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Chapter 8
"Was there anything in particular that you wanted to talk about today?"
Dr. Sherman's question startled Blair out of her reverie. Glancing at her watch, she realized they'd been sitting in awkward silence for nearly ten minutes.
She pursed her lips in feigned contemplation.
"I can't really think of anything in particular," she replied with a shrug.
She folded her hands in her lap and regarded her psychiatrist coolly. He nodded, his face impassive as usual, and then scribbled something in his little notebook.
Probably "patient uncooperative," she thought with a little frown.
They were already halfway through her third session, but progress so far had been… minimal. Most of their time had been spent engaged in a silent battle of wills- stilted and superficial conversation, interspersed with long pauses and passive-aggressive staring contests.
The problem was that he kept asking her these vague, open-ended questions. Like he expected her to just… open the floodgates, right here on his tacky faux-antique Pottery Barn sofa, and release all of her fears and neuroses in one giant tidal wave of crazy.
Which she was not about to do. Because she was not crazy.
Just a little… emotionally-challenged at the moment, that's all.
Besides, it was his job to figure out what was wrong with her, not hers. And given how much she was paying him, she had no qualms about making him work for it.
"So things are going well then?" he asked after a little pause, glancing back up at her.
"Great." She nodded vigorously. "Work is going really well. I've made some new friends. Oh, and I just got the most fabulous new Prada bag."
He made another notation on his pad.
She imagined him writing "fabulous new Prada bag" and smirked a little.
"It's a red patent leather satchel," she added helpfully.
"Mmm."
He eyed her over the top of his glasses, a single eyebrow raised.
"Blair…" He paused and cleared his throat. "What is it that you hope to get out of these sessions, exactly?"
She stared back at him, looking mildly affronted.
"Therapy?" she said in an obvious tone. "That is what you dispense here, correct?"
"Correct," he replied, a hint of a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. "I'm just afraid that you're maybe not… getting as much out of our conversations as you could be."
Leaning forward onto his elbows, he regarded her with a pensive look.
"How do you see me helping you, Blair?"
"Like I've already told you," she said, a note of impatience in her voice. "I recently had a bout of… temporary insanity" –to put it mildly- "And I would like to be… cured, of that."
She gave a little wave of her hand, to indicate how quickly she expected this to take place.
"You're referring to the incident with the pregnancy test?"
"Well, if by 'incident,' you mean, maybe accidentally trying to get knocked up on purpose by a guy who put an entire ocean between us at the next available opportunity," she said dryly, "then yes. That incident."
He nodded.
"Have you thought about what might have caused you to react that way?"
"Well…" She averted her eyes, looking down at the hands folded together in her lap. "Serena seems to think it might have been some… subconscious attempt to get back what I lost. In the accident."
"And do you think there's any truth to that?"
Blair sighed.
"Well, she has recently developed a habit of being right about things," she conceded reluctantly.
The fact that Serena had somehow become the voice of reason in her life was disconcerting, to say the least.
"So do you want to talk about the accident?"
"That's what I'm here for, right?" she replied flippantly.
"Well, that's up to you," he replied in the same calm tone.
Ugh, fucking therapists, she thought. With their "why don't you tell me how that makes you feel" bullshit.
Heaving a pained sigh, Blair shot Dr. Sherman her haughtiest expression.
He simply stared back at her, unperturbed.
Perhaps she should've found a new therapist, she thought to herself. This one had always proven difficult to intimidate.
"Why don't you start by telling me what you remember about that night?" he suggested. "Unless… that's too difficult for you."
"Of course it's not too difficult," she huffed in reply.
She paused to clear her throat, and twisted her hands together in her lap. But to her chagrin and embarrassment, no words came out of her mouth.
She had no idea where to begin.
"What were you doing before the crash?" he gently prompted her.
Blair raised her eyebrows. "You mean, besides leaving my fiancé?" she replied.
Dr. Sherman didn't even blink.
Blair sighed and fidgeted against the leather sofa.
"Um." She paused, her eyes clouding over as the memory reemerged. "Chuck and I- we were… we were talking about the baby. Where we would send him to school. Of course, we didn't know it was a 'him' yet, that only came afterwards…"
She trailed off, dropping her gaze to her lap.
Until now, she'd purposely avoided thinking about the events of that night; they were simply too painful to contemplate.
But now they were coming back to her in a flash, the scenes playing before her eyes like clips from an old film reel.
Trees speeding past the window as they wound their way through Central Park. Camera flashbulbs flickering through the darkness.
The overwhelming sense of urgency, of desperation, that seemed to hang over their reunion.
She could still see Chuck, as clearly as if he were sitting right in front of her.
His handsome face lit up with unrestrained happiness.
His hands clasped tightly around her smaller ones, neither of them wanting to let go of the other for even a second.
Her words, echoing through the air between them.
"I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."
His lips, leaning in to capture hers once again…
…then the sound of screeching tires as their car swerved violently to the left.
The weight of Chuck's torso as he'd tried to hold on to her, his arm pinning her to the back of the seat.
Then a tremendous jolt, both of them hurtling against the seats in front of them.
And then… darkness.
"I…" Blair swallowed, feeling a tightening sensation in her chest. "Chuck and I were sitting in the back seat… he was holding my hand, and… we were about to kiss."
"And then?"
"And then… the car swerved off the road, and he… grabbed me."
"To try and protect you?"
Blair nodded.
"And then I just heard this sound like… metal crunching. And I felt myself slam against the back of the front seat..."
