Checking It Twice
It was all Serena's fault, really. She had set off this whole shocking chain of events with her (frankly pathetic) obsession with online quizzes. If this unlikely entanglement met a catastrophic end, she would be sure to inform her best friend of her role in the disaster that was Blair's love life.
However, for the proper effect, specifics would be necessary, beginning with the summer night when Serena sparked this bizarre development in Blair's life. The two of them were in Paris, enjoying the chic and single life (although some of Serena's boytoys might have been distraught at this term). Blair was reclining on the bed, halfheartedly thumbing through the August issue of W; Serena sat at the foot of the bed, lost in a cacophony of clicks and rapid typing. Every few seconds, she would utter some exclamation of interest or agreement.
After several minutes of this, Blair snapped. It was simply impossible to enjoy the Givenchy retrospective when someone was acting like she was a porn star on an infomercial. "S, what are you doing?" she asked sharply, scooting up to the edge of the bed to peer over her friend's shoulder.
Serena turned her head, beaming. "Oh, B, you have to take some of these! I found out my inner big cat is a leopard, I'm the reincarnation of Aurora from Sleeping Beauty, and I will marry a 'sensitive yet laidback' man!"
Blair huffed. "Serena, come on, you're better than these…pedestrian prophecies. Those quizzes are designed to make you feel good about yourself, there's no real substance in them! And - you're obviously a cheetah."
Serena laughed, but didn't seem dissuaded by Blair's negativity. "B, you have to at least be a little curious about the man you'll marry!" She gestured to the computer like she was Vanna White.
If she did eventually recount this story to Serena, she would leave out the very real temptation those quizzes represented to her. After…everything, she had felt adrift and alone, unsuitable for anybody. Finding someone who could repair the damage Chuck had done to her - and that she'd done to herself - seemed like an impossible dream.
She was still Blair Waldorf, though, and had to remain strong and sturdy. She had survived quite well on her own, thank you, and would continue to do so for the foreseeable future.
It wasn't like men were lining up at her door, anyway.
"I know precisely what he'll be like," Blair said firmly, surprising herself. "I don't need some third rate excuse for journalism to vaguely describe him."
Serena looked wary, no doubt remembering the last few times Blair had been so certain of her romantic future. "How exactly do you know that?"
"Because I know exactly who I am. Ergo, I know exactly what I need in a relationship. It's simple logic."
Her best friend looked relieved, even laughing a little. "So what are you going to do? Draft a check list and hold every potential suitor up to your gold standard?"
Oh, what an idea.
"Oh my God," Serena sighed, "of course that's what you'll do."
Blair pursed her lips. "The first step to getting what you want is knowing what you want. What's wrong with a little organization along the way?"
After Serena went out with Francois or Jacques or Henri or whatever disposable random it was that night, Blair set to work. She changed into her robe, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat down on the bed with some fresh cream paper and several pens. This was an endeavor to take seriously despite Serena's scoffing. She would ascertain the exact qualities of her perfect mate, the other half of the power couple she was destined to be part of, and then she would quickly sift through every potential partner. The sheer efficiency would make it worthwhile, she reasoned.
After a couple of hours, several mark-ups in red pen, and several more glasses of wine (for honesty), she had her finished list. She surveyed it with proud, if tired eyes. It read:
Qualities of the Perfect Man for Blair Cornelia Waldorf
(For the proper beginning to any list is a good and catchy title.)
Number One: He must be intellectually and culturally knowledgeable.
(Sorry, Nate. Gone were her days of scrounging for topics of conversation. If she was going to be a cultural tastemaker, her partner had to keep up.)
Number Two: He must be attentive to her needs at all times.
(I.E., not constantly wrapped up in business. She considered herself a reasonable woman who would put her boyfriend first. Was it too much to ask him to do the same?)
Number Three: He must be driven and have his own personal ambition which he strives to achieve.
(No leeches. Serena had dated enough of them that Blair could surely spot one a mile away, but she still felt it was worth mentioning.)
Number Four: He must be romantic.
(At this point, a considerable amount of wine was going to her head and she was half-lost in daydreams rather than practical concerns. Still, a sound point.)
Number Five: He must be devoted to her and only her.
