And I am. I’m being ridiculous, because there’s no way someone who owns this house and throws these extravagant parties could be the boy I knew eight years ago in Podunk Easley, South Carolina. That Gatsby wore secondhand sneakers and faded Beatles T-shirts. He drank moonlight and told fantastical stories and touched my shoulder with something like reverence.
This Gatsby coincidentally shares his last name, but they’re two different people. They have to be.
Nick opens the car door for me and invites me out with a flourish. He gets super courteous when he’s nervous, but for once I don’t feel like teasing him about it. I unfold myself from the car slowly, tugging down the hem of my dress a little. It’s a wispy, gauzy lavender thing that comes to midthigh, and I’ve got glittering flapper beads and a feathered headband, too. Jordan said the theme for tonight was Roaring 2020s, though how she knew that without an invitation is beyond me.
“Daisy.” Jordan snaps her fingers in front of my face. “You’re zoning, babe.”
“This place is huge,” I reply. “I was overwhelmed for a second, but—” I draw in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of heavy southern florals, burnt sugar, woodsmoke, and something meaty and savory. “Let’s do this.”
The best way to party is to hurl myself into it, like diving into a pool, and then flow with whatever current comes my way. Forget the name Gatsby, forget expectations and careers and futures. It’s time for fun.
I clutch Nick’s and Jordan’s hands. “I want to dance. Come on, beautiful people—come dance with me!”
The music tugs at us, beating from the interior of the house, and I race toward it, pulling Nick and Jordan along. Jordan twists her hand free after a second, slowing her pace to a jaunty walk, but she laughs indulgently as Nick and I rush into the house. We sweep through rooms, past clouds of golden balloons and tables covered with catered delicacies that smell like spice and heaven. I’m floating in a haze of scent and sound, dizzy and delighted—and then we break out into the dance room, a cool cavern bathed in blue shadow, sliced with shifting beams of pink and purple light. At the head of the room there’s a platform with a live band, a mix of guys and girls with wild hair, fake horns, and about twenty necklaces each. They’re playing modern songs with a reckless jazz twist, and I’m so here for it.
There must be a hundred people in the space, which is perfect. At smaller parties, dancing can be so awkward. It’s tough to push through your inhibitions, to stretch that film and pop through to the other side where you can feel the magic of the music. But with a big crowd like this, slipping into that zone is as easy as breathing. I maneuver myself and Nick deeper into the crowd, and then I let go.
A new song begins, and the music bursts over us like a sparkling wave, undercut with bone-deep, earth-melting bass. There are moments, magic moments, when everyone senses the spell of a song, when all the souls in the room quiver with desire, when a fresh flood of energy roars through our veins because the song is just right, synchronized to the rhythm inside us, promising something we desperately, desperately need. We aren’t individual people anymore—we are a great pulsing heartbeat, throbbing faster and faster, reaching for that something at the crest of the music because maybe if we dance hard enough, fast enough, our souls will float out of our bodies and we won’t have to worry about careers and ambitions and if the effort will even be worthwhile. The bass shivers and hammers underneath all those worries like an earthquake, until they crack and splinter into a thousand bits of shale, and we grind them into dust under our heels as the music carries them away.
I dance until my heart is booming like thunder through my entire body and there’s sweat slicking my spine under the lavender dress.
“I need a break, Nicky,” I eventually gasp, brushing my cousin’s arm with my fingers. His dance partner is a black-haired guy with the delicate beauty of a K-pop idol—but there’s an edge to the guy, too, a challenge in the dark eyes that meet mine. His lip hitches in a vicious half smile, daring me to take Nick away.
“You keep dancing. I’m fine,” I tell Nick, and he nods gratefully, locking his fingers with the other man’s.
I shrug off a slight sense of abandonment, an echo of nerves. I don’t need an escort to find a drink. What is this, the eighteenth century? I’m Daisy Finnegan, and I can get my own freaking drink.
Tom used to insist on me staying right by his side wherever we went—or staying put wherever he placed me. He’d leave me with a kiss and a “be a good girl,” and then return and snap his fingers when he was ready to leave. But he can’t tell me what to do anymore, can’t snap his fingers in my face or wriggle his way into my head and tangle up my thoughts until I’m not even sure what I want.
