Shoot the Moon
by columbiachica (kat2005)
A/N: The title is from the incredible Norah Jones song of the same name. If you haven't already heard her stuff, I highly recommend it.
You're smoking. I thought you'd quit, but I guess you're back at it. You sit there on a park bench in the middle of town and puff, slowly, with an almost dignified manner. It looks like it took practice. I wonder what got you started.
There's something about you in Stars Hollow. It's such a strange juxtaposition to see you sitting in the flawless, pristine park, smoking a cigarette. My mouth quirks up at the corner to think of you throwing the butt in Taylor's prized bushes. You're staring off into the distance, at the perfect ellipsis of the streetlight on the ground in front of you. It seems you're thinking, hard.
Suddenly, you look up. Your eyes pierce mine, and I know that you knew I was there all along. I gaze right back, trying to keep my eyes steady while my stomach flutters and dances. I force my mouth to remain in a half- smile as my legs turn to pasta beneath me. I make my hands stay still, resisting the urge to fidget as you stare at me. Then I gather the courage to walk forward.
When I sit on the bench next to you, you say nothing. You calmly stub out the cigarette and flick it right into Taylor's bush. I feel the giggle rising and stuff it down my throat. Stretching my legs out, I imitate your relaxed stance. My hand dips dangerously close to yours, and I narrowly quell the impulse to clasp my hand in yours.
"Have fun?" you finally say, not looking at me.
"Not really," I say honestly. All day I'd been telling everyone what a great time it was. Deep down, I was miserable, missing my mom and Lane and.you.
"I figured." Of course you did. You have the peculiar ability to turn me inside out and analyze me better than I ever could.
"Paris was a holy terror."
"Why'd you go, anyway?"
I realize that I forgot to tell you, in light of avoiding you after the kiss. "ASB. Paris and I are ASB officers."
You raise your eyebrows. "Impressive," you say. "You've already got Monica Lewinsky beat in terms of politics."
"Well, that's a relief," I joke. "I was afraid I'd have to resort to desperate measures."
You chuckle humorlessly. "Like you ever would."
You're right, naturally. I want to make a crack about those desperate measures too, but I can just see your reaction: a smirk and a cocked eyebrow. And right now, I'd rather not put myself in such a precarious position. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"What did you do?"
"School."
"Oh." I don't know what to say, so I turn my hands over in my lap.
"Waited."
"For?" I ask, knowing the answer. You were waiting for me, waiting for me to write you a letter, waiting for me to call you, waiting for me to send a smoke signal or a drum call.
"You." The statement is simple and bare, but it feels like something more.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, fixating on my hands again as they wring themselves. I feel oddly detached from my body; right now, I just feel like a poorly assembled circuit of nerves.
"Don't be."
"Jess, I-"
"Was busy," you finish.
"That's not what I was going to say." Your eyes bore into mine. "Well, that could have been part of it." I take a deep breath, aware of your eyes on my bent head. "I tried. I have a whole stack of unsent letters, like that Alanis Morrisette song. I wrote a million letters, but then they all sounded stupid and rambling.kind of like now. I didn't know what to say."
"It was just a kiss," you say nonchalantly. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me," I say stubbornly, and I hear you sigh. "I don't just go off and kiss random people."
"That's a load off."
I knew you were going to be difficult. But it's partially my fault: first the avoidance, then the silence, now this fumbling confessional. "So, that means that I betrayed Dean. I've never done that."
"Well, I kept quiet," you say with a tinge of bitterness seeping into your tone. Your jaw has tightened, and I can tell you're trying not to say something.
"Tell me," I demand, softly.
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to talk to you about this?"
"Yes," I admit in the same hushed voice.
"Or that maybe it's time to make up your mind?"
"Yes," I repeat.
"Or that maybe Dean isn't best for you?"
I pause, then murmur, low and ashamed, "Yes."
You take a deep breath, hold it a moment, and release it. "And still."
"I'm confused. I don't have a lot of experience here."
"You mean with people who aren't like Beaver Cleaver."
"No. Yes. Just.dating and the opposite sex in general." My hands fly about weirdly, trying to show the concept in a strange version of charades. I peek through my hair and sneak another look at your profile. Although I'm not prone to judging physical attractiveness as a rule, I'm drawn to you. I like looking at the sharp angle of your cheekbones, the straight slant of your nose, the slightly distorted semicircle of your mouth. I've even ventured a look at the rest of you; I find it alluringly forbidden.
"You need time," you finally utter into the stillness.
I almost nod, but I catch myself. "No," I say, louder than all my other remarks. Your face turns full toward me, and I meet your eyes bravely. They're my favorite feature of yours, and it's not too often I get an opportunity like this to really look at them. I gather my frazzled wits and say, "I need advice."
"I don't think I'm the best person."
"Probably not," I concur, "but I want to hear what you think."
You lean back, slouching more than before. Another deep breath escapes through your lips, and you focus on that ellipsis on the pavement again. "I think that you and Dean don't have enough in common to justify the work it takes to maintain the relationship." Your voice is even and measured, and you add nothing to the effect of, "So we belong together." I wonder if you just don't think so, or if you're trying not to be biased.
"He gets mad really easily," I say. I feel the compulsion to slap my hand over my mouth for letting that slip out. It's none of you're business, to tell you the truth.
