Eighteen years later...

Holly Holliday looked up from her perch behind her computer, narrowing her eyes at me as I walked briskly by.  She had worked at Bell Books Publishers for over two decades now and thankfully working under my grandparents hadn't made her any worse for wear.

"You're finally here, Kurt," she teased, turning in her chair to lean back and angle herself toward me.  "How kind of you to grace us with your presence."

Everyone is a comedian.  I glanced at the clock above her head.  "It's not even ten o'clock yet."

She took a sip from her coffee pointedly, "Some of us have been here since eight.  Not all of us can be the boss' son."

I smirked.  "You said it, not me."

"Yeah, well, today it's not your dad I would look out for." She said, pointedly looking at me then proceeding to pluck the Starbucks bag out of my hand.  I was about to fight her for it when I saw her point behind me.

My hand paused mid-reach, "What?"

Just then I looked to see through the glass door my grandmother walking briskly toward me, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor.  "Shit," I muttered to myself.

I took a quick step away from the door as she pushed it open and fixed me with a look.  "Where have you been?  It's practically noon."

"It's ten o'clock," I said, exasperated.  Honestly, the one day I decided to take advantage of nepotistic privileges granted in the office.

"And where have you been?" she repeated, kissing me on the cheek as her hands fluttered about my shoulders, needlessly brushing off nonexistent lint.

Actually, I had been in my apartment, drinking coffee and watching an Oprah rerun about the latest discoveries on how to quit smoking.  I don't even smoke, but that was not going to stop my relaxing Wednesday morning.

I dodged around Margaret and headed toward my office, but she kept at my heels.

She was still regaling me about proper punctuality as I began shuffling through a stack of phone messages.

Five of them were marked "Margaret" and I rolled my eyes.  One was from my dermatologist--I'll call him back later, as well as the two from Rachel--and one was from Jesse St. James, my boyfriend.  The light of my life, the pain in my neck, all wrapped up in one attractive, charming package.

The next message was from my dad, returning my call from the night before.  The only other significant message was from Carl Howell, and it actually was important.  He was a wealthy art curator and he was very interested in investing in the production of my movie.

Five years ago, I had gotten the green light from my dad and my grandparents to publish a book I had written.  It was based off of a diary I had been keeping since I was eight and was about a young boy and a man in his mid-thirties--a child and his imaginary friend.  It was controversial at worst, cheesy at best and I had had a sneaking suspicion that everyone around me believed me to be projecting some sort of latent resentment about my childhood onto this project.  So they allowed me to utilize the family business.

The book was called Imagine Me and You, and it was based not at all loosely on my experiences and relationship with Blaine, my imaginary friend.  Maybe keeping the diary and writing the book had been my way of trying not to forget Blaine.  Maybe it was just a good idea for a story.

To everyone's, including my own, astonishment, Imagine Me and You became a New York Times bestseller for nearly two months in a row and continued to make Top Ten lists subsequently after that.  Readers, young and old, had loved the story of an awkward young boy and his handsome imaginary friend.  People said it defied social constraints and resonated with all sorts of audiences.

Above my desk hung a framed collage of newspaper clippings of my best reviews.  My favorite standing proud in the middle:

Imagine Me and You is irresistible. The story of the relationship between a boy and his imaginary friend is one that will transcend generations.  This story is the perfect combination of charm, tears, and laughter.  In a world of hustle-and-bustle, imagination is refreshing.  What is more pure than the imagination of a child?

Of course, Imagine Me and You wouldn't bring Blaine back, but it had brought Jesse into my life.  Jesse had come to nearly every book signing I had, asking me out each time until I relented.  The rest is history.

When I had been approached for the rights to turn Imagine Me and You into a movie, I was very adamant about having a good amount of control over the casting and production.  When my grandparents had found out, they had pulled many strings--of course holding that "favor" over my head when they could.  It was because of this that I insisted on raising as much of the money as I could on my own.  That's where Carl Howell came in.

Nana Margaret, a nickname I only used nowadays when I was trying to retain my patience around her, was speaking of just the man.  "Call Mr. Howell.  Right now," she emphasized this by pointing at the phone sitting next to my laptop on my desk.

Eager that I was to placate her, the better to get her to leave sooner and to find out what Carl had to say, I obediently picked up the phone and began to dial.  I smirked as my plan worked.  She turned briskly around and strode out of my office while I listened to the dull ringing on the other end of the line.

