The Green Light

Chapter 2

I had allowed for Gatsby to pay my medical bills for me. He seemed more than happy - ecstatic to help me the way he did. Though his concern and even what may have been anxiety heightened when he visited (which was rather often).

Gatsby already had a modest and caring nature. When he did visit, he was cautious. Though, he seemed to show his affections through physical touch. And be it purposely or subconsciously, he would often pat me on the back or put his arm around my shoulder.

A partially bad habit, considering my situation at the time.

I did try to make him aware that I was perfectly capable of looking after myself. Apart from a bad shoulder and slightly disturbed mind, I was quite alright. He didn't seem to want to accept that fact, though being completely honest and truthful, I enjoyed the company and appearance of a friend. Someone who seemed to genuinely care for my well-being. Someone who actually stayed.

And I like to assume that the feeling was mutual.

The amount of loss he must have felt. The grief must have been what drove him to visiting so often. He seemed very much keen to be looking after me somehow.

"Now - don't be excessive, Old Sport."

"Be careful, Old Sport."

"I can do that for you, Old Sport - You rest."

All phrases I had heard multiple times in that period. Any moment I winced, or appeared uncomfortable, the man stopped me where I stood - or sat - and completely took over. Tea? He did it himself. Dishes? He was on it in a flash. Peculiar, considering his servants would be more likely to do everything for him.

Call me naive, but I assumed he simply may not know how to do tasks like that. I'd never seen him touch a kitchen faucet until that time.

It was not like I was any form of hero. I did what I felt was correct in that moment. So why was Gatsby so persistent when it came to helping me? Of course it could have been to thank me, though again - in my mind, there was no thanks needed.

Perhaps something else was better reasoning for it all. A strong emotion. I pondered it - though every time, without fail, I would deny it all to myself and on his behalf.

You see, Gatsby was indeed very surprised by my actions that morning (the actions which resulted in my injury). And as I have stated, he liked to show his affection through touch- So in the rush of it all, I cannot remember what had happened.

The parties had stopped not so long ago. The roaring crowds of eyes glistening in awe had ceased; however one night there was yet another party. A celebration for my good health.

Stepping in, the cacophony of whistles and screeches, laughter on the beaches, music and voices that left me with no other choices but to give in to it was overwhelming. It felt as if my head were about to explode from the staggering amount of commotion. It had been a long while since I had last stepped foot in that enormous mansion of Gatsby's, therefore the headache that my introduction back to it gave me felt somewhat reasonable.

I hadn't even laid my lips on a glass and my head was already throbbing from the lights, the booming sound of music and confusion of it all (as glorious as it was). Only one question remained in my mind. Where on Earth was that man?

If it was going to be anything like the first party I had attended at my neighbour's, finding him would just happen naturally - or not at all.

"Mr. Carraway!"

I heard a familiar voice call out to me. That tone. That soft yet bright and ecstatic tone was an easy one to match to a face.

"Gatsby?"

I was grabbed by the arm and practically dragged through the swarms of glimmering personalities to one of the only - some what - quiet rooms.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here!"
The well dressed (as always) man beamed; his same old smile reassuring me as he placed his hand on my lower back to guide me.
"You got the invitation? You got here safely?"
He - I wouldn't say bombarded me with questions - however he was rather frantic in the way he asked.

"Why, yes! Yes I got it and yes - safe journey. Just a stroll, of course. I am only next door."
I felt the corners of my mouth turn up, into a slight smirk at Gatsby's words, all tension melting away as if my friend's presence was magical in a sense.

"Of course - of course - Old Sport?"
He continued,
"Is the party alright? Comfortable?"

He seemed very keen on getting my opinion on it. This - at that point - was a very regular occurrence.
"The party's wonderful, Gatsby. They always are. Thank you."
"Good!"
Gatsby responded almost instantly, glancing outside.
"Good..."

We spoke for a while, I drank, my friend seemingly did not have quite the pallet for alcohol - unlike me. He told me how glad he was to have trusted me with the truth about himself. How he was glad to know that I didn't see him as some wealthy womaniser. Jay Gatsby and James Gatz were one in my mind.

It was the way it was supposed to be. The way he had now intended for it to be.

Gatsby was not in any way the type of man to change opinions overnight. And though he had a large quantity of time to himself as I recovered, he spent most of it with me. Therefore, he had not quite decided what he was going to do next, he told me.

Everything he had done, he did for Daisy and now she was unbelievably out of reach. Inaccessible to Jay completely - and that was in disregard to the fact that even when given the choice, Daisy Buchanan did not choose him - but her husband.