Read Between the Lies
Gossip Girl.
Dair.
14A
CHAPTER ONE
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The book feels right in her hands, and she hates that. It’s not fantastic, it’s horrible and she hates that she sits near the stairs when she reads it. The first time she reads his description of his lips caressing hers. Of his mouth crashing into hers, with such urgency she has to pull back from the text and think about it. It takes her a moment really to remember that it’s Humphrey she’s fantasizing about. She shakes her head and reads the paragraph again, that section that she’s found. She hates that she’s memorized the page number, already, and that she can’t stop rereading it.
She despises herself so much that she denies her reaction. She huffs and drags her feet away from the scene of the crime, so to speak, and slams the book down near her bed side table. Suddenly, she realizes, that the book will spend the night beside her, perched inches from her face, right next to her alarm clock, and lamp. If she’s not careful, it’ll be the first thing she sees in the morning. But she’s resolute to not move it, because that would be worse. That would mean that she’s bothered by the book, or by him. When really, she just hates how badly she wants to open it back up to that page and sink into his writing, to imagine his caresses, and deep kisses, and that mop of curls he calls hair between her fingers. She exhales and ignores all the sudden, indecent images that flood to her mind.
It’s as impossible to ignore as their first movie together, and how she had that sinking feeling that she was having fun, with him of all people.
How she had closed her eyes and wished the moment to end, focused in on the movie in front of her and ignored the fact that he was there. Because it couldn’t have been real. She had stood up suddenly, with the idea to run.
“Sit down,” his voice had chided, pulling at her suddenly. His skin cold against hers. She moved her arm out of reach of his fingers quickly and swore to run.
“Twizzlers” had been her excuse, later, she’d made up some rule about the cinema and twizzlers. She came back, making sure to scold him if he ever touched her again. She catches herself wishing that he had touched her again, and buries the idea beneath falsified hate.
She hates how her mind reverts back to memories, or that she even has a catalogue in her mind, of events with him. Movies, phone calls, shopping, texts. Silly coffees and book dates, hours of discussing Nabokov, arguing Fitzgerald, Hemmingway, filling their conversations with Satre and Steinbeck, until they knew everything inside and out, every like and dislike, every single trigger about each other.
And she can’t help the tremors that surge through her now, the sudden wanting to burn that book, to bury her face in it. She chooses the lesser of two evils and decides she hates it, she’s furious because she hates it. At least, that’s what she tells herself.
That’s when she decides that she needs to be distracted. She’s too stressed, and she hates that he is stressing her out of all things. An infinite possibility of things that could be plaguing her mind and driving her crazy, but he gets the recognition of being that one thing.
She musters her energy, strips to her underwear and puts on a candle. Contemplating a bubble bath, but she ignores the fact that she’s already hot. Already too turned on, this will be easy.
She needs to relax, so she starts slowly, touching herself. Looking through images in her mind to help her get turned on, ignoring how hot she already is. His image flashes in front of her closed eyes and she pries them open, shakes his face out of her head. Denying that he’s the very thing fueling her desire. Then she thinks of different things, a hot bath, lingerie. She’s getting hotter and hotter, twisting and turning under her own touch when his voice enters her mind, billowing over her and bathing her in tremors. The first of many, at the thought of him saying her name. She forces her eyes open and groans in frustration. Because she won't admit that fantasizing about him is working. She turns over before she realizes that this just wont do. She paces, tries new positions and then resolves to put french music on. She lets the beat numb her back into relaxation. She’s just angry, stressed, she tells herself.
Later, she’ll deny that his image was the only thing in her mind when she reached that sacred wave of pleasure. That when she finally relaxed and let his image turn over in her mind a million times, she couldn't stop the tremors, or the thought of his voice, or how his name was on her mind as she moaned. And she’ll pretend that it wasn’t the best she’s had in months.
*
She hates him. Literally despises him now. She dresses and does her hair, and tells herself she’s not thinking about him. But the problem with that, is that her mind just won’t stop thinking about him. Even as it chants the mantra of You are not thinking about Dan Humphrey, she has no choice but to think of the very thing she’s trying desperately to avoid.
