Kurt gorged on culture.

He couldnt help himself, really. Some people over-eat during the holidays, indulging in a parade of cakes, cookies and booze. Kurt lost himself in a buffet of clubs, restaurants, shows, shopping and gossip that a week in the city offered.

He took time to catch up with old friends and new boutiques during the day, then caught a show at night. In between, he squeezed in appointments with a few of business contacts, buyers and sommeliers, to keep his head in the game and his name on their lips.

He had fallen back into the rhythm of the city effortlessly. It energized him, picked up the tempo of his step, then left him full and sated at the end of each day. It was like a sugar high followed by a comfortable crash at the end of the evening. Then, he would pick up the phone and call Blaine, letting the comfortable cocoon of Blaines honeyed voice sweep over him again, slowing his pulse and his blood pressure, until he drifted off to sleep.

Through it all, he put off thoughts of his upcoming meeting with Quinn.

He had already rescheduled it once, claiming a last-minute conflict. His avoidance didnt surprise him. In the past, meetings with Quinn meant being accountable for his time, presenting a plan or strategy that often hadnt been planned or strategized at all, and then listening as she called him out on his bullshit.

It was frustrating, having a boss, or a friend — or someone who was both — who could read you as precisely as Quinn Fabray read him.

Kurt also had a good sense of exactly what she wanted to talk about. She hadnt been shy about encouraging him to "get back in the game" after leaving Taste. And he had to admit, grudgingly, that he hadn't given his arrangement with the magazine much of a chance to succeed after hed married Blaine. 

And when it got right down to it, Quinn had been surprisingly understanding when Kurt said he was done, that he no longer wanted to manage the wine content for the publication — even from his west coast home. She had said that she understood, that it was time to focus on settling into his new home, and that he should always consider the door open if he wanted to come back.

And she had nudged that door. Repeatedly.

She had messaged Kurt, called Kurt, emailed Kurt — first, with simple questions about work, or a new vintage; later, asking him to consider picking up the odd writing job.

So as he readied himself for their meeting, adjusting his tie in the mirror and taking one last swipe of his lint roller to his black Calvin Klein blazer, he reminded himself: She drove you crazy before. She loaded you with too much work. You have a good life, just the way it is.

****

There was a time when the subway was Kurts preferred method of New York City transportation. But Taste was picking up the tab, and Kurt was in no mood to spend the morning jostling with the morning commute crowd, or standing in a crowded, unventilated subway car, or getting uncomfortably stuck next to a strung-out couple having a shouting match in front of a train full of commuters.

Yes, Kurt thought. Ill let the doorman flag down that taxi and Ill let Quinn pick up the tab. Maybe Im finally a Californian, after all.

Kurt entered the doors of The SoHo Building, the new home of Taste Magazine, and made a beeline for the elevators. He was promptly stopped by security, and redirected to guest check-in.

As he pulled out his identification, it struck him just how much time had passed since the days when the guards waved him through with a "Good morning, Mr. Hummel."

Now, he had to have his drivers license scanned and his appointment confirmed with the Taste office before security cleared him to proceed to the 12th floor.

The doors opened to an office unrecognizable from the one he once called his professional home. Running counter to much of the periodical industry, times had been good to Taste Magazine, particularly since the success of the first Challenge, and Quinn had celebrated by moving to the fashionable SoHo creative district.

The office was sleek, minimalist and edgy — just like the image Quinn fostered with her flagship magazine.

On display in the glass-and-leather foyer was a Taste museum of sorts, featuring photos and souvenirs of its successes. Front and center was a bottle of 2009 Sotto Voce, and a photograph of Blaine shaking Quinns hand, accepting the gold medal prize as winner of the magazines inaugural wine competition. In the background of the photo he saw himself, hands clasped together, smiling and staring in a way that hinted at the fact that he was already a little in love with this man.

“Kurt!” Quinns voice rousted him from his reverie. "Youre on time."

She sounded surprised, a light mocking of Kurts less-than-stellar relationship with schedules.

Kurt simply smiled, and extended his hands in a Here I am gesture.

"Well, come in, then. Let me show you around the new office."

Quinn took him on a brief tour, circling the space. It was a modern loft in a historic brick-accented building, open and airy, but preserving the privacy of office conversations with thick glass partitions where drywall once stood. It reminded him of an Apple store, minus the crowds and hipster employees.

At the far end, in the corner, stood Quinns office, overlooking the boutiques of Greene Street: Penguin, La Perla, Tiffany. As he got closer, he realized that the glass walls could be shut off from the rest of the room by electric shades that rolled down from the ceiling. Quinn was never one to leave her life — public or private — open for all to see.

