You okay?

Sick. So sick.

Can I bring you something? Soup, tissues, electrolysis? Dang it, stupid autocorrect. I mean electrolytes?

I’ve got everything I need. Just gotta ride it out. Ttyl. Sleep now.

I toss my phone on the bed and lie back, staring at the ceiling fan as I do.

How did Jay know Jordan was sick, or that she would be sick? Did he and Jordan…do something? Like, together? That would go against every signal he sent me at the lake, but I can’t be sure of anyone or anything. Not anymore. People can’t be trusted—not even people like Jay Gatsby.

To distract myself, I spend a couple hours browsing photos of celebrity outfits worn at the Met Gala, the annual fundraiser for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC. My eyes pop when I discover that tables go for around $300,000 at the benefit. What the actual hell? My family might be in the high middle or upper class now—not sure where the line falls—but we’re nowhere near that rich. The gowns and ensembles are stunning, though, and I start pinning photos to a Pinterest board. Seems like most of the guests go for startling silhouettes, dramatic structural pieces, bold colors, and surprising accessories.

After a long browsing session, I call up McKee to see if she and Bek want to go shopping for the party with me, since Jordan’s out of commission. There end up being six of us in the group, including Catherine, a girl from our school. She wears her hair in a gelled mass of dark curls, with heavy eyeliner thickly applied at all hours of the day.

I’m not Catherine’s biggest fan. We knew each other in high school, and she went to UNC at Chapel Hill, same as Tom and me. At a frat party right before last Christmas break, she introduced Tom and me to Myrtle.

I had liked Myrtle right away—I used to like most people right away—and she seemed so unsure, so out of place. She didn’t really have a friend group. I wanted to make her feel comfortable and welcomed, so I included her in things for months, right up until the day I discovered she’d been sleeping with Tom since the night after that holiday party.

The deeper I dug, the more “friends” I uncovered who knew about it—knew, and said nothing. Didn’t warn me, didn’t give so much as a hint. Just watched me float around on Tom’s arm like a pretty little fool, like a moth dancing with flames.

After I found out, I didn’t confront any of them. I kept right on smiling and being my sweet, friendly self. But in my heart, I crossed out the names of each friend who knew.

Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to still see them all on social media. It’s not so much that I miss them; it’s that secretly I want them to suffer like I’m suffering. I want something bad to happen to them, and I want to witness it, like they witnessed the destruction of my heart. And I hate that Tom’s infidelity didn’t just implode our relationship—it soured every other connection I made during my four years at UNC. Every single friendship I had was linked with Tom somehow, and when it came down to it, they all chose him.

So yeah. Having a close friend of Myrtle’s along on our shopping trip isn’t great, but McKee and Bek couldn’t have known that it would bother me. I’ve been so very forgiving, so easygoing. I’m Daisy Finnegan, and I’m a fucking delight.

It takes our little group three full days to find the right outfits and the perfect accessories for the Met Gala party. After a trip to Asheville and four hours at the Gaffney outlets, we finally have everything we need for our looks. And the effort was so worth it because we are going to slay.

McKee borrows her dad’s Escalade and picks everyone up for the big night. There’s champagne, but I only sip a little from Bek’s glass.

The line of cars on Gatsby’s road is ridiculously long. We pass the time blaring Camila Cabello and Halsey, singing and dancing along in our seats. By the time we roll up, we’re all flushed and laughing, and we have to quickly pat our hair and cheeks before the valet opens the door and we’re ushered out into a world of sizzling light. A river of red carpet flows from the car to halfway up the front walk, where there’s a photo background patterned with “J. G.” initials. People are strutting up the carpet, posing in front of the backdrop, flashing smiles. I’m not sure who Jay hired to take the photos, but there’s a crowd of people with cameras and phones, shouting and cheering like the paparazzi for each new arrival.

He wants every single guest to feel like a movie star.

“Oh my goddess,” breathes Bek, gripping McKee’s arm. “I think I love this Gatsby guy. Don’t be jealous, babe.”

“Nah, it’s okay.” McKee pinches her cheek. “Everyone loves him.”

Catherine and the other girls are already sashaying up the red carpet, giggling and bumping into each other. An attendant makes the rest of us wait until they’ve had their fifteen seconds of poses and photos, and when he motions us forward, McKee and Bek flounce onto the red carpet together, doing their best runway walks. McKee has dyed her short hair purple and slicked it back, and she’s wearing dark cigarette pants and a brocade vest embellished with swirls of dusky violet. Across her shoulders twines a scarf of lavender feathers. Bek wears a diaphanous blue cloud of a dress, with heels like skyscrapers, striped with zippers and crystals.