"I noticed," you say. Again, you add nothing that might promote you.
"Jess?" I finally venture.
"Yes, Rory?"
I like it when you say my name. It sounds different than anyone else saying it, ever. You say it with as much affection as my mom or Dean, but with something in the last syllable that makes me curious. "Hypothetically, I break up with Dean." I clear my throat anxiously. "Would you." I can't finish the question, so I let it drift off and dissipate.
"Yes," you promise, looking sideways at me.
I nod. "Good," I whisper, then stand. You stand as well, and jam your hands in your pockets, looking down into my face. It's easier to just stand with you; it strains my neck less.
"I'll walk you home," you offer, "since this is such a dangerous town."
"Good idea," I accept. We set off, side by side. You lope carelessly, and I walk like I always have, one foot in front of the other, no special gait. There's silence between us, but it's the good kind, as opposed to the I- just-met-you-so-there's-nothing-to-say, or the I-have-nothing-in-common- with-you, or the I'm-desperate-searching-for-something-to-talk-about silence.
"So, other than Paris.did you have fun?"
I shrug. "It had its moments."
"What were they?"
"The second I stepped off the bus here." You smile a little.
"It was just the opposite for me," you tell me, and I know it's halfway a joke.
"You came back for me." I say it flatly, as a statement, rather than the question I would intone with anyone else.
"Yes," you agree.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I kissed you and ran away and didn't write."
"No big deal," you forgive.
"Good." I nod emphatically. We're on the bridge now, and I stop. You walk ahead a couple paces, then stop as well. I just stand and stare at you, and you stare right back.
"What are you thinking?" you ask. You've never asked me this before; you can usually tell.
"I'm thinking that I want to kiss you again," I inform you, boldly. It's unlike anything I've ever said to anyone before, and you look genuinely surprised.
"By all means," you invite, and step closer. I take one wobbly step forward, my insides rotating at warp speed. "On one condition."
"Okay."
"Don't run."
"Can I walk?"
You think. "I suppose."
I smile, and you smile back. It's rare that you smile like this, uninhibited, just because you're happy, or something resembling it. Unsteadily, I reach my hand out and put it on your shoulder. Helping me, you reach out and wrap an arm around my waist, drawing me tight against you, putting the other one between my shoulder blades. I blush; Dean and I never get this close, and you know it, because you're smirking.
The smile slowly fades off my face as I stand on my toes slightly and bring my mouth closer to yours. You lean in, and then, my lower lip is enclosed in your lips. I shut my eyes tightly, willing thoughts of my mom and Dean out of my head, and I put my other arm around your neck, putting my palm flush against the nape and my fingers tangled in your hair.
I breathe in, opening my mouth a little wider, and you take the opportunity to slide your lips up to match mine. I can taste the smoky aftertaste in your mouth, but also something sweeter, something like chocolate. Inadvertently, I open my mouth even more, and you slip your tongue in. Your arm tightens and my fingers threaten to pull out a good chuck of your hair as we move against each other.
Dean doesn't kiss like this. He doesn't fight for domination the way you do. He doesn't force me to give my whole self over to the kiss like you do. He doesn't grasp at me or clutch me or do.whatever it is you're doing with your tongue. I don't know why, but my hand starts to trickle down the front of your shirt, landing on your stomach, caressing it and bunching your shirt in my fist.
Eventually, we separate our lips, but remain pressed together. "I shouldn't be doing this," I murmur, although no real guilt has assaulted me yet. I know I'll lose sleep over this, but it feels good.
"No," you affirm.
I press you against my mouth again, and this time, you kiss me sweeter, slower. I release some of the fabric of your shirt and let up a little on your hair, but continue to stay molded to you. When we break apart again, you peck my lips and cheeks, then my forehead before I bury my head in your neck and hide from the world.
Your hand travels up my back and threads in my hair, and I feel you sigh into me. I've never been this close to anyone; not just physically, but right here, right now, I think we're practically the same person. Our thoughts intersect at a nice ninety-degree angle.
You're starting to move away, but I keep hold of your shirt so you can't go too far. "You should get home," you state, quietly, holding my forearms.
"Yes." I reach out and touch your cheek. It's smoother than I thought it would be, but still more rugged than Dean's. I hate myself for comparing you two. "I won't regret it."
"Neither will I," you say, simply. You look like you want to kiss me again; you know I'd let you. But you just walk back in the direction of Luke's, brushing my shoulder thinly as you pass. I stand on the bridge, staring at nothing for a while, stroking my lips subconsciously. Then I head home, hands in my pockets, past all the neighbors who wave when they see the innocent girl from down the street. I smile and wave back.
***
I can feel you approaching from behind. I knew you would come to see me, eventually. After you got through seeing everyone else, I knew you would seek me out, a guilty pleasure of sorts. You're standing there behind me, undecided, and I help you out by turning around, acknowledging you. I'm a little surprised when you just stare for a moment, but then you walk forward and sit next to me.
I stub out my cigarette and toss it in the bush. I'm certain that I've violated some retarded town rule by doing so. I don't know what got me started again; I'd quit so suddenly, I'd just left packs lying around, and they looked tempting today. You ape my posture almost comically, but I can't laugh right now. In fact, I can't even crack a smile.
Moments expand between us, and I finally give you an out. "Have fun?"
"Not really," you confess. I had a feeling that you didn't. Your smile was fake today.
