Flower Girl | h.s.

23.

Harry

"Why don't you take a seat, Harry?"

I eyed the green velvet chairs that sat directly in front of the oak finished desk. My legs drug me to stand directly in front of one of them before I sat like I was suggested to. Scott took a seat behind the desk, adding a bit of authority between us, while Carson sat in the chair next to me, as if we were about to have a business meeting. I suppose that's what this was, though.

A business meeting to see if I was fit for the role. It was a farce, considering they both knew that I wasn't. A humiliation tactic, really.

It's a bit quiet for a moment, tense. Like there's an air of uncertainty that none of us want to speak first.

Scott takes a breath in before he sets his drink on the desk, leaning back in the chair.

"Daisy seems taken with you," A softened grin lays on his face, but I can read between the lines, "She's the baby of the family, you know."

He pauses for a moment, seeming lost in thought. A smile of adoration starts to cross his lips, like the nostalgia of thinking about his family is getting him in a softer place, "My wife named her Daisy after her favorite book– I'm sure you're aware of that, Daisy loves talking about it. I remember in the delivery room, right after she had been born. Lorraine was crying, looking down at this small, beautiful baby."

He looks up at me for a moment, my lips rolled into my mouth as I try to sense the calculated phrase he's about to reveal, "She kept saying how the best thing in the world she could be was a 'beautiful, little fool'. Just like the story of Daisy Buchanan. Lorraine was so taken with this story, the mere idea of the love that Daisy and Gatsby had. Daisy has always been naive, hopeful against reality. But I doubted that she'd be selfish and foolish, because that's not how we raised her."

It's a mix of contemplation and confusion that reads on my expression as I listen to the man speak of Daisy so honestly, as if he truly believes those words he's saying about her. Daisy was absolutely none of those things, and to think that his reality of her and his interpretation of her was that she was selfish for doing things her own way was astounding.

Being selfish meant taking risks for yourself despite what others thought of you. As I looked around this home, witnessing the walls filled with photos from family vactions to Venice and Tibet, Daisy is not being sellfish enough. She's saving herself from a life that she knows doesn't suit her, it doesn't make her happy because money doesn't make Daisy happy.

She's found what's made her happy: her weekly check in with her friends, waking up in the morning and making a cup of coffee and leaving it sit for a few minutes because she doesn't like it hot, going to the thrift store and finding knickknacks and making stories about them, speaking of her students and the stories that they tell her.

Daisy has found happiness, she didn't need it given to her on a silver platter with a giant bow.

Carson has this look on his face that makes my fists curl as I sit on the chair opposite to him. My eyes look at the melting that's occurring around the glass on the table. The pure face of cockiness and smug makes me sick as I turn my direction towards Scott, again.

"I care about your daughter, sir, truly. It's disappointing that you think that about her, because I find it to be the most attractive thing about her." I lift my eyes to search at the man in front of me, swallowing thickly.

He sighs, "What do you have to offer my daughter, Harry? I'm curious what she could possibly see in you," He turns to Carson, gesturing towards him, "You know, Phoebe and Carson met at an event for our agency, and we have welcomed him graciously into our family. After all, he's a DuVall and his father and I do great work together, too."