Archive of Our Own

By the time I reached Gatsby’s manor, I was too late. The killer had a bloody halo spread out near his head, Gatsby, on the other hand, was surrounded by a murky yellow-reddish haze in the pool. The only thing that came to my mind was that there was no one with Gatsby when he died. The parties, the wealth, everything was for her and for him to not feel so alone, but that didn't stop the bullet, nor did it stop fate from making her sick warning about the dangers of dreaming up a dream more vast than what the world contains. I stood there, watching the pool turn murky with his blood. His butler must have called the police, for a paramedic went in to grab him, and in a weird swathe of emotions, I started to grab onto his lifeless body. For the entire time I stood staring at him, hours maybe, I had yet to accept that Gatsby was dead. I tried in vain to find his pulse, my hands were covered in his blood, but an officer pulled me away from him. I screamed and thrashed in his grip.

Dazedly I registered that the officer pulled me into the nearest room. Instantly, I noticed that all the lights in the world had dimmed; even Gatsby’s sparking chandelier, which had always amazed me, seemed dull. It was as if he commanded all the glamor in the world, and without him breathing, all the life and wonder of such objects dissipated into the night, a silent goodbye.

It was on the cold, hard floor of his empty mansion where I screamed at the injustice. He dreamt of the world, and in turn, the world had cracked the foundations of his being and caused it all to crash around him, uncaring of the damage the wake of the disaster caused. I stayed beside him all night, his usually tan skin turned white beneath my fingertips, and his golden hair faded with the light. Unlike many of the people who came to his parties, I could not let myself become a bystander. I owed it to him to stick around when no one else did; I would not let him down.

How tragic it was to build an empire around a dream, and when it came crumbling all around you, all you had left was that one friend you met by mistake. After that somber realization, I fell asleep on those cold, hard stairs.

The first loop

When I woke, the first thing I noticed was cotton, the second was that I was in my bed, and the third, there was a loud rapping on my door. Yesterday’s events came flooding back, and the incessant rapping became more insistent. The only reason I got up was because I hoped that Daisy had come by. It was the least she could do considering the selfless man who was willing to take the blame for her murder followed her victim into death.

I reached for my closest robe and tied it around my midriff as I walked towards my door. I opened it. “Daisy-”

It was not Daisy who answered, but instead, the man whose dead body I saw yesterday. Clad in the same midnight black suit he was wearing yesterday. He seemed so unbothered by everything as if yesterday didn’t exist in anything but my overactive imagination. “Old sport,” Gatsby interrupted, “my gardener wants to drain the pool, but I realized I didn't swim in it all summer. Would you care to join me?”

I stood there, mouth agape as Gatsby continued to ramble.

A look of concern passed over his face at my lack of response. See, when he rambled, I often interrupted him to ask for clarification, but he seemed to notice the shift in our conversational style. “Old sport, are you okay?”

“You died, Gatsby,” I murmured in disbelief. “You died. It shouldn’t be possible that you’re here.”

“Well,” Gatsby said while pressing down on his heart, “I seem to be breathing. It must have been a bad dream after yesterday's events. Say, you come over when you are ready, and I’ll be in the pool. How does that sound, old sport?”

Gatsby looked proud of himself for his problem-solving and I couldn't help but be inclined to agree with his easy assurances. “Yes,” I agreed. “That sounds great.”

He smiled, gave a curt nod, and walked towards his house. I watched him the entire way, assuring myself that this was not a dream and that he was real.

My movements this morning were lethargic how does one accept something so vivid as just a dream? I felt his blood on my hands, and I remember how cold his body was, yet he stood right in front of me— alive.

I brewed myself some tea; as I waited, I called my workplace to let them know I had come down with a devastating cold and couldn’t make it to work today. I coughed for emphasis. I don’t think they believed me.

It wasn't until I was getting ready to go over that I heard a gunshot. Dread pooled in my stomach, and I had an inking of a suggestion that my dream was a prophecy that I failed to stop. I never made it over to his house that day. I knew what would wait for me, and even if I deserved to look at my failure, I simply could not stomach moving closer to where he lay.

The second loop

Cotton, my bed, and rapping at the door. I know I am not the smartest guy, but if Gatsby is at the door, then I must be insane. It was simply impossible for me to know he died twice and for him to be so full of life at my door. The prophecy came true, and I didn’t understand until it was too late; it was luck that I was given the chance to save him, but there was no such thing as getting the same prophecy twice— Gatsby shouldn’t be alive. When I opened the door, he stood there, clad in that same black suit. His eyes still shone with hope, and I knew then that this was not a dream. A mind’s eye would be wholly incapable of replicating how his eyes swam in that feeling. But that leaves the question of what the hell is this, then?

He once again asked me to go over to swim. I decided I must be going insane. “This isn't a trick is it?”

“A trick,” Gatsby asked incredulously. “Why would I trick you? I just wanted my friend over to swim before the pool gets drained.”

I searched his face for any oddity that would give away a lie, but I found nothing, just a confused smile. “This isn't an elaborate prank where you pretend to kill yourself?”

“Kill myself? Old sport, where have you gotten that idea from? I am sorry that yesterday’s events troubled you. Maybe we should postpone the pool for another day. It seems like you need some rest, old sport.”

“No, no, Gatsby, I am fine,” I reassured him. “Here, come inside,” I said, moving beside my door to let him in. “I will get changed, and then we can go over.”

Gatsby’s confused smile turned radiant. I felt a flood of warmth flood through my veins. I ignored this feeling and moved into my bedroom to get changed.

“Old sport,” Gatsby began as we walked towards his pool, “I have not been quite truthful to you…”

I felt deja vu; the exact conversation in my dreams was now happening again. All I could do was nod along to his real story, bereft of all the lies he surrounded himself with.

“It was just personal,” Gatsby finished.

I let the story wash over me, replacing old pieces with new ones and adding ones where holes existed in the picture of who Jay Gatsby is. The picture of the man beside me started to become clearer, minor holes in his lies were replaced with truth. Truths that I know to be true because I could tell he was ashamed of his upbringing; he was ashamed to be the son of poor farmers in the Midwest. But mostly, he was ashamed because he knew that his poor upbringing resulted in him falling short of what Daisy needed. Gatsby was not born into money, no, he had to create his own empire, and because of that one fact, he would be forever lost at sea, drifting to try and seek the object of his desires, not understanding that she could never reciprocate. Gatsby was simply not like them.

We sat down on his porch, the blistering heat from yesterday had dissipated into a cool autumn breeze. I was reminded of a short comment made by Jordan. It was the complete opposite of my own; she claimed that the start of autumn represented the start of a new life. I always thought summer was the start of a new life. Looking at Gatsby, I realized both can be true. I said as such.

Much to my chagrin, Gatsby looked across the bay, searching for his green light. He turned. “I suppose so, old sport.” His words flowed past me, but they were empty; he, despite everything, was still waiting for Daisy. Daisy, who was willing to let Gatsby take the blame, Daisy who cared for nothing but herself, Daisy who-

Gatsby’s voice cut me out of my thoughts. “Don't do it today,” he answered. He turned to me apologetically. “You know, old sport, I've never used that pool all summer?”

I looked down at my watch and smiled apologetically. “Twelve minutes to my train.” But I didn't want to leave. Even if the ghost of Daisy haunted his eyes, I found nothing but enjoyment in our time together.

I missed three trains before I could get myself away from his side.

“I’ll call you up,” I said from below.

“Do, old sport.” A pause, “I suppose Daisy will call too.”

His gaze was hopeful, and I didn't dare to take that away from him. 5 years was a long time to dream. “I suppose so,” I said emptily.

I walked down the path, and when I neared the end of his hedges, I was overtaken with a sudden, desperate urge to tell him something, I opened my mouth and shouted across the lawn, “They're a rotten crowd! You're worth the whole damn bunch put together.” I was glad I told him that, it was the only compliment I had ever given him. It felt short of everything he was, but for now, it was good enough. Then I turned and left; I felt his eyes follow me until I was out of sight.

I called at work, no answer. Dread pooled in my gut, and my body demanded I take the quickest train back. I tried to fight it and stay until 3; it was the least I could do considering I stayed longer at Gatsby’s than I intended, and thus came to work late, but I could not stand the feeling any longer. It commanded me to go home and stop the inevitable, so I tried. I took the train well before 3, and yet it was not enough.

When I stepped out of the car and onto Gatsby's lawn. I was too late. A body was on the grass. Overtaken with dread, I walked to the pool, my footsteps a phantom of the ones I walked hours prior.

There, in the water, was Gatsby.

Blood pooled from the wound in his chest. It turned the water that same murky yellow-reddish-brown color. I stood there, unmoving, until a paramedic forced me away/ Snapping me out of my trance, I lunged for Gatsby, but his body was void of its usual warmth. His warm, tan skin turned ashy beneath my fingertips.

Distantly, I heard wailing. It was my own. Tears flooded down my face, but I didn’t feel them. All I could feel was an overwhelming failure. I failed Gatsby, and I knew that this happened two times prior. I failed Gatsby three times, and I was unsure what to do with that knowledge. It could kill a man, I thought distantly. It could kill a man to know he repeatedly failed the closest person next to him.

I followed the footsteps of the ghost of myself who walked these halls days prior, I was unable to leave his side. I deserved to surround myself with my failure. The mansion, usually bustling with life, was dead like its owner, and I deserved to remind myself of that fact with every second I stayed near him.

My last thought before sleep overtook me was that I hoped this was all a bad nightmare, one that I would wake from and find Gatsby alive.

The third loop

When I woke, I felt cotton, my bed, and I heard the same tempo of his rapping at my door. I stumbled out of bed, opened the door, and threw myself onto Gatsby. We stumbled back a step, but relief flooded my veins at the fact that blood was pumping through his.

“What is this for, old sport?” Gatsby laughed. I pulled back sheepishly. He seemed dazed at my sudden need for contact.

“Just a bad dream,” I said. “You died, and I needed to be sure that you’re alive.”

His gaze softened, and a sad smile took over his face. I never wanted to see that expression on him again. He was too grand for sadness. He stepped closer, gesturing behind me, “May I come in?”

“Of course, Gatsby.” Walking backward, I watched him enter. It was only the third second time he had been in my house. This time, anxiety did not seem to emit from him, but I couldn't help but feel his concerned gaze directed at me.

I turned to face him, and my eyes drifted down to his hand’s nervous tapping on his thigh. “What made you come over?”

His hand stopped. “Well, I was going to tell you a little bit more about my past,” his smile turned pained, “but it seems like you might need a distraction. My gardener wants to empty the pool today, but I suggested tomorrow instead. You know, I never used that pool all summer?”

A repeat, an exact copy should not be repeated in life, except, of course, in novels. An author would look at this with chagrin and change the sentence, for a repeat is not natural, humans aren’t programmed to repeat the same sentence over and over, nor are they supposed to take sentences from dreams. After all, that’s what the past few days have been, haven't they? Deep down, I knew that it wasn't a dream. But I could not fathom what else it could be.

So I changed the story. “I would enjoy that, yes, I’ll swim with you.” There it was again, his radiant smile bestowed onto me. It instantly burned any negative feelings in my stomach and left his sense of wonder in them instead. “Though, I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“No worries, old sport, I have plenty. You can just take one of mine.”

“Thank you.”

I watched Gatsby gracefully dive into the pool. It was odd to see how perfectly he did it, his claim that he hadn't used the pool all summer seemed a little less true, but for all I knew, he could have spent his spare time away from Dan Cody by diving.

Gatsby’s voice shook me from my thoughts. “Come in, old sport. The water is nice.” I grinned at him, took a few steps back, and ran.