She trailed off, her eyes growing hazy with moisture.
"That's the last thing I remember," she said quietly.
"And after that?"
"I woke up in the hospital," she recalled, her gaze fixed on the fingers twisted together in her lap. "And Serena was there, and she told me… she told me the baby didn't survive. The impact was just… too much."
Despite her best efforts, she could feel her composure starting to slip, her voice growing hoarse and uneven.
"And Chuck?"
"And Chuck… was in surgery. They didn't think…" She almost couldn't finish, her throat swelling shut as tears started to overwhelm her eyes. "They didn't think he was going to make it."
"But he did?"
"He did," Blair affirmed, sending up a silent prayer of thanks.
She'd found herself doing that reflexively every time she thought about it- almost like she feared that if she weren't grateful enough, God could reverse his decision at any moment.
Change his mind and take Chuck away from her.
"And how did he handle the loss?"
She furrowed her brow, the question confusing her for a moment.
Then she realized his assumption.
"Oh, Chuck wasn't…" She swallowed. "He wasn't the father."
Which didn't really answer the question - but the truth was, she had no idea how Chuck had "handled" losing the baby, or anything else after the accident. Lost in a haze of grief, and stubbornness, and denial, she'd completely shut him out. Refused to even speak with him.
On her laundry list of regrets, that one was close to the top.
"But you were eloping with him?" Dr. Sherman asked, his voice lacking any judgment.
Blair nodded.
"That's why we were in the car that night," she murmured.
She took a deep breath, attempting to alleviate that pressure building in her chest again.
It felt like a vise grip tightening around her lungs.
"And because of that… I lost the baby. And… I almost lost Chuck. If he'd died…" She paused, trying to steady her trembling lower lip. "How could I ever have forgiven myself?"
"But he didn't." His voice grew even softer. "And you still haven't forgiven yourself."
Blair closed her eyes, feeling a single tear escape her eye and slide down her cheek.
"Blair." Dr. Sherman's voice was almost unbearably kind. "Do you blame yourself for what happened?"
She swallowed. "I was leaving the father of my baby to be with Chuck," she said in an uneven voice. "That's why the paparazzi were chasing after us. That's why… all of this happened."
"But you didn't cause the accident, Blair," he reassured her. "It wasn't your fault."
She took a deep, trembling breath, staring down at her lap.
"Then why does it feel like it was?" she whispered.
.
.
"Hey man!"
Nate's enthusiastic voice rang out in his ear.
"Nathaniel," Chuck greeted him. He was halfway through his second circuit of Round Pond- Monkey, for whatever reason, was being obstinate today and refusing to do his business. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Oh, um. Nothing, really," his best friend answered. "Just… wondering how you were doing, that's all."
Chuck shrugged. "Can't complain."
Monkey, sensing his owner's distraction, tried to veer off into some shrubs, but Chuck noticed and pulled back sharply on the leash.
"So…what's up?" he asked.
"Oh… not much," Nate replied.
An awkward pause fell between them.
"Just, you know… wanted to talk," Nate added.
"To talk?" Chuck echoed, his brow furrowing in disbelief.
Throughout the entire history of their friendship, he couldn't recall even one instance when Nate had called him without an express purpose.
Because guys did not call each other "just to talk." They certainly didn't chatter on aimlessly for hours at a time. They stated the reason they were calling, exchanged a few pleasantries, and that was it.
"Yeah, I figured, since you're not here, we could just… talk on the phone…"
Chuck had a scathing joke right on the tip of his tongue- something about Nate trading in his balls for ovaries- but the hopeful note in his friend's voice made him relent.
Besides, if he were being completely honest… he kind of missed talking to Nate too.
"So… what have you been up to?" Nate went on, plainly still expecting to have a real conversation.
"Just…business stuff, mostly," Chuck replied, clearing his throat. "Meetings, market research, getting wined and dined. I haven't paid for a meal all week."
"Well, that's a relief. Since you're on such a tight budget."
Chuck laughed.
"Well, some of my investors also have connections," he went on. "One of them got me some tickets for the Olympics, as a thank-you gift."
"Really?" Nate perked up. "What event?"
"Uh, track and field. Some of the sprint finals, I think," Chuck said distractedly, watching as Monkey started turning in circles and finally squatted down.
With a quick flick of his wrist, he motioned to his valet Henry, who was deferentially trailing about ten paces behind him.
"Oh wow… dude, that's awesome," Nate commented. "I just ordered a new 60-inch plasma, but seeing it live would be… unreal."
"I'm sure I could scrounge up an extra ticket, if you wanted to come," Chuck offered.
"Really?" The eagerness in Nate's voice was palpable. "Because you know, I was thinking it might be fun to visit. Serena and I were just talking about it yesterday…"
"Absolutely," Chuck replied. "I'll still have some work to do, but I'm sure I can… make room in my schedule."
He tugged gently on the leash, leading Monkey back along the path towards Knightsbridge, while Henry stayed behind and dutifully cleaned up.
"Man, that would be awesome..." Nate enthused.
Chuck couldn't help smiling at the excitement in his friend's voice. He still sounded just like ten-year-old Nate after his dad bought him his first sailboat.
"Oh, but…" Nate hesitated. "Isn't everything already booked though? It's only a few weeks away, I'd never be able to get a flight or a hotel room this late."
"Yes, if only you knew someone who owned a plane and a hotel…" Chuck said dryly.
Nate chuckled.