"I figured."
"Paris was a holy terror," you add.
You didn't tell me about leaving. I heard that you'd disappeared to Washington from the town gossips as they sat around the diner tables and drank iced tea. "Why'd you go, anyway?"
A mildly surprised look hits your face as you remember that you didn't tell me. "ASB. Paris and I are ASB officers."
"Impressive," I say. "You've already got Monica Lewinsky beat in terms of politics." The joke makes you smile a little, and I feel the strangest rush of pride. Irritated at my own foolishness, I narrowly stop myself from digging for another smoke. You're making me soft.
"Well, that's a relief," you joke. "I was afraid I'd have to resort to desperate measures."
An unwanted chuckle escapes me. Rory Gilmore, do something less than pristine? Rory Gilmore, do anything that could be termed sexual? Rory Gilmore, using her body to get to the top? Yeah, right, and those must have been icicles in hell. "Like you ever would."
"What about you?"
"What about me?" You mean, would I give the president a blow job? Somehow, I don't think that's what you mean.
"What did you do?"
"School." I don't add anything to it, because there is nothing to add. School is school, any way you look at it. You know it too, because your response is short.
"Oh."
I don't know whether or not to let you know that you hurt me. Yeah, Rory, you hurt me when you didn't write or call. I didn't think it was possible either, but I think the unfamiliar stinging sensation I had all summer was pain. "Waited." I reveal it in that one word, and I can see you're ashamed.
"For?" You're stalling, and I know it. I've already put this much out there, so another back-handed admission of actual feelings won't hurt.
"You." Again, it's a plain, flat comment, but I know you can tell how meaningful it is. I've never been very good at expressing myself or whatever the psychiatrists are calling it now.
"I'm sorry."
I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to tell me: are we going somewhere or not? Am I wasting my time on some schoolgirl? "Don't be."
"Jess, I-"
There's a breathless quality to your words, denoting an excuse, since you're talking faster than usual. It means you'll tell me that you had tons of things to do, Paris was terrorizing you, et cetra. "-Was busy," I tack onto the end of your sentence.
"That's not what I was going to say." I stare at you, hard, because I know you're lying. You're a terrible liar. "Well, that could have been part of it." You pause to take a breath. "I tried. I have a whole stack of unsent letters, like that Alanis Morrisette song. I wrote a million letters, but then they all sounded stupid and rambling.kind of like now. I didn't know what to say."
"It was just a kiss," I say nonchalantly. "It doesn't matter." And that's what I repeated to myself all summer. Because in my old life? A kiss is nothing. It's not even worth mentioning. But here, with you? It does mean something. It means that you either had enough alcohol to hallucinate and mistake me for Dean, which is highly unlikely, or you actually feel something for me.
"It matters to me," you say firmly, and I sigh. "I don't just go off and kiss random people."
I knew that already. Don't you think I've been watching you ever since I moved here, enough to know that you're the least impulsive person to ever breathe? "That's a load off." My tone is sarcastic, and I know I'm being cold and stubborn, but I can't help myself.
"So, that means that I betrayed Dean. I've never done that."
"Well, I kept quiet," I say dryly.
"Tell me." It's a soft request.
It's in these moments I think I might be in love with you. These times when you know that I need to say something when no one else would listen. You seem so innocent-which, trust me, you are-but then, out of nowhere, you have some insight, and I think you might understand me with frightening clarity. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to talk to you about this?"
"Yes." Your voice is quiet and shamed.
"Or that maybe it's time to make up your mind?" That might have been a little harsh, but, head bent, you make the same reply. "Or that maybe Dean isn't best for you?" I know this might have pushed it a little far, since you're so defensive, but after a pause, the same word falls from your lips, behind the curtain of hair you're built around yourself. After a deep breath, I say, "And still."
"I'm confused. I don't have a lot of experience here."
"You mean with people who aren't like Beaver Cleaver." I can feel you becoming frustrated beside me as you gear up to explain yourself.
"No. Yes. Just.dating and the opposite sex in general." Your hands are gesturing oddly as you try to illustrate the concept in some sort of sign language. I can feel you looking at me through your hair, but I don't turn toward you. This isn't entirely new; there are times at the diner when I can feel you observing me surreptitiously as I go about my work. I've often wondered if you like what you see, but I couldn't ask you now.
"You need time," I finally mutter.
Your head inclines like you're going to nod, but then you stop suddenly. "No," you declare, rather loudly. I turn to you, shocked, as you say, "I need advice."
I thought that was Lorelai's job. Then again, she probably wouldn't want to advise Rory on anything involving the scum who's going to tear her daughter apart. "I don't think I'm the best person."
"Probably not," you agree, then go on to say, "but I want to hear what you think."
I recline against the bench and blow out. I think about the times I've seen you and Dean together, and the time I've spent with you separately. It seems as though you two have nothing in common, even in disposition; Dean is strung up, and you're easygoing, for the most part. It takes me a while to finally come up with, "I think that you and Dean don't have enough in common to justify the work it takes to maintain the relationship." I add nothing to that, letting you come to your own conclusions.
"He gets mad really easily," you blurt out, then redden prettily.
"I noticed," I say wryly, wondering what could possess you to tell me this.
"Jess?" you finally utter.
"Yes, Rory?" I answer.