A muffled yell, resurfacing, and a mischievous smile. “I would have never invited you if I knew you’d try and drown me in my own pool!”

Despite his joke, I felt my body go cold. “Don't joke about that,” I said. His face turned concerned, and he opened his mouth, attempting to say something, but all he decided on was a soft murmured okay.

For the rest of the time in the pool, even if we were playing around, I could feel his gaze soften into concern before bouncing back into amusement when I turned to face him.

I hung onto the pool edge when it happened for the fourth first time. “Say, Gatsby, what did you want to talk to me about?”

He turned to face me, his mouth open, ready to respond, but I was too distracted by his presence to notice the man behind him. A gunshot, a look of bewilderment, and his final word. My name left his lips in a sigh, and then he sank.

I will never forget that look on his face for as long as I live. Before I could scream his name, a bullet found its home in my head.

The fourth loop

Cotton, my bed, and a quick rapping at my door. Four times, five shots, and a dead man is at my door. It was simply impossible. I touched my head, and it was unscared. I shouldn't be alive, and the man at my door should have died days ago, yet we are both breathing. I couldn’t even fathom what was happening. By now, I knew it couldn't be a dream, but I had no idea what it could be otherwise. I couldn't tell anyone lest I get placed in a mental asylum, but I was surely going insane.

The rapping at my door stopped. I assumed Gatsby left for his house— alone. I felt bad for ignoring him, but I had to deduce what was happening to me. Maybe one of the books I had would help me figure out what all this was.

I scoured my bookshelves until a title caught my name. I had no recollection of bringing this book with me. It was hard enough to pack the necessities, and most of my books remained at home, but clearly, this one, at some point, had a profound message and warranted a move with me.

The Strange Life of Ivan Osokin stared straight back at me. Feeling a profound sensation of this being the right thing to do, my hand reached out to grab the book from its shelf. I opened it and started to read. It was then that I realized what I was in. A time loop.

A gunshot. A repeat.

How was I to end this?

Maybe…

The fifth loop

Cotton, my bed, and rapping at the door. The one thing in common with each reset was the death of Gatsby. That must be how I end this waking nightmare: I have to save him.

I opened my door and saw Gatsby in his black suit. “Old sport, why don't you come over? I have something to tell you.”

I looked at him, his smile didn't reach his eyes and his foot tapped nervously on my porch. “How about we go into town?” I suggested.

“But my car.” His face was pained like he momentarily forgot what had occurred last night.

“We are taking the train,” I decided. His mouth opened, “No complaints,” I interjected. “You will finally have to enter the world of Nick Carraway.”

He laughed, and I wanted to bottle it up so I could drink from it when I was feeling down. Instead, all I could do was smile.

We, despite Gatsby’s utterances of disapproval, hailed a taxi to the station, and from there we took the train into the center of the city.

As expected, people were densely packed against one another. It was as if they were all struggling to reach something but would always fall short, my eyes trailed to Gatsby’s before trying to find us a spot. After many rides, one becomes an expert at finding empty seats on a crowded train. Sometimes, people are too unaware of what is around them because all they can see is a delusion.

I grabbed onto Gatsby’s forearm and led him to the open seats. Voices washed over us in waves, but neither of us spoke. His foot beat ceaselessly against the floor of the train. Concern wove its way into my voice, “ Is everything alright?”

His foot stopped its movement. “I'm alright, old sport. Just been a while since I’ve taken the train.” I could tell he was lying but I let it go. Half-truths lay between the space of our bodies, neither of us brave enough to lay our souls bare, so we sat in silence for the rest of the ride.

When we got off, Gatsby turned to look at me. “What is your plan, old sport?”

“I don't have one,” I lied. If he caught it, he didn’t mention it.

“Why old sport, that seems a little silly. Why go into the city for no reason other than to be there?” He was uncharacteristically confused by my statement, as though he had never thought about doing something for the sole reason of enjoyment, but rather as a means to reach his end goal. I pitied him then, to understand that he, despite all his wealth, was so blind to finding his own enjoyment.

“Doesn't this city make you feel new?” He looked more confused than before, but then his eyes softened as if he saw something exquisite in me. “A city where you can escape your past and become someone new, isn’t that fascinating?” I turned to face him and he was looking through me, as though he was searching for a phantom.

“I suppose it is, old sport.” His voice swayed in intensity, he was both present in the conversation and deep within his thoughts, but never did his words seem to actually reflect what he meant by them. He was an enigma, and he would stay one for the sole reason of his desire to.

It was a small comfort knowing that I knew him better than most people. That, however, did not mean I knew him enough to discern his true thoughts, nor was I privy to his entire past. I would content myself with what he would give me.

Despite this, we walked and talked. He told me the story of that poor boy in North Dakota and how he became the rich man beside me. We wandered in the city, neither of us had a destination in mind and did whatever we desired. Gatsby pointed to numerous shops and drugstores with child-like pride and said they were his. We never stopped in, neither of us enjoyed alcohol all that much, so we kept walking. We did, however, stop in a small bakery and grab a bite for lunch. A croissant for me, and a blueberry turnover for Gatsby. If there was one thing that had surprised me after getting to know him was his utter enjoyment of sweets. It was cute endearing odd. One would not expect a man like Gatsby to enjoy sweets, but here I was, watching his face morph into pure bliss at first bite. I looked down at my shoes, trying to hide my smile behind my food.

Our conversation lulled after our snack. Wordlessly, we decided to go back to West Egg.

Perhaps there was dramatic irony in how a piece of machinery that brings you from point A to point B, can also bring a man from life to death.

It was sudden and horrific. A moment previously he was right beside me and the next he was splattered across the rail tracks. Blood spattered across my face, I stood there for an unknown amount of time gazing at what was left of his body. It was worse than seeing the dead during war, there was nothing of Gatsby left except crushed bones and his blood, sprayed all over the tracks and me. A police officer pulled me aside and asked me a series of questions. They washed over me like a stream, an endless muffle of sounds and cadences. He must have told a paramedic about my state, for suddenly a rag was wiping the dry blood off my face and water was at my lips.

I thought that if I got him away I’d be able to save him, but it was useless. He died anyway, and I had no idea how I could save him.

A hand wiped the, previously unknown, tears on my face. I felt like a wreck. I blinked a few times and the world around me came into focus. As I looked ahead of me, I realized that I wanted to stay in that unfocused haze, I did not have to come to terms with the fact that he is dead, instead, I could surround myself with the same wonder that Gatsby did and pretend everything was alright.

“Mr. Carraway?” Shaken from my thoughts, I turned to where the voice came from. She smiled, but it was not as meaningful as his and hers was achingly full of sadness, “The police need to question you, sir…” My face must have morphed into a grimace for she quickly rushed to amend her sentence. “… or we can take you home and you go into the station later.”

“Do you have any meds for sleep?”

She looked at me pitifully before handing over a pill. I swallowed it dry.

Loop Six

Cotton, my bed, and Gatsby’s rapping.

It was an odd thing to be relieved at the sound of the start of a time loop. But I suppose it’s odder to be stuck in one trying to save your best friend.

I opened the door and invited him inside. My cottage seemed unable to contain his presence. He was too grandiose for it. Even in his own home, his hope and dream could not be contained, but there, at least, there was more room, it was not as stifling as it was here. There you could breathe, and here, with him, in this house, every breath was full of him. I could barely breathe.

I made us tea, hoping he didn’t notice the shakiness of my hands. Frequently, in lulls of the conversation, I saw his eyes stray away to his dock as if he would be able to see his green light more clearly from my cottage: he couldn’t even see it. If he felt any emotion at this, he did not let it show.

Jay Gatsby once again stripped off his facade and become James Gatz. It was humbling to realize how much of this conversation I had remembered from previous loops— I just hope I will never be able to fully recite it.

“Even I knew then that I had lost something monumental, but I had no inclination of what.” Sitting next to me, he looked wistful. “How about we go back to mine, old sport. You know, I never made use of that pool all summer?”

There it was again, that smile so full of hope and I was the one who would destroy it. The question hung in the air, he could care less about his pool or his house, all he wanted was to be there for when Daisy called— she never would. Five, long years he has waited and I have to destroy everything for the sake of his safety.

“She isn’t going to call, Gatsby.”

He looked up at me, and his smile dropped. “What, old sport?”

“I said she isn’t going to call.”

“That is just nonsense, old sport. Of course, she will call,” he said reassuringly.

“Who are you trying to convince, Gatsby?” I muttered to myself.

I lack the words to describe how awful it felt to crush his dreams in six, small words. Five years chasing after a person, only to have the foundations of everything you had destroyed by a man you knew for only a few months. His face crumbled before me, I was the demolition and he was my building. My words left nothing of his dream left except the rubble. It was painful to be the cause of such destruction, but I would suffer through anything at the chance to keep his heart beating.

“It was nice seeing you, old sport.” Gatsby stood up with a thin smile and attempted to walk out my door and to his house.

“I’m sorry Gatsby, but you need to stay over today. You can forsake me tomorrow.”

His momentary anger and sadness melted into confusion— it was rare that I requested something from him.

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” I whispered into the space between us.

We sat in silence, both of us caught up in our own thoughts, both of us scared to continue the previous conversation, and both of us scared for the future.

A knock, hope had reignited itself on Gatby’s face, and an opening of the door.

I was met with the barrel of a gun.

Faintly, I heard it go off, but all I could hear was my name being screamed by Gatsby.

Loop Seven

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby at the door, and a mix of relief and pure mental exhaustion. My father, if I told him any of this, would say, ‘Nick, you are my son, you do not show anyone anything that would tarnish my name. Toughen up.’ So I brushed that feeling aside and opened the door, two dead men stared at one another. Neither of us should be alive, but here we stood. Another repeat, another chance, another death. I invited him inside and waited for the end of his story, I could recite more than I wished.

You see, the ironic thing about writers is that we actually have poor memories. Before submitting my immature work, I would have myself and several others reread it over and over to make sure that any themes and motifs I started would be woven through the work rather than just exist in that spot momentarily. People think that we must have a great memory to remember every point we make and the significance of each sentence, but the reality is that I cannot remember what I wrote one hour ago. So to know that I could nearly recite his story was worrying, I should not remember enough, but there I was, mouthing the words as Gatsby spoke them, and not for a single moment was I out of sync.

I suggested we go over to the Buchanan’s. Gatsby was hesitant, but we went anyway. I offered to let him drive— he took it. His hands shook on the wheel for the first few minutes, I didn’t comment on it. Then, just like the first time we rode together, his hand moved to his leg where he kept tapping his knee. Instead of him offering more half-truths to further cement the persona of Jay Gatsby, I offered my own stories, based on complete truth. I told him of my childhood dog and finally, his hand stopped its restlessness as he looked at me and smiled. It was disorienting to be the recipient of his smiles and I for one, was glad to not be driving. If I was, we would have crashed.

Gatsby parked the car just outside the gate of the Buchanon’s and we walked side-by-side towards the stifling mansion. Oddly, as we passed the garage, there was another car beside Tom’s blue coupe, it was old and had already started to rust. I just looked at Gatsby whose eyes already asked the silent question of whose car that was and shrugged.

Perhaps I should have been more observant and I would have realized the danger I had put ourselves in, but I didn’t. We walked to the front steps and asked to see Mrs. Buchanan— it was of the most importance.

What I did not expect, however, was to see Tom and George Wilson heading for the door. I felt Gatby’s arm press into mine, he was nervous. Nor did I expect the deftness exhibited by Wilson to pull his gun and fire. What I did not expect was to miss the warmth of his arm near mine as he fell. I do not think I’ll ever forget the sound of the thud of Gatsby’s body made when it hit the ground.

