Whenever I get to feel this way,
Try to find new words to say,
I think about the bad old days.
-Jethro Tull, We Used To Know
She wakes slowly. Sun is streaming through the window, high in the sky already. She realizes she hasn't thought about time since she's been here. She's aware of Jess sleeping beside her, and blushes burn as the past night comes back to her. Her pulse quickens and she feels its throbs between her legs, a remnant from the past night's excessive activities. She has trouble looking at him. The light is too bright. Their legs are tangled and his arm is flung across her tummy. They've been like that all night; him with hands on her for contact, whenever she's moved against him he's responded. They've floated in and out of each other until she's lost track of times, been unsure of beginnings and ends, just need and stillness, ache and release. But now she knows her limits, daylight brought them back. The overwhelming intimacy upsets her, abrupt changes were never her strong suit and the awareness that this scenario wasn't even on the map just two days ago makes her dizzy. She feels like stuck in tar, sticky. Yearns for a shower. She inches out of bed slowly, to not wake him. Stands and pulls on yesterday's panties and t-shirt that she finds suggestively crumpled up on the floor.
"Hey."
She looks to the bed and meets the newly woken gaze of Jess.
"Hi. Did I wake you?" She responds awkwardly.
He looks out the window, then back to her.
"Seems like the thing to do."
They lock eyes, and she has to shake her head to break it.
"What do you do for personal hygiene around here?"
He smiles wickedly.
"Oh, you'll love it."
He gets out of bed and she has to look away. When she looks back he's in his underwear, regarding her warily. Damn it.
"Grab the soap by the sink, and there are towels under the bed." He pulls up his pants and shoots her another glance before walking past her out to the driveway. She gets a towel and the soap and follows.
A few steps off into the trees by the driveway places them in front of a wooden construction, that looks alarmingly like gallows.
"What's this?"
"The shower. I'll show you."
He grabs a blue can off the top of the construction and heads to the water pump. She follows half-heartedly and watches as he fills the thing and carries it back, places it on its shelf and hoists it up with the rope. At the bottom of the can, that under normal circumstances probably would be used for collecting rain in a watering system, is a tap. Now, however, there's a snout from an ewer attached to it, to spread the water.
"Just turn on the tap for your very own cold shower," he says. "Luke built it a few years ago when I complained about the lack of modern comforts."
She blinks at him. He laughs.
"You should have seen him, all satisfied that he fixed a shower. To this day I can't figure out if it was some elaborate prank."
She stares skeptically at the thing.
"I'd walk you to the lake but I actually think I have to get started on painting the place if I'm gonna have a chance to finish it. You can walk yourself, just use the rubber boots. The water's probably just as cold as the shower though."
She sighs. He shoots her a small, reserved smile, and heads off. Back to the cabin.
When he's out of sight she remains standing for a while staring into the trees. Some clouds have blown in and turned the forest a grayish green. She peels off her clothes and turns on the tap.
Her scream seems to echo between the trees and she muffles it to a continuous whimper while drenching herself. She turns off the water and shakily uses the soap for everything, hair and body. Turns on the water again and braces herself before stepping back in. It's not so bad this time and she stays standing under the stream until her temples ache and it ceases.
When she gets back inside she finds breakfast still out on the counter, including instant coffee and condensed milk. There's a twinge of tenderness in her breast. She walks over to the back window and Jess is already out on the terrace with buckets of paint, and stuff for his project. She makes her breakfast and coffee and sits inside the house eating, still shivering from the cold water.
She goes through her bag in search of something clean. She didn't plan for this trip at all, had to get away, figured she'd be alone and just packed tee's and sweatpants, an ancient braided sweater and cotton shorts. She drags out two moderately used garments and gets dressed. Feels a tad better when warm.
She grabs her laptop after a while and opens her document but can't get started. Everything is a distraction; the uncomfortable chair, the useless couch staring at her from across the room, mocking her for causing this whole mess. And she can't be anywhere near the bed. Can't even consider it. Them. What the heck happened here? She's trapped between invading memories of him on top of her, inside her, of herself touching and grabbing him, using him for oblivion, and the fact that it's made no difference. Here she is, still in pain, not the agonizing kind, just the sort that keeps you from doing anything else, like cramps, or a bad itch. She thinks longingly of yesterday's focus, that all started with a broom.