(She was momentarily distracted here in remembrances of the Nate-Serena debacle and the…real estate misunderstanding. She still had a difficult time thinking about that in any but the vaguest terms.)
Number Six: He must be honest with her.
(She might make an exception for any aristocrats or royals who pretended to be commoners. How could she turn down a reverse Roman Holiday? Any other offenders, though, were strictly unsuitable.)
And finally, half-remembering a conversation, she had written in slanting handwriting:
Number Seven (this is essential!): He must make her really, truly happy.
Blair smiled at her efforts, folded the paper up, and kissed it for good luck. She tucked it away where Serena wouldn't stumble upon it, finished her last glass of wine, and began to get ready for bed. She would not think about the list for months.
Had things been left at that, her reputation would have been fine. She still held that the list was a perfectly reasonable creation, if somewhat sentimental near the end.
Things, however, are rarely left at that.
She felt strange as she ascended the stairs to her room, moving stealthily although nobody else was home. Something was bubbling in her nerves, the uncomfortable sensation of having a secret.
So what? part of her demanded. I saw a movie, and Dan Humphrey happened to be there, and I knew that he was going to be. We sat a few seats apart, and I took some of his popcorn. Side comments might have been made and laughter might have been shared, and perhaps future plans were made. If Nate can be friends with Humphrey, why can't I?
The more fearful part of her seemed to be repeating: Serena.
It wasn't even like S would care, Blair decided as she entered her room. It was one movie, maybe two if she happened to go through with his casual suggestion for the next weekend. If Serena had been there, she would have told her that instant, certainly! It was nothing to make a fuss over.
So why did she feel so odd?
She slipped her hand into her coat pocket to retrieve the ticket. It might have been silly and girlish of her, but she did usually keep such mementos.
Her fingers touched something else instead: a piece of folded paper. She pulled it out cautiously, unsticking the ticket from the other, finer paper, and unfolding the list.
For that is what it was, of course, and what she had somehow remembered it would be from the instant she removed it from her pocket. The ticket fluttered to the floor unobtrusively, but the list glared up at her in bolder print than she remembered using. Her breath caught.
Unbidden, her eyes had begun tracing the words again and ascribing new meaning to them. Her heartbeat sped up and she squeezed her eyes shut to stop the sensation. Wadding the paper into a very unladylike ball, she launched it at the wall and marched resolutely into the bathroom to brush her teeth.
Sleep refused to visit her. She tried everything: herbal tea, a warm foot soak, reading. Her mind kept wandering back to something she didn't dare consider.
Well, some traitorous part of her thought finally, I might as well go ahead. After all, it isn't like things will really check out. That would be absurd. If I get it over with, I won't have to worry.
Blair closed her book and picked up the ball of paper. Smoothing it best she could, she read:
Qualities of the Perfect Man for Blair Cornelia Waldorf
Number One: He must be intellectually and culturally knowledgeable.
That meant nothing. It was simply a fluke. She lived in what she considered to be the cultural capital of the world, and, well, he lived just across the bridge from it. Most of the people she would rub elbows with would be conscious of their responsibility to be interested in the arts and sciences. He was meeting expectations, not exceeding them.
Number Two: He must be attentive to her needs at all times.
Surely he would fail that one. After all, he barely tolerated her. Of course, he had noticed her subtle glance at his popcorn and offered her some. He had also extended a future invitation (which she had rather wanted, lonely as she was) without prompting. And, when he had noticed her shiver outside, he had immediately offered to help her with her coat. She, of course, had refused.
Still. Maybe he did pass that test.
(Not that it mattered.)
Number Three: He must be driven and have his own personal ambition which he strives to achieve.
He was certainly less ambitious than Chuck, although she couldn't bring herself to call that a bad quality. He had mentioned plans for an internship and a short story in the works, but those were practically requirements for any self-respecting university student.
She also vaguely remembered last year, with the playwriting and that literary program that Vanessa Abrams (cursed be her name) had stolen from under his nose.
She would give him a pass. There were four more items on the list, and they only became more difficult and closer to her heart. His damning flaw would soon become evident.
Number Four: He must be romantic.
She refused to even consider that one, because it brought to mind memories of Serena recounting their planned first time, and their actual first time, and all the times after that, and she really did not want those images in her head. An easy win for Humphrey.
