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The Journal said the rain was to stop around twelve.
It’s half past, and the heavens have yet to show any mercy. Jay is strongly reconsidering his choice of newspaper.
It was supposed to be perfect. A quiet picnic in a picturesque spot by the Sound, lavish enough for his darling to feel spoiled, yet not so extravagant for it to be intimidating. Just the two of them, a second hand tweed throw that Nick had taken a liking to in the Plaza, and a handful of their favourite dishes lovingly prepared by his own personal chef.
But now, any hope of a romantic excursion with his beloved neighbour has been well and truly washed out. He has half a mind to cancel their appointment altogether, but Nick had to pull teeth in order to get time off work, and Jay doesn’t have the heart to let him down even more than he already has.
Herzog must have sensed his unease, because when he walks into the drawing room all the furniture has been pushed back, the tweed rug spread neatly in front of the fireplace, adorned with platefuls of meats and cheese, fruit, and a bottle of their best wine from the cellar. Such a thoughtful gesture is typical of his oldest, most trusted employee; and yet, Jay’s eyes still sting with gratitude as his chief butler finishes lighting the few tea candles he’s spread across the mantel, bathing their refuge in a soft, intimate glow.
‘Best freshen up before Mr Carraway arrives, sir.’ Says Herzog, using his pocket square to gently brush away the tears that have spilled down Jay’s cheeks. ‘You know how he frets when he sees you in distress.’
That’s the old man’s way of telling him it’s going to be alright, in his own indirect, appropriately detached manner.
‘Thank you, Herzog. It looks splendid.’ Jay smiles at him, a nervous twitch of the lips that doesn’t look as convincing as he wants it to be. ‘Don’t worry about answering the door. I’d like to greet Mr Carraway personally.’
He’s already called Nick ahead about the change of plans, but it’s now twenty minutes past the time they arranged to meet, and the butterflies in Jay’s stomach have mutated into angry, stinging wasps. He paces the corridor like a restless animal, unsure of what to do with himself other than fiddle with his suit and fuss with his hair, the front door looming ominously in the corner of his eye as he waits, and waits…
Nick isn’t coming. It’s too late, the weather is hideous; this whole thing was a horrible idea, made by a horrible, useless man-
The sound of the doorbell sends his heart shooting into his mouth.
Dismissing Herzog to his quarters is beginning to feel like an imprudent decision, but it’s simply unethical to seek him out while Nick is left standing alone in the rain. Jay grinds his heels into the sleek marble floor to ground himself, a habit leftover from his childhood that he has yet to vanquish. Shoulders back and head held high, he makes quick work of dispatching James Gatz, and strides towards the door with every ounce of feigned confidence he can physically muster.
Nick had declined his offer to have a car sent to collect him, but despite a light thrashing from the typhoon amassing outside, he is vibrant and breathtakingly delightful as usual. The moment he’s through the door and discarding his umbrella, Jay takes him in his arms to scatter feather-light kisses from plush, pink lips to the soft curve of his jaw until Nick is red-faced and giggling like a child.
He can’t put into words how much he loves Nick. There simply isn’t a phrase in the entirety of the English language that can effectively convey the euphoria this man brings him, that can explain why his heart grows wings and flitters like a trapped bird whenever Nick so much as crosses his mind.
He can hardly remember the time when he believed his infatuation with Daisy Buchanan was the epitome of human devotion. Nick isn’t just an idea, an unattainable trophy to pursue in a pointless, never ending quest to prove himself more than just the lowly spawn of dirt poor farmers. Jay wants to piece together every shard of his being; every dream, every fear, every thought and fragment that makes Nick Carraway the unparalleled enigma that he is.
And that’s what frightens him the most.
‘I apologise for the weather, my love.’ Is all Jay can think of to say, when they’ve finally broken apart for air. ‘Not soaked, are you?’
Nick smiles at him, the bloom of green at the centre of his hazel eyes glittering beneath the hallway lights. ‘I’ve seen worse in the Midwest. It’s good for the garden, at least.’
‘Herzog has a nice setup for us in the drawing room, if you’d still care to have lunch. I know it’s not quite what you were expecting, but-’
‘Of course, I’d love to. I’ve never had an indoor picnic before.’
Nick’s outward enthusiasm does little to appease the nauseating swarm clustering in Jay’s gut. He’s always found it exceptionally hard to read people, to distinguish genuine appreciation from artificial etiquette. He’s come to learn that human beings are exceptionally good liars, and while Nick is the most honest man he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing, he can’t help but wonder if he too merely simulates consideration for Jay’s many, many imperfections.