When she finally finds him at the party, his hair is a mess, he smells like something dark and mysterious, something seductive, and he looks way better than a Humphrey should in a suit like that. She pulls him into a closed off room and gets ready to yell at him. Ignoring that thought in her mind that screams kiss him. Then, suddenly, she doesn’t know why she’s mad, or even what she’ll tell him. I think about you when i--- you’ve ruined sex for ---- HUMPHREY! Her mind goes on repeat and she just wants to shut it up.
“We did not have sex!” she shouts, much louder than intended, shoving a copy of his book into his face. And perhaps the reason she’s so furious is because it’s the only thing that’s true. They didn’t. And she wants to, she really wants to. She leaves before he can make it up to her, explain anything to her.
She hates how, that night, she can't go to sleep because she's repeating that day in her mind, and even worse, that she falls asleep staring at his book out of the corner of her eye.
**
Everything is defined by him, suddenly. Even the things she eats, and the music she listens to. She can imagine his criticism of all the things and it’s eating her up inside. She starts taking a different route through the city, cringing at the thought of passing through Brooklyn, but unable to take it if she doesn’t. She thinks she sees his face on strangers as her car drives through the busy streets. She buries her face in her book, or turns her head away from the windows when she spots a stranger resembles him for a split second (too much plaid in Brooklyn, she blames). She forces herself to sink into Pasternak, or Atwood, and can imagine him smile when she reads something he would adore, something he’s recommended, and more, can imagine his outrage when she reads something like Golding.
She realizes just how bad it is when she’s at breakfast with Serena and she doesn’t listen to a word of the conversation. Something about Jimmy Choos and a new bag, and she’s completely lost in a world of Brooklyn, cheap cappuccinos and great film.
“B, what’s going on?” Serena asks. “Have you been listening?” she demands. As if the conversation was dire. Blair rolls her eyes, biting her tongue at the urge to say What, it’s not even another Van der Woodsen drama you’re on about.
“What?” she says politely, too politely. That’s how Serena knows something is up.
“Who is it?” Serena asks, her eye brow arching.
“No one!” Blair huffs. No one just happens to have perfectly disheveled homeless hair, a annoying prestigious interest in literature, a zeal for french cinema, and the softest lips. No one just happens to be the one image that makes something happen when she’s alone in her bed with soft music. No one wrote that fucking book that lies under her pillow. (She would never live it down if someone found it on her bed side table, after all.)
“B?” Serena’s barely hiding her laugh.
“Ugh no one. He’s annoying and stupid and I can’t-”
“Omg B, you’re blushing, you have to tell me,” Serena practically begs.
“Absolutely not, we have to go shopping. Those new Pradas you want,” Blair sidesteps.
“Jimmy Choos,” laughter is trying to break through Serena’s words.
“Whatever,” Blair huffs, rolling her eyes.
“Blair, it’s not Chuck, right?” Serena asks suddenly.
Chuck suddenly comes flooding into Blair’s mind. A million memories that all seem tainted with a weird unhappiness, a delusion of happiness. Like remembering the summer in a beautiful golden lens flare suddenly tainted with the very real memory of how sticky and unsettling it all was. She laughs aloud before she can stop herself. Partly at her own insane taste, she’s liking a Humphrey, for crying out loud. More than that, she laughs at how much she’s changed.
“No, not at all,” she says so honestly, it almost hurts.
“Good, because I was worried, B” Serena laughs. “Next thing you know you’ll be telling me you like Dan,” Serena’s laughing with the sheer idea of it and Blair turns around suddenly, to hide her blush.
“Humphrey?” she asks, lacing on hatred where there is none. “Why because of his book? If every author’s fantasies were fufilled, Breakfast at Tiffany’s wouldn’t have been written!” Blair points out.
“Did you just equate Dan to Ginsberg?” Serena asks and Blair cringes as her mind screams Capote, Capote wrote it! Not Ginsberg! But she says nothing. She merely laughs and escapes to her bedroom, to find something in her closet to make the day and the morning anxiety disappear.
