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Jordan had been with quite a few men before, but never women, and never anyone like Daisy. She’d known her as Daisy Buchanan and as Daisy Fay, but she didn’t quite love her.

Was she attracted to her? Of course. Who wasn’t attracted to Daisy in some way, shape, or form? Her magnetic voice wasn’t just full of money; it was full of sophistication, or Daisy’s idea of sophistication, anyways. Gossip, envy, lust, sorrow — she radiated it all.

Kissing her on the cheek was peculiar, but nothing unexpected. Nothing so out of the ordinary that anyone would question it. No, it was a small peck on the lips that was novel, something soft and beautiful.

Experimental. Exhilarating.

Like moving the golf ball just a tad. If it worked, and no one saw, then what’s the harm? If it works, then why not do it again? It wasn’t hard, or anything. When Tom went to see Myrtle, and Nick went to Gatsby, who would even think about Daisy and Jordan?

Daisy was fine with the hugs that lasted for a fraction longer than necessary, and the clandestine kisses that combined their lipsticks perfectly. She thought it was exciting to have not two, but three people adoring her whenever they could. Jordan wasn’t bothered by Daisy’s non-commitment like Gatsby was. Neither her nor Gatsby’s fling with Daisy was going to last, and Jordan was happier that way.

Before Daisy fled with Tom, Daisy kissed her one last time. She was still beautiful, even as she mourned Gatsby in one second, and forgot him the next. Jordan was content, however..

Daisy was a midsummer breeze: welcome and sorely missed, but there would always be others.