Hello, beloved readers! I hope very much that you'll enjoy this chapter I'm really enjoying building interaction and dialogue between different pairs/groups of characters, especially because these dynamics will continue to become more important as we work our way through the story. Miles to go before we sleep!
i.
Wednesday, January 16 – evening
It's only eight, but the ringing off the hook of the downstairs rotary dial phone- cream lacquered porcelain with polished brass- is infuriating. The first wave of phone calls started in the late morning; socialites, friends of her parents, even the Astor side of the family that hasn't spoken to Howard or Eleanor or her since the embarrassment of the divorce; calling to check in on her, asking if they could speak with her, if there's anything they can send over. A few of them have already dispatched flower arrangements, they mention.
"Miss Blair is not available," Dorota informed each one. "You please call back later."
And she kept on, snatching the phone as quickly as possible, consolidating the callbacks and pushing them later and later in the day, such that after Chuck has gone, Blair having given orders that once he arrived, no one else was to be let up after him- no, not Mister Nate or Miss Serena- she has less than an hour of peace before the phone starts up again, shrill and punishing as her mother.
"I'm not speaking to anyone else," she yells to Dorota, coming out on the landing. "Cut the cord if you have to."
Just a few moments of being out of the confined space of her bedroom deconditions her nose, and when she goes back in, the smell of flowers is cloying.
She flings the door open again. "Dorota!"
Dorota is already on the stairs. "Yes, Miss Blair?"
"Please get rid of these flowers."
It smells like a funeral home. And maybe that works- she's half-dead, and people have been saying half-true nice things about her all day, so it might as well smell like a wake in here, too.
She lingers inside her doorway, and Dorota pauses behind her. "All of them, Miss Blair? Should I throw away?"
"I don't care." She looks around- calla lilies and hydrangea and geraniums, lilies of the valley, orchids, delphinium, peonies, roses (some people have no imagination) and of course the bamboo (while others have far too much). Every last one a testament to kind, inspirational, font-of-generosity Blair Waldorf. "Just get rid of them. I'm taking a shower," she says, turning away and shrugging her shoulders to disguise a jump when the phone trills again. "Please just get rid of them before I come out."
"Yes, Miss Blair." Dorota reaches for Nate's first; it's closest to the door.
Blair pauses at the threshold to the bathroom. "And bring a vase up for those," she adds, pointing at the hand bouquet of pink peonies, stems wrapped in green, lying half-forgotten on her duvet.
ii.
"I thought you were sure," Chuck says, topping off his Scotch- he took too big of a gulp when Arthur finally told him what he had, locked safely inside 1812.
"You can never be sure," Tyler enunciates.
He rolls his eyes. "We were confident, you said. That he skipped town days ago. Within twelve hours of the attack, remember? Just like in Boston?"
He swallows down another mouthful just as big, and it burns his throat. He bites, hard, on the inside of his lower lip.
"Look," Tyler says slowly, watching him even as he opens the new file folder he brought, "I would have bet money- and lost- that he had bailed."
He picks up the first of the photos, grainy black and white, shot through a shop window, handing cash to the salt-and-pepper man behind the counter. He flicks it to face Chuck, laying it flat in front of him.
"But you were wrong," Chuck says, without looking down, Scotch still poised before his mouth.
Tyler's temple ripples as he fights for patience. So was the NYPD, is probably what he wants to say.
"Yes," he replies. "I was."
"One-time customer," Chuck muses, looking down at the photo, free hand pinning the corners in place, echoing what Tyler said to him as they descended into the underground garage, heavy door lowering behind them, street noise and lamppost light falling away, Tyler's finger rifling the corners of the file folder's contents absently in the dark.
"Dropped it off Saturday morning."
He flips the next photo, timestamped 10:37 AM 1/12.
He was asleep then, probably: Blair's hand wrapped between both of his.
He slides the top picture away to look at the timestamp on the bottom one, with the guy paying cash: 11:14 AM 1/14.
Monday. "He sprung for next-day service." He's dripping condescension.
"It's possible he might have split then," Tyler offers. "That was the day the Page Six spread came out. He might have seen it."
