Title: The Mechanics of a Hollywood Suicide
Summary: Jess tries to fix Rory, years after the fact.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am receiving no profit. Etcetera, etcetera.
A/N: Episode 6.08 didn't happen (in other words, Jess didn't pop up at the Gilmore Mansion). Rory's life continued in that downward spiral. This is part one of two.
-
She isn't going to jump. After countless years of a passive existence, it wouldn't make sense to take control now, here, pressed against a balcony railing. It isn't – can't be – that serious. This type of desperation is part of the territory.
She isn't going to jump. It can't end like this. Sylvia Plath managed to shove her head in oven, and all she can do is plan a swan dive off an eighth floor ledge? Its mediocrity would be the greatest tragedy. She isn't going to jump.
Hemingway picked up a shotgun; his Hollywood granddaughter threw back a handful of barbiturates. Jack London, Vincent Van Gogh, Sigmund Freud, Virginia Woolf – a mix of black and white death and celebrated life. All the geniuses are unstable, walking the blurred line between brilliance and death, but at least they got work done. She can't kill herself without doing something first; a last portrait, a haunting farewell; fuck, she'll write the great American novel and laugh when critics beg for more. She'll make notes for a sequel, a rough outline, a missing ending; shove it in an old desk drawer in some back alley attic, hidden behind cobwebs and poverty. She'd be a mystery for the ages. Suicide would seal it; she'd be one of the greats.
What has she done? What would they say? She'll make the front page, Mrs. Logan –fucking– Huntzberger, Stepford Wife, cookie cutter society bitch. A well-known DAR member with a flawless hostess record. It isn't exactly The Call of the Wild.
She isn't going to jump and be the socialite who fell. Not tonight.
Back inside, her hotel room is dark, a shroud of indecision. The light bulb nearest the bed has burnt out, which may be due to its unrelenting burning for forty-eight consecutive hours. She calls the front desk to complain, stressing her irritation and importance. She gets immediate service and a complimentary bottle of wine.
(Life is easy with the right last name and your husband's credit card. The dependency is sickening, but she does it with a smile.)
After the bellhop leaves, she hides in bed with her eyes squeezed shut, but she doesn't trick sleep into coming. She considers popping one of those pills the doctor gave her – the doctor Logan doesn't know about, the doctor Logan pays for – but then she remembers something about being strong and independent, and she wants so badly to believe in those words that she does nothing.
Downstairs in the dining hall, she is seated promptly and offered a glass of wine. She finishes the drink in three gulps and asks for another, the words bubbling from her mouth. A soft giggle begins low in her throat, but the selections distract her, and she swallows.
The leathery menu makes her think of Sookie, and hotels in general make her think of her mother, but a thousand years later, you think something as inconsequential as family would stop choking her up. She brushes the prickling of tears off as teenage angst, leftover from a Prozac-like existence in Stars Hollow.
She knocks off the second glass faster than the first. The back of her throat burns and the dining room sways, so she asks for water. She must be smart about this. She has all night to drink herself into an early grave.
When the waitress comes to take her order, Rory opens her mouth but no sound comes out. A few tables away, Jess Mariano stares at her curiously, chewing on a pen cap. The wine gurgles in her stomach.
"I need a minute."
The waitress slips back into the kitchen, and Rory lapses into an artificial coma; all of her reactions are delayed. When the shock finally hits her, it is so intense, she feels an artery burst somewhere in her head. A roaring fills her ears, the sound of an oncoming train. She takes a sip of her drink, but it's only water, so it doesn't work.
"Hi," she says tentatively, sitting down in front of him. She offers that polite, tight smile that has become customary for acquaintances; it puzzles him.
"Hi." The pad of paper in his hand falls shut. She recognizes it as the cheap little notebook sold in school stores, advertised as the type Hemingway used. Apparently just by using a similar technique, you're one step closer to that great American dream.
"I wasn't sure if I should come over." She didn't think before standing. Her head had been filling with blood at a rapid rate, the hardwood floor contorting into steel train tracks beneath her feet. Even now, she is afraid to look down. "Is it okay…?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." A nearby waitress offers her a menu, but she declines, nervous that Jess will see it as an intrusion. "What are you doing here?"
"Here?"
"London."
"Book signing," he answers, spreading out his arms to indicate its grandeur. "I've gone international."
"This is your third?" It chokes her up to ask, to lose track. He's writing so much, she can't keep count.
"Fourth," he corrects. "After the sequel to my first had such a successful release, I signed a contract for two more."
