Don't You Forget About Me (2 page)

Blair licked her red and completely bare lips—who needed lip gloss when you’d been kissed that much?—and glanced back at the
Charlotte
. Nate Archibald’s lanky frame appeared on deck, tanned, bare-chested, and grinning, his wavy brown hair streaked with gold, his eyes perfectly matching the green Billabong board shorts hanging low on his hips.

Yummy.

Blair resisted the urge to get right back on the boat and drag him down to the
Charlotte
’s ridiculously tiny bedroom. Even though they’d been together 24/7 for the last month, drinking frosty-cold mango margaritas all day and getting hot and sweaty all night, she still couldn’t get enough of him.

Apart from enjoying each other’s company, there had also been the requisite visits to charming New England seaside towns like Rockport and Camden for cups of clam chowder—she’d actually learned to enjoy it, despite the fact that chowder was just hot, heavily salted cream with little pieces of chewed, gumlike clams in it—and adventurous forays up rivers and inlets so Nate could feel like the sailor he was.

Blair closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of Guerlain sunblock still coating her skin, taking in the feel of the fine grains of sand still stuck between her toes, and the cool ocean breeze that tickled her cheeks. She sighed happily as she remembered last night, stretched out beside Nate, who was wearing light blue linen pajama bottoms, on the
Charlotte
’s miniscule bed, falling asleep with the sound of his heartbeat in her ears. She ran her hands through her sea-spray-tangled hair and watched as Nate tied the last knot on the bowline and jumped onto the dock.

“Well, don’t you look happy?” He wrapped his arms around her tiny waist, burying his face in her dark, wind-blown hair. “You even smell nice, for once.” Blair squealed as he began to tickle her, squirming away. “Thanks a lot!” Nate just grinned as he slid his feet into the black worn Teva flip-flops he’d worn every day at sea.

“I wish I could say the same for you!” She punched him lightly on the arm, fantasizing about the L’Occitane honey-and-almond body wash and Frédéric Fekkai shampoo awaiting her at home. The shower on the
Charlotte
was so fucking small she almost smacked herself in the face with the glass shower door every time she turned around. Though she’d been happy to make space for one more when Nate wanted to join.

Scrub-a-dub-dub!

Despite the memory of the dollhouse-size bathroom, Blair felt a tinge of sadness as Nate threw her apple green Hervé Chapelier tote over one shoulder and grabbed his own dirty monogrammed canvas L.L. Bean tote. This had been the most blissful month of her life. After a few days at sea, she’d almost forgotten why she’d been in such a hurry to get aboard—and stay aboard—the
Charlotte
in the first place: the love letter to Nate that her
supposed
best friend Serena had slipped into the glove compartment of his father’s Aston Martin before they left. Blair had found it while Nate was at a rest-stop bathroom, read it, and promptly shredded the thing to bits. Not that it mattered now. She could totally find it in her heart to forgive poor, lonely Serena—after all, who could
not
fall in love with Nate? Besides, and most of all, Serena had no chance of coming between them ever again.

She and Nate were more in love than ever and heading to Yale together in just ten days. Sure, Serena was going to be there too, but she and Nate would barely even see her once they ditched their separate and totally-unsuitable-for-living-happily-ever-after dorm rooms and found a shabbily elegant New Haven town house to move into. Once they were settled, they could reenact their cozy time on the
Charlotte
. She’d laugh at Nate for not knowing how to cook anything—not that she could make much more than caviar on toast points—and he’d have gin gimlets waiting for her when she got back late from one of her pre-law lectures. It was going to be
perfect
.

“Your house or mine?” she asked with a sultry smile. Nate’s emerald green eyes glittered in the sun, and Blair affected a little pout, which she knew he couldn’t resist. She turned around to face the water and closed her eyes, basking in the sun like a contented cat.

Meow.

Nate dropped the totes he’d been carrying and put his hands on Blair’s smooth, tanned shoulders. She leaned back into him and he nuzzled her neck, looking out at the shimmering blue water. He thought about the last few weeks. He’d been so happy out on the waves, with nothing in front of them but the clear blue sky and the roaring ocean.

