I Will Always Love You (11 page)

“You know, we’re supposed to wrap Coffee at the Palace next week. After that, I don’t have any projects. My parents were hoping I’d start at Yale in the spring, but I think I need
an adventure.” She felt her heart hammering in her chest. “Are you going sailing again? Maybe I could come,” she offered,
her face breaking into a sunny smile.

“It’s not that much of an adventure. A lot of knot tying,” Nate said nonsensically. He knew he should explain that he and
Blair were together now, and that he was going to Yale with her, but he couldn’t. Instead, he imagined what it would be like
on the ocean with Serena.

“I like tying knots. I showed you how to tie your shoes when we were kids, remember? Take me along. I can be first mate! Aye,
aye, Captain!” Serena goofily did a mock salute, her dark eyes looking straight into Nate’s glittering green ones. Please say yes, she willed.

“Like that would ever happen.” Blair strode out of the bathroom, wearing just a towel wrapped around her body, her chestnut
hair damp around her shoulders. “Nate and I are going to Yale, together,” she added, narrowing her eyes. Why the fuck was Serena here? And had she really just asked Nate what Blair thought she
had? Was she inviting herself to sail the world with him?

Serena felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Of course Blair had been eavesdropping from the bathroom this whole time.
Of course she was here, watching over Nate’s every move, not letting him out of her sight. Of course they were riding off
into the sunset together. “How does your boyfriend feel about that?” she muttered under her breath.

Blair narrowed her icy blue eyes. “What did you say?”

Serena crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Blair. If Blair wanted a fight, fine, she’d give it to her. She wasn’t
going to let Blair get away with stealing Nate.

Again.

“I said,” Serena repeated coolly, making sure to enunciate each word, “What. Does. Your. Boyfriend. Think. About. That?”

“Boyfriend?” Nate asked moronically, looking between the two girls as if he were watching a tennis match. Blair had a boyfriend?

“I don’t have a boyfriend. How would Serena know, anyway?” Blair challenged.

“I don’t know, because you wouldn’t stop talking about him the other day? You know, after you spent Christmas with him and
all?” Serena said sarcastically.

Nate glanced between the two of them in disbelief. Out on the ocean with Chips, they could always tell a storm was coming
by the change in the air. It was the same with Serena and Blair. He could feel a change in the room, as if a palpable electric
charge was emanating from the girls’ skin.

“Serena, just get your own fucking life,” Blair snapped. “You know nothing about me.” Her white Egyptian cotton towel was
askew, and blotches of pink appeared on her pale neck. She looked like she was ready to claw Serena’s eyes out.

Uh-oh.

“Oh, please. You think you can just have whatever you want, whenever you want.” Serena’s voice had taken on a slightly hysterical edge.

Instead of speaking, Blair hurled a Mason Pearson hairbrush at Serena. Because Blair had terrible aim, she missed, creating
a dent in the wall. The brush clattered onto Nate’s dresser and hit one of the sailboat models, splintering it into pieces.

“I can’t do this,” Nate yelled, surprising himself. His voice echoed in his head. “You two always fight. I never should have
come back. I’m leaving. Don’t look for me.” He grabbed a few pairs of clean boxers from his dresser, tossed them in the duffel
he hadn’t bothered unpacking since the Belinda, and stalked down the hallway.

“Nate, wait!” Serena yelled, running behind him.

“Nate!” Blair called at the same time, racing after Serena.

The door slammed, leaving Blair and Serena alone.

Blair glared at Serena. “We’re no longer friends,” she spat. Then she turned on her heel and followed Nate down the hall and
out the door to the stairs that led to the street.

“Good!” Serena retorted. She knew she sounded like an angry four-year-old whose best friend has stolen her favorite toy.

Familiar story.

Serena collapsed on Nate’s bed and stared up at the ceiling. The skylight window up above was covered with pure white snow.
She wanted to cry, but no tears fell. Instead, she seethed. Everything that had ever gone wrong in her life was Blair’s fault.

Happy fucking New Year!

