DAY 12

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
By Blair Anderson

I've lost a guy and I don't know why.

Ever had trouble holding onto a guy? Not sure why he's suddenly unavailable? You're not the only one.

When I started writing this article, I thought it would just be an interesting experiment, trying to drive a guy away with the classic errors girls make in relationships. I never realised I'd end up hurt.

This guy was sweet. He was kind, funny, cooked the most amazing food; in short, he was perfect. He was my Prince Charming. But here I am at the end of it all, a princess without even a frog to kiss, all because I pushed him away. I was needy and crazy and called him twenty times a day, but that's not what made him give up on me. I thought he cared enough to want to be with me despite everything I was putting him through, but I guess he wasn't the only one being played.

I'll tell you now, readers, this isn't just an article about what women do wrong and how to avoid it; it's an insight into the way men can destroy a relationship before it's even started because they're thinking with their dicks and not their brains. Call that a stereotype? Well, it had to become a stereotype somehow, didn't it? We're all stereotypes, really. It's how we move within those chains of expectation that decides who we are.

I did everything to be the girl from hell. I was needy, whiney, so hot and cold I was getting personality whiplash. I insulted his ability to get it up (and believe me, that does not go down well), I crashed in on his time with his friends. There are lacy pillows in an apartment in New York that do not belong there and a painting in beer on a wall that probably left him smelling like an alcoholic for a week. It was DEFCON 5. Nothing would crack him. I guess that should have been a sign.

I won't trouble you with the whole story – I have a word count to keep to. There are things I will say, though. Just when I started to think I was something, if not everything, I came to realise that I was nothing at all. I was a game, a bet, a means to an end. He wanted sex with someone else and my love was the way to get that.

It must have been some bizarre twist of fate that paired the two of us. The Damsel and the Cad, tied together. I almost want to laugh at the odds.

I do have a point. I have a nub that I'm angling towards. This is supposed to be a guide, after all. I do want to tell you all that acting the way I did, no matter the guy, rarely brings about good results. The best way to keep a guy is not to wrap your fingers tight around him. You can't give in to all his wants, and he can't give in to all of yours. That's not how functioning relationships work.

As hard as it may be, you have to keep from meddling. Everything works better when you're yourself and let everything happen. I thought I was teaching people that with these last ten days. I didn't realise how much I needed to learn.

A note for the guys (I know you're out there): Think. Think. Think well before you act, and think with the thing in your head. No, not that head.

And so we come to my conclusion. I have revealed enough of myself to shock you all, I am sure, but give me just a minute more of your time. I have something else to say. You look at the name at the head of this article every month and you never think anything of it. It's just a name. Well, perhaps you should. I'm a deceitful person through and through, it would seem, because I've been lying to you all. I'm no Blair. I'm no stiletto-wearing, tote-toting girl in this season's best dress. I'm Blaine Anderson, gay male New Yorker, Ivy graduate, gay rights and equality activist, fashion trend follower, bowtie sporter, girl-with-a-schlong. (And all, all man, as I've been told.) I'm a man in love, and up until this point that whole and irrevocable truth has been revealed to no one in full.

I suppose that, in a way, I've betrayed you. I'm sorry for that. I've never been one for lying, but I seem to have been doing nothing but lately. I won't beg for forgiveness, although I do hope for it.

Now for the final part – and I promise this really is the end. Quite literally. This is my last article for Haute. This magazine has been good to me and I will always love it, and the people who work to make it what it is. But I'm off now, into the big wide world, to write the things I truly want to write. Hopefully this time, I can keep only the truth on my tongue. My gratitude goes out to every one of my readers, and I promise that I will miss you. Thank you for this year.

~o~

"Read it." Santana shoved the magazine in his face.

"No." He continued to survey the mannequin critically.

"Kurt, seriously. You have to read it."

"Fuck off, Santana. I don't have to do anything. Blaine can write whatever the fuck he wants; it has no bearing on my life."

She huffed and grabbed the magazine back, flicking it open and reading aloud. "'I've lost a guy and I don't know why.'"

Kurt growled in the back of his throat.

"He says you were his Prince Charming."

"Santana, I told you—"

"I don't care." She slammed the magazine into his chest. "Read."

Kurt glared at the mannequin, but he took the magazine. He shook it out and glanced over the few parts of the article which stood out in large text. "I'll be in my office," he murmured.

Santana titled her head at him, then grinned. "Wanky."

Kurt whacked her with the magazine.

~o~

He didn't know why his palms were sweating as he waited for the door to be opened. He thought he had prepared himself for this moment. He had pushed all thoughts of Blaine's article to the back of his mind, along with the memory of Santana's face when he had revealed where he was going.

The door swung open to reveal Sebastian, smirk already in place, with a bottle of champagne in his hand. "Kurt."

"Sebastian."

