Don't You Forget About Me (22 page)

“. . . love, love, love, love . . .”

Jenny’s brow was wrinkled in thought, as if she were trying to decode the symbolism. Dan could barely contain his giggles—and there was only one other person who probably felt the same way. He glanced at Vanessa, who was standing off to the side, her camera trained on the altar as she desperately tried to keep a straight face. He caught her eye and grinned; then he stuck out his tongue and wiggled it, imitating Piotr’s crazy friends.

The striped-suited guys finally stopped screaming and bowed to a confused smattering of polite applause. Jenny elbowed Dan in the ribs. “You’re up.” He smiled nervously. He didn’t even know if this poem was any good, and now he was going to have to test-drive it in front of Ruby’s entire wedding party—not to mention his ex-girlfriend.

No pressure.

Dan walked to the front of the crowd and opened his notebook. He cleared his throat and began to read, his voice wavering.

Open the fridge and put

My heart on a plate.

I’m just as you left me, and I taste even better leftover.

He kept his eyes on the page. It took all his effort to decipher his own scrawl. As he focused on the white paper, he couldn’t help feeling moved by what he’d written. He looked up and locked eyes with Vanessa.

Pale fury, why did you leave me?

You’re prickly in the morning. So prickly.

This isn’t a cooking show.

This isn’t chemistry or geography.

It’s physics. Pure physics,

I’m falling fast and faster still.

So fall with me. Fall down with me.

And stay.

Vanessa blushed deeply, her cheeks turning bright pink, and Dan found it hard to tear his gaze away from her. She looked so beautiful in her light blue dress, her skin glowing white against the sky blue fabric. . . .

The sound of clapping woke him from his reverie. “Um, thank you,” he mumbled as he headed back to his seat in a daze. He sat back down, and Jenny grabbed his arm. “That was really great. But we’ve
got
to talk about something later,” she whispered loudly in his ear.

“Um, okay,” Dan whispered back. He patted his damp forehead with a paper napkin, just as Ruby’s bandmates began cartwheeling down the rose-petaled aisle.

Guess someone didn’t hire a wedding planner.

chips ahoy!

Nate leaned out over the bow of the boat and dipped his hand in the white froth of the waves. Chips stood in the
Belinda
’s stern—named for his late wife—as he simultaneously steered the huge wheel of the forty-foot yacht and nursed a scotch on the rocks. The white sails billowed in the wind. It was a perfect, cloudless summer day, but after his afternoon with both Blair and Serena yesterday, Nate’s thoughts were more muddled than ever. When Chips had called this morning and invited him out for a sail on the Hudson, he’d jumped at the chance to get back out on the water and as far away from the girls as possible. A little scotch wouldn’t hurt either.

Wearing a pair of white Ralph Lauren sailing pants and a navy blue cashmere sweater, Chips looked sophisticated and stately manning the wheel of the pristine yacht.

“This is the life,” he boomed, his wizened hands resting lightly on the wheel. “The open sea, the sun, and the wind.” He took a deep breath and tilted his head toward the sky, breathing the clear, warm air deep into his lungs.

“I guess.” Nate scuffed the toe of his sneakers against the planks of the deck. He was waiting for a big lecture on thinking with his balls, Chips’s favorite topic.

The old man’s stubby white beard sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. “So, what’s crawled up your arse, then?” he asked, his Scottish accent rolling around in his mouth like marbles.

“Oh. I’m—I’m fine,” Nate answered quickly. “Sort of.” Chips looked at him knowingly, waiting for Nate to continue. Nate took a deep breath, inhaling the briny air into his lungs, and, for the first time in days, felt his head start to clear. When he was out on the ocean, everything just felt so much simpler. The whole world was reduced to its essentials: sun, sky, and water.

“I have to repeat my senior year of high school,” he heard himself say. “I’m not going to Yale. I’m sure my dad told you, right?” Chips nodded. “Apparently you stole Viagra from your coach because you thought it would make you more of a man?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah,” Nate mumbled, turning a little red. “But that’s not the only problem. There are these two girls. . . .” his voice trailed off into the breeze. “I think I have to choose between them, and I don’t know who to pick.” The boat hit a rough patch of water and Nate staggered backward.

