A/N:
I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.
Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D
07. Of Jaws, Turtles and Bank Robberies
Once Trudy (or Gertrude, or Brunhilda, or whatever the name of the new flavor of the week is) closes the door after her, Rory steps away from the Gilmore residence with a sigh of relief. Taking a deep breath, she tries to clear her head of any residual Emily chatter and hastily makes her way to down the driveway and out of the gate. Once on the street, she feels it's safe to slow down, ande rummages through her bag - after some struggle with various paraphernalia that lurk within, she finally finds her phone. Dinner over. Have survived mostly unscathed. Will call tomorrow, she types quickly and sends the message off to Lorelai.
Having thus completed all her obligations for the evening, she turns to thinking what to do with this precious alone time that stretches in front of her. Lorelai's gone, and she has the house to herself; Dean is gone too, and she has the whole weekend to spend entirely as she sees fit. The thought brings a wide smile to her face, but it fades gradually as she realizes she's actually happy she doesn't have to see him. It's all well and normal to be happy about the fact your mother is out of town, but your boyfriend? Something's not quite right with that, she cringes inwardly; something's definitely wrong if Dean suddenly feels like an obligation.
She really does love Dean, she's very sure of that – he's sweet, and good, and kind, and a thousand other things she can't think of right now. She loves him, although maybe not in quite the same way she did in the beginning, or a few months ago, but maybe this is what happens in relationships – the way you love someone changes. Just like anything else, it probably evolves over time, feelings shift this way and that, and maybe this is what a mature relationship feels like – easy, and steady, and comfortable… sort of like Richard and Emily. Oh God, I didn't just compare Dean and me to my grandparents, did I?, she cringes inwardly; that's just… wrong on so many levels. They're senior citizens, of course they're easy, steady and comfortable, and it makes perfect sense for them; however, once the terminology is applied to sixteen-year-olds, easy and steady and comfortable quickly translates to mundane, predictable and boring.
Wrestling with this disturbing conclusion, she turns a corner, sidestepping a street lamp in the nick of time; the near miss reminds her to keep her eyes ahead. She looks up, and stops in mid-step when she sees Luke's truck parked by the side of the road, with Jess perched on the tailgate, smoking a cigarette and swinging his feet over the asphalt. Once she absorbs the initial shock, her blood chills with anxiety and she crosses the remaining twenty steps in a rush.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, breathless and frowning.
"And hello to you too," he lifts his eyebrows, confused at the urgent tone.
She shakes her head. "What are you doing here?" she repeats, and frowns harder.
"Well, Luke will have a meltdown if he smells cigarettes in the truck, so this seemed like a better option," he smirks, somewhat uncertainly; the urgency is still there.
"No, I meant why are you here?," she clarifies apprehensively. "Did something happen?"
He frowns, confused. "Like what?"
"I don't know, anything" she says exasperatedly, "is something wrong with my Mom, or Luke… was there a fire, did my house burn down… the possibilities are endless," she rolls her eyes, now seriously annoyed with him.
"Whoa, okay, slow down," he says quickly as the dots in his head connect and her behavior begins to make sense. "Nothing happened. As far as I know, everyone's fine and your house is still standing."
She breathes a sigh of relief, and unclenches gradually; with those most pressing concerns out of the way, she now refocuses on his puzzling presence in front of her grandparents' house. Jess watches as her expression relaxes, then furrows in concentration, and feels decidedly guilty for spooking her.
"So, a do-over?" he suggests; she gives him a confused look and he smirks. "Hi," he says pointedly.
She smiles. "Hi," she replies and allows for a brief silence, but gets tired of it quickly. "Okay, again, why are you here?"
"On my way to the movies," he shrugs.
She looks around the quiet, decidedly residential neighborhood. "And you got lost?" she guesses, looking back at him.
"I don't get lost," he informs her with a smirk.
"Of course not," she amends ironically, then raises her eyebrows again. "Well?" she prods after a moment of silence.
"Well what?" Jess counters with a smile.
"Oh, you're not seriously going to make me ask the question again," she rolls her eyes. He smirks wider and she rolls her eyes again. "Or you are. Okay, so there's no emergency and you're not lost… so, what, you're sightseeing? Is there something special on this street that I've missed all the numerous times I've been here?" She frowns at the surrounding houses, looks up and down the street, and shakes her head. "Nope, I'm still not seeing it…"
"Actually, now that you mention it, there is something special about this street," he smirks. "You're here."
