Jay stayed there for nearly half an hour before Daisy found him. He'd sat there, hidden away in a dark, secluded alley until he had no tears left to cry. His eyes had gone bloodshot. They'd turned swollen and tears had left a trail of salt on Jay Gatsby's cheeks, but he was quick to wipe them away when he heard his wife approach. He still sat on the pavement, his arms resting on his knees, his head resting against the stone wall, a lit cigarette clenched between his lips. His eyes were focused on the starry night above him.
''Jay!'', Daisy cried out.
He didn't say anything.
''Jay, my god! I've been looking for you! What happened?''.
For nine years, I thought the woman I loved had died in the North Atlantic after I fought to keep her safe. I've been a shell of a man for nine fucking years. I've tried to forget her. I've tried to move on. I've tried to stop loving her.. but I just saw her acting on stage right in front of me and in seconds – she's brought me back to square one. But I can't ever tell you that.
''I felt sick''.
Daisy kneeled down in front of him, put her hands on his cheeks and forehead and turned her head sideways in pity. ''You poor soul'', she whispered. Jay blew the smoke from his lungs right into her face, though she didn't seem to notice the passive aggressiveness behind it. ''Let's go home. We can see the play another time''.
It took a him while to regain the strength in his legs but with Daisy's help, he managed to get back onto his feet.
As they walked towards the car, he wanted nothing more than to turn around. He wanted nothing more than to run up onto that stage and pull her against him. He wanted to know how she'd managed to survive. He wanted to know if she'd been happy. He wanted to know if she'd longed for him as much as he had for her.
But he couldn't. His legs wouldn't let him. His mind wouldn't let him. The ring on his finger wouldn't let him.
Not only had his legs given up on him– he couldn't help but doubt she'd want anything to do with him. Surely, she'd moved on. She hadn't tried to find him or contact him and she'd had nine whole years to do it. Maybe she'd fallen back into the lifestyle she led before she met him. Maybe her mother had gotten ahold of her. Maybe she'd simply gotten to her senses.
His wedding ring suddenly weighed a lot more, it seemed. As Daisy planted herself next to him in the car and carefully kissed on his temple, he felt it burning on his finger. His heart screamed at him. It ordered him to go back inside, to go see her. Rose Dawson.. She'd taken his name. Why had she done that?
His mind told his heart to shut the hell up.
Jay Gatsby, in that moment, ignored the residue of Jack Dawson within him and drove off. He watched the theatre get smaller and smaller in his review mirror and his heart started screaming even louder, but Jay had overpowered Jack and stomped on the gas until it finally went quiet – and shattered completely.
That night, when they came home, Jay threw his overcoat onto the couch, told Daisy he had some work left to do and disappeared into his office. Daisy, though she felt somewhat blindsided by her husband's suddenly strange behavior, decided to just go with it and went to bed.
The leather of his chair whined as Jay sat down on it. It was quite representative.
In his mind, there were a million questions.
Was it really her? Was it not just a phantom? A desperate trick of the mind? Had he not accidentally fallen asleep in his office, making this all a terrible dream? If it wasn't, had she seen him? How had he not seen her? How had he not heard her? How on earth had he not been able to find her on that godforsaken ship? Why didn't she contact him? Why was she using his name?
Most importantly: what was he going to do.
Jay poured himself a drink on the rocks and threw it down in one big gulp. Another one followed. After, he lit a cigarette, sat down at his desk and started turning at the wheel on his telephone. He knew who he needed, right now. He needed someone sane to talk to.