It was only when Nick met his eyes that Gatsby smiled, and somewhere in the house, the clock chimed midnight.
“Your face is familiar,” Gatsby said, his voice low and warm, as if he had no idea who Nick was. “Weren’t you in the First Division during the war?”
“Why, yes. I was in the Twenty-Eighth Infantry.” Nick spoke automatically, eyes never falling from Gatsby’s. His hands, forgotten on the table, twitched as if still seeking a trigger.
I hadn’t known Nick’s division, but I had heard of the Twenty-Eighth. Everyone had. They had carried away America’s first victory in France, and that meant Nick was allowed as only a few other men in the country were to wear the insignia of the Black Lions of Cantigny. I was a little more impressed with him. Every boy who came home was a war hero, but there was apparently something more to this one.
“I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.”
“I would have remembered someone like you,” Nick said, attempting a diffidence he obviously did not feel. I couldn’t tell whether Gatsby was telling the truth, but Nick was, and I changed the few things I knew about him around a bit in my head.
They talked for a moment about some depressing little villages in France. Gatsby mentioned he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning.
“Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.”
Nick’s fingers curled as if they wanted to make a fist but had forgotten how. If he had had his gun there, we would all have been dead.
“What time?”
Gatsby laughed as if Nick’s sensible question was delightful.
“Any time that suits you best.”
They were staring into each other’s eyes, clearly at a standstill in the conversation and not sure where to go next. If I left them like that, perhaps they would simply stare into each other’s eyes forever. Then the party would never end, and that would be dreadful.
“Having a gay time now?” I asked, breaking the silence with a smile.
“Much better,” Nick admitted, and I felt a pang. He really hadn’t been until now, and I hadn’t noticed or I hadn’t cared to notice.
Nick turned back to Gatsby even as his hand reached over onto mine. I let him have it. I could have used the comfort too if Gatsby was looking at me like that.
“This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there”—he waved vaguely at the invisible hedge in the distance—“and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”
Gatsby stared, for a moment at a loss that anyone might not recognize him. He deflated, and in that moment he met my eyes, saw that I was witnessing his embarrassment. All of that charm and for a man who had no idea who he was.
“I’m Gatsby,” he said finally.
Nick jumped.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
“I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”
He smiled, and just sitting close by, I could feel Gatsby’s warmth and earnest belief that of course Nick would forgive him any kind of small sin. In that moment, Nick was open to me too. Nick Carraway, who had gone to war and come home amid some strange family tragedy, who had blown east like an apple seed, and taken root, improbably, in one of the richest neighborhoods on the island. Nick wanted, so deeply, to be known and understood, and it was something that I couldn’t give him, even if I wanted to. But Gatsby told you with just his eyes and his smile that he did.
Gatsby’s smile was a rare thing, something I have not seen more than four or five times in my life, and it’s likely just as well.