Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(40)
“Excuse me,” Blair said loudly to no one in particular as soon as she stepped inside. “My name is Blair Waldorf. I work with Bailey Winter. I need to speak to someone in charge here.”
No one moved, and no one responded. Then Blair felt a tap on her shoulder and heard a familiar voice.
“I think I can help you,” offered Serena.
“Hey.” Blair turned to see the grinning face of her best friend. Or were they not friends now? They’d had so many ups and downs it was honestly sometimes hard for Blair to remember if she liked Serena again or if they weren’t speaking to each other.
“You’re back!” Serena squealed. She grabbed Blair and hugged her tightly.
Looks like friends forever.
“I’m back,” Blair echoed, enviously assessing Serena’s ebony chiffon Bailey Winter dress.
“Tell me everything,” Serena insisted, pulling away from Blair and inspecting her closely. “Since when are you working for Bailey Winter? I thought you were in London!”
“I got a job,” Blair explained matter-of-factly. “It just seemed like the responsible thing to do, you know. I thought it would be good to have some career experience under my belt.”
“That’s great!” Serena practically screamed.
“I’ve been thinking about a career in fashion,” she added casually. The hundred-odd-person crew of Breakfast at Fred’s gaped at her, just waiting for Ken Mogul to verbally chop off her head. Blair went on in an oblivious loud voice, eating up the attention. “Everyone has a calling, and I think fashion is mine.”
“What about London? What about Lord Whatsisname?” Serena demanded. Were the rumors about his English fiancée actually true? She didn’t usually listen to gossip, but there had to be a reason for Blair to give up a royal romance in London to come home and take a summer job.
“It’s a long story.” Blair sighed dramatically. She was a working woman with a past. Now if Serena would just loan her that dress . . .
“Tell it to me tonight,” Serena whispered excitedly. “Ken’s putting me up in my own apartment. You should totally come over. Shit, screw that—move in with me!”
“Well . . .” Blair hesitated. She’d moved around a lot lately: the Plaza Hotel, Williamsburg, the Yale Club, London. And wasn’t she supposed to be home, close to her baby sister?
“Did I mention that I’m now living on East Seventy-first Street?” Serena knew full well that Blair Waldorf of all people would recognize that address.
Move into the apartment from Breakfast at Tiffany’s!
“I just need to pack my bags,” Blair responded stoically, as if she could hide the fact that she was practically peeing in her pants with excitement. “I’ll be there tonight.”
She threw her arms around Serena in a fit of impetuous enthusiasm. Everything always had a way of turning out just right, especially when Serena was involved. This time they really would stay friends forever.
If you can call the next few days forever!
Gossip Girl 09 - Only in Your Dreams
karma chameleon
Dan Humphrey slipped into the disgusting employees-only restroom in a dank corner of the basement of the Strand clutching a tiny black tote bag emblazoned with the logo of the literary magazine Red Herring. Double-checking that the door was locked tight, he pulled his threadbare Bauhaus T-shirt over his head and unbuttoned his fine-wale Levi’s cords, dropping them to the floor. He paid no attention to the literary graffiti a generation of disaffected Strand employees had scrawled all over the walls—legend had it that some bitter former clerk had jotted down the actual New Hampshire home telephone number of the famously reclusive J. D. Salinger. He had only ten minutes to meet Bree in Union Square and he had to get out of his everyday clothes—which reeked of smoke—and into something cleaner and more exercise-friendly.
So he wasn’t the most athletic guy in the world. His relationship or connection or whatever with Bree was based on more than Lycra clothing and naked yoga sessions. Bree had opened Dan’s eyes, helped him think about the world in a way he never had before. Bending and posing in a hot room with a sweaty naked guy leaning into him wasn’t Dan’s idea of a romantic evening, but reading Bree’s favorite books was stimulating and thought-provoking. He’d done so much in his life already—had a poem published in the New Yorker, interned at Red Herring, sung his original songs with the Raves—but it was kind of thrilling to discover something deeper and more meaningful than fleeting fame.
Finding enlightenment in less than a week—it must be some kind of world record.
He pulled a clean, bright green American Apparel T-shirt over his head, smoothed out his tousled light brown hair, and laced up his ice-blue New Balances. He popped a piece of icy mint gum into his mouth and exhaled into the palm of his hand to double-check his breath: not a trace of tobacco. He wadded up his work clothes and stashed them in his employee locker, then jogged up the stairs and out of the store, toward nearby Union Square.
Bree was waiting for him near the statue of a placidly smiling Gandhi in the southwest corner of the bustling park near skanky-but-getting-better Fourteenth Street. “I like to go there sometimes,” she’d told him over the phone. “To read and reflect on Gandhi’s message of peace.”