"Hypothetically, I break up with Dean." You pause, then gain the bravado to continue. "Would you."
Your question floats off and hangs there, dangling tauntingly in the silence. You need assurance, just like I thought you would. So I'll give it to you, since I can't offer a lot else. "Yes."
You nod, looking pleased. I almost smile. "Good," you murmur and stand up. I stand as well and notice you gazing up at me with a thoughtful expression.
I can't just let you leave. It's been too long since I saw you last, and I'm getting addicted, like the damn nicotine. "I'll walk you home," I tell you, "since this is such a dangerous town."
"Good idea," you say, smiling. We start the short walk towards your house, silently. It's nice to have someone that I can just be quiet with. I don't think I've ever had that before, actually.
"So, other than Paris.did you have fun?" I break the quietus with a question, partially to hear your voice.
You tilt your shoulders up delicately. "It had its moments."
"What were they?" I ask, expecting you to tell me about some monument. I fully anticipate you talking about some incredible lecture, some speaker you just couldn't stop taking notes with. But again, you surprise me.
"The second I stepped off the bus here." You smile a little.
"It was just the opposite for me," I say, partly joking.
"You came back for me." Your voice has no implications of a question, and you can't look at me when you say it. This is probably what you tried to say in all those unfinished letters.
"Yes," I concur, simply, reassuring you again.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I kissed you and ran away and didn't write." You apology comes out in a run-on sentence, like I predicted it would. I like that about you, that nervous rambly thing you do.
"No big deal," I say, although it was. Still, it'll do no good to hold it over your head.
"Good." You nod your head, and I can tell you're happy. We've reached the bridge, and you stop. This is my favorite place in the entire town, and you know it. We had our picnic here; I'm pretty sure that's when you started thinking about me as more than Luke's nephew, more than the chalk outline guy, more than a moonlighter at the video store. I come here a lot, early in the morning, even before Luke has arisen.
"What are you thinking?" I finally query. Your expression has changed to something that seems eerily familiar. If I were into kidding myself, I'd say that it looks like the expression you had on just before you kissed me at the wedding.
"I'm thinking that I want to kiss you again." For once, my face betrays me for a second. I doubt whether you've ever said anything like that to anyone. And even though I know it's wrong for me and even wrong-er for you, I want you to kiss me again. I want that feeling to flood me again, the feeling that's halfway in between joy and pain, fear and courage.
"By all means," I say, and walk a little closer to you. You look nervous as you step forward too, though I can see determination in your eyes. "On one condition," I stipulate.
"Okay." Your voice shakes just the slightest bit.
"Don't run." I make it a joke, but I don't know if I could take a second kiss-and-run.
"Can I walk?"
"I suppose." We smile at each other, and for one, I just let myself relax. You tentatively reach a hand out and put it on my shoulder, exerting just the slightest pressure. Knowing how alien this is to you, I wrap an arm around your waist. I reel you in, and my other arm secures you by lying on your back. Closer and closer I pull you until we're flush against each other; I can feel your chest inflate as you breathe, pushing against mine. You blush as you realize our proximity, and I can't help but smile at your easy shockability.
Your smile wanes, and you stand on your toes, bringing your lips nearer; I stare at your mouth for a moment before taking your bottom lip between my lips. I surrender to you, shutting my eyes and letting you get used to the feeling of being so close to me. Your other arm snakes around my neck, and you put your cool palm at the base of my neck.
A shallow breath parts your lips, and I lock mine with yours. I get a bigger taste of what I sampled at the wedding: peppermint and something very sweet and fruity. You're adjusting to my taste, and I wish I hadn't smoked again tonight; then again, I had no inkling that this would happen. I can tell you've gotten acclimated: your mouth opens, and I dive in, harder than I mean to. My arm clenches, and so does your hand. It feels like you could rip some of my hair out, but I don't care, I just shift against you.
Your hand slips down my chest, landing on my stomach and bunching my shirt in your fist. I suppress the instinct to groan or pin you against something, opting instead to break apart before I do something I'll regret.
"I shouldn't be doing this," you whisper.
"No," I confirm.
Despite your confession of wrongdoing, you press against my lips again, and I kiss you back, letting you set the pace. Your grip loosens a bit, and you start moving your fingers through my hair, stroking my head. You keep the kiss short, and I bestow tiny, staccato kisses on your face. Looking scared, you put your head in the crook of my neck. I bury my hand in your soft, fine hair and sigh, and for once in a long time, I feel content.
I know, though, that this will come to an end. You'll always leave; you may not run, but you will always have something else to go to. I step away, but you've got a hold of my shirt, and you won't let go. Steadying us both, I take hold of your forearms. "You should get home." My voice is strained, and I hope you can't tell.
"Yes." Your hand reaches out, and one long finger caresses my cheek. I can see in your eyes that thoughts of Dean are running through your head. "I won't regret it," you inform me.
"Neither will I." I want to stay here, with you, all night, but it'll be easier if I just walk away. There's less chance of doing something I will regret. Without warning, I walk past you, nudging your shoulder just a bit.
The streets of Stars Hollow are still dead silent as I walk through the cooling summer air to Luke's, hands in my pockets. I should feel guilty. My mind should be whirring a hundred miles an hour about now. It's blank now, though, as I meander toward Luke's; there's only a lukewarm substance flowing through me. As I step inside, I idly think it might be love.