As we’ve all learned by now, the etymology of the word sophomore comes from the Greek words sophos, meaning “wise,” and moros, meaning “foolish.” It’s a contradictory term for a contradictory year: We’ve learned that pizza and PBR don’t mix with our
favorite skinny jeans, that a TA can be extremely hot if we look past his dorky collection of PBS tote bags, and that placing
a kegerator in the common area of your dorm does not constitute a design decision. But we still have a lot to figure out.

Take, for example, N, who’s displaying a lot of sophomoric tendencies despite his official class year. Last year, he may have toyed with the idea
of attending Yale, but as a tussle between B and S became his own personal crash course in conflict, he realized that he might be better off with just boys—at least for now.
He’s now a first year at Deep Springs College, an all-male two-year academy on a working alfalfa farm in California. To each
his own….

For many, the key to figuring out your future is determining whom you want to spend it with. Case in point: B. She and her boyfriend, P, patched things up quickly after their Tiffany fallout last year, and are now happily ensconced in their Chapel Street town
house. But what will happen to their cozy domesticity once P graduates in the spring? Or consider V. Her boyfriend, H, may have wowed the critics at Cannes, but Hollywood hasn’t gone to his head—he’s often spotted picking up V’s favorite Hummus Place order while she studies late in Bobst Library. How sweet. Or, um, salty.

On the other hand, you could do some soul-searching and find that the only person you want to spend time with is you. Take S, who’s often curled up with a cappuccino and Kant at Doma Cafe around the corner from her Perry Street apartment. Or our
favorite shaggy-haired poet, D, surrounded by plenty of girls in his Columbia poetry seminars, but always leaving campus solo. After all, the most important
thing you learn about in college might just be yourself.

B, with her boyfriend, P, at LAX. After a sunny West Coast holiday, is the happy couple headed back our way? D shuffling from his apartment up to the Columbia campus, muttering to himself and chain-smoking Camels. Still playing the tortured artist, or has he really lost it? V and H at a Miramax holiday party, talking to a New York reporter about V’s decorating plans for H’s brand-new Williamsburg loft. And the biggest transformation award goes to? S at Doma (again!), reading Civilization and Its Discontents and looking pretty discontent herself. Research for a role, or is someone having a little slump of her own? D’s little sister, J, at JFK, boarding a flight to Paris—Bonne Année! N in flannel, hitching a ride to Eastern Sierra Regional Airport, his green eyes glinting with tears. Why so sad, N?

q: Dear Gossip Girl,

I’m a sophomore womyn who’s always dated other womyn. I had a sense my last girlfriend was more of a BUG—you know, a bisexual
until graduation, which is one of those acronyms I hate, but it’s become so accepted in popular society that at least people
are talking about it. Anyway, this BUG not only broke up with me, but she’s dating this dumb football player who I know for
a fact always defaces our womyn’s center posters. Should I stage an intervention?

—stilllove

a: Dear Still Love,

I’m sorry to hear about your romantic woes, but if your ex is just a bug to you, then maybe she wasn’t worth it to begin with.
Instead of postering for the womyn’s center, post a personal ad. Who knows what will happen!

—GG

q: Dear Gossip Girl,

There’s a guy in my poetry class who’s that tortured, soulful type—the kind of guy who’s too busy being an artist to even
think about things like food. I’ve only seen him ingest instant coffee and cigarettes, which I think is cute, but my suitemates
find creepy. What do you think?

—hotforsoulful

a: Dear HFS,

Sounds like this particular soul may be in mourning for a muse. My advice: Tortured artists rarely make stable partners. Instead,
find a happy-go-lucky communications major and read poetry to each other.

—GG

One of the best things about being in school is the opportunity to have two fresh starts a year. There’s September, with the
new housing assignments, new books, and new professors; it’s the start of the academic year. But January 1 is a golden do-over
opportunity. And some of us just might need a do-over. Here’s to second chances.

You know you love me,

gossip girl

you never can say goodbye

“You okay, son?” Captain Archibald placed a firm hand on Nate’s shoulder outside All Souls Church on Lexington Avenue. Around
them, patrons were spilling out of the church onto the cold stone steps. White lilies were set up around the entrance of the
church as if for a celebration, not a funeral.

