The following morning she does what she always does nowadays when everything gets to be too much.
When things are too far from perfect.
She retrieves her camera bag from where it has been standing since she returned from Paris. She goes through the contents of the bag to make sure everything is alright, and almost pets the camera soothingly in a silent apology for not paying it any attention in the last two weeks.
Sneaking downstairs, she manages to pass Dorota and her mother unnoticed, and leaves the apartment.
Finally in Central Park she pulls the camera out of her bag and allows the familiarity of it all to have her full attention. Enjoying the soft spring sunlight, she focuses solemnly on what she is doing, watching the world through the lens and shutting out all the rest.
She took up the hobby in college, and through a series of courses she learned the basics and then some. It kept her sane as she pieced herself together from his...whatever it was.
She loves the permanence and consistency of pictures. She can freeze perfection, or create it herself. Nothing can ever render it useless or less perfect…or ugly.
Her teacher used to tell her that she had a 'good eye' but she is not so sure anymore, with Philippe's words still clear in her mind. But today it doesn't really matter. Today it is all about not thinking.
She lets it consume her for a while, and plays around with motifs and angles. When she spots him heading towards her, her fingers move on their own volition and she snaps a few shots of him before she realizes what she is doing.
He feels like Hell when he wakes up, and even though he deserves it, he does something he has never done before. For the first time since he took over his father's company and made it his own – he clears his schedule and takes the day off.
His secretary sounded not far from an aneurysm, but he lied through his teeth and gave her some story about food poisoning. As soon as his ever faithful hang over cure has had some effect on his pounding head, he takes the town car to Central Park.
He is still amazed that he has become one of those people – the joggers. But he runs. Sometimes with Nate, sometimes with Al, but most of the time he does it alone.
Sometimes it is to get the time to think something through, work out a business proposal or muse over a…satisfying night before.
Sometimes he cranks up the volume of his iPod, and doesn't think about anything at all.
Today is definitely a day of the second kind.
Though no matter how hard he pushes himself, his mind seems to be stuck in a particular route.
He eventually gives up, and is making his way back to the waiting car – lost in thought - when he spots her.
They stand opposite each other in silence. Neither, seemingly, sure of what to say or how to act. Both of them too confused to keep up the pretence of being okay and untouched by the whole thing.
She is tired down to the bone with this game. And when she looks him in the eyes - and for the first time in forever actually sees him, she can tell that he is to.
Then something flickers in his eyes, and they darken. She can see the tension work its way into his jaw.
"Serena told me about your…conversation."
She is quick to follow his lead. She purses her lips and then frowns as she replies.
"Is that so?"
"I never…" He trails off and diverts his gaze for a second, then looks back at her as he continues. "I never cheated on you."
'I can't believe you'd think I would do that to you.' echoes unspoken between them, but she is unrelenting.
"Right."
"It is the truth." He bites back, fire in his eyes now. "I am not him. I thought you knew that."
"Well the Chuck I thought I knew wouldn't have accused me of cheating!"
Her last remark hits home, and once again she can see that thing she can't quite figure out flicker in his eyes.
"Well, the Blair I knew wouldn't have done a lot of things." He sneers, "…like gone back to a cheating, crack head like that French creep."
"I was there to get some things of mine." She scoffs, showing him the camera in her hand, not bothering with details. "I can't believe you think I would go back to him!"
"I can't believe you thought that I was cheating on you! What the hell, Waldorf?"
You were supposed to trust me.
His headache is returning full force, sending rays of pain through his scull.
…ButI was supposed to not freak out.
She opens her mouth to reply, but seems to change her mind and nothing but a sigh escapes her lips. He himself lets out a frustrated breath, running his fingers through his damp hair.
They are not used to this. They are not used to silence, and not knowing what to say.
They were always all about the quick remarks, the banter, the (sometimes) shrouded insults. Then that changed, the old blended with the new. Blended with honesty and secrets, hopes and fears.
So as they stand – facing each other in the midst of a sunny spring day in Central Park – they are at a loss for words in more ways than one. Because there is too much to say, and no words seem to fit. At the same time, there are a million and one words aching to be said, but they seem impossible to piece together and speak out loud.
If they were to allow it – if they were to look closely and actually see - their eyes would tell it all. But for now the pride and hurt is still in the way.
Overpowering.
Therefore they only share a quick second of eye contact before they look away. A brief nod on his part, another in reply from her – a silent understanding of something they don't have the words or capability to voice out loud.
A truce perhaps.
A ceasefire.
An 'I am so sick of trying to hate you, but this still hurts so badly that I am not sure what to do'.
Another brief moment of eye contact, then he gets moving again and walks past her, heading for the waiting car.
Only this time they can both feel that there is nothing final about it.
tbc