"You know what? I don't!" He really doesn't. He never will. It's simultaneously the most nauseating and the most wonderful thing about him. "You... What Scott saw was you, grasping at anything you can to push me away." She says that's wrong, but he's on a tear: "First it was Serena and Brown, then the mugs and the Mayor, then it's that you 'can't see the future'?" Lily shrugs, rising to the level of his emotion: "Well? I'm scared of the future. I'm scared of a lot of things." Rufus stomps his little feet and tosses those bangs around and clenches his little guitar fists; he doesn't get more than a sentence into his speech before his throat closes up and his eyes are full of tears.
"You're scared because you're in love with me like you've never loved any of your husbands. And unlike a Bart Bass, someone like me can break your heart, and that's terrifying." He swallows. "And I know that because right now you're breaking mine."
She really is. Lily Bass, who would walk on knives to get through a social occasion -- whose Rhodes powers are such that she could literally do that -- does not throw a wedding for just anybody. Not if she'd just spent the night with the man of her dreams, would she fuck up all that planning. (He knows that: he was there. He was that man.) She is breaking his heart. Again. They are fragments, repeating: Only the parts of the story they could agree on, before the cold pulled her away again. She's Lucy van Pelt, snatching that football out from beneath him, once again; refusing him to let him leave, or grow, or change:
Not a man, just a photograph. A picture of a boy, hair in his eyes: Not like they are now, but when she was young. When she was happy, she holds him there: fixed in place. So tightly, like a photograph. Have you ever seen a romantic comedy? There's a scene that comes right before you chase after him, and tell him that you can't believe how blind you were this whole time. It's a fairytale. He's the only man that ever lived that believed otherwise. She hated him for that.
She loved him for that. She stares at him, barely able to believe it's still true -- barely able to believe that he, that a person, could actually say those words out loud and mean them so much, certainly it's not done that way, not after all this time, certainly this is just fragments repeating of the story he likes best; certainly we don't know who we are, or what we want, not really, and certainly not like he does: we just live. Her heart's a mess; he's desperate to connect. He can't live like this.