A/N: This is kind of a quiet chapter, but necessarily so. In a few chapters, we'll have another significant plot development, but we have to get there first :) And I'm again behind on review replies but I'm hoping to get the done here soon. Thanks for the comments--they are loved.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Randall Forester had been 54. He was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. He was the oldest of two sons, born to a mechanic and a home-maker. They were blue collar and Randy had settled in a home down the street from his parents when he married his wife, Barbara May, in the 70s.
Their first year of marriage produced a daughter, Audrey. Five years later, they had a son named Dean. It seemed nearly accidental when Clara came along nearly nine years after that, but they never talked about it like that.
Their home was small and their income meager as Randy pulled hours as a mechanic and moonlit as a repair man. Even May worked some, offering home daycare services and completing small sewing jobs. The family was happy and successful in what they did.
So, when Randy had a dream, a crazy dream for his own business, May listened. His father encouraged him. And the Chicago-bred family uprooted itself and moved across the country to a small town in the middle of nowhere Connecticut. All of Randy's savings went into a down payment on a nice two-story home and a small building just outside the heart of downtown.
The shop was marginally successful, and the family adjusted to its more provincial lifestyle. Audrey had already moved out and was married, settled in a suburb of Chicago. Dean and Clara found new friends and a new life, became as small town as if they'd been born there to begin with.
Finances were tough, and the family sacrificed a lot to keep things afloat. The kids would work for spending money and May took up part-time work herself to make ends meet. Dean was married briefly and divorced before finally heading off to complete school. Apparently, being a mechanic ran in his blood and his degree was evidence enough.
The heart attack Randy suffered was not altogether unpredictable. His father died of the same, years earlier. His younger brother had been monitored consistently for heart irregularities. The timing still hit the family hard, though, and Dean came home to take over the stereo shop, until his father got back on his feet.
Some dreams died hard, though Rory had never realized just how hard until now.
Randy never recovered. Dean would never pursue his dreams. The family was stuck, in limbo, and all Rory could do was write the damn obituary.
-o-
Dean didn't call. It took all Rory's self-control not to call him, and she suddenly understood a younger Dean, calling her time and time again, almost desperately. As if just hearing her voice would make things better. Because she needed to talk to Dean, needed to hear him talk to her, because if he didn't, then the world very well could fall apart on her.
But Dean's reasons were different than hers had been, she knew that. She had just been selfish and young, too exhausted by Dean's tenacity to want to humor him any longer. She'd grown used to him, and then saturated by him, until she just wanted space.
Right now, Rory knew Dean wasn't thinking about Rory. Dean was thinking about his father, his family, and his future. There were plans to make, a father to grieve, and Rory needed to respect that, even if it physically made her ache to do so.
The obituary ran with a picture of Randy. It wasn't one she'd seen, but that didn't surprise her anymore. Like so many other things when it came to Dean, she realized she hadn't really taken the time to pay attention to the details, at least not the ones that didn't pertain to her.
No one praised her for the obituary. There were no effusive comments in the street. In fact, life was more normal than it'd ever been since she'd gotten back, with people going about their business as if nothing had changed.
Which, she supposed, for most of them it hadn't. Small towns liked being each other's business, liked knowing everything about other people. But they didn't like to change for other people. They didn't like to really be there for each other nine times out of ten. It took too much effort, and while Randy Forester may have been liked, he was just this guy who ran a stereo store who lived in a large two-story in a nice part of town. Nothing more, nothing less, and not even Rory's writing could change that.
For the first time, she didn't worry about what that said about her as a writer. She just worried what it said to Dean, to Dean's family, about who they were in this town, about who this town was to them.
It was also the first time she really read what she wrote. Of course, she always read what she wrote, it was an inevitable part of the writing process--prewriting and writing and revision and then going in the cycle again and again. A piece was never really done; she just stopped working on it. And with all the repeated viewing of her own words scrawled across the page, she sort of lost the heart to look at it again.
