Author's Note: Because I haven't updated this since March, this chapter is a little on the long-ish side. Let me just warn you guys now also, this chapter is very anti-Chuck. Like, he's an ass hole in this chapter. Don't review me to let me know he would never do such and such, because this story takes place after 'The Thin Line Between Chuck and Nate' when he basically said Blair was a used horse- yeah, that time. Besides, he's got a whole slew of problems of his own going on so don't bash me for making him a jerk. That's my disclaimer. And now, chapter twelve, which is dedicated to Cool Hwip, who has been recently supportive of my stories and determined to see this chapter up. Here you go! Hope you guys like it!

Chapter Twelve
New York, New York
Saturday, February 4
1:02:46 P.M. EST

"What do you think of this one?"

Eleanor steps out from behind the screen in the private dressing room, dressed in a tasteful, black cocktail dress. She checks out her reflection in the mirror in the wall across from her, smoothing out the sides and the lap of the skirt. The dress is one-of-a-kind, designer-made, expensive and beautiful. The material it's made out of is shimmery, thick, stitched perfectly and ruched impeccably. But this dress is probably the tenth black cocktail dress she's tried on in the last half hour, and I'm feeling so claustrophobic in this dressing room, holding her discards and 'maybes' that I just want to grab the dress off of her and buy it myself, if only I would be allowed to leave after doing it.

She turns to me expectantly, waiting for an answer. Snapping back to my duties, I say, "It's beautiful."

Turning to her reflection again, she pushes the hair away from her face and swipes at the lap again, mumbling, "I'm not sure."

I can't help but roll my eyes.

Turning again, still looking in the mirror, she thinks for a moment. Then, she's suddenly turning and going back behind the screen, saying, "I think I'll try the next one."

I slump backward in my seat and stare at the black and white photography decorating the wall across from me. The claustrophobia is becoming too much and I'm beginning to feel like I want to jump out of my skin. I don't know what it is. I mean, when Eleanor suggested we spend some time together and go shopping this morning, I had been opposed to it. But then I figured we would be mainly shopping for me, and that I would get some new clothes out of it and I agreed. Somehow though, I couldn't get in the right mood to shop for myself, and we ended up finding some new things for Eleanor instead.

Swallowing against my closing throat, I suddenly need to get out of here- need to get away from Eleanor and our 'mother-daughter bonding.' I need to do anything else but sit here- need to be anywhere else but in this boutique right now, with a woman I'm sure I've never really known.

"Ele- I mean- uh- Mom?" I call.

"Yes?" she asks. "What is it?"

I take the two piles of clothing in my hands, hooking them onto the clothing rail set in the wall, keeping them in their separate arrangements, saying, "I just remembered that I have plans with Serena- I was supposed to meet her five minutes ago."

"Plans to do what?" she asks, and I hear her zipping something behind the screen.

I grasp at straws, saying, "Plans to get our nails done with the girls, then go back to Serena's and watch a movie or something- then we were going to go out to dinner."

This is a complete lie, because I know for a fact that Serena is visiting her paternal grandparents in Connecticut this weekend. But I'm sure Eleanor doesn't know that. I'm sure the faux plans I've created sound exactly like the kind of thing I used to do with my friends- the kind of thing Eleanor will just eat up because she wants me back to normal. And yes, I know it's kind of selfish to let her think everything's going back to normal, but this feeling- that the walls are closing in on me and that I'm about to rip my own skin off of my body just to get out- is not something you can stand to be selfless for.

"That sounds like fun!" Eleanor says enthusiastically, just as I thought she would. "Just let me get changed and I'll ride with you over there-"

"No!" I say suddenly, because the idea of Eleanor ruining a possible day to myself makes me want to scream from the injustice. "I mean- Really, Mom, why can't you just trust me to take a car by myself?"

She comes out from behind the screen, dressed in a new black dress, and she looks at me sternly. "Blair, I'm your mother, I'm allowed to be worried."

"Would you have let me go to Serena's without an escort before the accident?" I retort.

