Ashley's Note: This take's place during the Fifth Season Finale. I suppose this story could be perceived in several ways. Choose whatever you fancy. Literati, Jess moving on from Rory, Jess treating Rory with the same kindness she showed him, whatever. I wrote it in about ten minutes, excuse my spelling mistakes. I'll most likely fix them tomorrow, when I'm not so tired.
Oh yeah, and I stole the line "I'm not a slave to anybody but the rhythm!" from the show Drawn Together. It's a funny show, you should watch it. Foxxy's my favorite character.
Disclaimer: Chyea, have you seen this new season? Dave Rosenthal can keep them.
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Glazed eyes watch incoherently as the women before him shakes her hips. She's pretty, seductive, with tanned skin reminicist of his own. She--having some name, that he can no longer remember--swings around in a drunken state of bliss and Jess vaguely makes out an "I'm not a slave to anybody but the rhythm!" before she collapses on top of him in a fit of giggles.
The technoed beat of over dramatic clichéd rockers continues to pound around them, and the girl's under his shirt before he can blink. There's nothing forced about their kiss, but Jess' heart is not in it at all. Instead with open eyes he takes her in, inch by inch, comparing her to the one girl he's at this god forsaken club to forget.
Her eye's are different. A little more rounded, a lot less blue. Bottle green, like the stains of emerald dye or the greenest grass in the most perfect neighborhood in Hartford on a sunny afternoon. The hair is more or less the same, give or take a few inches. There's no denying the connection of chocolate locks that drew Jess to this girl in the first place, and he's not sure why but it's nice to know there's still a little bit of Rory he can always find no matter what or who he's with.
Jess wrinkles his nose as the kiss deepens. He wasn't supposed to think her name.
Thinking about the name, leads to thinking about the girl, and thinking about the girl leads to more beer, and more beer will lead to a more permiscuous road than Jess would like to take tonight.
The only difference between this podRory he's been kissing for the past five minutes is dark olive skin that the tanned natives of Italy and Greece would be proud of. She's perfection glistening on the beach in all her glory looking for a lip to bite and a heart to steal. Then she'll leave him in the dark to think all those awful thoughts one imagines alone up on a balcony with a bottle of pastel colored pills and a tall glass of vodka.
He can't help but wonder when he got so lonely.
Except that he knows. He knows the exact day it happened, that exact outfits they were both wearing, and the exact things he never got around to telling her. On that stupid bus, he had a chance to fix it all. She would have understood, would have wanted to try and fix it. But he was never good at asking for help, and admitting that he had failed. So it was easier to leave his little piece of Connecticut on that bus that day and never let her think about him again.
But just like in the movies, it never works out the way you want it too. He came back for a piece of shit car he didn't need in the first place. Jess would have been fine without it. But he wanted, no needed a reason to come back and that stupid car presented him the golden opportunity. He had an excuse to see his Uncle, an excuse to wander the streets of Stars Hollow hoping to catch a glimpse of the thing he just couldn't let go of.
And again, he fucked up royally.
The girl on top of him grunts loudly and bites his lip snapping the twenty-one year old from his dazed state of remembrance. Finally, deciding he's had enough Jess pushes her somewhere in between careless and forceful until she's perched next to him, legs curled beneath herself, with a sour expression on her face.
"What's your damage?" She asks, and it strikes him as odd.
"You're not my type." He manages gracefully rising from the sleek leather couch beneathe them. The girl laughs and shakes her head reaching for her drink.
"I was your type when you picked me up from the bar an hour ago."
"What's your name?" Jess asks, not curious at all.
"Isabel. You?"
Pulling a few bills from his pocket Jess tosses money down on the sleek table designed to be trendy and offers Isabel a gentle smile.
"Jess. Nice knowing ya Isabel."
He leaves her quickly, his exit having been hastily planned and not as graceful as it may have appeared. The music begins to die down and the band offers thanks to many who were never listening in the first place. But that's what they want right? To sell their stories of playing clubs where no one watched them, living lives that no one believed in, and writing songs about love and pain they've never experienced.
And they say the music died.
He catches a cab back to his building and pays the driver more than he should, and more than the driver deserves. By the time he makes it back up to his apartment Jess is ready to curl up and sleep off this funk he's forced himself into. But before he even gets to the bedroom he's at the answering machine staring at the red flashing number idly. Jess' finger brushes gently against the play button.
Jess...? Uh, hi. This is Rory... I'm uh, sorry for calling you so late, I just... A nervous laugh, Wow, this is hard. I didn't expect it to be this hard. Something slams in the background, and it's a sound Jess is all to familiar with, You're probably wondering how I got your number. Luke gave it to me a few months back and it's been in my purse ever since. I wanted to call you because... I miss you. And I'm in prison. Another laugh, Yep, I miss you and I'm in prison. I stole a yacht and I got arrested and I'm drunk-- Rory sniffled, And I'm afraid to call my Mom because I fucked up, Jess. I really, really fucked up. And I just wanted to call you and tell you that I understand how you must have felt back then. When you didn't think you could talk to me, and you thought you would have been better off alone. I understand and I... I love--
Miss it's been five minutes--
Shit! Officer I need to make one more call this person wasn't home and I--
The message cuts off and Jess stands silently his eyes wide.
His mind is racing a million miles a minute. What happened to her? The voice he'd been longing for... That wasn't the Rory Gilmore he remembered. She was broken, cracked and bruised. Before he can let himself decipher the message his fingers make him do something he would have never expected.
He deletes the message.
You need to let her go.
The startling confession in the back of his head is right. With a shake of his head, Jess hesitantly wanders into his room and closes the door behind him.
She's not your problem anymore.