Well, she liked to look at it. She loved seeing her words in print. Tiny, neat characters, lined up because of her, for her, a part of her printed and permanent for the rest of the world to say. Under her name. Yes, she liked how it looked. But she never read it.
She let other people do that. She relished the compliments and feared the criticism.
But not this time. This time, public opinion was a moot point.
And this time, she read it.
Her paper was folded open in front of her, creased to the page that had public announcements. Cecil Richards was celebrating his seventy-fifth birthday. Caroline Winstead was turning nine. Keaton Jackson and Lilah Martenson were so very proud to announce their engagement. And Randall Forester, age fifty-four, had died of a massive heart attack caused by a genetic heart defect.
The words were hard to read. Painful, every one. Each black letter somehow suddenly too solid, too unchangeable. How easy it was to forget, sometimes. To forget just what went on beyond the words, how each letter represented something real and true. Usually, it was nothing. A humorous result of a pie-eating contest. The exploits of a crazy, old woman. The personality of a new principal.
Back in Detroit, she'd written about shootings and violence, court cases and appeals. Harder things. Harsher things.
Somehow, this was the worst.
Because she knew the family behind this. She knew the grief. There was no way to capture that. No one to communicate just what a father meant, just what held a family together, just how a family could fall apart. For all her effort, all her commitment to truth and to art and to precision, it all fell short.
She fingered the paper, almost reverently, tracing the lines of her story. It was short--so short--and she realized how appropriate that was.
She didn't know how many times she read it, sitting there, a cup of coffee untouched in front of her, her laptop still closed on the table at Luke's. But she read it again and again, until it wasn't her writing, until the words didn't matter, and she wondered if it would ever be okay again.
-o-
She went to the funeral with her mother and Luke. Her mom wore an understated black dress and crossed her legs just like her grandmother would have always wanted. Luke broke out a suit and tie, even left the hat at home, and Rory had to admit he cleaned up nicely.
Her own attire was simple. A gray button-up blouse and a black skirt. She pulled her hair back and sat stiffly in the pew beside her mother.
The turnout was good, she thought, though she was not an experience funeral goer. She'd been to one or two in her life, people she'd barely known, and the only thing she could remember was the way little old women cried into dainty white handkerchiefs as if the world was coming to end.
There was some of that here. But this time, she noticed the somber faces. The straight backs. The oppressive sound of silence that hung over everything the preacher said.
Dean sat with his family in the front. May was stiff in her seat, rigid, and she never seemed to move or to blink. Dean sat next to her, close enough for comfort, but without touching. Next to Dean, Clara sat hunched over. Sobs shook her shoulders every now and then, and Dean's arm lingered on her back, rubbing it when they got bad enough.
Dean's older sister was just beyond Clara, curled up next to her husband, three brown-haired children by their side.
It occurred to Rory she'd never seen them all together. Then she realized she never would.
People talked about how much Randy did for his family. How he was the strong and silent type. How he was an all around good guy who would be missed.
She listened, sometimes glancing over at the open casket with Randy's pale face and folded hands. But more often, she was watching Dean. Between his mother and Clara, strong enough for both of them. It was hard to see her face, but every glimpse she got revealed Dean's set features, pulled tight around his red, damp eyes.
He never cried. He didn't need to. Rory knew he was hurting all the same.
What hurt her most, though, wasn't seeing him upset. It was seeing him so alone. He was there for his mother. He was there for Clara. But who was there for him?
She wished the answer was her.
-o-
Her mother and Luke had went out for dinner following the service. They'd invited Rory, but she'd declined. Besides the fact that it would be like acting the part of the third wheel on her mother's date, she didn't really want to talk to them. The questions regarding Dean were too numerous, and she didn't have the patience to sort through what they did know and what they didn't.
More than that, she ached inside. Not that she'd known Randy Forester well, but because it hurt so much to see Dean like that. To know he was hurting.
She needed to do something about that.
What, she wasn't exactly sure. It wasn't her place to stop by at the family's house, not yet, anyway, not when they were likely all gathered there. To mourn. To remember. That was a private thing and Rory wouldn't interrupt that. Not unless she had a casserole to offer, or maybe some pie. Some flowers. Something worthwhile to help them in the days to come.