"Do come in." Sebastian barely stepped out of the way, so Kurt was forced to press up against him as he entered the apartment. "I suppose I should congratulate you on your win." Sebastian popped the champagne and poured it into two flutes. He handed one to Kurt and chinked his own against it. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

"I hope your evening wasn't ruined by your boyfriend," Sebastian said, as though he were genuinely concerned. Kurt flinched. Sebastian let out the breath of a laugh, putting on a thoughtful expression. "I haven't seen Blaine in a while." He sipped his champagne. "I'm sad our reunion was so tainted."

Some of the words Blaine had yelled at him started to clear through the angry fog in Kurt's mind. "You know him."

"In a sense."

Kurt swigged his champagne. "You slept with him."

"Just the once, Kurt, don't get jealous. I fear I was a little rude, though. He doesn't seem to like me very much."

"What did you do to him?"

Sebastian shrugged. "I kicked him out as soon as we finished. I was tired and I knew he'd want to lie down and hold me and talk and I just was notin the mood. So I told him to leave." He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, puffing on it gently.

Kurt looked away, feeling a pressure building behind his eyes. "You made him feel like shit."

"I didn't do it on purpose, Kurt, you know that. He should have known going in that it was just a fuck. It wasn't anything that mattered." He set down his glass and flicked out the cigarette with a sigh. "You get yourself a drink of water. Get him out of your head. I'll meet you in the bedroom."

Kurt let him go in silence. He pulled a glass from a cupboard in the kitchen; filled it and downed it in one go. He gripped the edges of the sink and closed his eyes, leaning his head heavily against the window.

He had to stop thinking about Blaine. He was about to get something he'd wanted for over four years. Kurt was still a romantic under the shell, but he knew Sebastian; he knew this was a one-time thing and he should savour it. Like he had said, it wasn't something that mattered. There would be no after.

Sebastian was lying on the bed when he entered the room, already naked and hard, stroking his cock lazily. He reached out his hand with a smile and Kurt took it, letting himself be pulled onto the bed. Sebastian's hand didn't let up and he just watched Kurt as he jerked himself off slowly.

Kurt wanted to be sick.

He sat up and turned his back to Sebastian. He should want this. After all these years waiting, he should want it. But he didn't. He didn't care about fucking Sebastian; he didn't need it the way he had. He wanted something else. He wanted romance and soft, sweet moans echoing off bathroom walls and love.

He wanted Blaine.

"Kurt."

He stood up without looking back.

"Kurt! Hummel, where the fuck are you going? Kurt! Kurt!" Sebastian heard the slam of his front door and was frozen, staring at the empty space in his room where Kurt should be. He grabbed the champagne glass from his bedside table and threw at the door, watching it shatter.

It fell to the ground in bits, just chunks of fragment. He breathed hard, waiting. The glass did not repair itself. The crack and shatter didn't rewind. Kurt didn't come back. There was silence.

~o~

Kurt knocked repeatedly on Blaine's door. "Blaine, let me in, please. I need to see you. I know you probably don't want to, but, Blaine, please, just…" He banged on the wood again. There was no sound from inside.

"He's not home."

Kurt jumped. The woman from the apartment next door had popped her head out.

"He went out," she said.

"How do you know?"

"I passed him on the way in."

Kurt pulled back from the door. "Did he say where he was going?"

"No, honey, sorry. Is it urgent?"

Kurt bit his lip and looked at the door again. "I… I just need to see him."

"Do you want me to tell him you dropped by? I can give him a message. Or you could call him if you like. I've got his number."

"No, no, I have it, too. I just… I can't say it over the phone, even if he would pick up." He slumped against the wall. "I'll come back some other time. Thanks." He smiled at her and she nodded in return.

"He's a sweet guy, Blaine. I'm sure he'll forgive you for whatever it is."

Kurt hung his head. "I hope so."

~o~

DAY 13

Kurt walked through the glass doors of Haute's building, looking around him. A sign pointed him to the fifth floor, so he stepped into an elevator. He tapped his hand against his thigh the whole ride up, the beat picking up speed the longer he stood there. At last, the doors opened on the right floor and he sped past the reception desk without bothering to ask for directions.

He spotted two women standing together between two cubicles. He dashed over to them. "Excuse me."

They both jumped, staring at him with wide eyes, and one of them let out an "Oh my god."

"I'm looking for Blaine Anderson. Or Blair, or whatever. Blaine. I'm looking for Blaine."

"He's not here," one of them, a black girl, said. "He left."

"Left?" He had read the article; he should have been prepared, but when he looked at the empty desk behind them he felt his stomach drop. "Where's he gone?"

"He quit."

"Well where can I find him? Please."

She glanced sideways at the girl standing beside her, looking unsure. Kurt's eyes slid across to her, too. Something about her face sparked recognition, but he couldn't place it.