He shrugs. "If he reads society gossip rags, which I somehow doubt." Then something hot clenches his stomach. "Where is this?"
"44th and Park."
He exhales slowly, bringing the Scotch back to his lips and draining the rest of the glass. He was in Midtown then, running from store to store, hauling stacks of The Post to the nearest trash can. 11:14 AM on Monday- Jenny refreshing her browser, Nate complaining there were way too many indie bookstores in the East Village, Serena tugging her brim lower to avoid sympathetic stares and insistent questions. Him, sweat slipping down his spine despite the chill, up and down the broad sidewalks of Midtown East, head down, gaze skittering from storefront to storefront, not looking at a single face.
They could have crossed paths and he'd never have noticed. He wasn't looking. The possibility of the guy still being in the city wasn't even in his orbit by then.
"So the Grand Central employee who said he sold him a ticket upstate?"
"He was never sure it was him. It was a tentative ID. And we didn't have any photographic backup."
Tyler lays out the next picture: coming out the shop door on Monday, wire hook hanging from two curled fingers, hand slung carelessly over one shoulder. Self-contained confidence in his posture.
"So our guess, then, is this is what he was wearing Thursday night?"
Tyler flips the remaining photos over- copies of the original surveillance footage from the galleries on the same block as Mark Bar- and lines them up over what little they can see of what's in the clear plastic bag.
"It's not a perfect shot, obviously. But it looks like the same suit to me."
Chuck's fingers drum, restless, on the counter next to his empty glass. He needs to slow down.
"The dry cleaner recognized the mug shot and sent in a tip this afternoon. It's been 48 hours; he might well be gone by now."
"He's not gone," Chuck murmurs, running a hand through his hair, fingertips too harsh on his scalp as he looks down at the upright, easy posture, freshly dry-cleaned suit slung over his back.
"We don't know yet- it's very possible he might not be," Tyler agrees. "So right now we're working on pulling surveillance footage from any source we can get- these came from the high-definition camera on a bank across the street, for example; most independent businesses don't have good surveillance, if any at all- to trace all the possible routes he could have taken, and once we find out which way he went at the corner, we'll do the same for the next block, and the next, and start showing people his photo, and so forth." He eyes Chuck, whose hand is now clasped at the base of his neck, fingers squeezing up and down from hairline to shoulder. "It's not a perfect system, and it will take a little time, but we'll be able to figure out if he's left, and if so, when."
"He's not gone," he repeats.
"Why do you say that?" It's clear from Tyler's tone that he doesn't disagree.
Chuck shrugs. "He raped a girl and thought he killed her- might or might not know yet that she survived- and instead of skipping town, stuck around and got the suit he was wearing dry-cleaned. It seems like someone who wanted to avoid being caught would get out of dodge as soon as possible and certainly not…" His lip quivers in disgust. He reaches for the Scotch bottle, clenches it, white-knuckled. "Keep the suit and get it dry-cleaned." For fuck's sake, he finishes silently.
The PI nods. "That's the logical conclusion. A lot of times there's no logic to how these things go, though." He pauses. "Maybe he got the suit dry-cleaned so he could dispose of it with no evidence to be found."
"Maybe," he says against the rim of his glass. "But now that it seems as likely as not that he's still here…?"
"They're holding a press conference at 11 PM. On the news. They wanted to announce it when mostly adults would be watching so they can avoid a panic."
"Relocating the headquarters to Manhattan, I hope." It was ridiculous that it was in Westchester to begin with.
"Already underway. And there's tight surveillance at all points into and out of the city being set up as we speak. Temporary cameras, and all hands on deck across every NYPD precinct. 24/7 patrol."
Tyler sees his mouth open and cuts him off: "And SWAT presence ten feet from every possible entry point to her building." He nods at Chuck. "Don't worry. We'll get him."
He puts down his glass. He really needs to stop. He can't get drunk right now.
Although sometimes, his inner voice wheedles, he's more clear-headed when he's several glasses deep.
He pushes it away and looks, again, at the photos.
"Is there anything I can do?"
He'll walk the streets himself, wave mugshots himself, review footage himself. Anything.