The wine begins to take its toll, but instead of relaxing her, leaving her body with a dull buzz, her senses sharpen, eyes narrowing to a pinprick. She can see Jess so clearly: an older face, a five o' clock shadow, laugh lines she never expected to find. He is thinner than she remembers, but it suits him, as if he has finally grown into his own skin. When he takes a sip of his water, his movement is light; fluid. His shoulders move easily, free from twenty years of dead weight. She flags down a nearby waitress and requests another glass of wine.
"They offer you a generous advance?"
"Let's just say I'm no longer waiting tables." He grins, and it's so surprising, she has to look away. "What are you doing here?"
"A story," she says after a pause. "Big story."
His lips twitch, the side of his mouth at a slant. "How's it coming?"
"Good." The waitress sets a fresh glass down in front of her, but she can't coordinate brain and hand; her movement is stilted. "Pages full of notes."
"Congratulations," he says, the sarcasm faint. "You're living your dream."
Finally, her thoughts snap back into place and she grabs the drink, pouring it down her throat. "Thank you." Another forced smile. "How are you? How's… life? Besides the obvious."
"It's good." He shrugs off the question, the years of separation. "Better than I hoped."
"Where are you living? Are you married?"
"Nope." His mouth pops with the sound. "I see you are."
Both look down at her ring, the three diamonds nestled together under the chandelier light. "You're very observant."
"Nah, it's impossible to miss that rock. I mean, I'm surprised you managed to lift all those drinks."
The dining room loses its subtle beauty with his remark. The colors dull and all she can see are the vibrant greens and grays of champagne bottles passed from waiter to guest. She narrows her eyes, trying to transfer any remaining strength into her voice. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing. It was just a joke, Rory."
"I can't believe this! I come over here to say hi and you attack me?"
"Whoa, attack you?"
"I haven't seen you in years and immediately, you make this empty judgment because – what? You see me ordering a glass of wine?"
"Hey, if it didn't mean anything, you wouldn't be getting so defensive about it," he snaps.
"I can't – " She huffs, sliding her chair back. When she springs to her feet, Jess jumps up as well, holding out his hand to stop her.
"Wait, Rory, come on. Let me – " He sighs. "I live in Philadelphia by myself. When I'm not writing, I work at the press that originally published me." He guides her down slowly, until she is back in her seat, hands resting tentatively on the table.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
She nods, too embarrassed or proud to speak; he isn't sure which one. He catches the attention of a nearby waitress and seconds later, menus and a glass of water are on their way.
"It's a little late for dinner," she says quietly.
"It's five back in Connecticut." He tilts his head, leaning down to catch her eye. "Really, we're just on time."
-
"So I decided to take this creative writing class called Extreme Fiction."
It takes appetizers and half the main course before conversation is found, hiding in the comfort of simple topics. But the mechanics are untrustworthy; and most sentences fall flat, wavering like sea legs. Others must be wrenched from the mouth, the words green and painful.
"Extreme Fiction?" she repeats. "Could you handle it?"
"I know, it sounds like we're supposed to pen sonnets while skiing down Mount Snow. It was just some dumb test for myself – to see if the first time was a fluke."
"And let me guess." She taps her chin. "It wasn't a fluke. You can actually write."
"The professor – he had read my book. The very first day, he nearly had a heart attack when he took attendance."
It is easy to forget who Jess has become: a portrait on the back of a hardcover novel; a weaver of words, spinning lies into print like straw into gold. He's every book she has ever read, every author she has ever wanted to meet. He's that broken dream, a personification of her failure.
"He always read what I wrote in front of the class. He thought he was flattering me, but really, he was just pissing off the other students. It made them really vicious when they offered opinions."
"Aw," she coos. "Did poor little Jessie get his feelings hurt?"
"Are you kidding? Ten weeks of having my work ripped apart in front of twenty other people was amazing. I've never had an experience like it."
She winces at his grateful attitude; how casual he treats being torn apart in a public forum. She wants to ask how cruel the other students were; did they ever tell him he couldn't do it, that he didn't have it? Of course with a book already behind him and the support of at least five hundred readers, what could touch him?
"I really liked the class. I took another one the following semester with the same teacher. He asked me to be his assistant."
She nearly chokes on her water. "What?"
"I helped teach the class. I edited their work, helped them improve. It was…"
"You taught?"
"Well, not exactly. I mean, I did. But – " He rubs the back of his neck, slouching in his chair. "I think it might be something I could do. Teach a class like that."