"Fair enough," he conceded. "Well, in that case, I'm in!"
"I'll start making arrangements."
The silence stretched out between them for a few moments.
"So, uh…" Chuck cleared his throat. "How are things with you?"
"Oh, not bad… work's going well, I guess. I'm interviewing people for the assistant editor position next week," Nate replied.
Chuck nodded, wondering when Nate had figured out how to run a magazine. It seemed that his best friend, despite devoting most of his adolescence to getting high and slacking off, was more motivated than he'd ever let on.
"What about Lola, you guys decide to-"
"Oh, no… well, you know, we didn't want to do a long-distance thing." Nate sighed. "I guess we're just friends now."
"So you're back on the hunt for Serena v2.0?" Chuck asked, a note of amusement in his voice.
"Yeah, I guess… wait, what?"
"Nothing. Any good prospects?"
"No… no one yet," Nate said glumly.
Maybe not such a bad thing, Chuck thought to himself. After all, Nate hadn't spent more than two consecutive months single since he'd hit puberty.
"But Blair said she'd introduce me to some of her coworkers tomorrow night," Nate went on, his tone brightening a little. "And she promised that at least two of them are hot. Eight, 'maybe eight and a half in flattering lighting,' she said."
"Ah."
"Yeah, I thought that was pretty cool of her."
"Yes, very… cool of her."
Chuck couldn't help smirking a little at Nate's cluelessness. He still assumed that Blair's motives were altruistic, even after years and years of her proving the contrary.
"Oh hey, I gotta get going, my dad just got here." Chuck could hear Nate greeting the Captain in the background. "We're going to a Yankees game."
"Tell him I said hi."
"Will do. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"
"Okay," Chuck answered, an affectionate smile still playing around the corners of his mouth.
.
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Blair strode into the office the next morning in high spirits. After a relaxing evening in the tub with a good book, followed by a long, restful night of sleep, she felt refreshed, confident- ready to tackle anything.
She came to an immediate halt, though, when everyone in the room suddenly looked up at her.
Their gazes were sharp, even accusatory. Gone was the good-natured friendliness she was accustomed to seeing.
Blair frowned in consternation as she slowly made her way to her desk.
She'd just taken a seat and logged on to her computer when a dark shadow appeared, looming over her ominously.
"Blair." Laurel made no effort to hide the ire in her voice. "I thought I made it clear that those contracts needed to go out by 5pm yesterday."
Blair's eyes widened.
"But… they did," she insisted, her eyes darting to the side to see the other interns watching their exchange. "I got the CFO to sign off on them after lunch. Then I scanned and sent them right over, it was hours before the deadline."
She gestured towards yesterday's "To Do" list, still sitting squarely in the middle of her workspace. The top item had an emphatic checkmark right next to it.
"Well then… perhaps you can explain why Richard never got them?" Laurel continued, cocking a hand at her hip. "And why he booked a job with one of our closest competitors instead?"
"What?" Blair's mouth fell open a little in shock before she regained her bearings. "That's… not possible. Look, I can show you I sent them…"
With quick, nervous motions, she logged in to her email and scrolled over to the "sent mail" folder.
And felt her heart jump into her throat when she saw nothing listed from yesterday afternoon.
"But…" she faltered, her mind racing to come up with an explanation.
The bold "1" listed next to her outbox caught her eye, and she quickly clicked on it.
There it was, right at the top of the list. Her painstakingly-worded cover letter and the attached PDF.
With "pending" listed in the adjacent column.
"Oh no…" she exhaled in horror.
She hadn't even thought to check after she'd sent it. She'd been so distracted and upset from her therapy session, she'd just wanted to finish up and go home.
But her mailbox was too full, so the message had just sat there.
Trapped in email limbo.
"I… I'm so sorry…" she stammered. "I did send it, it just… it didn't go through."
"Well." Laurel stared down her nose at Blair. "That makes absolutely no difference now, does it?."
"But I'm sure if we just explain…"
"Trust me, there's no explaining anything to Richard Warren. Fashion photographers can be even bigger divas than models." Laurel shook her head, her jaw clenched in frustration. "I need you to spend the rest of the day working on finding a suitable alternative. You can handle that, I presume?"
"Yes… yes, of course." Blair swallowed back her mortification. "I'll get right to work."
"Eleanor won't be happy about this," Laurel reminded her. "But I suppose it's our only option at this point. Hopefully the shoot won't be a total loss."
With that, she stalked away, leaving Blair hurriedly scrolling through her contact list in a desperate attempt to salvage her mistake.
She kept her head down as she worked, her co-workers' stares still boring into her back.
.
.
Eight hours later, Blair had no choice but to admit defeat. She'd gone through every photographer in the company's database, and the only one she'd been able to book was somebody's recently-promoted assistant with a total of five magazine spreads under his belt.
They were going ahead with the shoot anyway, since they'd already paid for the venue and the models- but it was almost certain to be a disaster, and would probably have to be redone at significant expense to the company.
The only silver lining was that Eleanor was out of the country, so Blair didn't have to see her disappointment in person.
But that felt like little consolation as she sat there staring at her laptop screen, tears pooling in her eyes. Wanting nothing more than to go home, crawl under the covers with a box of macarons, and try to forget this day had ever happened.
And she couldn't even do that, because she'd promised her coworkers that she'd bring her super hot single friend Nate to happy hour.
"Blair, you ready to go?" Phoebe called out from the group of girls clustered next to the door.