"There is."
He looks up.
"It would be better if no one told her. She's obviously immobilized right now, and I can only imagine what she must be going through…"
Trails off at a hard look.
"But given it won't help anything for her to know, and will probably just worsen her emotional state, or any other post-traumatic symptoms she might have, it would be best if she's shielded from knowing he's likely still here." Tyler looks at him meaningfully. "Her parents have been informed of the same."
Don't worry about anything.
"I understand." His hand reaches for the glass, instinctive, and draws back with effort.
iii.
She turns the hot water up, up, up, until it's scalding her, and gets out of the stream's path, forehead against the wall. The shower is the safest place in the penthouse.
It's the only place where she's alone and safe at the same time; she only started showering without Dorota monitoring her yesterday, peeking around the door to let her know she could go: yes, Miss Blair. Door shut softly behind her, brass skeleton key coming out without a word, turning and clicking the lock from the outside.
Blair watched the gilded deadbolt, disguised as an abstract iris that's not quite abstract enough to be a fleur-de-lis, turn ninety degrees, barring anyone from entering except Dorota. Not even her parents have skeleton keys- or, rather, not even they know where they're stored.
She locked herself in tonight, stepped behind the already-foggy door, and an hour later, rivulets of water cascading from her hair slowed to a trickle because she's been out of the shower head's path for so long, she's debating whether it's time to get out when the door handle jiggles.
She hears it at once, even over the pounding water, and jumps.
It stills.
Then jerks again.
The door rocks a little on its hinges, handle twisting to and fro in unison.
She presses herself into the back corner, tiles warm and wet against her goosebumps.
"Blair!"
She releases the breath she didn't know she was holding, tears springing to her eyes. "Mom?" Relief washes over her. "Mom…"
She wraps a towel around herself loosely and unlocks the deadbolt. Her mother cracks it open. "Darling, I'm sorry for barging in."
Blair's skittish heart must show on her face.
"Oh, my dear. I scared you. I'm sorry." Unexpectedly, she draws Blair in for a real hug- not to pet, not holding her silk blouse away from her daughter's wet hair. Hands firm yet ginger over Blair's back to avoid pressing on her ribs.
"Mom," Blair says again.
Blair never calls her "Mom."
"We got back from Westchester a while ago," Eleanor murmurs, fumbling on the rack just inside the door and finding a hand towel, using it to blot Blair's wet mane. "You were in the shower and… well, it's been a while. I got worried. I'm sorry."
The expected annoyance doesn't bloom inside her. "It's okay." She closes her eyes, cheek lolling on her mother's collar. Her mother holds her, towel stilling with Blair's handful in one terry fistful, and kisses her head and murmurs, my baby.
Dorota laid out fresh petal-pink pants and a crew neck sweater for her. Inexplicably, given to her lengthy shower, there's a steaming cup of tea- lavender chamomile, from the smell of it- beside the small vase at her bedside, the only flowers left in the room.
"Any news from Westchester?" she asks, as her mother fusses in the vanity table drawer for longer than necessary so she can change into the pink outfit without being seen.
"Nothing definitive yet, but there are leads already," Eleanor says easily, in a way that sounds rehearsed. Smooth, bright. Like Blair's own prepared-remarks voice. She's heard her father prep her mother for dealing with legal matters enough times to know when she's affecting a tone.
Eleanor brandishes the brush and hesitates before handing it over.
"Do you want me to…?"
Blair flashes a half-smile that has about as much depth to it as Eleanor's status update on the manhunt. Dissembling is a Waldorf family pastime, after all.
"I'll do it."
Eleanor's smile rises and falls on an instant. "Well." She blinks several times, looking around Blair's room like she's trying to find an excuse to stay. "I'm going to have a bath and go to bed, but you know where to find me, darling."
"Goodnight."
"Oh…" Eleanor pauses on the threshold. She turns. "I forgot to tell you. Our television service went out. Your father called and they'll have it turned back on by morning."
"I'm going to bed anyway," she says, just as easily. Her mother never says oh like that. She never says I forgot to tell you.
