What? Or who?
Dan might have been totally clueless, but he knew what was coming next: the lights were turned down low, the television was alive with stories of rollicking, devil-may-care out-law writers, the evening was warm, the couch was cozy: there was only one way this could end, and that was with a make-out session.
Another make-out session, to be more specific.
“I can’t see very well. Can you?” Dan reached to his left and switched on the chipped ceramic table lamp, helping to break the room’s romantic mood a little.
“Now I can see you better.” Greg smiled coyly at Dan.
“Right.” Dan took the oversize plastic bowl off of his lap and wedged it into the small space between him and Greg. “That should give you easier access,” he explained.
Dan patted at his pockets anxiously. He was dying for a cigarette ...but did he dare risk it? Dan was pretty sure there was nothing sexier than smoking: the little burst of flame as you struck the match, the languorous exhale of long plumes of smoke. He didn’t want to send Greg the wrong message.
Yeah, we all love smoker’s breath. Not.
There were a few minutes of silence, during which Dan tried to focus on the television but couldn’t stop monitoring Greg’s every movement in his peripheral vision. Greg kept running his hand over his soft blond crew cut and chewing on his slightly chapped bottom lip.
“You don’t like the movie?” Greg caught Dan’s eye. He reached for the remote control and turned the volume down enough to make the television nothing more than ambient background noise.
“No, no, it’s not that,” Dan stammered. “I was just . . . thinking about what we should do at our next salon meeting.”
“I think we should do the Beats.” Greg pulled his feet up onto the couch and rested his chin on his knees. He had a layer of soft-looking blond stubble on his face. We could even screen this documentary....I mean, if you want to.”
Dan looked at the black-and-white footage of a couple of shirtless poets drinking bottles of beer and smoking cigarettes. He nodded miserably. There was no use fighting fate, was there? He was gay now—everywhere he turned there were signs from the universe telling him to just go with it. So why couldn’t he just put his arm around Greg’s shoulders and nuzzle into his neck? It didn’t seem wrong, but it didn’t seem quite right, either.
“Kerouac! Christ, it just doesn’t get any better, does it?” Apparently, Rufus Humphrey had entered the room unob-served. He was standing behind the couch, breathing over their heads.
Thank goodness for nosy dads.
Rufus leaned in to murmur in Dan’s ear. “It was a different time, I tell you.We didn’t have any regard for rules or the rigid definitions of society. We all just . . . were. You know what I mean?”
“Sounds amazing,” Greg agreed, leaning in closer to Dan. He smelled like popcorn and laundry detergent. He smelled delicious. In a nongay way.
“Dad! Join us!” Dan jerked away, grabbing onto the sofa’s arm as though it were a life preserver. He grabbed the bowl of popcorn and patted the empty space on the couch. “Plenty of room for one more!”
“Really?” Rufus exclaimed.Then, in a surprisingly graceful move for such a massive man, he leapt over the back of the couch and landed squarely between the two boys. “Don’t mind if I do!”
Dan exhaled. He’d never been so happy to see his dad before. “Yeah, watch with us. And maybe after you can tell us all your stories about the good old days?”
Rufus studied his son suspiciously. His neon green tank top was pulled tight over his belly and tucked into a pair of Dan’s navy blue school gym shorts. “You want to hear my old stories?”
“Definitely.” Dan nodded excitedly. “I’m sure Greg does too!”
“Sure.” Greg nodded politely.
“Yes, tell us everything.” Dan smiled. His dad’s stories were always endless and nonsensical. And totally unromantic.
let’s get it on
“So.” Blair exhaled sexily, her voice husky and low. She’d lost count of how many cocktails she’d had, but she felt completely sober now. I love you. I love you. He loved her. She leaned back on the pale yellow Frette pillows on the bed in the van der Woodsens’ quiet master suite. The pumping music downstairs and the sounds of drunken revelers outside were hushed by the gentle hum of the A/C.