A/N: The title is from the incredible Norah Jones song of the same name. If you haven't already heard her stuff, I highly recommend it.
You're smoking. I thought you'd quit, but I guess you're back at it. You sit there on a park bench in the middle of town and puff, slowly, with an almost dignified manner. It looks like it took practice. I wonder what got you started.
There's something about you in Stars Hollow. It's such a strange juxtaposition to see you sitting in the flawless, pristine park, smoking a cigarette. My mouth quirks up at the corner to think of you throwing the butt in Taylor's prized bushes. You're staring off into the distance, at the perfect ellipsis of the streetlight on the ground in front of you. It seems you're thinking, hard.
Suddenly, you look up. Your eyes pierce mine, and I know that you knew I was there all along. I gaze right back, trying to keep my eyes steady while my stomach flutters and dances. I force my mouth to remain in a half- smile as my legs turn to pasta beneath me. I make my hands stay still, resisting the urge to fidget as you stare at me. Then I gather the courage to walk forward.
When I sit on the bench next to you, you say nothing. You calmly stub out the cigarette and flick it right into Taylor's bush. I feel the giggle rising and stuff it down my throat. Stretching my legs out, I imitate your relaxed stance. My hand dips dangerously close to yours, and I narrowly quell the impulse to clasp my hand in yours.
"Have fun?" you finally say, not looking at me.
"Not really," I say honestly. All day I'd been telling everyone what a great time it was. Deep down, I was miserable, missing my mom and Lane and.you.
"I figured." Of course you did. You have the peculiar ability to turn me inside out and analyze me better than I ever could.
"Paris was a holy terror."
"Why'd you go, anyway?"
I realize that I forgot to tell you, in light of avoiding you after the kiss. "ASB. Paris and I are ASB officers."
You raise your eyebrows. "Impressive," you say. "You've already got Monica Lewinsky beat in terms of politics."
"Well, that's a relief," I joke. "I was afraid I'd have to resort to desperate measures."
You chuckle humorlessly. "Like you ever would."
You're right, naturally. I want to make a crack about those desperate measures too, but I can just see your reaction: a smirk and a cocked eyebrow. And right now, I'd rather not put myself in such a precarious position. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"What did you do?"
"School."
"Oh." I don't know what to say, so I turn my hands over in my lap.
"Waited."
"For?" I ask, knowing the answer. You were waiting for me, waiting for me to write you a letter, waiting for me to call you, waiting for me to send a smoke signal or a drum call.
"You." The statement is simple and bare, but it feels like something more.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, fixating on my hands again as they wring themselves. I feel oddly detached from my body; right now, I just feel like a poorly assembled circuit of nerves.
"Don't be."
"Jess, I-"
"Was busy," you finish.
"That's not what I was going to say." Your eyes bore into mine. "Well, that could have been part of it." I take a deep breath, aware of your eyes on my bent head. "I tried. I have a whole stack of unsent letters, like that Alanis Morrisette song. I wrote a million letters, but then they all sounded stupid and rambling.kind of like now. I didn't know what to say."
"It was just a kiss," you say nonchalantly. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me," I say stubbornly, and I hear you sigh. "I don't just go off and kiss random people."
"That's a load off."
I knew you were going to be difficult. But it's partially my fault: first the avoidance, then the silence, now this fumbling confessional. "So, that means that I betrayed Dean. I've never done that."
"Well, I kept quiet," you say with a tinge of bitterness seeping into your tone. Your jaw has tightened, and I can tell you're trying not to say something.
"Tell me," I demand, softly.
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to talk to you about this?"
"Yes," I admit in the same hushed voice.
"Or that maybe it's time to make up your mind?"
"Yes," I repeat.
"Or that maybe Dean isn't best for you?"
I pause, then murmur, low and ashamed, "Yes."
You take a deep breath, hold it a moment, and release it. "And still."
"I'm confused. I don't have a lot of experience here."
"You mean with people who aren't like Beaver Cleaver."
"No. Yes. Just.dating and the opposite sex in general." My hands fly about weirdly, trying to show the concept in a strange version of charades. I peek through my hair and sneak another look at your profile. Although I'm not prone to judging physical attractiveness as a rule, I'm drawn to you. I like looking at the sharp angle of your cheekbones, the straight slant of your nose, the slightly distorted semicircle of your mouth. I've even ventured a look at the rest of you; I find it alluringly forbidden.
"You need time," you finally utter into the stillness.
I almost nod, but I catch myself. "No," I say, louder than all my other remarks. Your face turns full toward me, and I meet your eyes bravely. They're my favorite feature of yours, and it's not too often I get an opportunity like this to really look at them. I gather my frazzled wits and say, "I need advice."
"I don't think I'm the best person."
"Probably not," I concur, "but I want to hear what you think."
You lean back, slouching more than before. Another deep breath escapes through your lips, and you focus on that ellipsis on the pavement again. "I think that you and Dean don't have enough in common to justify the work it takes to maintain the relationship." Your voice is even and measured, and you add nothing to the effect of, "So we belong together." I wonder if you just don't think so, or if you're trying not to be biased.
"He gets mad really easily," I say. I feel the compulsion to slap my hand over my mouth for letting that slip out. It's none of you're business, to tell you the truth.
"I noticed," you say. Again, you add nothing that might promote you.