He's been getting magazine interviews lately, blurbs in People and The Washington Post; a small profile in Time. She's seen his picture; the casual pose, the hesitant smile for the camera. She thinks he's been on TV too, to celebrate his new success; number four hitting bestseller.
"You want to teach." The tears gather so fast that hiding them is impossible. Her neck twists at a sharp angle, but it's too obvious, too pathetic.
"Rory, are you – "
"I'm fine, just a little dizzy." A hand over her forehead, she covers her eyes until she can be sure it has passed. "Too much wine."
"Right." He pushes his plate away, throws his napkin on the table. The next thing she knows, he has his hand on her shoulder and it's electric. "You want me to walk you to your room?"
She looks up and meets his gaze, wondering if he feels it too. "Yes. Please. Thank you."
-
He follows her into the room, whistling at the accommodations. "Your room is much nicer than mine."
"This is The Dorchester, Jess. All the rooms are nice."
"How much does this cost a night?"
"I don't know, around $1700?" she guesses, shoving her scattered clothes into an empty suitcase. Doing a quick sweep of the room, she finds it acceptable.
His jaw drops. He doesn't know why he's surprised. Judging by her wedding ring, she could probably buy the hotel. "Yeah, my agent put me in one of those $300 a night rooms. I must say I prefer this one much more."
"Marry into money," she advises. Her tone is neither light nor serious and her face reveals nothing. It's almost unnerving, the gravity of her statement.
"Rory, why are you here?"
"What?" She freezes in the center of the room, as if caught. "I told you – "
"I know you're not here on a story," he says. "I know you didn't even finish college."
"Apparently you just know everything. I so love when people discuss me in my absence." She rips open her suitcase and digs through her dirty clothes until she finds the flask she stole from Logan's bar back west. The taste makes her think of him beside her in bed, his hand on hers when she shakes him awake at night, her body trembling and out of breath. Have a drink. Heartfelt words. It'll soothe you. "So what else do you know?"
He sighs, wishing he had said nothing, wishing he had left this in the dining room. "You haven't talked to your mother since you dropped out of school. You lived with your grandparents until you moved in with the guy you married. You're rich. You're part of the DAR. I'm pretty sure you're drunk."
She stands, leaving the flask buried among her clothes. "And all this you got from Luke?"
"And Lorelai," he corrects. "Rory, I was at their wedding. I go to Stars Hollow for the holidays."
"You do not."
"Liz lives in Stars Hollow. Luke lives in Stars Hollow. Where else would I go?"
She shakes her head, refusing to believe it. "You don't do holidays, Jess. You don't do family."
"She misses you, you know. She talks about you all the time."
"Shut up." She can feel the formation of tears, the vibrations of hurt across her ribcage. It's bubbling up; squeezing. "Did you know I was going to be in London?" She crosses the room in three quick steps. "Did you think it would be fun to throw the past back in my face?"
"How would I know you'd be here? I still don't even know why you're here."
"I'm just here on vacation," she confesses. "That's it. I was alone at home in Hartford and I wanted to get away."
"You were alone?"
"It's always business. Business, business, business. Throwing tea parties while your husband gallivants across the country gets old fast."
The ghost of guilt whisks past him, and he catches an echo of her pain. "Yeah, I'm sure."
"So." She pauses, stalling. "You were at the wedding?"
"Yeah."
Her mouth twists into a frown. "I bet it was nice."
"It was."
"Was it pretty?"
He presses his lips together, unsure of the correct answer. "It was a wedding," he finally says.
She nods, wringing her hands together. With a deep breath and the smoothing of her hair, she is calm again; composed. "Do you want some champagne?" She picks up the bottle, passing it from hand to hand. "It was free."
"Okay." No, he can't. The room is big, but not big enough. It's warm and full of her perfume, and she is the frailest he's ever seen her. "Sure."
-
Half the bottle is gone and the words are coming easier, but they are thoughtful and pathetic, the story of an old, barren queen.
"I went to Paris for my honeymoon," she says. "What a cliché." She picks lint off her skirt, digging her nails into the fabric. "We kissed at the top of the Eiffel Tower and he told me he loved me. I think that's when I knew."
"Knew what?"
"How stuck I was." She purses her lips, and it passes. "But I went to Prague for my second honeymoon. There's an adventure for you."
