The Ghost of Us Lingers

Peering into her compact, Blair scrutinizes her reflection, searching for the slightest flaw, the smallest imperfection. A displaced curl or a stray eyelash or a barely perceptible smudge in her lipstick is not to be tolerated today. Not when she’s seeing him. Not that his opinion matters. She… she just wants to look her best. For her. Nothing wrong with that. How often does a girl get to run into an ex looking so good that he’ll kick himself for ever letting her go and eat his heart out? Not that Chuck is an ex. Or has a heart. Or that she cares enough to make him regret losing her.

And so what if she’d taken extra time with her appearance this morning to ensure she looked stunning, and pinned her hair up so her nape was visible, and wore a crimson dress that showed off her curves that he might have mentioned once or twice made her a hundred times hotter than Serena could ever be? She wasn’t doing it for him.

She’s with Nate, and she’s living her fairytale, and Chuck Bass is nothing but a mistake so far in her past she can hardly remember.

Finding that nothing has changed with her appearance since the last time she’d checked before getting into the elevator, she clicks the mirrored case shut with a satisfied smirk and slides it back into her Miu Miu clutch.

Next she straitens the fall of her gown, squares her shoulders, raises her fist and knocks a staccato rhythm upon the door to the van der Woodsen penthouse where Chuck currently resides.

Standing there waiting, something flutters inside her stomach, and she tells herself it isn’t butterflies. She no longer gets those for him. It’s probably nausea or low blood sugar since she skipped breakfast. After this meeting, she’ll have to get some lunch. Maybe Nate will take her out to Butter and then home to his place and they’ll make love all afternoon and thoughts of a certain Basshole won’t intrude in her relationship or her life ever again. Everything will be perfect. Nate and Blair, Blair and Nate. The way the movie in her head is supposed to end.

In front of her, the door opens and it’s him, silhouetted in the entrance, more handsome than a heartbreaking Basstard should be allowed to be, impeccable in a pale blue suit, familiar glass of scotch in hand, and it may just be a trick of the light, but for the briefest moment, it seems like some undefined emotion flickers across his face, something so raw it steals her breath. Then, before she can even fully register it, let alone begin to decipher its meaning, the look is gone, replaced by one of aloof indifference.

“Blair,” he greets, and it should be illegal the way he makes her name sound, the way it rolls off his tongue to reach inside and stoke the embers of something that should’ve burned out long ago. “Serena’s not here.”

“I’m not here for Serena,” she says, feeling flustered that he can still affect her so. “I… I came to see you.”

His brows lift. “Oh?”

And there it is again. That look. That flash of something in his eyes.

“Yeah, well…” she sighs, her voice trailing off when she registers his proximity. He’s closer now, only an arm’s length away, and she can smell his cologne, that intoxicating mixture of sandalwood and spice and the faintest hint of something else, something elusive and feminine that he somehow manages to make seem incredibly male.

That scent… that scent should be illegal too. It reminds her of…

You sure?

…of things that are best forgotten.

Nervously, she wets her lips, and his dark eyes track the movement in a way that dries the saliva in her mouth and she has to moisten them once more, and he’s suddenly nearer than he was, she would swear it, even though she can’t recall seeing him take a step forward, and secretly she fears it may have been her traitorous body that had closed the distance between them of its own volition.

And he’s doing it again, undressing her with a glance, stripping her bare, peering into her core and making her yearn for that which she can never have. Not with him. Even though he’s there, right there, close enough to touch, to kiss, to –

“Nate thinks we should talk,” she blurts out.

His free hand, the one not nursing the scotch, the one that had just begun to reach for her, perhaps to stroke her arm or cradle her cheek or bury itself into her hair, falls slowly back to his side, curling into a fist as it goes.

“Is that so?” Chuck drawls, and his voice is altogether different now. It’s colder, more abrupt, almost… resentful. And yet that doesn’t make any sense because what does he have to be resentful about?

After all, wasn’t he the one who had rejected her time and again? He was the one who sneered, ‘Well that’s too bad.’ He was the one who made ‘wife’ into the ugliest word in the world and thought a bouquet of flowers and a pathetic apology could fix it. It was him, Chuck fucking Bass, who was the one who told her he didn’t want her at the Vanderbilt family reunion when she’d offered herself to him like she had that first night after Victrola! Seems virginal, perfect, undisputed Queen of Constance Blair was good enough to screw, but not Blair who’d lost everything. He didn’t want that Blair. Not the one who’d been rode hard and put away wet, who’d been cheated on my Marcus, who’d been cast aside by Carter Baizen, who’d lost Yale and her father’s respect and her own pride. Nobody wanted her. Nobody except Nathaniel.

“Yes,” Blair replies stiffly. “He… he is worried that us getting back together might have been a bit premature.”

“And what would give him that kind of impression?” Chuck inquires, expression guarded, eyes intense but unreadable.

“I…”

Cried your name during sex... several times.

“I haven’t the faintest,” Blair shrugs, an irritating flush creeping up her neck.

The edges of Chuck’s mouth curl upwards. “You’re a terrible liar, Waldorf,” he whispers smugly, and she suppresses the impulse to slap that cocky smirk right off his face.