Now that I’ve stopped dancing like a wild witch on the solstice, I can see that I actually know a number of people here—former high school classmates or their younger siblings, and some people I’ve met at other parties, movie nights, or game nights. Looks like not everyone left the mountain for college and career. Not everyone worships at the altar of big cities and flashy jobs. Maybe I’m not such a weirdo after all.
“Hey, Daisy!” It’s McKee, another parkour enthusiast who helps Jordan with some of her videos. I met her senior year of high school and we follow each other on TikTok. She and her girlfriend, Bek, have their arms wound across each other’s shoulders.
“Hey, hotties!” I grin at them. “Did you see Jordan’s latest video?”
“Yeah.” McKee dismisses the video with a wave. “An easy day for her. But she got a lot of attention with it, thanks to somebody’s way-too-sexy voice.” She pokes my arm. “Bek and I must have watched it a hundred times, right, babe?”
Bek nods, smirking, and my face warms.
“Oh, that was… I just wanted to help out. Um, I’m gonna find the drinks. Be right back.”
I move on, only to be captured by Ryden and Colton, two guys who were starting tenth grade when I graduated from high school. They had very obvious crushes on me back then. It was cute and a little annoying.
“Daisy!” Ryden’s flushed face bears a smeary smile, and his hand flops onto my shoulder. He has clearly found alcohol somewhere and has overindulged already. “We’re back from Clemson for the summer! Freshman year was just—just awesome. Oh my god, it’s so good to see you. Thought I might never see you again after you graduated.” His face crumples, and tears form in the corners of his eyes.
Colton winces and pulls him back. “Hey, Daisy. Sorry about him.”
“It’s okay.” I pat Ryden’s shoulder, and he looks heart-meltingly grateful, like he might drop to his knees and worship me. “Just don’t drive home, Ry, okay? Promise?”
“He won’t. I’m staying sober,” Colton replies. “Besides, the guy who owns this place has like these watchdog servers everywhere, and if you take even one drink, you have to turn in your keys. They call a ride for you when you’re ready to go and deliver your car to your house the next day, free of charge. It’s fucking amazing. Hey, have you seen the VR room? The bowling alley? The pools? There’s a lazy river, too. Like the ones at beach resorts.”
Sounds like freaking Biltmore House. Who is this guy?
“I haven’t had the tour yet,” I tell them. “Hey, do you guys know anything about the owner? I mean, our families are well-off, right, but this is—”
“This is next-level, for sure,” Colton answers. “I just know he’s called Gatsby. They say his parents died when he was young, and he’s got a rich guardian who gave him this huge trust fund.”
“I heard he made his money off Bitcoin.” Ry nods sagely.
“Bitcoin?” says a familiar voice behind me. Hands close over my bare shoulders, squeezing possessively. “No one makes this much money off Bitcoin. E-currencies are so over.”
I shake Tom off and step beside Colton. I’m not interested in Colton or Ry, but they’re sweet guys. I’d rather hang with them than with the bastard who cheated on me after a seven-year relationship.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Tom.
“Me?” He gives me a cruel smile. “I told you I’d figure out what your plans were for tonight. Anyway, it looks like everyone on the mountain is here. The place is tacky, don’t you think? Too overblown for my taste.”
“I like it.” I tuck my arm into Colton’s. “Let’s go.”
“You’re here with him?” Tom’s black brows sink lower over his eyes, a clear threat written in the rigid lines of his shoulders.
“They’re showing me around,” I say. “Come on, boys.”
Open-mouthed, Colton and Ry move with me.
“Be good, Daisy.” Tom’s sneering voice follows me, itching in my ears even after we’ve left him far behind.
The guys and I stop for drinks first. Colton steers Ry away from the alcohol and convinces him that a cup of Diet Coke is actually a Cuba libre. Then we wander the first floor. The house has a couple of outflung wings, and along them are the recreational spaces—the bowling alley featuring six glossy lanes and a minibar, the movie theater stocked with plush chairs and a popcorn machine, a room with a ping-pong table, pool table, and board games, and a wide hallway lined with vintage arcade games and a Dance Dance Revolution station. At the end of one wing is the indoor pool, with a lazy river that flows through an archway and out into the gardens. There’s even a hot tub, a booth where you can borrow swimsuits in any size, and locker rooms for showering and changing. It’s a house designed to entertain people—lots of people.