“Wilson, what have you done?” Tom roared.

“You told me it was Jay Gatsby, he killed Myrtle, Tom, he had to die. He took away everything from me.” Wilson attempted to turn the gun to himself, but Tom knocked it astray. “I have nothing but her,” he sobbed.

If I was in a better state I would have outed Tom and Daisy as the ones who destroyed his life, instead, my knees buckled and I fell to the ground near Gatby’s still-warm body. I didn’t dare look at him. All that left was mouth was a wail of agony. I had failed, again.

Tom was too busy dealing with Wilson that he didn’t notice that I crawled towards the gun.

I held it in my palms, it was cool to my touch, and it was this gun that had killed me and Gatsby more times than I wished to recount, and it would be this gun that would reset the loop. I put the barrel in my mouth and with one last look at Gatby’s still body, I fired.

Loop Eight

Cotton, my bed, and Gatsby. I suffocated in my failure and was unable to answer the door. It had occurred to me— as I stared up at my ceiling— that maybe I should call on Jordan. Despite my father’s wishes otherwise, it would do me some good to ask for help from my second closest friend. I waited for Gatsby to leave before stumbling over my phone. I called and prayed that she would pick up.

“Jordan Baker speaking.”

“Thank God,” I breathed. “I need to tell you something, but you have to promise me that you won’t institutionalize me.”

Silence, then an inhale, “Fine. What is it?”

“I’m stuck in a concept called a time loop where time, well, loops. I am repeating this day over and over again until Gatsby survives.”

A shrill laugh, and then more silence. We stayed on the phone line until she finally broke it. “You are not kidding, are you?”

I laughed. “I truly wish I was.” I took a breath, “Jordan I need you to help me save Gatsby.”

She sighed, “Okay, let's say I believe you, how do you expect me to save Gatsby.”

“I don’t— wait, what if I bring him over to yours and you two stay together all day?”

“Okay, okay, that can work,” she agreed. “Wait, before you hang up, we need a contingency plan. If I find out you say this to anyone, and I mean anyone, I will kill you.”

“Okay, I promise.”

I waited for whatever truth Jordan wanted to give me, something she knew that no one but her would know. “I hope you never have to tell me this, but if you do, tell me that I loved Cassandra.”

I heard her take a large breath on the other side of the phone line. My heart beat faster as my brain finally comprehended what secret she had given me. Pitifully, I could only utter one word. “Oh.”

“Please, just bring him over.” The phone line went dead.

I walked over to Gatsby’s front door and was met with an enthusiastic Gatsby. “Come in, old sport.”

“Gatsby, I was actually hoping you would come with me to Jordan’s for tea.”

Gatsby looked confused, confused as I felt when he wanted me to be there for tea with Daisy. He didn’t want to interfere in what he saw as a budding romance. “Miss Baker? I would not want to interfere with your tea, old sport.”

“Nonsense Gatsby. I– Jordan wants you there.”

“Does she?” He looked unconvinced but gave in anyway. “I was going to use the pool, but tea with you and Jordan seems a better use of my time, doesn’t it, old sport?”

“Yes, Gatsby, it does,” I agreed. I waited outside his house for him to grab whatever he thought he needed for tea. We meandered towards my car and I almost offered to let him drive— then I remembered how careless he could be and thought better of it. As I drove to Jordan’s, Gatsby repeated the story of James Gatz and how he became the enigma that was Jay Gatsby. He seemed to find the two people completely separate, but I thought otherwise. James had dreamed a life so large and created Jay, a man who would be able to grasp the far-away stars of that dream and bring it to fruition. They were two sides of the same coin; if you paid close attention to his face, you would be able to find James Gatz all over it.

“Do you ever wish you stayed at Oxford?” My eyes strayed from the road to perceive his reaction. He was terrifyingly good at lying, but his face, if looking in the right places, would often give it away.

My question seemed to stump him as if he never thought how different his life would have been had he not tried to find Daisy. “I think that since it lead me here,” he gestured around him, and then to himself, “I suppose I don’t regret leaving.”

Once again, I was stuck with the knowledge that he wasn’t fully truthful with me, but I knew that pushing him would only cause him to slip further into the facade of all that made Jay Gatsby and leave James Gatz deep inside him. I didn’t press him about it.

We met Jordan outside the apartment building. She didn’t look me in the eyes no matter how hard I tried to get her to. She walked us to the elevator and gave us a synopsis of why she was staying with her aunt; dementia. On most days, she was aware, but on days like today, she was often mumbling incoherently to herself.

Jordan had already set up the tea cakes in the parlor and was just waiting for the tea to brew. Gatsby sat down. “I have to talk to Jordan about something. Will you be okay here?” I searched his face for any discomfort at my question and found none.

“Of course, old sport,” he said while taking a tea cake. I caught the look of bliss on his face at his first bite. I quickly turned away.

I walked into her kitchen and saw her fighting back tears near the stove. Unperturbed at the prospect of a ruined suit jacket, I took her into my arms. “Jordan,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”

“Okay,” she said tightly. We stood there, her soaking my jacket, and me holding her close until the kettle whistled.

We pulled apart.“If you need to be cheered up and if you ever remember this conversation, remind me to tell you the story of my engagement. She’s like you.”

She looked at me incredulously, “So Nick Carraway is a liar?”

“I learned from the best,” I said, eyes straying involuntarily back into the room where Gatsby sat.

Jordan just looked at me, trying to figure out something, but I had no idea as to what. I offered to help bring over the tea but she shooed me to the parlor. She mumbled something about needing to clean up her makeup and I went without disagreement.

“What was that about Jordan saying you were a liar, old sport?” He looked hurt as if he wasn’t part of a larger secret that Jordan and I shared. “Nevermind,” he adjusted, “perhaps it’s better if I take my leave.” Gatsby must have assumed that because of this faux secret Jordan and I shared that he was not welcome. It couldn’t be farther from the truth.

I pulled on his jacket, “Stay,” I pleaded, “please stay.”

His eyes searched my face, looking for something, he must have found it for he offered a small smile, “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Jordan’s aunt, at this time, came into the parlor, clearly unaware of her surroundings and when she noticed these two strange men in her home, she screeched. “Jordan! Jordan! There are two strangers in our apartment, get them out of here!” Gatsby and I both jumped away from each other, fear coursed through my veins.

Jordan ran into the room, “Aunt Sigourney, calm down they are my friends.”

“Friends? Friends? The only friends you bring home were those whores. I told you never to bring people home again!” Sigourney began to ceaselessly search the room.

“Maybe it’s best you both go,” Jordan said apologetically. My mouth opened to plead with her, but I closed it at her silent begging.

Mrs. Sigourney seemed to have found what she was looking for and with it, she stabbed Gatsby. “I don’t like whores in my apartment. The last time I warned Jordan I meant that I would kill another one of her ‘friends’ if they were ever brought into my house. I know your type,” She spat. This sudden outburst had taken all the energy out of her and she collapsed.

I looked at Gatsby in horror. I thought we could be safe here, instead crimson stained Jordan’s white rug. My name bubbled at his lips and that’s when I could finally move. I moved towards him and cradled his body. “Call the ambulance,” I begged Jordan. Then I turned to Gatsby, red bloomed beneath my fingertips. “I can’t lose you again.”

“Green,” he whispered below me. “You have green eyes.”

I shushed Gatsby, “Save your strength, we are going to get you out of here, alright.”

“Nick,” Jordan said, grabbing my attention, “You can’t save him.”

“No,” I sobbed. “I can save him. That’s what this is all for– to save him.” I cradled his body closer to mine. I thought that if I surrounded him with myself then he couldn’t die, because I was alive, and I would protect him.

His breaths kept getting more and more labored. “When will the ambulance come?” I demanded.

Jordan looked at me softly. “There isn’t one coming. All the ones they had are being used right now. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t lie to me Jordan, when is the ambulance getting here?” I couldn’t look away from Gatsby, it was my punishment to watch him fade from this world. I was Sisyphus, trying endlessly to escape my personal hell, only to have to begin at the start. It was inescapable.

Jordan never responded, but I could feel her pitiful gaze.

I was there when Gatsby’s wondrous blue eyes dimed of all hope. “It’s going to be okay, Nick,” he raggedly promised. We both knew that he was lying through his teeth, but for a small moment, we let ourselves dream that he would live.

Gatsby never uttered a word after that. Jordan came and hugged me and I sobbed into her arms, “He never calls me Nick.”

I became silent, holding onto his now cold body. Jordan had previously attempted to move him from me, something about the blood over me I wish it was mine, but after a pitiful look from me, she stopped.

“Will this happen again?”

“Yes,” I muttered, not looking up from Gatsby’s face.

“What,” she began, before taking a deep breath, as if she was scared of my answer, “What time loop are you on?”

“Three,” I lied.

“Nick, I am not a fool,” she said. “Please, just answer my question.” Her face turned concerned and full of empathy, it was weird to see those emotions on her face, I had thought her like me: a step away from society and human emotions, but here I was, watching emotions flicker through her eyes as if she felt so much they couldn’t possibly be perceived, so she decided against showing any.

“Eight,” I said finally. “Eight times he has died.” I saw her face flicker as she did the quick math.

“You–”

I cut her off, “Yes. The answer is yes.”

“Nick,” she murmured, “I’m sorry.”

I wanted to shout that sorry didn’t change that we had both died and how I still had to do this again until I could save him. That comforting hands felt like ice— they did not save Gatsby from his demise nor would they release me from this waking nightmare. The only comfort I received was knowing I could start again tomorrow.

Loop Nine

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby, and a secret.

I, unlike Gatsby, was able to repeat the past, and I let him go again before stumbling over to the phone.

“Who is–”

I cut her off. “Jordan, it's Nick. I’m stuck in a time loop, where you repeat the same day over and over again. You loved Cassandra.”

Silence, a sigh, and then, “Okay. Okay Nick I believe you.” She paused for a moment, “How do we fix this?”

I slowly sat down beside the telephone. “I think,” I said, “that I need to save Gatsby from dying.” An or me hung in the air between us, and there it remained. “Jordan, I don't know what to do.” My voice cracked in desperation.

“Nick,” she softly muttered, “How has he died previously?”

I started to list all the ways he has died, gun, train, and stabbing, “I’m running out of ideas, Jordan.”

She hummed. “What if you take him out of town and up north?”

“I’ll try, thank you. Truly, Jordan, thank you.”

“I just hope it works out, Nick.” The phone went dead. I got up from where I was standing and moved to get ready.

I waited at his doorstep for his butler to answer it. Surprisingly, a more familiar voice welcomed me in. “Come in, old sport. I was just over at yours earlier, but it seemed I was there too early,” he said bashfully.

“Oh, yes, my apologies. I am a heavy sleeper, but I am actually over here to ask you if you would like to get away with me from New York for the weekend?”

“Get away? But…” My gaze softened at his infinite hope. “I'm waiting for a call you see, don't you, old sport?”

“I'm afraid I don’t, Gatsby. Just this once though, will you please come with me,” I pleaded. “I don’t like intruding or making requests of you, but just this once will you acquiesce?”

“But, the phone,” Gatsby murmured.

It was rare to see his confidence fall back down to that little farm boy from North Dakota, and if Daisy were here I would give her a piece of my mind for reducing Gatsby to this state. “The butler can take any important phone calls. Please, just this once, come with me.”

