The Great Gatsby, characters, and original concept belong to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Chapter 2

Later that night, I curled up in a bed that felt foreign to my skin. Jordan was out buying a last minute birthday gift for some great aunt Martha, and I had the house to myself. I'd spent many nights here, but they were either in Jordan's bed during a sleepover or on the couch passed out after a movie marathon. Now I had my own space that I would be occupying indefinitely. The thought was frightening.

Pammy made a gurgling noise from the crib, and I sighed. I missed Tara, who had saved me from many of the disgusting burdens of motherhood, from throw up to nasty diapers. There wasn't enough room in Jordan's house to accompany a twenty-four hour caretaker, and I wasn't even sure if that was in my best financial interests then. This notion reminded me that I would have to get a new checkbook. Daisy Fay would be written on the line from now on- after the divorce was finalized.

I opened my laptop with the full intention of wasting a few hours on social media and distracting myself with makeup tutorials on YouTube. Facebook was a necessity in the digital age, but I neglected to check it as often as I should. Mindlessly scrolling through my newsfeed, I searched for something worthwhile, clicking on the occasional shared article. I was ten minutes in when I noticed a photo of Nick.

He was red-faced and glancing at the camera with annoyance. Was he drunk? I entertained the thought briefly; I could barely fathom the thought of my calm and mild-natured cousin getting wasted at some party. The photos were rather blurry, as if taken with a moving phone. Nick probably hadn't logged on recently enough to untag himself from the photos- they were uploaded just two nights ago. I clicked through the album, uploaded by a Mrs. Patricia McKee with whom I had seventeen mutual friends. Throughout the scenes, Nick seemed rather unhappy and bothered.

I stopped at one of the photos. Mrs. Patricia McKee smiled drunkenly in a selfie, a feminine man tagged as her husband and a glass of wine dangling from her hand. Their embarrassing expressions weren't what caught my interest. It was behind them. This photo had been taken with more clarity than the others. Behind Mrs. McKee stood a man whose profile clearly resembled Tom's. He was turned towards the side, angled towards a woman turned away from the camera, her auburn curls in a bun and a puppy in one arm. A sudden feeling of nausea overcame me, and I quickly exited the album.

I tried to direct my attention to the newest video from my favorite YouTube artist, but couldn't. Instead, I found myself reopening the photo and stared at the man in the background. There was little doubt about it: that was Tom- my Tom. My breathing quickened. It was too late to be getting so distressed over a Facebook photo. Despite this, I rapidly clicked through the album in the hopes of finding something useful, but both Tom and the auburn-haired woman seemed to stick to the blurred backgrounds, sneaky figures in the darkness.

Then, I paused. I dragged my cursor to the search bar on the top and began to type. Hundreds of searches came up for a Myrtle Wilson in the city, but only one had enough mutual friends to be more than a speck on the radar. Composing myself, I clicked on her name. Her wall was cluttered with numerous posts, but I ignored them, instead staring at the enlarged profile picture of the auburn-haired woman from that night. Below it, in small text, it read: Married to George Wilson. The man's name was in black- perhaps he didn't have a Facebook to check on his cheating wife. She was less careful with her photos on her own page.

There was only one photo that mattered, uploaded in the past week. Beaming behind those reddish brown locks, she had one arm around Tom's neck, drawing him closer to her bosom from his position on an unfamiliar couch. The gesture indicative of intimacy didn't hurt as much as the expression on Tom's face: one of pure happiness. Suddenly, I realized that I hadn't remembered him looking at me like that in a year, not since I held Pammy in my arms in the delivery room.

In my frustration, I began to cry. Pammy picked up on my distress and began crying too. Not in the mood to be the comforting mother, I ignored her and instead thought about Tom. I thought about how much I loved him even if he had betrayed me. I thought about how useless my title as his wife was if he enjoyed another woman's presence more than mine. I lay in my bed silently, unmoving, even after Pammy had quieted. Sleep failed to come to me.

I stared into space until Jordan came back. She stepped in briefly, left, and then returned with a cup of hot tea that I rejected. Pammy began to make some noises again, and I heard Jordan beginning to change her diaper. This act of motherhood from someone as volatile and hard as her startled me. For some reason, it made me cry again. As soon as Pammy was in a new diaper, Jordan sat down at my side.

"I hope she'll be a fool - that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." I whispered. At least fools didn't get their hearts broken.