My boyfriend, Jesse St. James, was ridiculously handsome, but really should that be held against him?  I could think of several reasons why, actually.  Once, on a beach in the Hamptons, a man had actually walked up to Jesse and said, "Where can I buy a smile like that?"  And he'd been completely serious.  But that was just the kind of guy that Jesse was.  The kind of guy with stormy blue eyes, a perfect nose, high cheek bones, and a chiseled jaw worthy of most Greek statues.

Jesse was a Broadway actor, nominated for a Tony when he was just nineteen.  A fact he rarely let you forget.  He'd been born with the gift of gossip and an innate ability to sell water to a whale.  Once, he'd leaned on his elbow in bed and told me that just the sight of me in the morning made him spectacularly happy.  Since I am more than well aware of what I look like when I wake up, my response was, "That's sweet, but you're full of it."

Tonight he was meeting me for dinner at Babbo, our favorite Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village.  It was a place that my grandparents had taken me once or twice as a child, as it wasn't very far from our apartment.  Blaine wasn't ever allowed to come along, I remembered.

I arrived at the restaurant before Jesse, as usual.  Once I was seated, I couldn't help people-watching as I sipped at my glass of ice-water.

Across from the aisle from me was a cute couple, a tan woman and a pale brunette man, both in their twenties.  His perfectly tailored dark gray suit said "successful businessman."  Her manicured nails and bejeweled wrists said "heiress."  They were clearly in love, crazy about each other.  For the night, anyway.

At the table next to them was another couple in their later forties.  She had dirty blonde hair and wore a simple outfit of designer jeans and flowy blouse.  He had brown hair closely cropped, wearing faded jeans, and a dark brown suede jacket.  They both looked unhappy.  I decided they were screenplay writing partners and only staying together for the business.

Yes, I was playing the Kurt-and-Blaine game.  And yes, I didn't even realize it.  And yes, damn it, Jesse was fifteen minutes late for our date.  I don't know why I was even surprised, it wasn't the first time.  He had been late to every meeting of ours since we had started dating.

I took out my cell phone and placed it on the table in front of me.  I ordered a Mango Bellini, deciding to switch it up from just my usual cocktail, and waited. And waited.

Jesse was now thirty minutes late.  Lovely.

That was when I realized that this was the fourth time in a row that Jesse had been absurdly late without even so much as a text.  I tried to work up any semblance of concern, like maybe he had been hit by a taxi, maybe he was in the hospital, or maybe he had gotten mugged.  But I quickly stopped that line of thinking when I realized it was just my anger talking.

Jesse was more than likely holed up in his personal home studio, rehearsing for his next audition.  He was obsessed with getting a taste of another Tony win.  I could understand that drive; hell, it was something that I admired in him.  How could I hold it against him?

Maybe because he was now exactly an hour late.

A waitress came up to me and asked if I would like an appetizer while I waited.  She was one of my favorites, always so nice to me, and she remembered me every time.  Well, I had been coming here for years.  And my second Bellini had made me a little tipsy and consequently, hungry.

"You know what?  I think I'll order."

I remember being hungry--and then I remember being full.  I remember seeing my hand, holding a spoon with a giant glob of vanilla-bean ice cream on it.  I remember the waiter placing a small cup of coffee and a plate of almond biscotti on the table in front of me.

"I've put the check on Mrs. Bell's tab," the waitress said.  "It was so nice to see you again.  I hope you enjoyed your meal."

"Everything was wonderful.  Delicious." Well, maybe not everything.

I walked out of the restaurant to a chilly spring night in Manhattan.  Alone.  My cheeks were burning, but whether it was the cocktails or the embarrassment of being stood up, I wasn't sure.  As I made my way down the sidewalk I pulled my coat closer around my body and my scarf tighter around my neck, battling against the night air.

I felt like I was living that old cliché: When your own romantic life is falling apart, everyone else's looks perfect.  Did I really need to see the elderly couple chatting and holding hands in the park?  Or the teenagers practically eating each others' faces just a few feet away from where I was walking?  No, I certainly did not.  Why was everyone in New York suddenly madly in love while I was walking alone with my hands in my pockets?

My cell phone rang and I answered so quickly that I didn't bother with the caller ID.

