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“Come back with me.”
“No, I need…I should wait…” Gatsby looked to Daisy’s window, then to me, then back to the dark and shrouded window. “...I should wait for Daisy.”
“There’s nothing more you can do tonight,” I said.
I felt like I was pleading with him instead of asking him. Like I was begging him to leave and come with me, to take my hand and walk away before things become worse, before his heart shattered and I was left to pick up the pieces—not that I would have minded, I don’t think.
I would have done anything for Gatsby in that moment.
Gatsby faltered. He looked from the window to me then back to the window, his eyes blinking slowly. He looked strange—the moonlight made his skin glow and his hair look almost white. If I could have compared him to anything, the closest I would have gotten would have been to a falling star.
“I…” his voice hitched, and then he looked back at me, and the star crashed. “...alright.”
I reached out with an open hand and he took it, and we raced back down the hill like frightened children terrified of being caught by prying eyes.
Yet there was a part of me that I couldn’t wholly ignore that hoped that Daisy was watching from her dark and gloomy window. There was a part of me that hoped she saw us running away hand in hand, so that the next time I saw her I could smile and say look how he chose me over you.
—
We did not go to Gatsby’s house.
We went to mine, where people would be less inclined to look for us, if they were indeed looking for us. We slipped inside as quietly as we could, and Gatsby led me up to the sitting room like it was his own house and I was his guest. He lost his confidence once we reached the sitting room, and then I was leading him, keeping his hand held tightly in mine as I brought him to the one window seat in the house.
It was just up high enough that our feet only just kissed the ground, and I watched them dangle and sway for a moment before looking back up at Gatsby.
He was looking out the window at Daisy’s little green light, the brilliant blue of his own eyes washed out by it. I wanted him to look away, to look back at me and smile that soft and gentle smile that he seemed to save just for me.
And then he did, and while his smile was soft and sweet it was so inexplicably sad that I wanted to look away again.
“She’s not going to call, is she, Nick?”
It was jarring to hear my name, and it took me a few moments just to process that Gatsby was indeed speaking to me.
“...no.”
Gatsby looked down again, his hand trembling and his smile the saddest I’ve ever seen. I reached for him again, taking one of his hands in mine and bringing my other to cup his jaw. Then I thought better of it, and let it fall before even touching his skin.
“No, I didn’t think she would,” Gatsby’s voice was hardly above a whisper.
“Jay, I’m sorry--”
“No, don’t say you’re sorry, old sport--please don’t say your sorry.”
I didn’t. I closed my mouth and swallowed, then lifted my hand and hesitantly cupped the back of Gatsby’s head. His hair was soft beneath my fingers, and I found myself not wanting to let go. Gatsby himself took a shuddering breath, then dropped his head onto my shoulder. His whole body was shaking, and I realized belatedly that it was from laughter.
“Jay…?” I asked.
“What does it even matter?” I didn’t think he was asking me, so I didn’t respond. “She’s moved on--she moved on five years ago and I--I don’t think that I--”
He looked up at me then, his eyes clouded over with a hazy confusion. Then all at once it seemed to fade, and Gatsby looked at me--really looked at me--his pupils dilating and his eyes widening and suddenly, as if he had never been confused at all, he looked like everything in the world made sense and that he had always seen it with such clarity.
“It’s just that...oh, it’s impossible for me to even think so, old sport--”
“Think of what?” I asked, gently urging him to continue. I had a feeling that if he stopped, he would never say what he needed to say, and that he would be wrapped up in Daisy and her little green light for the rest of his life.
And I, rather selfishly, wanted him to move on.
Gatsby stared at me for so long that I thought he wouldn’t answer, but eventually he did speak, his voice trembling just enough to be noticed.
“Sometimes I think...it’s silly to even say but I…”
And here Gatsby took a pause, just long enough to instill worry in me and cause my heart to flutter like a panicked bird.
“I don’t think I care for her anymore. And...and sometimes I think I might love you more than her,” Gatsby finally said. “But that’s—it’s silly.”
He squeezed my hand, eyes downcast and looking anywhere that wasn’t me. I felt my own heart leap in my throat and my cheeks warm, and I squeezed his hand back as tightly as I dare. It seemed nearly impossible that he could feel the same—could think the same of me, and I almost didn’t want to think that he did, because it seemed far too good to be true.
“I don’t think it’s silly,” my voice came out soft and frightened. Like something I hardly recognized.
“No?” He asked.
“No.” I responded, and whatever it was I was scared of seemed silly and juvenile when Gatsby cupped his palms around my cheeks and kissed me.
It was hesitant and uncertain, two things I would never associate with Gatsby. He kissed me like he wasn’t sure he should; like I might break at any moment. Gatsby kissed me like the sea kisses the shore--gentle and kind and trembling.
When he pulled back his eyes were wide and his lips parted just a sliver.
“Nick, I--”
Then I leaned forward and kissed him, and Gatsby sighed happily against my lips and tangled his fingers in my hair. He tugged me closer until he went leaning back and I crashed into his lap, then we pulled away and giggled like school children, still clinging to each other and refusing to let go.
Warmth bubbled up in my chest until I became dizzy with it.
“I think I might love you, Nick Carraway,” Gatsby pushed the hair back from my eyes and let his fingers ghost down my jaw. “I really, really think that I do.”
He kissed me again and again and again, until he stole the breath from my lungs.
Gatsby pulled back again, eyes wide and suddenly full of uncertainty. “...can I stay here tonight, old sport?”
I smiled, leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Of course.”