Jay disappears from the balcony, while his entourage sags artfully against one another or against the balustrade, darting resentful glances my way.

I smooth my dress and wait, but before Gatsby appears, three other guys manifest in front of me. They’re all vaguely familiar—I think I met them briefly at the last party—so I smile. “Hey there. Wow, you guys look great! Having fun?”

My innocent question opens the floodgates.

“Dance with me, Daisy!”

“Want my drink? I haven’t touched it yet.”

“Have you checked out the gardens? There’s a hedge maze! Let’s go.”

“A hedge maze?” snorts one guy. “Really, dude? She’s the kind of girl who wants to be in the middle of the action, dancing that cute little ass off. Come on, girl, I got you.”

“This is a special party cocktail,” says the second guy quietly, as if he’s the only one speaking to me. He swirls the purple drink, and one of the strobing lights filters through it, glimmering on his bracelet—a smooth band of brushed metal. “You should taste it. It’s delicious. They call it the Hairy Style.”

“That’s ‘Harry Styles,’ you moron!” interjects the man who invited me to the garden. “Come on, honey, let’s get you away from these ignorant bastards.”

I drop my voice, letting it slide under the music. “Actually, I’m waiting for someone. You should all move on, find some other women to hang out with.”

The cocktail guy stares at me, his eyes turning oddly glassy. He cocks his head as I speak, as if he wants to savor the cadence of my voice. He turns and walks away without another word.

Odd. For a second, he looked like Jay did by the magnolia tree—dazed and entranced…and hungry.

If only the other two men were so easily dissuaded. “Aw, come on, girl,” drawls one. “Your guy might never show up. Why not kill some time with me?”

“There he is now. Excuse me.” I slip between them and head for the front doors. I haven’t actually seen Gatsby yet, but I’d rather not deal with those two anymore.

I cross the foyer, heading for the dance hall. The music is thrillingly loud, and the harmonies are so bewitching. I have to see the band that’s playing.

Standing on tiptoe, I catch a glimpse of horned heads. It’s definitely the group that was onstage at the last party.

“They’re called Klipspringer,” says Jay from behind me.

“Klipspringer?”

“The band. That’s their name.” He shrugs. “It’s also the name of some antelope in southern Africa. Cute little creatures. Lots of eyeliner.”

“Speaking of which.” I touch my fingertip to the corner of his eye, which is heavily outlined.

“Cody’s idea.” Jay’s mouth twists wryly. “Too much?”

“I actually love it.”

“And I love this.” He spreads his hands, indicating my outfit. “You’re stunning.”

“A lot different from the old T-shirts and cutoffs I used to wear.”

“I loved those, too. I remember one shirt was a really soft gray, with a skeleton angel on it.”

“One of my favorites!” I exclaim. “I still have it. It’s a sleep shirt now, though.”

“I remember it used to slide off your shoulder a lot.” Stiffly he reaches out, trails his fingertips along the sheer black gauze covering my shoulder. The touch brings back the memory of that moment almost nine years ago, when everything changed between us and we weren’t just childhood friends anymore.

Suddenly I can’t breathe. He barely touched me, and I’m asphyxiating, my skin alight, my heart swollen and pounding. It’s everything I felt for him back then, tripled. It’s familiarity blended with uncertainty, the urge to be reckless because I know, in my very soul, that I’m safe with him.

Jay is watching me, lips parted, a tender starvation in his eyes. “Can we go somewhere else? My ears are pretty sensitive, and the volume here is a bit much. Excruciating, actually.”

“Of course.”

“There’s another place we can dance. Come on.”

He catches my hand and tows me through the hallways, past a rainbow of dresses and suits. There’s a guy in a blue gown, a girl in sequined underwear and a dazzling headdress, a woman with copper skin and a quivering crown of feathers.

“They’re all so beautiful,” I breathe.

“There are some bona fide celebrities here tonight, too. I’ll introduce you later, if you want.”

We round a corner and nearly crash into a cluster of people—Tom, Myrtle, and Catherine. I guess his ban from the premises was a temporary one—that, or he used another name to get into the party tonight. Although it’s not like they check IDs—people just show up, uninvited, in swarms. A dark and sour tide rises in me, and the sound of Tom smacking Myrtle’s face echoes in my head until I can barely hear Jay’s voice. He’s apologizing for charging around the corner and nearly colliding with them.

“It’s fine, really,” Myrtle says, batting at his chest with slick candy-colored fingernails. “You’re such a sweetheart. What’s your name?”

“I’m Jay Gatsby.”

“Oh my god, seriously? Like, the guy who owns all this?” Her blue eyes open very, very wide, and I swear she flutters her lashes.

“Guilty as charged,” Jay answers. “You like the party?”

“Oh my lord, yes!” Her nails travel to something at her neck, right above her ample cleavage, and my heart jerks. She’s rolling an Elsa Peretti open-heart necklace between her fingers. It’s just like the one I keep in a box in the back of my closet. The one Tom gave to me.

He clearly gave her one, too.

Why couldn’t he have chosen a different style, at least?

“It’s a lot, this ‘gala’ of yours.” Tom makes sardonic air quotes. “I mean, a costume theme? Really? What are you, one of those rich chicks from Gossip Girl?”

“We’ve watched a couple episodes together,” says Myrtle proudly. “Tom’s favorite character is Chuck Bass.”

“That makes so much sense.” I give Tom my most baleful glare.

Tom ignores me and offers Gatsby his hand. “So what did you do, Gatsby? Win the lottery? Marry and murder a wealthy widow? Takes a lot of cash to run a big place like this, not to mention the parties.”

“I’m into several things right now. Investments, insurance.” Gatsby clasps the other man’s extended hand.

“Are you involved with that Robin Hood nonsense? Screwing around with stock values?” Tom’s grip tightens on Gatsby’s fingers. It’s a power move of my ex’s, a stupid macho-male thing where he shows off his physical strength instead of shaking hands like a normal person.

“That’s not your business, Tom,” I interject. “Let’s go, Jay.”

“Sure.” But Jay doesn’t extract his hand. His fingers flex as he tightens his own grip—tightens it until Tom pales and winces.