Number Five: He must be devoted to her and only her.
Ah, there was the flaw. Humphrey would always be devoted to Serena first and foremost. She was his first love, soulmate, et cetera.
Of course, she had thought the same of herself with Nate. And then with Chuck. So perhaps…
Rather than examine why she was so willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, she decided number five was perhaps a little unfair for a pre-relationship test. She never had been good at predicting a man's faithfulness.
Number Six: He must be honest with her.
She almost laughed at that one. Yes, certainly he had never been shy with telling her what he thought of her. On rare occasions, his remarks were even positive.
He had also – she remembered suddenly – been willing to open up and share personal details about himself with her when he barely even knew her. At the time, she had thought it was an effort to improve Serena's opinion of him, or perhaps just a product of poor breeding, but now she knew that it had been a very real risk for him.
Still, that was a bar so low one could step over it.
Number Seven (this is essential!): He must make her really, truly happy.
Blair looked at this point for a very, very long time.
Some unexpected internal drive toward honesty compelled her to admit that she had enjoyed a nice evening with him. Nicer, in fact, than she had had in a while.
Even the whole "rescue mission" before the break had been almost fun, and not just because she enjoyed bringing Juliet down. He wasn't bad company, after all.
But would he make her happy? Could she imagine –
No. This was going too far. She had to stop, because it was 3 a.m. and she was imagining being happy with Humphrey. Being romantic, being domestic, being a team… She could see it, and it was practical, and reasonable, and possible, and very likely within her reach.
She needed some more tea, and a very long bath.
Wrapped in a towel and eating some therapeutic macaroons right out of the box, she clicked "play" and waited to be soothed by the familiar melody of "Moon River".
Not twenty minutes into the film, however, she was still unusually anxious. Why did her favorite movie have to feature a writer? In a fit of desperation, she turned her laptop off and threw herself back onto the bed.
She was used to deciding whether to follow her heart or her head. In this case, they both seemed to be ever-so-subtly pointing in the same direction.
It was 5:30 a.m., she had not slept, and her finger was hovering over the name "Dan Humphrey" on her contact list. (Originally, he had been listed simply as "Brooklyn", but somewhere along the way Serena had made her change it).
Before she could doubt herself again, she took a deep breath and pressed the call button.
He picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Humphrey," she said hurriedly, wanting to get through the script she had practiced. "I wanted to ask-"
"Blair?" he asked incredulously. She could hear him moving around. She imagined him sitting up in bed, running a hand through his messy curls, and frowning in that particular way of his. He would be looking puzzled, staring at the phone as if she could see him through it. "What are you – what do you – you know it's like 5 in the morning, right?"
"Some of us start our days promptly," she said stiffly.
He laughed uncomfortably. "I guess so. So, uh, what's going on? Is everything okay?"
"Yes. Everything's fine. I just – well, I wanted to know –" Oh, God, she was going off script. "Are you free? Today? Tonight, I mean."
"I think we established that I'm pretty much free for the next two weeks," Dan said dryly, sounding even more concerned. "Are you sure that everything's okay? You haven't been kidnapped or something, right? Is this some kind of coded message?"
"Everything's fine, Humphrey. Meet me at my penthouse at 7 p.m. sharp, and try to do something with that hair."
She hung up before he could protest, and spent the next several minutes staring at her phone in disbelief.
Blair woke up at 10:30 to a text from Humphrey.
Still not convinced that you haven't been body-snatched, but I'll be there. What should I wear? Do I need to bring anything?
The text had been sent more than two hours ago. She blinked dully, then replied:
Nothing flannel or denim. And remember what I said re: hair! Don't be late!
As she took her first sip of coffee, her phone buzzed with a new message.
You keep odd hours, Waldorf. See you at 7.
She found herself smiling against her will.
The panic set in around 4, which was when she was really confronted with the fact that she had, of her own volition, asked Dan Humphrey on a date. (Of course, he didn't know it.)