At least they weren't shooting her daggers anymore, she thought- although their pitying glances weren't really any less humiliating.
On the plus side, though, there was no way her day could possibly get any worse.
"Coming!" she responded brightly.
Pasting a cheerful smile onto her face, she followed them out of the workroom.
.
.
Later that evening, Blair was perched on a bar stool at 1 Oak, watching Deirdre and Allison locked in an apparent fight to the death over Nate's attention.
They were both laughing animatedly at all of his jokes, strategically positioning themselves to show off their cleavage, and listening with feigned interest as he regaled them with a way-too-detailed story about… football, or something equally mind-numbing.
And Blair was certain Allison had had to pee for about fifteen minutes now, based on the way she kept shifting from foot to foot. But she wasn't willing to leave Nate alone with Deirdre, so apparently she was just going to hold it in until she burst.
Normally Blair would've taken a certain amount of perverse amusement in their antics, but not tonight. She was still counting the minutes until she could make a graceful exit and go home to feel sorry for herself in private.
"So then he walks the next batter, so the bases are loaded with two outs," Nate explained to his rapt audience, "and the next pitch is high and outside, just barely in the strike zone-"
Blair couldn't help but roll her eyes; she'd had enough of that talk before age seventeen to last her a lifetime.
"They have absolutely no idea what he's talking about." Phoebe's voice rang out beside her, and Blair glanced over to see the redhead sipping on a martini and eying her colleagues with amusement.
"Do you?" Blair tossed back, arching an eyebrow.
"Of course," Phoebe replied in an obvious tone. "My dad's been taking me to Mets games since I was six."
"Ah," Blair murmured.
"I'm just waiting for one of them to slip up and ask how many touchdowns the Marlins scored," she added mockingly.
Blair gave a little smirk at what she assumed was a joke, and took another swallow of her drink.
Several moments passed, and she cast another sidelong glance to find Phoebe still discreetly observing Nate over the rim of her glass.
Well, that was pretty much inevitable, she thought in amusement. There wasn't a woman alive who could resist the Archibald charm.
Except for herself, of course. She supposed she'd built up a certain amount of immunity after eighteen years.
"Why don't you just go talk to him?" she asked.
"If he's interested, he'll come to me," Phoebe replied confidently, propping her elbows along the top of the bar and leaning back against them.
Glancing back towards Nate and his giggling harem, Blair raised a skeptical brow.
Playing it cool was an admirable strategy, but she was pretty sure it only worked with guys who were more perceptive than… well, Nate.
Maybe she'd pull him aside a little later and give him a nudge in Phoebe's direction.
At least her two martinis had improved her mood a little, she mused, capturing the toothpick between her thumb and forefinger and lifting it to nibble at the olive on the end.
Or maybe they'd simply distracted her from what an utter failure she felt like at the moment.
Feeling Phoebe's eyes on her, she looked up to meet her gaze.
"Sorry about the photoshoot," the redhead offered sympathetically.
Blair straightened her shoulders, steeling herself against accepting anyone's pity.
"I'll make up for it somehow," she said in a determined tone. "Even if it kills me."
Phoebe looked slightly taken aback. "You don't have to obsess about it, Blair. Everyone makes mistakes."
The toothpick clenched between Blair's teeth cracked with a snap.
Everyone made mistakes, all right- but not Blair Waldorf. Especially not when her mother's company was on the line.
"Besides," Phoebe continued, "it's not like you really have anything to worry about."
"Worry about?" Blair echoed, her brow creasing in puzzlement.
"Well… it's your mom's company," Phoebe replied. "I mean, what's she going to do? Fire you?" She laughed out loud, obviously expecting Blair to join in.
But Blair just shifted her gaze downwards to her drink. The fact that her screw-ups would be automatically forgiven only made her feel worse.
She was supposed to be the one who worked for what she achieved, who fought tooth and nail to get to the top. Not the one who just had everything handed to her on a silver platter.
"Oh, look- she couldn't hold it in any longer," Phoebe said in an amused tone, gesturing with her head across the room.
Blair raised her eyes to see Allison hustling towards the bathroom, her heels clicking along at an almost jogging pace.
Deirdre, predictably enough, moved in for the kill- she trailed her fingers down Nate's upper arm, looking up at him with pursed lips and batting eyelashes. It was the sort of behavior that made Blair practically cringe in vicarious embarrassment, but Nate was eating it right up.
A moment later, though, a muted ding emanated from the leather satchel slung over Deirdre's shoulder. She retrieved her cell phone, a crease appearing across her brow as she read the incoming text message. Then she quickly excused herself, her fingers texting furiously as she hurried away from the bar and into a side hallway.
Blair raised her eyebrows in mild curiosity and glanced over at Phoebe- only to see the redhead tucking her own cell phone back into her purse, the hint of a smirk playing around the corners of her mouth.
"Wait, did you…" Blair gave her a disbelieving look.
Phoebe just shrugged nonchalantly.
"Guess Deirdre's ex had something to say about that picture I texted him," she commented without an ounce of contrition.
"What happened to letting guys come to you?" Blair asked, giving a wry little smile.
"Well, sometimes you have to eliminate the competition first," Phoebe replied unrepentantly.
Blair watched Phoebe give Nate a brief coy glance over the rim of her martini glass- and his eyes light up with undeniable interest- and couldn't help but be impressed.
It reminded her of a move she might have pulled herself, once upon a time.
Deciding to give the two some privacy, Blair edged her way around the bar until she found a more secluded spot, and settled down on a bar stool.