Please be Jesse.  What will the excuse tonight be?

"Hello?" I answered a little too breathless, too eager.

"Kurt Hummel?" the voice down the line said.

"Speaking," I said, not recognizing the voice and immediately feeling the bite of disappointing expectations being met.

"This is Verizon Wireless, and we'd like to tell you about our exciting new calling plan."

I immediately hit the end call button and slid it back into my pocket.  I fought the urge to just toss the thing into the nearest trash can and be free of it.  But of course, if I did, I would only have to dig it out again and knowing my luck, someone I knew would be walking right by at that moment, when I was pawing through the trash, and then my night would be complete.

I swallowed hard and bit my lip, but still felt the hot tears welling up.  Perfect.  Crying on the street.  A new low.

I was pathetic.  The sooner I came to terms with it, the better.  The facts were that I was too close to thirty, I worked for my grandparents, and I was the kind of man whose handsome, too-good-for-him boyfriend stood him up at their favorite restaurant.  That was my life.

Blaine was finishing his second hot dog, savoring every juicy bite, every burst of flavor in his mouth.  Man, he loved street cart food.  And was he ever hungry!  Thank goodness he didn't have to worry about what he ate.

Here he was, between assignments, back in New York, killing time.  He was just hanging out; having some fun, waiting to hear what was in store next for him.  He'd already seen just about every movie released, gone to his favorite museums, plus visited most of the coffee shops and bakeries on the island of Manhattan in single-minded pursuit for the cup of coffee known to man.   And, oh yeah, he was taking boxing lessons.

Yep, boxing lessons.  Over the years he had discovered a lot of activities that he enjoyed, many of which he thought wouldn't like at all.  Such as boxing.  But it made for great exercise, and it really built up his self-confidence.  Self-awareness, too.  Also, he liked that it him closer to other people, in its own weird sort of way.

Two nights a week, in a sketchy warehouse-made-gym on 8th street, a man with whiskey and peppermint on his breath taught Blaine how to throw reasonably decent punches, how to guard himself against attack, how to get in close and slam into the body of an opponent.  He'd pretty much gotten used to going home with bloody noses.  And to being called "old man" by his sparring partners, who seemed to like him anyway.  But, hell, everyone liked Blaine.  That was his job, right?

But he still wasn't used to the ravenous appetite he got after every session.  The post-workout hunger was so fierce it could only be satisfied by three or four hotdogs and at least two Cokes from a Manhattan food cart.

Tonight he had ordered his hotdogs and Cokes, and was hanging out on a bench and thinking how nice it was to be back in the city.  He'd recently finished a Chicago assignment with a tenacious six-year-old boy whose parents were way too involved with his life.  He took too many music classes, did too many sports, had too many tutors, and heard the question, "And how do you feel about that, Arthur?" much too often.

Blaine had stepped in with assertiveness lessons and Artie's parents had come to appreciate his new feisty behavior.  Blaine helped Artie to be who Artie was.  But then, of course, he'd had to leave the boy, and Artie no longer remembered him.  But that was just how it worked, and Blaine had no control over it.

Now Blaine found himself on a vacation of sorts, enjoying himself, people watching (... and looking at guys,) jogging through Central Park, eating absolutely whatever he wanted.  He wanted for nothing--literally.  All he had to do was snap his fingers and some cash would appear in his pocket.  And so he did whatever he felt like doing each day, ate what he wanted and when, never gaining an ounce, and got to box off steam twice a week.  It didn't get much better than that.

As he chugged the last of his second Coke, a man passed by and Blaine's eyes automatically followed him, appreciating the man's trim waist while trying not to be creepy about it.  He liked to think that this man looked as if he were trying to put on a brave face, and Blaine smiled, suddenly remembering the way little Kurt Hummel would...

But then...

Wait.

That certain lift of his chin...

The walk... graceful and determined...

It was strange.  But no, it couldn't be.

Well, maybe... A glance in his direction.  Those eyes.  No, not those eyes.

It was him!  But there was no way...

Could it be?

His freckles were gone and his hair was swept away from his forehead, the trademark swoop gone in favor of a perfectly coiffed style.  He wore a long, dark blue pea-coat and had a leather bag slung over one shoulder.

Blaine's jaw practically dropped.  It was completely impossible, but it had to be Kurt.

