CHAPTER 8
What happened? Where did everything crumble apart?
When Blaine came to my door and throughout the night, he seemed like he could never get enough of me. I mean, come on, we set the kitchen on fire because we couldn't get enough of each other. And he said that he needed me.
So why did this whole thing go to hell in a hand basket? Or has he been feeling this way all along and it finally ripped through him like a tornado in Kansas?
I'm a complete disaster at work the next day - I don't even properly do my hair - and I avoid Morgan and Will in case they ask about my atypical appearance. I also avoid my father's calls since the man can always seem to sense when something is wrong with me. Normally I'd appreciate it, but I don't want to explain why I'm feeling the way that I am.
Thankfully when my wallowing seems to come to a head, I'm alone in a classroom having just wrapped the final art class for the day. I take the clean paintbrushes in the sink and throw them across the room, not even caring about the traces of purpled water that linger on the walls.
"Fuck this!" I cry. "Fuck him, fuck what he did to me. Fuck him!"
This time I slam my fists down, only to hurl a leftover paint palette into the air, causing it to stick to the wall from its trajectory. I can't even be bothered as it squelches its way down the wall, leaving a rainbowed trail in its tracks. I just sink to the floor and grab my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible.
I'm an idiot. A pathetic idiot.
After Adam and that disaster, I promised that I wouldn't jump in head first in relationships - either with my heart or with sex - and this just goes to show I should have stuck with that plan rather than let my dick think for me. And it's not just the sex that I'm wishing I'd held off on, but my reliance and total infatuation with Blaine. He's been off and on the past few weeks; sending mixed signals and avoiding anything of substance between us. And yet there I've been, practically doting and cooing over him while he tried to push and pull me at the same time. I knew that he was going through things and that he probably needed space, but I just pushed. I'm a pusher and I ignored these red flags.
Maybe I can't blame him; I can only blame myself.
But admitting that I might have been the fuck up is not a pleasant thing; Kurt Hummel never admits that he's wrong, let alone when relationships are brought into question. I pull my knees closer and fold my arms over my knees and bend my face into the cool darkness my chest brings. I'm practically on the verge of hysterical sobs.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Blaine and I - we were something different, I just knew it. We react to each other as if we're magnets, totally drawn to each other in a way I've never experienced before. Not only do we mesh physically, but Blaine also ignited something in me I didn't realize was there. He made me feel a little bit wild - something I never thought would be true - and stronger; more alive than I've felt before. I can't go back to being the Kurt Hummel that I was before - the Kurt Hummel who thought that a "daring" night was eating questionable sandwiches from the bodega on the corner.
Dammit, when did this new Kurt Hummel become so emotional though?
I wipe my face, though not on my shirtsleeve - I'm not desperate, and force myself to take some deep breaths. I can't just be this way anymore. Yes, I'm terribly sad that Blaine and I are no more. But this weepy version of myself contradicts the one that I was becoming; the strong, even more fiery, somewhat daring Kurt that enjoys a more varied life. Besides, if I just keep acting all depressed and mopy, I won't get anything done and the Center is finally turning around.
I pull myself up off the ground and start cleaning up the paint from the wall. If I can clean up this mess, I can also clean up the mess in my head.
Easier said than done though.
Every time my thoughts space or I close my eyes, I feel like I can see him; his sultry eyes staring back at me and his perfectly plump lips pouting, waiting to be kissed. Sometimes I can see the stubble resting on his chin - even if he's just shaved - or the curling of his hair around his ears and the nape of his neck. I can imagine him just looking at me with this somewhat awestruck look that I saw maybe a handful of times but want to savor it forever so I can remember that at one point, someone thought I was that precious that I deserved a look reserved just for me. The thought brings equal pleasure and pain - pleasure in that I once had it, and pain now that it's gone.
I know that thinking about these things isn't healthy and I am also forgetting all of the concerned and cross looks he had, the way in which he worried so fervently in the wake of his father's struggles. I'll never be able to understand what he went through - what he's going through. His entire life is a mess and he needs to sort things out for himself. I should understand that. But I wish he didn't have to do things on his own.
And why did things have to go so far? How could he let me feel like I could help him then leave me in the dark? Why would he take me on such exquisite dates and hold me so close and so perfect - as if he couldn't get enough? It feels sort of cruel and heartless now, even though I know the last thing he is is heartless.
By the time I've cleaned the walls, I feel a little better. Sure, I mostly feel numb, but it's better than the dirges I felt before and I know that at least in this state I can continue to work.
As I splash my face with water from the sink, I steel myself and push through the day. It's the least I can do.