“I’m fine,” Nate muttered, though he was anything but fine. His Brooks Brothers blazer was too tight across his shoulders,
and his sky-blue Hermès tie felt like it was choking him. It didn’t feel right to be dressed like this, it didn’t feel right
to be back in New York, and it definitely didn’t feel right to be at Chips’s funeral. He couldn’t believe Chips was dead. He’d had cancer and hadn’t even bothered to tell Nate he’d been sick. He’d been slowly dying for months now in Lenox Hill
Hospital and hadn’t bothered to call, or e-mail, or even send a letter.

Nate hadn’t planned to come back to New York for the holidays. He’d been at Deep Springs College for the past eight months,
trying to sort his mind out. He’d thought he’d done that with Chips on the Belinda. That he had a handle on who he was and what he wanted from life. That Serena and Blair wouldn’t confuse him as much as they
had before.

But nothing could have been further than the truth. After he saw them fighting, it was all too apparent that he could never
be around them anymore. There were too many feelings, too much history, too many swirling emotions. It practically killed
him that he was the one who’d caused all the problems in their friendship.

He’d immediately run to his parents’ vacation home on Mt. Desert Island, Maine, and it was there, sitting on the beach and
watching the waves roll in, that he thought of Chuck and his transformation from a monkey-toting metrosexual to a decent-seeming
dude. Immediately, he’d called Deep Springs and interviewed for a spot for spring semester. Because all the students of Deep
Springs sat on the admissions committee, and all had a tremendous amount of respect for Chuck—and because Nate was consistently
lucky—he’d gotten in.

Since then, he’d done a total one-eighty. Deep Springs was intense and unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Thirty guys
living in one house, studying and working the farm together. No girls. No pot. No drinking. No drama.

Sounds, um, fun!

Maybe it was because the schedule sort of reminded him of his life aboard the Belinda with Chips, but he liked waking up at 5 a.m. to milk the cows, then heading to the old-fashioned one-room schoolhouse to
discuss Plato. He’d always half-assed it in high school, so this was the first time he’d ever really tried to study and learn. It was surprisingly satisfying. It was sort of like what Chips had taught him: that you have to own the
work before you can own yourself. Chips had given him a ton of good advice. And now he was gone.

Nate sighed in frustration. It turned out he’d known he had cancer the whole time they were aboard the Belinda. Nate thought of the days they spent exploring the world, docking on islands that seemed almost untouched by man. Days spent
at sea so far out you couldn’t see land, methodically fishing. Of their quiet dinners on board, where they ate their daily
catch and contemplated the multicolored sunset. He’d had all the time, all the opportunities in the world—why hadn’t Chips
said anything? His father squeezed his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. Chips had been the Captain’s mentor as well.

“Thanks for coming,” Captain Archibald said, shaking hands with Chuck, who had been standing at a respectful distance. Nate
and Chuck had become close this year, and when he heard the news about Chips, Chuck had insisted that he come with Nate, for
moral support.

“Well…” The Captain trailed off uncomfortably, shifting from one tan leather Gucci loafer to another. “I’ll be off now. You’ll
be all right?” he asked, as if unsure whether it was okay to leave.

“I’ll be fine,” Nate said stiffly. He looked down and realized his knuckles were white from gripping the iron railing. He
loosened his grip and held out his hand. The Archibald men weren’t huggers. His dad took his hand, but instead of shaking
it, gave it a gentle squeeze before turning crisply on his heel, heading down the stairs and up the avenue. There was hardly
any traffic today, as if out of respect for the dead.

“You okay, man?” Chuck asked, clasping Nate’s shoulder. Nate nodded, glad that Chuck had insisted on coming with him. In a
crisp charcoal Turnbull and Asser suit with a white handkerchief in his breast pocket, Chuck looked like he had back in high
school, but he still acted like the guy Nate had come to think of as his best friend at Deep Springs.