"Really? That's not exactly the first country that comes to mind when you think of honeymoons." They're both on the floor, backs to the bed. He takes a swig of champagne before setting it between them. They didn't bother with glasses; their impromptu party was too rushed. He takes another sip, longer this time, his tongue touching the rim. He can taste her lipstick.
"I think – " She scratches her arms, sits up on her knees. The discomfort is back once more, flitting between lines of conversation. He's as used to the awkward pauses as he is to her pain. "I think he knew that he had… failed me. With Yale. He knew I had failed. He was trying to make it up to me. We've gone on so many vacations. I've been everywhere."
He doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to prod, but he's curious. "And?"
"And nothing," she whispers. "Absolutely nothing." She lays her head on his shoulder; her hand lands on his thigh. It's a quiet stirring of desire, a skipped beat for both their hearts.
"I have a tattoo," he blurts out. He is thinking: this is bad. He is thinking: he needs to get her body off of his.
"Really?" She gets to her feet, offering an arm to pull him up. "What is it? I want to see." She is a child again, strangely reminiscent of the girl he used to know.
"It's nothing special. Just something I did on a whim."
"Oh, don't think you can talk yourself out of this one. You need to show me. Unless…" She arches an eyebrow, doing a sweep over his body.
He sighs, stands, and tugs at his shirt. "It's on my upper back."
She pouts. "I'm disappointed." She turns him around, palms on his shoulders, and he realizes too late what a terrible idea this is. "Let's see it."
He has to pull his arms out in order to get his shirt up far enough. He bunches the fabric at his chest, resisting the urge to tear if off. She's drunk, he reminds himself. She's not the same.
Her fingertips hover over his skin, the thick black ink of a foreign secret. "What does it mean?"
"It's Chinese for 'found'."
"Found?" This time she makes contact, the feather light touch of temerity. He confuses it with a sigh, an expelling of air. "What was lost?"
He kisses her without thinking. It's as rushed as their past relationship, physicality pushed into the limelight: his tongue against her lips, inside her mouth; his hands clutching at her hair, lost within its depths, entangling until there are knots tied around his fingers. His shirt gets caught against her neck, and she giggles, the sound so out of place that he pulls away. She takes it as an opening and pushes the material over his head. He doesn't think, it doesn't connect until –
"What is that?"
He doesn't have to look down to know what she is asking. His hand immediately flies up to his chest, palm covering the second tattoo he had forgotten in his desire.
"Jess, was that…" Her face is contorted into a crazy kind of panic as if her safety has been threatened. He is surprised when she doesn't move away. He takes a step back, and then another. Another.
Small hands wrapped around his wrist, she matches each step until he is sprawled out on the bed, her strained face hanging over his.
"Let me see," she orders. "Jess, let me see!"
"It's nothing." But it's everything. His arm goes slack, and he allows her to push it aside.
"Oh my god." The script is small, barely the size of a penny, but the letters are clear; a tiny pair crowded into an embrace. "RG," she whispers. She can't bring herself to touch it. "You're pathetic."
"Don't do that."
"Are you still in love with me?" she demands. One hand presses into the mattress right beside his head. Even with the cruelty of her tone, it still crosses his mind: knock her hand away, let her fall.
"Rory, you don't under– "
"I want it removed." Her hair frames her face, bangs covering her eyes. He can't see the rich blue, the way they blaze. "I'll pay for it, I don't care. I just want it gone!"
He almost does it; his hand takes hold of her wrist. But he sits up instead, palm on her hip to keep her from running. "It didn't leave a scar," he snaps. "There were no marks. There was nothing."
"What are you talking about?"
"When you sent me away, I had nothing real to point to and say, 'yes, that right there – that's why it hurts.'"
"Jess…" Her voices has warmed, her eyes have cooled. And he hates that suddenly, he has her pity.
"It hurt, alright? I just needed something to show for it."
She doesn't speak for a whole minute. Her lips part, but there is no sound, and she can't look him in the face. Finally, she touches his shoulder, drags a lazy hand through his hair.
"A week after you left for California, I drove to New Haven and bought a pack of cigarettes. I smoked four of them in the parking lot across from the Yale Bookstore before driving home with all the windows rolled down."
And then there are no words left. She takes a half-step back to allow herself enough room to slip off her blouse, unzip her skirt. Without waiting for a reaction, she crawls onto the bed, past him, settling herself among the pillows.
"Can you turn off the light?" Her voice is so quiet, so desperate that he forgets how to say no. He reaches over her body for the lamp beside the bed. A second later, the room lapses into darkness.