The package arrives the next week and it's so large it takes two men to haul it into the Center.
I'm still working hard on damage control in the wake of our Yelp review and their task of targeting donors and Will reluctantly agreed to refund her deposit in order to stop her on her quest. I disagreed with his tactic - mainly because refunding the deposit meant a huge hit to our bank account - but at least it seems that she's stopped on her warpath against us.
Dealing with the minutiae helps me drown out any lingering of Blaine - at least until the package arrives.
"Did you order any art for the gallery?" I ask Will, watching as the two burly men haul the wooden box inside.
He shakes his head. "No, but I'm curious about what it could be. No one ships art like this anymore unless it's important."
The movers abandon the box once it's inside the door so Will and I drag it down the hall to be uncrated. There's no address on the box aside from ours, but maybe there's something inside to indicate its intended recipient. We pry open the side of the box and seem to be perplexed a bit longer as we've opened up the back of the box.
"Well, it's obviously a canvas," Will deduces as he sees the structure for the stretched canvas before us. This side also doesn't have anything taped or stapled to it, though we both manage to remove the canvas from the box and turn it around. As we're readying to turn the piece, a piece of bright yellow paper flurries to my feet from the other side of the box. My heartstrings pull as I take a closer look as the handwritten note on the front as I recognize the scrawl immediately.
It's yours. This time, I won't take no for an answer.
There's no signature, but I obviously know who it's from. Even now, Blaine seems to respect my desire to keep our relationship under wraps. Or maybe he thought there was no point in trying to beat that old horse since we aren't together anymore.
Still, I feel sick when we turn the canvas around and reveal the Ludlam painting.
Will lets out a gasp. "Is this…?" He leans forward, closely inspecting the canvas as if it will reveal some secret through proximity. "I think it's real," he says, noting the familiar signature at the bottom right corner. "Either that or this is quite the elaborate ruse for a copy. But who would send this to us?"
Now I'm really going to barf. I'm now swimming in thoughts of Blaine that I feel almost drunk after going for a week without thinking of him… much. How can I explain that - yes, this is a Ludlam painting, and the person who sent it to us is the man I think I'm starting to fall in love with and this is his amazing yet heartbreaking goodbye note to me; this really and truly means goodbye.
"I-I need to go," I mumble, turning back to my office to collect my things. If I try to explain anything to Will - hell, if I try to say anything to anyone - I'm going to start sobbing.
"Is everything okay?" he asks, stunned at my sudden mood swing.
"Fine!" I call over my shoulder as I grab my bag and head out the door.
As soon as I reach the corner, I look in my bag and realize I left my keys and wallet in my desk drawer, leaving me completely stranded and useless as the wind whips past me as cars drive by. Rather than head to the subway as I'd planned, I turn the corner and walk the block, thankful that the physical activity is a better outlet than shivering on the corner.
And I can't go back in there right now anyway; not without having to explain to Will about my hasty exit along with my likely panicked state.
Thankfully, I find the local park is at my feet and I stumble along the path within it before plopping down on an abandoned bench. I sink slowly and lean my head back against the cool wood of the bench.
I don't know what I expected but I had lingering hope that Blaine would change his mind and realize that us apart is a mistake. That he'd do some grand romantic gesture and show up at my door with flowers and a million apologies and we'd make love and think about our future together. Clearly I was delusional, not only because that would never happen but I would never actually call having sex "making love."
But rather than any of these idiotic conclusions, he's sent the fucking Ludlam.
The one thing that I always coveted and the one thing that I had hoped would remind me of him if he'd kept it.
That fucking jackass.
At least he ended it before things developed further, some tiny voice resounds in me. He could have kept using you as a distraction and you'd be even more attached. At least he was honest and ended it.
Yeah, after taking me out to places I'd never dreamed of and causing my entire body to tremble when he said I was the "one perfect, beautiful thing" in his life. What now, tiny voice? No, that definitely didn't lead me on at all.
I wanted to help him. I wanted to be there for him. And he pushed me away. And this is the final remembrance that he's doing it for good.
And what the hell was I thinking trying to be supportive? For thinking that I would make a difference?
I stand up and begin pacing in front of the bench. I'm sure if it weren't for my clothes, people would assume I was a crazy homeless person, but I don't even care.
Why did I let him get to me that way? How did I let myself feel so consumed by him that I felt I had to abandon my gut for his benefit? I knew this would only end badly and that he would hurt me; turns out I was right.
Fuck him.
