most fortunately, people, stood between them. The only living beings we passed were a pair of squirrels who darted up into the branches of an old maple tree the moment they heard our footsteps.
“Here we are, old sport.” He let go of my hand only when we finally reached the few feet of space before the steps to my front porch. I was soon to find out just how warm and sweaty I truly was, because he tried to be slick in wiping off the residue, but the pulling of a pink handkerchief from his pocket drew my attention.
“Thank you.” I nodded at him, what was meant to be a goodbye, that he took as an invitation to stand beside me on the front steps and fondle my hands again. Our eyes met for what felt like the millionth time lately, and, regretfully, almost, I said nothing as he pulled me in.
It was full of emotion. The moment our mouths met, his lips parted and his tongue was running along my lower lip. Just because there were no homes between my place and his did not mean our stretch of West Egg along the Long Island Sound was completely devoid of people, and, not wanting to take any chances on someone’s eyes wandering, I did what I could, pulling away for long enough to drag him inside. He had forced me against the sofa near the door, hovering over me, a glimmering strand of spit hanging from his upper lip as he dove back in. By now, he was straddling me, gripping my face with both hands and fighting my tongue with his. I was powerless against him.
He only rolled off when he was breathing so heavily that the rise and fall of his chest reminded me of fireplace bellows. His golden hair was defiled, sweat coating his hairline and dotting his face. I felt like a bowl of jelly, and did not dare to get up. We looked at each other again, with a sort of fearful fascination.
Jay Gatsby looked awfully pretty like this.
He stood up, and bid me farewell. Here began my double life as a man in love.
I believe it was Chester McKee who talked me into it.
Now that the pit in my stomach had lessened in size, I had risked tearing open his letter, which turned out to be a mere apology and invitation to join he and his wife for dinner. I wrote back, apologizing in turn for my lateness, and we set up a date well into August. I arrived, and Chester opened the door with a wink.
“Good to see you again! Been far too long, hasn’t it?” He was wearing perhaps the oddest collection of clothing I had ever seen, but I reminded myself that Chester also happened to be one of the oddest men I knew. I went inside and sat down, smiling as Lucille poured me a glass of brandy.
“I do hope you don’t mind the lack of dessert, Mr. Carraway.” Lucille threw a displeased glance at the oven. “Leave it to me to let a cake bake for a whole hour past its due.”
“It’s no issue, really.” I assured her, and her husband sat down in the seat across from me.
“So, how’s my favorite bondsman been?” He inquired through a sip of his drink. “I hope we didn’t offend you too terribly.”
“No, no…” I swirled my glass in thought. “Only made me wonder, I suppose.”
“Wonder what?” Lucille pulled out a chair beside her husband and leaned forward, listening in carefully.
“I guess I’ve just been considering…who I’m attracted to.” I did my best to word it incredibly carefully, which resulted in Chester bursting into laughter.
“Only now? After we slept together multiple times?” He slammed his fist down on the table, shaking the glasses and cutlery laid out. “I didn’t know you were that-“
“Chester!” Lucille nudged him. “Manners. You can’t blame the man, I didn’t know until the fling with that girl from Texas.”
“Welcome to the club.” Chester said through his fit of laughter. “And if you ever get desperate, Adam’s wife found out about me and moved him out to Delaware.”
“Adam, that’s his name, right.” Lucille nodded sagely, and her husband rolled his eyes.
“And who was your last one? The girl you met in the subway restroom?”
“No! That was one time!”
“The milkman’s wife?”
“Chester!”
They bickered for a while, and I found myself gazing at the two of them and wondering if this is what Jordan had wanted for the two of us. As much as they bothered each other, there wasn’t a hint of malice in their actions. It was kind of heartwarming in a way.
Eventually, with Lucille crossing her arms in a huff after reminding her husband that, no, she did not have an affair with their neighbor’s sister, the arguing died down and dinner was served. I had to hand it to Lucille, she wasn’t as bad a cook as she claimed.
“So,” Chester began after gulping back a bite of his meal, “Nick. Who is it that’s got you all hot and bothered. Some fellow at work?”
I blushed. “Not exactly…”
His eyes widened. “No. No. Nick, you aren’t-”
“If you’re thinking of one of the richest men in New York City, uh, you’ve got him.”
Lucille nearly spit out her food. “You’re sleeping with Jay Gatsby?!”
I was quick to draw a finger to my lips and silence her. The McKees weren’t rich, or even above the average pay grade, and thus the walls of their apartment were thin. The last thing I needed was an over-curious neighbor poking around, especially since everyone knew Gatsby’s name.
