Title: Books from the bottom drawer
Summary: They were never really good at the whole communication with words thing, but books were a whole different matter. Lit.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, so please don't sue.
AN: Last night I watched season 4 of Gilmore girls on DVD and this is the result of me watching episode 3x21 'Here comes the son' one too many times and missing RJ terribly. Hope you enjoy. Reviews would be nice too ;)
Timeline: the last couple of season 3 episodes and beyond
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You're the words, when I have nothing to say… - Staind
I.
The sun was slowly descending down the horizon, leaving the yellow-orange trail on the sky and all he could see was blue. A light, grayish blue that captivated him and left him speechless daily, with no exceptions, for the last couple of months. Until today, that is.
A light, grayish blue of her eyes.
And the ocean, that spread in front of him for as far as his eyes could see, bathed in the warm sunlight, as he sat at one of the numerous benches at the Venice Beach, didn't help either.
When he left Jimmies', that morning he hoped that skateboarding and the beach would help to take his mind of things he didn't want to think about (or the one thing in particular: her), but instead it left him feeling even more restless. The clouds were starting to get darker as if they were trying to match his current mood and the cold wind picked up making small waves on the water as it turned into that dark shade of blue, reminding him of the way her eyes looked when she talked to him that night at Emily's house in Hartford (they always were a shade darker when she was upset, momentarily loosing that familiar light glow).
And as the first rain drops finally fell from the dark sky he decided he couldn't stay in California any longer. Later on when Jimmy found him in that bookstore and asked him to come outside because he needed to talk to him about something he wasn't surprised by his words. Instead he just listened and nodded in agreement.
Almost one hour later he was standing at the bus station (the only constant in his life lately) buying a ticket for New York. As he waited for the bus to come all he could think about was, thank God there was no beach or ocean (river, lake) in Brooklyn.
II.
Philadelphia, one year later…
A night before Mike and Matthew showed up excited with a six pack and a dinner (a couple of pepperoni pizzas from their local pizza place) talking about how they've finally found a place for their future bookstore. The rent was pretty cheap which made the place affordable and the location was great (only two miles from the center of the city). So all in all, it sounded decent. A day later when he saw it he had to agree with them that it looked decent too.
Not even three weeks later they moved in. And for the first time he had a place to call his own (even though it was just a rather small room with a single window and walls that looked desperate for some paint), a place he didn't have to share with anyone. There were so many things to do, to fix and finish before they could open the store and he decided that was actually a good thing since it left him very little time to think about her.
But soon enough they were done with cleaning and painting, the books were ordered together with a couple of new bookshelves and all they had to do was wait.
One evening, sitting in his room, crumpled in the small chair by the work desk placed by the window he picked up a pen and an empty notebook and started to write. It was nothing mayor, just a bunch of scribbling, thoughts about life, a way of killing time. But as the hours passed and the pages filled with words and thoughts he figured maybe this was something he could actually do. Write.
The only problem was deciding what to write about? And the only answer he came up with was her (always, always her). So he started writing it all down hopping this would be his way of moving on. Even after everything that happened he liked to think they were special, different than the other relationships, couples.
He wrote all night and as the first rays of sun fell on his table he lifted up a collection of papers held together by nothing more than a paperclip (just like their relationship). Opening the first page he started to read…
Chapter one… A small town girl meets the bad boy. Cliché.
Chapter seven… She falls for the boy even though everyone told her it could only end badly for her. Cliché again.
Chapter fifteen… The boy says I love you to the girl. She almost says it back. Another cliché. Almost, but not quite there. Almost special, but not really. Almost good enough.
She was his first, his last, his eve... Great now he's quoting Berry White. How low could he actually sink? Well at least that was a step up from self help books and tapes, if nothing else.
Yeah, he liked to think they were special but looking at it now, at these words staring at him accusatory, he found it he was wrong, as always.
They were just a series of clichés, one after the other.
There were many stories, poems, essays written about love exploring every single aspect of it, splitting it and analyzing to the smallest bits and pieces. Yeah, they weren't different. They were just different actors in the same old story. And here he was thinking he could say (write?) something new, different, special that hasn't been said (written) until now.
After reading the rest of it he was left with nothing but a feeling of disappointment. So instead he published The Subsect three months later and threw this script (them) into the bottom drawer of his work desk unsure if he'd ever come back to it (her) again, but unwilling to give it (them) up completely just yet.
III.
As Truncheon books developed, so have responsibilities and he often found himself running from one place to another, going to the meetings with young authors and working on his second book at the same time. It was a tiring job but he relished it. Lately the only break he got was when he was stuck in a traffic jam or when he'd stop at the crossroads at the stop sign waiting for the traffic light to turn green.
And often, at one particular crossroad, about four blocks from the Truncheon he'd stop and just barely glance at the sign by the road that said New Heaven 150 miles. He always turned left, of course, towards Truncheon books but sometimes he wished he could go right and just drive all the way to New Heaven, to Yale, to her.
One particular afternoon he actually did it. He ended up driving for 10 miles in the direction of New Heaven before turning back. That was when he finally admitted to himself that this was getting him nowhere. He needed to move on, go ahead or go insane. But he didn't know how. So he did the one thing he could.
He send her the manuscript from that bottom drawer with a small side note one late afternoon not hopping for anything and not really sure what he wanted to achieve with this act (closure maybe?).
He owed her (them) that much.
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It was Sunday, Truncheon was closed for the day and he decided it was a perfect opportunity to arrange that huge pile of books downstairs that has been standing there for the last two weeks.