It had seemed the practical choice at the time. She could either obsess over the distressing fact that her list did not immediately exclude him from consideration, or she could take the next step and perform a field test. After all, direct assessment would be the only method of evaluating his suitability. For a time, she had considered rejecting him due to a variety of reasons outside the domain of the list, including "Serena's ex", "wears plaid", and "goes to NYU". However, she had reasoned, if those had been truly important to her, she would have put them on the list. She was getting really good at this reasoning thing.
She was beginning to second-guess herself, though, as she tried on outfit after outfit. Blair was accustomed to needing to "dress to impress" when dating; however, she doubted Humphrey would notice the difference between Prada and Payless. She supposed that meant she could "be herself", but it made her more nervous. She had nothing to fall back on except her natural charm, which always seemed to be in short supply in his company. Blair could barely make it through a minute without insulting him, and often vice versa. Still, it was too late to back out.
When he arrived (at 6:56 p.m.; promptness was an admirable quality, if not list-worthy), she was wearing an emerald cocktail dress – an Eleanor Waldorf original. Although it was custom fitted to her every curve and angle, she felt itchy and uncomfortable. The list had been shoved, like a dirty little secret, into her purse for quick reference. She was too anxious to do the usual routine of making her date wait, and she didn't want Dan to become suspicious, so she met him at the elevator immediately.
For once, he had listened to her. His hair was relatively tame, and he looked almost presentable in a charcoal grey suit. Not that she was planning to present him to anybody any time soon. "Humphrey," she greeted cordially.
"Waldorf," he returned. Oddly, he didn't look out of place in her foyer like this, cleaned up and waiting for her. The thought might have calmed her if the entire situation wasn't so alarming. "So what's the emergency?"
"No emergency!" She smiled sweetly.
If anything, however, that smile unsettled him further. He took a step closer to her. "No rescue operation," he noted. "Nobody's here to rescue. Unless…Dorota?" Dan peered down the hall. "Where is she? Was she kidnapped?"
"No, I sent her home." So she wouldn't question me about you. It had taken a herculean effort to persuade Dorota to leave at 3 p.m., but Blair had no other options.
"So what, you just thought you'd call me up? Is this a date? Should I have brought flowers?"
His tone is teasing, but she can't avoid the panic rising up in her. "It's not a date!" she hissed immediately.
He could be just as resistant to this idea as she initially was, and she doesn't have the benefit of sleep deprivation (or a list conceived out of alcohol-inspired honesty) to make him see the possibility. If he discovered the truth, that she was assessing him for a potential…partner, she would never hear the end of it. She had to ease him into it gently. Trying to regain her composure, she added, "Although flowers are always appreciated. I doubt you know my favorites, though." There's a test he won't pass. Part of her was still very much rooting for him to fail.
"Peonies," he said off-hand.
She goggled at him, unwillingly granting him points for the second quality on her list. "How did you - ?"
"I listen. You should try it some time. So if it's not a date, what do you want with me?" he asked, grinning widely.
She pursed her lips. He thinks he has the upper hand.
"Well," Blair said, with exaggerated emotion, "you sounded so forlorn last night that I thought I should do you a favor and occupy a bit of that free time you kept complaining about."
"Oh, it's a favor to me to be in your company. I see."
"What exactly are you implying?"
He held his hands up in mock surrender. "Nothing, your majesty. What will I have the pleasure of doing in your company tonight?"
Blair was familiar with choosing date locations, but she often based them upon her own preferences rather than that of her beau du jour. However, this time she had put some consideration into what would suit both of their tastes. As per quality one, she believed she had found an acceptable locale. "The Met is open for two more hours, which should give us a little time to browse their exhibition on Stieglitz, Steichen, and Strand. I assume you haven't seen it yet?"
"I haven't," Dan confirmed. His dark eyes betrayed his confusion; she pretended not to notice. "I didn't realize you ever went to the Met at night - "
"I love the Met at night. It's much less crowded."
" – and I didn't think 20th century photography was really your 'thing'."
She opened her mouth to justify and argue that it was, but somehow she ended up saying, "It's – not something I'm usually interested. I thought you might like it."
To call his expression incredulous would have been an understatement. Frantically, Blair tried to think of a way to save it. "I mean, as a favor to you, you know." Digging yourself deeper, Waldorf, she could almost hear him saying.
Instead, Dan's eyes softened. "Thank you, Blair," he said sincerely, voice a little deeper than usual. She strove to appear unaffected. "That's very…considerate."