She finds, a few days later, that Serena has ruined everything. She can’t think of Dan anymore as she relaxes in the bath, or touches herself under her silk lingerie. It’s all tainted with Serena’s laugh, with images of Serena and Dan together. Nightmares of Serena haunt her and she screams into her pillow. She cries before she can help herself. Because once more, Serena has stolen something that was supposed to be hers. Serena has taken something away from her, that she’s perfected. Serena, with her perfect dazzling summer hair, her bronzed skin, as if she’s perpetually tanning, and who is so genuine that Blair can’t even yell at her for being so thick about authors, or emotions, or anything but fashion and the beach. Blair rages at herself, denying that she was enjoying Humphrey invading her thoughts. Choking her and clouding her thoughts until she couldn’t think of anything but him and soar to new heights of pleasure, imagining his fingers to be her own, his lips on hers. She curses herself as she pulls his book out from under her pillow and flips to the page of their heated kiss, and reads it over and over until she feels the heat again. But Serena ruins it that time too, and Blair gives up. Each time she's close, Serena invades her mind. She buries the book in the base of her closet and watches Love in the Afternoon and tries to focus on anything but Dan.
When he’s brought up in conversation, she is horrible about him. She tears him to shreds and reaffirms anyone’s belief that she is an awful bitch. Serena gasps at her insults, says thinks like “I thought you were friends,” “B, the book wasn’t that bad,” “Why do you still hate him so much?” but she ignores them. She contemplates finding a new guy, to get her thoughts off of him, or even getting back together with Chuck. But she realizes she hates the idea of it, she doesn’t want to revert back to a time when she was unhappy, when Bass controlled her almost as much as bulimia did. She realizes this might be worse, she might be more unhappy now, wanting Dan Humphrey so much that she can’t even think sometimes.
*
It feels like weeks before she sees him again. He calls her one day, and she stares at her phone in angered disbelief before she picks up.
“What?” she can’t help that she snaps. That she’s so angry at him for having this affect on her. She’s Blair Waldorf, after all. She’s not supposed to hunger after some Brooklyn Hobo with a skewed understanding of good cinema.
“You are still mad at me, then,” he sounds defeated. Or maybe Blair’s just wishing too hard and makes herself hear it in his voice.
“No,” she lies. Because she shouldn’t be angry at him, she realizes.
“I know what this is about,” she rolls her eyes at that, and her breath suddenly stops. Because if he knows for one instant how he occupies her dreams, her mind and how she’s started thinking about him so much that she needs to tell her brain to shut up, she’s sure she’ll die just from sheer embarrassment.
“I doubt that,” she chides.
“It’s about the book, Blair I’m sorry,” he sounds so genuine she loathes how impossible it is to hate him.
“Ugh Humphrey, I’m not pining over some book you wrote, please, don’t give yourself that much credit,” she slurs, and when she remembers the conversation later, hates how unkind she was.
“Fine, so then I don’t have to make it up to you?” he asks. As curious as she is, as much as she wants him to make it up to her all over the place. Perhaps at the foot of her bed, in front of her tv, on the kitchen counter, maybe even against a wall, she buries the feeling.
“Not necessary, I don’t need some hand knitted atrocious hipster sweater from SoHo,”
He laughs, and it fills her stomach with the same animals she told Chuck to murder. She revels in the feeling, crossing her legs behind her as she sinks into her bed. She contemplates touching herself just to the sound of his voice, of his laugh. She giggles at the idea of it, because he would have no clue, that is until she’d scream. She writes the idea off, not because it wouldn’t be hilarious to see him squirm. And not because she’s not that evil, but really, because she already has his voice memorized.
“Let me see you,” then he’s broken the spell. She wants to scream and shout at him, toss her phone across the room his tone says it all, she infers, friends. A part of her is still fighting it, the very real desire that she doesn’t want to be Dan’s friend. Unless it involves a lot of nudity, that is.
“I’ll try to pencil you in,” her tone is layered with apathy, so he wont hear a hint of her desire, her wanting, or her anger.
“Lawrence of Arabia is playing down in hipster country tonight,” he continues. She groans at the his inability to see the sings of a clear dismissal.
“Ugh, you would Humphrey,” she’s made a new rule. To not say his name, ever. Not after those nights she accidentally screamed his name aloud, wanting him so badly. Itch, still there.
“Come on, you love Peter O Toole,” he sounds so convincing she wants desperately to give in. But she's still trying to convince herself that she doesn't like him. And another part reasons, if she does, it'll be unbearable to see him and not be able to have him.
