Rory laid in the dark bedroom facing the window, her eyes wide open. The familiar twin bed was some comfort—it was here that she always felt safe to think or imagine any number of things as she drifted off to sleep. Normally, she looked forward to the quiet solitude at the end of the day when she was wholly alone and free with her thoughts; happy thoughts became transcendental while problems seemed smaller and simpler here in the dark just before sleep. But tonight she loathed her thoughts, cursing herself as a weak girl who couldn't get over the boy who had treated her so badly. Did she really think so little of herself that she could lay here and dream the stupid dream that he would come back, say he loved her, take her in his arms and kiss her? God, she made herself sick, and she hated the way she fulfilled every gender stereotype by, damn it, still caring about him and wanting to have a reason to forgive him.
She groaned and rolled over, curling up a bit to stare at her bookshelf. She hated the way she remembered every detail of every conversation they'd ever had. Every kind gesture, every significant joke, every time they had hurt each other, and she couldn't help dwelling last on their inability to communicate when it mattered most. Well, his inability to communicate, she thought, returning to the angry feeling she'd happily embraced when she saw him sleeping in his car. She never knew how she'd react when she saw Jess again, but now she knew that it was with blinding rage (of course she didn't show this on the outside—she was terribly calm when she told her Mom she was going home). But once she got home, into bed, alone in the dark, she couldn't escape her other, more complicated feelings.
"Oh…dammit!" she exclaimed under her breath. Her chest burned and she felt her eyes tearing up. Almost a year at Yale and plenty of time to move on, and she was still hung up on the boy who also loved Allen Ginsberg, was willing to try Tolstoy's Anna, secretly hated Jane Austen (she just knew it), but loved Dostoevsky. And…Hemingway. They both sought literature that smacked of passion or madness, sincere feeling and no bullshit, a willingness to embrace the things that mattered no holds barred…this was why she couldn't get over him. Also, she couldn't stop thinking how hot he was. Just as she finally indulged herself in remembering what it was like to kiss him, caress the warm skin beneath his shirt, and feel the rough fabric of his jeans under her hands, a clatter of small stones hit her window.
Shocked out of her reverie and a bit embarrassed, though only she knew how rapidly she was headed towards dirty, dirty thoughts, she sat up in bed. The covers fell from her shoulders, and she shivered. She knew it was Jess outside and, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders, she stalked to the window. She flicked the lock on the top of the sash open and forced the window up, requiring an exertion of the little strength she had at such a moment—her heart raced more as a result. He was there, standing there, staring at her and saying nothing. He looked very cold and, somehow, less cocky than he did before he left Stars Hollow. It's weird to see him wearing a hat, she thought absently. Her mouth didn't hang open, but her eyes were disarmingly round and as the wind stirred the blanket she wore like a shawl, she said nothing.
"I wrote you a letter," he stated, his voice gentle. "I know you don't want to talk to me, but, anyway, here. I hope you'll read it," he spoke so that his last sentence sounded like a question, and reached into his back pocket. He stepped closer to the window to hold out a piece of paper. She leaned forward to take it, and felt its texture, soft from being folded and re-folded, worried over. She felt sorry for him in that moment. He looked so desperately unhappy, he wasn't dressed right for the cold, he'd been sleeping in his car.
She hesitated before saying, "Should I read it right now?"
"Sure, if you want," he responded.
"Okay." She leaned against the window sill as he continued to stand outside. He looked at her face to catch her reaction then, feeling like he didn't have the right to watch her, he looked away.
Rory,
I'm sorry. Really sorry. It's important to say. I never wanted things to end like they did, and I never wanted to hurt you. You deserve better, and you deserve an apology from a guy like me, who's not as bad as what I did. I left last year for so many reasons. You don't have to know why and it's not an excuse, but I want you to know that it had nothing to do with you. I hope you can forgive me, because I'll always care about you. It bothers me to think that you're out there in the world and hating me. Maybe that's a selfish impulse, but it is what it is.
Jess
"I was going to send you the letter, but I'm in town to pick up my car. I heard you and Lorelai walk by my car earlier, so I knew you knew I was here." Shock registered on Rory's face, but she didn't say anything.
"I don't know," he hugged his arms closer to his chest, "I just wanted to give it to you, to see if you wanted to talk to me."
