Page 27 of Gatsby's Starlet
A modern computer setup sat against the wall, multiple monitors, everything clean and precise, cables organized in a way that said this wasn’t just a hobby. The glow from the screens cut sharp and cool through the warmth of everything else.
I smiled. “That’s… a bit of a contrast.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Can’t run club business on vinyl.”
I turned back to him, studying him a little more closely now. “So which one’s the real you?”
He didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head like he was actually thinking about it. “Both,” he said finally. “I just… like knowing how things worked before everything got loud.”
Gatsby was the only person I’ve ever met that understood what was going on in my head. The way he moved through this world without ever really feeling part of it. I felt the same thing and somehow, I knew his childhood was the reason, because that was mine.
“What’s you real name?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“Henry Calloway.”
“Henry,” I repeated. “It fits but so does Gatsby.”
“Coon used to give me shit about watching it all the time,” he replied with a smile. “And low and behold when I got patched in it became my road name.”
I stepped closer to the record player, glancing down at the stack. “You actually listen to these?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Helps slow things down.”
I picked one up carefully, turning it over in my hands. “My grandmother had one,” I said. “I used to sit on the floor while she played the same songs over and over again.”
His gaze dropped to the record. “My mom did that,” he said, almost like he wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “Same album every Sunday morning. Coffee going. House quiet for once.”
He didn’t add anything else, but something in his voice shifted just enough to leave a space behind it.
I looked up at him.
He hadn’t moved, hadn’t tensed, but the room felt different now, like I’d stepped a little closer to something he didn’t hand out easily.
“Good memories?” I asked, softer this time.
He shrugged, easy but not careless. “Yeah. The few good ones.”
Not a full answer, but enough.
I set the record back down gently. “It suits you,” I said.
“What does?”
“This.” I gestured lightly around the room. “You don’t feel like the rest of it out there.”
His mouth curved, something almost amused in it. “Careful,” he said. “Keep saying things like that, people might start thinking I’m soft.”
I met his eyes, holding there for a second longer than I probably should have. “I don’t think soft is the word I’d use.”
Something flickered in his gaze. Quick. Gone just as fast.
He pushed off the doorframe and stepped back into the hallway. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you around.”
I followed him out, the noise of the clubhouse rising back up around us, but the quiet of that room stayed with me.
And so did the feeling that Gatsby wasn’t nearly as simple as he let people believe.
CHAPTER NINE
