The shirts fell down from the stairs atop the bed like graceful angels ready to do what they must in a dirty world. Daisy held them close to her the way children clung to comforts they knew and laughed. She fell across the bed laughing to herself until suddenly every shirt was a memory of the past and then it was a thought of the present and then it was the whisper of the future and the weight of time pushed her down with a force she couldn't deny. She caved into herself and cried.
"Oh, Jay. These are such beautiful shirts."
"D-daisy. What's wrong?"
"What'll you do when they go out of fashion? What'll anyone do with these old beautiful shirts?"
"Well, I'll keep them. I'll keep them, but wear new clothes."
"I suppose that's what people do, isn't that right, Jay?"
"I suppose we have to. People grow. People-"
"Change."
"Yes... that's right, Daisy."
He held her close to him knowing he would never do so again, at least not in the way he had or the way he had wanted to. Daisy was gone. He kissed her forehead just as Nick walked in.
"Give us a bit, will you old sport?"
Nick turned away, unaware of his misinterpretation. He thought of Jordan and shook his head with pity thinking to himself that he would have to tell her. He glanced outside to see more rain. He thought quietly to himself that all of New York could use a good rain. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
"They met."
"I know."
"It went well."
"...I knew it would." She sighed deeply to herself like she was trying to exhale Gatsby himself. Gatsby. That son of a bitch. What on earth is he doing to me?
"I'll be alright, Nick. Thank you for telling me."
"He'll probably call you over to thank you, you know how he is."
"I know. I know. Loves Daisy, obnoxiously polite, delusional romantic sentimentalist, dreamer, and "old sport." Did I miss anything?"
"Daisy doesn't hold a candle to you."
"You're right. She just holds every sun that's ever existed."
"Gatsby has-"
"I'm tired, Nick. Let's talk later, okay?"
"Okay." He hung up the phone knowing that Jordan needed quiet time to settle her thoughts and wondered to himself is she'd still be alright after meeting Gatsby again in person.
"If you're calling me here to thank me about Daisy and gush about how wonderful she is, I'm not in the mood, alright?"
"Miss Baker. I know you'll think I'm-"
She cut him off quickly and thought to herself that if things we're going to be cut, she'd be the one holding the scissors.
"Gatsby, I've got to jet. Whatever you have to say, say it fast will you?"
"Yes, yes of course. I know you'll think I'm crazy but I absolutely must say this and I- well- I-"
"Spit it out." She curled her fingers into her palm back and forth in frustration the way she did when readying herself for a match. Her teeth grinded against each other as her nerves began to take over. Breathe, Jordan. It's just a game. It's just a play. Let it go through the acts. She was not the type to hold on to things that didn't want to stay. She turned away from the slightly befuddled looking Gatsby. She knew what he wanted to say and knew the disgusting polite necessities at which he would say it. She glanced her eyes over to see him open his mouth to speak. She closed her eyes readying herself for the punch.
"I'm taken by you, Jordan. Miss Baker. Jordan."
She snapped back toward him thinking she'd misheard him.
"This isn't a meeting to say goodbye?"
He laughed a little to himself as he thought about how everything that's ever left him and everything he's ever left never said goodbye.
"No. Well, perhaps. I'm saying goodbye to other things," His voice trailed off as if he was physically walking down a trail that others simply couldn't see. His voice strengthened again. "But not you. No. I want you. I want you to stay. Will you?"
"...I saw the way you looked at Daisy-before. I always wanted to be looked at like that, but I- I'm not a flower. I'm not the type of girl men look at like that, I-"
"I don't want to look at flowers."
She looked at him closely, at those bright ambitious eyes, at the hands of God, at the body of a man with a heart of a boy- shoved to a place he wasn't ready to go. She looked at him and where they were and where they could go and at the twinkling man made star light around them and whispered in a way similar to a hymn or a prayer.
"I'll stay. And..will you stay?"
"I'll stay."
She reached her hand across the table.
"My hand. I want you to hold it."
He reached to place his palm over hers as if they were building a bridge to something more than themselves.
"My mouth. I want you do with it what our hands are doing."
She smiled a bit shyly at the comment before quickly correcting her features into something cool. She leaned across slowly with a sly smirk and kissed him. Gatsby felt her strength, and knowing that she would not break, kissed her harder. They melted in to each other and they wondered to themselves if perhaps at least for the moment, it'd be okay to lose track of time.