She ignored the guys who attempted to sidle up beside her and glared at the ones who "inadvertently" brushed against her; eventually exasperated by their persistence, she pulled out her cell phone and tried to look as busy and uninterested as possible.
After a few minutes, she glanced up at a now-flirting Nate and Phoebe, and was surprised when the sight produced an odd little pang in her chest. Scanning the bar around her, she noticed she was surrounded by couples engaged in similar courtship rituals- talking, laughing, touching each other.
And as silly and melodramatic as it sounded… it just made her miss Chuck.
Who was currently thousands of miles away, on the other side of an ocean. Where he would remain for months, possibly years.
Sighing to herself, Blair drained the rest of her martini and gestured to the bartender for another one.
At least she'd get to talk to him soon, she thought glumly. They'd settled into a ritual of Sunday afternoon phone calls, which were typically the highlight of her weekend. Even though they kept to relatively superficial topics- avoiding any mention of their relationship, or their history, or their feelings for each other- just hearing the sound of his voice, and feeling that energy crackling between them, was enough to leave her in good spirits for the rest of the day.
It helped remind her that no matter how far how apart they were, they were always connected.
At that moment, she felt her phone vibrate with a notification, and glanced back down to see an incoming Gossip Girl blast displayed on the screen.
Feeling her stomach tighten with a sudden sense of foreboding, she clicked open the message.
When she saw the image on the screen- a picture of herself, teary-eyed and visibly upset, leaving Dr. Sherman's office the day before- her worst fears were confirmed.
With growing dismay, she read over the text.
Queen B's always had an icy demeanor, but it looks like she might be starting to crack. And who can blame the poor girl for seeking some professional help, after all that she's been though? First there was her flop of a wedding, then her little turn playing Runaway Bride. Then a marriage that lasted about as long as the average modeling career. And who can forget her brief stint as Lonely Boy's girlfriend? Oh, all of you? Well, how's this for a course in ancient history: long before she was running her fingers through his unkempt hair, she was sticking them down her own throat. Might that be the real reason B lost her bébé? For her sake, let's hope that her old chum Mia's not back in town.
Blair clasped her hand over her mouth, staring at her phone in stunned silence.
Everyone was going to read this, she realized.
Her friends. Her coworkers.
Her mother.
She glanced from left to right, her distraught gaze taking in the crowd of people talking and laughing around her. Some of them already had their phones out, staring down at the screens.
It was only a matter of time before they all saw it.
Before they all turned to stare at her, their eyes full of contempt, and pity, and ridicule.
Tears of humiliation stung her eyes as she slid down to her feet, clutching her phone and handbag to her chest, and hurriedly made her way out of the bar.
.
.
Chuck was awakened from a deep sleep by the ringing of his cell phone, its piercing jingle cutting through the silence of his bedroom. Groggily rubbing one hand across his eyes, he peered over at the clock beside his bed.
It was 4:30 AM.
With a minimal amount of fumbling, he managed to retrieve his phone from its place on the nightstand. He frowned when he saw Blair's name glowing on the screen, before quickly reminding himself of the time difference.
Releasing a long, wide-mouthed yawn, he clicked "answer."
"Hello?" he murmured, his voice still husky with sleep.
No response.
"Hello?" he repeated.
When all he heard in response was a rustling noise, he decided her phone must've accidentally dialed him from inside her purse.
It wasn't the first time that had happened. He still remembered an evening several months ago, when he'd received an incoming call from Blair. Just seeing her name on the screen had made his heart beat a little faster, his spirits lifting in anticipation.
Until he'd overheard her ordering a sandwich on the other end of the line.
Chuck was just about to hang up when he finally heard…something.
A faint, barely audible sniffle.
"Blair?" He pulled himself up to a seated position, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Are you there?"
Another sniffle, followed by a soft, trembling breath.
"I'm sorry." Blair's words came out in a shaky whisper. "I know it's late, I just…"
Her voice trailed off into a soft hiccup that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
"What's wrong?" he asked, feeling his chest tighten in worry.
For a moment, the unsteady sound of her breathing was the only thing he could hear.
"Everything," she finally replied. "Everything's wrong, and I can't… I just… I don't know what to do…"
He heard a sudden clunk, followed by some rustling noises.
"Sorry, dropped the phone," she mumbled a moment later, followed by another long sniff.
By this point, he was wide-awake. Definitely alert enough to notice the slight slur in her inflection- which only worried him more. Getting drunk and wallowing in self-pity was not typical Blair Waldorf behavior.
Another series of muffled, unidentifiable noises crackled across the line.
"Where are you?" he asked, suddenly concerned that she could be wandering around the city by herself. "Is anyone with you?"
"Nope… I was out with… everyone, but then I came home. So I'm alone…"
"All alone…" she added, and the warble in her voice might have been comical under other circumstances.
He heard another soft rustle, which he finally identified as the sound of her pillow pressing up against the speaker of her cell phone.
Well, at least she'd made it to bed.
"Blair, what's going on?" he tried again.
"I just… I messed everything up," she said despondently. "It was… all my fault."
She punctuated the statement with another hiccup.
"And you're not here, and I don't…" she trailed off again, and he could hear her start to cry softly in the background.
"Listen, just… tell me what happened," he said, in the calmest tone he could manage.