"I'm special?" she blurts out, then cringes inwardly; that's not what he said at all.
He laughs. "Okay, you've taken that slightly out of context," he points out casually, thoroughly enjoying the soft tinge of red that creeps into her cheeks.
"Well then, kindly contextualize it for me," she stubbornly holds her own, regardless of the somewhat embarrassing moment.
"I was looking for you," he says simply.
"Why?" she wants to know, predictably.
"They're showing Jaws at the movies, and since big sharks with pointy teeth scare me, I sort of need someone to hold my hand through it," he delivers with a trademark smirk, but queasily registers the fact he's holding his breath; well, sort of, he corrects himself quickly, and scans her face for a reaction. She's looking at him with a peculiar expression; she almost seems amused and for one chilling second, he feels like she's seeing right through him, although he'd rather not think about just what it is that he's trying to hide.
"It is a Friday night, you know," she says flippantly. "I could have plans."
"True," he concedes with a smile. "Do you?"
"I could be seeing Dean," she continues innocently, secretly watching for a twitch; it doesn't happen and she immediately resents herself for looking for one at all. I should be seeing Dean, she thinks bitterly.
"Are you?" he asks, a strange smile crossing his face.
"Maybe," she says noncommittally, aiming for ambiguity.
He laughs. "You're not seeing Dean," he declares with conviction; she frowns and takes a breath, but he shakes his head, cutting her off: "I'll save you the potential embarrassment of getting caught in a lie and tell you that I actually saw Dean leave town today, so, I'm pretty sure he's not on your agenda tonight," he smirks and watches the defiance melt away from her face. "So, Jaws?" he asks casually, sliding off the tailgate.
She mentally debates the issue for a few seconds, dutifully registering all the pros and cons; there are infinitely more cons, but she finds herself dismissing them one by one, and the ease with which she does this startles her. Maybe I'm over-thinking this, she thinks weakly; after all, it's Friday and she really has no plans. It's just a movie, so where's the harm, exactly?
"I'm not holding your hand," she warns with a half-smile and folds her arms, unconsciously reasserting the point.
"Okay," he shrugs, smiling, and throws away the cigarette.
They each circle the truck on their respective sides and meet up again in the cabin; in the scarce space, Rory quickly notes butterflies stirring in her stomach and reluctantly questions the wisdom of her decision. Granted, spending the evening at home would have been much less interesting, but infinitely safer, and even though she can't quite pinpoint where exactly the danger lies in this particular situation, she's acutely aware it exists. It might be his driving, she suddenly remembers a handy culprit and concentrates on his speed and maneuvering skills, but finds no apparent flaws.
"So what's the deal with these dinners at your grandparents, anyway? I mean, I get that you're supposed to visit with relatives, but every Friday, at the same time… the whole arrangement somehow seems… formal," he smirks. "Sort of like a dentist's appointment or something."
"Yeah well, at times it does feel like having your teeth pulled out," she sighs, shrugging. "My Mom couldn't afford Chilton, so she asked my grandparents to help. They agreed to do it in exchange for the dinners," she explains.
"Okay… it might just be my twisted mind, but that sort of sounds like… well, a nice word for blackmail escapes me right now," he says simply, and glances in the review mirror as he turns a corner.
She chuckles. "There isn't one, and that's pretty much what it was." He throws her another quizzical look, and she shrugs again. "My Mom hadn't talked to my grandparents for some sixteen years before Chilton came into play, and I guess my grandma wanted to make sure the same thing wouldn't happen again. Hence the dinners."
"Sixteen years?" he repeats, baffled.
Rory nods. "She ran away from home when she was pregnant with me."
"Huh, she wasn't kidding," Jess mutters to himself.
"Who wasn't?" Rory frowns.
"What? Oh, Lorelai," he says absently, pulling into the cinema parking lot; it's Rory's turn for a puzzled glance, and Jess chuckles. "She said some stuff to me at that dinner at your house, something about having done the 'chip on the shoulder bit'. At the time, I thought she was just… well, full of it, but apparently, she wasn't," he concludes, picking a parking space.
Rory starts with a sarcastic response but loses track of it completely when he throws his hand over the back of her seat, freezing still until she figures out it's just a part of a parking maneuver as he backs the truck up between two cars. This realization, however, does little in terms of quelling her hectic heartbeat, and she bolts out of the truck as soon as Jess turns off the engine. What is wrong with me, she wonders for the umpteenth time in relation to him, and as usual, no satisfactory answer presents itself.
