Unscripted
Blair gets engaged two years after graduating from Yale.
His name is Jacob, or Jared, or maybe John. Chuck hears the news from Nate, who asks, in one of his best friend's typically endearing displays of cluelessness, if he's been invited to the wedding.
Chuck's standing on the balcony of one of his Tokyo hotels, listening to Nate fill him in on the latest details of everyone's lives. He makes an effort to pay attention as Nate starts in on his own new Los Angeles life, but in truth, his mind shut down the moment he heard, "The wedding is in October."
When the conversation is over, he closes his phone and tries not to throw it over the balcony. He downs the last of his drink, his grip tight on the glass.
Then he goes inside, and packs his bags for Manhattan.
--
The city is exactly the same.
The click of a camera marks his arrival as he steps outside; a driver nods deferentially as he opens the door to a limousine. Chuck slides in with all the ease of a man coming home, and crosses his legs as the driver loads his bags. The limo pulls away from the curb, into the streets, and as Chuck stares out the window, he can feel the city erasing every minute of the past two years.
He doesn't check into the Palace. He leaves his bags in the limo, leaves the limo idling by the curb, and walks straight into the Plaza and says, "What do you think you're doing?"
When Blair turns, the first emotion in her face is surprise. "Chuck," she says, and he can see the hope and the anger beginning to rise in her eyes, but she covers both with a smile, says, "Would you excuse me for just one minute," to the nameless woman by her side, and steers him out of the room with a death grip on his elbow.
Her smile is gone by the time they're outside, and when she releases him she shoves his back against the wall. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demands.
"I asked you first," he says, and gestures toward the room they've just left. "The Plaza? Meetings with florists? What the hell is all this?"
She doesn't ask how he knows her appointments. "Well, I know you turned down college, Bass, but I would have thought basic cognitive reasoning could tell you that," she says, her voice rising. "This is a wedding."
"For?"
She lifts her chin. "His name is Jacob."
Chuck hates him. "I don't like him."
"I wouldn't expect you to," Blair says. Her chin is still held high, but he can see something starting to give in her eyes, and he has to stop himself from reaching out for her.
Instead, he says, "What are you doing?"
She doesn't say anything, and for a moment he's almost sure she's going to hit him. "I'm getting married," she says. She blinks, and now whatever was in her eyes is gone. "I went to college, I graduated, and now I'm getting married. This is how functional people live their lives, if you didn't know."
The insult registers, but he barely cares. He takes her hand. "Blair," he says.
She pulls back, shaking her head, blinking furiously. "No," she says, "no, don't you dare. You disappeared. You disappear, you don't call, and now you show up out of nowhere. What are you even doing here?"
He has all sorts of answers in response to that question, but none of them manage to make it out of his mouth before the woman from the room appears, smiling apologetically. "Blair?" she says. "Not to bother you, but about the hydrangeas…"
"Of course," Blair says, her smile on in an instant. It doesn't falter as she pushes past Chuck and starts to lead the way back into the room, not sparing a single glance back.
He stops them before they manage to retreat. "Excuse me," he says to the woman. "I don't think we've met. I'm Chuck Bass, one of Mss Waldorf's friends from school." Ignoring Blair's glare, he offers his hand.
The woman shakes it. "Elise Carrington, wedding planner," she says. "Pleased to meet you."
Blair's smile is as bright as ever, but her voice is slightly on edge as she says, "And Charles is charmed to meet you, I'm sure, but unfortunately he knows how much work we have to do." She places a hand on Elise's arm, begins to steer her away. "So about the flowers – "
"Oh, I know how much work goes into a wedding," he says smoothly, talking right over Blair. "That's why I came to see Blair. I just flew in from abroad for the wedding, I was hoping to see if I could get her to come to lunch with an old friend. I know how stressed she's been with all the planning."
Blair starts protesting immediately, but Elise is smiling, and Chuck has her: "How nice of you," she says. "Blair, go on and take a break. I can handle the flowers."
And Chuck and Blair are standing outside the Plaza together alone, his limo waiting by the curb. He raises his eyebrows at her.
She crosses her arms. "I am not having lunch with you," she says.
"Good," he says. "So I'll see you at dinner tonight."
She stares at him and he waits. Her arms remain crossed, but she flicks her eyes upward, where they waver for a few seconds before settling on him again. "Fine," she says. "But not tonight. Tomorrow. Six-thirty."
