Chapter Text
We sat at that table for a while longer, pretenses of tea long abandoned, as the sun emerged from its clouds and filled the room with light. Jay in turn filled it with his voice and, intermittently, his smile. He spun grandiose tales of his exploits accomplished in our time apart, and I drank down every word like a man dying of thirst—he seemed content with only the occasional comment from me, and I was content to do little more than listen. Once he gestured so broadly as to topple over the forgotten teapot, whose contents he cleaned up with profuse apology.
“So, old sport,” He said after some indeterminable time, “Are you still in bonds?”
“Ah, no, I’m not.”
“Oh, what are you doing instead?” He leaned forward in genuine curiosity, and it seemed a poor time to explain that I had been doing very little except wallow in his death since we’d last seen each other.
“Well, I’ve been helping at the hardware store. You see, my family runs—” I was cut off by Jettie barking outside. Immediately afterwards we heard the rumble of a car coming up the drive.
He looked at me with wide eyes. “Is that—”
“My parents,” I said with rising panic.
He got up and started pacing tightly around the table. “What do we say to them? They—they can’t know it’s me. Do they know who I am?”
I nodded quickly. “I’ve… mentioned you, yes. We’ll have to say you’re someone else.”
“Okay. Okay.” I had to continuously turn my head to keep looking at him as he made his circuit around me. “Should I just go? I can come back later—”
“Not a chance.” I’d be damned if I let him out of my sight ever again.
“Okay,” He repeated. The front door creaked open and he stopped pacing mid-stride.
“Just act natural,” I whispered to him. He nodded frantically and proceeded to assume the most unnatural sitting position I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing. Chatter and rustling filtered in to us from the door. Jay scrambled to take hold of his teacup, before remembering it had shattered, then stared forlornly at his empty saucer until I took pity and gave him my cup.
“Ni-ick!” Called my mother from the entrance. “We’re home! Where are you?”
“Kitchen!” I called back. Footsteps approached. Gatsby tried to fix his hair in the reflection of the teapot to no avail, and I reached over to haphazardly fix it for him. We both snapped back to our sides of the table just as my parents breached the doorway.
“Now who do we have here!” My mother gasped, hair bouncing as she rushed up to Gatsby’s side.
My father merely looked from me, to Gatsby, then back to me and raised his eyebrows. I avoided meeting his gaze. Jettie came in last and took her place by my chair.
Jay took my mother’s hand with grace. He had visibly gathered himself, and slipped on a semblance of that elegant manner he had worn always at his parties. “Mrs. Carraway, I take it? Pleasure.” He stood to shake my father’s hand as well. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carraway.” My father simply nodded.
“This is my friend from New York,” I explained, gesturing at Gatsby as he took his seat once more, his hands jittering almost imperceptibly. “He’s come to visit for tea.”
“Wonderful tea, really!” Exclaimed Gatsby, jerkily holding up his teacup for emphasis. It was completely empty, and all residual moisture had long since evaporated, so it was impossible to tell whether it had ever actually contained a beverage. “I drank it all,” he tacked on helpfully, placing his cup back onto its saucer.
All eyes drifted to land on my own saucer, and its conspicuous lack of matching teacup.
“He’s lying, it was terrible tea,” I blurted out in explanation. “That’s why I don’t have a cup. I can’t stand to drink any.”
“Of course,” agreed Gatsby at once, “I brewed it and I did an abysmal job. I’m very sorry.”
“It’s quite alright.” I felt the need to reassure him despite the nonexistent nature of his tea-related shortcoming.
My mother let out a titter of laughter as she and my father took their seats beside us, asking Jay, “Care to tell us your name?”
“Yes, of course,” Jay said, looking helplessly at me. I pretended to sneeze to buy him time. “It’s, uh… Jayce. Jayce Cody!” He smiled then, and his hastily constructed disguise seemed suddenly tangible under its light.
“Wonderful to meet you,” Beamed my mother. “It’s amazing to see Nick with a friend. How did you two meet, anyhow?”
“Why, we met in the war!” Jay declared with aplomb.
“Yes,” I hastily corroborated. “And we met again in New York.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Coworkers!” Burst out Jay.
“We worked on the same floor,” I elaborated, in an effort to increase the credibility of the statement.
“Yes, I just love bonds. Can't get enough of them,” Jay exclaimed with an enthusiasm suggesting an undying love of investments and banking.
“He studied economics in college,” I explained. In a momentary inclination towards playfulness, I added: “At Oxford.” Jay looked at me slyly, out of the corner of his eye, and I felt a little breathless with the wry amusement he held for me carrying on this most basic of rumor about him.