“So.” Nate stood at the foot of the bed, grinning at her excitedly. His cheeks were flushed and his green eyes gleamed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking more like he was waiting in line for the bathroom than waiting to pounce on her.
Blair patted the soft feather duvet beside her. “Get over here,” she said with a knowing smile.
Yes, ma’am.
Nate kicked off his gray-blue canvas deck shoes and leapt up onto the bed. He bounced tentatively to check if the ceiling was high enough for him to jump up and down without hitting his head.Then he started bouncing around crazily.
“Stop! Stop!” Blair shrieked. She stood up and took Nate’s hands, and they bounced together like a couple of demented, overgrown kids.
Then Nate stopped bouncing, suddenly serious. “So, um, does this mean something?”
Blair held on to his hands, swinging them from side to side. “Mean something?” she asked. “As in, are we back together?”
Nate shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah.”
Blair blushed again, more deeply this time. “Well, we better be, because I love you too.” Nate grinned and took a bouncy step forward so that his chin brushed her forehead. Blair tipped her head back. His gold-flecked green eyes sparkled. And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t like they had a lot more to say.
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
hey people!
Isn’t fate funny? You think you’ve got some control over things, you think you’re in charge of life, but really, come on—we’re all just at the mercy of the universe. I mean, we all read our horoscopes, don’t we? And we all know there are some people who are just . . . connected. It doesn’t always make sense, but it’s not worth fighting. So I’m happy to report an early-bird sighting: B slipping out of the van der Woodsens’ master bedroom to grab a fresh bottle of water, wearing N’s olive green polo (and nothing else). It’s just fate, people. Get used to it.
The postparty e-mails are starting to trickle in, and it seems the big blowout was every bit as eventful as a Costume Institute gala. Minus the gowns—or any clothes whatsoever. But the thing everyone’s talking about is the birthday girl and the boy who must’ve been her present. . . . So, my faithful readers, I’ve got a poll for you:
You bump into an old flame. What do you do?
a) Adopt a vaguely Russian accent and go straight for the vodka.
b) Make out with the nearest quasicutie—nothing like a new flame to make him jealous.
c) Reminisce about old times . . . and then show him all your new tricks.
d) Call S and ask for advice—she’s been there, done all of the above!
That’s right: It seems that not only did N and B do some reuniting, but S got reacquainted with an old friend, H. Or more than a friend? He was seen carrying her into her bedroom just before daybreak. Awww. How sweet! Now give me the dirt. Who is he and what’s the story? I’m dying for answers, and I know you are too!
your e-mail
Q: Dear GG,
Just a response to your APB: I totally just spotted a vintage roadster while I was out for my morning run. It was parked in a long white gravel driveway and it looked like there were people sleeping in it together! Ew!
—5K
A: Dear 5K,
Congrats on sticking to your morning regimen, and thanks for the hot tip. But as usual, I’m way ahead of the game. The errant threesome has been located and I’m all boned up on what’s going on. Let’s just hope your sleeping beauties wake up before they return!
&nb
sp; —GG
a little friendly advice
As city dwellers, we’re used to waking up in our own beds. You can party anywhere, all night long, and a taxi is just waiting to whisk you back to your penthouse or town house. But it’s different in the country. Everyone just . . . sleeps over. I know, I know. It sounds a little grody— waking up in some unfamiliar house, very likely with some unfamiliar hookup drooling on your skirt. And yes, it can be awkward seeing everyone in the unforgiving light, without the benefit of booze-goggles. But I’m in the giving mood, (hello, when am I not?), and I’ve got some advice. . . .
five morning-after pointers
1) Country houses have the nicest bathrooms. Take a nice steam and feel free to bring a friend. The shower’s big enough for two, and sharing is caring!
2) Yes, you look like a mess. So feel free to go ahead and borrow something from the host. But if you take some undies, just keep ’em. It’ll be our secret.
3) Head hurts? Gather up the leftover champagne for mimosas, and slip a little Kahlúa into the French-press. It might just get the party restarted.
