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Epilogue

Gatsby & Daisy’s Playlist

The Jazz Age: Daisy & Gatsby

Excerpt from Charming Devil

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1

The flash of green light from my phone is tempting me.

I should be asleep. Ever since I graduated from UNC, I’ve been staying up way too late. It’s after 2:00 a.m., and I already told myself I was done for the night.

The ceiling fan glides soundlessly overhead, round and round, big, leaf-shaped paddles pushing the artificially chill air through the room. I stare at it, pointedly ignoring that seductive text notification.

No more phone, Daisy. No more scrolling through social media checking up on everyone I know, all the faces of people I used to see every day who have abruptly scattered to this city and that, thrilled to start their exciting new jobs. No one warns you how much it hurts when the people you studied with, ate with, and partied with for four years are just—gone.

Me? I’m taking a gap year. Or a gap summer, I guess. My parents said I could come home for a few months and rest before I start looking for a job and an apartment.

I haven’t told them yet how much I hated college, how close I came to failing. How terrified I am of forging my own path. There’s an empty, echoing hollow inside me where my life plan should be, and it’s not a place I like to visit.

The distraction of my phone could help me with that, could stop me wondering why, oh why I chose to be a communication studies major.

Because I didn’t know what the hell else to do, that’s why.

For a while in high school, I wanted to be a lawyer—the kind that actually helps people who are suffering. I thought I’d join the debate team, get some experience, maybe major in pre-law. But my mild-mannered, easygoing dad shut down the debate team idea so hard, I never brought it up again.

“Our voices have power, Daisy,” he told me. “And I want yours to be heard, but in the right way. You’ve got to be careful how you use it.”

He wouldn’t say any more on the subject. But it felt like a weird echo of things my grandma used to tell me when I was really little, before she passed. “You’ve got the gift of persuasion, ladybug. It’ll only get stronger as you grow.”

She always seemed as if she wanted expand on the topic, but my dad would hustle back into the room, asking brightly what we’d been talking about. He never left the two of us alone very long.

That’s as weird as my family gets, so I guess I’m lucky. Except for the fact that my dad’s veto of the debate team and his clear aversion to the idea of me being a lawyer left me with a bland, all-but-useless major, and I don’t know what to fucking do with it.

Turning my head on the pillow, I glance at the green light, and it winks back at me. There’s some juicy little tidbit waiting, and if I don’t check it, I won’t be able to sleep.

I claw the phone off my nightstand with a sigh of defeat. A swipe and the press of a finger, and I’m in.

A bunch of texts from Jordan Baker fill the screen. Went to the BEST party tonight. You wouldn’t believe this guy’s place. He’s our age, but he’s a billionaire. I’m talking a whole room just for VR tech, five-star catering, pools and a lazy river, goodie bags packed with high-end stuff. Next week he’s having another party and you HAVE to come.

Jordan Baker—the girl who decided to skip college. I knew her back in high school, when she was building her TikTok audience. Now she has millions of followers and patrons. People worship her parkour vids, so they invite her to all kinds of things. Best of all, she makes plenty of money with her stunts, so she doesn’t have to chain herself to a desk all day.

Jordan and I kept in touch, off and on, although after four years apart I’m not sure we can say we’re friends anymore. Even back in high school we used to argue a lot, mostly about the increasing riskiness of her stunt work. Still, I’m touched that she’s inviting me, that she wants to reconnect.

This party could be just what I need to get past what happened with Tom.

Tom. Even in my thoughts, his name sends a twist of nausea through my stomach, the creeping sense of a nightmare made real. It’s why I hate turning the lights off and going to bed. The darkness crawls right inside me and expands, a vast, gaping maw that I swear one night is going to swallow me whole.

Anxiety tightens my skin, singing along my nerves. I fling off the sheets and jump to the floor, my feet padding across the smooth, cool hardwood. While my thumbs fly over the keyboard, I pace the room, trying to purge the negative energy.

I’m in, I text Jordan. Can you tell me more about the party? Like what I should wear? What about the host, what’s his story?

Can’t talk now babe, she replies. Deets later.

She sends me a kiss-wink emoji, her usual sign-off. I’m bummed at the quick end to the conversation, but Jordan is probably exhausted. And I should try to get some sleep.

I set the phone back on the nightstand and slither deeper into the sheets. Instead of the gaping chasm of my future, or the sickening sense of betrayal that accompanies memories of Tom, I focus on Jordan’s description of the party.

A whole room for VR tech? Five-star catering? High-end loot? Sounds like my kind of fun.

I drift off into dreams of mile-long catered buffets and lazy rivers—until I’m bounced awake by something large and gangly crashing onto my bed. When I open my eyes, the sun shoots into them. “Ow! Serenity, lower the shades.”

The smart house obediently darkens the room. My parents named it for the spaceship in this random sci-fi show they watched while they were dating. It was either that or “Mikasa,” which my mom thought was hilarious since it’s the name of an anime character she likes and also sounds like mi casa. I vetoed that pun.

My parents are way too nerdy for this house—and this entire elegant neighborhood.

“So this is how Daisy Finnegan spends her summer? Sleeping through the best part of the day?” Nick, my long-legged, blue-eyed cousin, lounges at the foot of my bed, sporting a pale-pink BTS T-shirt and vintage acid-wash jeans.

“Nick,” I groan, falling back onto my pillows. “Why are you screwing with my beauty sleep? Just…why?”

“I’m sorry, I think you mean, ‘Ooh Nicky, my darling, how lovely of you to come and see me today!’”

I hurl a pillow at him, which he catches expertly. “You know better than to expect politeness from me before coffee.”

“True,” he admits. “I’m meeting Jordan this morning for a shoot, and I told her I’d bring you along.”

I prop myself on my elbows. “Why?”

“Because she pays me, hon. I have the incredible honor of being the only white boy she allows to touch her hair.”

“I know that, but why me?” The timing is odd. Why wouldn’t she have mentioned it in her text last night if she wanted me there?

Nick purses his lips and looks away. “Well…your mom may have mentioned that since you came home, you’ve been in your room a lot. And also…not showering often.”

“So this is what, some kind of intervention?”