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As I am writing this, I am near certain that this chapter will fail to make it into the final draft of my publication; despite this, I am certain I will save it for the sake of remembering the events of that summer. I expect that this will remain the only retelling of what happened the night before Gatsby’s death, and I would hope for both of our sakes that it remains that way in eternity. I am certain that would be a disservice to both myself and Gatsby if this ever made its way to the public; Gatsby, who was only truly known to a rare few that I myself was glad to get to be a part of.
The sun had barely begun to creep above the horizon as Gatsby finished telling me the story of his past with Dan Cody; I call him Gatsby here, though after that moment had passed he became Jay in my mind, the man that was the counterpart to the rumors and stories that so frequently circulated at his parties. There was a raw honesty to him as he told me the truth of exactly who he was, something that I began to suspect he wasn’t quite used to revealing; he seemed uncomfortable as he spoke, as if he were afraid that somebody would hear and the illusion would be shattered.
There was certainly some kind of illusion he held onto, though whether it was the illusion of Daisy or himself I wasn’t entirely certain. He spoke of that vision he had for himself as a young boy as if it still enchanted him, and I myself was almost enchanted with it as well. While I am not easily swayed, his description had a certain impact on me, and I found myself rooting for him as he told me of the moment he left his old name behind to become the great Gatsby.
He smiled quite a bit as he spoke, though it was a different kind of smile than the one which he showed to his guests at his parties. It was more of a melancholy smile, the kind that appears when one’s true emotions are so strong that they are unable to be covered up through willpower alone. It seemed that even around me, he was afraid to drop the facade he had crafted so delicately over the past five years; I believe it had less to do with me and more to do with himself and a fear of returning to being James Gatz once again.
I found myself listening intently to every word as the picture of Gatsby became complete in my mind; I had foolishly thought earlier that I had completely understood him, but I found that night that I was sorely mistaken. Still, I admired him; if anything, where he came from only grew how partial I was towards Gatsby, as nothing could display his gorgeous hope more obviously than the story of forging a new life out of one not nearly as grand. Simply put, I do not believe I would have enjoyed the company of James Gatz nearly as much as I enjoyed the company of Jay Gatsby.
As he finished the last of the story, I found it curious that he seemed to be seeking my approval with his gaze. I gave him a reassuring look, which appeared to relax him just a bit as he leaned back into his chair; previously, he had been on the very edge, and I would have been concerned for him falling forward if he hadn’t been so tense while he spoke. Evidently it had taken him a great deal of courage to reveal any of what he had told me; not wanting to have him be of the opinion that I had any judgements, I remained quiet and waited for him to speak.
“I was quite the different man before Daisy, old sport,” he began, much to my surprise; I was under the assumption that he had told me all there was to know. “My days with Dan Cody were quite a different time. I met many interesting people when we were stopped on those coasts in the far reaches of the world, people you’d never see here in New York.”
He paused, as if in deep contemplation, choosing his words the way he seemed to do around nearly everyone he was unfamiliar with. He was once again on the very edge of the chair, watching his right hand as he opened and closed it over and over with a kind of rhythm. Eventually, he went on, though he spoke slowly and with careful consideration.
“There was one I recall well, a young man my age. I met him in Spain when we had dropped anchor there for some time. He was out at one of the docks late at night the first time I spoke to him; he worked long hours for his family after his father passed. I admired his dedication, but I only noticed that after I had introduced myself; the first thing that caught my attention were his eyes. They were a green unlike any I’d seen before; he was a very stern young man, focused on his work and his family, but his eyes? They were the eyes of the boy he was before his father died.”
Gatsby met my eyes, and though he was attempting to mask any vulnerability, it was clear to me that what he was about to share was the kind of thing that even someone as hopeful as him would hope to forget.
“His name was Angel, and we talked there on the docks until morning. I got the sense he was a very private man, but I didn’t let that stop me; by the time the sun had risen he had given me just a few small glimpses into his life. He told me about his father, and while he didn’t tell me much about his work, his hands were worn and cracked as they would be in a man who had worked for years of his life. Once it was light, he had to leave; the early hours of the morning were the only time he was able to catch any sleep. But he told me that I could return to the docks at night any time I wished; I came back as soon as the sun had set that evening.”