But she smiles. "Goodnight, mom."
And Eleanor smiles back.
iv.
She's in bed, her father coming in to kiss her goodnight, wrapping her in his arms with a natural ease that's completely at odds with her mother's gestures, tea finished, tabloids and Page Six and photographs of the girl in Boston stacked neatly in her bedside drawer, brushing her still-wet hair and looking with bored derision at the pages of telephone messages Dorota hand-wrote and left on her vanity.
Waldorfs, Astors, Willoughbys, Vanderbilts, Lenoxes, Petersens- and that's just family and her parents' friends. Even more from classmates and distant acquaintances that didn't make it over today.
More praise for what a good person she is, what a lovely young lady, how honored they are to know her.
In a gesture that would probably infuriate her mother, Dorota also clipped the resurrected "Night Out With" profile from today's edition of The Times and stuck it between the pages. Eleanor obviously forbade the newspaper from getting anywhere near her daughter.
The article might as well be called "Blair Waldorf Redux." Call a spade a spade, she thinks, non-stitched corner of her mouth turning downward. Her father, rage quivering in the taut muscles of his neck, told her that since it's not actually illegal to name a minor who is a victim of violent crime- rape, murder even- in the media in New York state, there's a limit to how much they can do. And with an apologetic softness creeping in, that the tabloids were all over them already, so he wasn't sure how much good it would do to expend resources fighting it off.
She shrugged, then, saying it didn't matter. What else was she supposed to do?
It won't make any difference, she keeps telling herself detachedly, every time hot shame bubbles up inside her.
Hot shame that's frozen by cold fury at the way everyone keeps talking to her, like she's a child again. Or worse, a weakling.
Oh- I forgot to tell you.
The Times article that she strove so furiously to make perfect in December did come off without a hitch, lighting up her Christmas season despite other complicating factors. (Not feelings- factors.) The reboot is essentially a reprint of the facts from her profile- Waldorf, who made her debut just last month- with sentences about her assault laced through- A manhunt is underway for the suspect, reaching across the tristate area and as far north as New England in its quest for justice. It's well-written and flattering. But she reads it again and again, sickness tingling in her stomach at the way it turns her into a sweeps-week-worthy sensation: the beaming cherub flying into a net, wings suddenly pinioned; Persephone skipping through the meadow, dark shape lurking behind her as she swings her basket the sacrificial lamb squealing on the altar.
The blushing virgin pillaged, senseless, tragic. The kind of story you cry just reading.
Except she doesn't cry reading it. She folds it and hides it inside the Enquirer, so Dorota doesn't get into trouble in case her mother opens her drawer, and finishes with her hair, eyes avoiding the mirror when she puts the brush back in its drawer.
v.
When he says hello, she says, "Did you settle things with Bart?"
She knows he didn't leave because of Bart, but he plays along. His stomach is growling and he realized a few minutes ago that he skipped dinner. It's 10:48 and the kitchen closes at 11.
"All settled," he replies.
"Good. I need a favor."
He grabs a banana and tosses it in the air with his free hand, catching it after it somersaults a few times. "Name it."
He thumbs open the room service menu that he knows by heart, cradling phone between ear and shoulder and snapping the banana open.
"I need you to be mean to me."
He pauses mid-peel. "What?"
"I'm so tired of everyone treating me like I'm made of glass. It's like no one I've seen in the past day knows me at all." She takes a breath, evening her voice out. "It's like everyone wants to apologize for what happened, like they all raped me."
He cringes.
"Like I died and they're all my eulogists. Just insult me or something. I need your venom."
He bites off the top of the banana. "Is that all I'm good for?" he jokes.
"No." She's silent for a little too long. "But it's something you do better than anyone else."
His shoulders slump a little, at that.
She lowers her voice. "Please. I need you to say something nasty to me. I'm about to scream. You should see the phone messages people are leaving with Dorota for me."
"Blair…"
"It's disgusting." Even lower. She sounds strangled. "Come on, just one mean thing. Be a pal."
… when you were beautiful.
He swallows. "I have nothing mean to say."
Scoff. "Sure you do."
Delicate, and untouched.