"I know I'm not supposed to… talk about this stuff," she went on as if he hadn't even spoken, her voice hoarse and uneven. "But I just… I miss you so much…"
Caught off guard, he didn't reply immediately. It was true that he and Blair had a mutual, unspoken agreement to avoid certain topics- just the ones that were too emotionally fraught to discuss, given the tenuous nature of their friendship- but he'd assumed it was easier on both of them that way. He'd never wanted to make her feel like she couldn't talk to him, especially if something serious was going on.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything," she whispered sadly.
"Blair…" Chuck exhaled slowly, debating whether to say it or not. "You know I miss you too," he admitted.
And it was true: no matter how hard he tried not to miss her, he always did. It wasn't that constant, dull ache in his chest anymore, and it wasn't as painful as it had been, back when he'd thought she was truly done with him- but it was always there.
Like he'd left part of himself behind with her.
"No, you don't," she said despairingly, sniffling back tears. "You're just… saying that. You…"
"I do, Blair." He closed his eyes, swallowing over the lump in his own throat. "I think about you all the time."
She mumbled something in response that he didn't quite understand- he could've sworn he heard the word "Chloe" somewhere in there, although that didn't make any sense at all- and then he heard the faint, indistinct sound of crying again.
Her obvious distress felt like a twist to his gut. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with some way to comfort her, but since they were currently thousands of miles apart, and she was barely coherent, he felt powerless to do anything.
"Blair, just calm down and talk to me," he pleaded with her.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called…" Her almost-inaudible voice wavered over the line. "I… I'm sorry."
The next sound he heard was a little jingle indicating that the call had been disconnected.
His stomach dropped, and he pulled his phone down from his ear to confirm.
"Call ended. 3:10."
He immediately redialed her number and waited, fingers drumming impatiently along the top of his duvet, while it rang.
And rang, and rang. And then went to voicemail.
He repeated this several more times before he realized that she wasn't going to answer- she'd either decided to ignore him, accidentally muted her phone, or passed out.
Taking several deep, calming breaths, he told himself that everything was fine. She was just drunk and upset, but she was perfectly safe. At home, in her own bed.
He'd just call tomorrow to check on her, and she'd be fine.
A little embarrassed and a lot hungover, but fine.
He'd almost managed to convince himself to turn off his phone and go to sleep, when he noticed an unread Gossip Girl blast in his inbox.
He'd unsubscribed from her alerts back when Blair had started dating Dan- just knowing they were together had been painful enough, without seeing photographic evidence in his inbox every morning- but he'd resubscribed when he'd moved to London, figuring it'd be the easiest way to keep track of Upper East Side goings-on.
At the moment, however, the blinking icon just contributed to his growing unease.
And when he clicked the message open to find a picture of Blair in tears, apparently leaving her psychiatrist's office, his fears were confirmed.
When had she started seeing Dr. Sherman again? he thought, skimming the rest of the blast with an increasing sense of dread.
She'd told him, repeatedly, that she was fully recovered from her eating disorder. That she hadn't relapsed since high school. That "it's really very sweet of you to be concerned, Chuck, but if you keep interrogating me every time I go to the bathroom, I'm going to fork you in the eye."
She'd convinced him that he had absolutely nothing to be concerned about.
Well, he was pretty fucking concerned now.
He stared at the screen for a moment, rubbing one hand across the faint stubble on his jaw.
Then he scrolled down through his contact list, selected a new number, and pressed "call."
.
.
Blair's first thought, upon awakening, was that someone must have run her over with a car.
Then backed up over her, and run her over again.
It was the only explanation for why every inch of her body ached. Especially her head.
Oh God, her head…
Reluctantly opening one eye, she groaned in discomfort as the light hit it, sending a stab of agony through her poor dehydrated brain. Immediately slamming both lids shut, she pulled the covers up over her head to block out as much light as possible.
Clearly, she decided, the best plan of action was to spend the rest of the day curled up in the dark, whimpering like a wounded animal.
"Miss Blair, you awake?"
Startled to hear her maid's voice, she pulled the covers back down and squinted at Dorota, who had suddenly appeared at her bedside like a… stout Polish woman.
Ugh, she was far too hung-over to think up any good similes.
"Dorota…" she croaked, before pausing to clear her bone-dry throat.
Her maid held out a glass of water, which Blair gratefully accepted; she gulped down half the glass before pausing to take a breath.
"What are you doing here?" she finally asked. "You're not supposed to come back for another week."
Dorota shrugged.
"Decided to come back early," she replied evasively. "Thought you might.. need some help."
Blair eyed her with a doubtful look.
"You know, if you missed me that much, you can come right out and say it," she commented.
Dorota just rolled her eyes.
"Here." She held out her hand, and Blair turned her palm upwards to have four Advil deposited onto it.
"You take medicine, and I go downstairs to get you some breakfast," Dorota declared.
"Oh," Blair winced, her stomach churning violently at the mention of food. "I'm not really hungry…"
"Just toast," Dorota replied with a sage nod. "You take medicine with food."
Blair relented with a little sigh, and swallowed down the pills in one quick gulp as Dorota made her way out of the room.
Massaging her temples with one hand, she collapsed back against the pillows, trying to piece together the events of the previous evening in her head.
She remembered hanging out at the bar with Phoebe, having a few drinks, trying to forget everything that had happened at work… then she'd received the Gossip Girl blast.
Her stomach churned a little again, with humiliation instead of nausea this time.
She'd practically run out of the bar, hailed the first cab she saw, and made it back to her penthouse in record time- at which point she'd decided to throw herself a good old-fashioned pity party. She'd grabbed a box of macarons from the pantry, a bottle of champagne from the wine rack, and retreated to her room to drown her sorrows.