4) Help yourself to the lady of the house’s beauty products. Mommies always have the very best eye cream.
5) Still not feeling any better? There may still be some prescription-strength Motrin leftover from Granny’s fall. Hey, hangovers hurt!
Okay, kids, time for me to take my own advice and follow it up with a little dip in the pool. Which pool? Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?
You know you love me.
gossip girl
birthday blues
“Happy birthday to me.” Serena whispered, her voice hoarse and scratchy. She slipped out of her rumpled canopy bed and yawned miserably. She’d been miserably half-asleep and half-awake all night, unable to doze off soundly with Henry cuddled up next to her. Nate’s words kept repeating in her head: I love you, I love you, I love you.
Sliding her feet into her hot pink rubber flip-flops, she thwacked out of the bedroom.There was no need to tiptoe— Henry was snoring heavily enough that she could probably do an aerobics routine on the bed without disturbing him.
The hallway was quiet, and pale early morning sun peeked in through the massive windows. She lingered by the glass momentarily, taking in the view: the green expanse of the wide lawn, the calm glimmer of the swimming pool, the clear blue sky without even a suggestion of a cloud overhead. It was going to be another gorgeous day, but somehow the beautiful weather just made her feel more miserable.
Who knew she had a secret dramatic streak?
Hugging her bare arms, Serena descended the grand main staircase down to the marble-tiled foyer, surveying the party damage: glass tumblers with the sticky remnants of mostly finished cocktails lining the entryway console table, stubbed-out cigarette butts strewn on the floor, abandoned paper plates filled with half-eaten hamburgers strewn absent-mindedly on the coffee table. Heading into the living room, she glanced around at the sleeping partygoers lolling list-lessly on the tufted leather sofas, empty liquor bottles lying defeated at their sides.
Hope the maid’s coming in today!
She studied the faces of the sleeping revelers—dozing and peaceful, not yet mindful of the horrid hangovers that were their immediate future. Everyone looked so sweet and innocent. Only a few hours before, they’d all joined in a rousing drunken chorus of “Happy Birthday.” She’d pre-tended not to notice how they mumbled when they got to the “dear Serena” part. Besides Erik and Henry, the only other people at the party who knew her name were too busy upstairs to sing.
She found a clean tumbler in the kitchen and filled it with cold water, sipping it greedily to wash the taste of morning breath from her tongue.
Yum.
Hopping up on the counter, she perched for a while, feeling like the last person alive after a nuclear bomb or some other disaster. But the quiet helped her clear her mind. Today was her eighteenth birthday, but she wasn’t thinking about what was ahead. For the first time in a long, long time, she couldn’t stop thinking about the past.
Everyone always assumed that she was as happy-go-lucky as she acted, but the truth was, she was acting. At least, some of the time. After all, even she looked liked crap when she’d been crying. And during those early days at Hanover she’d cried a lot.
She hopped off the counter and padded back into the library, sliding open the many small drawers of her father’s heavy wooden desk until she unearthed some stationery. Then, instead of taking a seat in his giant leather office chair, she tucked herself under the desk. It had been one of her favorite hiding places when she was little. Dark and cozy and safe, with the dank scent of antique wood. She tucked the swivel chair in so she was completely hidden and started to write. By the time she’d said what she needed to, she’d filled three pages of the ivory-colored Crane’s writing paper.
Climbing out of her hiding place, Serena stuffed the pages into an envelope and sealed it with two quick licks. She scrawled a name across the front of it, and then, moving quickly so she wouldn’t lose momentum or second-guess herself, she hurried out of the house and into the driveway. Dozens of cars were parked half on and half off the lawn, but it was easy to spot the vintage hunter green Aston Martin, top still down, dewy and shining in the gray-gold morning light. She strode toward it purposefully, popped open the glove compartment, and left the envelope inside, faceup.
Somebody’s in for a big surprise.
Air Mail - Par Avion - July 14
Dear Dan,
Wow—that’s some big news! Maybe we can go shopping together when I get back? Or ice-skating? Do you like stuff like that now?