"Do you think he's…?" the black girl asked.

"That's where he always goes. I'm not sure, though. He's pretty secretive about it."

Kurt's eyes darted between them, trying to piece together what it was they were and were not saying. As they frowned, he got it. "Botanical Garden."

They turned to him, both looking slightly shocked. "How did you—?"

"I'm in love with him: I know him." He grinned and turned to run out of the building again. He paused, though, the wide-eyed expression of one of the women triggering something in his mind. He swung back to her. "You're not a therapist, are you?"

Rachel gaped at him for a moment, then laughed nervously. "Oh. No."

"I want my money back," he called back as he dashed towards the elevator.

~o~

He had chosen a bench in the rose garden. It was set back a little, with stems growing up all around, weighed down with petals in almost every colour. He had drawn his knees up to his chest and watched the people walk by, the corners of his eyes watching the rose heads sway in the almost-breeze.

He had always known if he were to bring Kurt to the Garden, he would bring him here. It suited him. There was something about the clean geometry of the paths and the sprawling vibrancy of the classic flowers that evoked KurtKurtKurt to Blaine. Perhaps coming here had been a bad idea, but he needed it. It was as close as he could get, even if it was all in his head.

He wondered if he had read it yet. If he ever would. Blaine knew he had bared far more of himself than was normal for his job in that one article, but he had been unable to write it any other way. Nothing else did Kurt justice. It was all or nothing with him, and Blaine thought his choice was pretty clear. He had nothing left to do but hope, and he was pretty sure he shouldn't even do that.

He wondered whether they'd fucked yet. They probably hadn't waited long. They might have done it the night of the gala. Kurt was probably climaxing while Rachel pulled the ice cream out of the freezer.

Something kept pulling Blaine's thoughts back to Hummel-Hudson house. He had really thought, for those two days, that Kurt cared about him. He felt a sharp ache at the loss of Burt and Carole, of Finn and his family. They had shown him what family was supposed to be. If he had known he could never have that again, he would have treasured it even more dearly. As it was, he knew he would never see them again, unless Kurt searched for him, fought for him.

At first, Blaine hadn't wanted him to. He had been overrun by anger, which had quickly dropped into feeling like his heart was being torn apart cell by cell. He had hated Kurt. He had screamed and cried at Mercedes and Rachel as they fed him sugary goods.

("Who does he think he is? He can't just walk in and mess with my life and do not say that's what I did to him because it is not the same thing! He was playing with my heart and I was just – just… He's a dick. A dick who thinks with his dick, fuck him. Fuck him for making me love him. Fuck me for being so stupid. I can't believe I made it all up in my head.")

He'd slept it off, though, and woke up feeling empty. Rachel had dropped the magazine onto his bed and tried to make him get up and go to work. That's when he told her he'd quit the day before. I want that article on my desk by the end of tomorrow. Why, of course. Have a letter of resignation to wash that down. She'd hit him. He hadn't even bothered to flinch.

The article had been a hit. The magazine was selling out of copies faster than it ever had and Mercedes told him she was pretty sure that had nothing to do with the diamond ads. Blaine hadn't even opened his copy yet. It was sitting at the bottom of a drawer in his dresser, hiding under his clothes so he didn't tear it to pieces.

Holly had looked like she was going to cry. She kept apologising, but Blaine really didn't know why. He was the quitter here; it was his fault.

His mother had called. Three times, actually. The first two he hadn't picked up: the first, he was sitting on the floor of his shower as water pounded onto him and wondering why every single thing had to remind him of the one thing he wanted to forget; the second, he had been freaking out about the fact that his mother who hadn't spoken to him since Christmas and hadn't looked at him properly since he was sixteen was calling him. The third, his hands were shaking so much he had to put her on loudspeaker.

"Blaine, darling, are you okay?"

"Mom?"

"You sound like you've been crying. Have you been crying? Oh, Blaine."

"Mom, what's going on? Why are you… why are you calling me?"

"Your nice friend Mercedes phoned me, told me to pick up your magazine. Honey, what did he do to you? I'm so sorry."

Blaine's throat had closed up and he hadn't been able to speak. His mother kept talking into the phone, getting more frantic the longer he didn't reply. When she sounded near breakdown, he managed to find his voice again. "This seems a bit out of the blue."

"What are you talking about? Do you mean…Oh, no, Blaine, don't worry about that. I've spoken to your father about it. He just wants you to be his son. We both do and I'm sorry we let anything come in the way of that."

"I didn't know my sexuality was such an obstruction. Sounds like there's something wrong with me. I should go get checked out."

"Blaine, stop it, I'm trying to apologise here. I love you. Now, are you going to tell me what this boy did to you and let me mother you over the phone, or am I going to have to sit here and assume the worst?"

He'd missed her, he realised. He'd always tried not to, but over the years he'd forgotten how perfect she was when he needed her. He'd cried again when he told her the whole story, but he'd been expecting that.