I was not above begging, but luckily, he saved me from such behavior. “Okay, I will come with you.” He paused for a moment, thinking about his next sentence before settling on one. “Come inside and help me pack old sport.”

I followed Gatsby up to his bedroom. It was different this time, without Daisy behind him, his bravado lessened— there was no crowd to perform for. Around me, Jay Gatsby and James Gatz— who I would hear the story of once again on the car ride— were once again reunited into one being. I helped him pack an excessive amount of clothes. “We are only going to be gone for a few days, Gatsby. Why do you need 7 outfits,” I laughed.

“Why old sport, what if they get ruined, I need to be prepared,” He replied, throwing another shirt at me to fold into his suitcase.

After I got him to whittle down his outfits into 5, we packed up my car and drove off. If Gatsby had any grievances about not driving he did not voice them, perhaps he was reminded too closely of what transpired to him last night.

New York flew behind us with less fanfare than I expected. I wasn’t sure if I expected Dr T.J. Eckleburg to whisper goodbye in my ear, or to look in my rearview mirror and see the city’s color fade, in any case, neither happened.

Gatsby looked distraught as we left the city, so I asked him why he came over to my house earlier in the day— it proved to be a welcome distraction from his troubling thoughts. I, unlike Gatsby, could also stop the futile recreation of the past, and this time, I asked a different question. “Do you regret meeting Daisy?”

Unlike yesterday last time, Gatsby did not hesitate, instead he looked back behind us as though he could still see that damned green light at the end of his dock, the same green light that has gotten him killed. “No old sport, I don’t regret anything, other than perhaps lying to you more than I should have,” he smiled. And there again it was, that hopeful smile had erased all thoughts about that green light and pulled me into everything that made him Jay Gatsby— his relentless and unwavering tenacity to hope.

As we drove on, Gatsby had fallen asleep. Due to my inability to maneuver out of the way, we hit a bump in the road which caused his head to come and rest on my shoulder. I regretfully stiffened at this sudden change, but Gatsby was none the wiser and slept on. Frequently, I looked down at his restful state— I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look like that other than… It was nice to see his face slack and peaceful. It wasn’t until later that it dawned upon me the safety he had felt in my presence at this moment— he laid himself bare to me and found it in himself to trust me with those life-ending secrets and then to let me see him in his most vulnerable state as he slept on near me.

I drove tirelessly into the night, Gatsby had only woken in brief moments, a tired, “Where are we,” was asked each time.

A soft, “North of the city, go back to sleep, Gatsby,” responded.

We cruised at a comfortable 35 miles per hour. It was not as fast as Gatsby’s Rolls Royce but it was just as dependable and would get us to our destination, wherever that may be. In the corner of my eye, a car’s bright lights commanded my notice. I realized then that we were both on a one-way destination to collide with one another. I attempted to serve out of the way, but the car crashed right into Gatsby’s side. I saw his bloodied body littered with cuts and wounds that should not exist on a human body. My own body jolted, but I could not feel whatever impact I made— I was too focused on his body, where it once rested on my shoulder and was now mangled. Perhaps it was better this way, for him to not know what happened. To slip from one sleep into another.

I slipped right after him.

Loop 10

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby, a secret, and exhaustion.

One thing you never learn at Yale is how many times a human body can withstand watching their best friend die. You never learn this in the army either, though you do get strikingly close.

I quickly dressed and answered the door. This time, I invited him in. “Gatsby, come inside. I have to make a quick phone call, but I can make tea before if you want?”

If he was surprised that I knew it was him before opening the door, he did not comment on it. “I’ll pass, old sport. Please take your phone call.”

So I did.

“Jordan,” I asked hesitatingly, “do you know what I can do?”

“Even leaving town caused him to die?”

“Yes,” I whispered back. “I can see him pacing in the next room, I need a suggestion.” I felt rude at this urging, after all, I called on her for advice, but knowing Gatsby, he would soon interrupt the conversation.

“Be patient,” Jordan hissed back. “What if you go out on his hydroplane or whatever in the afternoon instead?”

Gatsby’s pacing ended and was, albeit slowly, making his way over to me. “Thank you,” I shouted down the line and hung up the phone.

He opened his mouth, attempting to speak, and then closed it. He tried again, but no sound came from his lips. He started to pace again— as if whatever occupied his mind was too large to stay there— and then, he was able to say whatever held his tongue captive, “Want to go over for a swim?”

It was almost hilarious how the same question can be repeated multiple times, how that simple question and no matter the answer, had gotten him killed. It should be funny, but it wasn’t. Repetition and reminders of what I have gone through— unknown to everyone around me— were frustrating. Yet, how could I possibly get mad at these people who didn’t understand? It wasn’t their fault that I failed, repeatedly, at a single job. It was no one's fault but my own that I had to repeat the same day over and over again.

“I was thinking that we could go back on your hydroplane. Before the water gets too cold, you know?”

“Well,” Gatsby began, “I was hoping to use my pool today before my gardener had to drain it, but I suppose there is always next year, right old sport?”

Next year seemed so far away, it would be nice to dream about next year. “Yes, Gatsby, there is always next year.” It was decided then, that we would go on his hydroplane.

I could tell Gatsby didn’t want to leave my house, so I went to brew tea, and like a lost puppy, he followed me. As the tea brewed, I waited for him to start the story of how James Gatz became Jay Gatsby.

I realized, at the closing sentence, that I could recite the story by heart now. This needed to end.

When the sun rose to the middle of the sky, Gatsby and I made our way to his hydroplane. He jumped in first and smiled down at me as he stretched his hand for me to take. That damned smile was brighter than the sun beating down on my back. I was struck then, how similar his stance was to one I had seen on one of my first nights in West Egg. Then, he was reaching for an intangible dream, a dream that was sure to destroy the very foundation of his entire being; now he was reaching towards me, a tangible being who was able to grab onto his hand, a being who saw both James Gatz and Jay Gatsby and learned to care for both, not a facade and not a boy left behind on a farm in North Dakota. No, I saw them both inside the man in front of me and that meant everything. I grabbed onto his hand and with a quick pull, I was next to him in his hydroplane.

“The army served you well. I don’t think I was ever strong enough to lift a man,” I laughed.

Gatsby laughed with me, and I got drunk on that sound. “Old sport, the only thing the army gave me was medals and dead friends. All this strength,” he said, tapping his bicep, “is from my childhood and work.”

He offered up the question about the occupation of his work, it hung between us like the tantalizing apple that Eve ate. I was tempted to grab it, but I feared I would not be able to handle the truth, living in a state of half-ignorance was preferable to whatever my question would reveal.

Here is what I know about what Jay Gatsby does, I know he works with Meyer Wolfsheim and I know he has access to vast amounts of alcohol, and that is all I wished to know.

Left to rot, the question between us fell to the ground. Gatsby, unbothered, turned to sit behind the wheel while I sat behind him. As soon as I sat down, Gatsby pulled on the accelerator and suddenly we were off. This man had a clear love for fast toys and I was lucky enough to be along for the ride. There was nothing like the freedom to be speeding over the water at 40, then 50, then 60, and finally at 70 miles per hour. The wind rushed by you, and you felt invincible. There was nothing that could stop you, not even God himself.

Water flew behind us and I reached out my hand in childlike wonder to touch it. The joy of such childlike activities could not be contained on my face. It left my mouth in a breathless laugh, at that sound, Gatsby turned around, he noticed my hand over the side of the boat and his face morphed into a smile to match my own. “Are you enjoying the ride, old sport?”

I laughed and an impossibly larger grin overtook my face, “Yes,” I shouted back. “I love it!” There was a profound joy when it was just you, a friend, and the wind. It reduces man to his basic desires, good company and freedom. The only freedom left in this world was for man to experience being one with the wind. I understood at that moment why Gatsby always had the fastest vehicles, you are able to escape everything— even your thoughts— because of the overwhelming delight you experience at being weightless.

My infectious joy caused him to laugh alongside me, he turned back around but he too let his hand drape over the side to let the water splash across it. I think that laugh of his might triumph over this feeling of overwhelming freedom.

Gatsby pulled on the accelerator again. Turning around to face me, Gatsby said, “Old sport, I think you are weighing us down, you might just have to jump overboard.”

I laughed. “You might just need to get a new one!”

“A new one,” Gatsby cried incredulously, “Who do you take me to be? This is new!”

“Not new enough,” I shouted back.

Gatsby just grinned at me. As he turned back to the front, a boat’s horn was heard from my right. It was another hydroplane and it was coming straight for us.

“Gatsby—” I attempted to yell.

The world, for a brief second, became nothing but pain.

Loop 11- 15

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby, a secret, and frustration. No matter what I did, one or both of us ended up dead. I wanted to scream and cry at the injustice of it all. Why me? Of all people, why make me suffer day after day to try and fail to save one of the only people I could call a friend? What did I do to deserve this?

Maybe this was how I was to atone for my sins.

I’m not sure what sins I have that would warrant such torture.

I didn’t call Jordan, but I kept her secret close to my chest. Maybe God punished me for my loyalty. My father would always say that Christ did not accept queers into heaven, no, he cast them into hell for even having a sexual thought about another man. That must be the reason why I was being punished, I stayed loyal to those around me and kept their secrets as my own.

The first time I went swimming with him in his pool again. I died this time. His name hadn’t left my lips before I slipped into that inky black darkness, only to wake up surrounded by cotton.

The second time I suggested swimming in the Sound; Wilson shot him there as well. I begged Wilson to shoot me. A bullet found its way home in my head.

The third time I went alone to Tom’s to intercept Wilson, I told him that Daisy is the one that killed Myrtle. Tom took Wilson’s gun and shot me.

The fourth time I took Gatsby out of town again, this time we found a hotel before it got too dark. I learned that Gatsby was deathly allergic to pineapples

The fifth time, I invited him inside and locked all doors and windows. I also shut all blinds and made Gatsby keep all lights off. Wilson knocked down my door and killed both of us.

Loops 16-26

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby, a secret, and a need for a drink.

I let Gatsby die 10 times as I drowned myself in alcohol. It was always his. I thought that if I at least was drinking his alcohol, I would feel better about him dying, alone.

I never felt better. The feeling of knowingly leaving your friend to die as you drowned yourself in each bottle can lead a man to suicide. With each bottle I finished, I saw his dead face staring back at me. Even amid my despair, I could not escape him, nor his death, for he haunted my every thought and action.

I always drowned myself in more alcohol the next day. I could not handle seeing his dead eyes every single day as I futilely tried to save his life. It was as if he had a death wish and no matter what I did, he would die. At least some of the times I did not have to see his dead face— I drowned myself so deeply in alcohol that all I could remember was his smile. I would pass out soon afterward and the day would start over. If I were a stronger man, I would not feel the need to escape the inescapable. No matter how much alcohol I drank, Gatsby died, and then he would always knock on my door the next day, just as I would always wake on my bed with a heavy secret in my heart.

Loop 27

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby, a secret, and desperation.

I didn't have the strength to move from my bed.

I heard the gunshot and wished it was for me.

Loop 28

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby, and a secret.

I had half a mind to stay in bed, but I soon understood that I would not age and thus nothing would change. I would always wake up with cotton below my head and forever be stuck in this godforsaken nightmare until I succeeded.

I called Jordan.

“Have you told him?”

“Tell Gatsby,” I cried out, exasperated. “Why would I tell Gatsby,” she attempted to respond but I continued. “Yes, Gatsby, I’m stuck in a time loop and the only thing that will get us out of it is if neither of us dies.” Sarcasm dripped from each word.

“Nick, maybe he has other ideas. Just ask him this once and if they don't work out, then they don't work out. But you need to attempt something, I can feel your frustration from across the Sound.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll tell him.”

