Note: Written post 104, "Bad News Blair." Title is from a lyric by John Lennon.
What the fuck was he talking about? Going on and on. About his mother, as if he knew anything about hers, and the words rushing out of his mouth like the cabs on Sixth Avenue when she needed one the most. What did he know about guilt-ridden bites of breakfast, of discarded unworn dresses, of endless self-loathing? What did he know of not ranking on the to-call list during vacations in Paris, or late-night business meetings, or her own heart?
What did he know?
And he was staring. At her. And had stopped talking and she was staring back and she noticed now, knowing he had noticed too.
Staring at her with those big brown eyes. Like hers. Putting a hand. On hers. Saying, "We're not so different, are we?" and smiling until she found herself smiling back.
"Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I came here to talk to you about your mom, not mine."
"No," Blair said automatically, surprising herself. "It's okay." It was the first conversation she had had in—in as long as she could remember—that wasn't about Serena or fashion or Yale or that stupid blog. It was the first time she had talked to a man about another woman without the ulterior motive of plotting something totally evil.
He continued his story and she listened this time but couldn't bring herself to share hers. That would have to wait. And she stood in her usual spot on the sidelines when she heard him ask out Serena and didn't even feel a tinge of jealousy, because at this point she was used to everyone, everyone, everyone choosing Serena over her. Even Blair did it constantly too.
Not to worry. Her time would come.
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