The doubt must be evident on his face, because Nick slides an arm through his own as they make their way to the drawing room in a familiar gesture of reassurance.
‘I hear you have a cat now.’ He says softly, in a tone that is consoling, yet never patronising. ‘That little stray you’ve been feeding?’
It takes a moment for Jay to process this statement, his brain a muddle of conflicting thoughts spilling over like a boiling pot. ‘Dolly? Oh, yes. She took a spot in one of the boudoirs last week and hasn’t left since. I’ve been meaning to call a veterinarian in to check her over; Herzog will go spare if we end up with an infestation of some sort.’
‘A sensible idea.’ Nick’s mouth quirks up in amusement, likely at the mere contemplation of the ever impassive butler losing his cool.
They fall into their usual small talk as they make the rather lengthy journey through the house, and Jay begins to feel himself relax for the first time today. Nick has a certain magic that allows him to remove the emotional wall that Jay has built brick by brick, like the walls of Jericho crumbling to the Israelite's horns. He’s both hopeful and scared silly that someday Nick will break through to the other side. He can’t be certain that he’ll like what he finds.
‘Jay, it’s beautiful!’ Nick exclaims when they reach the drawing room, with such sincerity Jay feels he could weep. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble just for me.’
‘You deserve the best, my love.’ This is an understatement and a half. Jay would give Nick the moon and stars were it physically possible.
He turns back to admire Herzog’s handiwork, but all the relief bestowed upon him by Nick’s comforting presence is torn to pieces the moment his eye falls upon the tweed throw, and he notices the unmistakable shape of a cat helping herself to a martini glass of shrimp cocktail.
‘Dolly!’ Jay moves with the speed of a man who has just witnessed the devouring of his firstborn, and he lifts the offending feline away from her stolen feast to survey the damage. Two of the four martini glasses are void of any shrimp, the third containing only a single half nibbled survivor. ‘I-I’m so sorry, Old Sport. I told Ferdinand to keep her in my bedroom.’
‘She has quite the appetite for such a little girl.’ Nick reaches out to gently scratch behind her black-tipped ears. ‘You’ve been terribly naughty, Dolly. I hope you’re having a good hard think about what you’ve done.’
The wretched creature trills loudly, licking off the tiny drops of sauce still clinging to her whiskers.
Nick doesn’t appear at all perturbed by this rather degrading turn of events, but Jay’s face burns with shame nonetheless. ‘I’ll have the cook prepare some more…’ he begins, but Nick is already waving a dismissive hand.
‘We can share one, Jay. Don’t worry yourself. We’ve more than enough food to keep us from starving.’
His voice is kind, but Jay still feels as though he’s being scolded. He nods without argument, and takes a moment to remove Dolly from the premises before joining Nick over at the hearth, tenacious anxiety leaving him without much of an appetite.
The next hour passes by without any disturbance; Nick rambles on merrily about his latest literary project between mouthfuls of prosciutto and parmesan, while Jay lays his head upon his lap, allowing himself to be lulled once again into the warm bubble of security only his sweetheart is capable of providing. Nick is considering a romance novel; a heartbreaking tale of two ill fated lovers torn apart by society’s cruel standards. It sounds immensely depressing. Jay eagerly awaits the first chapter.
Two o’clock rolls in and Nick is cradling his second glass of wine, free hand caressing delicate golden locks as Jay recounts a rather humorous anecdote about the time Dan Cody, in a particularly drunken stupor, managed to get himself rigged to the mainsail. So engrossed is he in his own storytelling, he finds himself startled out of his skin by the abrupt appearance of Herzog, who has all but materialised from the shadows.
‘Pardon me, Mr Gatsby. Chicago is on the line.’
‘Not now.’ Jay sits up at full tilt, words caught somewhere between an order and a plea. His arms wind around Nick protectively, as though fearful he might be snatched away.
‘Of course.’ Is the butler’s dispassionate response, and once again he becomes part of the air.
Nick’s body stiffens beneath him. ‘I thought you’d cut ties with all your associates.’
And just like that, those suffocating walls are closing in around him again, spinning webs in his throat and squeezing painfully on his thudding heart. He hadn’t lied, not really. All but one of his dishonourable contacts have been severed completely; Mr Slagle is merely a stubborn loose end he’s struggling to shake off.
‘I owe a few favours, that’s all.’ He mumbles, mouth unbearably dry. He rests his head down on Nick’s lap again to avoid his eyes, brushing a kiss against his knee in appeasement. ‘Nothing untoward, I assure you. I’ll be rid of him by the end of the summer, darling, don’t you worry.’
Nick gives a nod of acceptance, but says nothing, and does not resume his previous action of petting Jay’s hair like he usually does.