I walked to his front door and waited for him to answer— he always answered when I came over. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it after searching my face. Silently, he beckoned me inside and I followed like a ragged dog. I sat down on one of his comfortable chairs and he handed me a drink. “Looks like you need it, old sport.”

“Thanks, Gatsby,” I said, tight-lipped.

It was rare to ever see Gatsby so silent. He always liked noise, whether that be his or another’s voice, the roar of a motor, music, or even the plain white noise of the ocean. But here we were waiting in silence until I could gather enough courage to tell him that he has died over 20 times, each of them my fault.

I drowned the last of the alcohol. “Gatsby,” I began, “I— there is no easy way to say this,” I pathetically laughed. “but I am stuck in a time loop— where I repeat the same day over and over again— and the only way to get out of it is if you,” I took a deep breath, “don’t die.”

Silence.

“Look, I know it sounds outrageous, but let me convince you. When you came over to my house earlier you were going to tell me the story of James Gatz and how he became affiliated with Dan Cody and then how you met Daisy. Then, in the end, you would have asked me to swim in your pool,” I rushed out.

“Nick,” Gatsby said above me. I hadn’t noticed he moved to get closer “I believe you. I was just shocked that you told me I had died, but I believe you. You don’t need to prove it to me, alright, old sport?”

I almost cried at how earnest he was, no one had ever trusted me enough to just believe what I said without proof. Instead, I leaned forward and just laughed into his stomach.

“Gatsby,” I muffled, “I don’t know how to save you.”

And suddenly, his bravado was back, if there was one thing Gatsby enjoyed doing, it was fixing things.

In his study, we discussed all the ways I had attempted to save him and all the ways that hadn't been used. We left the room, confident that I would be able to save him and that today the loop would have reached its final reset.

After days of nothingness, I finally had hope that the loop would be cut and I could be graced to fall back onto the linear timeline. How odd it was to want to step back onto the linear line towards death, but I felt that I am already going through hell, so whatever waited for me at the end of my timeline, would be more merciful than this.

Gatsby and I had decided we would lock ourselves in his bedroom and wait for the day to end— no one would be able to come inside, nonetheless up this far, especially since he had told me some of his staff were armed.

Gatsby began to tell me the story of how he left James Gatz behind in North Dakota— which is a lie because I saw James plastered all over his face when he was concerned— before he stopped mid-sentence, grinned sheepishly, and said, “You have already heard this right, old sport?”

I smiled back. “Yes, Gatsby, I have. But I do not mind if you want to tell me again.”

“No, I won't bore you with the same story.”

“It doesn't bore me,” I replied and I was surprised that I found those words to be true, although I could recite the story, it did not bore me because Gatsby was telling it. Gatsby could never bore me.

“Well,” Gatsby said, “let’s hear a story from you then. I fear I may have ignored you too much previously.” I didn't care to correct him that it was I who had ignored him for over a week. Even though he couldn't remember it, I felt guilty that he has such a high regard for my character when he should be shaming it.

I told him the story of my engagement. “You see Gatsby, I was engaged to a lovely woman, but for her sake, I had to come East and try to dispel any rumors out here, which frustratingly enough, made their way through Daisy’s social group.” I saw Gatsby flinch at the mention of her name and I raised my hand to comfort him before deciding against it and letting it drop down to my lap.

His vacant gaze turned to his window, the one that faced the water. I knew what he was searching for, and once he was able to catch a glimpse of her dock, he turned back to face me and his eyes were once again alight with hope.

I continued. “Our families had become good friends when we were children and at a young age, we both knew that we would be married to one another. It is an outdated belief to marry wealthy families to ensure the longevity of the money, but it dictated most of my adolescence. Anyway, we were engaged for years, but neither of us wanted to be married so we both found reasons to put off the wedding.”

I took a pause and asked for a drink. Gatsby got up from the floor and pulled something out of his bathroom. I cocked my eyebrow at him sauntering back in with a bottle in his hand. He laughed. That sound was better than any morphine on the market.

He gave me the bottle and I took a swig before continuing. “I used my career as an excuse. See, I was still wanting to be a writer and I was quite a genius to say that my nonexistent salary would be unable to support our family.”

Gatsby interjected, “I would support you if you wanted to return to writing, old sport.”

Unsure of how to address what he said, I only offered a softly hummed thanks. “She cited how she had yet to see the world and desired the freedom to travel without children. Surprisingly our excuses worked. That is until a few years ago when our parents sat us down and told us they created a date for the wedding— we could not push it off any longer.”

Gatsby made a small noise of disapproval. “Why did you want to delay the wedding, old sport? She seems sensible.”

“Well, she was queer.” I waited for an outburst by Gatsby, but none came, he was silent. “I caught her with another girl during our teenage years and she made me swear to not tell anyone.” I smiled shyly, memories of our friendship flashed through my mind. If there was such a thing as platonic soulmates, she would have been mine. “If I set the date for the wedding she would go through with it, but I could not trap her in a life that she would have hated. I could not survive if she grew to hate me. So I helped hide her secret and push off the wedding.”

“What happened after?”

I drank two large gulps of Gatsby’s alcohol. It burned. “One of the last days of freedom she had, she went up north to see her lover. There was a blizzard that day…” Like a moving picture, Gatsby’s face flickered through emotions. “... she never made it home. I was left with angry and depressed parents. They wanted to brush the entire situation under the rug and they sent me out East, in part so I might find a new suitor, and so I could clean up their mess and clear up any rumors of such an event.”

“I'm sorry about your loss, old sport.”

“I’ve gotten over it, but thank you,” I smiled. And he smiled, albeit a little sadly, back at me.

We moved to sit beside one another on the long side of the bed, and here we stayed. Some small conversations would break the silence between us, but mostly we kept to our own thoughts. Often, he gazed out his window towards her dock, and when that happened, all I wanted to do was scream at him that she didn’t care. Not once in any of these loops has she called on me or him. She was never going to call. A memory resurfaced of the one day when Gatsby’s face lost all hope when I told him that she wouldn’t call— I refused to be the reason for his sadness and let him hope against all reason. It was his most endearing quality: to hope unyieldingly.

When he looked towards her dock for the seventh time, I couldn’t take it and broke the silence between us. I was here and she was not, yet she continued to occupy his thoughts. “Gatsby, what was Oxford like?”

He jolted at the sound of my voice, at last, his gaze left her house and now faced me. And so he started to regale me of his Oxford days, how he almost got kicked out for a prank— put pigs in the headmaster’s office— and how he almost flunked out, “Old sport, I was not as educated as you were and I had trouble to understand even the basic classes.” But he got his grades up and at least finished the first semester without any poor marks.

He told me how he left Oxford in haste to try and get to Daisy before it was too late, “See, old sport, I wanted to attend Oxford and make a name for myself before retrieving her, I needed to be someone.” How, I wondered, could he not see that even if he hadn’t become Jay Gatsby as he was known today, he still was good enough. Even if Gatsby was still as poor as he was as a child, I would still revere him as I do today. His money doesn’t make him great, it’s his personality that does.

I wondered how he could not see that someone like Daisy could not wait for him, she had suitors out the door when she was a child. Her attention on him could not last long enough if he wasn’t there. She could not wait until Jay Gatsby became Jay Gatsby. I would have “But I had to leave when she wrote to me that she was getting married, so I left, and by the time I reached Louisville, she was gone.” I expected his face to fall into sadness, instead, determination colored his features.

He then asked me about Yale.

I told him how I went to be a writer and how Tom used to be a good guy: he cared for people outside of himself. I told him how I almost failed a math class— Gatsby laughed at this, “Aren’t you a bonds salesman,” he asked, emphasizing the last word. “Yes,” I responded, “funny how everything turned out, isn’t it?” He hummed in affirmative— I told him how my father chewed me out during Christmas break at that and how I avoided my family after. His eyes softened at that and my story faded out.

We looked at each other longer than necessary. Suddenly, Gatbsy got up, “I’ll go tell the cook to make us supper, do you have anything you want?”

“Gatsby, can’t you just stay in the room for the night? It’s safe up here.”

He looked at me, distraught. “Okay,” he acquiesced, “I’ll just call them from up here.” Gatsby walked over to his desk and dialed the kitchen, I wondered how often that phone kept him up late into the night, from the little pieces I knew, phone calls were incessant, they often forced him away from his own parties even if it was 2 AM, I hoped they didn’t cause sleepless nights.

“Old sport,” Gatsby began, cutting me from my thoughts, “supper should be ready in under an hour.” He got down beside me again, but I swore his hand brushed mine when he was bending down to sit and I swear he was slightly closer now than he was previously. I brought neither up.

Silence lapsed around us again but Gatsby’s gaze never drifted over to Daisy’s home. When the sun began to set and lights started to flicker on across the Eggs, he turned to face me and softly asked, “She isn’t going to call, is she, old sport?”

I turned to look at him, his face pulled into a tight, sad smile. “No, Gatsby, she isn’t.” His face fell and it was then that I knew that no matter how many times I had to try, I would save him. I refused to see that expression on his face again, it was as if I had been stabbed 20 times in my chest and was left to bleed out.

“She never called, in the previous ones, did she?”

His face pained every cell in my body but I could not save him from the truth, he was owed it even if it set everything of his crumbling down. “No, she has never called.”

“Oh,” he breathed.

That small conversation choked Gatby’s voice and the silence that resulted was uncomfortable and stifling. It was then that I smelt smoke. I got up quickly and moved closer to the smell, when I opened Gatsby’s door and peered down the hallway to the stairs my heart dropped. Fire had engulfed the bottom of the staircase and was making its way to us.

Gatby followed me out of the room and his hand rested on my shoulder, soon after and he squeezed it. We stood there in silence, if he was not moving to try and find a way out I knew that it was hopeless, we were stuck and we would die.

When I turned to face him, tears swam in his eyes and threatened to fall. “It wasn’t supposed to end up like this,” I said. “We were supposed to survive. Why can’t you survive,” I cried and pleaded with him. Gatsby just took me in his arms and I cried into his chest. My father would scold me but I didn’t care, the numerous deaths have taken a toll on my consciousness and came flooding out. I sobbed and screamed into his suit. He only held me tighter.

I was soon reduced to tears and broken sobs. After I could no longer speak, Gatsby whispered into my ear, “I’m sorry, Nick.”

It was there that we stood, entwined, as the flames crept up the stairs and swallowed us whole.

Loop 29

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby, a secret, and a list.

I groaned and rolled out of bed. I took the blanket with me as I answered the door. Gatsby, bless his soul, said nothing about my lack of proper attire. He just made his way over to my settee and sat down. He bounced his knee while waiting for whatever he thought my explanation would be. That was one thing I had grown to notice over these weeks, Gatsby could never stay still, his hands, mouth, or legs needed to be in constant motion. More times than I would like to admit I had wished to place my hand over his restless body and tell him it’s okay, you don’t need to be Jay Gatsby in front of me, it’s okay to be nervous. I did none of those things.

I slowly walked over to where he sat, the blankets dragging behind me like an oversized cape, and sat on the floor, next to his legs. His leg stopped bouncing and I nearly smiled. The next thing Gatsby suggested was going into his basement, but last night was a disaster and I would rather wait until I had to resort to it. Instead, I looked up at him and asked if he could take me to one of his speakeasies. He seemed shocked at my forwardness and blunt request. “Are you sure, old sport? I know you don’t partake in drinking all that often.”

“Please, Gatsby.”

