January 2006
The sun is shining bright and unheeded onto her face. She yawns, stretching languorously as she blinks open her eyes, resting on a dark brown head sharing her white pillow. She freezes, remembering the night before. The long night before.
Her body warms as she remembers, melting her fear of knowing. She takes a deep breath, expanding her lungs and a frame of mind, letting air and thoughts flow in slowly. She takes stock of the situation.
She is lying on her back, her favorite blue, incredible soft cotton sheets covering her nakedness. She is sore from using unused muscles. She licks her lips, tasting her salt, tasting his. She feels touched everywhere; she feels known in every sense.
It should bother her, feeling this way, wanting to feel this way again, now. She is in love with Logan, not Jess. Jess is her friend, her best one besides her mother, besides Lane and Zach. Jess doesn't love her, he doesn't want her, he grudgingly likes her, respects her, admires her.
His hand lightly skims her body, the warmth of his palms raising bumps over the skin he passes. He smoothes his hand across her stomach and between her breasts, then over them, his fingers dry and practiced. He does all this while he watches her, his brown eyes night and abysmal, the only ray seeable is one of reverence.
Reverence. The word and his actions sound like a foghorn in her mind. He loves her?
She rises above him, slowly edging them towards the breaking point, drawing out the sharp, keen sensation of immeasurable pleasure, Her eyes are closed, her head thrown back, but she hears his voice, calling to her, and she opens her eyes, putting her head down to meet his hazy eyes, to see her name said so tenderly and gently and lovingly. Tears swell in her chest as the band between them starts to stretch, about to snap. He reaches up to brush the tears from her cheeks, sliding his hand down her arm to clasp her hand as they both break.
He does love her.
She painstakingly extricates herself from the bed, not breathing lest she wakes him. She trips on the sheet as she stands, falling to the ground with a loud thump and she cringes as she waits for the sudden burst of movement from the dark head. There is no movement. He continues to sleep.
Reaching for the quilt piled in a heap at the foot of the bed, she wraps it around her and stands, waiting another few seconds to be sure he is still asleep and brushing her hair from her face, holding its long tendrils in a firm grasp. She tiptoes over to him and examines him.
He is on his side, facing towards the windows. His face is relaxed despite the sun and his cheeks are shadowed by oncoming stubble. He has thick eyelashes, which makes her wonder if they must be a Danes trait, as Luke and April have thick lashes also. His shortish hair is mussed and she imagines it sticking up as if he's been given a serious noogie. She smiles, reaching out to brush a wayward lock from his face. He stirs, mumbling something and turns his face away and into the pillow, slipping his arm underneath it.
She moves back, at the same time noticing that the sheet, which hazardously covered him, has slipped and is now displaying a very firm, very nice ass. She takes a moment to speculate as to how exactly he managed to get the same even tan all over his body and then, because she would want the same thing done for her, carefully pulls the sheet back up and stops her ogling, picking up his discarded clothes and placing them on the chair by the desk on her way to the bathroom.
After a warm shower and a reality check, she paces the tiled floor of the bathroom, taking a seat on the toilet to think on a point before bounding up again and resuming her pacing.
Shit, she did the wrong thing. She knew what she was doing and she did it anyway. He is going to tell her that. He's going to tell her that she wasn't drunk, neither was he. He's going to tell her that there's something there, that something has always been there and he's right. Damn it, he's right.
She sits on the toilet. He's right. Last night was the culmination of seven years of looks and long silences, of awkward hugs and flaming cheeks. Last night was her wanting him, wanting to know that passion she always thought she saw flash in his eyes whenever they sat too close together or their conversation veered off to something decidedly too raunchy or sensual. But…
She jumps up. She used him to get back at Logan, the filthy little cad bastard asshole. They have an argument and two weeks later she learns, at his parent's party, ball, gala, whatever it was, that he fucked his way through half the night and dinner. Logan. She should break up with him. Yeah, they make a good couple, they fit well enough, they come from the same basic background and yeah, she loves him, but does she really need to put up with this bullshit?
She tightens the tie of her bathrobe, runs a hand through her partially wet hair, takes a deep breath and opens the door to her bedroom, expecting to find him still in bed, possibly awake, but her bed is empty and the clothes are gone from the chair. She forces down the bitter taste in her mouth at being ditched without so much as a "Thanks for the fuck" and turns to leave the room.
He is standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his hair tossed. He is staring at her with guarded eyes and she realizes that he knows exactly what she is going to say, but, for some reason, he wants to go through the motions.
"I heard you making tracks in the bathroom, so I used Paris'. I made sure I left no evidence. I even vacuumed," he says lightly, his voice so different from the rest of his demeanor.
"I thought you left."
"Not without seeing you, no"
They stare at each other, each hoping the other would go first. At last, she steps towards him, her hands wringing in anxiety.
"Jess, what happened between us…it shouldn't have happened. I was using you to get back at Logan because he cheated on me."
His expression goes from guarded to dark and indifferent.
"But it happened. What are you going to do? Go back to Logan, say you had a revenge fuck and kiss and make up?'
"No, I'm going to tell him the truth and tell him how I feel," she responds in her most reasonable voice.
"How you feel?" he pushes away from the doorway and steps into the room.
"How do you feel?"
His scrutinizing gaze causes the skin on the back of her neck to itch.
"About what?" she asks unsteadily.
"About me. How do you feel about me?"
When she doesn't answer him, he walks out of the room and grabs his coat, shrugging it on and zipping it up.
"Jess, please, don't leave like this," she whispers and he turns, brilliant anger lining his face.
"Like what, Rory? I'm nothing to you except a little revenge. You don't want to face what having sex with me might mean. Yes, having sex," he says again when he sees her flinch at the words.
"We had sex. Only, I thought-" he stops abruptly, shaking his dark head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. It only matters what I do afterwards. I love you," he says to her, staring at her, "I love you and I always have and I probably always will. And I'm going because you don't love me. So I have to go, like this."
He turns from her and slings his backpack over his shoulder, going to the door in a quick, rapid blur of movement. He hesitates before pulling open the door and she holds her breath, her heart beating so fast because if he turns around, if he turns to her, with his eyes dark and his face set, she will go to him and she won't let go, she wouldn't be able to.
He pulls open the door and shuts it firmly behind him, not once looking back.
