Jess,
I've never written you a letter before. I know it's a terrible way to start this, but it's true. I wrote Dean letters about everything, from silly letters about silly things, to letters about crashed cars and broken marriages. Logan too, I'd write him small notes telling him where I'd be at night, a cheap 'Love Rory' tacked on the end. Now, before you rip this (my first letter to you) in half, I should tell you something. I always wanted to write to you. Something. Anything. I know, it sounds stupid, and until I tried to write to you the first time (I sat in a closet for hours with loose leaf and a flash light) I didn't think twice about it. But I couldn't do it.
Words are your thing. Sure, I'm a journalist, writing for my bread and butter, but you're Jess. You're an author now, you read more than I do, and I'm scared that my words won't be good enough for you. That I wont be good enough for you. You're probably shaking your head, but it's true. Without you I might be eating caviar and getting pissed every night of the week. Without you I might have had to marry Logan (what other choice would I have?).
You saved me. You saved me from my grandma's life outside Yale, but there's more than that. You saved me from my life in Stars Hollow, poster child for censorship, ice cream queen. You came and there was something more than watching Dean play sports (softball, baseball, football, clay pigeon shooting... I've really lost count) after school each day. You came along and brought the rest of the world with you. There was New York out there, more than the smiles and ballerinas of small town Connecticut. You brought danger, spontaneity, and my first indecent thoughts.
You brought me Hemingway.
I might have known about Hemingway before I met you. I might have even driveled through the first three chapters or so. A few weeks ago, however, I was in Washington with the other Obama reporters. We had a few days off and I went to a bookshop, you of all people know why, when I saw Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises. At first I wasn''t going to spare it a second glance, I don't need to read about trout fishing and bull fighting. But then I thought of you.
I don't think of you much. I need to point that out. I'm not pining for you, and I'd be perfectly fine without you. I don't need you, but I've come to terms with the fact that, just maybe, I want you. Don't think that came to me easily though, it took me days and days of deliberation. How does one admit that they might not be over some guy that screwed them around when they were a teenager? I doubt I will ever be completely over that, just so you know. But I still don't want to be the Brett to your Jake. I don't want to be the pretty thought of what could have been, running around with bullfighters and bankrupts. Not that I date many bullfighters, but that's not my point.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that, if I'm not too late, I think that we could have 'a damned good time together', and I'll hope that you're not Jake.
-Rory.
--
She didn't send the letter.
She wasn't that surprised with herself to be honest. She had never expected to send it in the first place. It wasn't good enough, it never would be. She couldn't put her thoughts into words when it came to him. Perhaps, were she more creative, she would be able to write him a poem, a love song, or draw a picture. Unfortunately she was not creative (a trait people often assumed she had), but factual. She could write about events, add some flair and send it to her editor. Non-Fiction was her forte, stuff like: Woke up at seven this morning, birds were singing, sun was shining. I had pop tarts for breakfast, they were stale. She could do that fine, it was there, it happened. But writing about her thoughts, her future, her desires? She lacked that creative streak.
That was why she stood outside Truncheon, anticipating this moment since the Obama bus started it's ascent North towards Philly. She took a deep breath and straightened her blouse. She was much too formal, still in her reporter clothes.
She opened the door. Her hands were shaking.
The room was not quite as tidy as the last time she had been there on the open day, but it was still much neater than she ever remembered Jess being. Someone else must clean. She took in the books and art adorning the shop hungrily. This was Jess, he was here.
"Can I help you?"
She turned around to see Jess. He looked shocked upon recognition, but quickly recovered.
"Um, hi." she said.
"Hey." He was casual, as though he had been expecting her. He always looked unfazed. She could count on one hand the times he wasn't, they were some of the best and worst times they had together.
"So, uh, I finished Hemingway."
"Only took you seven years, what did you think?"
"I hate bullfights."
"Death in the Afternoon?"
"No, I read The Sun Also Rises."
"Ah."
There was an awkward silence, neither knew what to say.
"Why are you here, Rory?" he used the tone he saved for occasions like this (You skipped school and everything. Are you still with Dean? Do you think we need a chaperon? You just invited one.)
Her eyes dart around the room, looking for some protection. She never could hide from him.
"So, I read Hemingway, right,"
"So you've said."
She ignored his interruption, "And it was exactly the same as before, I hated it, couldn't stand it. Then I got to the end and- and- I just... it was.."
"Come on Rory, spit it out already."
"I don't want to be Brett." She blurted.
"Oh." He said, nothing else.
"Yeah. And, well, I know it's stupid and probably too late. But I just thought that maybe things will be different this time around. Maybe I'm finally ready, I don't think I ever was before."
"I've given you chances before."
"I know."
"How do you know that I haven't moved on already? Do you think you can just stroll back into my life whenever you want and I'll just take you in?" he knows he would take her in happily every time, but she doesn't have to know that.
"No, I'm sorry. You're absolutely right. I shouldn't just- it was wrong of me. I'm so sorry, Jess. I didn't know-"
"Rory,"
"Of course you have somebody else, I was just in Philly, and then I'm here and I didn't even think-"
"Rory."
"What?" she had been backing closer towards the door.
"I'm glad you're here."
"Really?" She asked, skeptical.
"Yeah. Maybe things can be different this time."
She grinned at him, and he grinned back.
"Maybe one day I'll be able to write you a letter."
He doesn't have time to be confused by that statement, because before he has time to think, she's back in his arms. They never wanted to be anywhere else.
AN: Thanks for reading. I'd love some feedback. I can't work on any of my longer stories at the moment because of a series of unfortunate events involving my computer getting completely wiped of everything including those files. I wrote this quickly on word pad and so my spelling is most likely horrid. Please bare with me. I want to continue my 'Living an Alias' as soon as possible, it's just not quite possible.
Review?