He looked unsure and made a quick glance at the blankest wrapped around me. “I am not sure indulging you in your current state is a good idea, especially considering what happened last night. You do know I’m sorry you had to see her like that, don’t you? I did try to swerve out of the way.”

I had forgotten that time was normal for everyone around me. To them, Myrtle had just died and Gatsby was to blame. “I know you tried, Gatsby. It wasn’t your fault.”

Our roles became reversed. Suddenly Gatsby slipped down beside me and cried into my chest. “I tried, Nick, I tried to save her and I couldn’t— I couldn’t save her and Daisy—” He broke into loud sobs. I felt utterly helpless, all I could do was rub his back and hope it would be enough.

We stayed there for hours, and even after Gatsby stopped crying into my chest neither of us wanted to move. Up until this point, I had not realized how much Myrtle’s death had devastated the man beside me. His insides were torn to shreds by guilt and what was left was only held together by his inescapable dream. It was tragic, to know, that the one thing holding him together had blown out his candle five years ago when she agreed to marry Tom; while Gatsby had no clue of this.

Plans had ultimately changed. Here is what I know, Gatsby is sad and doesn’t want to go anywhere and if we stay here we will both die. Suddenly, I realized that I could save ourselves if Wilson never got to us first. “Gatsby, do you have a spare gun in your house?” Gatsby stiffened and when I looked at him he was alarmed at my question and I had to rectify it. “I just feel unsafe here sometimes. I just want to defend myself against nefarious people if it comes to it.”

His body relaxed next to mine, “In my bedroom on the bedside table I keep a spare. The other one is on the other table,” he attempted to grin, but it fell short of his eyes.

“Stay here,” I commanded. “I’ll grab the gun and I’ll be back.”

When I entered through my door, everything was the same. Gatsby had not moved from his spot and nothing was out of place. I made him show me how to fire the gun and he made me practice until I no longer messed up. The smile he gave me when I made no mistakes shook the foundations of my being. If they collapsed, I knew that I would create a new self just based on that smile.

I kept practicing until I didn’t need to look at the weapon in my hands. Sometimes, when I was practicing, I would look over at Gatsby and he would quickly avert his gaze to something more interesting in the room. His eyes always made their way back to my face.

A knock, a shout, and a command to make Gatsby stay. He didn’t want to and was going to argue with me, but I shot him a stern look and he stayed there like a dog in trouble.

I moved to the door with the gun in my hand, My finger lay over the trigger, and when I opened the door, Wilson was right in front of me. “You aren’t Gatsby,” he said.

“No,” I agreed, “I’m not.” Then I pulled the trigger. At this sound, Gatsby came running over and tackled me to the ground. “I’m okay Gatsby, I’m not harmed,” He searched my face for any lies, and when he found none he shamefully stood up.

He looked around the doorstep and his eyes landed on Wilson’s dead body. “He’s dead,” Gatsby said blankly. “Why did you kill him, old sport? He didn’t do anything.” Gatsby’s eyes flooded with tears and I saw with each moment of silence that another brick was placed between us. He was slipping back into the persona. He didn’t trust me.

“He was going to kill you,” I said.

Gatsby didn’t believe me. “I’ll have my butler clean this mess,” Gatsby said and then he slipped out of my grasp.

I thought about turning that gun on me and resetting the loop, but I soon realized that Gatsby’s life mattered more than mine, the fact that he is alive is a reason to just sleep and go back to the linear travel of time. Even if he hated me for the rest of my life, I could live with it if he survived. That’s all that matters, that he survives.

His butler came and cleaned up the body wordlessly.

I went to bed.

Loop 30

Cotton, my bed, a secret, and assurance.

My eyes shot open, I had done it, I saved Gatsby and I ended the time loop.

A familiar tapping at the door. Maybe he came for answers. Trepidatively, I opened the door. There, in all his glory, stood Gatsby. “Old sport, my gardener wants to drain the pool, would you care to join me?”

For a moment I thought this was a cruel joke. Then, I took in Gatsby’s attire. He was clad in the same black suit he has been wearing for the past few weeks. Nothing changed in his attire, not even his tie. It was then that I understood that the loop had repeated, Gatsby does not wear the same clothes— one day he gave me a more personal tour of his collection of clothes and told me he has enough to wear a different outfit every day for the next 5 years— so when not a single article of clothing was new, I wanted to scream. I had done it, I had saved Gatsby and yet, here we were, stuck in a circular loop with no end. My assumptions of how to escape lay around me like shattered glass, I didn’t know how to escape.

What I did know was that now Wilson, Gatsby, and I cannot die. I also knew that Gatsby, who stood in front of me, was alive and I was given another chance.

I made myself presentable before letting him inside, I was not going to repeat yesterday— I had enough repetitions to last a lifetime. I did, however, want to try going to one of his speakeasies that he denied me of yesterday.

This time Gatsby took me to some.

One of Wolfshiem’s enemies shot him

Loop 31-???

It went as followed, I got up and answered the door.

We kept ticking the boxes off the list two men created, but only one remembers.

We kept dying.

Loop ???- ???

I gave up again. I had failed for over a month to keep him alive and to let us both escape the time loop. I was a colossal failure. The loop was conditional, I had to save everyone to escape it, but at least I knew that I would have as many chances to fuck up as I needed.

There was always that comforting fact that I would get to try again to save him. That fact led me to indulge in this unforgivable behavior. I sunk deeper and deeper into my bed and drowned myself in alcohol. Sometimes, I could get drunk enough to forget everything but his name.

They never teach you in school about what it means to know someone better than yourself.

They never teach you in the military about what it means to sacrifice yourself for someone else. They want you to survive at the expense of others, but what does it mean when you die at the expense of your fellow soldiers? When such stories of heroic cowardice came through camp, the generals always met them with scorn, used as a warning of what not to do. I often disagreed.

Loop 52

Cotton, my bed, Gatsby, a secret, and numbness.

I invited him inside and I called Jordan over. For a brief moment, I swore I saw his face fall, but he noticed that I was looking at him, and he quickly offered a reassuring smile.

I brewed tea as I waited for Jordan to come. Gatsby told me the story of James Gatz and although I could recite it in my sleep at this point, it was comforting to know that nothing has changed in him. It was nice to hear his voice again.

His story was cut short by Jordan’s knock. I answered the door and let her inside. I brought the tea to them and quickly regaled them both of what has been happing to me. I thought that three minds would be better than none. When Jordan looked disbelieving at me, I whispered into her ear the secret she shared with me all those weeks ago.

Gatsby required no such secret and believed me from the start. I was reminded of the first time I told him and of the one time he didn’t believe me, I realized, on my floor, how much trust Gatsby had given me.

We came up with a new list of things to try, this time the criteria was that no one could die. I knew better than to get my hope up, but at least I had another series of attempts to try.

It was after the drop of the pen from my fingers that Jordan pulled me aside into the kitchen. She peered out into where Gatsby was to make sure he wasn’t listening to whatever she decided was of utter importance. She pulled a chair in from the dining room and pushed down my shoulders and forced me to sit down in it. She began to pace in front of me.

“What loop are you on,” She suddenly asked.

“I’m not sure,” I responded. At her stern look, I forced myself to think. “In the fifties, I think. I lost a few days to…” I trailed off and didn’t care to finish the sentence.

Jordan stopped and hummed in front of me. “Do you know how I realized I liked women romantically?” I nodded in negative. “It was because when one smiled at me I felt special, I felt like I could do anything if only she kept looking at me like that.”

Silence hung between us. I knew she was trying to make me realize something about myself but I was stumped. So she continued on, “I knew I didn’t like men romantically when guys smiled at me and I felt nothing in comparison to when a woman did.”

We waited again for my brain to try and catch up to where Jordan was heading, but I was too slow. “Nick,” she said softly. “I see how you look at him. I saw the devastation on your face when you talked about the numerous times he has died. I saw how you relaxed when he put his hand on your shoulder. I saw how you looked when he smiled at you. You looked at him like created the sun.”

“Jordan,” I laughed breathlessly, “I’m not queer,” I said under my breath. “It’s simply impossible. I don’t love Gatsby romantically.” I simply couldn’t ever look at a man romantically, it would tarnish the little respect my father had for me. I had no idea where she got this notion from, I only cared for Gatsby as a friend.

Jordan gave me a look. “Just think about it, Nick,” she said. She turned and walked over to say goodbye to Gatsby and with a soft click of the door, left my house. After she left, Gatsby came over to where I was sitting. He stood, leaning on the counter behind him and together we stewed in silence.

He broke the silence first, “She never called did she?”

I never told him that Daisy didn’t call. I couldn’t. I couldn’t be the reason his face fell nor could I be the one who ripped his falling dream to shreds. I couldn’t destroy his dream, no matter how I wished to. But I would destroy his dream if he asked. Honesty came from him in waves, but I owed him honesty and if he wanted to know the tragic truth of the last five years of his life then I would give them to him, but that did not mean I enjoyed seeing his face fall. It would haunt me in my drunken stupors, to know that I caused such devastation on his hopeful face.

I remembered a past conversation we had. He asked me what I thought of him and before I could answer he continued on to tell me fantastical stories of the mythical Jay Gatsby, of course, I knew now that those were all half-truths. I realized sitting in this chair as I stared at him that despite what I attributed my book to, hope is what I thought of him. He is hope personified, despite all the struggles and tribulations, he laughs in death’s face and hopes despite it all, that he will get what he wants, and I knew then, that in another life, he would. But in this one, I would have to content myself that he may not get his dream, but he would get to live.

Even if his face fell at any mention of her from here on out, at least he would still be breathing, I could live with being the destroyer of his dreams.

I smiled sadly at him, “I’m sorry, Gatsby. I’m so sorry.”

Gatsby looked down at his hands and just nodded. He let that fact absorb through his entire body. I watched as the facade, the confidence, and the charisma fell down us beside us. Jay Gatsby lay between us like shattered pieces of clay.

Suddenly, he got up and offered me his hand. “Let’s go save my life, Nick.”

My name on his lips felt right. No one has said it with as much meaning as Gatsby did, it always lacked emotion and the proper cadence, but on his lips it flowed out like golden honey.

I offered a hopeful smile in turn and took his hand, he pulled me up from the chair; my body cooled in the absence of his touch.

We took a taxi up north of New York to try and find a little hotel to stay at for the night. We assumed that my distracted driving caused the accident. It didn’t.

We were hit along the side of the car again. The impact forced Gatsby into my side, the impact forced me into the other side of the car. We were both riddled with metal impalements, blood seeped out of our skin and mixed, and there we died, holding onto one another like lovers underneath a volcanic eruption.

Loop 53

Cotton, my bed, a secret, Gatsby, a list, and a question.

Who was Gatsby to me? If I was asked this a month ago I would have said a friend, but death has uncovered feelings I didn’t know existed. What do you call a person who you have died for? Who has died in front of you? Who has died with you? Was there even a word for that? There are things he has told me that he has no recollection of and there are things I have told him that he cannot remember. Gatsby is a lot of things to me and I don’t think that any of the words in any lexicon would be able to be strung together to represent who he is to me.

I got up and answered the door. It was agreed yesterday that I should, at the very least, tell Gatsby that I’m in a time loop and need to save him. I had my own disagreements with this because what if one of these times I succeed and Gatsby is left with the knowledge that he has died before? But I, against my better judgment, trust him enough to know how much he can take. So when he started to ask me about going over to swim, I interrupted him and told him a cleansed version of everything.

He searched my face and when he found what he was looking for, he stepped inside and gave me a hug. “Thank you for telling me this, old sport,” He whispered. I shivered at the hot breath near my ear, unnoticed, he continued, “I believe you.”