Instead, she fixes him with a frosty glare. “Why he thinks it isn’t relevant to this conversation,” she says dismissively. “The point is he thinks it. He’s worried that we… that you and I have some unresolved issues.”

“Really?” Chuck snorts. “How perceptive of him.”

“Yes! I mean, no! I mean…” She stops, silently counting to ten, willing herself to regain control of this situation and not allow him to goad her into rage like he frequently does. “Nate thinking that there is anything between you and I is just ludicrous because – ”

“Because you ran from my arms to his?” Chuck interjects.

“It wasn’t like that!” she bristles, temper flaring despite her efforts to keep it in check.

“It was exactly like that,” he accuses. “It was your goddamned cotillion all over again!”

“And so what if it was?” she snaps, unable to remain calm any longer. “You had your chance Chuck! In case you’ve forgotten, it was you who turned me down that night. It was you who didn’t want me!”

“I wanted you, Waldorf,” he insists, his tone less angry than it is bitter. “I just didn’t want being with you to mean nothing.”

That admission gives her pause. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted me to fuck you in order to, and I quote, ‘prove nothing matters,’ and forgive me but I didn’t want to be part of something that didn’t matter,” he growls. “Not with you. Not with us.”

His words, damn him, stir something within her, but she fights against it. Inadvertently calling them an ‘us’ is not enough to erase the anguish he has caused her this past year. “Well you have a funny way of being chivalrous,” she snarls. “You didn’t even bother to come after me or make sure I got home. You left!”

“I left because I wasn’t sure how long I could keep saying no!” he grinds out in frustration, raking his fingers through his hair in a familiar gesture. “Christ Waldorf,” he continues, his voice gentler, “I wanted you. I wanted you so badly I couldn’t see straight, and I knew if I stayed, I’d give in. I’d do whatever you asked. I’d fuck you until you saw stars, and I’d hate myself for it. I didn’t want our first time together since I didn’t follow you to Tuscany to be like that. Not a frantic fuck against a wall! We’re worth more than that.”

“We’re…?” she swallows, her icy demeanor thawing as he refers to them as a couple once again.

Then his unexpected softness disappears behind a venomous sneer. “What does it matter now though?” he hisses. “You ran back to your precious Nathaniel the first chance you got. You’re with him now, and I… I’m expecting someone.”

“What?”

“I have a date,” he enunciates with vicious glee. “So if you don’t mind, can we wrap this up? I need to get ready. I’ve got better things planned for this evening.”

“You have a date?” she sputters, her stomach churning suddenly.

“Yeah,” he grins cruelly. “5’10”, blonde, busty, legs for days.”

In other words, everything she is not. It goes unsaid, but still she hears it.

“Well I hope she makes you happy,” she retorts, leaving abruptly, blinking back tears.

She makes it about ten paces before he calls after her. “Blair, wait! I – ”

“Yes?” she says quickly, hating the breathless quality in her voice as she turns to find him almost immediately behind her.

In response, he stands there, some inner turmoil clouding his features. Then he stretches out his hand, brushing her cheek as he tucks an errant curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering there, woven into the mahogany mass of her hair, his smoldering gaze boring into her, searching her face with an almost desperate urgency.

“I… I…”

Three words. Eight letters. Say it and I’m yours.

“I hope you’re happy too,” he finally mutters.

Thank you. That’s all I needed to hear.

“I am,” she announces blithely, beaming even as what’s left of her heart shatters, not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “I’m marvelously happy.”

Chuck nods, stepping back, dropping his hand from her chestnut tresses, and the pang that accompanies that loss of contact has her fighting back the urge to fling herself into his arms and confess that it’s all a lie. “That’s… great.”

“Yes, yes it is,” she agrees. “But I really should be going. I’m having lunch with Nathaniel, and I don’t want to keep you from getting ready for your… date.”

“My…date. Yeah,” he mumbles. “Goodbye, Blair.”

“Goodbye Chuck.”

She returns to her residence, texting Nate en route, asking him to come over. Once back in the safety of her room, after sending Dorota out for the remainder of the day, she undresses slowly down to nothing but La Perla lingerie and Louboutin pumps, lights jasmine scented candles to help set the mood, and then perches on the edge of the bed to wait for his arrival. When the door opens, a memory flits through her mind.

What took you so long?
If you thought that was long…

But she shoves it away, smiling gaily at Nate despite the chill running down her spine. “I told you that you were being silly,” she purrs at him. “There is absolutely nothing between me and Chuck anymore. I want you, Nate Archibald. You and only you.”

As he takes her in his arms and kisses her, however, as he lays her back upon the powder blue sheets to make love, as he caresses her skin and fondles her breasts, as she spreads her thighs to take him into herself with a soft moan, she keeps remembering another’s touch, fervent and tender and almost reverential.

Nate’s voice is whispering in her ear, “Oh God Blair. Baby you’re so good, so hot. I love you,” but it is another’s words that echo in her thoughts.

Let go, princess, let go.

And as she comes undone beneath her golden boy, it is the face of a dark prince that flashes before her eyes, although his name is not on her lips. She holds it back, deep inside, locked away with the remnants of other broken dreams, and if Nathaniel sees the unshed tears shimmering along her lashes in that moment, he chooses not to comment.