"Don't let me down here, Bass," she chides.
"Fine," he says, then takes another bite of banana.
She waits.
Rode hard and put away wet.
He chews and swallows and clears his throat.
"I thought your paper last spring, comparing methods of oppression in 1984, spent too much time on the show trials by the Inner Party. You should have focused more on the mind control of the masses."
She's silent for a few seconds, and then an unexpected spurt of laughter.
"It's much more satisfying," she bubbles, still laughing, "to spend time exiling powerful enemies than worrying about the cretins."
He smirks faintly, taking another bite and leaning forward, forearms resting on the counter. "But without their assignation, the regime would ultimately fail. Remember- 'if there's hope, it lies in the proles.'"
She snorts, mirthless and dry. "Orwell obviously never went to high school on the Upper East Side."
Sighing, with a feminine hmm behind it: "That's all you have for me?"
He shrugs. "I also think you should have included some study of the parallel methods used in Animal Farm."
"Barnyard animals are the only things that interest me less than the proletariat," she dismisses. Pause. "Thank you."
"Any time."
She clears her throat. "So you're not going to tell me who that was on the phone before?"
"It was the apothecary, telling me the quick-acting poison was backordered for at least a few weeks." He takes the last bite of the banana and throws the peel away, foot flicking the pedal to release the trash bin from its cupboard. "Are you tired? How much longer will you be up?"
"I should be sleeping now, but no luck yet. Why? Do you need to go?"
I'm so tired of being treated like I'm made of glass.
"No." Although it's 10:53, and he needs to place an order soon if he wants to eat. "I think there's something you should do."
"What?"
"Are your parents home?"
"Yes. They're in bed."
It would be best if she's shielded from knowing he's likely still here.
She pauses. "Why?"
Her parents have been informed of the same.
"Chuck?"
He leans on the counter again.
I understand.
"I think you should turn on the eleven o'clock news on mute and put on the closed captions," he says finally.
"What?"
"I'm not sure if saying this is the right thing," he comments uselessly, more to himself than to her.
"Why? I can't anyway- our television service is out. My mom told me before…" she trails off. "Ah. I see."
His eyebrows flicker. "Cable box is probably unplugged," he agrees. "I'm sure you can find a live stream online." Pause. "And you should."
10:55.
She drops her voice; he can almost see her glancing at her door, suddenly furtive. "Can't you just tell me?"
What is that? Chuck- what is that?
"I don't think I should."
What he means is: I can't say it out loud to you. Because then you won't be able to sleep, again, and it will be my fault. Again.
Not that this is really any better.
Bass. What is that on my leg?
Scratches.
Does it say something?
No.
She pauses. "Okay. I'll watch it."
You're a much better liar than this.
It says…
"Thanks," she says. "For both."
Whore.
He gets his order in, grilled chicken salad with roasted vegetables and rice, at 10:58, and watches the press conference on his bed, cross-legged.
Uptown, she's doing the same, headphones plugged into the live stream, room darkened just in case, reflection from the screen tinging her pale skin blue.
vi.
He's chewing his first bite of chicken when his phone buzzes. He left it on his bed and, when it buzzes again after a moment's rest- ringing; a phone call- he gets up to get it.
Nate.
He sighs.
"Let me guess: you need me to send over some staples."
Nate pauses. "Hey." He clears his throat. "Did you see the press conference?"
"Yes."
"Sorry for… being weird earlier." And he does sound sorry; and vaguely confused, like he's not sure why he did it. Like it's someone else's behavior he's apologizing for.
"No problem," he says automatically.
Low: "Would it be okay if I stopped by?"
"Sure. Better hurry, though- paparazzi are going to be swarming as soon as they can get back from the headquarters."
"Be there in ten."
Which means he was on his way when he pressed Send.
vii.
He doesn't have time to wait and see if she'll call back, so he wolfs down the rest of his meal and dials.
"Wow," she answers. "I can't believe my parents tried to keep this from me."
"I'm sure they had good intentions."
"So he's… here." Here. The millions of people on the island of Manhattan seem to vanish, leaving only her and him.
"They think so."