The fresh air helps, she finds, but they leave it behind much too soon, and the darkness inside the cinema has a completely opposite effect. The trailers are already running and they wander around briefly in search of their seats, squinting in the pale light emanating from the screen. Sitting down, she takes a deep breath, overwhelmingly grateful they're not watching one of those bigger-than-life dramas that have the propensity to make her bawl her eyes out; occasional frightful twitches she can live with. Opening credits flash on the screen, and she wills herself to focus on the movie and not on that place where their arms run side by side, sharing the armrest, but instead she finds herself wondering whether she'd ever really touched him before. She settles on a definite no, beyond certain she'd remember this prickling feeling that simmers along her skin right now. He shifts, and the prickling shifts with him, and she barely has time to brace herself before he leans to her ear.
"Just so you know, you're welcome to grab my hand if the mood strikes you," he whispers, and the hair on the back of her neck stands up on end.
"Don't hold your breath," she whispers back, amazed at her presence of mind.
Figuratively, he won't, but in reality, he does, and for a brief moment he tries to make out what it is that she smells like before he comes to his senses and exhales. Aw, I did not just smell her hair, he groans inwardly and rubs his forehead, stupefied and suddenly completely oblivious to the movie. Knowing yourself can be both a blessing and a curse, and in this instance, Jess finds himself quickly leaning toward the curse scenario as a particular truth reveals itself with a dull force of a swinging brick: I like this girl. I like the way she thinks, I like the way she talks, I like that way she drinks her coffee and eats her pancakes, I like her books and the fact she's got so many, I definitely like the way she's put together, but most of all, I like the way she looks at me. I like it all… and typically, I can't have her, because typically again, she's in love with the town prince charming, he concludes with supreme annoyance. Or at least she thinks she is, his mind makes a feeble distinction, but it feels like grasping at straws and he shrugs it off.
The shark devours an unsuspecting swimmer, and the entire audience flinches in unison; Jess doesn't even blink. I so don't want to like this girl…
…
"I forgot just how good this movie is," Rory comments two hours later as they make their way back to the truck.
"Or how scary, apparently," Jess smirks at her.
"Well, that one scene slipped my mind," she mutters and wills the heat away from her face, squirming as she recalls hiding her face in the crane of his neck when that decomposing corpse popped out of the shipwreck. It was an impulse, immaterial in itself, but it afforded her another tidal wave of inner mayhem that took twenty minutes to shake off, and she holds Spielberg responsible for that. Sadly, the fact that Jess smelled so good and felt even better can't be pinned on Spielberg by any rational method; neither can the flock of butterflies that spring to life in her stomach at the memory, and she pulls the truck door closed, irked an frustrated.
"I offer you a hand, but you go straight for the neck," he starts the engine, smirking still.
"It was a reflex, so I suggest you restrain any over-active imagination," she deadpans sardonically. "I just don't like decomposing corpses all that much, and that one somehow always springs out of nowhere, even if you know it's coming," she adds with mild fascination.
"Yeah, early Spielberg comes close to a genius in that respect," Jess chuckles in agreement. "Not many movies can pull off that kind of suspense anymore."
"So, they're having a retrospective… I wonder what else they have scheduled," Rory wonders absently.
Jess smirks. "The Shining, tomorrow. I didn't look past that."
"Okay, that one really is scary… Jaws looks like a Disney production next to that one," Rory chuckles.
"Oh come on, don't overdo it," Jess shakes his head.
"An evil, mind-altering presence versus a biologically conditioned animal? I somehow find the first scenario infinitely more disturbing," she declares with conviction. "There's a fool-proof way to avoid sharks; they tend to stick to the ocean. Disembodied evil has a much wider area of operation, and doesn't come with an easily recognizable arsenal of pointy teeth."
"You know, I never actually saw The Shining," Jess shrugs.
"Really?" she gapes at him. "Wow, that's sort of like saying you're Catholic but have never heard of the Bible," she chuckles. "How could you have missed that?"
"I don't know, I just did," he shrugs with a smirk and makes a left at an intersection, leaving Hartford behind.
