The events of what happened in New York still lingered deep within my mind, nearly as fresh as a daisy that had bloomed in early spring. My hands were shoved into my coat pockets to keep them warm, as a light snowfall, which only started minutes ago, began to end. The street that I was walking on was packed with cars, as family members were leaving for the upcoming holiday season; it gave off the sounds of the bustling New York streets.

Looking across the street, I saw a group of girls clinging to a bung of men like monkeys. They were laughing and grinning at the fullest. But looking at one particular girl, I saw that she almost reminded me of Jordan Baker. Her hair was the same color and style, but her skin was pale as the moon unlike Jordan's beautiful golden skin that shines like a new gold locket that was freshly polished. Shaking my head, I turned my head away from the group and walked away in silence.

My key was inserted into my apartment doorknob, and I gave it a nice good turn. There was a small click of it unlocking, and I pushed the door open. Stepping into the living room, I peeled off my coat and threw my hat onto the couch. A small sound had come from my couch, and I suck in a deep breath of air. Carefully walking over, a blond hair woman popped up and gave me the gayest grin that she could hold on her face.

"Did you miss me, Nickie?"

"Daisy! What brings you into Minnesota? And how did you get into my apartment?"

"Oh, the apartment thing doesn't matter at the moment. The reason why I came here is because of you. I'm dragging your little fluffy dog tail back to New York."

I blinked at her in shock, and I took a step or two away from her. She carefully rose off of the couch and approached me with caution. In her eyes, I could see that she was worried of me.

"Nick, darling, what's wrong? You just became pale as someone who would be sick on a hot summer day."

Her words reminded me of the day when Tom, Jordan and I had pulled into George Wilson auto-shop for some gasoline. He had been sick that day, and that was also the day when everything had started to turn rotten.

"I'm not going back to New York, Daisy, not one bit. I can't handle New York, not after what happened. I can't it be there, Daisy, not even if you dragged my dead body there."

"Oh, Nickie."

She wrapped her thin pale arms around me, and the two of us stood in silence. I counted the seconds that passed by while we were in silence; I fidgeted a small bit in her arms. Daisy quickly took notice and pulled away from me with a small apologetic yet angelic look on her face.

"So did anyone else come with you? I wouldn't be surprised if Tom was here, but if it was Jordan, that would be a real surprise to me. So is she here?"

"Oh, I wish she did come Nick, I truly do. After you left, Tom and I, we came back two months later, and Jordan came to me and we had a long talk. We did a lot of talking Nick, and we settled a lot of things. It was only five weeks later that she mentioned you, Nick."

"She still talks about me?"

"Yes, and Nickie, she's a mess. She told me about how the two of you were falling in love with each other and about your kiss with her. Then she cried her heart out and so forth. It took me an hour to calm her down, and then she just fell asleep on the couch looking like a raccoon. It continued on for a few days, then Tom finally yelled at her to stop and physically hurt her. . . She ran out of the room we were in and I followed after her. She was just about to take her car but I told her I'll drive so she wouldn't get into an accident. After I dropped her home, I got a taxi and went back to my house."

I turned away from Daisy, and walked towards my apartment windows on the opposite side of the room. New snow was falling to the ground, creating a thin winter blanket upon the streets that were just shoveled from the previous snow and ice. My hand ran through my brown hair, and I could see Daisy staring at me in the reflection. Taking in a deep breath, I decided to ask her a couple more questions.

"And how is she doing now?"

"She's doing okay at the moment Nick, but I know that she wants you Nick, I've seen it in her eyes. And by the way you're asking about her, you want her back in your arms again. Do you Nick?"

"Yes, I really do want her back Daisy, but she told me that she was engaged to another man. How can I have her back if she is with someone else?"

"She was engaged, Nickie, but she broke it off a week or two ago. Now she's a free woman once more."

My heart jumped inside of me, and I could have sworn that I wanted to hug Daisy right at that moment from the news she gave me. But instead, I kept myself composed around her. Deep down inside me, I hated her for putting Gatsby through all of that pain and allowing him to take the blame that he ran over Myrtle, which led George Wilson to killing him.

"Well then, Daisy, that is good for her. That is really good then. Guess that man didn't meet up with her standards that she keeps to herself on what type of man she wanted."

"Nickie. . . the man left her because she. . . Oh, you make it hard to express things in the simplest way possible!"

I quickly turned to her and the look on my face must have scared her.

"I make things hard? All of you on East Egg made things hard for everyone on West Egg! No one over there in West Egg likes all of you East Egg socialites! All you ever had to do was sit back and watch everyone move his or her little fingers for you, while everyone else does the work! Even the people in the Valley of Ashes can't stand you rich people at all. They look at you people in East Egg with envy and anger, Daisy, and all you can care about is how your life goes!"

"You think all that I care about is my life, Nick? You're being judgmental here and ridiculous! In fact you're not acting fair! I care about everything that there is in this world! So stop putting the blame on me!"

"Then why did you let Gatsby take the blame that he was the one driving the car that killed Myrtle Wilson and not you? If you had, then Gatsby would still be alive and George Wilson wouldn't have come and shot him, then George Wilson wouldn't have killed himself! To let you know, George was also looking for the man that was taking his wife away from him and. . ."

I couldn't speak another word because I felt the tears starting to go down my face, and I grabbed a handful of tissues. My heart was still aching from the death of Gatsby, and I wasn't fully ready to move on from it, nor was I ready to talk about it. Nor was I ready to talk about it to Mrs. Buchanan.

Turning my head to her, I gave her the coldest stare that I could ever give that Gatsby would ever give to one of his friends that I saw. She took a couple of steps back from me, and I let out a heavy deep breath.

"Just why are you really here, Mrs. Buchanan?"