Open Your Eyes

Summary: It's not that you never cared about him… Your heart is being pulled somewhere else; it always has been. Lit. AU.

Disclaimer: "The General Specific" belongs to Band of Horses. (or just Horses, depending on the year, I guess.)

A/N: So, this is it! I believe this story has reached its end and sorry it took forever to finish, but I hope you like. Thanks to all who read and reviewed. (And those who added this story to their favorites.)


Knowing up here,

There comes a fork in the road

Pants have gotta go, we're on an island on the fourth of July

Looks like the tide is going home
In time I'd find a little way to your heart,

Down to the general store for nothing specific.


Later that night, he tells you that you can have the bed. "I'll take the couch."

You protest for a good fifteen minutes, feeling uneasy about taking up space in his life when, technically, you shouldn't even be here. (But you're more than grateful that you are.) Eventually, you concede, but only because he insists so honestly, so sincerely and it's not something you've ever seen him do - at least not without some sort of internal struggle.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out and the moment you have barely had the time to share is ruined. (You just can't help yourself.) It isn't until you've heard the words that you realize it could encompass a whole myriad of things.

"What for?" and you know he knows what it is that you're apologizing for; you can tell.

You spread your arms about the room and somehow, he understands that it means "everything".

"Don't be," he says.

And you wish that it were that simple. (Mostly you wish that you had the courage to ask him to stay.)

"Come with me." He's determined, there's an air about him that you don't recognize, either bravery or resignation, that you wish you could be a part of.

"What?" You will probably never tell him that this is not your first response that you have to fight off what your instincts are telling you to say to him. (When, where, and take me with you.)

"You don't know me," you say, because it's the only lie you can live with.

Saying no to him, you have found, will always be your easy way out. Because "yes" means admitting, "yes" means acknowledging, "yes" means he has an effect on you, that what he does matters in spite of all your efforts to prove the opposite. When it comes to you and him, the truth is always harder. Always will be.

"Don't say "no" just to make me stop talking or make me go away. Only say "no" if you really don't want to be with me."

You hesitate, close your eyes for about half a second, and though he doesn't seem to notice, the time between his demand and your answer feels like forever and a day.

"No!" (Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.) Your eyes slide shut as he walks away; it takes all of your will power not to go after him, to drag him back to you and hold on for as long as he will let you.

When you're sure he's gone, with your head in your hands you finally say the word you want to, the only one that matters: "Yes."

In the morning, you awake to a scent that is so uniquely his own on his pillow, novels and notebooks spilling out from his overstuffed shelves are the first thing you see. (And, you decide, it is not a bad way to wake up at all.)

He's sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading a book, an action that comforts you. You love how he is the only one who seems to possess the ability to balance between surprising you and being completely predictable. (And the moment is so perfect that you think you could cry.)

You don't notice the second mug sitting on the table until he nudges it toward you. "No cream, three sugars," is all he says.

"Thanks." It doesn't surprise you that he remembers, but it does feel nice to know that he hasn't forgotten the little details that make up who you are.

"No problem." You realize, as you curl into the seat beside him, stealing glances over the rim of your coffee cup, that you are getting far too comfortable here, but a small part of you doesn't want to care. You could get used to this.

"Don't get used to this." This is Jess' way of greeting you as you walk and read your way out of Chilton, with every intention of catching the bus. It's warm on a Tuesday in the middle of the month and you tell yourself at that moment to never forget March 18, 2003.

"Wouldn't dream of it," you're grinning but you don't care; you think he looks good, leaning against the historic and ornate granite of the building behind him. "It would ruin the element of surprise."

His arm slips into its favorite place at the nape of your back as he steers you towards his car, parked near a bench and sticking out, conspicuous and odd, like your mother at Emily's dinner parties. You love the contrast.

"You're not allowed to park there, you know." But your heart isn't in the scold and you smile through the kiss, unexpected but certainly not unwelcome, as he pulls you towards him. (Perfect.)