Then there's a silence that stokes his heart into overdrive and makes him question his decision to tell her to watch at all.
"Are you okay?" he asks finally.
"Yeah, I…" she exhales sharply, like she's fighting tears. "I guess I'm a little weaker than I expected."
"You're not weak," he tells her.
"I thought he was gone. I'm surprised… I'm surprised how- how nervous I am, knowing he's here." Her voice falls across the sentence, ending at a whisper so small that he has to strain to hear.
"Waldorf. You're safe. Your parents are there, and Dorota, and your doorman, and it's a secure penthouse." He hesitates, and then: "The NYPD has SWAT teams set up on all entrances to your building."
She pauses. Her eyes are narrowed. He knows it. "How do you know all this?"
He knew that was coming.
"Was that what the phone call was about?"
"I'm trying to help," he says, voice tight, not inviting thanks or praise.
"Okay. But… don't lie to me about it," she replies, voice firm, not inviting impressions of weakness.
"I won't anymore."
Her voice sharpens. "And don't do anything stupid like boss around a police officer."
"Deal," he smirks. I won't even bother; I'll just circumvent, he adds silently. "But are you okay? Maybe you could ask Serena to come over."
"No," she says, too quickly. "I'll be fine."
He tips his head back, gazing at the ceiling. He hasn't seen or heard from Serena all day, and no photos of her have been posted since she left the Waldorf penthouse overnight.
"Okay."
She clears her throat. "Well, since you're apparently in the know," she hums, conspiratorial and melodic, "I trust you'll keep me informed?"
He glances at the lower shelf of his bedside table, where the photos of the guy leaving the dry cleaner's have joined the photos of the girl in Boston, and the photos of him walking down 77th, west from Mark Bar, Blair to his right. And the rags, and The Post, and The Times.
Quite a collection he's developing.
He tells her that of course he will.
viii.
He and Nate are drinking whisky sours- Nate's not in the mood for Scotch, and whoever stocked his kitchen this week left a mesh bag of particularly juicy lemons from Balducci's on the counter- in indifferent half-silence.
"Fucked up," Nate mutters at one point.
"Agreed." He tosses a lemon overhand in the air, like the banana before, other arm hyperextended and pressing his weight into the counter, forefinger and thumb gripping the base of his glass. Nate changed into a blue-and-white striped sweater from the jacket he wore to see Blair, looking like a man just in from sailing; he's in the same button-down, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow.
"My mom wanted me to call her." The blonde flicks hair out of his eyes, offhandedly. He really needs a trim. "I figured she was asleep."
He looks away, switching his lemon out for a bigger one, and throws this one underhand.
Nate blinks at him. "You talked to her."
He glances at the hard blue gaze and then away, exasperated. "Look." He swallows and shakes his head. "We can keep up the tension, but this is bigger. If you're pissed at me or can't be friends with me again, I get it, but…"
He puts the lemon on the counter and flicks his hand, other hand still clutching the whisky sour.
"Can we come back to it when this is over?"
Nate frowns in thought. "I'll try. I don't know whether I'm pissed- I do know we're friends." He sighs. "It's a lot right now. I'll try."
"Fair enough."
Nate drains his glass- too fast; Chuck hopes he ate dinner- and pushes it back across, getting to his feet.
"So she saw it, then?" Nate holds up a hand and Chuck tosses over the lemon, reaching for one from the bag to make him another drink.
"Yes. She knows he's here."
"How is she?"
His mouth tightens. He squeezes the lemon too hard too fast, and the juice spatters. He calms down; it needs to go in the glass.
"She's nervous."
Nate scoffs, tossing it in the air a few times. "Jesus. I bet. She must be out of her mind."
He glances up. "She's stronger than that." It may not be completely true- she's not at her best- but she definitely doesn't seem to feel like baring her soul to Nate right now. "More honey, or same as the last one?"
"More."
He splashes whisky on top, but doesn't fill it as full this time. All he needs is drunk, chatty Nate wanting to sleep over.
"How's your mom taking it?" He assumes Anne saw.
