I don't own a thing.
Comments of any kind are greatly appreciated (and apologies to anyone who might have been reading this for not writing in ten ages).
Dan, 4x18
You're dressed to the nines and bolstered with the confidence of Blair's twisted logic working in mysterious ways (and you're not insane for trusting this to be the real deal, after all, Eric corroborated your theory). It's feeling scarily surreal, scarily like a dream you never admitted to having. 'This' you think, your face lit by a smile you're scarcely conscious of; 'This is exactly like a film.' One of those films you'd never willingly watch unless the language isn't English or it was made before the 1970s...
(or maybe, just maybe, you concede as memories of golden locks draped over your shoulders come back to you accompanied by the sweet taste of strawberries and champagne 'It's the only way to watch Pretty Woman' purred huskily in your ear, maybe all it would take for you to sit down and watch one of those films is the right person by your side)
It doesn't matter in the end though, what matters, is you know what's coming. She brought you here under false pretences and if this was a movie, this is how it would go: She wouldn't admit it at first, she'd act huffed and you'd argue and maybe if you were the same Dan as four years ago you'd get angry with her that she couldn't love you for who you were making this the obstacle part of the film but you're not the same (she beckoned and you came and you're in a suit and you're a changed man and she changed you and this is it (maybe Serena changed you first but in moments like these, who's paying attention to detail?)) - and you suspect this is the end more likely; the airport running moment when the hero gets his heroine against all odds, against themselves even, and there's reconciliation and kissing and letting bygones be bygones and pictures fading as the credits start rolling. For you know her better now, know this is the extent of her olive branch abilities and you've had your hurdles anyway –a week without a single text and a kiss before that (in a film that week would be months condensed into a two minute montage accompanied by sad singing and a camera's sweeping movement taking in your miserable life, brushing over your increasingly scruffy exterior, your flat filled with a growing amount of half-eaten junk food, maybe a brief second of you sitting by a typewriter tearing a paper to pieces before throwing it in the bin and her acting cool and collected until she finally breaks down and admits that she regrets letting you go (to Serena maybe) or maybe it would be one of those 'burnt in youth' defining moments and the ten years between your two meetings would be shown in a few fragmented clips telling your life; you'd go from dishevelled, dejected and disillusioned and rejecting every girl because you can't let go to having turned, finally, into this hunky, together guy who still can't commit but who has persuaded himself that he doesn't care anyway and she'd be pictured with a string of dates, all perfect and her dream in the flesh, but she'd always find some fault and slowly wane into nothing worrying all her friends until she finally admits there can be only one for her and, just as you're ready to make the final move, get on that airplane, she'd be there and it'd be enough). (No, you don't watch these movies, but you're a writer after all, and you've got the formula for a conventional Hollywood love story etched into the fabric of your being).
But right here and now, you don't need any added cinematic touches, no embellishments. Because this might be a movie moment but at the same time it feels so real; you're two semi-adult people ready to compromise, ready to commit and be damned the consequences (the thoughts of a hurt, disbelieving Serena and a vengeful, baleful Chuck are blissfully far from your mind). This is a compromise you can both wrap your heads around; romantic yet true to who you are (or have become at least).
Even though you've already had your epiphany you're still shocked by the surge of certainty running through you as she turns to look at you; that the right person no longer is all golden beauty, smiles and laughter but someone all thorns and secrets –at least on the outside. You don't stop to think when it was you came to this equation; that both girls were deceptive. (Serena seemed so open, so easy to read, so carefree yet underneath that gilded beauty were all kinds of ghosts you never came to accept before it was too late. With Blair it's the other way around; she makes it so hard to get near her; she'd rather you fear and hate her than admit that beneath that queenly armour there is a girl who still thinks an apology will erase all wrongdoings, who thinks the world should consist of happily ever afters and who'll give her whole heart to you if she decides she loves you.) Nor do you ask yourself when this realisation followed; that loving either of them could feel equally right, equally like you're the perfect person for the hero part. (You don't stop and wonder how you suddenly became the leading man in both their stories either, though if story-telling is really nothing but the imitation of life perhaps it's not surprising that sometimes reality beats films with its unforeseeable, inexplicable events. In the end it comes down to this: she brought you here through a convoluted plot; the Blair Waldorf equivalent of a declaration of love and you love her and you came ready for that final, fade-out kissing scene and you're not afraid and this is it: the end).
It doesn't take more than a second for your bubble to burst. 'This isn't a photo shoot for a high school yearbook'. Exuberant confidence is washed away and all that remains is a burning sense of shame and defeat. In a cruel twist of fate it's not you but your arch-nemesis who won it all. Oh, this is a film alright but all of a sudden you feel more like the bullied victim in a teen coming-of-age movie than the principal star in a romantic comedy and your relegation to a useless, sympathy-inducing bit part is confirmed when you find yourself having to hide budding emotions to save yourself. 'I just came to tell you that it didn't mean anything'. (Now how many times has that phrase figured in a Hollywood plot and isn't that ironic?). And you want to throw something because why must you be stuck with all the cheesy, clichéd lines if you're not to get the girl? Your life a fucking repeat of wanting something, working for something only to have it snatched by undeserving assholes with trust funds. Even more depressing is the fact that these events eerily remind you of early days with Serena when Blair was still a ninety-five-pound, doe-eyed, bonmot-tossing, label-whoring package of girly evil who daily reminded you of the reality ruling on the Upper East Side: class doesn't mix, you can't escape your roots and you're nothing without money. The last place where a princess might kiss a frog, or a Labrador, and think she found Prince Charming?
It's only later, when you enter the loft and suddenly find yourself sitting in front of your computer, typing frantically that you're able to appreciate what actually happened today; that whatever words you had to eat, whatever feelings you had to deny and despite the fact that another candidate for Prince Charming stood at the ready she didn't give you up. She might have said the kiss didn't mean anything, that all it did was turn her towards Chuck but ultimately, in the choice between Chuck and you, she chose you. The friend before the ex-lover. Companionship and compatibility before romanticised 'epic' love (which by the way might make for memorable story-telling, but only if one of the characters die you think bitterly). And maybe you don't quite understand what it means yet, clearly it doesn't mean you've become worthy of the girl. But it tells you one thing, whatever appearances may be the Upper East Side wasn't allowed a complete win. No, you're not the leading man yet. But perhaps you not a mere bit character either?