I almost wanted to say something; at that point I had begun to develop my own suspicions about the conclusion of his story, but I didn’t want Gatsby to feel as if I was making any sort of accusations or judgements against him. I simply met his eyes with my own and gave a nearly imperceptible nod as a sign that, should he wish to continue, my ears would remain open.
“Angel and I became quite close over the next few days; I spent many a night at the docks with him, keeping him company as he worked. By the end of it all, I knew near everything about him. But it all fell apart one day a little over a week after I had met him; it was the second to last night before Cody and I set sail for Africa. He spared me a moment, and we sat on the edge of the dock together, watching the waves; though I suppose he was rather fixated on watching me, and I was glancing at his eyes from time to time as the sun began to rise and it cast a glow that made him appear rather beautiful. There was a strange quality to that night, old sport. It was as if we were outside of time itself, and I made choices that I would not have made under any typical circumstances. But I was tired and caught up in wishful thinking, and so a fair bit of my self control was lost.”
I could understand the concept of a strange night lending itself to poor choices; it had happened to myself a multitude of times throughout my life, though most frequently it was under the haze of a fair amount of alcohol. Still, he seemed almost defensive in his speech, as if to defend his honor and standing in my eyes; once again the reasoning was clear to me, though he was unaware of the fact that I had made many a similar mistake myself.
“He confessed to me that morning that he was a homosexual; I should have left, but I let my own curiosity get the better of me. When he kissed me… I let him. I’m not a homosexual, but I found that I rather enjoyed it; I suppose maybe it was because he was somewhat feminine, or just some quality of the night. I left afterwards and never spoke to him again.”
I watched Gatsby carefully in the following moments as his blue eyes once again met mine; he seemed desperate for a response, though I found I had nothing to say.
“Old sport, I’m not one of them.” Gatsby’s voice was wavering now, and I could almost see James Gatz still there as he looked at me with what I can only describe as fear in his eyes, awaiting my judgement as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered in that moment.
I knew that I had to formulate some kind of response; it is in moments like those I experienced that night in which I am most grateful for my ability to abstain from expressing any judgements.
“I know you’re not.” I was mainly attempting to reassure him, though my feelings on the matter of what he had just revealed were significantly more complicated than I had let on.
I suppose now would be an appropriate time to expand upon the events that happened between me and Mr. McKee weeks prior to this night. Similarly to Gatsby’s own experiences in Spain, it was one of those nights where reality seems to distort itself, and I found myself complying with his request to go back to his apartment. That was when he made his advances, and I found myself fully caught up in the novelty of it all and; soon I had found myself undressed in his bed. I will add that I do not consider myself to be a homosexual, though I do admit that this night gave me quite the cause for question as the summer dragged on.
We sat there in silence for quite some time as Gatsby regained his composure, and I took the time to finally complete the picture of him that had been slowly been developing as the hours passed and daylight began to show itself through the windows; each story that he had told me that night only further enamored me with his character and added a further shine to his hope which had originally drawn me to him in the first place.
Eventually, Gatsby had relaxed, and things had returned to a state somewhat near normalcy; it was still one of those strange nights, but the day was creeping up on us and that quality that made it so abnormal had started to fade away. I stood up once I sensed that Gatsby was alright, planning to head home in order to catch at least an hour of sleep before work, but Gatsby stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“Come outside with me, old sport. I’d like to go get some air out on the balcony.” He began to make his way towards the stairs, and despite knowing that I would eventually have to make my way into the city, I figured that I could spare a few moments for him.
He led me through the halls and out the double doors to the expansive balcony where I had first seen him reaching out for the green light; I could still see it there, though it was faint as the new day grew brighter.
“When I first saw the light, it reminded me of something.” He began to speak almost as soon as we were outside; leaning against the railing, he fixed his eyes on it, a half smile on his face. “I couldn’t quite place what it was, because I was much too focused on how if I could see it, Daisy must be within reach, just across the bay. But the answer only came to me just tonight; you see, old sport, I haven’t thought about the past in quite some time.”