Oh God, it was his Kurt Hummel!  He was right there, just forty feet away from him.

Blaine practically leaped after him, causing the people around him to stare at him suspiciously.  But this had never happened before, Blaine marveled.  Never, not ever, had he run into one of his kids as an adult!

Kurt was walking slowly, seemingly lost in his thoughts.  So Blaine walked slowly, too, trying to figure out what he should do next.  He was at a complete loss--for words, ideas, anything.

Kurt came to a corner and hailed a cab, stopping one almost immediately.  As Kurt climbed in, Blaine hung back, unsure.  Well, he knew what he should do now.  Let him go, file it away under "bizarre coincidences."

But that is not what he did.  Instead, he flagged down the next taxi speeding down the street.  And he said something he had always wanted to: "Follow that cab!"

Follow Kurt.

The cabdriver didn't disappoint.  He hit the gas, and Blaine's head nearly flew back against the seat.  This was so strange.  Why was he bumping into one of his kids, all grown-up?  It had never happened before.  So why now?  Did it mean something?  Closing his eyes, Blaine said a silent prayer.  But, as usual, received no answer.  In that way, at least, he figured he was just like everybody else in the world: put on Earth for a reason, but damned if he could figure out what the hell that reason was.  One thing, though:  the longer he was here, the more "human" he felt.  Was that a clue?  That he was becoming more human?  And was that a good thing?  Blaine wasn't sure.

After all, what did Blaine know about himself?  Not as much as he'd like to, that was for sure.  He had a limited memory of his past; he was able to recall only blurry faces, indistinct periods of time.  He didn't know how old he was exactly.  He did not know exactly how long he had been on the job or how many kids he had looked after.  He knew he loved what he did, except for when he had to leave.  And he had to go, whether he wanted to or not, and whether the child wanted him to or not.  Then there would be a small break, like a sabbatical, similar to the one he was on now.  Then one day, he would just wake up in a different place, and he would just know the next child, and he would go to them.

Otherwise, all of his needs were fulfilled.  He wasn't exactly human, he wasn't an angel.  He was just a friend.  And he was good at it.

Blaine's taxi followed the one with Kurt inside until it stopped at the corner of Ninth Avenue and West 23rd in Chelsea.  Blaine couldn't help but be impressed.  Blaine quickly handed the driver some cash, keeping his eye on Kurt.  He now had his coat folded over his arm as he slung his bag over his shoulder and strode toward the building.

 He looked, well, terrific.  Very grown-up.  Very... attractive.  It was so strange, to see his little Kurt Hummel looking like this.  Like a man.  He watched as Kurt held the door open for someone leaving the building.  He was Blaine's same old Kurt.

Blaine hid behind a large cement planter, feeling ridiculous and a bit like a kid playing hide-and-seek, but he couldn't bring himself to leave.  The person leaving the building stopped in her tracks and said hello to Kurt, pausing to ask, "How was dinner with Jesse last night?"

Kurt bit his lip and the woman's brows pulled together.  "Oh Kurt, he didn't show up again, did he?"

Kurt sighed.  "No, Tina, he didn't."

"Kurt, you know what I think."

"I know, I know.  I'm an idiot."

"No, Kurt," Tina said passionately, putting a hand on Kurt's arm.  "It's Jesse who's the idiot.  You deserve way better than him."

From behind the plant, Blaine heartily agreed.  Kurt had been stood up!  He was now beyond positive it was his Kurt, from so long ago.  He would know that voice anywhere.  It was more mature, and deeper, but recognizable all the same--still musical as ever.  Blaine was happy to hear that Kurt had grown into himself, though sad he hadn't been around to help Kurt through his coming out process.  But even after that, after all this time, he was still getting hurt.  People were still letting him down, misunderstanding him, and not treating him like the amazing person that he was.  Blaine didn't get it.  How could anyone stand to hurt him?

But, actually, Blaine had been one of those people who had hurt him; who had let him down.  But Blaine had no choice!  There had been nothing that he could do about it.  Anyway, Kurt had forgotten about him the next day.  It almost made Blaine's hurting him not really count.  Not like this jerk Jesse.

But still, why had Blaine run into him again?

Kurt had gone into his building now, and suddenly Blaine was faced with the woman, Tina, looking suspiciously down at him.

"Um, what are you doing?"