Despite her success at the recipe corner, she had no such food product. She didn't have the courage either.
Instead, she went for a walk.
Walks were almost peaceful by nature, and when she thought, she was rarely peaceful. She needed purpose, focus, stimulation. A walk seemed to fundamentally lack those things more often than not, which was why she was not prone to them. Besides, wasn't it Scout Finch who had rightfully said that people who just went on a walk for no reason at all were thought to be incapable of finding a reason?
But she had her reasons tonight. There was simply too much right now, and she needed a way to clear her mind, to purge her emotions, or something like that. And so she just kept walking until she found herself walking by the stereo shop.
To be fair, she'd thought it would be empty. Closed. Because it had been Randy's funeral today, so why would the Foresters be thinking about stereos?
While the sign was still turned to closed, there was a light inside, in the back, illuminating the counter area and revealing Dean's figure bent over an open pile of papers.
Something tightened in her chest. She was used to an inherent anatomical response to seeing Dean these days--the flush of adrenaline--but not like this. Because to see him in there, slouched over his work, seemed so wrong. And sad. Dean had just buried his father and the only thing he could think to do was to come to work?
Some might have found that insensitive. But Rory was pretty sure that wasn't the case here. Dean was internalizing everything, carrying it deep within him, shutting himself off to do the "right thing" for his family, and Rory was pretty certain that this was simply more evidence to support that fact.
She could have walked on. Leave him to grieve (or not so much) in his own way.
But as she watched him, his hand swiping across his eyes from time to time, face drawn, serious, and pale, she knew that she couldn't. It wouldn't be right.
Going to the door, she pushed experimentally on it, almost surprised when it opened.
The ding made Dean look up at her, and Rory could see that he looked worse than she'd thought. Pale and tired and weary beyond his years.
His eyes gave her a momentary sweep before turning back to the paperwork before him, barely pausing to recognize her presence.
She hadn't expected him to be excited to see or anything like that, but she had expected a bit more of a reaction. A bit more of anything. He looked like he was running on empty and she could hardly see any vestige of true emotion. And emotion was something she would expect from someone who had just lost their father.
Making her way to the back of the store, she felt her throat begin to tighten. She wasn't even sure why she was here. The idea of saying something, much less the right thing, was suddenly a daunting task. Perhaps she should have left him alone for tonight--for both their sakes.
Too late to turn back now, though. "Hey," she said.
This time he didn't even look up. "Hey."
"So," she said, trying to smile. "I see you're already back at work."
"Yeah," he said. "We have to make money. This place doesn't run itself."
"You sure you're ready for that?"
Dean looked at her, his brow furrowed. "It's not rocket science," he said, and they both knew that wasn't what she'd meant. A beat passed. "Yeah. I'm ready."
Somehow, Rory doubted that. Denial, thy name is Dean.
He was already burrowed back into his paperwork, pencil in one hand, his forehead cradled in the other.
"You okay?" she asked.
Looking up again, he blinked. "Yeah," he said absently. "Just tired. And I've got this headache."
"Did you take something?"
Dean nodded to a bottle of Aleve on the counter. "I can't take anymore for the rest of the night," he said. "Trust me, I'm keeping track."
Somehow, Rory didn't doubt that. "Did you try some tea?" Rory asked. "Sometimes tea helps. Green tea. Something about it is supposed to relax you, I think. That's what my mother always told me and you know my mother. And Luke--Luke's all about tea."
Dean just looked a little perplexed.
She shifted, uncomfortable. She was good at many things, but despite her best efforts, clearly offering compassion wasn't one of them. "She says hi, by the way," Rory added. "Luke, too. If you need anything..." She let it trail off, the offer, she knew, would never be accepted. Not now, anyway. Dean had that blank, stubborn look about him. His grief was still too deep and his denial perhaps too complete.
The moment lapsed and she wondered why she was here. Offering Dean comfort was such a naive goal, noble, perhaps, and it was more than possible she overestimated her role, her relationship with Dean. It hurt to be near him--to see him in so much pain and almost not even be aware of it.