Gatsby turned towards me, a warm smile on his face; it seemed as if the melancholy reflection from earlier had passed and now his memories were painted with a sense of nostalgia in his mind. I found myself smiling back at him; it was one of those charming qualities he had that his emotions could replace your own in a mere instant.
“And what was it, that it reminded you of?” I asked, wanting to know the answer; Gatsby’s past fascinated me, and I wanted every detail I could get; these were things that only I knew, things that I am certain Daisy was wholly unaware of.
“His eyes. They were the same brilliant green as that light,” Gatsby explained, his attention once again across the bay. “And I suppose it never occurred to me earlier because I had put those few days I spent with him out of my mind. But talking to you reminded me of it, old sport; I noticed these flecks of green in your eyes among the brown.”
“Really?” I had never had anybody else comment on my eyes; not even the women I had been with in previous years had mentioned them, and nobody in the years since has either. It was only Gatsby who managed to notice.
Gatsby nodded, and his smile made an appearance once again. “Yes; I’m rather upset I didn’t notice earlier, if I’m being honest.”
I wasn’t all that used to being complimented in that manner, and I could feel a warmth rising to my cheeks that I tried my hardest to suppress; Gatsby’s smile didn’t help, and as it tended to do, I found that it was directed at me with a clear focus. He was no longer looking towards the green light; his eyes were focused on mine as he turned from the railing to fully face me.
“I haven’t seen many with eyes like yours, old sport,” Gatsby continued. “When we first spoke at my party all those weeks ago, they intrigued me.”
I did not respond right away, though a thought had possessed me; it was the kind of thought that was rather dangerous, and so I attempted to suppress it, for the brakes on my desires extend to those impure thoughts as well. Still, for a brief moment I began to wonder what he would think if I took his hand, or if I told him that I had noticed the radiance of his smile just as much as he had noticed the hazel of my eyes. Drunk on nothing but the peculiar quality of the night, and feeling as if I owed him some kind of private secret in return for what he had told me earlier, I let some of it slip.
“I noticed your smile, that night we met. I’ve never seen one quite like it before. It felt as if you had been focused on nobody but me for that brief moment,” I told him, leaning back against the railing.
Gatsby then smiled again, which further lowered the guard I had been attempting to put up against him, and at that moment it was nearly dismantled. “That was my intent, old sport.”
Once again, just as it had in the garden on the night Gatsby first began to question his own hope, there was a memory of something on the tip of my tongue that craved the idea of being spoken. This time, it was less fleeting, and I found myself once again caught up in the strange desire to take Gatsby’s face in my hands and draw him closer to me until there was nothing between us and his lips were on mine. It was the kind of thought that I had occasionally, though typically I found it easy to ignore and the wonder was gone from my mind within seconds. However, as this peculiar night became morning, I found that my desire only grew stronger to the point that I was losing my composure.
“Old sport, are you alright?” Gatsby asked, seemingly noticing the nervousness in my expression. “I apologize.”
I wasn’t all that sure what he was apologizing for, though I appreciated his concern and nodded with a rather unsteady smile. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I was just thinking to myself about the events of the summer. It’s been rather eventful for me.”
“Has it?”
“I never had much going for me back in the midwest before I came here; every day was just about the same. It’s why I moved; I couldn’t go back to that life after the war. My perspective on things now doesn’t quite suit being a midwestern man,” I explained. “I’ve just met so many people; I did know Daisy and Tom beforehand, but not well, and I had only heard Jordan’s name previously. And of course, there’s you; I’d say that’s been the most pleasant surprise I’ve had all summer.”
“Really?” Gatsby asked, seemingly quite surprised; I had simply assumed he had picked up on the fact that I quite enjoyed his company at that point in the summer. “I would have thought that to be Jordan.”
I shook my head, glancing at the green light in the distance before returning my focus to him. “Jordan’s… she’s not what I’m looking for. She’s just like the rest of them, Daisy and Tom; rich, traditional, dishonest, and not the kind of person I’d like to be around.”
Gatsby seemed almost worried at the fact. “But you don’t disapprove of me, old sport?”