“He’s passable, even with Audrey’s superior talent,” she responds, hating the sudden remembrance of their night of Hepburn. When they held each other and watched How To Steal a Million, and he had seemed to steal a million glances at her. She’s afraid mostly, that the book means he’s over her. The best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature, at least according to Henry Miller.
“Blair,”
His voice is soft, pleading her and she closes her eyes, staying silent. Hoping that he’ll repeat it, because if she modifies it, only slightly, she can imagine him pleading her to kiss her, to touch her.
“Blair....” he says it again and she revels in the sound of her name from his lips. She sinks into the feeling and feels a sudden heat, smirking before she can help herself.
“HAVE TO GO HUMPHREY,” she practically throws the phone away from herself in her urgency. She doesn’t fail to see the irony, hanging up on him to imagine him beneath her. To fantasize about his voice as she touches herself. Repeating her name in that pleading, wanting tone. His words break over her like a wave crashing over a rock. She closes her eyes and submits to the memories of his touch, of his voice, his stupid, deliciously soft hair and revels in the glory that Serena isn’t ruining this.
And then she does, quite literally.
“B? Are you home?” her sing song voice carries Blair right out of that special spot where desire sits and Blair flutters her eyes open, cursing. Sexually frustrated doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s been weeks since she’s been able to think of him free of Serena. Weeks that have been driving her insane.
"BLAIR!" Serena calls again, and it's futile to even try at this point, she speculates.
“What?” she snaps, once she greets Serena in the kitchen.
“Why are you avoiding Dan?”
“What?”
“I just talked to him, he said you are acting weird,” Serena pointed out.
“Right because Humphrey knows me so well,” she leaves as an excuse.
“Blair, ever since the book you act like you hate him. I thought you were friends?”
“Yes and you once dated him. We all grow out of our Brooklyn phases. The time when Humphrey and I were amiable has passed. Obviously I don’t want to tell him and have him beg for my friendship, he’ll eventually get the hint” Blair responds, dripping the words in such hate that she can’t even stand herself, or how unhappy she’s become.
“You’re not avoiding him for any other reason? You just don’t care anymore?” Serena asks, prying.
Blair rolls her eyes instead of giving Serena the satisfaction of words. She shrugs before she disappears to her bedroom. She watches Audrey Hepburn and doesn’t think of Dan’s book under her pillow. She moved it after Serena had even ruined fantasizing about him. It’s back under her pillow, only lasted one night in the closet and she missed the bulkiness of the thing in her bed.
*
She was watching Paris When It Sizzles and not even ten minutes in, she realized she was young, impressionable Gabby, and Humphrey was the writer, the dashing script writer that Audrey Hepburn falls in love with. She hates that she pauses Audrey Hepburn, to reread Inside.
She’s sinking into her soft pillows, her bare legs crossed under her silk pyjama shorts and a comfortable silk Blueberry top that’s so last season she wouldn’t be caught dead outside in it. Her eyes scan over his words and it’s the third time she’s read the whole book. She reaches the familiar passage of their kiss and sinks further into her cushions, hating that she knows every word of this chapter, let alone the kiss. There’s a knock on the door, threatening to ruin the fantasies she weaves in her mind.
“Blair,” his voice carries through the door and she sits up in a frantic fashion, ripping a page of the book. She forces it under her pillow, not even thinking about the action and grabs the nearest book she can reach, regrettably, it’s one he’s lent to her. Zamyatin.
She’s already finished it, read it in a day, and she knows she’ll never live it down for not returning it, or for rereading it. But anything is better than the truth. The very real truth that she paused Audrey ( her idol, for crying out loud, it's a sin to pause Audrey!) to fantasize about Dan Humphrey.
“Serena told me you’re home, you can’t hide,” he continues. She smiles at the excuse. Thinking she is ignoring him is much better than being frantic and hiding his book, she muses. She would die from his smugness if he knew the truth.
“I come bearing gifts,”
“Fine,” she’s almost jittery with excitement, but her voice doesn't betray her.
“You can come in,” she makes no attempt to cover her legs and hides her desire to smirk when he enters. His gaze flies to her bare skin, and slowly travels towards her eyes. She doesn’t notice that he’s suddenly out of breath, she’s too busy holding her own. Her eyes scan over every inch of him and she can’t help but think how good he looks in her doorway. Hair disheveled ( she’ll ignore liking that part), clean shaven, a white t shirt with a buttoned up plaid shirt overtop, dark jeans and a box in his hands. One she recognizes from the lesser bakeries around the city. He nearly looks presentable, she thinks, but he looks good enough to make her heart beat double time.