"Well, you should rectify that as soon as possible," she declares with a smile. "Tomorrow, even; that's one movie you should see in a cinema if at all possible." He looks at her and she senses the unspoken question, but shakes it off quickly. "I'm not watching the Shining with you."
He shrugs. "I suppose it's just as well; if it really is as scary as you say, I'd probably spend the better part of the movie peeling you off myself anyway," he smirks. "Not that the prospect isn't appealing to some extent, but it would definitely hinder the actual movie watching."
She feels herself blushing again as her brain supplies the visual, complete with the subtle mix of cigarettes and faint after-shave that she will now associate with him for all eternity. "Are you going to keep rubbing my nose in that forever?" she asks exasperatedly.
"No, not forever… but probably as long as it gets a rise out of you," he chuckles.
"What an exhilarating prospect," she deadpans, rolling her eyes.
"Well, you kind of brought it on yourself," he points out innocently.
"It was Spielberg, not me," she defiantly mutters to the window.
"Really? How… convenient," Jess smirks ahead.
Rory stares out of the window stubbornly for a moment and attempts to resent him for mocking her, but can't quite get there; he's really not doing anything she wouldn't do herself if provided with the slightest chance, and she surreptitiously wishes for one, just one chance to make him squirm. She's certain the sight would be priceless, and she chuckles inwardly at the prospect. Maybe, someday…
"Oh yeah," he says suddenly, "I keep forgetting… thanks for the books."
"You're welcome," she replies, then chuckles, shaking her head.
He frowns. "Okay, I'm missing the funny part here," he says blankly.
"It's nothing, just something Luke said," she chuckles again, and he throws her a quizzical look. "He sort of implied you wouldn't really thank me," she elaborates with a smile.
"What am I, a Neanderthal?" He shakes his head. "I'm perfectly capable of saying the words."
"And you did a splendid job of it," she nods solemnly, fighting back a smile. "They didn't even come out strangled or anything."
"Gee, thanks," he clips with mild sarcasm.
"So what did you pick?" she wonders with interest.
"I can't remember the title, it's too long" he frowns at the windshield, "but it's a fairly thin one, big red circle on the cover. Starts with a guy contemplating a woman's abysmal poetry and glorious legs," he smirks.
"Ah, that would be Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things," she chuckles. "You're right, the title is long. How do you like it?"
"It's too early to tell," he shrugs. "I barely got through three paragraphs before Luke descended on me. But they were decent paragraphs," he chuckles.
"Well, once you're done with this batch, you can have another," she smiles brightly. "How many of them have you actually read before?"
"You've brought a ton, so it's not really an issue," he smiles back, evasive.
"How many?" she frowns, insisting.
"Probably half, maybe a few more," he shrugs apologetically. "It doesn't really matter though, they're all worth a read-over," he offers when she looks disappointed. "Well, most, anyway," he corrects himself after a moment.
"Yeah well, that doesn't change the fact that I lugged half of them all the way to the diner for no reason," she mumbles dejectedly, then goes back to his last comment. "What do you mean, most?"
"I would have come and got them myself if I'd known," he mumbles, feeling guilty.
"Well, I clearly survived, so it's not a big deal," she brushes off easily, then frowns again. "What do you mean, most?"
"Well, you've got Rand in there," he grimaces," and surviving or not, I wish you didn't further any scolisis on my account."
"One backpack of books will hardly turn me into an invalid," she quips with a chuckle, then switches gears again. "And Rand is a genius."
"Rand is a nut," he declares, "and could we turn this parallel discussion into two separete ones ? Keeping track of the driving, the radio and two different conversations at the same time is kind of a stretch."
"Spoken like a true multi-tasker," she mocks.
"Here's a crazy idea," he suggests, ignoring the provocation,"how about we discuss the book delivery first, and argue about Rand later?"
"There's nothing to discuss," she chuckles. "You wanted books, and I have tons. I picked a few, packed them up, brought them over, left them on the floor next to your unconscious form. You found them, said thank you. Case closed," she shrugs.
"Why didn't you wake me up?" he wants to know, but Rory's determined to steer clear of that line of questioning because it opens a whole other set of issues in her head.
"Why would I?" she asks innocently.
"Well, for one thing, Luke asked you to," he shrugs.
"Did he? Huh, I guess I missed that," she quips quickly. "Can we move on to Rand now?"
"Oh, right, the nut," he chuckles.
"The genius," she corrects sternly, "although the concepts are not mutually exclusive."
