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He told me of their last afternoon before he shipped out, sitting with her in his arms for hours, the fire crackling, her cheeks flushed with a cold, the quiet weight of their impending parting hanging over them. He told me of the war, of his quick rise to captain, then major, of being stuck at Oxford when the armistice was signed, of Daisy’s letters growing more distant as she moved back into her world of orchestras and parties and half a dozen suitors. By the time he got home, she was married to Tom Buchanan, secure in his money and his solid, unthinking bulk. He’d spent his last army pay on a miserable week in Louisville after the wedding, walking the streets where they’d once strolled, sitting on the train as it pulled away, staring after the city that had held her, convinced he’d lost the best, freshest part of his life forever.
Dawn broke fully while we talked, turning the sky grey-gold, the air crisp with autumn. Gatsby still insisted Daisy loved him, that Tom had scared her into confusion the day before, that she’d only said she loved Tom because she was frightened. I had to catch my train, missed two before I could wrench myself away, and as I walked down the steps I called back to him, across the lawn: “They’re a rotten crowd. You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.” He nodded politely, then broke into that bright, understanding smile, the one that made him look like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear someone say it, his gorgeous pink suit a flash of colour against the white steps of the house he’d built for her. I shook his hand, called a final goodbye, and walked away, not knowing I’d never see him alive again.
In the city, I tried to focus on stock listings, then fell asleep at my desk, only to wake to Jordan’s call. Her voice was harsh, stripped of the cool, fresh lilt I knew, sharp with annoyance. She’d left Daisy’s house, was heading to Southampton that afternoon, accused me of being unkind to her the night before. I tried to brush her off, said I couldn’t meet her, and when she pushed, I cut her off cold. I knew then we were done, that there was nothing left to say between us. I hung up the phone, then immediately dialled Gatsby’s number, only to get a busy signal. I tried four times, until the operator told me the line was held open for a long distance call from Detroit. I circled the 3:50 train on my timetable, a cold weight in my chest, and waited.
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