This makes her look at me, as if I've just shaken some sense into her- sense she doesn't necessarily like, but still. Sighing after a long moment, she gives in, saying, "Fine, but I want you to call me when you get there, and I want you to check in throughout the day."

I nod, my heart lifting at the idea that I can just be free today, and I say, "I can do that."

She nods confidently, "All right then, go."

I find myself leaning in forward and kissing her on the cheek. When I pull back, I say, "Thanks!" and leave the dressing room.

As I make my way through the boutique, towards the front door, I try to place the familiar scent I inhaled when I pulled away from Eleanor- Chanel perfume and foreign shampoo. But, where do I know that scent? I'm sure I've smelled it before today, but I can't place it. It's lost among the fog in my brain- too far deep for me to retrieve it. So I leave it be, but I can't help ignoring the fleeting question- am I remembering the scent of my mother?

I shake my head clear of any errant thoughts as I push the door open and make my way into the bright, wintry afternoon. Everything outside is clean, shining from the freshly fallen- but now melting- snow, and I pull my sunglasses from my bag, sliding them up the bridge of my nose as I begin walking down the sidewalk. Now that I'm out of the suffocating and perfume-drenched atmosphere of the boutique, I take a deep breath and feel myself relaxing. I don't have amnesia. I don't have anyone in my life that I don't remember or events that I can't recall. I'm just Blair, walking down the street. That's it. No complications that I can't even begin to work my way through. Just Blair.

And then something breaks into my peace.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Miss Head Case."

The voice- drawling, slick with smug, self-satisfaction- stops me in my tracks. I turn and see Chuck, leaning toward me through the window of a limo parked along the sidewalk. He's smirking at me cockily, as if he has complete control over me, and it makes me inexplicably angry. I can't believe I ever had sex with this guy, because every time I see him he makes my blood boil- and not in a hot-and-bothered way, but in an I-want-to-strangle-you-with-your-own-scarf kind of way.

"Good-bye Chuck," I say, forcing myself to walk away, instead of lunging at him through the open window.

"See," he calls, stopping me again, "you do remember me."

I wheel around and stride up to the limo, losing my patience in half of a nanosecond, snapping at him and saying, "Do you really think I would lie if I remembered something?"

He shrugs lazily, looking unperturbed. "I think you're having fun with being the center of attention- as always."

"And you honestly think I'd fake a severe case of amnesia- just for attention?" I don't wait for him to respond. Instead, I barrel on and ask, "Do you really think I'm that kind of person?"

His smirk deepens- he seems to like my outburst- and he retorts, "Aren't you?" raising his eyebrows jauntily.

This steels me in my place, and my heart starts pounding in my chest. This isn't fair- he's playing against my weaknesses. I can't remember if I used to be the kind of girl who would fake an injury- psychological or otherwise- for attention. I swallow, resolute in my decision to keep quiet and stand my ground.

Licking his lips, and looking as if I keep amusing him more and more, he says, "Maybe you're not the kind of girl who would do it for attention, but you are the kind of girl who would use it as a way to get out of her own social apocalypse."

I swallow past the lump that has risen in my throat. My voice shakes- to my own disgust- as I reply, "I was in a car accident." Shaking my head, I then say, "What is wrong with you?"

He looks only marginally affected by this question, but it's something.

Suddenly, Nate's words from Thursday begin to ring in my brain- reminding me of what he said about Chuck's foul attitude problem.

Chuck is sensitive enough to take it personally. He probably doesn't get why you didn't remember him.

It looks like he's about to make another snide remark to add to his last statement, but I cut him off, saying, "Could your problem with me have anything to do with the fact that I remember Dan Humphrey and not you?"

At first he looks at little surprised that I've said this, and then he curls his lip at me, annoyed. "I think it has more to do with the fact that I refuse to believe the shit you're doling out and playing up."

I narrow my eyes at him.

"Daddy comes running over from France, Mommy's obsessed with you again-just like your barfing days- and all the girls from school come running back to you- their wounded heroine." He gives a short laugh, then says, "I'm not buying it."

His words are hollow now- because I know Nate's guess really hit the nail on the head- but they still leave me shaken.