"Yeah, I'm still going to go with the nut bit," he smirks.
"Okay, but you know, that just tells me you never read her," Rory says flatly.
"I suffered through an opening chapter of something, then gave up," he informs her casually.
"You can't judge someone's entire opus on an opening chapter of a book you don't even remember the title of," she argues, appalled.
"Ordinarily, I'd agree, but in this instance, the first few pages were a powerful deterrent," he chuckles.
She gapes at him in disbelief for a moment, then shakes her head. "Well, you're missing out on some great stuff, and you'll keep on missing a lot more if you don't stop making snap judgments like that."
"I'm rarely wrong," he smirks.
"You were wrong about my Mom," she points out quickly, rolling her eyes.
"I said rarely, not never," he smiles and turns into Stars Hollow, its streets deserted and completely devoid of activity. "Jesus, this place is depressing," he mutters to himself. "I mean, it's boring in daytime, but at night it's… well, dead. The silence is mind-numbing."
"You miss New York?" she asks sympathetically.
"I miss its pulse," he shrugs. "Over there, you can see something you've never seen before on every corner, provided you know how to look."
His last comment strikes a chord somewhere within, and she smiles and sits up suddenly, pointing out of the window. "Turn here," she says resolutely; the tone allows for no objections and he just steers as ordered.
"Where are we going?" he asks, curious.
"I want to show you something," she says with a smile. "Turn right at the end of the street."
He does; several more turns follow until they eventually start up a forested hill, and asphalt gives way to dirt.
"A back-road, great," Jess draws out. "Luke would love this."
"It's a truck," Rory points out dryly.
"Yeah, and that's a ditch," Jess nods out of the window, "and Luke had some very specific instructions on avoiding those."
"So, avoid them," she chuckles.
He mutters something incoherent and concentrates on precisely that, carefully maneuvering a few more uphill turns until they reach a clearing.
"Okay, now back up a little to the side here," she instructs again, looking out.
He glances into the review mirror and frowns. "Where am I backing up to, exactly? Off of a cliff? There's nothing there!"
She rolls her eyes. "Just trust me and back up a little, okay? I'm not suicidal and I've been here a thousand times."
He shrugs and shifts into reverse; she cranes her neck and checks their position. "Okay, we're good," she chirps happily and jumps out of the truck. He pulls on his jacket and follows. He finds her folding down the tailgate and watches her settle there, her feet dangling over the dirt.
"Okay, if you're planning a make-out session, I'd be happier inside the truck," he smirks, searching his pocket for cigarettes.
She bestows him with a look of mild frustration, then points over his shoulder. "Look."
He turns around; the clearing drops off some twenty steps ahead, and affords a startling few of Stars Hollow in the valley bellow, sparkling in the darkness. The scene is pretty enough, but no more remarkable than any others like it; every town has one, and on a Friday night, they're usually crawling with parked cars packed with couples. Suddenly a disturbing thought strikes and he cringes.
"Is this your and Dean's little love nest? I'd hate to desecrate such a sacred shrine," he says sardonically, wishing he'd never set foot here.
"No," she blushes. "We only came up here once, and I brought him here for the same reason as you."
"And that would be…?" he trails off quizzically.
"Look," she points behind him again.
"I looked. There's lights," he shrugs, unimpressed.
"You glanced, then moved on to wisecracks," she corrects him, and points to the lights again.
He sighs, and turns his eyes to the valley, although he'd much rather look at her. "Okay, still lights," he declares after a minute. "I hate to ruin the moment, but I'm pretty sure I'll still be seeing lights no matter how long I stare at them, barring a sudden electricity shortage."
"Yes, they're lights," she rolls her eyes. "Now stop being so hopelessly literal and look at the bigger picture," she sighs exasperatedly. "You know, step out of the box, experiment, let your mind wonder…"
"Are you sure I don't need drugs for this?" he asks with a smirk, glancing at her; she frowns and he obediently looks back to the lights. Clearly, this is important to her, and even though he thinks it's ridiculous, he makes and effort and relaxes his eyes, attempting to look past the obvious. Forms blur a little, then melt into soft, hazy shapes; after a few seconds, the shapes connect into a vaguely familiar pattern. He looks closer, and like in a kaleidoscope, the lights weave together, and his mouth drops open.
"Huh," he says incredulously. "It's a turtle."