Jay knows he’s upset. He racks his brain for something to say in order to salvage this rapidly sinking vessel of an afternoon, but he can’t come up with a single word. In the end, he’s too afraid to utter a syllable in fear of offending Nick any further, and allows a thorny silence to fester between them while the flames from the hearth crackle in the foreground. Everything has changed. There’s now a coldness about Nick, an air of uncertainty and perhaps disdain at this revelation that Jay still has far to go before he can be deemed anywhere near trustworthy.
Jay would prefer a row, or for Nick to beat him with his fists, over being punished with this disapproving quietude. He turns his head, allowing a single, penitent tear to roll down his nose and soak into the other man’s fishtail back trousers.
A thin stream of sunlight protruding in from the tiny gap in the curtains suggests the rain has stopped. Jay’s speeding train of thought reignites its engine to the feasibility that he might be able to vindicate himself by treating Nick to a quiet stroll beside the Sound, the calm water and fresh air having always soothed any tensions between them in the past. He feels suffocated in this house; if he could only coax Nick into the sanctity of the outdoors, where he would pick him a white rose to tuck behind his ear, and hold both his delicate hands while he explained himself-
Nick downs the last of his wine and sets the empty glass on the throw. ‘I should probably be going now.’
Jay’s train abruptly derails.
‘Already?’ He sits up, staring at Nick with wide, confused eyes. ‘It’s…it’s still early, Old Sport. I was thinking we could take a walk by the Sound.’
‘I really must get some writing done.’ Nick replies without conviction, already moving to put on his shoes. ‘I’ve been so preoccupied with work, I’ve hardly had time to even look at my typewriter.’
‘I’ll come with you, then.’ Says Jay in a panic.
‘To my house?’
‘I can watch you write. I enjoy watching you write. You wouldn’t even notice I’m there.’
‘Jay, I don’t think that’s-’
‘Or I could have your typewriter brought here!’ Jay is desperate now, the most important person in his life slipping through his fingers with every passing second. ‘We can set you up in the study, I’ll make sure no one disturbs you-’
‘Jay, please-’
‘At least stay for supper. I’ll walk you home afterwards.’ Jay persists and his arm shoots out to grasp Nick’s hand.
In his haste, his elbow collides with the unprotected bottle of Pinot Noir and it tips right onto Nick’s lap, deep red liquid soiling the cream coloured fabric of his trousers. They both freeze, momentarily stunned, all the blood draining from Jay’s complexion as though he’s just shot a man through the heart.
‘Nick, darling, I-’ It’s incredibly hard to breathe all of a sudden, like his lungs are filled with smoke, and Jay is convinced that his throat is getting tighter, crushing his airways. ‘Forgive me, my love. Please, let me-’
He scrambles about for a handkerchief and dabs hopelessly at the rapidly growing stain, but this only seems to make it worse. ‘Just leave it with me, Old Sport, I’ll have it dry cleaned for you.’
‘Jay.’
‘Or I’ll buy you a new one.’ A phantom hand grasps his heart, squeezing and squeezing until he’s certain it will burst. ‘I-I have a man in England who makes them for me, I’d only need your measurements.’
‘Jay-’
‘It’s really no trouble, Old Sport!’ The pain in his chest is becoming intolerable. His vision blurs, his palms grow clammy, and why, oh why won’t this stain come out? ‘He tailors suits for Douglas Fairbanks, you know. Did you see his latest picture? It was…something to do with the French…I can’t quite remember-’
‘ Jay .’ Gentle hands seize his wrists, bringing his manic fussing to a halt. ‘Jay, it’s alright .’
Jay keeps his head down, gaze fixed determinedly on the ugly blemish as though his life depends on it. It’s only when he feels Nick’s arms around him, pulling him close, that he realises his entire body is shaking like he’s been struck with a live wire.
‘Breathe, sweetheart.’ Nick murmurs into strands of sweaty hair. ‘I’m here, Jay, I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just breathe with me.’
It takes a moment for Jay to gather himself long enough to follow this command; he inhales along with Nick, breathing in deeply, holding it for a few seconds, before exhaling back out. He repeats this over and over until their rhythms are synched, and the pain in his chest has dulled to an endurable ache.
He isn’t sure how long they’ve been kneeling there, his concept of time having flown out the window. Slowly but surely, the stress gives way to despair; he presses his face into the crook of Nick’s neck and begins to sob.
‘Don’t leave.’ He’s too tired to be embarrassed anymore; he just wants to lie in Nick’s arms and cry himself sick, anything to relieve the exhaustion he feels from the crushing weight of the mask he’s forced to wear. ‘You can do whatever you want with me. Strike me, scream at me - just please don’t leave me, Nick, I beg you.’