Nate squeezed his green eyes shut, hoping when he opened them he’d discover he’d been dreaming during one of his daily naps
in the cow barn. But when he opened his eyes, he saw the dark, overcast sky, hovering above the Upper East Side rooftops.
The clouds looked ominous, ready to unleash a torrent of hail that would destroy the white lilies outside the church.

A tear begin to trickle down the side of Nate’s nose. He squinted to try to stop the flow, but it was no use.

“Fuck it.” He roughly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Dude, you okay?” Chuck pulled his gold Gucci aviators out of his pocket and handed them to Nate. “You’re crying,” he remarked,
unnecessarily but not unkindly.

“Thanks, man. It’s just a lot….” Nate’s voice cracked. Chuck had been surprisingly thoughtful this trip, but he hadn’t known
Chips, and Nate felt like this was something he needed to handle on his own.

“Are you Nathaniel?” A tiny, elderly woman wearing a pink tweed St. John’s suit wobbled from the church entrance toward him
on a pair of black Prada pumps.

Nate nodded. Did he know this lady?

“Well, aren’t you handsome,” she mused, smiling broadly as if they’d met at a charity event and not outside a funeral.

“Thanks,” Nate grunted. He was used to women of all ages commenting on his looks. It was just a fact of his life, like the
fact he liked to sail and was naturally good at lacrosse.

Hey, it’s not bragging if it’s true.

“You know, Charles never had a son. I see why he took a shine to you. I’m his sister, Nan. He and I had our differences, but
I won’t speak ill of the dead,” she clucked as she reached into her ivory-colored Chanel purse. “This is for you,” she said,
thrusting a thick, ivory-colored envelope in his hand. “And, of course, you’re invited to the small luncheon I’m having for
friends. It’s at my apartment. Shall I give you the address?” she asked expectantly.

“I’m afraid—I can’t attend,” Nate said haltingly, hoping he wasn’t being rude. All he wanted to do was go home, curl up in
his bed, and shut the world out. He wondered if he had any pot knotted in a black dress sock stuffed in the back of his top
drawer. He hadn’t wanted to smoke in ages, but right now he wanted to enter a deep pot-induced haze and never come out.

Nan gazed at Nate quizzically. Deep crinkles appeared around the edges of her blue eyes, eyes that if he looked at from a
certain angle, reminded him of Chips’s. “Of course. Good luck, son,” she added as she tottered away on her high heels.

“Thanks.” Nate regarded the wrinkled cream-colored envelope quizzically. A wet snowflake landed on the envelope, smearing
the N in his name. Now it looked more like Fate.

“Ready to get out of here?” he asked Chuck as he marched down the wide stone steps. He wondered if he could get a flight back
to California tonight. “I think I’m going back to the airport. See if I can get back to Deep Springs,” Nate explained as they
waited for the light to cross Lexington.

Chuck looked at him skeptically. There was a glimmer of how he used to look back in high school, whenever someone suggested
leaving a party. “Are you sure about that?”

Nate stiffened, balling his hands in his jacket pockets. “Yes,” he said firmly. There was no one in New York he wanted to
see. New York was bad for him—full of past mistakes and regrets.

In little black dresses.

The light changed and they crossed the street. “It’s New Year’s Eve. No way will you be able to get out of here. Just stay
a couple days.” Chuck pointed out, trailing behind him across Eightieth Street. Snow was beginning to stick to the street,
blanketing the city in a thin layer of white. “Besides, I’m having a party.”

Nate stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to Chuck. Didn’t he get it? He’d just been at the funeral of someone
who’d meant a lot to him, and all Chuck could talk about was a party? “I don’t party anymore,” Nate said flatly.

“Too busy feeling sorry for yourself?” Chuck asked, briefly losing his patience.

Nate narrowed his green eyes. Chuck sounded like Chips. Nate could almost conjure the salt-sea air, standing on the deck of
the Belinda, Chips angrily waving his tumbler of scotch out to an uncaring ocean. “Come on!” Chuck said, slapping Nate on the back as
if to force him to buck up.

Chuck put hailed a cab. “You’re coming with me,” he commanded, pushing Nate into the backseat.