Her head spins. "You actually see it?" she gawks at him.
"Yeah," he chuckles, amazed, then looks back with a frown. "What, you don't?"
"No, I do," she nods quickly, a strange expression on her face.
"Well, isn't that what you brought me up here to see?" he asks, confused.
"It is," she nods again, her expression unchanged. "It's just… I can't believe you made it out on your own. Aside from my Mom and me, no one's ever been able to make it out unless I pointed it out to them. Not my dad, not Lane, not Dean… no one," she explains, completely baffled.
"It's incredible," he admits plainly, looking back at the valley; her head spinning, she can't help feeling he's breached some sort of her inner circle way too easily. Weirdly transfixed, she examines his face , and suddenly, out of nowhere, that unique expression she witnessed when she watched him sleep sneaks into his features, that unguarded look of pure joy, and she has no trouble defining it once it reflects in his eyes. He gazes into the lights, eyes half closed and lips slightly parted in an absent-minded ghost of a smirk, and she suddenly feels an unmistakable, irresistible urge to kiss him. In that fleeting moment, nothing in the world seems to matter except this crazy urge to find out what he tastes like; just for a minute, or a second even, just once, just to see how it would feel. Maybe if she just found out what it's like, this crazy craving would go away and everything would return to normal.
"A penny for your thoughts," his voice snaps her back to reality; she blushes furiously and shifts her gaze to the lights.
"You know how computer programs have that nifty little 'undo' button?" she asks softly. "You're free to try anything, and if it works – great, you just leave it be. If it blows up in your face, however, you just hit 'undo' and poof! – it's gone, erased, like it never happened… I'd trade a kidney for that option in life," she sighs longingly.
"What, you're itching to attempt flying into the lights?" he smirks, but examines her face carefully, instinctively aware of something bigger happening behind the scenes.
She makes no comment and the silence stretches until the church bell breaks it, chiming midnight; the soft echo floats up from the valley, distant and slightly distorted. "It's late," she says, sliding of the tailgate. "We should go."
He wants to mock her for describing midnight as late, but something in her face makes him swallow the remark and he just follows her back into the truck. The drive into town goes by in silence: she stares out the window and wrings her hands together, and he employs every wit to isolate the cause of the sudden shift in her mood. Somehow, everything points to an inner struggle of some sort, and since she's not letting him anywhere near it, he briefly skims over the possibility it's actually somehow related to him, as unlikely as the theory sounds. It's a stretch, but in the interest of being thorough, he figures he should check it out nonetheless.
"So, this 'undo' thing of yours," he starts as he pulls into her driveway, "would it apply to you as well as other people?"
"What do you mean?" she frowns, not understanding.
"Okay, in the interest of clarity, lets dispense with the abstractions," he smirks. "For instance, I want to club Taylor over the head. I club him, and, courtesy of the magical undo, Taylor doesn't remember being clubbed, right?
She nods.
"Okay, but do I remember clubbing Taylor?" he chuckles.
"Well, yeah," she frowns. "There'd be no point to it otherwise."
"Okay, so basically, the thing spares you the consequences of your actions in terms of other people, but lets you retain the memory of them? Huh," he shrugs, "yeah, I can see how that would come in handy," he chuckles, then frowns. "Although, theoretically, you could achieve the same result without it."
He's got her full attention now. "What, like hypnosis or something?" she chuckles.
He laughs. "No, more like an agreement." She looks at him blankly, and he puts together the next few sentences very carefully. "Okay, hypothetically, let's say you and I… " (right on cue, her eyes widen) "…rob a bank. But, before we rob the bank, we agree never to talk about having robbed it. And we rob the bank – just for the sake of robbing it. We just… want to," he says casually, but watches her closely. "If we both stick to the agreement and never mention the fact again, in effect, it's like it never happened."
Her eyes lock with his, but she says nothing; she doesn't really have to, he can tell he got his point across, subtext included. He's given her a magical 'undo' button, and even though he's not entirely certain that it's the one she had in mind, he decided to hand it over nonetheless, just in the remote case it is the right one. It's up to her to decide what to do with it.
After a long minute, it turns out it's either not the right one, or she doesn't want to use it, because she just smiles a small smile and gets out of the truck, waving a silent goodbye as she disappears into the house. Well, it was worth a shot, he thinks gloomily, and pulls out of the driveway.
A/N:
All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy.
Just something to think about :)