If he doesn't want or need me - fine. Let him deal with this shit on his own; I don't need to worry about anyone else anyway. I've got enough on my plate with the Center and my father's aging and the fact that I have got to move toward Manhattan because Canarsie is driving me crazy. Deep Brooklyn is not meant for Kurt Hummel.
Rather than admit that I feel numb to Blaine, I just hold fast to the idea that he's a big boy and can deal with this on his own. Besides, I can't let this get to me; I have to keep moving.
I collect my bag, take a few breaths, and head back to the Center slowly, ensuring I breathe evenly with each step. As I pull open the door, I check that my cheeks are dry and my thoughts more collected than when I stormed out.
Will runs into me in the hallway as I'm walking back in. "You okay?" he asks.
I nod and force a small, toothless smile. "Just a little overwhelmed by the Ludlam," I say, though leave it open ended as to why the Ludlam is causing me to be so emotional. He can just think I'm so overwhelmed to be in its presence - no need for him to know the truth.
Will seems to think this suffices and nods back toward the Ludlam, viewable through the double doors leading to the gallery. "Have you ever seen something so spectacular? It's incredible. And it came with a letter of authenticity, so it's not a forgery; it's a real, legit Ludlam. But I can't understand why we have this. Who would send this? Did we get a letter from a donor saying this was coming?"
I peek around and notice that the note from Blaine is still on the floor, so I look anywhere but on the floor, hoping he won't notice. "Maybe it's an anonymous donation."
"Maybe, but why would they donate this to us? We're just a little fish in a huge pond. They would've been better off donating to the MoMA or the Met or something - somewhere where more people will see it. Though I'm not complaining. Looking at this every day will be more than welcome," he says, still in awe of the large canvas in our presence.
He heads down the hall toward the painting and I slip in behind him, grabbing the letter from Blaine off the floor. "I really should get back to work," I say, shoving the note into the bag on my shoulder.
"Sure, sure. But do you mind doing a little research on who we can call to ensure this painting's authenticity? I'm sure it's all up to snuff, but can't be too careful - especially if this is a real Ludlam. We'll need to get it appraised. And then maybe we can figure out who sent it if there's ownership records out there somewhere." Will does not seem to want to let this go.
"Maybe they wanted it to stay anonymous for a reason," I grumble.
Will nods, but his fascination on the painting means he's not paying attention again.
I head back to my office and drop my bag on the floor. I know the painting is real and having it appraised is obviously necessary for insurance purposes. But I wish Blaine hadn't sent it. If he didn't want to keep it, he should've sold it - Lord knows he could've made a good amount of money off this painting. But no, he gave it to me.
I feel sick. He knew how much I loved this painting and he wanted me to have it. I'm sure he only sent it out of guilt - as a parting gift. Ugh. Sure, the gesture is sweet, but damn it hurts.
And besides, why is he even thinking of me? The rumors about Blaine and the Anderson family are getting worse. Page Six has a ton of speculation about the family's demise and Blaine's continual silence only seems to fuel the fire even more. But what they've come up with is completely ludicrous; pyramid schemes, love children across the world, drug cartel, shipping guns to Latin American vigilante groups. None of which are anywhere near the truth, though the truth probably wouldn't sell any magazines anyway.
I'm starting to worry about even getting over Blaine since I still want to help alleviate the shadows behind his eyes, the worry lines in his forehead, the stress on his face every time his phone would ring - I want to make it better. I just want to understand him and how he works and help him - even if part of me wants to drop kick him in the nads.
Yes, the painting is a beautiful parting gift - twisted, yet beautiful - but knowing that he still cares, just a little, is a secondary benefit.
Asher Julian stops by the Center on Friday.
I'm working on balancing the books when Will brings him by. "Look who I found!"
"Will was just showing me the Ludlam," Asher says, taking the seat opposite my desk. Instantly, his presence makes me uneasy. "It's a remarkable piece - and I hear that there's a lot of mystery about how it got here."
"Never a dull moment," Will says with a smile.
"I'm sorry to have just dropped by, but I was in the area and thought I'd pop in and see how things were going."
"Did you speak with your editor?" I ask curtly.
He counters with a grin. "It took some time convincing, but I think I've worn her down to a compromise."
"Compromise?" Will asks. "What compromise?"
Asher smiles and Will and I hate that he has my boss practically eating out of his hand with his charm. "My editor wants to capitalize on the Anderson hype by playing up that angle in the story; about how they stopped contributing. But Kurt had said that you don't have much information to help me write this type of piece."
I seethe on the inside. Of course he's mentioning this to Will, who doesn't like Blaine in the slightest given how his family's lack of funds impacted his livelihood.