“Yes?” she asks, focusing on his eyes.
“I got you these,” he responds, holding out the box. As he approaches, her heart races. She makes no effort to reach towards him, for fear of their fingertips touching. He places the box by her, on the bed and stares at her, as if waiting for something.
“Why?”
“Because you’re mad at me, you’re avoiding me like I have the plague,”
“Hardly,” she rolls her eyes at his over exaggeration.
“Ok, I just had to make it right,”
“So what you bought me a croissant?” she places her book face down and stares into her eyes, ignoring the impulse to pull him against her and kiss him until her lips ache. She opens the box instead, busying herself with that. She can’t help the soft aw that escapes her lips when she spots the 12 pack of macaroons, perfect circles of hot vibrant colors. Suddenly, she imagines feeding them to him in the bath and shakes her head to make the idea disappear.
He looks smug at the reaction, eating it up and sits beside her on the bed, the closeness suddenly suffocating. He's inches away from her and she can smell his department store aftershave, see the spot where a shaving cut is healing. She's tempted to just reach out those few inches and pull his face against hers, recreate scenes from his book until his breathing runs ragged, deep and sensual moans of her name escape his lips and he pleads for her touch. Instead, somehow, she finds her voice.
“Shut up Humphrey, they’re not even from Paris,” she counters, but he only laughs at her reaction, smiling as his eyes retrace every line in her face, ones that he told himself he forgot. Because being away from her has been impossible.
“You’re still reading We?” he asks.
“Orwell’s better, and I finished it ages ago,”
“Why do you still have it then!” he practically shouts. She pouts, savoring his reaction.
“It’s payback! For writing all those.....” she pauses, trying to find a word to describe it. Sultry, hot, sexy, desirable, “awful things about me!”
“I though that’s why you were ignoring me,” he responds, wide eyed. “And this was written before 1984,” he points out.
“I know!” she snaps at his condescending tone, shoving him off her bed. It feels so good to sink her fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt, feel his chest underneath. The moment seems to last an eternity before he falls off the bed with a thud. When it’s over, she’s searching for another excuse to touch him.
“I argue that Zamyatin is better, just like Monroe is-” he motions to Audrey Hepburn poised in a paused position on her screen and she shrieks at him.
“Shut your mouth!” she practically shouts, hating how he’s trying to torture her. Maybe it’s because he loves the feel of her hands on him. He laughs out loud, grinning widely. She ruffles his hair and pushes him, practically shoving him away from her. She grabs a macaroon and takes a bite, sinking into the taste before she sticks her tongue out at him, hating how juvenile he makes her feel.
“You forgive me?” his eyes are soft, pleading, staring into hers. Her mouth hangs open as he holds her gaze and her hand drops limp, the pistachio cream macaroon falls to the bed sheets and she doesn’t even care.
“Whatever, Humphrey, I’m over it,” she responds, collecting the broken pieces of the french pastry before she places it back into the box.
“So you’ll come with me?”
“Ugh, where?” she asks, though she’s already made up her mind to say yes, because she misses him so much.
“A record shop,”
“Fine,” she grumbles, rising.
She steps into her walk in closet and nearly hyperventilates just thinking about it. All the reasons she’ll have to touch him. She can link arms with him, hang close to him, feel his breath in cramped coffee shops, mock his hair and sink into his touch. She wonders if there’s any logical reason for them to kiss again, or maybe she’ll get him drunk, she considers. She picks a dazzling dress, short, red and pairs it with sensational black tights, with little golden stitched squares and steps out, ready to be greeted with awe. She can see his chest hair begging to get out of the white vneck, underneath his horrible plaid shirt, which is now slightly unbuttoned. She hates it so much she wants to rip it off him. Panic sets in when she sees that he’s holding his book in his hands, sitting on her bed like he was always meant to be there.
He’s holding onto his book tightly, confused, his gaze meets hers when she steps in.