Looking at him with one last withering glare, I say, "You're a sad person, Chuck. Good-bye."

This time, I don't stop when he mockingly calls my name again, I keep walking, my footfalls fast and hard against the sidewalk underneath.

Was I the type of person who would fake a case of amnesia for my parents' attention- to get my social status back? Was that why I was- am?- bulimic? For attention? For the people around me to focus solely on me? Was I selfish, destructive, greedy, and thoughtless- all for attention? Could it be possible? The idea makes me sick, and I swallow hard again, walking blindly down the sidewalk on my own. Chuck has shaken up my whole world, and it's leaving me dizzy. Before I wasn't sure about everyone else around me and how they factored into my life- except Dan, anyway. But- but now I'm not even sure who I was anymore. I'm not sure if I was the same person I am now, or if the amnesia changed me, and it scares me.

Suddenly, I don't want a day to be alone, but I don't want to spend the day with people I have to pretend to remember either. And because I know I made my decision days ago, I have no problem allowing my feet to carry me to the street, where I hail a cab, Brooklyn bound.

When Dan opens the door and sees that it's me who's knocking, he looks surprise.

That's putting it mildly actually, because he looks completely shocked.

"Blair," he says, his eyes a little wide and his brows raised.

I give him a regrettably awkward smile, trying to keep my facade as cool and undented as I can when I say, "Well, Humphrey, you didn't exactly say you didn't want to be friends."

It comes out shakier than I want it to, and I'm sure he can tell something's bothering me. Either way he stares at me for a moment, as if I've just spoken to him in a language other than English.

"I probably should have called first," I say, and I'm suddenly regretting even coming here, backtracking as the embarrassment seeps under my skin, feeling my neck and face going warm. "It's just, I was out and Chuck stopped me and-"

"Chuck?" Dan echoes.

I nod.

He sighs, "I don't suppose he stopped you to apologize to you for what happened on Sunday."

"How did you know about that?" I instantly ask.

Looking a little uncomfortable, he says, "Serena told me."

I nod again, saying, "Oh." Then, "No, he wasn't apologizing- he was criticizing me and he said some things-" I cut myself off as Chuck's words echo in my ears.

Daddy comes running over from France, Mommy's obsessed with you again-just like your barfing days- and all the girls from school come running back to you- their wounded heroine.

All pretenses gone- my facade cracked and tarnished- I swallow and say, "I'm sorry." I turn to go, "This was stupid-"

"Blair, wait," Dan calls, making me stop and face him again. "Come inside- Jenny's at my mom's for the weekend and my dad'll be at the gallery setting up for a show until later tonight- we can talk if you want, or just hang out."

A wonderful sense of relief whooshes through me, and I'm suddenly aware of how grateful I am that I have Dan- which, I know, is weird, considering how we used to feel about each other, but I don't care. Relief is still relief, and I'm going to soak it up as much as possible.

I follow Dan into the loft, and as I make my way inside I look around, an onslaught of memories coming at me all at once, making me breathless for a moment.

When Dan reaches the kitchen he turns and sees that I've stopped in my tracks, looking around in awe and surprise.

"You okay?" he asks, stepping toward me hesitantly.

I manage a nod. After looking around for a moment more, composing myself and breathing, I finally look at him and say, "I remember this."

He looks surprised when I say this, replying with, "You do?"

I nod again. "I've been here- I mean, I knew the address but I didn't think I'd remember...."

"Do you want to sit down?" Dan asks, as if afraid my awe is going to make me faint- which, I'm not actually positive it won't. These crystal clear memories are making me feel a little weak-kneed.

I ignore him though, walking further- towards him in the kitchen- and looking at everything as I move.

"Thanksgiving," I find myself saying. "I was here for Thanksgiving- with you."

Dan nods, looking nervous about how to approach this. "Yeah, Serena brought you here."

The memories that are so crystal clear don't involve Serena- or anyone else for that matter- just Dan and me. I shake my head, "I don't see her."

He looks a little deflated when I say this, and he echoes, "You don't?"