"It's just common courtesy," she heard herself saying. Was he getting closer? He seemed dangerously near, and horribly close to finding out the truth. "Don't they have that in Brooklyn?"
Her words seemed to break whatever spell they'd been under. He cleared his throat and took a very small step back. "I guess we should get going, then."
"Mmhmm," she managed.
The awkwardness and uncertainty seemed to dissipate entirely once they actually arrived. They fell into an old pattern in an unfamiliar situation – arguing.
"Photography is just as valid a form of artistic expression as painting!" Dan said heatedly. "Why do you always have to be such an elitist?"
"So you admit that painting is for the elite. Face it, Humphrey, a photograph will never say as much as a painting can. It's bound, at least somewhat, to reality. A painting can show you – anything."
"A photograph is a representation of reality, just like a painting or – or a novel or a film, it's just a different way to filter it. I'm sure there are things you can say with a photograph that you can't say with a painting."
"Such as?" she challenged.
He hesitated. "A photograph…." he said slowly, "shows somebody's reality, even if it is filtered. It's part of the truth. So it might be more believable if you were trying to convince somebody."
"Would you really want to be convinced of something through a photograph? Something taken in an instant? Whereas a painting could be hours, weeks, even years of labor."
"That doesn't impact its value, Blair."
"Of course it does! The next thing I know, you'll be telling me that a reproduction is worth as much as an original because it 'represents something'."
"That's not even the same issue at all."
"Well, I think – "
"Miss?" inquired a security guard. Blair firmly ignored him.
"Humphrey, just because you're insecure about your writing – "
"Miss, you need to leave now. We're closing."
"I'm not insecure! I finished that short story and I already sent it in to an editor!"
"Sir, we're closing."
As soon as they reached the steps, Dan started laughing almost uncontrollably. She watched him, bemused. "What is it, Humphrey?"
Through his laughs, he explained, "I just…I never thought I'd be here. Arguing the artistic value of photography with Blair Waldorf in the Met. On purpose!"
"It's not that improbable," she said, a little miffed.
"Come on, Waldorf, this is where you used to sit and dump yogurt on my head, remember? And I'm positive you spent hours on these steps trying to convince Serena to break up with me." Unbelievably, he was still laughing even as he remembered the times she had been less than cordial with him. The sight was so infectious, she felt her lips begin to tug at the corners.
"It would have been for your own good as much as hers," she giggled, beginning to smile broadly. "The way you followed her around like a lost little puppy dog! It can't have been good for your ego."
"True," he agreed, laughter subsiding. "But…if you had, this wouldn't have happened."
"What?"
The entire atmosphere seemed to become heavier. "If you had convinced Serena to break up with me, I wouldn't be here, on the steps of the Met with Blair Waldorf, laughing and having a great time."
"And that's where you'd choose to be?" she asked quietly.
Part of the reason she had decided to go through with the notion of "trying out" Dan Humphrey was because she had never believed he could hurt her. While she was hesitant to consider a future where they were truly compatible, she could at least imagine him being good for her and matching the first six items on her list. To make her really, truly happy, however, would require what Dorota called a "jump of faith", and after Chuck, Blair wasn't sure she would ever be ready to put herself out there like that again.
But in that moment, she found herself caring much more than she expected about Dan's answer.
His eyes were very serious then, although they still had a light about them. "Absolutely," he said, in that tone of frustrating, sentimental Humphrey honesty.
Honesty. That, more than anything, pushed her to say, "You wouldn't be here if you and Serena were still together, either."
He shrugged. "I know that."
She had thought that he would do anything to be back with Serena, and if her sleep-deprived mind had had the consciousness to produce a five-year plan for this relationship, she would have spent the first four and a half of trying to rid him of his endless, ill-fated affection for her best friend. "So you wouldn't…"
"I like where I am now. It's not perfect, but things with Serena weren't, either. I think I like who I am better, now."
She found herself meeting his eyes as she admitted, "I can understand that."
"So what's next on the agenda?" he asked suddenly.
"How about some coffee?" Blair suggested, meaning to return to the penthouse for dessert.
Dan, however, grinned at her and held out an arm. "I know an excellent place."