"I'm helping," she says as she joins him.
"Great," he responds. "Grab a scrape, we need to at least get rid of any loose paint before putting on another layer."
She starts working. Submerges herself in it, actually. Even if the cabin is small she still has to stand on a stool to reach the parts closest to the roof. The technique isn't hard to get the hang of, but it's hard work and she often finds herself having to lower her arms because of the lactic acid in her muscles, making progress slow and at times indistinguishable. She doesn't stop until her tummy screams from hunger and her head spins. She wobbles on her stool. In seconds Jess is next to her.
"Break?" He suggests, offering her his hand.
"Yeah," she responds, but leans on the wall climbing down. She sits down on the ground, back against the house. He hands her a water bottle.
"You gotta remember to drink."
"Yeah, not sure it makes me less useless."
"Trust me, you're definitely of more use to me conscious."
He leaves her the bottle, which she empties, in big gulps. The sun is covered by thin streaks of clouds, but still burns. He returns, tossing her an apple. She catches it, almost without looking up. She's surprised at her reflexes and looks up with an involuntary smile, seeing the same expression in his face. She's instantly more guarded, and averts her attention by taking a bite. After she finishes her meager meal she feels better. She uses the energy to get herself inside. She finds a box of biscuits, which, by the taste of them, has been there for a while. She doesn't care. As soon as she's full, she glares at her computer, still on the table, like an enemy. It does nothing in response.
"Screw you," she mumbles and heads outside again.
The work there doesn't get easier though. The old paint is a solid piece of work, which means she hits patches where it won't budge for anything, where she keeps slipping and jabbing the scraper into her hip and legs. The only thing keeping her from drawing blood is her lack of strength. She keeps at it though, barely noticing the late afternoon settling around her.
She loses control of her frustration after she's lost track of the number of times she's slipped. With a growl she stabs the scraper into the façade, and gets stuck.
"Woah! What's going on?" Jess rounds the corner and sees her pulling at the tool. He promptly lifts her off the stool and steps up wiggling the scraper loose. He hands it back to her. She takes it and tosses it in the grass.
"What am I even doing here?" She exclaims angrily. "I'm hurting myself, wrecking the place! I should just go home!"
"You're not wrecking anything! You've been working like crazy today. I'm already painting the other wall."
She turns her head to see, and he's right. She's practically done with her side, and it seems fair to assume he is with two of the others. Some anger runs off her.
"And where did you hurt yourself?"
She lifts her shirt to reveal her bruised hip.
"Ouch," he says and puts his hand to it, stroking it lightly. Last night radiates from the touch. But now it draws her in and she sees it in his face too. The shift gives her vertigo. She sticks out her shin and steps away. He drops his hand and starts to turn away. For no reason she's furious with him. She still tries, but fails, to keep her tone light.
"Hey, how many people have you been with, say the last year?"
He freezes.
"Been with?"
"How many people have you slept with?"
"Rory-"
"I mean, we did have sex last night in case you forgot. So, number of partners might be relevant for me to know, if you've been at risk of contracting something."
"Geez! If you're so into information why don't you go first?" He glares at her. "Who were you seeing a while back? Did you have him list all his sexual partners too, or am I special?"
She dumbfounded for a second.
"He wasn't- He's not relevant. You're the one who's been engaging in 'just casual sex'."
"No. I said I don't date, you assumed that I was promiscuous 'cause of it. And stupid enough to not protect myself apparently. I'd ask why but right now you're just looking to pick a fight so any reason you'd supply would be bullshit."
Anger and shame makes her red hot.
"You're trying to tell me you haven't-"
"Hey!" He barks, silencing her. "I know you're having some kind of freak-out about what happened last night, completely unwarranted by the way, so I think it's time you go use your keyboard as a punching bag instead."