"What sort of information do you need?" Will asks. Damn his 'helpful' disposition. "I still have the first letter he sent us around here somewhere; the one breaking the pledge contract."
"I'd love to see it," Asher says, practically salivating.
I stand up, the scratch of my chair sharply cutting into their smooth banter. "Is that a good idea? We want this article to come off as friendly and optimistic about the future - not dwelling in the past, a past that heavily involves the tabloid media at the moment. We don't want to sully the Center's name with anger or bitterness or the fact that we're relying on sympathy in light of the Anderson problems to turn things around for us."
Asher cuts in. "As I tried to tell Kurt, sir," he says, turning to Will. "I think the Brooklyn Center might earn more sympathy if we align the problems with your nonprofit with the Anderson fiasco. I only want to report on the truth."
"That doesn't seem so bad. He only wants to write the truth, Kurt." Dammit Will, grow a damn spine right now.
There's no way for me to get out of this without seeming like I'm defending Blaine and that would open up a slew of questions from both Asher and Will; neither of which I want to deal with right now. I wish I could protect Blaine, but I can't - not this time.
Will runs off to find the letter, leaving Asher and I alone in my office. I'm still angry and dreading where this is heading, but I can't let him know how bothered I am by this whole situation. But I can't help but be curious about why Asher keeps beating a dead horse. "I thought you said that your editor approved another angle, but this one seems alarmingly similar to the previous angle you were looking at. It seems like you persuaded your editor to push the Andersons, not the other way around."
He shrugs. "I know it's true - the Anderson contribution was the nail in the coffin for the donation troubles. But I didn't mean to upset you at all."
"I'm not upset," I try to say evenly, though probably failing. "Just stressed today. It's been… a day."
"You seem to always be stressed when I see you. Maybe you need a little break."
"I'm fine," I insist.
"How about we head out early - I'm sure Will would allow it - and I'll take you out for dinner."
Dinner?
Dinner.
No.
No no no no.
"I'm sorry, I can't-" I say.
"Boyfriend?"
I fluster. I don't want to lie to him but I also don't want to go head first into Feelings Land right now. "Not currently, but I-"
"Bad breakup?" he asks, sending me a sympathetic look.
"Sorry," I mutter, shielding my face from him.
But my face not being in view doesn't seem to phase him in the slightest. "You still really care about him," he says, as if he's as sure about this as he is that the sky is blue.
"What?" I blink.
"Being a journalist tends to mean I'm good at reading people. And you, Kurt, seem like you're pining after him still. And no other man has a chance."
"Excuse me?"
"Deny it all you want. I think it's sweet, and a bit disappointing for me."
I really don't want to talk about this Feelings Land is coming into view and the last thing I want to do is get emotional in front of a journalist.
"Look, Mr. Julian, do you have any other questions about the Center that I can answer? Will can assist you with your needs since he's already helping with this document." I hope that he knows now that this means just business, and he seems to take the abrupt subject change in stride.
"Just a few," he says, bringing out his digital recorder.
By the time Will returns with the letter, Asher has asked me a handful of questions and I've politely answered him though haven't gotten too into detail, hoping that this whole thing will be over soon enough. And, thankfully, he doesn't ask any additional questions about Blaine or the Andersons and sticks straight to more questions about our donations as a whole since the economic depression a few years back.
Even though he stays away from the topic, I can't help but think that Asher has something up his sleeve with the Anderson angle. Though his questions were broad, I can't help but think they're somewhat targeted based on donation history and he practically asked me to run down a month-by-month donation breakdown to see where the giving tapered off. He's a rather astute man and I'm sure he has his suspicions about my behavior (and possibly the Ludlam) but I'm also sure he knows more about the Anderson family drama since he's a reporter and has sources to help inform him. I bet if I asked him (privately) he would share a lot with me about what he's heard, but I'm sure I've already raised his suspicions enough.
Thankfully I manage to get through his questioning unscathed and he leaves with a smile on his face and a copy of the Anderson letter. He also leaves with the promise that the Brooklyn Center will appear in the next edition of the Intown Voice.
Will seems thrilled with this 'development' as he plops down in Asher's abandoned seat once he's left. "This is just what we need. Some good local press will help spark things around here. And I know you've done some great work so far on turning this place around, but more can't hurt. Isn't this exciting?"
Will's enthusiasm is annoyingly naive, though I smile and placate him so he doesn't question me. I want to believe that this article will really turn things around, that this will be our final saving grace so we won't have to continually worry from week to week about being able to pay for staff and supplies; the one bright spot in an otherwise awful week.
But maybe it's because things feel like they've been so bad for so long, that I just can't allow myself to believe it.