Glancing over at her nightstand, she spotted the half-empty box of cookies, its lid strewn carelessly onto the floor, and an almost-entirely-empty bottle of Dom… along with a champagne flute that she was pretty sure she'd stopped using after about three glasses. Sometime after that, presumably, she'd changed out of her work clothes- which explained why they were laying in a crumpled heap on the floor, and she was wearing a mismatched set of pajamas with the buttons aligned wrong.
And then, apparently, she'd passed out and slept like a log until… whatever time it was now.
She was squinting at the clock on her bedside table when she heard the lilting chime of her cell phone, and reached over to retrieve it.
Surprised to see Chuck's name on the screen- they usually talked on Sundays, and she always called him- she cleared her throat and pressed answer.
"Hello?" she greeted him.
"Blair?" Chuck's low voice cut across the line, and she felt her heart swell a little at the familiar sound.
"Hey," she replied warmly.
She imagined him kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie as he settled back against the sofa, and the thought made her smile- even despite the ungodly pounding of her head.
"Did I wake you?" He sounded a little tense though, she noticed.
"No, Dorota already did," she replied. "Well, my headache did," she amended, giving a self-deprecating little chuckle. "But Dorota came back early from maternity leave! I think she probably just needed a break from taking are of two screaming children, but… I can't say I'm not happy to have her back."
"That's great."
She noted absently that he didn't seem all that surprised.
"Especially right now," she added. "I'm, uh, a bit under the weather this morning."
"Yeah, about that." Chuck's voice was suffused with concern. "Are you… okay?"
"Well, I'm a little hungover," she admitted. "But why would you…"
She paused, trying to figure out why Chuck would be worried about her.
And all of a sudden it hit her.
"Oh no…" she exhaled. "You saw the Gossip Girl blast."
He was silent for a moment.
Taking this as confirmation, Blair groaned softly, rubbing one hand across her aching temples.
"She didn't hold back this time, huh?" She gave a sad little laugh. "I must've really done something to piss her off."
He didn't respond, and she frowned in consternation.
"Chuck, I'm fine," she insisted. "I was just… a little upset when that picture was taken, that's all."
"I didn't know…" He paused to clear his throat. "I didn't know you were seeing Dr. Sherman again."
"Oh, well…" she trailed off uncomfortably. "Only for a few weeks now. It's not really… that big a deal."
There was another pause, and she could hear him slowly exhale.
"It's a big deal to me, Blair," he said seriously. "I can't… bear to think about you doing something to…" He hesitated. "You know… hurt yourself."
She blinked in confusion.
"And I am not," he went on in an emphatic tone, "about to let you go through that again. Not on your own."
"Oh, you think…" her eyes widened in realization. "Chuck, I'm not… making myself sick. I haven't relapsed or anything."
There was a pause.
"…You haven't?"
"No… no, it's not that at all," she said vigorously. "It's just… well…"
She paused, trying to figure out how to put his mind at ease, without broaching any of the topics that were usually off-limits.
"I just needed to… talk to someone," she said finally. "After everything that's happened this year, I just… needed to talk through some things. That's all."
"Oh," he murmured. "So then…"
"So I'm fine, Chuck," she reassured him. "Well… I'm getting there, anyway," she amended. "But I promise… you have nothing to worry about."
He was silent for a moment, as if weighing whether or not to believe her.
"You know you can talk to me… right?" he said at last. "About anything?"
"Of course I do," she replied, sounding less than convinced.
"I mean it, Blair," he said seriously. "I'm not just saying that to… make myself feel better."
She heard him sigh into the phone.
"If you need to talk, I'm here," he finished.
She had no doubt he meant it- his voice was saturated with sincerity and concern.
But still she hesitated.
Because as difficult as it had been to open up to Dr. Sherman, it was almost harder with Chuck. He wasn't just an impartial observer, someone she could vent to about all of her problems and issues- he'd suffered through all of this with her. And she couldn't blame him if he still hated her for it.
She just didn't know if she could bear to hear that right now.
"Chuck, do you ever…"
Blair paused.
The question was one that she'd thought about every day, without fail, for the past six months. So why was it so difficult to ask?
"Do you ever think about where we would be right now if…" she continued, her voice wavering slightly, "…if the accident had never happened?"
All she heard was a quiet intake of breath, and then silence.
For a brief, anxious moment, she feared that she had overstepped her bounds.
"Yeah," he said finally, and cleared this throat. "I think about that a lot."
"We'd still be together," she said wistfully. "We'd be parents. We'd… we'd have a family."
"Yeah," Chuck agreed quietly. "We would."
Just hearing the restrained emotion in his voice made her eyes suddenly sting with tears.
And she felt that same crushing surge of guilt, and shame, and regret, she'd been trying to hold at bay ever since that night.
"I'm so sorry, Chuck," she whispered. "I'm sorry I shut you out afterwards and made you go through all of that alone. I'm sorry it even…" She swallowed. "… that it even happened to begin with."
"The accident?" he said, confused.
She blinked back the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes.
"That wasn't your fault, Blair," he pointed out when she failed to respond. "You didn't cut the brake lines, or run us off the road. And the person responsible," he added darkly, "is in prison, where I've made sure he will remain for a very, very long time."
Blair nodded, realizing that she took surprisingly little comfort in that.
"The only reason you were even in that car was because of me," she murmured.