"No." I squint at a couple of doors across the way- bedrooms, I know. "And Cedric."

This actually makes Dan laugh, and he says, "Of course you remember Cedric- he is hard to forget."

"This is so weird," I say, my voice a little awed. "Don't you think this is weird?"

He shrugs, smirking a little. "Blair, you and I are past weird, don't you think?"

Thinking about the circumstances- that I only remember him, that we should be getting along so well now- makes me smile a little and I nod. "You're right."

"Come in," he urges, leading me to the island counter in the kitchen. "Do you want something to drink? Tea, coffee?"

"Tea," I reply. "Thanks."

Sitting down on a stool at the island counter, I watch him warily as he sets about making us tea, looking so unfazed and comfortable.

"How can you be so normal about all of this?" I find myself asking as he puts a kettle on the stove to boil.

He turns to me and shakes his head, as if he isn't sure himself, and he says, "Once the initial shock- of you just remembering me- wore off, nothing else could really surprise me." He shrugs again, "You calling me at four in the morning, coming over to my house for tea? I'm just taking it all in a stride."

Against my will again, I'm embarrassed, and I wring my hands under the counter in my lap.

"Blair, I really don't mind," he tells me, his voice low and genuine as he leans on the counter to say this.

I find myself smiling, my eyes warming over with grateful tears that I blink back as I ask, "Why are you being so nice to me? I've never given you any reason to."

"We're not exactly in a position that I could refuse you, Blair," he says. "Besides, ever since the accident you haven't done anything except apologize or ask for my help- I have no reason to deny you."

I stare at him wordlessly, feeling the burning behind my eyes growing even hotter.

"Besides, despite what you may think, I don't hate you, Blair," he tells me, smiling a little.

I smile too- gratefully- and look down at my hands.

Moving to retrieve a box of tea bags from a cabinet, Dan asks, "So what happened with Chuck?"

The nausea comes on without my being able to stop it, and I press my lips together, swallowing hard.

He looks at me and I manage to say, "He just said some stuff...."

"You gonna elaborate?"

I roll my eyes, picking at the countertop now, saying, "He won't stop with his theory that I'm just pretending to have amnesia for attention."

Sighing- as if disgusted- Dan says, "Chuck Bass is an ass hole."

I don't disagree with him.

"He- He said I'm the type of person who would fake amnesia to get out of my own social.... apocalypse," I find myself confessing, looking up with desperate and searching eyes. "Is that true?"

This makes Dan stop and look at me, asking, "Is what true? That you're using this to become Queen B again?"

"No," I shake my head. "Was I the type of person who would do that? Fake something this serious to get attention and fix social problems?"

He stares at me, looking as if he's at a loss for words.

Clenching my jaw for a minute, I continue, saying, "I remember you, Dan, and I remember me with you, but I don't know if I know who I am alone...." The tears are blurring my vision now. "That's why I came here- I need you to tell me who I was."

"Blair, I don't- I don't know if I'm the right person to tell you that," he says.

"You're the only one I know," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Cabbage Patch or not, I need your help."

He puts the heels of his hands on the counter, thinking for a moment, before saying, "But, I didn't know you all that well, Blair." He shakes his head, "I don't know who you were- I'm not capable of telling you that."

This leaves me feeling deflated, and I sigh, nodding and looking down anxiously.

"But you weren't going to fake amnesia to get your social life back," he says, making me look up. "If you were you wouldn't be here right now."

I knot my eyebrows together, confused.

"You were on your way home from going to the airport when you were in the accident," he says. "Serena told me that you were going to stay and fight, not make up some ridiculous story to get everyone paying attention to you."

I stare at him, and then ask, "And you believe that- that I would fight for myself, instead of pretending to forget?"

"If you were half the Blair Waldorf that I knew? Then yes, I sure as hell believe you were going to fight."

Somehow, his words make me feel as if a huge ton as been lifted off of my chest, and once again, Dan Humphrey has saved me from a would-be crisis.

"Does that answer your question about who you were?" he asks.

I tilt my head a little and say, "It's a start."