He counts it as a victory.
--
Chuck is already seated when Blair enters the restaurant.
She approaches his table and he stands to greet her. She looks pristine, as flawless as she did on the night of Victrola, the night of his father's wedding, her first day at Yale, her college graduation.
"You look beautiful," he says.
She says, "Why are you here?"
He's still standing. She hasn't sat down.
She's holding a red purse and staring him straight in the eye, waiting for an answer. He has one, he has hundreds, and he opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
"That's what I thought," Blair says, and walks out.
--
She's halfway down the street by the time he catches up, her arm raised to hail a taxi.
"Blair! Blair, wait," he says.
She whirls on him and he sees that her eyes are red. Her hair is loose, whipping in the wind, and she's no longer pristine but he still thinks she's beautiful. "What?" she demands. "Are you just going to keep doing this to me for the rest of my life? You can't keep doing this, Chuck – you can't – I can't – "
"I'm sorry," he says, and he means it, just like he's meant it every other time, and yet the script always ends there. He reaches for her hands and tries to look her in the eye. "I'm sorry."
She doesn't meet his gaze. "I'm engaged," she says, her voice on the verge of breaking. "There's a ring, and a wedding – it's all happening – "
"I know," he says. He tilts her chin upward with his thumb, but she still won't look him in the eye. "Do you love him?"
She looks at him now, and her eyes are shining with tears. "You were gone," she says.
The conversation is familiar, the words all worn, and he can feel the city pressing in on them from all around but he doesn't know what comes next. He stares into her eyes and is barely even aware of his words as he says, "Come with me."
She recoils. "What are you talking about?"
"Just come with me," he says, and he's not sure what he's doing but he knows it's what they need.
She's pulling back, her eyes bright with tears and anger. "You asshole," she says. "You can't possibly take off and come back like this and expect anything. How can you think I'll say yes to anything you ask?"
"You don't have to say anything," he says.
He doesn't know any of the words, he's writing the script as he goes. "The night you graduated from Yale," he says. "What I said then – "
She closes her eyes. "Chuck – "
" – I still do." His gaze is steady. He needs her to understand. "That's why I left."
Blair's face is white against the New York night; despite her heels and her coat and her bag she looks very, very small. "I can't," she says. "I can't have this conversation with you."
He tries to touch her cheek, but she breaks away. Her eyes are glistening. "I can't," she says, "I just can't," and she's gone before the first tear falls.
--
Two days later, she shows up at his door.
Her face is almost free of makeup and she's carrying only a small red bag, with matching shoes that clack against his floor as she walks right in. She turns and says, "Aren't you going to offer me a drink?"
She hasn't given him a chance to say a word; he's still standing by the door. She's wearing heels and her chin is held steady, but she's looking him straight in the eye and he can see how scared she is, how much this took.
He walks straight up to her and kisses her, no words, no preamble, and she wraps her arms around him and he closes his eyes and it's like coming home, finally, home.
--
"You have a meeting," she says the next morning.
He opens his eyes, and is rewarded by the sight of Blair standing over him in a silk chemise and slippers. He has no idea where she managed to find either. "Unless it's clothing optional, I'm not interested," he says.
She ignores him and holds out a slip of paper. "This guy called for you this morning."
He reads the name written in her neat handwriting. "Jackson Morris," he says. "He might even be less interesting with his clothes off." Still, he's reaching for the phone even as he speaks, and within seconds he's arranging a business appointment. "Morris," he says. "Word spreads fast. Yeah, I'm in New York." He listens for few seconds. "That's fine. I'll call you later."
He hangs up and starts to pull on his shirt, doing up the buttons with nimble fingers. Blair sits on the edge of the bed, watching him. "So," she says, "this is what you do now."
He looks at her as he fastens the last button. "Get dressed? I can do the opposite, if you want."
"No," she says. "All this. People calling for you and saying, 'When can I set up a meeting with Mr. Bass?'"
"It's an unfortunate fate," he says, and reaches for his tie.
It's on his bed. Blair hands it to him. "It's you."
Her hair is tousled, tumbling past her shoulders in a curtain of brown curls. He gathers it in one hand and sweeps it to one side, kissing the bare skin of her neck. "What do you think?" he says.
Her eyes close at his touch. "I think…it suits you." She opens her eyes. "Or at least the tie does. Purple is your color."