Blaine winced and stood up straight.  "Nothing, uh--dropped a penny.  I'll just be on my way."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking."

My dad and Carole had put up quite a fight when I had decided to move out and get my own place after college.  Well, Carole especially.

"Move out?  Why?  There is plenty of room here, especially now that Finn is out of the house.  Kurt, it's so expensive and difficult to find a good place in the city."

I was willing to take that risk.

After my dad and Carole had gotten married, Carole seemed to have been overcome with guilt at seeing my despondency and taken the role of "mother" to a whole other level.  It wasn't entirely her fault; I had still been mourning the loss of Blaine.  But having extra family members, one of which was the incorrigible Finn, did not help.

Ever since then she had become increasingly overbearing, as if trying to make up for lost time.  I didn't fault her for it and it was not always bad.  It was another facet on my already interesting family spectrum.  She was a kind and well-meaning person and Finn had grown out of his bully and homophobic ways, thankfully.

But even as the movers were taking my heirloom vanity desk out the door, there Carole was.  "We'll try it for a few months.  And when," she winced at my glare.  "If--if it doesn't work out, you can come back."

Perhaps even worse than Carole's coddling was my grandparents' attempts to buy me a place of my own.  It had taken all of my learned negotiating skills to get out of that trap--goodness knows they would hold that "favor" over my head for years.  There was already the book deal.

I was thankful for my dad during that time.  His way of communicating things with little words was appreciated after the bombardment of guilt I was receiving from everyone else.  His tight hug and sincere reminder that they were always there if I needed them was so him, so us, and it was exactly what I needed to hear.

But even if I ever came to hate my new place, I would not be moving back.  Fortunately, that was not the case and my new flat was everything I had hoped it would be.  I had found a good place in a relatively decent neighborhood in Chelsea.  Even better, I had been allowed to decorate it how I wanted to.  I was like a kid in a candy store the first few months after I moved in.  It was something that was entirely mine.

One of the first touches I had made was setting up photographs on the bookshelves in the living area.  Every time I walked by toward my bedroom I passed the twin frames, one of my dad, my mother and I--before the accident--all of us smiling at a waterpark during a trip to Florida.  Next to it, sat a picture of dad, Carole, Finn, and I at our graduation.  As hectic as my family was, I loved them all.

Tonight, however, I bypassed the photos completely as I immediately went to change into something more comfortable--yoga pants and a worn cotton t-shirt.  I padded into the kitchen to find that I had three new messages on the machine.

I pressed the play button.  Come on, Jesse.  Redeem yourself.  Tell me you're badly mauled and in the hospital.  Cheer me up.

"Kurt!  Where are you?  Are you there... listening?  I know you screen your calls.  Pick up!  Come on, I need the help of my best gay!  I need your opinion on--"

I pressed Delete as Rachel spoke mid-sentence and moved on the next message.

"This is a reminder from Vogue magazine.  Your subscription will soon--"

Delete again.

One last message.  I was pleasantly surprised to hear one of my old college roommates.

"Kurt, it's Mercedes.  Are you sitting?"

I sat on one of the bar stools at the counter and began tearing a napkin to pieces as I listened.

"Alright, here's the news.  I'm getting married!  Do you remember Sam?  Duh, of course you do, what am I talking about?  Well he proposed!  Finally, right?  The wedding is in June, on the seventeenth of next year--I know, it's a long engagement.  But you have to--have to--be part of the wedding party.  You'll like the colors I chose, don't worry your pretty little head.  I'll try to call you again tomorrow so I can tell you all about it.  I hope everything's going good with you, too.  I love you, Kurt.  Hope you're well!"  The machine beeped and I accidentally let out a hefty sigh, blowing all the napkin pieces all over the counter and onto the floor.

I was happy for Mercedes, I really was.  Really.  Mostly.

I gave up on cleaning for now and walked into the bathroom to clean my face and do my usual regimen.  I tried to let the routine relax me a bit as I scrubbed my face.  But I ended up raw, probably being a bit too rough with myself.

I climbed into bed and pulled my computer onto my lap.  For over an hour I took notes for the movie, contract ideas for Carl Howell, and even a few new story ideas as I hoped to publish another book in the future.

But it wasn't long until I was too tired to think and hoped everything I had written down made sense.  I set my laptop on the nightstand before rolling over in my bed and promptly passing out.