Sunday morning came with thoughts of her. Dan had been so reluctant to leave last night. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her all that he still loved her and that he regretted letting her get away.
He didn't know why exactly he hadn't. Though he suspected it was something to do with how perfect it all was. To have her back in his life. Even if it wasn't how he wanted it, yet. He was worried telling her would scare her off. Or that he would hear she had moved on. Or worse yet, she regretted even being with him and the last thing she wanted was to get back together. The possibility of spoiling their perfect day held him back.
But those fears didn't stop him from texting her this morning. "Thanks for yesterday. You're the best unofficial tour guide a guy could want. And chef." He sent it before he rethought it.
He placed his phone face down, too anxious to stare at the blank screen as he waited for a reply. He drummed his fingers nervously on the counter and looked around his mostly empty apartment. It felt so empty compared to her cozy place, it made him like it less here. He had still had a couple more boxes to unpack but at least there was furniture. He had rented a place that already had it to prevent expensive shipping costs.
The sight of his books on her bookshelf had made his chest tighten. Specifically, his second book which had come out one year ago. He thought of her roaming around a bookstore and buying it. Him on her mind. No, he thought to himself. It didn't mean anything. For all he knew, she bought it to judge and ridicule.
That book had even harder to write than his first. It was partially autobiographical. The protagonist facing many of the same troubles he had been facing. Starting over after failure. His from a relationship, his protagonist facing a career-related failure. He had refrained from putting in any romantic relationships since Blair's presence in Inside had been so easily unmasked by those he knew. He couldn't do it again.
He wondered if she read it... What she thought. He didn't know why he didn't ask. He supposed it was because he wasn't ready to hear what she thought.
He heard his phone ping, he hurriedly picked up the screen and saw her name. Fingers trembling a little, he opened the text.
"Will you be able to manage Paris on your own today?"
"Probably not." He put the ball back in her court with the text. Curious to see what she would say.
"Poor Humphrey. You're not in Brooklyn anymore. Lucky for you that tour guide you raved about has an 11 AM appointment open."
Feeling emboldened, he sent her his address and nothing else.
"See you then." Her response brought a smile to his face and he felt already brighter at the thought of seeing her again.
At 11 AM exactly, there was a tap on his door. She was always so punctual and he was glad for it because the anticipation had been agonizing.
"So what do you want to do today?" She said as he opened the door fully so she can step in.
"Hi to you too, Blair." He said as he closed the door behind her. "I thought maybe you can take me to one of those flea markets you like. So I can make this place less barren."
She looked around surveying the scene around her. "It definitely needs sprucing up, Humphrey. Even the Brooklyn loft with that ridiculous garage door in the middle of it was better than this. Where's Cedric?"
He rolled his eyes at her. "Thanks, Waldorf. Glad you like the place." His tone was sarcastic.
"It has potential. That's for sure so don't worry. By the time I'm done with it, it'll be Architectural Digest-worthy."
"You really are multi-talented aren't you? One day a tour guide, the next a decorator."
"I prefer the term dictator of taste." She said with a knowing look.
He smiled at the memory of the term he had coined for her years back. The one that inspired her to start work her way towards becoming a fashion editor.
Yesterday, she had seemed guarded with him. Hesitant to speak of old memories. Today though, she was different. Easily speaking of the times they had shared. Sparring with words just as they used to.
"Well, come on evil dictator of taste."
She feigned offense and then headed for the door. "I'm taking you to Paris' best flea market, Le marché aux Puces de Vanves." She said this with a perfect French accent which he found impossibly appealing.
"I want a typewriter, like yours." He said firmly.
"Mine is one of a kind." She said with a smirk.
"Then, I want one better than yours."
"Not possible but I'll try to find you a decent one. First priority, though, is replacing those hideous lamps."
"I brought those from Brooklyn."
"Ugh, I should've guessed." She said in mock disgust.
After a brief cab ride, they arrived at the market which was busy and full of shoppers. "Stick with me." She said, grabbing him by the elbow. He flinched at the sudden physical contact. What happened over the past 24 hours? Yesterday, she sat practically pressed up against the cab door to avoid brushing up against him. Despite his confusion, he let her drag him through the market. Eventually, she dropped her hand from his arm as she began to pick up the trinkets on tables.
She tried to talk him into buying some ridiculous items. Like an antique print of a bicycle that was over 200 euros. But they did get some good finds. Like a side table that he needed and was "authentic" as she put it. She had also convinced several sellers to deliver his purchases to his apartment. She was certainly an expert at bargaining and getting the most out of a purchase. He also had bought two new lamps, upon her insistence. Plus, a few vinyls which she rolled her eyes at, and then some decor items she impressed upon him that he truly needed. He agreed to them because he liked that they were her choice and he could look at them knowing Blair had chosen them. As lame as that was.
"I'm starving." Blair proclaimed as they waited for a cab.
He suggested they get a late lunch together and she agreed. At the cafe, she ordered a white wine with lunch and he eyed her curiously. She stated it was perfectly natural to drink before 5 in France. Then, she made him order a glass too.
As she ate a piece of bread, ever so daintily, she told him where all of the flea market finds needed to go in his apartment.
"I don't know if I'll remember those precise of demands, I mean directions." He said in a sarcastic tone.
She rolled her eyes. "Do I need to come help you put them up, Humphrey?"
"I think so. Unless you can manage not to insult my placement choices whenever you come over."
She hesitated for a moment before speaking again. Should he had not said the last part? Was that too forward? Maybe she read more into it and would now say no.
"Doubtful. I better help."