A ringing noise erupted from his pants and Nate jumped back.
Shit
. His cell. They hadn’t had a connection out at sea, and he hadn’t heard the damn thing ring in weeks. Nate pulled the Motorola Pebl from his rumpled khaki cutoffs and looked at the screen: HOME.
Double shit
. He pressed IGNORE and resisted the urge to throw the thing into the water behind him. Then he grabbed Blair’s soft shoulders, a little tighter this time, already worried about the unavoidable confrontation with his dad over his future, which was kind of a mess now due to some recent mishaps.

The message Coach Michaels had left him before he climbed aboard the
Charlotte
repeated itself on a loop in his head. He wouldn’t be getting his diploma from St. Jude’s; Yale was out of the question. Of course, Coach had probably broken the news to Nate’s strict former Navy captain father by now, which meant he’d be getting a serious reaming as soon as he walked in the door. Knowing his dad, he’d probably been calling to rip him a new one every day for the last month, and this was the first time the signal had come through. Obviously he should have dealt with the situation, like, weeks ago, but surrounded by all that ocean and Blair’s bikini-clad body, who could think straight?

Nate pushed his parental worries aside and refocused on Blair. He hadn’t told her about the diploma—or lack thereof—yet, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He wondered if he could just head to New Haven with her and Serena and sneak into the occasional class on Western films or nude portraiture and tell everyone he had a lot of AP credits so he was taking an easy load this semester.

A load, indeed.

Nate sighed. The truth had waited this long—what was one more day? He bit down on his chapped bottom lip and tried to concentrate on how tan and smooth Blair’s shoulders were under his fingers. All he wanted was to crawl back down into the
Charlotte
’s tiny bedroom, get under the covers with her, and never come out, except maybe to smoke a joint.

It’s good to see that he has his priorities in order.

“Let’s go to your house,” he suggested, releasing her. “Myrtle makes the best quesadillas, and I’m freaking starving.” She turned around and grinned at him. “Okay, then, let’s get the hell out of here, sailor.”

Nate headed back to the boat to grab the rest of their bags, whistling as he jumped on board. He’d avoided his moment of truth with the Captain—and Blair—for so long, maybe he could keep on avoiding it a little while longer.

Blair slid her enormous tinted Prada aviators over her eyes and starting walking down the gray wooden dock. Things couldn’t have worked out better—Blair and Nate, the couple always most likely to end up together, heading off to Yale in ten short days. It was almost too good to be true.

Yes, quite.

the devil wears dolce

Serena van der Woodsen sat in the Waldorf Rose living room, flanked on either side by Blair’s mother, Eleanor Waldorf Rose, and Davita Fjorde—party planner to those residing on Manhattan’s Golden Mile. Serena had no idea why she’d been invited to Blair’s house, but when Eleanor called she couldn’t very well say no to her so-called best friend’s mother, whose wedding she had been a bridesmaid in less than a year ago.

“Now, I want it to be surprising and wonderful and luxurious, of course, but I don’t want anything too over-the-top. Nothing
vulgar
.” Eleanor wrinkled her ski jump of a nose and straightened the hem of her skintight bronze silk Valentino skirt. After giving birth to baby Yale that spring, she was on a strict Pilates-and-no-carbs diet, and it was clearly working. “Although Cyrus just
loved
the belly dancers in Corfu.”

“Eleanor, my dear, stop worrying. This party will be
fabulicious
,” Davita drawled, scribbling notes in her hot pink, leather-bound notebook with a gold Montblanc pen, her signature pencil-straight ass-length platinum blond hair draping almost to her knobby fishnetted knees. Davita fumbled, dropping the pen, and then pulled an exact replica from her enormous apricot-colored Marc Jacobs tote without missing a beat.

Serena ran her fingers over the miniskirt she’d made herself out of her faded Seven cutoffs. Ever since Blair and Nate had sailed off into the sunrise on her birthday morning, she had been struggling to be her usual cheerful self. Sitting in Blair’s living room wasn’t helping any. As she looked around at the gleaming oak floor, the heavy crimson silk drapes, the overstuffed toffee-colored, silk-jacquard sofa, all Serena could think about was how she’d spent most of her childhood running around this apartment. She and Blair used to make forts out of all the silk pillows, throwing them off the couch and piling them in the center of the room, pretending the rest of the rug was the ocean while they were stranded on an island. They hid beneath their soft, dark weight for hours, whispering secrets and giggling the day away. Things were so much easier back then—before Nate had come between them. Not that it was his fault.