“Whoa, there, Natie!” Chips laughed out loud and grabbed hold of Nate’s arm. He steered him toward the bench behind the wheel, indicating that he should steer. Chips sat down heavily beside him and placed a large blue pillow behind his back for support. He pulled out a fat brown cigar from his pants pocket and rolled it around between his lips. Then he lit the tip and puffed away until the end glowed amber and the stench of cigar smoke filled the air, sweet and acrid. Nate looked out at the water, steering the boat and fretting over what he’d just said. Talking about it meant thinking about it, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Now.” Chips blew a ring of smoke over his head. “Let’s start from the beginning.” “Well . . . first there’s Blair,” Nate began tentatively as he steered the boat expertly between the green and red buoys marking the entrance to Manhattan’s harbor. “We’ve been together forever, and I really love her. She likes getting her way, and she just . . . wants everything to be perfect. She’s leaving for Yale tomorrow, and she wants me to come live in New Haven with her.” He reached into his pocket and ran his finger over the smooth surface of the silver lighter Blair had given him two years ago. “But I’ve always loved Serena, too. She’s . . . the complete opposite of Blair. All light and mystery and laughter, but hard to pin down.” Chips nodded, listening carefully.

“And to make things even more complicated, they’ve been best friends forever, and I’m always kind of messing things up between them.” Kind of?

He took a deep breath, and Chips passed him his glass of scotch. “I know it’s idiotic, but I just can’t make up my mind.” Nate took a deep swallow and handed the glass gratefully back to Chips. “About
anything.
” He glanced out at the water again, hoping for a sign—a
B
-shaped cloud in the sky or an
S
reflected on the water’s surface. Instead, all he could see was the two girls’ faces winking at him.
You know you love me
, each one was saying.

Chips took a sip of scotch and looked thoughtfully at Nate, his gold wedding band glinting in the light. “Well, Nate, I’ve always believed that honesty is an essential component to happiness—along with all of this,” he said, gesturing with his hand at the boat. “But there’s also something to be said for protecting someone you love from unnecessary pain.” He stood and tapped the ashes of his cigar over the side of the yacht before sitting back down again. Nate noticed for the first time that Chips’s left leg looked a little stiff as he walked.

“You’re right,” Nate mused aloud. He leaned his head back to take in the warmth of the sun on his face, and closed his eyes for a minute. “I mean, what good would it do to tell Blair about Serena anyway? She’s going to Yale tomorrow. And maybe she’ll go, and I’ll miss her so much I’ll be on the Metro-North every freaking Friday. Or maybe me and Serena will be together—so why decide now, right?” “Nate . . .” Chips turned and looked at Nate thoughtfully, one hand resting on his stiff leg. “Don’t twist my words to your own convenience. There’s a difference between protecting someone else and protecting yourself. And it doesn’t sound to me like you’ve done much thinking about what’s really best for those two girls you claim to love so much.” “Yeah?” Nate stared glumly down at the wide-planked floor. He knew how hurt Serena would be if he told her he was going to see Blair every weekend at Yale. He also knew that if he told Blair what had happened with Serena, that shoe-throwing scene would look like a trip to the circus.

Step right up to see the man-eating Manolo-thrower! “But there’s this other thing,” Nate went on, struggling with his thoughts. “Blair and Serena . . . they both know exactly what they want. They’ve got all these
plans
. . . . Everyone else knows what they want, but I just . . .
don’t
. And even if I did, I feel like everything’s been decided for me.” The sparkling water seemed to laugh at him. Weeks before, the water had been full of promise. Now he just felt like he was sinking.

“That’s the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever heard in all my living days,” Chips growled. He leaned forward so that his face was inches from Nate’s. “Look at me—I’m sixty-five years old, I’ve got a bad leg, and on Sunday morning, I’m setting sail around the world.” He tapped his shin and it made a weird knocking sound. “Knock on wood, it’ll be the best thing I ever did.” Knock on wood?

Nate’s eyes widened in surprise at Chips’s announcement—sail around the world? Damn.