He gestures towards the door, then turns and marches off to the other side of the cabin.
She remains standing, their words bouncing in her head, her cheeks burning with the come-down, before walking back inside. She considers leaving, even makes an attempt of gathering her things, but then she imagines coming back to her mother's place, having to explain why she's back, having to keep it together, and lie, and she feels physically sick at the thought. She paces for a while before becoming aware of her hunger. She warms a can of spaghetti-o's and eats.
She opens her computer, trying to write again, and failing. It's been happening more lately with a steep increase since her grandfather died. She considers herself bad at introspection, or at least at extracting results from it, but the parallel isn't lost on her.
And she thinks of her grandfather.
How he, when he got to spend time with her, quickly got know her, stood up for her, was so obviously proud of her. How even his sternness after that seemed so safe, comforting. How she rarely let herself need support from any adult male, and how good it had felt to let herself lean on him. She tries to imagine his reaction to her now. Had he seen her inner workings, her struggles, really seen them. Would he still be sort of noncommittally confident that she would work them out? When would he panic on her behalf? She lets herself consider that maybe the only failings that would have terrified him would have been personal, like with her mother. Being with an inappropriate man... or boy. Getting pregnant. And there it is; the core. Cold and unbreakable. Love is scary, sex is dangerous, vulnerability a liability. And it all begins with a girl. The things she doesn't really think, but sort of feels, instinctively. And just like that, she loses the thought, it's gone, like it never existed in the first place.
Jess enters the room. It's getting dark outside. He tosses a few brushes in the corner and hangs his jacket on the hook by the door. He huddles by the sink, leaning on the counter with arms crossed and eyes to the floor. Quiet. She feels like crying when watching him but refuses to. Instead she takes a deep breath and tries to keep her voice steady.
"I'm sorry."
He looks up at her then. Sighs and untangles his arms. Starts gesturing, but puts his hands in his pockets instead.
"I hope you know that I would have told you- I wouldn't have-"
"I know," she exclaims, covering her eyes in her hands. "Please don't mention it again. I didn't mean it and it's completely beside any point, and you were right, I was trying to start something-"
"Okay." He walks up to the table and sits down opposing her. Watches her for a few seconds, then smiles a little. "For what it's worth; I didn't mean to bring your ex into it. But I have to admit that I am curious about who Rory Gilmore would date in 2015."
"No one of consequence apparently," she sighs tiredly.
"How so?"
She considers it for a moment.
"I thought we were kind of serious, we had toothbrushes at each other's places and everything."
"You were practically married." He says deadpan. She can't help a quick smile.
"And then," she still has to brace herself to get the words out, "when my grandpa died, I dropped the ball. I went home. Didn't tell him. Just left. He didn't even cross my mind until he called and broke up with me." She takes an agitated breath. "And. The only feeling I could register about the entire thing was that I was scared about the fact that I forgot him!"
She looks at Jess, who's sitting still, listening.
"Who does that?"
She watches him for a reaction but he seems calm, eyes revealing a strange sort of recognition. She takes a deep breath and lets the air out of her nose. Hesitates, she's never told anyone before. Then she speaks.
"I can't write. Or, mechanically I can, I just never feel like it anymore."
His face softens.
"Sounds like a rut. It happens. It'll pass. Give yourself some space. Try writing something else."
"Well, I don't really get to choose, I get assignments and I gotta take them."
"No you don't."
She gives him an incredulous look.
"Sure, I'll just give up on eating."
"There are other ways to support yourself."
She flicks her head to the side.
"Oh, and what is it exactly that you do?"
"I don't just write. I do all kinds of things adjacent to it; editing, recruiting writers and sponsors, layouts, workshops. And sometimes, when I'm so sick of it all that I feel like never being within a mile of a printing press again, I pick up shifts at diners, I do stuff like this. After a while I'm back again."
She sighs impatiently.
"But writing for a living is what I've been working towards my entire life, ever since I was little. It's what I'm supposed to do."
"Says who?"
"Easy for you to say." She regrets it as soon as she says it and he sees it.