I was talking to Mom about it and she said that when you were little you were always hiding in her closet, trying on her sequined dresses from the seventies. Isn’t that funny? Congratulations on finally coming out of the closet!
I love you!
Jenny
my baby takes the morning train
“I’m home,” Vanessa whispered as she quietly shuffled into Dan’s sprawling Upper West Side apartment. She care-fully deposited her backpack on an armchair laden with winter coats even though it was July. It was only eight o’clock in the morning and it didn’t seem fair to wake the whole household just to announce her definitely untriumphant return. How many times would she slink back here? It was basically the only place she had in the world to call home, and already she’d had to retreat there a distressing number of times in the past few weeks: first, after being unceremoniously evicted from the Williamsburg apartment, then after being fired from her first real job working on Breakfast at Fred’s, and now after narrowly escaping a stint as a careless nanny and then vapid muse to the maniacally enthusiastic Bailey Winter.
Some summer!
“Who’s there?”
Slightly startled to hear Dan’s voice—at least it sounded like Dan—so early in the morning, Vanessa squinted into the still-dark hallway. “Dan? It’s me.Vanessa.”
“Vanessa,” Dan muttered sadly. He was paler than usual, and his cheeks had a dusting of irregular stubble over them, like he’d started to shave and then changed his mind. Eggplant-colored circles ringed his eyes, and he was clutching an unlit cigarette in his hand as if he’d forgotten to light it and then forgotten it was there.
Wow—someone really isn’t a morning person.
“Dan? You look like—” She paused, taking in the oily sheen of his unwashed, matted hair. She was suddenly over-whelmed with the feeling of wanting to draw him a bath and make him some oatmeal. She vaulted forward, sweeping him up in her arms. He smelled like musty cigarettes and armpit, but for some reason Vanessa still found it comforting. But just as she leaned in a little closer, smelling his spottily shaven neck, he stepped out of her embrace. “Are you okay?” she demanded, concerned.
“I don’t know.” Dan stuck the unlit cigarette into the corner of his mouth and patted his pockets miserably. “I can’t find my lighter.” He sounded almost on the verge of tears.
“Your lighter?” It didn’t sound like that was his only problem. Poor Dan, sometimes he took imitating Keats a little too much to heart.
“It doesn’t matter.” Dan removed the cigarette from his mouth and tucked it behind his ear, where a mass of his slick, dirty hair kept it in place. “I’m going to make some coffee.You want some?”
Really, all she wanted to do was collapse into bed, possibly with Dan, but he was acting entirely bizarre. Plus he smelled weird.
“Coffee sounds good.” Vanessa placed her arm gently around Dan’s shoulders, as though he was a delicate waif in need of comforting. She led him down the brown-rice-colored hallway toward the kitchen. “Maybe I’ll make it, and you can just sit and tell me why you’re such a mess.”
Dan shuffled down the hallway after her but hadn’t even made it to the kitchen before the words exploded out of him. “I let this dude I met at the Strand kiss me.We started a salon together. I’m gay. My dad said he did some gay stuff when he was hanging out with poets back in the day, but me—I’m really gay.”
Vanessa brushed past him and into the kitchen. She unscrewed the lid on the commercial-size jar of Folgers crystals on the counter. Dan sat down at the worn Formica table and sank his head in his hands.
“What do you mean you ‘started a salon’?” she demanded, totally ignoring the gay part of the equation. “You’re Mr. Never Get a Real Haircut.What do you know about salons?”
Dan had to smile. “No, a literary salon. A salon,” he repeated with the correct intonation. He stopped smiling. God, he sounded gay. “There were lots of pretty girls at our first meeting, and they were kissing each other too.” He frowned, totally confused. “But I kissed Greg.”
Vanessa microwaved a pitcher of water and poured it out into two mismatched mugs, stirring in spoonfuls of instant coffee. She took a sip and made a face. Christ, Folgers fucking tasted like dog piss after all the amazing coffee she’d been drinking in the Hamptons.