“No. You’re different than they are; I can’t quite explain how. They simply disgust me, and you don’t; I don’t think you could, even if you tried to.” That was a lie; Gatsby had disgusted me many times before and I was never infatuated with him enough to lay my complete trust in him. However, on that night in particular, part of me wanted nothing more than to throw all caution aside and be more open than I had ever been before.
“I suppose that’s the answer to the question I asked you in the car all those weeks ago, old sport.”
“When was this?” I asked; the past few months had been so hectic that all the events had blurred together. It didn’t help that there had been multiple occasions when Gatsby had taken me in his yellow car; I thought to myself for a brief moment about what a shame it was that it would likely never be used again after the events of the night.
“When we went for lunch, the first time,” he clarified. “I asked your opinion of me, and I didn’t quite let you answer then. You seemed startled by the question, so I attempted to change the topic of conversation. I figured that you would let me know, on your own time. I’m honored to know you regard me so highly, Nick.”
His use of my name startled me quite a bit; I had grown accustomed to being called old sport, and it wouldn’t have come as a surprise to me if he admitted that he did not know my name at all. After my initial surprise had faded, I felt it was rather intoxicating to hear my own name coming from his mouth, spoken with a kind of affection that reminded me of the way he had mentioned Daisy all throughout the weeks prior; regardless of his true intent of using my name, it had quite the effect on me.
“You’ve earned my respect,” I told him plainly, in an attempt to mask any lingering thoughts. “More so than anybody else I’ve met this summer. It’s refreshing, to be around someone like you in a world full of people like the rest of them.”
I looked out for a moment at the green light, and it was in this moment that I began to understand its significance to Gatsby; I do not often have strong desires, but then I desired nothing more than to be with Gatsby for as long as I possibly could. His hope that I had so greatly admired the whole summer as something out of my own cynical mind’s reach was right within my grasp then, just as Daisy had been within his; and, just like he had been, I was determined to hold onto it for as long as I was able to.
When I finally forced myself to look away from the light, I caught Gatsby’s eyes fixed for a brief moment on me once again before he looked away, seemingly embarrassed at getting caught. It didn’t bother me in the slightest; I found it rather endearing that, though the light across the bay was still in view, he had chosen me over the green that was beginning to fade as daylight approached. Standing there in the dim light of early morning, I thought him to be quite gorgeous, the little bit of sunshine that there was casting a soft glow on his features; I figured that this must have been how he saw Daisy, in an unending haze of beauty.
The next stretch of time I recall nearly every detail of with an extreme clarity even two years later, though in the moment it all seemed to be quite the blur as things happend one after another with no break for reconsideration. I can say for certain that had I not been so shaken by the death of Myrtle, I would have been significantly more sensible that night, and I would have found myself at my bungalow by morning instead of the upper floors of Gatsby’s mansion.
His hand, which has previously been hanging over the balcony’s edge, slowly crept closer towards mine as the tips of his fingers laid mere inches from my own; I watched as it moved, watched as Gatsby seemed to be checking for my approval in every move he made, hesitating ever so slightly as he finally let his hand rest atop mine on the railing.
It struck me at first as a gesture of thanks for the praise I had given him, though some deep and twisted part of me hoped for some kind of underlying meaning; his true intentions were only revealed once he grabbed my hand, interlocking his fingers with mine as he searched my eyes hesitantly for any kind of emotion. I did not move; my curiosity as to what he was going to do next had surpassed any of my typical reservations, and I was attempting to not judge his actions until he had more clearly revealed his intentions.
His eyes had not moved from my face throughout the whole affair, still searching in my own eyes for something; perhaps the green he saw in them, finding something new to attach himself to as his typical green light faded in the distance and the daylight grew stronger. Something that I had learned was that Gatsby was the type of man to always keep himself busy, and in this moment I was all that he had. Still, it appeared that he had found whatever approval he was searching for in my eyes as he took a step forward and there was but a sliver of space between us.
I had the vague outlines of a phrase forming in my head, a kind of soft rejection meant to draw a line but at the same time set him at ease that I would remain his friend for as long as he was alive; however, it was nothing more than some words in my mind, and so nothing was spoken into the quiet morning air. In my reflections on this moment years later, I believe I should have stopped him, but in the moment I was captivated by the way he looked into my eyes, as if I was the only person he wanted in his life, as if nobody else mattered quite as much as I did in that very moment. And that was when our lips met.