"Quite an upgrade, Quinn."

"You helped pay for it, you know. Advertising went through the roof after that first Challenge, and it gave us a chance to build the office that Taste deserves."

Not to mention the revenue from the product tie-ins: the wine clubs, the tasting events around the country, and the branded wine merchandise that had more than made up for the generally lackluster subscription rates in the magazine industry.

"Your work had a lot to do with our success, Kurt. Youre missed around here."

Shes getting right down to business, Kurt thought.

"Thanks, Quinn. But you know Im not moving..."

"And Im not asking you to," she said. She paused for a moment, looking Kurt in the eye. "Okay, lets get down to it. Ive got big plans for the wine section, Kurt. Its become our calling card, and its going to grow. And I want someone I trust to shepherd it through.”

Quinn outlined a work plan that she said would give Kurt flexibility — a chance to split time between his new home and his old job.

With a hefty pay hike.

"People do it all the time, Kurt. Have you ever tried to fly nonstop between LaGuardia and LAX on a Monday or a Friday? Youd better plan ahead, because those flights are filled with commuters in the entertainment industry."

"Im not in the entertainment industry," Kurt said.

"Good, that means there should be more seats for you to San Francisco." 

Kurt looked at her skeptically. Every conversation, every text, had suggested that Quinn was trying to convince him to move back to New York. He shook his head, a little dumbfounded. 

"You know why I left, right?"

Quinn just smiled.

"I left because the job had become too much. I was doing everything, with no support. I was the writer, the editor, the columnist, the event planner, the goodwill ambassador," Kurt said. "If youre planning on expanding, its only going to get worse."

"Im expanding the staff."

"To two?"

"To five," Quinn said. "Youd be an editor in more than just name only. Thats why Id need you here for a while — so you can help hire your staff. And Id limit your duties. No more event planning."

She assured him that she had already begun interviewing California-based event teams to run the Challenge, that his only role would be to show up and write about it.

"Kurt, Im looking to protect your time," she said, trying to reassure him.

"I think my husband will have a hard time believing that, Quinn. What youve outlined sounds like all my down time will be spent at 30,000 feet. And Id still be the local guy in California — and that means things are going to land in my lap." 

"How about if I put it in writing?" Quinn said, leaning in. "No work on the Challenge for Mr. Hummel." 

"Its Hummel-Anderson," he said.

****

Kurt tried to spend the rest of his day leisurely, but the weather and his tension conspired against him.

His mind was too distracted to take another meeting. A light snow began to pick up momentum, deterring him from a walk through the park. He was in no mood to shop. 

He headed back to the Ritz Carlton, eventually drifting down to the Star Lounge, a classic, clubby bar with dark wood walls, overstuffed sofas and $20 cocktails. He ordered a late lunch, and then a martini, while he waited for the telltale chime alerting him to incoming email.

It arrived around 4 p.m.

The note was succinct, but thorough enough to be convincing.

Kurt,

Thanks for hearing me out today. I am not exaggerating when I say that Taste hasnt been the same without you. 

I recognize your concerns about relocation, and I think you will see from my offer that if you rejoin our team, I will do everything in my power to ensure that your responsibilities are focused and manageable. I am also willing to schedule your business trips to New York in such a manner as to maximize your time at home.

• In sum, Taste Magazine would like to make the following offer of employment:
• The position of wine editor, to be based in the location of your choice;
• An increase of 20 percent over your last gross salary with Taste, as well as a reinstatement of full benefits, grandfathered to your last date of employment;
• As wine editor, you will oversee the development of a redesigned and expanded wine section and staff;
• Taste will arrange for the long-term lodging of your choice during the development of the expanded wine section, and will work with you to coordinate a schedule to maximize your time at home; and
• You will not be responsible for the development or promotion of, beyond the scope of your responsibilities as editor, the Taste Challenge.

Im looking forward to working with you again, Kurt.

Best Regards,

Quinn Fabray

He settled into a corner table in the bar, sipping his drink and reading, then re-reading her offer.

He would need another martini before he could call Blaine.

****

"So, howd it go?"

Blaine didnt bother with the niceties, the greetings, the small talk.

"And hello to you, too," Kurt answered, trying to sound breezy. "Still toasty back there? Am I coming home to cuddle weather, or will I find you working shirtless in the vineyard?"

"Its starting to cool off. And I always wear a shirt when Im working."

“That's a pity."

"It sounds like someones had a good afternoon," Blaine said. 

"The bar in this hotel is famous for its classic cocktails."

"I see," Blaine said with mock gravity. "Was this before or after your meeting with Quinn today?"