Nick pulls away, and Jay makes a noise like a wounded dog. But the younger man merely seats himself down on the throw and tugs him forward so he’s cradled on his lap, like a mother nursing a frightened child.
‘Shh…I’m not going anywhere.’ Nick whispers into the flushed shell of his ear, as he rocks them back and forth. ‘I’m never going to leave you, no matter what happens. I love you, James.’
The mere mention of this name, belonging to a man he had killed and buried so long ago, ceases Jay’s weeping, and he cranes his head up to stare at Nick in awe. He wonders if it’s merely a coincidence, or a slip of the tongue; but when Nick smiles at him with an honesty that he’s only been graced with maybe once or twice before his life, he comes to the mind-altering realisation that Nick has always accepted, and always loved , every veiled, complicated layer of himself that is both real and a carefully constructed smokescreen.
Nick lifts his hand, catches a tear from Jay’s eye with his thumb before it can fall. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so short with you. I’m not angry about Chicago. I know you only told me you were through with the whole affair to give me peace of mind. But I’m an awful handwringer when it comes to these matters; I feel ill with worry thinking something bad might happen to you.’
Jay thinks it ludicrous that Nick should feel the need to apologise for anything, but he’s come to learn that arguing with Mr Carraway on such matters is usually a fruitless endeavour. Instead, he blurts out, ‘you trust me?’
‘Of course, Jay. With my life.’
Had he the energy to shed another tear, Jay would have flooded the room. It’s all he’s ever wanted, for Nick to trust him; to know that his days of fabrications and schemes are long in the past, and the Gatsby he sees before him is real , stripped right down to vulnerable bones. He opens his mouth to say this aloud but a sudden dampness spreads across the back of his thigh, and he realises he’s sitting directly on top of the wine stain.
‘I ruined your trousers.’ He says miserably.
‘Damn the trousers.’ Says Nick. ‘It was an accident. If you ask me, they look better with Pinot Noir on them.’
Somehow, Jay finds it within himself to laugh. He nuzzles the hollow of Nick’s throat, wondering how, after lying and cheating his way through this sinful existence, he has been endowed with such a beautiful soul to walk hand in hand with down the tumultuous road of life. He has never known love to be candid and unspoiled. The love he understands is selfish and cruel, earned and maintained by hard cash and glittering jewels.
Nick is a rock, shattering the glass walls of the cage he’s confined himself in for far too long.
A pair of soft lips chastely cover his own.
‘Please accept my deepest gratitude,’ Nick murmurs against his mouth, ‘for treating me to such a splendid afternoon, Mr Gatz. There’s nowhere on Earth I’d rather be right now than here with you. Spilled wine, thieving cats, and all.’
Were he a crass man, Jay might have called him a fool. But that would be a lie, because he truly believes, in this consumerist hell trapping them all like flies in honey, that Nick Carraway is the only man alive who can’t be considered anything remotely like a fool.
‘Please accept my deepest gratitude for your unfailing courtesy and forbearance with me, Old Sport.’ Jay skims his knuckles across the soft flesh of Nick’s cheek, curious as to how one can be so wise, yet simultaneously innocent as a dove. ‘I’m aware that I am still a work in progress. But believe me when I say that I am making every effort to accept that I’m not quite so unlovable as I have led myself to believe.’
Nick’s face crumples, much to his horror. But before Jay can even attempt one of his habitual apologies, he is being kissed again, arms tightening around his quivering frame to assure him that Nick is here to stay.
It’s nearing six by the time they emerge from the drawing room, and after a quiet supper they retire to Jay’s master bedroom, spirits fusing together beneath white silk sheets and a tangle of limbs as they move in each other’s sweetness. Nick only leaves his side twice - once to fold his blemished trousers across the ottoman by the fire, and the other to throw a robe over himself as he opens the door to the lonely mewls of little Dolly.
‘I might call in sick tomorrow.’ Nick sniggers at the incredulous look Jay gives him at this announcement, and reaches down to stroke the purring tortoiseshell splayed out between them on the mattress. ‘I feel a terrible fever coming on, and I think the only appropriate remedy is a stroll by the Sound, followed by a hearty lunch.’
It’s moments like this - Nick telling him how much he loves him without even having to say the words - when Jay is forced to concede that the Greek’s assertion on the existence of soulmates is nowhere near as implausible as he had once believed.
‘Anything for you, my love.’ And he smiles, gazing contentedly into the centre of those hazel eyes to the green light that has been right in front of him all this time.