She looked at him warily. Part of the reason she had planned for them to visit the Met at night was for its relative privacy. Very few Gossip Girl readers would be attending a museum during peak party preparation hours. Going to a coffee shop, however, would be a little more risky. "We don't have to leave Manhattan, do we?"
He shook his head. "It's only a couple of blocks away. I like to go there and write when I'm in the area."
"It's quiet?"
"Oh, yeah, definitely."
Serena wanted us to be friends for years, and Chuck is distracted with other things, I'm sure. She took his arm. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but…lead the way, Humphrey."
The coffee shop was not unpleasant. Her mother would have called it "quaint" in that disdainful tone, but Blair didn't dislike it. Scattered around the shop were couples and singles, not quite dreadful Brooklyn hipsters but not members of the upper class, either. Just students and other young adults, engrossed in books or conversations.
She ordered a white chocolate mocha, to Dan's obvious surprise. "I know," she said, in her most saccharine tone. "I'm too sweet already."
Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.
When Dan excused himself to use the restroom, she whipped out the list and scanned over it quickly, making notes where necessary.
Number One: He must be intellectually and culturally knowledgeable. Interesting arguments in Met.
Number Two: He must be attentive to her needs at all times. Remembered peonies.
Number Three: He must be driven and have his own personal ambition which he strives to achieve. Finished story – partly through my advice.
Number Four: He must be romantic. Not bad with words.
Number Five: He must be devoted to her and only her. Over Serena?
Number Six: He must be honest with her. Discussed feelings easily.
Number Seven –
Before she was forced to consider quality seven, however, Dan returned. She hastily stuffed the list back into her purse and fell back into an easy conversation.
She called her driver as they finished up their coffee. "I can drop you off in Brooklyn," she said uncomfortably when she hung up. Dan accepted her offer and before she even knew it, it seemed like they were over the bridge.
Blair went up to the loft with him, feeling oddly like a high school boy on his first date. Dan, of course, was oblivious, thanking her for the good night. "And for doing me the favor of your company." His grin reassured her that he didn't intend the sarcasm to cut.
She hung awkwardly in his doorway. On another night, she might have invited herself in, but her head was spinning and she really just wanted to get home and mull things over. "So, Film Forum?" That would give her days to mull.
"It's a date," he said confidently, then hesitated. "Uh, not a date, just – you know what I mean. It's on my calendar."
"Of course."
"Right."
She gave him a quick smile and turned to go.
"Blair, wait," he said, and there was something different in his tone. He sounded almost breathless, and touched her shoulder.
She turned back to look at him, and something in Dan seemed to snap. Moving his hand up to the small of her neck, he kissed her; then, as suddenly as he had moved forward, pulled away.
Blair was frozen. Cliché as it was, she was rooted in place. She could only stare as he stammered out, "I'm so sorry, I just…I don't know, it seemed like the thing to do, like I felt a vibe or something but you know, if you don't ever want to…talk to me again, that's fine, I just – "
"I have to go!" she said as quickly as possible, ignoring his excuses, and all but ran down the hallway.
When she finally made it back to the penthouse, she was still too shocked to even consider the list. What did this mean? Had she accidentally set something into motion by doing this? What had "that" been, anyway?
If she had been forced to anticipate what a kiss between them would have been like, she would have predicted it to be practical and cautious. She had not expected a spark, especially not so immediately. Blair had no idea where this left them or what his expectations were. He had obviously seemed to regret the kiss, and, assuming he was doing the same considering as she, he would inevitably understand two things: she had kissed him back, and she had not apologized.
Her list had failed to take chemistry into account, because she knew from experience that alone did not a good relationship make. Yet she had been so ready to dismiss it entirely, to imagine that she could reduce relationships to mere compatibility of character traits and interests.
But if they had both, what did that mean? Was she really going to go through with this? God, what would she tell S?
Somehow, despite these thoughts, she managed to fall asleep. Her dreams were full of dark eyes and confusion, but just before she woke up, she felt at home.
For the second time in as many days, she awoke to messages from Dan. This morning, however, they were considerably more frantic.
Blair, I need to talk to you ASAP. Call me
I know I already texted you, but please call me when you get up. Thanks.