A great sigh. "Honestly, man, I'm worried about her. She's like… a nervous wreck. And she's not making any sense. She ordered that huge bouquet today-" Chuck, stirring the sour so he doesn't have to get out the shaker, keeps his face neutral; he knew Nate didn't know her favorite flowers- "and insisted on me picking it up from the florist instead of having them meet me there, even though that's out of the way, so I had to take two cabs."
He looks up then.
Nate rolls his eyes.
So I had to take two cabs.
And, so he spent more time out.
More time exposed.
More time being photographed.
"So annoying," Nate sighs, and holds up the lemon in question. Catch?
He nods, and Nate throws it over. He catches it in one hand and finishes stirring, sliding the drink over. "Ridiculous," he agrees.
"Yeah, but," Nate shrugs, flexing his hand in request and then catching the lemon as it arcs back toward him- he's backed up toward the sitting area, "I think she's just out of it. I'm trying to be patient."
"Any chance she's hitting the pill bottle a bit?" he asks idly. Nate probably thinks otherwise, but Anne certainly looks like she's medicated- always has- and based on the few times Chuck has seen her since the Captain was arrested, he'd guess she needs to see about having her dosage adjusted.
"I don't think so." Nate watches the lemon rise and fall rapidly, rhythmic as he plays catch with himself.
"At least give yourself a challenge," Chuck scoffs, throwing him another. Nate can juggle, because of course he can.
Nate smirks. "Didn't know I was the entertainment tonight."
"Call it a trade." He nods at the second whisky.
"Gimme a third." He cradles two in one palm and catches the third, then sets about with three.
He loads his own drink with less honey and more whisky, abandoning his earlier notions of not pacing himself. It's not like he has school to go to in the morning.
"How many can you do?"
"Up to four at a time," Nate replies, eyes never leaving the three lemons bobbing in the air at staggered intervals.
He wants to reply, it's like me and girls- but it sticks in his mouth, more bitter than the whisky. Somehow it doesn't feel funny.
A fourth lemon comes at Nate, and he drops two of the first three. He chuckles good-naturedly and picks them up.
"Maybe my mom should see about getting some kind of prescription," Nate muses, four lemons flying in perfect harmony now. It's remarkable not only that Nate is so athletically gifted, but how seamlessly he can multitask while doing anything physical. But try to have him remember words in a foreign language, focus on writing a paper or studying for a test, and suddenly he can't even handle one mental endeavor. "She's anxious as hell. Every time I look at her, she's biting her nails." He shakes his head as though disturbed by less-than-perfect female hands; what is this, the Midwest? "She says she just needs a manicure."
Chuck shrugs. "So get someone who does house calls." Come on, Archibald.
"Good point." He nods his head sideways, lemons jumping smoothly as ever from his palms, toward Chuck's bed. "Phone's ringing." His mouth sets into a frown as he concentrates on picking up speed while Chuck edges past.
"It's past your bedtime," he answers, smarming, hoping for a spirited retort.
But Serena disappoints him. "Come downstairs," she whines. "Have a drink with me."
"You sound like you've had too many drinks already," he sighs, rubbing his eyes, suddenly tired. Nate rotates, juggling pace slowing.
"Who?" he hisses.
"Serena," Chuck mouths.
"I'm having another," she tells him, a little closer to spirited now: stubborn. "At least one more. Whether you come or not."
"I'm having drinks already, as it happens. In Bar 1812. Population me and Nathaniel."
She scoffs, incredulous. "And you didn't invite me?"
"Because you should be in bed," he lectures again, instead of telling her the truth, which is that he didn't invite Nate either. He immediately wishes he hadn't told her; all he needs is two tipsy blondes in his suite right now.
"You saw the press conference?" she trips on, not slurring yet but slow. "It's being replayed over and over on whatever station they have down here."
He glances at Nate. "We both saw. She did, too."
There's a faint wince on her end.
"Chuck," she says, thickly- she has a way of saying his name like she's taking a bite out of something dense, an enunciation of the consonants that's unique from the way other people pronounce it. "Can I come?"
Nate's looking at him expectantly, four lemons in two hands.
"Sure," he says. "Come on up."