"I saw your piece," Dean said.
"Oh." It wasn't what she wanted to say, but what she wanted to say was a jumbled mess of emotions. She wanted to know if he'd liked it, if she'd done his dad justice, how it made him feel, how it made him feel about her, but this wasn't the time, wasn't the place, so oh seemed better than shooting herself in the foot (and Dean through the heart).
"It was good," Dean said, not looking up from his paperwork. "You did your homework. My mom even liked it."
That made Rory smile. "Your mother hates me."
That brought a smile to Dean's face, pausing in his work. "Yeah," he said. "She does. But even she said you can write. The part about my dad's history, where he came from--that was nice. Really nice. Not many people know that about him, you know. About us."
And that was true, too. Stars Hollow knew everything people did. There were no secrets about the ins and outs of life. But the town gossip didn't care about who people were. It just cared about where people were, what they were doing, not what made them who they were. "I'm sorry I never knew before," she said. "I mean, we spent so much time together and sometimes I feel like I never took the time to know you at all."
Dean wasn't totally listening to her, though. He was hearing her words, hearing her speak, but he wasn't catching her reflection, her revelations. Which made sense. This wasn't about her. Now, of all times, this wasn't about her.
He was still leaning over his work, paused though, his pen in hand as if he wasn't sure what he was doing anymore.
She swallowed. "Do you need help with anything? Like with work? Or stocking? I could help stock things. I'd probably even be able to help with like numbers and inventory and stuff because I like things to be organized, but maybe not so much with, like, cash register stuff because money sort of freaks me out sometimes. Too much responsibility or something. I can handle an Ivy League school or a huge paper, but give me money and I feel like pulling my hair out. Not literally because I don't want to be bald, but you get the idea."
It was uncomfortable rambling of the worst kind. She was foisting her own uncertainty all over the place and Dean had looked back up her with a look of complete and utter confusion.
"Uh, no," he said. "I've got it."
He had it, she was sure. But he totally didn't have it. His dad had just died, his mother was a controlling wench, and he looked so tired. "Are you sure? I mean, maybe we can take a break or turn on some music."
He scrunched his nose up a little in something that might have been pain and he rolled his shoulders. "I'm good," he said. "Really."
Really, she would have believed him more if he hadn't added the really.
She peered at him closer, more critically, more concerned. Because he didn't look good, not at all. And the more she talked to him, the more pronounced the dark smudges under his eyes were, the more noticeable the pallid tone of his skin was. It wasn't enough to make him look decrepit or anything, but it was a subtle thing, which made it almost more unnerving to her. "Are you sure you're okay?"
This time he glanced up at her, quick and fleeting, but enough to catch her eye. And then she saw it--she saw what he was hiding. There was a dullness in his eyes, a dull emptiness, sort of pervasive and sad.
"Yeah," he said, and Rory knew it was not so much a lie as a complete denial. Dean had no clue if he was okay or not. He was hardly even aware of himself beyond the long list of things he thought he needed to do.
What Dean couldn't see was that he needed her. Okay, so he needed someone, and it might as well be her. But she didn't know how. She didn't know how to help him. She'd offered her time, her company, her writing--and Dean was refusing it all. He was being stupid and stubborn and impossible and Rory wasn't sure if she'd ever loved him more.
Not that his need or her love got her anywhere. She was still stuck in neutral when it came to Dean, her wheels spinning aimlessly, waiting on him.
Waiting on Dean. That was still a novel concept to her. Waiting on anyone. This wasn't like Jess, who had moved away. It wasn't like Logan, who liked to play his silly little games. It was Dean, right here in front of her, closing himself off tighter and more secure with each passing day.
"Okay," she said with a slight smile. "I'll see you?"
He glanced up, a little distractedly. "What? Yeah, I'll see you," he replied.
Rory lingered a minute longer, hoping for more, knowing it wouldn't come. Dean had turned back to his work, head bowed, and she forced herself to turn around and go home.