Chips tossed the cigar overboard with a flourish. “Boy,”—his voice was grave—“I’m going to give you the exact same advice I gave your father twenty-five years ago.” He paused, looking Nate dead in the eye. “You need to figure out what you really want—no more of this pussyfooting around. Remember, you’ve got to think with your balls, not with your dick.” Here we go again.

Nate nodded, looking at the floor, starting to understand what Chips’s perverse little saying really meant. He was right—all this going back and forth about Serena and Blair wasn’t helping anyone. It was all about his dick, but there was nothing brave or manly about lying to the two people he loved most in the world.

“Every boy has to become a man sometime.” Chips drained his glass and placed it on the teak plank floor. “Now’s your turn.” Is that Scottish-old-man-speak for “Grow a sack”?

Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.

hey people!

The Met party is finally here, and I’ve spent all day at Bliss in preparation for tonight’s festivities, having every gorgeous inch of me waxed, buffed, and painted for the occasion. It’s time to slide my kissably smooth body into my favorite new silk Gucci dress and paint the town pink—if I can ever get away from my mirror, that is. Translation: Better make this a quickie.

Tonight
B
’s kooky family will attempt to out-fête every fête ever held at the Met, so be sure to wear your end-of-summer-blowout-best. If you weren’t invited, don’t feel too bad. While you’re stuck at home watching reruns of
Grey’s Anatomy,
I’ll be doing the exhausting work of keeping tabs on everyone who’s anyone, which is clearly
everyone
at this particular party. Cheer up, wallflowers—I’ll be sure to give you all the juicy gossip and gory details next time. Stay tuned!

And for those of you folks at home packing up for your big off-to-college bon voyage tomorrow morning, I’ve put together a handy checklist of what to pack. I know most of you are too busy fantasizing about your own personal, tear-filled goodbye scenarios, so let me assist you with the dorm-room basics:

(1) A pair of horn-rimmed glasses—Armani or Chanel—whether you really need them or not. Every college boy has a sexy-librarian fantasy—trust me.

(2) One leather-bound notebook and a silver Montblanc pen—perfect for passing notes to the hottie who sits in front of you every Tuesday/Thursday.

(3) A new iBook. Take notes in class while checking your e-mail—and send some irresistible messages to your latest fling. It’s called multitasking, people, and I should know.

(4) A noise machine set to City Sounds. There’s no place like home. . . .

(5) Your wits and charm! College is all about red tape, rules, and regulations. You’re all about breaking them! So remember, you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar. A tub of actual honey might also be useful for smearing on all those cute boys in Econ 202—not that I’m actually advocating such behavior. . . .

sightings

N
in
Times Square,
staring longingly at a Polo billboard featuring a guy on a sailboat, flanked by two gorgeous models—a blonde and a brunette. Wishful thinking? Well, if anyone can make it happen, it’s our friend
N
. . . .
S
at
Barnes & Noble
in Union Square, hidden behind an enormous pair of white sunglasses as she leafed through
The Idiot’s Guide to Finding an Agent
. Sounds like someone’s got a new project!
B
yelling at an employee in the bedding section of
ABC Carpet and Home
because they don’t carry Pratesi sheets in size extra-long . . .
K
and
I
at
Chloé,
trying on identical party dresses—will they be bringing identical dates?
C
buying a tuxedo at
Armani
(doesn’t he already
own
one? Or ten?), harassing the sales staff with his requests for a tailor to make a matching one in primate size XS. Please.
V
making the trek from Prospect Park toward the Upper East Side via subway with some weirdos wearing red, black, and white seersucker suits . . . Newlyweds
R
and
P
kissing madly in a taxi on their way to
JFK.
Word is they’re headed to . . . Iceland for the honeymoon. That’s one way to get cool.
A,
looking surprisingly dapper, buying a tux at Barneys and flirting madly with the dreadlocked salesgirl—though rumor has it he only has eyes for a certain sometimes-bald, sometime-wigged party invitee . . .
B’
s mom,
E
, at
Bang & Olufsen
electronics store on the Upper East Side, buying the biggest flat screen in the place, and then later on at
Marquee
in the Meatpacking District, rocking out in the DJ booth to the Black Eyed Peas. Uh-oh. Tonight is definitely going to be . . . entertaining.