Blaine didnt see Kurt again for several weeks.  He saw a lot of Santana, however.  She clearly had it bad for Dani, a fact she tried (poorly) to hide under the guise of rekindling her friendship with Blaine.  She came to Charlies Tavern regularly and always sat at the bar, very close to the station where the wait staff ordered and picked up drinks, making small talk with Blaine.  He didnt mind that she only pretended to be interested in his life as her eyes tracked the honey-haired waitress back and forth around the bar, because, distracted as she was, she let far too much slip about Kurt. 

He found out, for instance, that Kurts date with the model had not gone well at all. 

"So the waiter--I dont know what happened--he slipped or he had fumble fingers or something.  Anyhow, he dropped this guys chocolate martini--like who drinks those, right?--drops it right in his lap and the guy--get this--the guy burst into tears, starts screaming hysterically, and slaps the waiter.  Kurt was mortified.  He put the money for the drinks on the table, stood up--you can picture it, right?  All erect like Kurt gets when hes really affronted--and told the guy to call him when he had grown the hell up."

Blaine tried not to show too much interest in Santanas story, but he on the inside he was doing a Gene Kelley tap dance around the bar, elated as he was that the date had gone so poorly.  

That was days ago. 

Tonight Blaine was complaining to Santana about Sam while Santana wasnt even pretending to listen to Blaine.  She had her barstool turned all the way around, her back to Blaine as she watched with narrow eyes as Dani evaded the groping hands of a bunch of college guys. 

"If he grabs her ass, I will end him," Santana muttered. 

When Dani disappeared into the backroom to retrieve more olives for Blaine, Santana finally swiveled around in her barstool and gave Blaine--who was behind the bar--a little of her attention.  Blaine repeated his complaint, now that he might have an audience, "So Sam wants to do a Gordon Lightfoot theme night, Santana.  Who under the age of fifty even knows who Gordon Lightfoot is?  I mean, hes Canadian, for Gods sake."

"So is Celine Dion."

"Oh my God.  We are not having a Celine Dion night!  Not in my bar."

"Im texting Sam right now."

"You dont even like...I will murder you both in your sleep!"

"Do you have anything to eat back there?" Santana asked, signaling that her two-second interest in Blaines little problem had expired.  "Im starving.  We never have any food in our house anymore.  I dont know where its going.  Kurt and Rachel keep accusing the other one of eating their stuff.  Rachel thinks Kurts sleep eating, and Kurt thinks Rachels pregnant--although which of the totally gay guys at her rehearsals he thinks knocked her up is a big mystery.  Theyre both so tiny, youd think that if they were eating all that food, their bellies would swell like those Ethiopian kids." 

"Santana!"

"What?" she looked at him wide eyed, and Blaine just shook his head. 

Against his better judgment, he decided to forge on, "Do they eat your stuff, too?"

Santana shrugged, "I dont buy food; I eat theirs.  Or, I did, when they had food.  God, Im so hungry." 

"Hang on," Blaine said, reaching behind a row of liquor bottles where he had a secret stash of Oreos.  As he pulled the bag out from a high shelf, his grip slipped, and the cookies fell into a box shoved into an out-of-the-way spot on the floor underneath the liquor cabinet. 

As Blaine bent to reach into it, Santana asked, "Whats that?"

"What?  This box?  Its our lost and found."

"Gimme."  Santana crooked the fingers of both hands. 

Blaine was about to object, but in his years at the bar hed discovered that things went into the box, but they rarely came out again.  If someone hadnt claimed something within twenty-four hours, they werent going to.  Santana might as well rummage through God-knew-how-many years of collective leavings if it made her happy.

Blaine handed the box over, and Santana began rummaging through it with her brown-painted talons, two cookies shoved in her mouth as she dug, spewing black crumbs as she went.  She pulled out a scarf, which she wrapped stylishly around her neck.  She slipped an oversized, plastic skull ring on her finger.  Then she mumbled something that sounded like, "Oh, shit."

"What?"    

Santana swallowed a big mouthful of cookies and held out a brooch which she put into Blaines hand.  It was a white enamel tulip with crystal stamens, stamped "Trifari" on the back. 

Blaine looked at it, arched an eyebrow, and handed it back.  It didnt look valuable. It did look vaguely familiar, though.  Maybe his grandmother had something like it. 

"So?"

"Its Kurts.  He was wearing it when we came in here that first time.  Hes been looking all over for it."

It was kind of girly, even for Kurt who was always willing to stretch the boundaries of masculinity, but Blaine remembered now that Kurt had worn it a few times when they were in high school.  There was a story, but Blaine couldnt remember it; it had been too many years. 

"You can give it to him.  Im sure hell be happy to have it back."

Santana shook her head, "Oh no."  She thrust the jewelry back at Blaine, "You call him."

"Santana," Blaine was exasperated, "you live with him.  Just give it back."

"Not gonna happen, Short, Dark and Gay.  You want to see him; you know you do.  Call him up." 

"I dont have his number."

Santana rose on tiptoes to reach across the counter and pulled Blaines phone out of his apron pocket.

"Hey!" he protested. 

"Relax," she replied, typing fast and furiously into his phone.  She handed it back, and Kurts number was now there (again).  "Call him," she instructed. 

Blaine did, but it took him a few days to screw up the courage.  He didnt know why it was a big deal.  A customer lost something, and he was going to give it back.  It was that simple.  Still, butterflies played crack the whip in his stomach as the phone rang. 

"Hello?" Kurt asked in that clear, high voice. 

"Hi, uh, Kurt?  Its Blaine.  Blaine Anderson.  From the bar."  Blaine winced.  He should have written a script before he called. 

"Blaine?   Hi.  How are you?"

"Um, good.  Good.  Well.  Im well." 

There was silence on the line, and then Blaine remembered that he called for a reason. 

"Look, uh, Kurt.  We have this, um, box.  In the bar, I mean.  We have this box in the bar where we put stuff, uh, like, leftover stuff."

"You have a box of leftovers?"

"Yeah.  No!  Not, like, leftovers.  Like, things people forget to lose.  I mean, forget or lose."

There was silence on the line while Blaine had a mini panic attack.  He gulped air and then he continued, "That is, er, Santana said...theres a brooch.  Theres a brooch in the bar.  In the box.  In the bar.  That belongs to you.  A flower.  Tulip." 

Oh God.  He wanted to bang his head against the bar until he was unconscious. 

Kurt didnt say anything for a moment, but eventually he must have strung all of Blaines words together and rearranged them until they made sense because he finally said, "Wait.  You found my tulip brooch?"

Blaine swallowed, "Yeah."

"Thats great!  Ive been looking everywhere.  Can I get it today?"

"Um, sure.  Six...we open at six.  Come by, um, really, any time, whenever."

Stop talking, Blaine!

"Great!  No, wait.  Ive got a work thing tonight.  Can I come by earlier, like, when I saw you last time, before the bar opened?  Around four?  Will you be there?" 

"Uh, uh, uh huh."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yeah.  Yes."

"Okay, Ill see you then."

"Um, yeah, see you." 

"Bye."  Kurt clicked off, and Blaine buried his face in his hands. 

Hi, Kurt.  Im calling because I found your lost brooch.  How hard was that?  I have your brooch.  I have your brooch.  Damn it!

Still, he was going to get to see Kurt again.  Maybe he could learn to speak English before he got there.