In all the details I remember from that evening, the one that seems to have slipped from my mind is who initiated it. I have always assumed that it was Gatsby, for I would never have any reason to start such an affair with another man; however, I did not stop him, for kissing him was one of those captivating things that demands your whole attention and captures you in the present moment with no option of escape. I do not say this in a way that would mean me to be a homosexual; it was merely something about his general demeanor that made it so hard to break away…
…Gatsby’s head laid on my chest as the sunlight filled the room through the crack in the curtains; it was well into morning now and we were both in his bed, though I had not been fully hit with the regret of what had just happened. In the moment, it was the happiest I had felt for quite some time, and Gatsby’s presence in such proximity to me only heightened that. It was quite surreal, being somewhere that I assumed few had been, what with him having saved any potential romantic interest for Daisy. But now she was so far out of his reach, and it simply flattered me that a man as great as he was would consider someone as average as I was to be his second choice.
The questioning of Gatsby’s motives that should have been happening in my head then only came to me weeks later after the dust had settled and I was able to look back at the summer with a more objective lens; being so close to Gatsby was rather intoxicating, and I did not want it to end. I wanted to spend the rest of my life in that bed, never moving, never taking the train into the city for another dull day of work.
It did not occur to me then, but later in the day I did remember Jordan; I suppose I had betrayed her, but I had already intended to break things off; I wanted no part of her world anymore, and Gatsby had only solidified that. If another man could be more enjoyable for me than she ever was, than she obviously was not the right woman for me. I made a note to myself that I would have to call her at some point before the day ended; I ended up forgetting, but she managed to contact me first while I was at work later that day. Still, the feelings I had about Gatsby quite overpowered any guilt I may have later felt about Jordan, and so I managed to put her out of my head as Gatsby spoke.
“When do you have to leave, old sport?” Gatsby looked up at me, his eyes a shining blue now that it wasn’t so dim; all his talk about my own eyes had led me to observe his in a way I hadn’t before. “For work, I mean; it’s a Monday, I suppose there’s bonds to sell.”
I smiled; as much as I had loved the way he used my name with affection, being called old sport had become a familiar comfort to me over the summer. He said it to me differently than how he did with others, as if it was a term he had carefully crafted for me in a way that it didn’t quite fit anybody else in the world.
“I suppose I should leave around now. The train’s going to leave soon enough, and I should return home to get myself together before I go,” I told him; as much as I didn’t want to leave, I knew that it was likely dangerous to remain so close to him for much longer.
“You should have breakfast, before you go. I’m sure you could call in to work and let them know you’re sick.” Gatsby was practically begging me to stay as if I were his latest obession, the thing he was unable to live without. It meant a great deal to me, being the target of his romantic hope.
I shook my head. “I really do have to go, Jay. I enjoyed tonight, but I must move on from everything that’s happened this past day and go to work.”
“Just stay for breakfast, old sport. I’ll make sure you’re there before lunch.”
I had to give in at that; all he wanted was to see me off with a full stomach, and who was I to deny his attempt to be a good host? I rather enjoyed the thought of getting to eat with Gatsby, just the two of us in his dining room with nothing but a good meal.
Gatsby smiled, getting up almost as soon as I confirmed that I would stay. “I’ll go alert the servants that you’ll be dining here; you can head down whenever you’re ready.”
I did not move for some time as Gatsby left to dress and make preparations for breakfast; I was tired from the long night, and it was an interesting feeling to be laying in Gatsby’s bed, surrounded by such a strange environment that was quite new to me. I had only been there once before, Gatsby tossing his shirts on the bed without a care in the world as Daisy looked on, overwhelmed by his grand gestures; I myself was not overwhelmed by his gestures, rather I was overtaken by the strangeness of the circumstances that had led me there in the first place.
Gatsby eventually returned, dressed in a tan suit that looked near perfect on him; he told me that breakfast was almost prepared and that, if it suited me, I could look through his closet to see if there was anything that would fit.