Why can't you be awake at crazy times when I want you to be?
Or maybe you are awake and ignoring my texts
Maybe I should keep texting you until you can't ignore me any more
Unless you really are asleep and I wake you up, in which case, I'm sorry. I won't text again. Please call me
I'm sorry, this is too important to do over the phone. I'm on my way and I'll wait if necessary
The last message had been delivered twenty minutes ago.
She dressed as quickly as possible, following her simplest makeup routine and throwing on a soft pink blouse and a deep red skirt. While she was slipping her shoes on, her phone buzzed.
Downstairs when you're ready
Blair took a deep breath and descended. Deny, deny, deny, she thought to herself. She might lose her budding friendship with him, but better that than the last shred of her dignity.
When she reached the foot of the stairs, he was there to meet her. Dorota hovered nearby, looking intrigued and approving. Dan held out a bouquet of peonies. "I brought flowers this time," he said, not breaking eye contact with her.
She took them silently, not sure what to think. Was this his way of letting her down easy? Or was he trying to woo her, based on the merit of a single quick kiss?
"Mr. Dan brought macaroons and mocha as well," Dorota put in, raising her eyebrows. Blair pushed past both of them to reach the coffee and moved to take a seat on the sofa. Dan sat at a cautious distance on the other side.
"Dorota, you can go," Blair said loudly, knowing that she would certainly eavesdrop anyway. She sipped her coffee coolly and met Dan's eyes. Her heart pounded, but she refused to betray her anxiety.
"Last night," he began nervously. She bit her lip.
"Last night," he repeated, "I found this."
Oh, God, no.
She actually squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will the entire situation away. When she opened them, Dan was still there, sitting where she now felt was unreasonably close to her person, and holding up the crumpled list.
Her mind raced. What possible defense did she have? He was looking at her with those huge, understanding brown eyes, and she hated him a little for it.
"Blair," he said quietly. "Look, you can…tell me, whatever it is. And if it's a trick or part of a scheme or whatever, I need to know now."
That was her out. Exactly. It could be part of a scheme to – get Chuck back or to hurt Jenny or to help Serena or anything, really. Hundreds of possibilities. She just had to open her mouth and let the lies begin.
Humphrey's compulsive truth-telling seemed to be contagious, though, because she couldn't seem to make the words appear. "What do you think it is?"
"Honestly?" He scrunched his brow. "Some kind of list of…desirable qualities with comments. Blair, it practically looks like a grading rubric. I'm surprised there isn't a letter or a percentage or something in the corner."
"I didn't have time," she muttered.
"What?"
"That's…what it is."
He looked at her with an inscrutable expression. The moment seemed to stretch on forever. Finally, he looked away and laughed a little. "That's…not a bad idea, I guess. Takes some of the guesswork out of the equation."
"That was my thinking," she said uncertainly, trying to regain ground.
"Probably saves a lot of time, too."
"Exactly!"
They smiled at each other for a second. Then Dan asked, "So, what's the verdict?"
"Excuse me?" she asked, almost forgetting their entire topic.
"Do I merit another interview? Or a trial period, or something?" He raised his eyebrows. "Or, oh, wait, am I supposed to get a letter in the mail? This is a little unprofessional of me, I apologize."
"You're ridiculous, Humphrey," Blair said, but she could feel her smile growing. This was surprisingly easy.
"So that's a no, then?"
Instead of replying, she picked up a pen and scribbled on the list. She handed it back to him.
Number Seven (this is essential!): He must make her really, truly happy. I think he could.
Dan looked at the paper, and then back up at her. Unable to hide his grin, he said, "I'll take your offer into consideration."
"Consideration?" she repeated incredulously.
"I mean, maybe I should draw up my own list of demands…"
"Ugh, you're insufferable."
"All right, all right," he declared dramatically. "You won me over. I accept your offer on one condition."
"That being?" she asked innocently.
"I get to kiss you again."
So that was the whole of the tale, or at least the part she would share with Serena. Most of the details would be preserved in order to assure her friend that it really was entirely her fault if the entire relationship fell apart. Still, based on his success during the trial period, she was truly willing to believe that she had made an appropriate decision in accepting the candidate for the position. Because she was really, truly, finally happy.