“That’s wonderful,” Exalted my mother with a bright smile, “Nick’s never had a coworker over before. What brings you all the way out here?”
“You know, work.” Jay made a vague sort of gesture that conveyed no meaning at all. “We’re looking into the local bond market, you see…”
He went on, making up some description of the bond-related activities he was doing here. Even I was almost convinced by the total confidence in his voice, despite the glaring inaccuracies in every word he said. My mother seemed completely enamored.
Jay continued, “In fact, Nick and I were discussing bonds right up until your return. I knew to consult him immediately upon my arrival—his expertise is unrivaled in all of the middle west.” I tried to tell him with my eyes that he was overdoing it. He smiled back at me innocently. I kicked his shin lightly under the table, and he did an incredible job of acting like he hadn’t felt a thing. I saw my father concealing an amused smirk out of the corner of my eye, and I committed myself to sitting as still as I possibly could.
My mother and Jay’s conversation shifted eventually to the topic of the hotel he was staying at. “It’s a small place,“ he was saying, “And it’s a little farther from the city than I’d like, but it’ll do.”
My father got my attention by staring unblinkingly into my eyes until I finally met his gaze. He jerked his head towards Jay in a way that meant ‘who really is this guy?’ and I smiled as if to say ‘he’s a good man.’ He nodded and seemed to be mulling something over for a while.
“Nick,” said my father at last, during a lull in Jay’s ramblings, “This fellow is important to you. Yes?”
Caught off-guard, I answered on instinct, “Why—yes.” Jay’s eyes widened a little at this admission.
My father hummed. “Very well. Mr. Cody, I’d like to invite you to stay in our guest room.” Stunned silence from all three of us. “It would be more convenient for you, to be closer to the city. And Nick could use a friend around here.”
Jay gaped for a few seconds before finding his voice, “Truly?!” He said it much louder than intended, as he continued meekly: “I—I would love to. If you’d have me.” He addressed this to the room at large, but he looked to me only, eyes full of weathered hope.
“Please do,” I said. My father leaned back in a satisfied way. I stared at him in disbelief. I felt again like I was somewhere immaterial, walking through a dream liable to collapse at any moment. Jay looked to be feeling about the same. All at once he stood up and shook each of our hands again with gusto, effusive gratitude spilling from his lips all the while. When he got to me our hands lingered for a warm moment. Then Jay nearly ran to the sitting room shouting that he’d telephone someone to bring his things here. I swear I felt a rush of wind as the air raced to fill the space he left.
The three of us sat in varying stages of shock.
“Edward,” started my mother with an edge in her voice, “Would it kill you to consult me before you decide things like that?”
My father shrugged. “Come now Mollie, you know this will be good for our boy. When was the last time you’ve seen him this animated?”
“Yes, well, still.” My mother sighed. “He does seem like quite the gentleman. And God knows Nick needs something like this in his life.” I will be forever amazed at my parents’ ability to talk about me as if I’m not in the room with them.
Jay’s voice drifted through the air: “Yes… the Carraway residence… yes, it’s him… of course…”
“Now, Nick,” my father went on, “Understand that I’m not doing this for no reason. You’ve been… unmotivated, since you’ve come back home, and I trust that a friend will remedy this.” I trust that you’ll become productive again, and stop moping around. “And I don’t want any funny business between you two, got that?”
Before I could respond Jay sprang back into the room, blowing away the pit threatening to form in my stomach. “They’ll be here as soon as they can! Thank you again Mr. Carraway, I’ll find some way to repay you. Now—” he flitted to my side, beamed down at me, “—why don’t you show me around, old sport?” I had scarcely choked out an agreement before he pulled me up by the forearm and walked me off into the house. Jettie followed obligingly at our heels.
I redirected our path to the stairs, as Jay had already seen most of the first floor. I nearly brought us tumbling into the banister, shaking with laughter, or fear, or some unnamed emotion. But he stayed our course, and we made it to the guest room.
Dust glowed in the shafts of light thrown in by the shaded windows. The bed was perfectly made, untouched since its last occupant had departed some untold months before—they were an aunt or uncle of mine, I think, but I had hardly paid attention to them at the time. In any case, they hadn’t left anything behind; the room was barren.
“Spendid!” shouted Jay, as if we had entered a palace on par with his own. He made a circuit through the room, opening every single drawer and curtain as if he might uncover forgotten treasures within. Then he flopped onto the bed as if it was a mound of feathers, and remained there, facing the ceiling. I sat next to him.