"I'm sorry."

It's late, probably around three in the morning and the only light in the room is coming from the moonlight streaming in through the window, illuminating Jess' features as they contort in confusion. He stretches out on his couch, hands behind his head and his eyes on the ceiling. "What?"

He sounds tired. You almost turn around; almost go back to his room to tell yourself to forget all about this moment and just go back to sleep. But you can't ignore the uneasy feeling that's been gnawing at your gut since you almost kissed him (actually, technically, if you're honest, it's been long before that).

"I'm sorry."

He sighs, shifts over so that you can lie next to him. (It takes you a moment to realize that this is, in fact, what he wants you to do.)

"You seem to be doing that apologizing bit a lot lately."

"And don't you think it's deserved?"

He doesn't answer that, and you take it as your cue to keep going. "Jess, the last time I was here—"

"It's fine, Rory, don't—it's fine. Don't apologize."

"Really?" You find it hard to believe it could be this easy.

"Really. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure, because—"

"Yes."

"Okay. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing." You nod, and fight off the smile that's approaching your lips.

The space between you has grown exponentially smaller since you last spoke. (Inches, centimeters, millimeters…)

Your lips are a breath and a kiss away from his when he pulls back. His arm slides down around your shoulders and pulls you closer. (You're guessing it is simply out of instinct.)

You tell yourself not to get comfortable, that the two of you, like this, should not (and will not) become routine. But still somehow, you manage to fall asleep in the comfort of his arms.

Sometimes, you wonder if you are the one who can take the blame for this, if the reason he seems to try so hard for your approval, and yet completely fail at making a change that sticks.

Sometimes you want to ask Logan what it is about them, about you, that makes him cheat. Is there something about you that pushes him on and enables him that has made his infidelity such a defined part of his character?

You would ask, but you doubt the answer would lead you towards anything truthful.

"It's nothing," he would say. "They're nothing. "

But in spite of how badly he wants it to be true; it's difficult for you to believe that "nothing" is what keeps him from being with you completely, if "nothing" is what keeps the chasm standing upright between you, the two of you on opposite ends. If they're nothing, it shouldn't be so difficult for him to give them up and to just...stop.

You obviously are not enough for him and you don't know how he can possibly want to spend the rest of his life with someone who isn't enough, who might not ever be enough.

And, somehow, you would always end up saying "I forgive you," but never meaning it. (And you always end up thinking that this is probably a bad idea.)

The phone sits on the middle of his coffee table, staring back at you like some mocking, unconquerable creature. You reach for it, but at the last second pull your hand back, as if burned.

He makes some kind of noise in the doorway and you look up at him between the cracks of your fingers. The look on his face is part bemused, part confused.

"Hungry?" he asks and you nod without really thinking about the question he's asked. "Chinese okay?"

"…Sounds fine, I guess."

He nods, leaving you behind in a muddle of your own confusion and bewilderment.

Your feet are cold. You focus more on that and less on the fact that when you burrow your toes in the couch cushions, you can feel the heat of Jess' legs through his pants.

"Did you call him?"

His voice comes as an unexpected surprise; since he came back bearing food almost half hour ago, neither of you have said a word. But, for once, you didn't mind the quiet.

"What?" Confused, you frown around a mouthful of Kung Pao Chicken and chewed bits of spring roll, and try to discern what it is that he could be talking about. One thing comes to mind, but you were so sure he wouldn't want to hear about that. "Why would I—"

"When I left, that was pretty much your cue to call him." He's not looking at you; the TV is on mute and tuned into The Late Show with Conan O'Brien, but still has his complete and undivided attention.

"You should call him," he says.

You know he's right (he always is) but you can't help but feel guilty that the only thing pushing you towards picking up that phone is the overwhelming weight of obligation pressing down on your shoulders. It should be more than that, you know, but he deserves a phone call. (Does he?)