“Kind of.” I admitted. “I’ve been seeing him.”
“Kissing him?” Chester teased. “Anything more?”
My face was redder than a freshly cut rose in a scarlet-hued vase. I didn’t even know how to formulate a suitable answer because to me, everything was more than kissing. Every moment I spent with Jay Gatsby was special and I cherished each one and the memory of it.
“You’re making him uncomfortable.” Lucille pointed out. “Give him a chance to breathe.”
“I guess so, yes.” I finally squeaked out. “But it’s not like it’s anything serious! After all, a man like him, and a man like me? It could never work. Never.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Chester stood up from the table and beckoned me over to the sofa. I obliged, and sat down next to him. From a shelf beside the sofa he pulled out a portfolio, which, when he flipped through it, I discovered was mostly filled with photographs of bare-naked men.
“The thing about being with other men is they don’t often want to be with other men.” He said, as though this were some sort of incredibly wise proverb he picked up from the masters. “The fact that he’s been seeing you repeatedly and not just, you know, giving it a try, is a good sign.”
I supposed he was right, but in truth I had no worldly idea why he had pulled out the portfolio. I decided not to question it and instead ask what was best to do next.
“If you’re brave, ask him to be yours.” Chester shrugged. “I’ve done it once or twice. Sometimes it ends well.”
That didn’t instill much confidence in me, but it was getting late, and I didn’t want to miss the train home. I bid the McKees a goodnight and headed swiftly into the unquiet darkness.
There I was, standing, or rather, leaning in the foyer of Jay Gatsby’s mansion. My back was flush with the wall and Gatsby was pushing his body against mine, mouth making my neck and collarbone into a masterpiece of purple and blue and black. I was weak in the knees, falling all over him as he pulled away.
“You alright, old sport?” He asked, though I knew he had an idea of the answer.
“Better than alright.” I confirmed. “But a little confused. Do you…” I was scared to say it. “Do you love me?”
And just like in the midst of those massive parties, his smile said it all, clearing the fog for me. “Of course I do, old sport. I thought that love was implied here.”
He touched my face tenderly, the back of his hand to my jawline, and our lips met in what I can only describe as a perfect kiss. I leaned on him, no longer scared to do so. The world seemed to melt away, leaving the two of us in a gentle embrace at the center of all of it. There was no more chaos or confusion, no more unbearable summer heat. Now, there was only me, me and Jay Gatsby, his gleaming blue eyes shut gently, his breathing slow, his warmth pressing against my body in a way that made me feel so in place that I knew I could stay here for the rest of my life. There was only me, and him, and a perfect evening in the midst of a world that hated us.
The next few weeks were what I would call bliss. There was a thing Lucille told me during one dinner—the first dinner with friends Jay had accompanied me to, actually—about how people like us fell in love faster for fear of losing more, and I suppose it must have been true, because from that perfect, unforgettable kiss onward, Jay and I were tied at the hip. Every morning I would wake up to a face smothered in kisses, and every night I would fall asleep to the rhythmic sound of his breaths and little snores. I had always been a restless sleeper, but with Jay, all of my troubles seemed to disappear.
He had suggested that I could move in with him on a whim one evening. We had been sitting together on the sofa, I with my notebook, scratching in ideas for a new book, Jay peering curiously over my shoulder. There was a moment of silence between us, and he filled it by pulling me backwards against him.
“What are you doing?” I wanted to sound angry, but how could I be? Not with the man I loved in the comfort of a home I knew the ins and outs of!
“What does it look like, old sport? I’m getting comfortable.”
“Okay, okay…” I adjusted my position, shifting backwards so my body fit nicely against his like a puzzle piece. “Happy now?”
“Do you mind if I take my shirt off?” He asked, partially out of the blue, and I nodded, but asked for an explanation.
“I read an article in the paper that mentioned skin to skin contact is good for a person.” He undid the top few buttons of his shirt, letting it part to reveal soft curls of golden chest hair. I recalled the article in question, though I also remembered faintly that it was in regards to newborn babies, which I let him know with a usual, honest tone
“I could hold you like a baby, old sport!” Was his response, joking, but still oddly eager. Though part of me was curious, I politely declined.
I rested my head against his bare chest and set down my notebook, sighing as his arms found their way around my torso. There was no going back now. I had discovered what love was, and I wasn’t about to go crying back to the shame I had been living in.
“Nick, old sport, you do know the sun is due to set any minute now?” He inquired after a while. “Would you like me to walk you home?”