I was grateful at that moment to be his friend, it’s more than rare to find a person who believes you without a second thought, it’s a type of bond that lasts past life and death. It’s a type of bond a lucky person finds once in their life.

Despite everything, I considered myself lucky. By a stroke of luck, I was given the opportunity to save him and the ability to call him my best friend and be truthful about it. It was luck that allowed me to have a bond with Gatsby that was deeper than anything I’ve experienced before, even in the war, no bond I shared with my platoon could raise a candle to this. Every day we fought could have been our last, secrets were often spilled at night and sometimes those moments would be the last time you ever heard that man’s voice, yet despite that, the bonds I shared with those men seemed like a pond compared to this vast ocean of trust between me and Gatsby.

We tried his basement this time. We brought down our own provisions so we wouldn’t need to bother the cook and then Gatsby promptly sent everyone home for the day. I asked him to tell me the story of James Gatz.

“Haven’t you heard it before, old sport?” Gatsby turned to look down at me from the chair he was on. He offered for me to sit on the chair and him on the floor but I refused, he deserved the comfort more than I did. I was content enough to be on the floor near him anyway. His leg stopped its erratic bouncing when I was next to him

“Yes,” I replied. “But I like the story.”

“You don’t want to hear another one? I have many.”

One thing life never teaches you is what it’s like to know pieces of another person without their recollection. I could not ask for another story because if Gatsby did not survive, then what did it matter, he would not remember telling me it and I would have to deal with knowing a story that did not want to be told. I voiced none of these concerns and just reassured him I enjoyed the story and no, I don’t know it well enough to recite it.

It was easier to lie than to tell him the truth and I hoped that if he ever found out that he would find it in himself to forgive me.

His story finished with a whisper, as though that ambitious but soft-spoken boy from North Dakota had come back for a moment. It struck me then, that despite all these iterations, James never left Gatby’s body— he was in his wonder, his nervous movements, but most importantly his hope. As much as Gatsby wished to leave that poor boy behind him, he had snuck his way into the very marrow of who Jay Gatsby is. If I spoke this realization out loud I knew for certain that Gatsby would recreate himself to avoid any similarities with his younger self, so I stayed silent.

I asked him to tell me another story, he asked me if I had a preference and I said I had none. It was with his voice speaking softly— as though he was scared to shatter the mood we found ourselves in— that I fell asleep on his thigh.

In brief moments of being half-awake, I swore I felt his hand caress through my hair, but I was never able to grasp consciousness long enough to be sure. For hours that is how I sat, drifting between the state of being half awake and asleep.

When I finally came to, I blinked my eyes open and stared ahead of me, I didn’t notice that Gatsby knew I was awake, but I knew that if I did, I would not have moved my head from its spot. Gatsby’s hand came to rest on my shoulder, a silent command to get up.

Slowly, I lifted my head from its resting spot and rolled it around to attempt to remove the cricks from my neck. It didn’t help, but that didn’t matter. Those few hours were the best moments of sleep I’ve had in the past few years.

“Thank you,” I said huskily, sleep still had its hold on my voice and it refused to let go.

Gatsby peered down at me, confused, “What for, old sport?”

“For letting me sleep. I haven’t slept that well in weeks.”

His concerned face melted into unashamed pity. I, for the first time in a very long time, regretted opening my mouth. Who was I to make him pity me when for all I knew he would die in the next few hours. I knew that whatever God had put me into this time loop was doing it out of rightful vengeance, I had ruined his life and I had ruined his hope and I had the audacity to make him concerned for me.

I once said that he was worth the whole rotten crowd put together. When I said it then, I saw myself as an outsider, now I understood that I was part of that crowd.

“Nick,” Gatsby said, forcing me into the present. “It was the least I could do considering all you have gone through.” I could have laughed there. This blip in time, this impossible situation we found ourselves in was forced on me. I have given up multiple times because it became too hard, there was no choice for escape. There was no reason to thank me for being a coward.

Tension clung to the space between us. I did not want to be the center of his concern and he looked torn, as if he wanted to press me further but was scared of my reaction, so we kept silent.

An audible noise, a sniff, and a hand on my shoulder. “Do you smell, that old sport?”

I took a deep inhale, no, it couldn’t be, we got rid of the staff so this exact thing wouldn’t happen. How could there be smoke? I turned to Gatsby, panicked and afraid. Gatsby just looked at me mournfully.

“Wilson,” I said softly. “It must be Wilson.”

Gatsby pondered my suggestion for a moment, “Yes,” he agreed. “It makes sense, if he cannot kill me then at least he can destroy my life. It makes perfect sense.” Gatsby moved closer to me and I let myself be wrapped in his arms. “I’m sorry.”

There was nothing to be sorry for, he did nothing, it was my incompetence that caused our death again. “I’m sorry too.”

“Instead of trying to save me,” Gatsby coughed, “maybe you just need to stop Wilson.”

As we clung together for the second time, I knew that if given the opportunity to escape the time loop, I wouldn’t.

Loop 54

Cotton, my bed, a secret, Gatsby, and maybe an answer.

If I were able to have thought more clearly back before this blip in the understanding of time, then maybe I would have been able to see how Gatsby’s smile should not have lit my veins on fire with a desire to keep him looking at me like that. Maybe I would have noticed the icy pain I felt when he invited Daisy to his party. Maybe I would have realized how much I desired to be different from everyone else to Gatsby. Maybe I would have noticed that whatever Gatsby made me feel was a burning forest fire to a small flame of all my past lovers. Maybe I would have understood the emotions that ran through my bloodstream when I was around him. But I was wearing shattered glasses that obstructed me from my own truths, I contented myself to be whatever Gatsby needed, I never looked into what I desired. I was too scared to see what evil secrets lay within me so I wore those shattered glasses to obstruct them.

After 53 loops of death and betrayal, taking them off was the second easiest thing in the world. The truth of the matter, the one that Jordan had known and likely had an inkling of for weeks stood in front of me, it was an eyesore. Despite what I wished, I could not run from it. I tried, over 50 times, but it always came back, creeping under my skin and into my very soul. It wanted to be seen but I was too afraid to see it, too scared for what it meant for our friendship and how precarious it would turn afterward.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, my longest friend was queer, Jordan was queer, men in the army were queer, but here I was, chest tight and huffing for breath as the realization dawned upon me:

The easiest thing in the world was to be in love with Jay Gatsby.

Suddenly, the world felt a little lighter.

With this unexpected revelation, I was scared to open the door. I was scared that he could see it written all over my face, scream that I was a disgusting queer, and then slam the door, die, and then I would wake up and he wouldn’t be at the door. Instead, he would be in a casket in his house, alone.

What they never teach you in life is how to deal with the fact that you’ve been in love with your best friend for an unknowable amount of time, nor did they teach you how to save said best friend from his demise.

What life does teach you is that you must continue on, like boats against the current.

Like an ostrich, all I wanted to do was bury my head in my blankets, instead, I got out of bed and answered the door. Jay looked at me and for a moment, in a turn of events, I saw my small life fall around me. But he gave me that reassuring smile and suddenly my collapsed life was rebuilt.

As I told this Jay the condensed version of everything, I feared he would be able to tell. I was becoming as paranoid as him.

You see, there was this one time when Jay took me out for a drive, his leg was bouncing erratically and no conversation would lull it. He often looked over his shoulder and even when we stopped he would try, and ultimately fail, in trying to discretely look over our shoulders to find something amiss. I couldn’t stand his paranoia, I always enjoyed any time he bestowed me with, but I wanted him to be happy too, so I suggested we go back and he quickly agreed.

Although I never looked over my shoulder, I studied his face for any sudden realization he had about me— I found none.

We decided that I had to confront Wilson, and yet my traitorous heart wanted to do nothing but stay right here in this moment, with him.

As I got up to leave and intercept Wilson before he got to West Egg, I turned around and faced him. He looked odd on my settee, alone. His presence felt otherworldly and yet, him sitting there, looking back at me, he looked comfortable. I turned to leave and with one glance back toward him, I left.

I drove to Daisy’s house in a fashion Jay would have enjoyed, it was careless and full of roaring engines.

I knocked on the door, and Tom answered. I was too late.

I heard the gunshot from across the Sound. I knew that Jay lay dead in my home with no one near him. The world grew impossibly dark.

They never teach you in time loops what it is like to finally accept the love you have for your best friend and how you still fail to save him.

Loop 55

Cotton, my bed, two secrets, and Jay at the center of it all.

For one day, I want to be truly and utterly selfish. My father would scorn me for this, ‘Nick,’ he would say. ‘You are supposed to provide, your needs come second to everyone else's.’ Of course, even my father failed to follow his so-called infinite wisdom, so I did too.

I need to get this out of my system, just this one time I need to feel what it would feel like to kiss him, then everything can go back to normal. I just want one day.

I opened the door and dragged Jay inside by the lapels on his suit. I closed the door behind him and I selfishly brought my face close to his. I searched his face for any uncertainty, I found none. And then, in one of the easiest actions I ever performed, I kissed him.

Fire coursed through my veins. Our lips met and for a brief moment, everything in the world was okay, there were no such things as time loops nor had either of us died more times than I cared to count. I found myself at home on his lips.

Jay pushed me off of him, panting. His lips were plump from my ministrations. We stood there, catching our breath. Neither of us spoke and I knew that it was time to end this loop. I was selfish, but I would not bring him down with me.

I left Jay in my house, alone. I went into his and searched for the gun in his bedside table. I would content myself with the phantom of his kiss for the rest of my life. I touched where his lips were minutes ago and then I brought the gun to my head and shot myself.

Loop 56

Cotton, my bed, two secrets, a phantom of a kiss, and Jay at my door.

I wanted to call Jordan, I wanted to be with Jay, and I needed to end this time loop. The first two, despite my desires, can be brushed aside. I had to end this time loop and save Jay. It was getting worse, every time I closed my eyes for too long I would see one of the tens of iterations of his lifeless body.

I let Jay walk away, taking a piece of my heart unknowingly with him and I promised myself that I would come back for it.

I drove off to East Egg to stop Wilson, Jay’s tired urging ringing through my ears.

My car skidded to a halt in front of their monstrous house and I walked leisurely to their door. I was anything but calm but I had to pretend I was someone else if I had any hope to succeed.

I knocked, I waited, and Tom answered with Wilson in tow.

Tom whispered something to Wilson, I could only hear a few snippets. “It was… he lives across… Nick is not affiliated… he was with me… but he knows…”

When he turned back to face me, Tom exclaimed, “Shakespeare! Wilson was just heading out, you remember Wilson, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied back. I smiled pitifully at Wilson, “I’m sorry about your loss.” And I was sorry about the loss of his wife, not because I thought she was a particularly good woman, but because she has caused the death of both me and Jay. If she remained alive, none of this tragedy would have struck us.

Wilson didn’t respond. Tom interrupted the silence, “Come inside, I was thinking of showing you those horses you never saw.”

“Hold on a second, Tom. I want to talk to Wilson for a moment.”

Tom’s face morphed into confusion as he looked between us. “Alright,” he began, “just call for my butler when you come back.” I gave a curt nod and pulled Wilson along with me, we stopped close to my car.

We stood, him facing me, and I facing the ground. He waited for me to break the silence. His foot shifted over the gravel, crunching it. The sound reverbed through my skull. “I know what you plan to do,” I said forwardly. I saw the panic in his feet, he took a step back, then another, and tried to turn away. I wouldn’t let him. I grabbed onto his wrist and finally looked up. I saw fear on his face, but devastation pooled in his eyes. They say the eyes are the windows to your soul and all I saw in his was a broken man.