Eventually, I spoke up, “You really chose Jayce?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, that way if you call me Jay, they won’t catch on, old sport.”
“I thought you’d say James, is all. I had half a mind to start calling you Jimmy.”
“No, I…” He sat up, “I’m glad you didn’t. That’s not my name, anymore.”
“Neither is Jayce.”
“That’s different. I chose it.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was a fundamental right for each man to be able to choose his own name and be called by it. I quickly lost any heart to protest.
He sat up suddenly, leaving the mattress beside me bereft of his weight. When I didn’t do the same, he spun to face me, bending to put us at eye level. “Come now, old sport, aren’t you going to show me your room?”
“You don’t want to see it.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d tidied up the place, and I knew it was in no shape to show off. Especially not to Gatsby.
“...That’s fine.” Jay’s immediate dismissal of his own request rang sourly in my ears. This should be the part where he’d insist on seeing it in his own overly polite way, and with one smile I would relent. Instead he just looked resigned.
I stood up beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “...How about I just show you where it is, Jay. You can see it some other time.” And just like that he perked right back up, hope flaring again in his eyes.
I led him through the hall, past the bathroom and closet separating our rooms, before arriving at the door to my room. It was the same as all the others—plain white with no adornment.
Jay considered it, head tilted a little. He held out a hand towards it. “You should put a big ‘N.’ Right here.” He tapped the center of the door. “Then everyone will know which room is yours.”
“I don’t think that’s quite necessary,” I said, holding back laughter. “This may come as a shock, but not everybody agrees that emblazoning your initials on things is the pinnacle of personalization.”
He blinked for a moment—I think he may actually have been taken aback by that remark. Whatever his comeback would’ve been was interrupted when a knock came at the door, and he went galloping down the stairs with a shout that his things had arrived. I chased after him, leaning over the banister to glimpse him taking two bulging suitcases from a sharply dressed man at the door. He looked familiar—I think he might’ve been one of Wolfsheim’s men that had replaced the servants at Gatsby’s house.
In any case, Jay promptly came bounding back up the steps with suitcases in tow, dashing into the guest room—well, his room, now. It still felt surreal to imagine that, being again in such close proximity to Gatsby. I had taken it for granted, before—living within touching distance of the heavens.
I stood leaning against the doorframe as Jay went through his things—unsurprisingly there were altogether too many shirts, and vests, and that godforsaken gold toilet set—each piece of which was in fact decorated with a prominent “JG.” Almost everything he had with him I recognized from his house before—even the suitcases themselves looked familiar. He busied himself with sorting everything into drawers, with intermittent lighthearted objections from me over which drawers ought to contain what things. It was odd to me how meager his belongings seemed—undoubtedly they were all ridiculously expensive, but when he reached the bottom of both suitcases it shocked me to realize I had seen the sum total of Gatsby’s belongings in less than an hour. Some part of me had expected them to go on forever.
Soon afterwards we all ate dinner, which I spent largely staring at my plate, for I feared if I looked up I would find myself staring at Jay instead—and I wanted to keep the two of us in my father's good graces. In any case, Jay spent every moment he wasn't actively chewing engaging in spirited conversation with my mother, so I could easily picture what his face might look like based on his tone of voice at each given moment.
Before I knew it the day was over, and everybody retired to their respective rooms. Jay and I spent an awkwardly long time saying goodnight in the hall before finally parting.
Several hours later I found myself still awake, staring at the ceiling as Jettie slumbered on beside me. I envied her unknowing peace—I had found myself convinced that I’d awake the next morning to find the events of today to be a fanciful delusion, a simple aftershock to the earthquake that distant summer had been. I cursed the rooms separating me and Jay—if there was only a single wall between us I might have been able to hear any sound he might be making and reassure myself of his presence.
Eventually I gave up on my fruitless attempt at rest, and trudged out into the hallway, soon finding myself standing in front of the door to the guest room. I hadn’t initially intended to go there—my original plan had been to go find something to drink and ease my nerves—but I inevitably ended up there regardless. Some part of me wanted to open the door and crawl into the covers with him right then and there, but I quickly dismissed the thought. Of course, my father would immediately lose any goodwill he had towards the two of us, but besides that I wasn’t sure whether that would shatter the fragile peace Jay and I had found today. So instead I pressed my ear against the door, straining to hear anything—occasionally there was a faint shuffle of sheets, and if I held my breath I could barely pick out his own breathing in the otherwise silent house.
I fell asleep there that night, curled up against the door, listening to the faint sounds assuring me that Gatsby still lived. If I dreamt, I do not recall.