He was halfway through stacking them on that bookshelf by the window when Matthew came up to him carrying some box in his hands "Hey, there's a package here for you." he said extending it to him.
Jess took it, examining the wrapping and recognizing it almost instantly "Wait, where did you get this?" he asked looking up.
"Some girl came over and said that I should give it to you."
"When?"
"Just now, maybe a minute ago." Mike explained, confused by Jess's reaction.
Jess opened the box as Mike continued rambling about something. It was his novel. He ripped the wrapping and started turning pages. Nothing was different. But when he came to the final page there was something written in a neat cursive handwriting. Her handwriting. "And then the girl asked the hoodlum out for a cup of coffee."
Jess closed the novel as something Mike said finally caught his attention "…and she had these piercing blue eyes that just…"
And before he even managed to finish his thought Jess turned his attention to the front door and hurried towards them leaving Mike to stand there alone. As he opened them he saw that she was already gone but when he stepped outside he managed to catch the glimpse of her in the distance. He started walking towards her, moving faster with every step he took in order to catch up.
"Rory, wait!" He yelled, and she stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice but didn't turn around.
He stopped too, just a few steps behind her, waiting for her reaction. Slowly she turned to face him, still not quite looking him in the eyes. She took in his worn, bewildered appearance, waiting for his next move.
Swallowing a lump that had miraculously formed in his throat he looked at her incredulously, his whole body feeling numb, not just from the lack of oxygen but by her mare presence.
If he was being honest with himself he never really believed she would come, or even read the damn thing. He could just picture it, her coming to her New York apartment (she was working there as an assistant editor for New York Times), finding his script and throwing it in the trash can by the door without even thinking about it. Because that's who she was, a determined young woman who didn't need five years to decide if she was still hung up over an ex. Actually, it didn't take him five years for that, he figured that out the moment she stepped of that bus but it took him this long to admit it to himself and actually do something about it.
In the end, she was Rory Gilmore, the one person worth pursuing redemption for, not some blonde he picked up at the bar. She deserved more than him all of a sudden showing up at her door with nothing but I'm sorry to offer her. Even this was too little somehow but it was all he had, his heart laid out on paper.
With a shaky breath, he held up the script to her and said "You didn't finish it." still trying to catch his breath after all the running.
"I thought you should do that. It's your book after all." She stated matter-of-factly, her eyes finally finding his. She has forgotten how dark they really were.
He pulled the pen from his back jean pocket and wrote something down and then turned it for her to see saying "I think I have time for one coffee."
She smiled, relieved.
"Don't I feel all special?" she teased with a genuine smile.
He shrugged "You should. I'm really busy these days. I don't have time for the casual non-business related coffee meetings with just anyone."
"Well, I'm not just anyone, now am I?"
The question was meant more as a joke, he knew but as he looked at her, trying not to get lost in her large, bright blue eyes and failing miserably he knew it was anything but. He watched as the wind prompted her curls that fell down freely, framing her face and making those small freckles, washed in the bright morning sun, stand out.
As he traced her freckles with his eyes all the way to that one on her neck, he knew he could never find the words to explain just how big of an understatement the words that came out of his mouth were.
"No, no you're not." He said simply, his voice thick with emotion, as they walked down the street towards his favorite coffee place just behind the corner.
IV.
A month later…
He took the script and put it to its old place, the worn out bottom drawer. He never got around to publishing it because it was pathetic really, way to sentimental, bordering on some cheesy romantic novel you could buy at a newspaper stand for dollar fifty.
So maybe it wasn't a bestseller material, maybe it won't make him famous. But in a way it helped him gain something much more valuable, it got him back to her and nothing else mattered (not the sleepless nights or all those hours spent in front of the computer screen, crumpled on an uncomfortable chair).
And in the end, they were never really good at the whole communication with the words, but books were a whole different matter altogether.
Because talking always lead to lying, but with books it was all there, no sugarcoating needed, staring back at you on a white piece of paper.
Just words, honest and simple but if you looked a little better you could see the extra layers underneath it all, the notes written in the margins, the metaphors, hidden meanings, that make it far deeper and more complex than it initially seemed.
He looked at the thing he wrote more than a month ago, standing next to her on the street. The girl invites the boy for a cup of coffee and he accepts. They go out and then… Well, they'll just have to wait and see.
Maybe it won't be an epic story because they certainly weren't the next Romeo and Juliet, Rick and Ilsa, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler, Robert Jordan and Marie...
They were just Rory and Jess. The diner boy and the Yale girl. It was what it was. Not that special, but not as ordinary either.
"Are you gonna sit there all day long and stare at that book or are you gonna come over here?" she asked from her spot on the worn out couch a few feet away from his desk.
"Let me think about it…" he said pretending he was truly considering his answer. But before she got a chance to protest he stood up and joined her on the couch.
"You're such a tease…" she said, hitting him on the shoulder.
"And you're an abusive girlfriend." he said in a mock hurt voice "Maybe I should get back to my writing after all…" he added, standing up slowly.
"No…" she said pulling him back by his shirt and closing the distance between them by pulling him into a kiss.
"Will this convince you to stay?" she asked pulling back, a mischievous smile on her lips.
"And now I can add blackmailing to the list." he said, looking up at her eyes, framed by the long dark lashes.
And as the sun was descending slowly down the horizon all he could see was blue. A peculiar light grayish blue of her eyes, brighter then the sun, that never failed to captivate him, today more than ever. Almost as in a distance he could hear her asking him how he would feel about a short vacation in California this summer and he didn't say anything but smiled instead.
(the end)