"Jess?" I finally venture.
"Yes, Rory?"
I like it when you say my name. It sounds different than anyone else saying it, ever. You say it with as much affection as my mom or Dean, but with something in the last syllable that makes me curious. "Hypothetically, I break up with Dean." I clear my throat anxiously. "Would you." I can't finish the question, so I let it drift off and dissipate.
"Yes," you promise, looking sideways at me.
I nod. "Good," I whisper, then stand. You stand as well, and jam your hands in your pockets, looking down into my face. It's easier to just stand with you; it strains my neck less.
"I'll walk you home," you offer, "since this is such a dangerous town."
"Good idea," I accept. We set off, side by side. You lope carelessly, and I walk like I always have, one foot in front of the other, no special gait. There's silence between us, but it's the good kind, as opposed to the I- just-met-you-so-there's-nothing-to-say, or the I-have-nothing-in-common- with-you, or the I'm-desperate-searching-for-something-to-talk-about silence.
"So, other than Paris.did you have fun?"
I shrug. "It had its moments."
"What were they?"
"The second I stepped off the bus here." You smile a little.
"It was just the opposite for me," you tell me, and I know it's halfway a joke.
"You came back for me." I say it flatly, as a statement, rather than the question I would intone with anyone else.
"Yes," you agree.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I kissed you and ran away and didn't write."
"No big deal," you forgive.
"Good." I nod emphatically. We're on the bridge now, and I stop. You walk ahead a couple paces, then stop as well. I just stand and stare at you, and you stare right back.
"What are you thinking?" you ask. You've never asked me this before; you can usually tell.
"I'm thinking that I want to kiss you again," I inform you, boldly. It's unlike anything I've ever said to anyone before, and you look genuinely surprised.
"By all means," you invite, and step closer. I take one wobbly step forward, my insides rotating at warp speed. "On one condition."
"Okay."
"Don't run."
"Can I walk?"
You think. "I suppose."
I smile, and you smile back. It's rare that you smile like this, uninhibited, just because you're happy, or something resembling it. Unsteadily, I reach my hand out and put it on your shoulder. Helping me, you reach out and wrap an arm around my waist, drawing me tight against you, putting the other one between my shoulder blades. I blush; Dean and I never get this close, and you know it, because you're smirking.
The smile slowly fades off my face as I stand on my toes slightly and bring my mouth closer to yours. You lean in, and then, my lower lip is enclosed in your lips. I shut my eyes tightly, willing thoughts of my mom and Dean out of my head, and I put my other arm around your neck, putting my palm flush against the nape and my fingers tangled in your hair.
I breathe in, opening my mouth a little wider, and you take the opportunity to slide your lips up to match mine. I can taste the smoky aftertaste in your mouth, but also something sweeter, something like chocolate. Inadvertently, I open my mouth even more, and you slip your tongue in. Your arm tightens and my fingers threaten to pull out a good chuck of your hair as we move against each other.
Dean doesn't kiss like this. He doesn't fight for domination the way you do. He doesn't force me to give my whole self over to the kiss like you do. He doesn't grasp at me or clutch me or do.whatever it is you're doing with your tongue. I don't know why, but my hand starts to trickle down the front of your shirt, landing on your stomach, caressing it and bunching your shirt in my fist.
Eventually, we separate our lips, but remain pressed together. "I shouldn't be doing this," I murmur, although no real guilt has assaulted me yet. I know I'll lose sleep over this, but it feels good.
"No," you affirm.
I press you against my mouth again, and this time, you kiss me sweeter, slower. I release some of the fabric of your shirt and let up a little on your hair, but continue to stay molded to you. When we break apart again, you peck my lips and cheeks, then my forehead before I bury my head in your neck and hide from the world.
Your hand travels up my back and threads in my hair, and I feel you sigh into me. I've never been this close to anyone; not just physically, but right here, right now, I think we're practically the same person. Our thoughts intersect at a nice ninety-degree angle.
You're starting to move away, but I keep hold of your shirt so you can't go too far. "You should get home," you state, quietly, holding my forearms.
"Yes." I reach out and touch your cheek. It's smoother than I thought it would be, but still more rugged than Dean's. I hate myself for comparing you two. "I won't regret it."
"Neither will I," you say, simply. You look like you want to kiss me again; you know I'd let you. But you just walk back in the direction of Luke's, brushing my shoulder thinly as you pass. I stand on the bridge, staring at nothing for a while, stroking my lips subconsciously. Then I head home, hands in my pockets, past all the neighbors who wave when they see the innocent girl from down the street. I smile and wave back.
***
I can feel you approaching from behind. I knew you would come to see me, eventually. After you got through seeing everyone else, I knew you would seek me out, a guilty pleasure of sorts. You're standing there behind me, undecided, and I help you out by turning around, acknowledging you. I'm a little surprised when you just stare for a moment, but then you walk forward and sit next to me.
I stub out my cigarette and toss it in the bush. I'm certain that I've violated some retarded town rule by doing so. I don't know what got me started again; I'd quit so suddenly, I'd just left packs lying around, and they looked tempting today. You ape my posture almost comically, but I can't laugh right now. In fact, I can't even crack a smile.
Moments expand between us, and I finally give you an out. "Have fun?"
"Not really," you confess. I had a feeling that you didn't. Your smile was fake today.