"No, you're right. Nobody expected me to do anything. The bar is pretty low. And that makes it easier for me. To quit, to pick it up again. To do it just for me. But that's my point. Who are you doing this for?"
She stares at him. Can't produce an answer. It would either be not enough or too much, she feels, and is blocked by that.
"Why does this happen?" She asks.
"Why? I don't know, it's different for everybody." He pauses, apparently hesitating. "But I think that… most people need context to create meaning and drive. That can be many things but relationships are probably the most important factor."
He falls silent.
"Go on," she says.
"For example: a man works a job he hates every day for 20 years in order to support a family. Take them away and he probably wouldn't do it. Conclusion: you become who you need to be in order to fit a context; If a person you care about expects you to be a certain way, to do a certain thing, you might just do it. It becomes part of you, but when that person disappears for whatever reason, so does the incentive."
"So, you're saying my grandfather took my drive to write with him to the grave. Great."
"So dramatic." He sighs with sort of a tender smile. "I'm saying he was a part of what you decided to do a long time ago. Maybe, part of the context for who you became is dissolving."
She bites her bottom lip, sad, and angry with him for being so… honest. She sighs shakily. He puts his hand on hers, the first touch they've shared for hours, and the simple devotion of it hits her, makes her throat sting. For a moment her entire being is the skin he touches. She tries to ignore it, isn't ready to be soft.
"Look, it's normal." He continues. "Not that it's not a big deal, but you'll get through it. Maybe you'll try something new. Your decision."
"The way you put it all I have to look forward to is my entire identity breaking apart 'til everyone I love is dead."
"That's not what I'm saying." He frowns and leans closer. "How do you think I keep myself together? You said it yourself: My tragedy is that I don't have enough people to lose, you on the other hand, will be attending lots of funerals. But you might just as well start looking at that as the better alternative."
She pulls back her hand, gets up and walks out the door into the darkness as tears stream down her face. Out to the edge of the terrace, staring off into the trees, sobbing loudly by now. Her anger quickly runs off her but only leaves despair. Everything he says makes sense. But sense doesn't make her feel any better, it just implies that times ahead are going to be more difficult than they already are. And that she really has no way of preparing for it. It has always been her way; Study harder, work harder. And if that's not the solution to this problem? Would she be able to execute some other tactic than that even if she knew the right way? The woods offer nothing but their continued existence.
"You're more than the sum of your parts, right?" Comes Jess' apologetic voice from behind her. "Please, don't think that just 'cause I can cough up some existential bullshit that I think you're some golem the people around you built. You're you, you'll always be you, no matter who you lose."
She senses him closing in, hears his breath, feels his warmth, and welcomes his hands on her shoulders, leaning back on him. He rests his bearded shin in the crook of her neck, and a shiver if want runs through her, reminding her of how easy it can be to just disappear for a while. She tilts her head to the side and he drags his mouth against her. She makes a little sound, something like a little purr, and turns to him. His lips meet hers in a slow kiss that she feels more in her throat and chest than anywhere else. She breathes and tries to control the quakes from residual cries as best she can. His arms support her, one around her waist, one around her shoulder. His hand travels up underneath her hair and he pulls away.
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I really need to sleep. Between the work today and last night…"
She smiles softly.
"Can I come too?" She asks.
"Yes, but I'm kinda useless tonight."
"Cork it," is all she can muster.
They go to bed. He closes his arms around her as they lie face to face, buries his hands in her hair, and falls asleep almost immediately. She lies awake, gently untangling her head after a while, but stays facing him. It's so much easier looking at him when he's not watching her. She touches his face carefully, stroking fingertips over his forehead, cheek and lips. For a moment her strongest wish is that she could be better for him, less of a car wreck, more of her younger self. But then she wonders if she would even be here if that was the case. He turns over on his back after a while, and she places an arm over his chest, her face to his neck, and falls asleep.
She dreams of dark earth flowing like a river to the sea. Thick, like tar or lava. And sizzling, while dripping into the ocean. Lemonade girl standing on the coastline, dipping her hand into the water and finding it near boiling.