Why is it never the boy’s fault?

Serena sighed and tried to concentrate as Eleanor’s nervously loud voice chattered away in her ear, the ice cubes in her Bloody Mary clinking against the glass as she waved her arms about.

“Because, you know, when the Reynoldses had their party last year, they chose that hideous bisque color scheme, which completely washed out Mitzi’s complexion,” Eleanor was saying, her brow wrinkled in worry. “I was envisioning shell pink or ivory, because those are Blair’s absolute favorites, but I just can’t stop thinking about Mitzi looking as though she was about to be
sick
all over her very own soiree.” Davita leaned in conspiratorially. “My dear, that event was planned by
Samantha Powers
and her troop of underlings.
Amateurs
. You have to relax and realize you’re dealing with a
professional
here!” She threw her overbleached platinum locks over one shoulder and turned toward Serena, her tanned face nearly as leathery as the distressed calfskin bag on the sofa beside her. “Eleanor tells me that you’re Blair’s best friend,” she said with a stewardess smile, scribbling more notes on the pink pad.

Or worst enemy.

Serena nodded. “We’ve been friends—”

“Forever!” Eleanor finished enthusiastically.

“Mmmm,” Davita murmured as she picked up a thin cucumber sandwich—crusts cut off, of course—from a hammered silver tray. She sniffed it delicately, then returned it to the tray.

“Now, Serena,” Eleanor began, smoothing her sleek, Fekkai-blond shoulder-length bob, “I hope you don’t mind me calling you over, but Blair has been positively
unreachable
, and I thought that since you two have known each other since you were toddlers, you’d be the perfect person to help plan this event I have scheduled at the Met. We have more than a few milestones to celebrate—Blair and Aaron going off to college, for one. And then there’s also—”

Just then Davita’s gold Motorola Slvr cell phone began to ring frantically, beeping and burping in the most annoying way possible. Davita jumped up, holding her bony, manicured index finger out in the air, and walked quickly out of the living room, her pewter Jimmy Choo slingbacks sparkling like firecrackers in the light that streamed through the south-facing windows. Serena returned to picking at the frayed threads on her cutoff skirt again. She could barely concentrate anyway. As of today, Blair and Nate had spent exactly one month together, alone on a boat with no one around for miles. They were probably, right at this very minute, eating steamed lobsters with clarified butter and gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes. Serena blinked back hot tears as she pictured it.

“So,” Eleanor said brightly, inching closer to her on the couch and resting one tanned hand on Serena’s forearm. “How has your summer been? With Blair gone I’ve hardly seen you at all, and it’s only a matter of days before you kids are off to New Haven!”

“It’s been okay.” Serena forced a smile as she squirmed on the couch. She’d spent the last four weeks wandering around the city under the pretense of getting her fill of New York in before leaving it behind. In truth, she was just trying to distract herself. Unfortunately, everywhere she went—to the Central Park pond, to feed the mallards; to the mod boutiques on Little West Twelfth Street, to shop; to the steps of the Met, to drink coffee; even her one venture into Brooklyn to see a warehouse art show—reminded her of her friends. They’d grown up together and experienced the city together, and, supposedly, they were leaving it behind together. But here she was, completely alone. “Just the usual. Nothing special,” Serena finished, noticing how lean and tanned Eleanor’s legs were. Maybe she should take a Pilates class too.

“Nothing special!” Eleanor exclaimed in the way that only mothers can. “May I remind you that your first feature film is going to be released very soon,
and
you’re starting Yale in a week and a half!” She squeezed Serena’s knee so hard it hurt.

Serena knew that she had a lot to be excited about, but she just couldn’t seem to match Eleanor’s enthusiasm. Maybe it was because the thought of heading to Yale in ten days with Nate and Blair and watching them be blissfully in love for four torturous years loomed over everything. “Has Blair . . . mentioned me at all when you’ve talked to her?”

Eleanor grabbed a white silk handkerchief from the antique coffee table and began to frantically pat her brow with the soft cloth, then sprayed herself thoroughly with an Evian facial mister and dabbed at her face again. “I’m sorry, dear, but is it hot in here? I’m telling you, never turn forty-seven. The hot flashes are unbearable!” She sighed dramatically, throwing the now-damp hanky behind her. “Now, sweetheart, what were you saying?”