“I don’t know what bond salesmen typically wear, but I do have this wonderful green suit I’ve just gotten; I’m afraid it doesn’t fit me all that well, but certain it would bring out your eyes, old sport.”
He smiled at me for a brief moment before heading to his closet, searching at a near frantic pace until he found exactly what he was looking for. I have to admit, it was a gorgeous suit, and it must have cost a fortune; he laid it out across the dresser for me and headed towards the door, letting me know that we could eat whenever I was ready.
Not wanting to delay Gatsby much longer, I got myself dressed and was surprised that the suit he had picked fit relatively well; not as well as my own, but it was certainly good enough for a simple day at work. I began to make my way to the dining room, but I found that Gatsby was awaiting me at the end of the hallway; as soon as I approached him, he seemed elated, taking my arm and leading me downstairs. I will admit that I did know exactly where the dining room was, but nevertheless I chose to be polite and let him guide me.
“You do look nice in that suit, old sport,” Gatsby told me before we had even began walking. “Quite handsome.”
“And you as well,” I told him, returning the compliment. “I appreciate you letting me borrow it.”
It was then I noticed that it smelled faintly like Gatsby’s cologne; I suppose it must have lingered from whenever he had originally put it on for the first time; maybe he had worn it out once despite the poor fit because he liked the color.
“You can keep it, old sport,” he offered. “It’s much better on you than it ever would be on me.”
I found it to be quite generous of him, but I accepted; I rather liked the idea of owning something of his, especially if he faced consequences for what happened to Myrtle. If he ever had gotten arrested, I suppose I would have testified to what he told me about Daisy having caused the crash; at least she would have deserved the consequences, and I could never picture a man such as Gatsby in prison.
We eventually reached the table, and Gatsby began to apologize as soon as we entered the room. “It’s not that big of a breakfast, old sport; I hadn’t expected company. Not that I’m upset you’re here, in fact, it’s quite the opposite…”
I cut him off before he could continue any further, though I did enjoy how he seemed to be making such a fuss over my mere presence; he seemed to be treating this meal with the kind of care he would if it were one of his parties or even his moments with Daisy that he had told me about.
He offered me a seat, though I could tell through his demeanor that he was nervous; I suppose after the events of the previous night he felt as if there were still something to prove to me if I was to be so intimately involved in his life. Of course, Gatsby had already proven himself as someone of such a special character at that point, but he was not privy to all of the thoughts I had of him; it was the very question I was glad to have been able to evade weeks prior.
I tried not to act as if anything had changed; it was partially an attempt to ease my own mind, but mostly it was to hopefully relax Gatsby somewhat. With the events of the past day, it wasn’t all that surprising that he wasn’t completely in control of his emotions, but I still wanted to make some kind of an attempt to ease any of the anxious thoughts that seemed to be creating a storm in his mind; I took a seat and began eating as if it were any other morning that summer.
However, despite my efforts, it was clear that Gatsby wanted to talk about what had happened; seemingly, he was only refraining from mentioning any of it out of a desire to keep me there as long as possible. He was right in his assumption that I would have felt uncomfortable having a conversation about the circumstances leading me to his bedroom that morning, but I still felt bad for him, having lost Daisy and now already caught up in yet another struggle against near impossible odds. Gatsby was the kind of man who would never stop dreaming, even if the world attempted to beat his beautiful hope out of him; it seemed that his tendency to aspire to more would only stop once he drew his last breath.
I tried multiple times during breakfast to pull myself away from the table and head out to work; I was worried about missing my train, but Gatsby continued to reassure me that I would be alright if I didn’t show up to work and stayed with him through the rest of the day. A part of me did want to; Gatsby seemed to need the comfort of my presence, and I knew it was my duty as his friend to be able to provide that to him. However, the worry of what my own impulses would lead to if I stayed ended up being the stronger force, and I made my way to leave after breakfast had been finished and the servants began to clear the table.
Reluctantly, Gatsby saw me out, though I reminded him that I would call and be over for dinner after I was finished with work; at the time I did not know of the threat to Gatsby’s life that was lurking mere miles away, and it seemed like a good enough compromise in the moment. I began my walk down the front steps and over to my cottage, but there was a feeling that plagued me that it would be the last time I saw Gatsby; I managed to ignore it for the most part, though I did turn around in the middle of the stairs to answer that question he had asked so long ago; my opinion of him, in all its truth.
