Hello Again (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

November 2010: Richard the Dick

Let's be honest. When I tell people that I am an aspiring art museum curator, they aren't often that surprised. I fit the bill. I've never been the girl that stands out in a crowd. I've never been the girl that wanted to stand out in a crowd. I like quiet things. I like staying home on Friday nights and catching up on reading while half listening to NPR podcasts. I like routine and making "to do" lists, and I like my life to be neat, orderly, and calm. That's why I love art. The older the better. It's stood the test of time. It's exciting without being obvious, most of the time. There is a science to it-the paint, the brushstroke, the lines and color. It's predictable in some ways. I understand it, it understands me.

This all may make me seem entirely too boring, plain and vanilla, but it is what it is. I'm okay with that. I've come to terms with who I am. It has worked pretty well for me. My beginnings were unsteady, and frenzied, and now I've found a calm, steady balance.

For the past three years, I've been pretty happy with how my life has been. I just finished college at New York University. I somehow graduated with a major in Art History with a focus on Museum Curation, and a minor in illustration. The whole time, I've lived in a tiny closet apartment not too far from the university with my boyfriend, Richard. He moved in about six months ago, after we'd been together for two and a half years. When I say I move slow, and resist change, I mean it. And it's been all good and golden. That is, until, two weeks ago, I came home early from my very last seminar on Dutch and Flemish painting, and found Richard balls deep in some blond undergrad.

Ahem. Hello.

Life = not so plain and predictable anymore. And to think, I let that man leave his dirty socks all over my pristine apartment. And he had the gall to cheat on me, in my own bed, with some girl who he said "meant nothing, and is nothing". Please. Mostly, I'm just sad that I had to throw away the gorgeous comforter I got on sale from Anthropologie a few months ago. Richard is replaceable, but I'm not sure that comforter will ever be.

I went through a period of depression, of deep remorse, of "woe is me". I asked god, the air, some random guy in the subway what was wrong with me. God didn't respond, the air kept blowing by, and the subway guy looked at me like I was insane. I probably am. I asked how Richard could do it to me. I called him "Richard the Dick" or just plain "Dick", but it didn't totally numb the pain. I've been through break ups before. But none like this. Three years spent with someone to find out they were not who you thought they were-it messes with your head. Apparently I thought Richard liked quiet strawberry blonds with too many freckles and a love of art nouveau, but no...he likes blonds with a penchant for doing it doggy style.

But I digress.

After I discovered them going at it like rabbits, I spent about four days without any contact with the outside world. I febreezed my whole apartment, trying to get out the "smell", and used about two containers of Clorox disinfecting wipes on every non-porous surface. Then, I ate my weight in ice cream and danced drunkenly to Cake's version of "I Will Survive", screaming it at the top of my lungs until my neighbor banged on the conjoining wall. Well, fuck you very much, sir!

It was at day five when I finally turned my phone back on, took a shower and ate something with any real nutritional value in it. Pizza has nutritional value, right?

I had 89 text messages, 29 missed calls and 22 voicemails. I deleted most of them without reading or listening to them, but when I opened the text messages from my best friend, Santos, I paused and scrolled through them. They started out simple enough, but went from pleasant and worried to somewhat psycho and delirious rather quickly. We don't often spend long without talking to one another.

I took a deep breath, and dialed his number, clearing my throat as I did. I hadn't talked to anyone in days. I felt like I was emerging from some dark, murky cave.

"Holy fuck, you're alive." Santos answered on the first ring.

"I'm alive. Yes." I sat back on the couch, marveling at how many containers of Ben and Jerry's were sitting on the coffee table. I must have blacked out.

"Are you okay? I've been trying to contact you since you left me that voicemail, sounding like a dying cat." He sounded rushed, and far away. I sighed, remembering the desperate call I'd made to him right after I'd found out about Richard.

"I'm better."

"I would have come over but I'm not even in New York right now. I was seriously about to hop a train back home when I couldn't get in touch with you." He had been in Washington, DC for two weeks, finishing an architecture internship. Santos is definitely on the fast track to a super star career in design and architecture. It's just a matter of time.

"I'm sorry. I had to go off the grid. Richard..." I trailed off. Saying his name hurt.

"Fuck that fucking fucky dick. Seriously." Santos spat out. I rolled my eyes, but it was my sentiment exactly and it felt amazing to hear someone say it.

"Santos...what am I going to do?" I asked softly. Santos let out a harsh laugh.

"What? What are you gonna do? Are you kidding me, girl? You're gonna keep going. You're going to find a new man and be amazing and happy and so fucking glad that Tiny Dick is out of the picture. But first, before all of that, you are going to go on vacation with me. So pack your bags because we leave in a few days." His voice was excited. I blinked.

"I just graduated. I work part time at the gallery making less than that bum outside my apartment....Santos, he makes good money. I can't go on vacation." I stuttered. Santos laughed, his hearty, belly laugh.

"Not an excuse. Besides, it's already paid for. Remember Emily?"

"Emily?" I got a vague image of petite, pretty blond from a party.

"She goes to Tisch. She's super actor-y and serious about emotions. Anyway, she put together this whole big trip at some resort in Punta Cana. Her rich friend Veronica was supposed to go, and now she can't because she got some job in a commercial for Covergirl. So, you're in. I already cleared it with everyone. Emily loves you. She remembers you from that Toga party where your boob popped out-"

"My boob did not pop out-"

"It did. Everyone saw. It almost turned me straight." Santos laughed and then kept going. "It's a free trip, Gracie. Pack your bags. Get your inner slut ready. You're going to have fun with me whether you like it or not." He said, and he meant it. And I was honestly powerless to stop it. Once Santos has his mind set on something, it happens. And really...a free trip? How could I say no? So that, is how everything started. How my life went from normal, predictable and plain to something quite different altogether.