He gulps for a moment, but she’s too panicked to notice how his eyes skim over her body, her legs, the perfect sweetheart shaped top of the dress, or how his gaze lingers on the curve of her neck, on her lips.
“What are you doing!” she practically screams.
“Why is this under your pillow?” he clicks in, focusing on the book instead of her. But he can smell her perfume even from where he sits and it induces a certain kind of paralysis on the brain.
“Oh...is that where that old thing is?” she asks, rolling her eyes.
“Blair, have you been reading it?” he asks, his fingers on the spine. Thankfully, she exhales, her favorite parts are memorized, word for word almost. She can recall the page numbers in her mind and there is no sign of awful page folding, or anything to give away just how obsessed with that book she is. How obsessed with him she is.
“Aren’t you going to tell me how great I look?” she responds, tilting her head to the side so her hair flips.
“I just don’t get why it would be under your pillow,” he ignores her and continues with his confusion.
“Imagine it being on my book shelf, I would be instantly judged,” her voice drips with annoyance.
“It’s no worse than your embarrassing love for Bronte,” he looks up to meet her gaze, almost enjoying the insult, but his eyes are too serious, too clouded over with confusion for this to be harmless flirting. He’s trying hard to figure it out, to process everything.
“Jane Eyre is a classic, you Humphrey, are not,” she points out. “Besides, why were you riffling in my sheets anyway?” she hates the sentence the second she says it. Mostly because it fills her mind with a million images of him in between her sheets. Hot, sweaty, half naked, kissing her, licking her, muttering lame descriptive words as his lips find hers, his fingers gravitating to her zipper- she shuts the images out and pastes on a false smile, feigning impatience.
“Well Humphrey?”
“I wasn’t!” he defends himself. “You were taking an age to get ready-”
“Totally worth it,” she adds, grinning. Waiting for him to abandon his book and just look at her.
“So I just laid down and felt this bulky thing underneath your....do you sleep with it there?”
She has to force herself to laugh, to quench the dozen fires going off in her mind. Panic is becoming a part of her and she shakes her head, laughing in the most unladylike fashion.
“You do!” he grins at the realization. “You love my book,” his grin expands and she hates it. She rolls her eyes and wants to slap that grin off of him. She wants to kiss him until he can’t even think to grin at her, or mock her any longer.
“In your dreams Humphrey,” she pauses for effect, and can’t help imagine what it would be like if he dreamt of her. She wishes for it suddenly, and then hates that she dreams about him, way too often.
“I have to keep it there or someone will find it, and that would be so embarrassing,” she points out, her false grin reappearing. He’s still laughing at her, caressing the book in his hands. She makes note to remember the long curve of his fingers around that book, and she wishes he would handle her that way.
“Why did you ignore me, if you love it?” his voice is low and his words are said slowly, as if to savor the moments of her embarrassment.
“I don’t!” she snaps, exasperated. “I hate every second of it. Your caricature of Nate, your exhausting, ridiculous confession to me, the way you butcher Serena so she won’t be as amazing as me, and how Charlie Trout is the most fascinating character, and the fact that you don’t even deserve to be in it, because for all your talk of the Upper East Side and not wanting to be a part of this world, you’re so much on the inside that it’s not even a satire. It’s a thinly veiled biography, and frankly, I’m surprised Dorota hasn’t used it as kindling yet, that’s why I was hiding it, I was sparing your feelings Humphrey, because we’re friends, remember?" She continues her assault before he has a chance to answer.
"Because if Dorota got her hands on it, I would have to explain to you why your prized first, and frankly dull novel is ash in my fireplace, and then you wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore,” her rant is so intense that she literally whimpers when all the words tumble out. She thinks suddenly of saying sorry, of begging him for his forgiveness. Of telling him that it’s all a lie, and she’s desperately and hopelessly wanting him so badly that she’s going insane. She assures herself that this is better than the truth.
“I had no idea you felt that way,” he says slowly, his voice hoarse, his eyes unfocused on the title of his book, through his pain. He makes an effort to clear his throat, then pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply, rising before she can say anything else.
“I should go,” he says slowly.
“What about your record shop, I wanted to show this dress off, not that it’ll even be appreciated in Brookyln-”
He cuts her off, his voice so sombre it demands her attention.
“Sorry, I’m not up to it, rain check?” he doesn’t wait for a response before he drifts through her door like a ghost.