"I figured."
"Paris was a holy terror," you add.
You didn't tell me about leaving. I heard that you'd disappeared to Washington from the town gossips as they sat around the diner tables and drank iced tea. "Why'd you go, anyway?"
A mildly surprised look hits your face as you remember that you didn't tell me. "ASB. Paris and I are ASB officers."
"Impressive," I say. "You've already got Monica Lewinsky beat in terms of politics." The joke makes you smile a little, and I feel the strangest rush of pride. Irritated at my own foolishness, I narrowly stop myself from digging for another smoke. You're making me soft.
"Well, that's a relief," you joke. "I was afraid I'd have to resort to desperate measures."
An unwanted chuckle escapes me. Rory Gilmore, do something less than pristine? Rory Gilmore, do anything that could be termed sexual? Rory Gilmore, using her body to get to the top? Yeah, right, and those must have been icicles in hell. "Like you ever would."
"What about you?"
"What about me?" You mean, would I give the president a blow job? Somehow, I don't think that's what you mean.
"What did you do?"
"School." I don't add anything to it, because there is nothing to add. School is school, any way you look at it. You know it too, because your response is short.
"Oh."
I don't know whether or not to let you know that you hurt me. Yeah, Rory, you hurt me when you didn't write or call. I didn't think it was possible either, but I think the unfamiliar stinging sensation I had all summer was pain. "Waited." I reveal it in that one word, and I can see you're ashamed.
"For?" You're stalling, and I know it. I've already put this much out there, so another back-handed admission of actual feelings won't hurt.
"You." Again, it's a plain, flat comment, but I know you can tell how meaningful it is. I've never been very good at expressing myself or whatever the psychiatrists are calling it now.
"I'm sorry."
I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to tell me: are we going somewhere or not? Am I wasting my time on some schoolgirl? "Don't be."
"Jess, I-"
There's a breathless quality to your words, denoting an excuse, since you're talking faster than usual. It means you'll tell me that you had tons of things to do, Paris was terrorizing you, et cetra. "-Was busy," I tack onto the end of your sentence.
"That's not what I was going to say." I stare at you, hard, because I know you're lying. You're a terrible liar. "Well, that could have been part of it." You pause to take a breath. "I tried. I have a whole stack of unsent letters, like that Alanis Morrisette song. I wrote a million letters, but then they all sounded stupid and rambling.kind of like now. I didn't know what to say."
"It was just a kiss," I say nonchalantly. "It doesn't matter." And that's what I repeated to myself all summer. Because in my old life? A kiss is nothing. It's not even worth mentioning. But here, with you? It does mean something. It means that you either had enough alcohol to hallucinate and mistake me for Dean, which is highly unlikely, or you actually feel something for me.
"It matters to me," you say firmly, and I sigh. "I don't just go off and kiss random people."
I knew that already. Don't you think I've been watching you ever since I moved here, enough to know that you're the least impulsive person to ever breathe? "That's a load off." My tone is sarcastic, and I know I'm being cold and stubborn, but I can't help myself.
"So, that means that I betrayed Dean. I've never done that."
"Well, I kept quiet," I say dryly.
"Tell me." It's a soft request.
It's in these moments I think I might be in love with you. These times when you know that I need to say something when no one else would listen. You seem so innocent-which, trust me, you are-but then, out of nowhere, you have some insight, and I think you might understand me with frightening clarity. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to talk to you about this?"
"Yes." Your voice is quiet and shamed.
"Or that maybe it's time to make up your mind?" That might have been a little harsh, but, head bent, you make the same reply. "Or that maybe Dean isn't best for you?" I know this might have pushed it a little far, since you're so defensive, but after a pause, the same word falls from your lips, behind the curtain of hair you're built around yourself. After a deep breath, I say, "And still."
"I'm confused. I don't have a lot of experience here."
"You mean with people who aren't like Beaver Cleaver." I can feel you becoming frustrated beside me as you gear up to explain yourself.
"No. Yes. Just.dating and the opposite sex in general." Your hands are gesturing oddly as you try to illustrate the concept in some sort of sign language. I can feel you looking at me through your hair, but I don't turn toward you. This isn't entirely new; there are times at the diner when I can feel you observing me surreptitiously as I go about my work. I've often wondered if you like what you see, but I couldn't ask you now.
"You need time," I finally mutter.
Your head inclines like you're going to nod, but then you stop suddenly. "No," you declare, rather loudly. I turn to you, shocked, as you say, "I need advice."
I thought that was Lorelai's job. Then again, she probably wouldn't want to advise Rory on anything involving the scum who's going to tear her daughter apart. "I don't think I'm the best person."
"Probably not," you agree, then go on to say, "but I want to hear what you think."
I recline against the bench and blow out. I think about the times I've seen you and Dean together, and the time I've spent with you separately. It seems as though you two have nothing in common, even in disposition; Dean is strung up, and you're easygoing, for the most part. It takes me a while to finally come up with, "I think that you and Dean don't have enough in common to justify the work it takes to maintain the relationship." I add nothing to that, letting you come to your own conclusions.
"He gets mad really easily," you blurt out, then redden prettily.
"I noticed," I say wryly, wondering what could possess you to tell me this.
"Jess?" you finally utter.
"Yes, Rory?" I answer.