He runs one finger along the edge of her chemise, tracing the line of her collarbone with his lips. She tilts her face up and he kisses her, and neither of them say anything more.
--
Blair is still there when he gets back.
She's standing behind the bar and doesn't even look up as he enters, busy fixing herself a martini. "I can't believe you don't have any olives," is her greeting.
She's wearing different clothes from the day before, a pale green sundress that matches her drink. She comes out from behind the bar and he sees that she's barefoot, her toenails perfectly manicured. "Drink?" she says, and holds out a glass.
"Always," he says. "Where'd you get the dress?"
She shrugs, elaborately casual. "I had Dorota send it over," she says, her voice light, and glances down as she circles the rim of her glass with one finger.
He considers this as he sips his drink, not taking his eyes off of her. She's made his with a splash of scotch, the way he likes it. "Well, you know you're just as welcome in my suite without it," he says. "Maybe even more so."
She makes a face. "You are so predictable," she says.
"You're not," he says. "What are you going to do tomorrow? Have Dorota send more clothes and hide away up here forever? Or are you going to go back to what's his name? Jacob. Jared. John."
The words come out more harshly than he intends, and her chin is already beginning to tremble. "Like you're one to talk," she says. "What are you going to do tomorrow, Bass? Jet off to Monaco? Thailand? Tokyo? Tell me you love me – finally – and then disappear for two straight years?
He knows he's set himself up for this one, just like he's been setting himself up his entire life. He wants to apologize, to tell her he didn't mean to sound so accusatory, but all he can say is, "I came back."
"Maybe that's not enough," she says.
She looks like she might break at any second, standing there in her bare feet. He crosses the room in three quick strides and sets his martini glass on the bar, folding both of his hands around hers, because he needs to do this and he needs her to know. He wills the words to come. "Listen," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Don't - "
"Not to Monaco, or Thailand, or Tokyo," he says. "Not unless you're there. I'm going to be wherever you are."
"I'm engaged," she says.
He touches her hair. "But you're here."
"I don't even know why," she says, and her voice is starting to quaver: "I thought maybe if I just came here - if I just saw you - but you're right, I can't have Dorota send clothes here forever, and I can't stay here. I have a life to live."
"Without me in it," he says.
She lowers her eyes, and when she looks back up he can see the tears. "I wanted to try," she says, and now he can hear the anger in her voice, around the edges of her words. "I thought we could do it. But you left."
"I had to leave," he says.
"No, you didn't," she says, her voice rising. "You didn't have to do anything – you could have stayed, we could have made it work – but you left, because you're Chuck Bass. That's what you do."
"And what about you?" he says. "That's why you're marrying this guy, right? How do you really feel about him?"
"Don't you make this about Jacob," she says.
"How do you feel about him, Blair?" he says. The conversation is familiar, and so is the challenge in his question. He can feel the circle closing before she even opens her mouth, and so he says, before she can answer, "Because I know how I feel about you."
The room seems fuzzy, out of focus. It feels as though all the energy in the suite has been drained away, as though he's soaked it all up to say these words. He knows this is the time he needs to mean them with all the promise they deliver.
But she says, "Please don't."
She's looking at the floor again, and her eyes look ready to spill over. "I've waited…" she begins, then stops. "I need…I need to go home. I can't think. I can't do this, not now."
He feels everything inside him break. He says, "Blair."
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice almost a whisper. "I'll come back tomorrow. And we can talk. I promise."
Her heels are by the door, and she steps into them, one fluid motion, on her way out.
--
She doesn't come back tomorrow.
He pours himself a martini and drinks it on the balcony.
--
A week passes, and then there's a knock on his door.
She's wearing a skirt and sandals and not carrying anything at all, her hands twisting in knots as he opens the door. "I didn't know if you'd still be here," she says.
He has one hand on the doorjamb, and he hasn't moved because he's not sure if she's real. "I'm here," he says.
"I called off the engagement," she says. "I couldn't – I couldn't – "
He doesn't touch her, not yet. He doesn't move. "What do you mean?" he says.
"I mean," she says, "I love you, you idiot," and she's in his arms, crying and laughing with her face pressed into his neck, and he can feel her hair against his face, and all he can do is hold her.
Eventually she lifts her face to look at him, and her eyes are shining. "I don't know how this is going to work," she says, "I don't know how we're supposed to end."
He tilts his forehead against hers, kisses her. "We don't," he says.
--
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