“George, killing him won’t bring her back.”

Rage washed over his features as he stepped closer to me. His face took up my entire view. “He killed my wife, my everything, so I will take everything from him,” he spat.

“What do you plan to do with the aftermath? Or are you going to be as careless as them,” I said, gesturing to the Buchanan’s house. “They do not care about you and you do not care what your actions will make you. You will become the villain in your own story when the truth gets uncovered.”

“The aftermath doesn’t matter, Nick,” Wilson said deliriously, “I will be with my Mytrle.”

I took a deep breath and hoped that I would not wake up to cotton after this, “Does she want to be with you,” I asked softly.

It was as if I punched him in the gut, looking pained, Wilson stepped back. He looked through me as memories flashed through his eyes. I realized then that he was the perfect foil to Gatsby. He, just like Gatsby, based his entire life around a girl, and as that girl grew into a woman they were too blindsided by their own delusions— their own green lights— that they did not recognize the passage of time, they did not, could not, possibly understand that their dreams were already behind them.

It was then that Wilson broke down into sobs. My hatred for this man mixed with pity. He was a broken man and despite everything, I wished him well. I took him into my arms and let him sob into my shirt. I offered no comforting hand movements, but I hoped that my presence would be enough. I might wish the best for people but that does not mean I will forgive them.

I told Wilson stories. I created mindless worlds where the hero got the maiden and others where the maiden saved herself— Jordan would like those— I offered him the only thing I would give, my imagination. Wilson did not deserve to know about the man he has killed in other iterations and the man he would have killed if I were not here. He did not deserve to know the life of the man who has gone through hell because of him, but he did deserve to hear stories; stories with happy endings because the real world handed those out like prized candy. For people like Wilson and for people like me and Jordan, you do not get happy endings.

We stood there, for hours. “Do you want to go home?”

“Home…” he trailed off, “I don’t think I have one anymore. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Go west, start a new life,” I offered.

“A new life,” he said, tasting the words in his mouth. “I would like that.”

I took Wilson through the Valley of Ashes and I helped him pack up the rest of his life so he could drive west. Luckily, an offer came for his store before the accident and Wilson accepted it, he had enough money to travel as far west as he desired and enough left over to start again. I waved him off. Even after I could no longer see his car, I stood there. Wilson would start his new life, but my life was waiting for me back home.

When I got into my car, my hands were shaking, but I drove on. As I drove through the Valley of Ashes, I noticed that the soot that fell endlessly down by that billboard of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg was absent. My hands gripped the wheel the rest of the way home, they never stopped shaking.

When I parked my car in front of Gatsby’s mansion, my heart dropped to the ground in anticipation. I wanted to run towards the pool but I was stuck where I was, fear paralyzed my legs.

I stood on that manicured lawn, time slipped through my fingers like sand. The sun rose and beat tirelessly down but I could barely inhale, nonetheless move my foot.

But I had to, my heart was waiting for me. I steeled myself and agonizingly, I walked forward. I walked towards his pool, each step getting heavier than the last. I could not escape the dread, it bloomed like cancer in my cells.

As I came into view of the pool, Gatsby was lying on his back, suntanning. He had a look of bliss on his face and the dread vanished from my body. Relief flooded into my veins like morphine. A choked laugh escaped my mouth, Gatsby quickly looked up from the chair he was resting on and when he saw me he got up and ran towards me. When he got near I collapsed into him and started to sob and then I laughed.

“This is real, right,” I asked. “Jay, I need you to tell me that this is real.”

Jay sucked in a breath— I don’t think I’ve ever called him by his name before— and moved my hand to where his heart lay so I could feel its steady beat. “Yes Nick,” he consoled. “This is real.”

Jay had waved off his butler and his cooks when they came around. We stayed like that into the night. Like watchful angels, stars glimmered down upon us. He shivered around me and persuaded me to move with him to his bedroom, I never let my hand leave his bare chest. I was too scared that if I no longer felt his heartbeat the world around me would melt into cotton. His heart grounded me in this reality, the one where we both survived.

Quietly, Jay shut the door behind us and we moved to his bed. Surprisingly, he laid down and gestured for me to do the same. This time, however, I laid my head over his heart so I could hear its steady beat, a sure sign that he was alive and that this wasn’t a dream.

“Are you going to tell me what has caused such emotional turmoil in you, old sport?” Jay asked softly.

“Tomorrow,” I promised. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” How exhilarating, to know that tomorrow might exist not in my dreams but in reality.

Jay fell into sleep long before I did. I was too scared that if I let sleep take hold that I would wake up with cotton under my head and a familiar rapping at my door. I would not be able to withstand the pain of having to go through everything again when I had finally succeeded.

But the world doesn’t offer men like me happy endings and the night pulled me into that inky blackness called sleep.

Loop 0

Silk, a moving pillow— Jay my mind supplied— and two secrets.

My eyes fluttered open and I saw Jay look down at me. He offered me a sleepy smile and I gave him one in return.

I did it. I finally escaped my nightmare and was offered a pure taste of heaven.

“Good morning, old sport,” Jay said huskily, sleep clinging to each vowel.

Sleep held my tongue captive. “Good morning,” I slurred.

I told him, on that beautiful, soft morning what happened. Even if his angelic face fell due to my words, he was owed the truth.

When the importance of the matter hung between us, I got up to leave. I did my duty as a friend but he was owed happiness and I knew that I was not the answer to it. The answer started with the letter D and lived across the Sound.

But his arm caught mine. A silent plea to stay. Who was I to deny him anything?

He pulled me back into laying down beside him. Suddenly he asked, “Why? Why do it at all?”

Surprised colored my features at his question. I could tell him that it was the only way for me to escape a living hell but that hadn’t been the truth for a long time. “Because it’s you,” I said simply. It was that simple, I did it because it was him, and there was nothing more to it.

“Oh,” he said softly.

I turned to my side so I could face him and I found him already looking at me. Neither of us looked away. “You know, in all these loops, you never thought highly about yourself. Which is just plain baffling because you are worth more than the entire rotten crowd you are so desperate to enter. You are worth so much, Jay.” He turned to face the ceiling, but his hand searched for mine across the bedcover and when I connected them, like lock and key, he squeezed it.

He brushed the topic aside, too afraid to understand what it meant for him for someone to care so much about him. For a man who surrounded himself with parties and people to not feel so alone, he was deathly afraid of people getting too close. Even Daisy, his supposed true love, only knew the facade.

“What do you want to do, old sport?” His eyes were twinged with mirth.

I sighed. Mirroring the man beside me, I turned to the ceiling. “I think I would like to do a whole lot of nothing today. I’m awfully tired.” He turned his head to face me, his gaze softening at my words.

His hand pulled me closer to him. “Okay,” he said softly. “We can stay in bed all day and do nothing.” He got out of the bed and walked over to the telephone. “Let me phone the cooks to bring us some food.”

He must have seen the panic on my face at his suggestion and his face fell. I turned to look away from him, I could not stand to see that expression on his face, it was as if all hope had drained from it and left a husk. I should not be the reason for such pain.

What they don’t teach you in a time loop is the aftermath, they do not teach you what it is like to be scared of the mundanity of cars, food, or even sleep. They only taught you survival, you had no time to be scared because all you had was one goal to achieve and at any cost, you had to accomplish it.

I could feel Jay think for a moment before he hummed under his breath, “It was the fire, wasn’t it?”

I nodded.

Jay shuffled back over to me and coaxed me to sit up. I still couldn’t look him in the face. “You have to eat, old sport,” he said softly, as if he was scared I would waste away. Maybe I would. It would feel better than having fear grip my bones from every single action.

I forced my legs to the side of his bed, I still refused to look at his face. I was scared to look at him. I was scared of the emotions I would find because I knew I was undeserving of them. I deserved them if I saved his life the first time, I deserved them if I didn’t give up, I deserved them if I was Daisy, but I was none of those things and so I dare not look at him.

I got out of his bed and started to walk towards his bedroom door. His hand grabbed mine again, this time, I looked up and faced him. Devastation clouded his features and I felt the phantom pain of a bullet pierce my chest. “I have to go, Jay,” I pleaded. “I can’t pull you down with me. You deserve better than someone who is so broken they are afraid to sleep. You deserve better than someone who is deathly afraid of cars. I know you love to go fast and you deserve better than someone who can’t enjoy that with you. You deserve someone who will make you happy, not someone surrounded by their own fear and trauma they can’t even think straight,” I cried out. “You deserve better than me!”

Jay pulled me into his arms, pretending as though he could shield us from the truth of the matter. I was a broken man and it was my fault. If given the choice, I would have done it a thousand times over to make sure he was alive, but that didn’t erase the truth that his deaths shattered my soul.

“You said that you went through hell because it was for me, so offer me the chance to walk with you out of it. Nick, you are the best thing that has happened to me, so please let me walk with you out of hell.”

I wanted to refuse him and I wanted to accept his offer, instead, I broke down sobbing into his chest for the second time in the last 24 hours. If my father were here, he would say, ‘Nick, real men don’t cry, are you a fairy or are you going to be a real man?’ But he wasn’t here and that made all the difference.

Jay and I stood there as I sobbed into his shirt, ruining it again with my tears. His hand made soothing circles on my back, but he said nothing, letting myself erupt with all the emotions I had kept forced down in the past month.

“Many soldiers experienced shell shock after the war, old sport.” I attempted to cut him off but Jay shushed me. “You have experienced it yourself I reckon, when thunder sounded more like a gunshot and suddenly you were back to fighting for your life and the lives of those next to you. This is just shell shock from what you went through. It’s okay to be scared, Nick,” Jay whispered.

I broke down into tearless sobs again, no one had told me it was okay to be scared. No one told me that whatever turbulent emotion I felt in that moment was okay to feel. No, I was taught that any emotion other than happiness or anger must be bottled up, and if I would not feign happiness or anger, then I must be indifferent. So indifferent I had become, tears became rare and if they ever spilled from my eyes, they would stop almost immediately. You can leave the place where you grew up, but that does not mean that it will leave you.

Yet, Jay was offering me exactly that, he was saying in everything but words that the place I grew up doesn’t have to stay in the marrow of my bones. He was offering to take it from me and burn it.

I stood on the edge of a precipice, if I let him take it from me I would fall into the chasm of uncertainty. If there was one thing that my father gave me was a set of rules and steps I must accomplish in life, but standing here, with Jay at my side and his unwavering hope and wonder for the world, I could cast everything my father has taught and let it burn.

I threw caution to the wind and let Jay take everything my hometown instilled within me and for the first time, in a very long time, I let myself be afraid.

With Jay beside me, I felt infinite, my descent into uncertainty was one of the most terrifying and exhilarating things I have ever done, I just hoped that whatever was at the bottom was nicer than the man who stood sternly at the top.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw Jay and I knew that he caught me at the bottom of the chasm. Together, we would walk out of hell.

Tension eased from my body and it was absorbed into the floor beneath my feet. Jay noticed this change in my demeanor and he took a large inhale and just above audible levels whispered, “Thank you for trusting me, Nick.”

I could not help my traitorous heart and its assumption that Jay had confessed his love in all but those three words. Two men were locked away in a bedroom, a confession spoken on one’s lips and a confession in the other’s body movements.

In that room, between those two men who had all but said “I love you” to one another, lay a promise. A promise so full of hope even the stars were amazed at its brightness. A promise that turned every item inside the opulent bedroom into dust. The two men in that bedroom promised each other something deeper than any wedding vow, a promise that would bring Greek poets to shame. They promised one another that they would walk out of hell, together.