“They’re a rotten crowd. You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”
And it was true, every word of it. After everything I had seen, after all the corruption of Tom and Daisy and even Jordan, he was different from all of them. He stood out from the guests at each one of his parties with a kind of humanity that I had begun to think was quite rare to come across, with a smile that served as a showcase of all the beauty contained within him. He showed it in his eyes, the way he looked at you the way anybody would want to be looked at, as if you were everything in the world and the sole thing keeping him tethered to the ground and anchoring him to reality. If he were a woman, I would have loved him; it was exactly these qualities that I can still imagine myself falling for some day in the future.
I hesitated for a moment, hoping for some kind of response from Gatsby; I wasn’t sure what I wanted the nature of such words to be, just that I wanted one of some kind. However, he did not respond by saying anything; he simply made his way down the steps to where I was standing, a bright glimmer of hope in the blue of his eyes as he seized the lapels of my suit jacket and pulled me towards him until his lips were on mine. He kissed me with a hunger that suggested it was the kind of thing he had recently discovered he was missing; that pure intensity was not lost on me, for at that point I knew that Gatsby’s obsessions presented themselves in their rawest form and consumed him whole, an honor to the person it was bestowed upon to be so wanted by such a great man. After an amount of time that eludes me to this day, he broke the kiss, his bright eyes once again searching for approval and validation as he spoke.
“Old sport…”
He had lost any semblance of his typical formalities, and now was locked in an immense struggle against himself to put the right words into the air; he settled for action, taking my hand in his own and anticipating my reaction. I did not have one; Gatsby’s kiss had shocked me immensely, even after the one the previous night, and I had no idea what to make of it. I settled on something that, as I saw it, did not give any hint of my underlying feelings towards him away.
“I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”
And with that, I let go of his hand and made my way to the train; I had missed quite a few, but there was still one I could catch into the city. I was not nearly as late as I had expected, and I busied myself with as much work as possible, but I was rather distracted by both the tragedy of what had happened to Myrtle and the feeling of Gatsby so intoxicatingly close to me. All I recall from that afternoon was a conversation with Jordan that did not go particularly well and a feeling of dread that lingered throughout what remained of the morning that characterized itself as a sense of extreme worry for Gatsby.
By noon I had found that almost nothing had gotten done, and I was merely biding my time until I could return home and make my way to Gatsby’s; that day was the longest I had ever had at that job, and there were many a day spent staring at the wall and hoping that time would pass faster than the rate at which is typically did. I attempted to work through the afternoon, but eventually all I could feel was crushing anxiety and a faint memory of Gatsby’s lips against mine; I chose to leave early, knowing that I would be of no use for the rest of the day until I had made sure that Gatsby was safe within the walls of his mansion.
In the moment, I was not certain of the reasons for my anxiety, though in reflection I supposed I picked up on George Wilson’s strange desire for revenge when Tom, Jordan, and I stopped at the garage the previous day. Evidently, my worry was well placed, for as I drove by coming from the station I heard gunshots coming from Gatsby’s. I ran over, nearly tripping over my own feet as they moved as fast as they could around his house; I vaguely recalled him mentioning something about going for a swim at breakfast, and so I made my way there as soon as the thought had formed in my mind. The search for Gatsby exists in my memory to this day as nothing but a blur, overcomplicated by the strange circumstances that had made Gatsby’s newest desires quite apparent over the past few hours.
It was I who first caught sight of his body in the pool, drifting along the surface as the gentle breeze pushed him across the water. He looked almost at peace, eyes closed as he stared up into the beautiful sunny sky through the leaves above, the only evidence that he was no longer breathing being the hole in his chest and the traces of blood that painted a light spiral of red in the water below. He was quite gorgeous there, and I was in disbelief; people like Gatsby are meant to go far, meant to do things no man could ever reach without the pure hope that he had in life. I can only hope that in his final moments he had not lost his hope, that he drew his last breath while still expecting another somewhere on the horizon.