Sitting on the bridge, Jess flicks his half-smoked cigarette into the lake. He puts his palms against the untreated wood planks, but it feels wrong no matter where his hands go.
Some frogs creak from behind the reeds. Crickets chirp. If he strains he can hear the hush of traffic on the main road, but it's better here. Away from everyone.
Lorelai's gonna flip a shit. In fact she's probably flipping a shit in real time, across town. Rory said she would emphasize it was nobody's fault, just an accident, but if Rory was his daughter (nothing he wants to dwell on), calm, measured benefit of the doubt would be the last thing he'd give the guy who gave her a fractured wrist. And Lorelai's the same way.
The impact of the crash had slammed him forward in his seat before knocking him backward, giving him a friction burn on his hip from the seat belt.
Shiiiit, he said, his voice low. The hood was engulfed in hissing smoke.
Ow. It sounded like it took every effort for her to get the word out, and still she clipped it short.
Rory? He froze, his hand tight on the steering wheel at six o' clock. He made his breathing shallow to keep from disturbing anything-or wait, that was only for crime scenes.
I'm okay, just… ow. She was cradling her left arm in her other hand. Tears were gathering at the corners of her eyes but she still looked him over, scanning. Are you hurt?
I'm fine. Rory clearly wasn't, so he could deal with whatever he had later. From fourth grade on he'd learned to ice his own burns and wrap his own cuts, because there might not be anyone around to do it for him.
He looked out over the mountain range formed in the steel. I'm gonna call 911, alright? It's gonna be okay.
The night before he left New York, his mother threw up her hands and called him a screwup. She'd done it before-it was her favorite comeback-but never like it was her closing argument on the subject. Then he got here and figured, well, if he was a screwup then why try to surprise people. Why not own the role a little. But at one end of the spectrum there was messing with the townies and getting up in Dean's face so he'd do that first-class glare, and at the other there was torching the one good thing about this place.
He stretches his feet out over the water, trying to keep the backs of his knees from going numb against the edge of the bridge. Damn it. He lights another smoke, because why not.
Maybe he's been lying to himself. He lies to everyone else, so it's not a stretch. Maybe for all that he gets her to memorize the lyrics to his top five Clash songs, which she seems to like, maybe Dean still wins. Maybe this ends with that floppy-haired moron giving her cricks in the back of her neck for the rest of her life, or at least until he's no longer relevant and she meets some poli-sci major at Harvard. Probably some twerp in a sweater vest.
He hears footsteps on the bridge and he can tell it's Luke out of the corner of his eye.
"I made sure she was okay." His voice comes out strangled. Screw everything if he ends up crying about this, in front of Luke of all people.
"I know ya did." He feels Luke looking at him, but Jess doesn't stop him when he goes to sit down a couple feet away.
"It was a stupid accident, somethin' jumped out in the road in two seconds and I didn't have time to-"
"I know." Noise from the frogs fills up the silence.
"She's pissed, isn't she?" He still can't look at Luke, so he picks the cattails to focus on instead.
"Lorelai… she acts first, thinks later. That's the slogan on all her business cards, too."
"So that's a yes." He stares at the burning cigarette in his hand, the end shriveling into gray folds.
"She'll come around."
He takes a drag and lets it go. "Not if it has to do with Rory."
Luke clears his throat. "Listen, I wanna talk to ya about layin' low for a while."
"What, like get outta town, Butch Cassidy style?"
Luke sighs. "People talk. You know how it is. I know it was an accident, but the rest of those nutjobs have a slim chance of seein' it that way."
"I'll take less hours at the diner, if you want. Stay up in the bell tower and all that, so I don't terrify people." He rolls his eyes. Friggin' Stars Hollow.
Luke tugs the bill of his hat further down the back of his neck. "Rory's been part of this town for longer than a couple months, and they tend to root for the home team."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm sayin' maybe you go back to your mom's for now."
"I'm not doin' that," he says, quick as a reflex.
"Jess believe me, I get it, but I don't want you gettin' wrapped up in the National Enquirer level of crazy that's gonna start up tomorrow when everybody sees that cast on Rory's arm."
He's only comprehending it now. "She's gettin' a cast 'cause of me."
Luke puts out an arm to stop him. "Hey, now-accidents happen. Not your fault. Rory's gonna be fine."
"Doesn't matter, if I'm back in New York." He's been swinging one of his feet over the lake, so now he skims the surface with his shoe and kicks.
"Ya kinda like her, huh?" Luke says when the splash dies down. Light from the water plays off his jacket in waves.
Jess scoffs. "No." He takes another drag. "I just wanna make sure her arm's not busted for life."
"Don't beat yourself up." says Luke. "She's a nice girl, she won't hold it against ya."
"Yeah, whatever." A loon calls from somewhere far off. Luke pats him on the shoulder. "You gave it a good run here. Just didn't work out. Maybe you can be pen pals, as long as her good arm's the one she writes with."
"Oh yeah, sure. I'm just dyin' to burn through my Big Apple postcards." Another cigarette gets flicked into the lake. He hears it fizzle out when it hits the water. "So, all aboard the Greyhound. That's it, huh?"
Luke nods. "That's it."
"Okay." He pulls his knees into his chest and Luke gives him a hand up the rest of the way, and they walk home, Jess trailing behind with his hands in his pockets.