Serena's been in rehab twice now, first for alcohol, second, court-mandated, for coke. Blair dies a little each time she sees her figure bland against the white, white walls. It's hospital clean, but it doesn't have the same smell or the watercolor decor. It's one of those resort-styled detox centers, designed for movie stars and corporate big shots to feel at home between therapy sessions and cleansing treatments. It's full of double thick-paned windows and soft overstuffed chairs and Blair can't help feeling even more nauseous. She sits across from Serena, both seated in deep purple chairs that sink down with their weights. Serena's wrist bones protrude even more than they usually do, and Blair fleetingly thinks she should maybe pick up a coke habit, before she remembers the neuroscience class she took last semester and changes her mind. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from thinking these thoughts. One addiction traded in for another, but you're not the addict here, Blair Bear.
"I'm glad you came," it's Serena's voice, but not. It comes out small and timid like Blair's never heard her speak before and she's not even sure this is the same person she used to know.
-
The first call comes in at four forty three am. She's got a midterm in organic chemistry at eight and she's so nervous she's not even sleeping when she hears the phone ring. It's an unknown number, but the area code is 212, so she risks it and picks it up. She hears breathing on the other end before anything else. Gasping, breathy sighs. She knows who it is. "Hello?" She asks softly. There's no response on the other end. She watches the clock turn over to four forty four waiting for a response. Four forty four, she silently repeats. "Hello?" A dial tone.
-
Serena's eyes look sunken, their once almost-navy sheen now reduced to a blank ice blue shade. They bore into Blair's eyes momentarily, before retreating to the safety of everywhere but. Serena's fingers are constantly moving, at least that hasn't changed. It's little comfort in a vast empty space of heartache. She tears at her cuticles, and then picks at the nails themselves. Blair inwardly cringes and folds her hands on her lap, then refolds them. She twists the ring on her finger, masking her attempt to unobtrusively spin the stone downwards as a nervous tic. "So, how have you been?" Serena's making an effort. Well, she should.
"Oh, you know, good. I'm doing really good. I just graduated, you know." No, she didn't know. "I'm going to take a year off and then go to Harvard for med school."
-
The calls come at random intervals, but always late at night. The first, then four days later, then two weeks, then twenty seven hours, then ten days. She doesn't save the phone number. Blair writes them all down on the very last page of her leather bound journal. There is no heading. They are lined up neatly in two columns; the date and time are printed in Blair's precise lettering. She stops saying hello, just listens to Serena breathe or cry or hiccup or whichever she is doing tonight. She always picks up.
-
Blair studies Serena's pale complexion. She doesn't really want to make conversation; she doesn't want to catch up. She wants to scream at her. She was supposed to know better. They've seen this so many times before, it's a cliché. Poor little rich girl couldn't handle her life. They even watched Marie Varellas walk in and out of rehab for five years before her heart finally collapsed, and after the funeral they pinky-swore they would never end up like that, kissing their thumbs like they were six instead of sixteen. It was never supposed to be this way. Serena was supposed to mess up, and mess up, and Blair was supposed to be there for her again, and again, and then finally some time it was supposed to stick. She had even taken some kind of perverse pleasure in the failures of her friend – up to a point. Now Blair is just tired, so tired, of being the responsible one all the time. She's tired of picking up the pieces and tired of picking up the phone calls and she just wants to scream.
-
She stops letting Alex, the guy she's been seeing for almost a year, sleep over. He's a Comparative Lit/Biomedical Engineering major, which she doesn't get at all. They meet in a chem. class, and she only just stops herself before imagining them becoming co-surgeon generals of the state of New York. Old habits die hard, but her daydreams never got her anywhere before, anyway. She tells him it makes her roommate uncomfortable, even though she can hear Beth having crazy monkey sex with her boyfriend at all hours of the day and night. She doesn't want to miss a phone call, but she doesn't even completely admit that to herself yet. And she certainly doesn't tell him that.
-
They remain in a half-staring contest until a doctor comes in to speak with them. She's tall and graying blonde in a bob and awful earrings and a heinous shade of mauve lipstick. But she smiles like she means it and welcomes Blair and talks in a comforting tone of voice. Blair estimates she's been practicing that voice her whole career. She briefly wonders if she'll have to do a psychiatry rotation at Beth Israel, but figures she probably wouldn't be very good at listening to other people's problems all the time. She carefully uncrosses her ankles and picks up her purse from it's position next to her in the gigantic chair. It's a relief to get up from the purple armchair, to walk into Doctor Conlin's office, until she realizes that now they'll have to actually talk.
"Serena, why don't you tell Blair why you asked her to come today?"
-
The last phone call comes at ten twenty three am. It is a surprise. Blair is having brunch with Alex and his family, celebrating their engagement. He's from California so she's only met his family once before, but she genuinely likes his older sister and his mother and they seem to like her too. This time, she almost ignores the vibration she feels from her purse, but after a glance at the screen decides to pick it up. How do you explain to your boyfriend's – no, fiancé's – perfect family about your famous model best friend forever snorting away her entire life and then calling you to say nothing, anyway? She excuses herself politely and walks towards the lady's room, clicking the Answer key quickly and pressing the device to her ear. When she hears the carefully cheerful voice on the other end, her jaw slackens involuntarily.
"Hi, Blair."
-
Serena is looking at her, and she reaches out to take Blair's hand, but then backs off after a moment. Blair swallows deep in her throat. When did her mouth become unbearably dry? She runs her tongue across the back of her teeth, first top, then bottom. Serena finally gains the courage to look her straight in the eyes for the second time that day, after almost two years. Blair licks her lips, tasting her raspberry lip balm. "Do you, um, do you remember that day we watched Love in the Afternoon four times? And then your mom came home crying, and she pulled you away and told you your dad was leaving?" Blair blinks and meets her eyes. Of course, she remembers. "Do you remember, what we said? No matter what happens, we'll always be there for each other? We said, we'll be each other's family now. I need you. You're my family, B." Blair slowly reaches out to grasp her best friend's wrist, feeling the birdlike bones stretching the skin surrounding them. She slips her fingers over Serena's, whose eyes have become a hopeful and attractive shade the color of the ocean, and squeezes, just once.
"There's nowhere I'd rather be."