"After. It was a morning meeting."

"And?"

Kurt waited a beat. He wasnt nearly as touched by the liquor as he had hoped hed be.

"Unsurprisingly, shed like me to come back, and made me an offer."

Kurt could have sworn he heard Blaine swallow on the other end of the phone.

"So what did you say?"

"Not much. I told her Id look at her offer and think about it."

Kurt wasnt certain if the phone had gone dead until he heard the dog start to bark in the background.

"Blaine?"

He was silent for a few additional beats.

"Where would this job be based?" he asked quietly.

"Over the long term, wherever I want," Kurt said.

"What does that mean?"

Kurt explained Quinns plan for an expansion and redesign of Tastes wine section, how his responsibilities would change, but be capped and protected the Challenge. How he would get a significant pay raise, and build on his existing benefits.

"And it would mean some work in New York," Kurt added. "She wants me to handle the hiring of the new staff from here, and to work with her and the design concept team on the new section."

"From there," Blaine said, his voice going flat.

"Only part time," Kurt responded quickly. "I can alternate weeks, or adjust the schedule so I have blocks of time in California."

"Blocks of time —"

"She said she would maximize my time at home."

"Im not sure exactly what thats supposed to mean, Kurt. All I know is that you were miserable when you left that magazine. She took advantage. And now youre thinking about going back?"

"I wouldnt have to do the Challenge anymore, Blaine. No promotions, no event planning."

"She says that now. And exactly how much time is she expecting you to be in New York?"

"On and off until the section reboot," Kurt said.

"And that is what, exactly?"

The tension built in Blaines voice, and Kurt began choosing his words carefully, editing them to a bare minimum.

"Probably six-to-eight months," he said.

"Is that what she said? Then bank on a year, Kurt. And plan on spending more time back east than shes suggested, and inheriting more responsibilities. You know how this goes."

Kurt sighed, muttered "fuck" under his breath and stared at his empty martini glass for a moment, trying to will it full again.

"Whats really going on here, Blaine?" he asked, trying to keep his tone controlled. "Werent you the one who encouraged me to take Quinn up on her invitation? Didnt you encourage me to come to New York, because you thought I was bored at home? You knew what she was going to ask, just like I did, and you encouraged me to come here anyway. And now youre angry that I took the meeting?"

"Im not angry that you took the meeting," Blaine said. 

"Then what?"

"Not angry," he repeated. "I just encouraged you to go visit."

"Go visit? You knew exactly why Quinn wanted to meet with me. If youre so uncomfortable with it, why did you want me to fly out here?"

"Because I thought it would help you get it out of your system," Blaine spat out.

"Out of my system? You mean work? Or Manhattan? And what if its not something you outgrow, Blaine? What if this is right for me? Then what? Are you going to just walk away?"

Kurt could hear Blaine take a deep inhale — a habit he knew Blaine used to steady his nerves.

"Of course not," Blaine said, almost under his breath. 

"Dont you trust me? Dont you trust me to do the right thing?"

"Yes," Blaine said simply.

They sat quietly for a moment, letting the heated words dissipate over the miles and time zones, neither wanting to be the first to speak. 

Blaine was the first to chip away at the silence.

"By the way, youre in demand. Quinn isnt the only one with a proposition for you," he said, his voice settling.

"What do you mean?"

Blaine told him about the visit from Sebastian, and the surprising lack of innuendo, and the fact that it was Kurt, not himself, that Sebastian sought out.

"I bet he had a proposition," Kurt muttered.

"It wasnt anything like that. He sounds like he wants to offer you a job."

"Im sure he at least ogled you."

"I had my eye on him the entire time. He seemed sincere — or at least as sincere as he gets."

"I bet," Kurt said.

"Im just saying, you may want to hear him out."

"And youre comfortable with that?"

"I dont know," Blaine said. "I guess Im as comfortable with Sebastian offering you a job as I am with you getting a job offer from Quinn."

"Fair enough."  

They settled into a safely guarded conversation, of weather and tasks and Kurts two remaining days in the city, which he planned to enjoy.

“I'm still picking you up at the airport on Friday?” Blaine asked, wrapping up the conversation.

“One o'clock, sharp. I love you.”

“Love you, too. I'll see you at baggage claim,” Blaine said, hanging up.

Kurt clutched the phone in one hand, and rested his chin against the other. He stayed frozen like that for a moment, staring blankly toward the bar. He tapped the phone aimlessly against the table until a waiter asked if he would like a menu.

Kurt signaled for his check when a thought came to him — one last thing to do in New York. He called up the contacts file on his phone, and typed in a name.

****