The letter brought the events of last year back, brought back the anger she'd felt earlier. She dwelled on the last line of the letter, finding it rude, abrasive. She was shaking now, more noticeably than he, and felt frustrated that he was standing there looking so vulnerable, asking something of her, stirring up contradictory emotions that she had worked so hard to quell.
"Jess, I don't know what to do with all this, and I'm not about to ask you inside. I don't know when, or if, I'll want to talk to you. Just, stay away from me for awhile, okay?"
"Okay," he nodded slowly, frowned. He remained there as if rooted to the frozen ground.
"Good night." She closed the window and quickly lowered the blind. "Back to staring at the bookshelf," she muttered, climbing back into bed. She laid down with the letter in her hand, held against her chest under the covers.
When Rory told Jess to stay away, she had no idea that being ignored would hurt so badly. She had already run into him twice today. In Weston's he took one look at her and said "I'm leaving," and in the bookstore he hadn't even said anything.
She wondered if she had hurt him by reacting the way she did to his letter, but what right did he have to expect her trust again so immediately?
"None, that's what!" she reassured herself as she walked home. A couple of people glanced at her as she talked aloud, but she told herself it was just because they were nosey, not because she was clearly upset.
"I'm home!" Rory yelled as she walked in the front door.
"Hi sweet girl! What's up? Did you…run into anyone again?" asked Lorelai, a little winded from hurrying down the stairs to meet her.
"Well, yeah. In the bookstore." Rory stood in front of the once-broken window. An easy subject change. "I see the window's fixed. Did Luke have any trouble with it?"
"Oh, no. No trouble. He's had trouble with some other things. A certain angst-ridden, leather jacket-wearing, too-cool-for-school teenager who would have us all believe that his favorite movie is Taxi Driver when we all know that, really, it's The Cutting Edge."
"What?"
"Oh, you know, that wonderfully sweet figure skating movie from a few years back. He was a hockey player with a rock n' roll attitude; she, a spoiled rich girl used to getting what she wanted. Together, they skated their way to the top, but not before they fell in love! You haven't seen that one yet?"
Rory rolled her eyes. "No, I mean, what happened with Jess?"
"I don't know the details. But he hurt Luke's feelings so I yelled at him and told him you were happy without him and—that he should leave," she finished by pointing her finger in the air one last time to emphasize the vehemence of her feelings.
"Oh, mom."
"Well, he's a bastard person. And Luke is…just the opposite."
"Well, yes Luke is great, but that's not the point. And Jess is not such a huge bastard either, you know. He…came to see me last night—"
"What? That freakshow—" Lorelai began to rant again.
"No Mom, you don't understand," Rory interrupted. "He came to apologize for all that he's done and warn me that he was here in town so things wouldn't be awkward. He wanted to talk and I, I think he's changed somehow."
"Hmmm…" Lorelai drew her lips into a thin line, not willing to say anything else. Rory surprised herself by wanting to defend Jess, by feeling like it was only fair to.
"He was really very kind, not angry. He said he cared about me and that he hoped I would forgive him. But that he would understand if I couldn't. Actually he said it in a letter that he had obviously put some thought into. I think he didn't want to actually say the wrong thing when we talked because you know how unpredictable speaking can be. But I, I was mad at the time and it was late, and cold, so I told him I didn't want to see him any time soon. And he accepted that, without any anger or pressure for me to act differently than I wanted to." Rory grasped her messenger bag strap tighter and ducked her head, becoming quiet suddenly. Lorelai's heart caught at Rory's attempt to remain stoic.
"Okay, what a terrible mother I am to leave you standing, well, not in the foyer but just outside it, when you should be sitting on the couch, under a blanket with a mug of steaming hot chocolate. Let's sit, okay? And, put your bag down." Lorelai gestured toward the couch and put her arm around Rory's waist as they went to sit down together. She arranged a blanket over Rory's lap, tucking it in around her legs.
"I'm not an invalid, Mom. I can tuck in my own blanket if it needs tucking."
"Oh, you talk too much when I'm trying to smother you with affection. Now, you can tell me all about your feelings and what happened and we can over-analyze everything as much as you want. Or, we can just sit. Whatever you want to do. Now, should I go make you some hot chocolate? And by make I mean throw some water, possibly a dash of milk, into the microwave and add some powdered Swiss Miss." Lorelai smiled, and tucked a strand of hair behind Rory's ear.
"That'd be nice. And thanks for not calling it ho-cho."