I didn’t answer. The thought of leaving him, even for a night, was now the idea to make me sick to my stomach. Besides, walks home were dangerous! What if someone was driving by and saw? I had never quite gotten over the fear of being found out, after all!
“I’d rather stay here.” I admitted sheepishly. However, despite my initial unease, the reply left Jay beaming.
“Well then, let’s get you set upstairs!” He flew to his feet, letting my head fall back against the spot his rear had just been. “And tomorrow, we’ll fetch your things. Though…”
His eyes wandered to the window, facing the bay. “Would you come with me for a moment? There’s something I’d like to show you.”
He led me out onto the soft sand of the beach we technically shared, which I had used, at his invitation, many times throughout the summer. I chuckled as I saw it: the spot he had stood when I first saw him, staring out at the water. I told him so, and he wrapped an arm around my waist. I was taller than him by a thin margin, just enough for his head to sit perfectly on my shoulder.
“See that?” He gestured to another manor across the bay, partially obscured by shadow and fog. “Do you recognize it?”
“Daisy’s?”
“That’s right. And every night I would come out here to the dock and gaze across at it and promise myself that one day she would be mine, that I would have everything I wanted all those years ago before I left for the war. And…that didn’t happen.”
“Clearly.”
“After the Buchanans left, I suppose I discovered that I already had what I wanted from Daisy, from you.” He propped his head back up, then crouched down, one knee against the golden sand. “Nick, look down.”
He was raising a small, velvet box for me to see, and I realized with a funny jolt that this was a marriage proposal, or at least it seemed like one.
The ring was a thick band of what I assumed was pure gold, studded with the richest green emeralds I had ever laid eyes on. It sparkled like a beam of sunlight off the ocean, but what was even more beautiful, I thought, was that smile that my lover wore.
A wave of sadness then coursed through me. “Jay, darling…” I looked between him, and the ring, and then down at the sand. “We can’t. It’s…”
“I know, I know.” He inched closer. “Illegal. But, old sport, you of all people should know I am not one to shy away from action because the law says otherwise. No, we could never get a pastor or a big white wedding, but I can arrange for a cake, and a ring, and to call you my husband. Would you like that?”
My heart soared. I took the ring, and Jay rose to kiss me, or so I thought, because what he actually did was force me up into his arms, a bridal carry.
“I love you, Nick Carraway.” His voice was pure and clear and perfect against the waves lapping the shore and the chirping of crickets. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Jay Gatsby.” My arms wound around his shoulders to steady myself. As much as I loved him, I knew there was a good chance we’d both end up falling into the sand.
I was okay with that.
For the first time, we were the ones to host dinner. The first guest arrived within minutes, because she never seemed too far away. She was wearing a flashy dark-colored dress and was draped in elaborate silver jewelry, and I hugged her tighter than I ever had when we were together. She did not seem to appreciate this, but smiled at me nonetheless.
“I was wondering when this was gonna happen.” Jordan smirked, and I felt my cheeks heating up. “I mean, I lost a few bucks, but worth it to see you two happy.”
“Did you…Jordan, did you bet money on me finally asking him out?”
“Yes? I said after three weeks of lovestruck stares but I guess I was a bit too hopeful.”
Chester and Lucille showed up after a while, staring in awe at the manor’s interior. “I’d like to take a few pieces here, surely…” Chester murmured. “If only I brought my camera, gee…”
“There’s the happy couple!” Lucille cried, clapping her hands together excitedly. “Much happier than Chester and the mailman, at least.”
“Lucille!”
Over supper, I realized just how much happier I was than back home, than upon my arrival to New York City. Jay was on one side of me, laughing lovingly, defensively, even, at Jordan’s description of my face when I was flustered. The McKees were once again bickering, poking each other in the arm when they got the chance. The whole room was full of laughter and wonder and love.
“Nick, darling, show them your ring.” Jay leaned over and whispered into my ear. I did as he asked, and Jordan looked it over with an amazed whisper.
“It’s gorgeous…” She tapped it with a finger, smiling up at me. “Much better than what I could have provided.”
“I wouldn’t have cared if it was made of wood.” I reached for Jay’s hand, and he took it, entwining our fingers.
“Only the best for Nick.” He winked at me. “Speaking of, does anyone want a drink?”
I decided it best to decline. I was no stranger to drunken stupor, and I wanted to enjoy the night to its fullest, no alcohol involved.
Besides, Jay Gatsby was prettier when I could actually see straight to view him.