“Dan!” but it’s too late, he doesn’t hear the call of his name and she crumbles into a mess and holds herself, convincing herself that she’s alright. Telling herself that she’s fine, and she can’t go to a bakery and order three pies, binge and sob as she resorts to being a past version of herself. Hating herself for the words she’s said, she sobs, for his expression as he left and for entertaining the thought of the bulimia. Impossibly alone, she sits in her red dress and brand new tights and wonders what it would be like to be happy, to have someone to talk to about this. To hold him close and whisper everything she’s always wanted to say to someone. That night, she falls asleep crying.
Bringing movies, a novel, champagne, and the macaroons with her as a gift, she drags herself to the loft the next day. The signs of her insomnia covered with concealer, her hair covered in hairspray, presenting buoyant curls. For a second, she doesn’t care how she looks. She’s been rehearsing her apology the whole ride over, when she wasn’t debating showing up at all. He deserves an apology, and she cannot deny him that.
“I was horrible,” she says the second he opens the door.
“Blair, I don’t think you should come in,” he responds, guarding the door with his body. He’s clearly just sat around the loft all day, the remains of breakfast on his table, his laptop open at the kitchen island. His tone is sour, and he guards himself with the door, not letting her look at him long enough to have an effect.
“And I appreciate you coming to Brooklyn, I know how hard it must be for you-”
“Humphrey, we mock each other, we’re friends, that’s what we do,” she explains, with a sigh, hoping she won’t actually have to use the apology material she devised that morning, and all last night.
“No Blair, maybe about literature and film and your disgusting obsession with Jean Leon Gerome, but that was high school mean, that was-”
“I’m sorry,” she offers, holding up her gifts. “And to prove it to you, I brought Woody Allen, macaroons and champagne, and I’ll even lend you my first edition Plath, I was going for a theme, but then Woody Allen messed everything up. Granted we don’t have to watch anything of his, but it’s either that or Il Posto, and as far as this apology goes,I’m not sitting through a Pablo Neruda biopic in Italian, not even for you.” she shrugs.
“Blair, we’re not always going to agree, but I wrote that...just...please...don’t mock....” he bites the inside of his lip, contemplating turning her away. “Not about that,”his voice is filled with a desperation, but she can tell her plan is working and his defense is already wearing down.
“It won’t happen again,” she promises, trying on a smile that will reassure him.
“If it’s actually criticism,...” he starts, but she rolls her eyes, pushing the door open with a hand.
“I swear Humphrey, I won’t mention it again,” she promises, as he watches her place the dvd folder, champagne and box of macaroons on the coffee table. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him rush to close his computer and resists the urge to mock him and whatever he may have been doing. Never imagining that his most recent writing has been all about her.
“What’s going on with you? Serena says you’re acting weird?” he says to break the ice, to pull attention away from his frantic motion to cover up his computer.
“Serena should mind her own business,” she snaps, rolling her eyes, as she plugs Annie Hall, into the dvd player and approaches him. “Look, yes I’ve been more stressed lately, but you’re right Humphrey,” she pauses, resisting the urge to place her hands on his shoulders as she addresses him. “and savor that because I’ll never say it again," but she pauses, forcing the apology, "what I said about your book is uncalled for,”
“Here,” she offers, pulling the Bell Jar out of her purse, she hands it to him, lingering on the moment when their fingers touch. She meets his gaze head on for a split second and feels her heart rage in her chest. The world sways for a moment, spinning, as all she can see is his eyes, pouring into hers. And for a second she believes that the eyes are the windows into the soul, and that she’s seeing his. She melts under the gaze of his chocolate brown eyes and catches herself thinking it would be so easy. She could just grip the cotton of that thin white t shirt and pull him against her. She darts her eyes away and practically trips over herself getting to the couch.
*
She both hates and loves how close he sits to her. How as the movie progresses and they drink their second glass of champagne, his arms settle around her and she leans her head against the soft texture of his shirt, on his chest. She counts his heart beats and closes her eyes, just moving with his every breath. She could spend the night here, she catches herself thinking, then that she could spend forever here. She doesn’t realize that she’s fallen asleep, but she wakes up to his fingers playing with her hair. She doesn’t even think to yell at him messing up her hair, but sinks into his touch, falling deeper into his arms. She breathes in the smell of his skin, hoping it taints her, and stays on her. So that it’ll carry her through the lonely streets on her way home, and fill the empty spaces in her room that he should belong to.
