Gossip Girl: It Had To Be You

N knows the magic password

Nate woke up before Blair. He could tell it was late because the cat—Tiger Monkey or whatever the fuck its name was—was sprawled out on the windowsill, soaking up the sun. It had stopped snowing, and every once in a while a big chunk of melting snow would cascade down from the roof of the building and fall to the street below with a pillowy thud.

Nate thought he smelled bacon, and his stomach growled urgently. Beside him, Blair lay sleeping on her side wearing only his heather gray T-shirt and her ivory satin underwear as she hugged her pillow, her lips curved into a smile. She looked sated and happy, even though they hadn't had sex. She was like an advertisement for sex. Nate slipped out from under the covers, still wearing his khakis. He combed his fingers through his wavy golden brown hair and located a Yale sweatshirt in Blair's closet that would do for now. He'd slept over at her house many times before, in the guest room, on the floor, even in her bed. But she'd always worn pajamas, they'd never so much as kissed, and Serena had always been there. To find Serena missing felt strange. How had it turned out like this? Did Serena have something better to do, someone else to be with? The details were foggy, as if he were remembering them through a cloud of steam, but it was pretty obvious now that he was with Blair.

Quietly, he opened her bedroom door, tiptoed into the hall, and closed the door behind him. Definitely bacon. He padded down the parquet-floored hall in his bare feet, hoping the Waldorfs' cook, Myrtle, would hand him a big heaping plateful, and then he could retire to the library, where he'd watch English Premier League soccer and pig out.

"Is that you, Bear?" Blair's father's commander-of-the-courtroom voice rang out. Nate stopped in his tracks. He was pretty sure her father didn't even live there anymore. At least not all the time. "We just dropped in to pick up some things!"

There's bacon and juice," Mrs. Waldorf added vaguely when Nate appeared in the dining room. Her normally perfect blond bob was smashed in at the back, and her slightly chunky body was wrapped in a quilted black satin floor-length dressing gown that looked like some sort of 1940s ski garment, tied at the waist with a tasseled golden rope. Her feet sparkled in gold sequined evening slippers with spiky gold-plated heels.

Was she trying to win her husband back or scare him away?

Harold Waldorf, Esquire, was crouched in front of the French Imperial buffet, packing crystal goblets into some sort of red velvet–lined carrying case like a thief. Crouched next to him was a dark, sleek-haired, extremely tan younger man wearing a salmon pink dress shirt and a shiny platinum Piaget watch.

Good morning, Rico Suave.

"Blair's still sleeping," Nate announced, a little louder than he'd intended. He pulled out the chair next to Eleanor and sat down, ogling the china platter of crispy bacon in front of him.

Eleanor pushed the platter toward him and used a pair of silver tongs to plunk a few strips on his plate. "It's good," she told him distractedly. Something about the way she wasn't really looking at him or at anything in the room made Nate feel sad. He picked up a piece of bacon and shoved it in his mouth. Man, he loved bacon.

Mr. Waldorf stood up as if noticing Nate for the first time. He walked over to the table and clapped him on the shoulder. "Nathaniel. Long time no see. Just picking up a few things. Glad you stopped by. I think Blair's still sleeping."

Duh?

He took off the pair of white cotton gloves he'd been wearing to handle the crystal. "Just picking up a few things," he said for the third time. His pink-shirted friend smiled at Nate self-consciously. "This is my partner," Mr. Waldorf introduced them. "Giles." 

The tan guy stuck out his hand and Nate reached across his plate and shook it. The guy had a very firm handshake, but then he held on and bent down and kissed both of Nate's cheeks. "Charmed," he murmured, gay as gay can be. It suddenly dawned on Nate that Mr. Waldorf didn't mean business partner, he meant partner-partner. Jesus. No wonder Eleanor looked so fucked up. Poor Blair.