Questionable

This is a sort of prequel to Schonen Chaos, and the 3rd installment of the Words series. I know, I've been gone for a looooong time. Made honor roll, graduated from grade 8, yada yada yada. Gotta love Seinfeild. Hope you enjoy!

Kwes-che-ne-bel
adj.
to doubt or challenge.
2. Problematic.
3. Nate and Bree.

To start off with, they were both WASPs, White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, the cream of the crop, their descendents living in posh pre-war buildings, their surnames Dutch or German, sprinkled with French aristocracy. Manners and china from the 1800s, the pulleys that carried booze to the penthouses during Prohibition still installed. They were both Christian. Well, the girl was.

The male simply made her a sinner.

:.*.:

She had unique fiery-red hair, and wasn't politically correct. Call her a hillbilly and she'd kick your nuts. She wasn't afraid of anybody or anything, with the one exception: carbs. She allowed herself to eat pasta, bread or rice on Saturdays, as a treat. She hated Carter Baizen (for what he did to her sister) and she loved her mother. Yes, life was perfect, and as a reward, her father had allowed her to tour Europe the summer before returning to New York. Even though it was a Thursday, she bought an apple strudel, and ate the whole thing, bite by bite.

He had light brown hair, which matched his docile and innocent eyes, with a hint of sea green and long lashes. Ever the one to please anyone, he quickly agrees to anything Bree's saying, giving her the number of Vanessa.

"Hey there," She chirps in her Texan accent. "I think I may have picked up your friend here. He was…um, passed out on the steps of the-you don't care, alright…"

Nate closed his eyes in acknowledgement and horror. He was still on this nightmare-ish backpacking trip across fucking Europe, where everyone seemed to be smoking. Plus, he was currently stuck with a girl who never picked up a breakfast roll the whole time they were at brunch.

"Alright," She replied, albeit a little quieter than before. "I'll tell him that." She put down the phone and plastered a sympathetic smile on her face. "Your friend doesn't want to see you anymore."

Nate shrugged, still in his post-drunken state. He looked up at her, dazed. He felt as if there were jack hammers on his head, much like the man in those Advil commercials. "Will you take me home?" He asked stupidly.

The girl smiled genuinely this time. "Sure. I'm headed for New York. My father moved there for political reasons. He's the-ah, I'll tell you later. You said your name was Nate?"

He nodded slightly and continued to gaze at her. He had no idea who this girl was, and yet he didn't feel apprehensive about anything. She even left the door unlocked. He nodded again, this time with certainty. "Nate."

Over the next few days, he couldn't help for feeling glad that he was with her. She was intelligent, so he wasn't easily bored. She was playful, so he felt at ease. Soon, the days turned into weeks, with the end of August coming soon. The walks along Salerno Beach in Italy, colorful flea markets on Calle Farren Street in Madrid, dancing with gypsies in Budapest. However, something irked him. Vanessa still registered in his brain, no matter how he tried enjoying the opera biography of Machiavelli.

Bree was like her in many ways, the outspoken nature, and the playful glint in her eyes. But boy was she different. That was made completely apparent the moment they stepped off the private helicopter. He gave her a final, gentle kiss and smiled widely, looking at the tinted windows of his limo, gleaming in the sunlight. They had agreed to keep things light, casual, until the end of their summer trek. After all, they probably wouldn't keep in touch at Columbia.

That's when he saw the sign of his surname. Archibald, clearly printed on a piece of cardboard, held up by his chauffeur. And another sign next to it.

Buckley.

"Oh my God," Bree sighed, taking the Lord's name in vain. "You're Nate Archibald."

"And you're Bree Buckley." Nate wondered why Bree looked so familiar. Ah, he had pulled her ugly fiery red hair at Clinton's inaugural ball. Well, she did step on his foot.

After exchanging…pleasantries, they parted ways, Nate thought for the last time. But all those weeks, spending time together, him teaching her Italian, and Bree teaching him how to spit a long distance away. It was fun, wasn't it? Did it really matter if she was a Buckley? A…right wing, nutjob, supporter of cutting down trees, Texan Buckley?

But she was really good at sex.

Maybe he would call her later. It was…questionable, but Nate was always taught to follow his instincts.

Like that did him any good.

N/A~ I've actually grown quite fond of Nate/Bree...Brate, Archibuckly? I dunno, but I hope you liked this story!