"Hypothetically, I break up with Dean." You pause, then gain the bravado to continue. "Would you."
Your question floats off and hangs there, dangling tauntingly in the silence. You need assurance, just like I thought you would. So I'll give it to you, since I can't offer a lot else. "Yes."
You nod, looking pleased. I almost smile. "Good," you murmur and stand up. I stand as well and notice you gazing up at me with a thoughtful expression.
I can't just let you leave. It's been too long since I saw you last, and I'm getting addicted, like the damn nicotine. "I'll walk you home," I tell you, "since this is such a dangerous town."
"Good idea," you say, smiling. We start the short walk towards your house, silently. It's nice to have someone that I can just be quiet with. I don't think I've ever had that before, actually.
"So, other than Paris.did you have fun?" I break the quietus with a question, partially to hear your voice.
You tilt your shoulders up delicately. "It had its moments."
"What were they?" I ask, expecting you to tell me about some monument. I fully anticipate you talking about some incredible lecture, some speaker you just couldn't stop taking notes with. But again, you surprise me.
"The second I stepped off the bus here." You smile a little.
"It was just the opposite for me," I say, partly joking.
"You came back for me." Your voice has no implications of a question, and you can't look at me when you say it. This is probably what you tried to say in all those unfinished letters.
"Yes," I concur, simply, reassuring you again.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I kissed you and ran away and didn't write." You apology comes out in a run-on sentence, like I predicted it would. I like that about you, that nervous rambly thing you do.
"No big deal," I say, although it was. Still, it'll do no good to hold it over your head.
"Good." You nod your head, and I can tell you're happy. We've reached the bridge, and you stop. This is my favorite place in the entire town, and you know it. We had our picnic here; I'm pretty sure that's when you started thinking about me as more than Luke's nephew, more than the chalk outline guy, more than a moonlighter at the video store. I come here a lot, early in the morning, even before Luke has arisen.
"What are you thinking?" I finally query. Your expression has changed to something that seems eerily familiar. If I were into kidding myself, I'd say that it looks like the expression you had on just before you kissed me at the wedding.
"I'm thinking that I want to kiss you again." For once, my face betrays me for a second. I doubt whether you've ever said anything like that to anyone. And even though I know it's wrong for me and even wrong-er for you, I want you to kiss me again. I want that feeling to flood me again, the feeling that's halfway in between joy and pain, fear and courage.
"By all means," I say, and walk a little closer to you. You look nervous as you step forward too, though I can see determination in your eyes. "On one condition," I stipulate.
"Okay." Your voice shakes just the slightest bit.
"Don't run." I make it a joke, but I don't know if I could take a second kiss-and-run.
"Can I walk?"
"I suppose." We smile at each other, and for one, I just let myself relax. You tentatively reach a hand out and put it on my shoulder, exerting just the slightest pressure. Knowing how alien this is to you, I wrap an arm around your waist. I reel you in, and my other arm secures you by lying on your back. Closer and closer I pull you until we're flush against each other; I can feel your chest inflate as you breathe, pushing against mine. You blush as you realize our proximity, and I can't help but smile at your easy shockability.
Your smile wanes, and you stand on your toes, bringing your lips nearer; I stare at your mouth for a moment before taking your bottom lip between my lips. I surrender to you, shutting my eyes and letting you get used to the feeling of being so close to me. Your other arm snakes around my neck, and you put your cool palm at the base of my neck.
A shallow breath parts your lips, and I lock mine with yours. I get a bigger taste of what I sampled at the wedding: peppermint and something very sweet and fruity. You're adjusting to my taste, and I wish I hadn't smoked again tonight; then again, I had no inkling that this would happen. I can tell you've gotten acclimated: your mouth opens, and I dive in, harder than I mean to. My arm clenches, and so does your hand. It feels like you could rip some of my hair out, but I don't care, I just shift against you.
Your hand slips down my chest, landing on my stomach and bunching my shirt in your fist. I suppress the instinct to groan or pin you against something, opting instead to break apart before I do something I'll regret.
"I shouldn't be doing this," you whisper.
"No," I confirm.
Despite your confession of wrongdoing, you press against my lips again, and I kiss you back, letting you set the pace. Your grip loosens a bit, and you start moving your fingers through my hair, stroking my head. You keep the kiss short, and I bestow tiny, staccato kisses on your face. Looking scared, you put your head in the crook of my neck. I bury my hand in your soft, fine hair and sigh, and for once in a long time, I feel content.
I know, though, that this will come to an end. You'll always leave; you may not run, but you will always have something else to go to. I step away, but you've got a hold of my shirt, and you won't let go. Steadying us both, I take hold of your forearms. "You should get home." My voice is strained, and I hope you can't tell.
"Yes." Your hand reaches out, and one long finger caresses my cheek. I can see in your eyes that thoughts of Dean are running through your head. "I won't regret it," you inform me.
"Neither will I." I want to stay here, with you, all night, but it'll be easier if I just walk away. There's less chance of doing something I will regret. Without warning, I walk past you, nudging your shoulder just a bit.
The streets of Stars Hollow are still dead silent as I walk through the cooling summer air to Luke's, hands in my pockets. I should feel guilty. My mind should be whirring a hundred miles an hour about now. It's blank now, though, as I meander toward Luke's; there's only a lukewarm substance flowing through me. As I step inside, I idly think it might be love.