“Blair?” his voice is quiet, careful not to wake her. She murmurs, moving her head against his chest, not wanting to break the illusion with words. She makes no effort to open her eyes, and holds onto the fantasy. If she wishes hard enough, she can spend forever here in his arms, and nothing, not even Serena, or her own insane illogical schemes can get in the way of this perfect moment.
“I only care what you think about the book,” he whispers the soft confession before the credits of the movie roll. Most of the times, he makes her heart race. He makes her doubt herself, grow impatient, anxious, angry, turned on. Half the time she hates him, wants to scream at him, wants to search for a dozen excuses to touch him, but right now he fills her with a happiness so intense, that she cannot imagine being with anyone else. She feels as if he’s her Fred darling, and she’s Holly. It’s far from perfect, but he’s filling her every cell with happiness, what she’s always been missing and what will be the start of something amazing.
He nudges her softly and brings her out of the moment. As she moves against him, she abandons the moment reluctantly, waking up from her dreams, and fantasies of them together. It’s then, she realizes that she doesn’t just lust after him, but that she’s falling for him. She sits up suddenly at the realization, and the blood rushes to her head, she’s dizzy from the thought of him. His coffee table doubles in her vision, the music distorts and she has to close her eyes suddenly, waiting until the nausea and fear of wanting him passes.
“Are you ok?” he asks slowly, and she can feel his fingertips pressed into her wrist. Only the physical symptoms disappear, and she’s left vulnerable, and so lost. She opens her eyes and finds comfort in his eyes.
“Fine! What did I miss?” she asks, yawning to make her waking up credible.
“It’s 4 pm, why are you tired?” there’s fear in his tone, as his hands still wrap around her, watching her. She bites her tongue, realizing he noticed her dizzying spell.
“Woody Allen is blasé,” she responds with a shrug, trying to shake the feelings away. The only thing that is in focus, is him, and his eyes, and the grin that covers his face at her reaction.
“This isn’t fair then, weren’t you supposed to apologize to me with a movie?” he teases, and the pain of wanting him is so insufferable, she wants to laugh to hide the fear of crying. Instead, she bottles it and turns on a switch, trying to ignore the flying butterflies in her stomach.
“Ugh Humphrey, this is the best you get, besides, I’ve lent you Sylvia Plath,” she emphasizes.
“Fine, I’ll allow it,” he smirks. It’s then that she realizes his fingers are still wrapped around her wrist, and there’s inches between them. She’s burning up and closes her eyes, licking her lips, hating how much she wants him.
“Why are you so tired anyway?” he asks in a frantic voice, and she welcomes the diversion from the fantasies playing out in her mind.
“Can’t sleep,” she responds. It’s a half truth. Mainly, she stays up thinking about him, and the second she does close her eyes, horrible taunting dreams of him and Serena fill her mind, ones that repeat and distort and make her welcome insomnia. Because she can’t bear watching herself loose him every night.
“I’m sorry,” his fingers trace her wrist, marking circles in her skin. She pulls away abruptly, before he catches on that she loves the feeling.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” she responds. She wants to stay and watch him devour pizza, or offer her some semblance of food ( he only has ingredients for waffles, and cereal in his place, after all.) Instead she rises and makes some excuse to leave. Reeling with the sudden realization of how happy she could be, she scans over his apartment one last time. Memorizing him on the couch, the empty glasses, Annie Hall credits still rolling, because they both know that this is so much more important.
She knows that this night, and their touches and cuddling and his words will fuel a thousand fantasies that she’ll perfect in her mind. Visions and dreams, that even Serena will not be able to penetrate. No one will be able to touch, at all. Not the images of her shifting on the couch, meeting his gaze, watching his fingers trace her wrist before she leans in and take his lips in hers. Before his tongue sinks into hers and she smiles against his lips. The one fantasy that she’s perfected, is them on the couch. Always starting the same, with hot kisses down his body as his fingers skip around the fabric of her clothes, stripping her methodically. Until she’s straddling him and his fingers are part of her, her moans echoing in his mouth.
[continue]