They pose, and pose. Then they’re done, and it’s my turn.

I don’t have a partner to walk with, because the guy I like is somewhere in the sparkling mansion looming above me, and everyone’s in love with him.

But I loved him first.

Someone in the crowd recognizes me and calls out, “Daisy! Daisy Finnegan! Look over here! Smile!” So I do, because it feels good to be noticed.

I hold my head high and my shoulders back, and I perform the fiercest walk of my life. I’m wearing a gown like a waterfall of crushed gold, with a sheer black bodice and sleeves. A spray of appliqué gold leaves sweeps across my breasts for coverage. My gold heels flash through the slit in my gown as I stalk forward, feeling both overexposed and incredibly bold at the same time.

I pause, and turn, and smile while the cameras flash. Once I’m past the backdrop, I scan the crowd for the girls, but they’ve already flitted away. I don’t blame them, really. I told them I was going to wait around for Jordan. She texted me a few minutes ago, saying she’d be here, although I have no idea how she found time to buy a dress, sick as she was.

I step aside and watch the endless parade of people headed into the house. One man swaggers by in a long-tailed Victorian coat with sequined pants. His partner wears gauchos with gold-embroidered socks and a vest. There’s a girl in a yellow cape, another person in a black velvet jumpsuit draped with silver chains, a woman in a sheer champagne dress with a massive wing of peacock feathers springing up from her right shoulder.

And then comes a tall figure in fiery red, her ebony skin glowing, her hair intricately braided and dotted with ruby pins. Jordan’s gown clings to every plane of her trim body. The sleeves split at her upper arms and flare out, falling in great scarlet wings that morph gradually to the dark red of blood by the time they brush the ground.

She poses for a second, flashing a smile I can barely see from my angle, and then she ripples up to me in a river of ruby silk. Her eyelids and lashes are flecked with red sparkles.

“This is an incredible dress.” I stroke the material. “Where did you get it?”

“Ordered it. Discount couture, baby. Paid extra for fast shipping.” She lifts her arms, swirling the long sleeves. “Aren’t these the most awesome kind of ridiculous?”

“You look like a goddess,” I say fervently.

She catches my hand in a painful grip. “I feel like a goddess, inside and out, and it’s all thanks to Gatsby.”

A sick flutter pulses through my stomach. “What do you mean? Are you two… Are you guys involved?”

“Oh, no, honey, nothing like that. I’m just saying…he took away my last fear. With the special insurance.”

“The insurance you can’t tell me about?”

“Yeah.”

I grit my teeth. “If somebody doesn’t start talking straight to me, I swear—”

“He will, babe. He swore to me that he’d tell you everything. Give him a little time.”

“Fine.” I spin on one glittering heel and stalk away. “I’m glad you’re better,” I throw over my shoulder.

I’m going to find Jay Gatsby, and I’m going to make him explain to me what’s going on. Either that, or I’m going to bribe one of his staff until they spill his secrets.

As I march toward the house, I look up—and the sight of the place takes my breath away. Gold streamers flutter from the windows, and confetti cannons intermittently spurt glitter from the balconies. Pink and gold lights crisscross each other, sweeping over the faceted front of the building. The doors stand wide open, allowing the party to flood in and out, sending cascades of wild music into the cool air of the evening. It’s the same live band as the other night, I think, though I can’t see them from here. They’re playing house music with a distinctive twist and a beat like an earthquake. People are everywhere, lifting bottles and glasses, toasting and joking. A low perpetual roar, woven of shouts and squeals and laughter, writhes out of windows, travels along the red carpet, and slithers into the crooked paths of the garden.

I thought the last party was peak Gatsby. I was wrong. There’s a manic exuberance in the air tonight, a violent delight that triggers a ragged heartbeat inside me.

“Daisy!” The shout comes from somewhere above—the balcony overlooking the front doors.

From Gatsby.

His brown hair is artfully tousled. He’s wearing a shirt the color of merlot and a dramatic gold jacket with a massive, curled collar. Apparently he’s outed himself as the host, because several girls and guys are clustered around him, their eyes trained on him alone. I can sense their greedy desperation from here.

I’m not the jealous type. At least I never used to be, until Tom cheated on me. I don’t want to let his betrayal ruin me, turn me into the kind of girl who’s constantly jealous and suspicious. But I have a nagging fear that’s exactly what I’m becoming, because I deeply, truly hate the colorful swirl of bodies circling Jay.

“I’m coming down,” he calls.

“Good, because I have no idea how to get up there,” I call back. It’s true—I’m still confused about the layout of this place. There seems to be a never-ending series of half-curtained doors, arches to duck through, narrow steps to climb, corners to turn.