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He shut the book in his hands with a force capable of shutting a book with a lot of force and set it down. Pacing about uneasily through every room, tonight seemed to be lasting an eternity—and with all the lights in the house glaring into his eyes and frying his retinas, he (in a moment of weakness) considered defeat.
But he was not one to consider defeat and acknowledge it. No, like a hummingbird repeatedly flying into the pellucid glass of a window or deftly crafted sliding door, he persisted.
Then again, it wasn’t like he had a choice. With his newfound discoveries, his future seemed to revive itself with a never-seen-before sort of vitality, breathing new life into his tattered-down heart. Yes, there remained no more time just watching the light. Tonight, the light shall inch closer and closer with every second—he just needed to give it that first push. Yes. Starting from tonight, the final wheels would roll him into the godhood that he was born to inherit. Tonight.
That is, if his accursed neighbor ever came home. A quick glance at his watch and the moon perched high over the Sound signified that an hour and a half or so had passed since the strike of midnight and yet his neighbor remained a phantom. Where was the guy, anyhow? For a moment while watching the road for a sign of arrival he sighed and worry gnawed at his body somewhere above the pancreas and threatened to infect its way up through his heart and trachea up to his head, but he stopped it before it could plant any frightening images in his mind. Nick had his own life to live, after all. If he was caught up in something, or someone else, then that was his business. No one else’s. And especially not Gatsby’s.
It didn’t matter if he was Gatsby’s only real friend. Maybe he wasn’t even that, either. Maybe Gatsby shouldn’t have been so cryptic during lunch today and chosen a more honest, straightforward route—the type someone like Nick would’ve appreciated. Oh, he only hoped that it hadn’t put a significant strain on their already fragile relationship. But like earlier, Gatsby had to shake these thoughts away. No, their relationship was fine. He lived to impress after all, and even though he was caught off guard and may have offended the very key to his plan a slight bit, he was certain to have gained more favor than distaste during the experience. Of course. He was...mostly perfect. Yes. Jay Gatsby was mostly perfect.
Maybe he’d be more perfect if he could just grasp this neighbor—the key—with a little more control. What would gain his favor? What revolted him? Did he prefer relaxing or thrill-seeking activities? One-on-one or group settings? Well, he seemed to be a sort of quiet, polite type from when they first met—perhaps Gatsby’d organize a quick tour of his library. Or more time by the beach would calm a busy soul—he was a bondsman, after all. Alcohol? How much did he drink? Would the machinery of a juice press bring out the whites of Nick’s eyes as he stared in awe? Would he step forward, cautiously, before Gatsby chuckled at him and confirmed that yes, it was safe, and then jog up to it and analyze every cog and mechanism with the curiosity of a young child? Or would he glance about the room searching for any excuse to move on? Would he?
Well. In the chatter of his thoughts he’d made his way to a window—one that, from a certain angle, framed the neighboring, humble cottage within the window’s outlines. If he leaned close onto the glass and peered down into the cottage’s window, he’d make out the silhouette of a table with some unidentifiable object atop it. Maybe it was a typewriter. It was one thirty in the morning. Who knows. Maybe there were papers tucked into and nearby it, inky words playing out a story that’d never be read. Maybe a journal lay nearby, with accounts of a life he’d never lived. Maybe there—
A car door shut, succeeded by the sound of driving away. His spiral halted. Oh, he thought, Nick’s back.
Hurried steps carried him down flights of stairs and past blinding, blurred lights to a pair of doors that exploded outwards into a cool darkness outside. The differentiation between the house and the darkness was a polite generalization—it gives the illusion that between the lights and the outdoors a fine line separated them into distinct regions; one consisting of the bright yet empty castle, and one with the inky yet vivid outdoors brimming with the vitality of crickets, wind, and Nick. Rather, the mansion’s blaze melted into the dusk and filled the atmosphere with a soft dim. When he finally caught sight of his neighbor, he nearly fell over a lingering pebble in delirium. His heart raced. There it was—that first push. The key. The key to unlock all the faraway dreams that had taunted him for eons—but now it was as though his dream stood right in front of him, although this time it wore a crumpled suit and disheveled hair from a late night out. A dream close enough to call out to and be heard.
Now, all Gatsby needed to do was ask a favor from a friend.