A man with a dog turned onto the path in front of him, searching the garden around him. Blaine was tempted to look for Meg Ryan amongst the flower stems. He watched the pair break into a jog, followed them with his eyes until they reached the end of the path, where the man swept a little boy up into his arms. Again, where was Meg?

Blaine dropped his legs, dangling them over the side of the bench again, feet hitting the ground, and hands leaning on the wood slats. He didn't know why he was waiting. Kurt wouldn't find him here, even if he was looking. Blaine doubted that he would be. He was probably curled around Sebastian, bathed in curtained sunlight, wrapped in white sheets and looking heartbreakingly perfect.

He pushed himself to his feet. There would be no more waiting.

He was just reaching the end of the path, taking a last look at the roses around him, when someone turned the corner. He stopped, trying not to run into them, and looked up.

"Blaine! Blaine, thank god, I've been looking for you everywhere." Kurt grabbed his hands. "I knew you'd be here, but there are so many gardens."

"Kurt?" Blaine stared at him, wondering whether the sunlight was tricking him. Maybe the breeze wasn't as strong as he'd thought. Maybe he'd got heatstroke and was hallucinating. Kurt squeezed his fingers and all the air rushed back into Blaine's body because he was real. "Kurt."

"Did you mean it? What you said in the article, did you mean it?"

"I-I… Yes. Every word."

Kurt let out a breathless laugh. He stepped forwards, but Blaine pushed him back.

"What about Sebastian?"

"What do you mean?" Kurt's eyes flicked between each of Blaine's. He was breathing a little too quickly.

"You know what I mean. Did you have sex with him?"

Kurt shook his head frantically. "No. He was right there, waiting, but I couldn't go through with it. I didn't want it any more."

"Did he not live up to your standards?"

"Blaine, no. It wasn't like that. I didn't want him because he wasn't the right person. Because he wasn't you." Kurt took Blaine's face in his hands. "I don't want anyone but you, and I am so sorry that I hurt you the way I did. I'll always regret letting you slip away for something as stupid as Sebastian. He means nothing to me. He's not the person I'm in love with."

Blaine laid his hands over Kurt's. "Say that again."

"What?"

Blaine laughed. "That last bit."

"He's not who I'm in love with."

"Well, whoever that guy is, he sounds pretty lucky."

Kurt dropped his head with a laugh, before looking up at Blaine from under his eyelashes. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

He stroked his thumbs over his cheekbones. "I love you. Blaine, or Blair, or… or a dinosaur, I don't know, I love you."

Blaine curled his fingers over Kurt's, drawing them under his own and pulled their hands to their sides. "Blair's not here any more."

"I know. I read."

He ran a thumb over Kurt's bottom lip, eyes drawn to his, stuck. Kurt was pulling his heart out of his chest, Blaine could feel it. "I love you."

Kurt smiled under Blaine's thumb. He kissed the pad of it. They didn't say anything for a moment. They continued to stare at each other, completely captivated. Kurt could feel his heart against his ribs, trying to climb out to Blaine.

"We're crazy, you know that?"

"Why?"

"People don't fall in love in ten days, Blaine."

"Every rule has an exception, doesn't it?"

Kurt laughed; nodded, eyes sparkling. "With you, yes."

They didn't really know who leaned in first, but they were kissing then. Ten days didn't matter, nor bets, nor articles. It was just them, kissing in a rose garden, two exceptions, ruled together.

~o~

The glass is frosted over now. Winter has set in and the window box is steeped in snow. Through the cold-powdered glass, the same room is still visible. It isn't overtly different, but if you look harder, it's everywhere. There is a sketchbook next to a coffee mug on the desk. There are new pictures, the crack near the ceiling is gone, the wardrobes are about to burst. The comfortable cushions are still there, and the bed is still unmade, but it isn't empty.

A steaming cup has just been set on the bedside table. A man leans over another, sprawled out on his front, face pressed into the pillow. He kisses his cheek, strokes his back. When the man in the bed starts to stir, he crawls in beside him. He cards fingers through his hair until groggy eyes open.

If you look closely enough, you can see the first words that stumble from his sleep-lumbered lips on a New York winter morning: I love you.

The other man smiles, kisses the back of one shoulder blade. He reaches under the bed and pulls out a blue sketchbook, fingers slipping over the silver detailing in the corners. He opens it, picks up a pencil, puts on a serious expression. When he looks back down, the other man's eyes have drifted closed. His face softens. He reaches out to trace a fingertip down his spine, but pulls back. He doesn't want to wake him. He turns to a blank page, not dragging his eyes away from him for a second, and starts to sketch.

A girl steps on a puddle of ice on the street below. It is quarter to nine in the morning. The world is stretching its limbs out, waking up, and beginning again.