Aye, aye, Captain!

bohemian like them

“Is that it? Or was that just your winter-into-spring wardrobe? At least summer into fall might be slightly lighter.” Hollis
wiped his brow theatrically and plopped down on the red hemp-fiber sewn couch. He sighed in exhaustion, as if he’d nearly
broken his back. Really, all he’d done was help Vanessa carry her two suitcases of worldly possessions into the new Williamsburg
apartment.

The new apartment, on the right side of the sugar factory this time. In a brand-new luxury building with a concierge. “Shut up!” Vanessa teased, perching on the overstuffed taupe ottoman across from him.

After Dan had kicked her out of the Humphreys’ last year, Vanessa had felt lost and heartbroken. Not to mention very, very
guilty. Everything with Hollis had happened so quickly, she didn’t really have time to think about it; they had kissed once,
and then they had kissed again, and then suddenly there was Dan, watching it all happen. After he told Vanessa that he never
wanted to see her again, a tiny part of her had died. But there was nothing she could do to change what had happened. She
had to look forward, not back. With nowhere else to turn, she’d called Hollis. They’d slowly gotten to know each other over
long nights of falafel, cheap red wine, and Vanessa with no place to crash except Hollis’s bed.

For the last year, she’d spent most nights at Hollis’s Alphabet City apartment. But technically she resided in a curtained-off
corner of the living room of a Bushwick apartment with Mackenzie and Rhiannon, two girls from NYU. It was a far cry from what
she now called home: an eighteen-hundred-square-foot glass and exposed-brick apartment with its own elevator, black-stained
wood floors, and a winding staircase that connected a sleeping loft to the sprawling main living area. It was incredible.
She and Hollis had been planning to move in together after her lease was up on December 31, but she hadn’t expected an apartment
so…

“It’s so big here,” Vanessa said, her voice echoing off the still-bare walls. Hollis had hired a decorator to furnish the apartment with
the basics, but neither of them had put up any artwork yet. She couldn’t wait to find cool prints and stills together to put
on the walls, and really make it their own. For now, she just wanted to run around the loft in her socks. Because she could.

That’s one way to dial down the maturity level.

It was all like a fairy tale, with Hollis as her indie prince. He hadn’t even told her how expensive it was, assuring Vanessa
that her tiny contribution to the rent from her student job working in the digital film archives at school would more than
cover her share.

At first, Vanessa had protested. It felt so terribly cliché. She was practically a kept woman! Although it wasn’t her fault
Hollis’s film Between the B and the A, a coming-of-age story about a twenty-one-year-old’s spiritual journey, had been the darling at Sundance and a surprise indie
hit the summer before. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t exactly living off a TA salary anymore. And Hollis had countered Vanessa’s
protests by explaining that his success was her success and vice versa. They were a team. Even though it was sort of corny,
she couldn’t help but swoon a little.

She wandered over to the large arching windows, where she could just make out the East River rushing by in the distance. She
could hear Williamsburg denizens on the sidewalk below, just getting started on their New Year’s Eve festivities. Vanessa
was happy she and Hollis weren’t going out.

There are plenty of ways to have fun staying in.

Hollis hoisted himself up from the couch and wrapped his strong, lean arms around her. Vanessa smiled and leaned back into
him, feeling safe and protected. Before Hollis, she’d always been a teenager dating other teenagers. Even when she and Dan
were serious, it had always felt to her like they were still so young, still so unformed. But now, Vanessa felt like an adult.
And she was surprised by how much she liked that feeling.

“What are you thinking?” Hollis murmured in her ear.

“That I’m happy.” Vanessa tilted her chin up to kiss him, enjoying the way his slight stubble scratched her chin.

“I’m happy too,” Hollis said, pulling her in closer.

“And I’m hungry.” Vanessa pulled away, breaking the mood. She was in love, but Vanessa Abrams was never going to be sappy
about it.

And we love her for it.

Vanessa skidded on her socked feet toward the kitchen and pulled open the Sub-Zero refrigerator, which was stocked with osetra
caviar, Cristal champagne, and other presents from talent agents, producers, and A-list directors.