"It just feels… it feels so wrong to do something like this over the phone."

"When do you plan on going back?"

"I don't know."

"So you think it's better to let him sit and wait around for the day when you decide to show up?"

You wonder when the day arrived when he became so pragmatic. It's not a shade you like on him, especially when it isn't tipped in your favor. You don't answer, not for a while.

"I said I was sorry. I don't know what—"

"You shouldn't be apologizing to me—I'm not the guy you left at the altar. He's a dick and he's a bastard but he doesn't deserve…that. To lose you like that. No one does."

His words, candid and true, keep you silent. Make you think.

You should probably be used to this by now (humiliation, embarrassment) but it never seems to get any easier.

"I can't believe you would do this." Except that you can. But you keep going back, which is the sad part. (But he honestly believes the promises he makes hold water, which is probably even sadder, you think.)

"It's over. I mean that."

You scoff, arms crossed around your middle, sending him the warning not to come near you unless he is willing to suffer severe bodily harm. "Boy does that sound familiar."

It's a scene you know well: you and Logan, hashing out your personal business in a corner near the bar (or the liquor cabinet—as long as alcohol is involved) with nothing but a crowd of drunken idiots as your audience.

"I didn't know that she was going to be here. If I had—"

"You wouldn't have brought me here," you finish for him.

Actually, that doesn't sound like a bad idea. A night without him, without putting on the display for his friends, trying to play catch-up; it sounds nice. You close your eyes and sigh at the missed opportunity.

"I swear to you, it was just the one time—"

"Of course it was." You sound bitter, yet resigned to this situation. It's a bit disheartening, to say the least. You should know better.

"Believe me, Rory; what happened with her doesn't even matter. Believe me." You wish you could. That would be nice, wouldn't it?

Left. Right. Left. Right.

You toss the phone between your hands, allowing each a moment to appreciate its full weight of responsibility before transferring it back to the other.

It shouldn't be this easy, you think. It shouldn't be so easy for you to put an end to almost three years with a simple phone call. There should be some difficulty involved in this, shouldn't there? It should take more than this, you think. ("You're freaking out about the fact that you're not freaking out.")

You dial the number before you can change your mind and wait. Three rings and you're ready to hang up, give up, and never try this again.

"Hello?"

Sigh of relief when he answers, but you aren't sure how to continue. "Logan? It's me. It's…Rory."

You roll your eyes at your idiocy—it hasn't been that long; the introduction completely unnecessary.

"Where are you? I thought—"

"That's not important. I don't want to talk about that. I just—I'm so sorry, for what I did. I shouldn't have just left like that. I should have told you."

"I understand what you were saying before- about being pushed through doors. I think I know how you feel now."

"Rory, please, don't—" The desperation in his voice spurs you on to keep talking, to get this over with as soon as possible. (Rip off the band-aid.)

Logan, unlike Jess, is great at making apologies. It is his art, more than partying until the sun comes up or having the uncanny ability to get any woman to take off her clothes. You guess it's the way he spins those words together, the way he can mean them for the moment and make you think he's promising a lifetime, changing forever.

(He'd make a great magician, you think.)

But you're officially done with hearing his apologies, and you can no longer stand to hear him plead to you. "I can't do this, anymore. I'm sorry."

"What do you want me to do? Whatever you want from me, I can do it. Just don't—"

"Let go. That's what I want. We're not right for each other, not in the forever, long-lasting marriage kind of way. Just…let me go."

You hang up when he doesn't say anything more, surprised that when your fingers brush against your cheeks, they come back wet.

You can't sleep. (The pillow smells good, but you'd so much rather have the real thing.)

His blankets have your legs tangled and you nearly fall on your face as you try to get out of them.

The living room is dark and you stumble on a bump in the carpet as you make your way toward the couch.

His hands find your arm, and you let yourself fall into him. Noses touching, you finally give in to the kiss that you've been wanting to since you came here.

(You could get used to this.)