"Blair…" he released her name in an exhaled breath. "I was there because I wanted to be. You couldn't have stopped me from coming if you'd tried."
She stared down at her fingers, picking mindlessly at the duvet, as she tried to make herself believe him.
"And even knowing how everything would turn out, if I had to do it all again… I still would've gotten into that car with you," he assured her.
The quiet sincerity in his voice made her heart swell in her chest.
Because even if she hadn't quite managed to absolve herself of guilt yet, knowing that Chuck had- or rather, that he'd never blamed her at all- still meant the world to her.
"Or… maybe we could have just gotten into a different car instead?" she suggested, a note of humor in her voice.
He chuckled softly.
"Well, if you want to be all logical about it…"
She was about to respond when the bedroom door opened and Dorota entered, carrying her breakfast tray.
Her stomach grumbled audibly at the sight.
"What was that noise?" Chuck asked, mystified.
"Uh, I think I may be hungrier than I thought," Blair admitted, eying the plate of buttered toast and suddenly wishing it was accompanied by some scrambled eggs and bacon. And maybe a burrito.
"Do you want me to let you go?"
"Well…"
She didn't, of course. This felt like the first truly honest conversation they'd had since the morning he'd left, and if she had her way, she'd keep him on the phone all afternoon.
But another mighty rumble of her stomach reminded her that she had more immediate needs to attend to.
"Maybe we could talk more a little later?" she suggested hopefully.
"Sure," he murmured. "I look forward to it."
"Me too," Blair said with a smile. "Thanks, Chuck."
.
.
For several seconds after she'd hung up, Chuck remained staring down at his phone.
"Mr. Bass?" He looked up to find his valet looking at him expectantly. "Your car is waiting out front."
"Oh… thank you," he said, then cleared his throat. "But that's no longer necessary."
Henry blinked in surprise.
"Sir?"
"And can you call and reschedule my meeting with Deloitte? The earlier, the better." Chuck rose to his feet, smoothing one hand down over his tie and rebuttoning his suit jacket. "The investment conference is only two weeks away, and I want to make sure we have our strategy ironed out by then."
"But… you just had me cancel your entire week this morning," Henry pointed out gently.
"Yes, well…" Chuck shrugged. "Uncancel it."
Henry responded with a deferential nod, then turned to head towards the office.
"And Henry?"
The other man paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"When you're done, can you… take care of all this?"
Chuck gestured towards the wall next to the elevator, where two large suitcases, his garment bag, his carry-on bag, and his briefcase were arranged in a neat stack.
He deliberately averted his eyes from Henry's questioning eyebrow raise.
"Yes, Mr. Bass."
As soon as he was alone, Chuck sank back down onto the sofa, closing his eyes as he ran one hand across his weary face.
One phone call, he thought with a quiet sigh. One drunken phone call, and he'd been ready to throw everything away just to run to her rescue.
And she hadn't even needed rescuing.
Thankfully, everything had turned out for the best; Blair was going to be fine, pending some hydration and nourishment, and he'd narrowly missed making a reckless, irrational decision that would've cost him months of hard work.
It would've been a huge mistake.
And he was fortunate to have avoided it.
But he couldn't help feeling a little twist of disappointment, all the same.
Breathing out a long, pained sigh, he ran his fingers through his already-tousled hair and let his head fall against the back of the sofa.
After a moment of deliberation, he retrieved his phone from his pocket, scrolled down through his contacts, and dialed.
"Hey man," Nate's voice greeted him.
"Hey." Chuck's voice revealed nothing. "You busy?"
"I was about to go play some soccer in the park, but I can hold off for a while. Why? What's going on with you?"
"Not a whole lot…" Chuck murmured. "Just…you know. Wanted to talk."
There was a beat of silence.
"You called me…just to talk?"
Chuck remained silent.
"Is this maybe…about Blair?" Nate guessed, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Chuck sighed into the receiver.
"Alright, alright, hang on just a sec…"
There was a rustling noise in the background, as if Nate were settling into the sofa and putting his feet up on the coffee table.
"Okay, go ahead."
.
.
A/N: So, apologies for the long wait, I've been suffering from a massive case of writer's block. Hopefully the fact that we've been getting sexy CB spoilers like it's Gossip Girl Christmas will provide some more inspiration.
Big thanks to TB for making this chapter a whole lot less shitty than it was two weeks ago. And thanks to all my readers who've been patiently (or not so patiently, haha) waiting for an update. Special thanks to my reviewers, I wish you all super-hot-Monte-Carlo-hotel-sex: leightedandnian, Ican'tbeMewithoutYou, Kathrynm37, Rajamoon, amy, flipped, Stella, loopingread, Laura, Curious Blonde, yahaira, Infinitywr, Krazy4Spike, sallysally, coleyoo, olimgossip, xoxobethany, Natalie, LeftWriter224, Trosev, Elise, Ladybug, Louise, Questacious, Tigger23, k. 7, jsta, alissa-jackie, EBLouise, pty, Lae, Alys, BedwardEndGame8D, dreamgurl, thegoodgossipgirl, Mademoiselle Bass, Arazadia, ErinSmith20, bonafide11, louboutinlove, Meg, monicaxx, Amanda, an, maryl, bells-mannequin, MrChuck, Bella, eckomoon, livelybass, Grish, Dana, hiddenletter, madetobemrsbass, salbaby, scarlett2u, Roswell Dream Girl, demented bunny, Abi, annablake, and Elle.