April 1, 2006
The door closes behind her. It is what it is. Great. What does that even mean? What a thing to say. Truncheon is silent, but the voices of all the people still linger. Her voice too. She's been here now and he'll never unsee it.
He should have done something different, earlier. Just twenty minutes ago, hell, just ten, five. To feel how he felt just five minutes ago. He retraces his steps, but realises he's going to have to live his life backwards for a chance to fix things between them. He should have done something different when he went to Hartford, New Haven, when he came for his car - like that's what he came back for. He should have done something different three years ago, four, he should have done everything different. Oh well. It's too late.
And did he really offer her to make up whatever story she wants about what happened between them? Yes. Because that's how little he matters to himself. Will she take him up on it? Will it feel better or worse if she does? It makes no difference. He'll never know.
Love, huh? What little he knows about love is all about her, and he wishes he didn't. She doesn't love him, only thinks she might have. When? New York? Sookie's wedding? That time on Luke's couch? Will it be better or worse from knowing? Doesn't matter, he never will. He can't blame her for not feeling the same either. How could she love him, how could she even know him, when all she's ever seen is this stiff upper lip surface? All she has is his stupid notes in the margins of her books, a few good guesses, his barren I love you.
He clears his throat, has had time to learn how to handle those feelings by now, not well, that's for sure, but still, it's something, the only option he has.
Matt and Chris will be at The Hatter by now. He heads there, steps quick enough so the sting in his throat could be from the strain as well as from Rory. He's later than usual, he waited to be alone with her, but can't think about that without humiliation making him nauseous. However, his tardiness means loud music is already playing. Good. He spots the guys in a corner surrounded by people. Chris is in the midst of several girls, Jess recognises a couple of them, one who's been angling for his attention the last few weeks.
Matt sees him and raises his hand. A few of the people turn their heads at his gesture, the girl, among others. She's cute. Jess forces a smile and meets her eyes while mirroring Matt's greeting and signing that he's headed for the bar. He'll return her attention later, but he has to get some drink down first. Definitely more than some tonight.
He drowns in the rough music, in the crowded room. The setting means he gets away with just gestures, smirks and mouthing words at people who says hello. After a couple of beers he's on to bourbon and comfortably numb, staring blankly at the posters for different bands and newspaper clippings, wallpapered across the room. The music is of the noisy variety and fills his skull blocking out everything else. He distantly notices that the crowd has thinned somewhat. Most people remaining are from the gathering at Truncheon too. He looks over his shoulder, glances at the girl in the corner, pushed in between a wall and her friend who's getting picked up by Chris, by the looks of it. She looks bored, probably has just minutes left in her.
He turns back to the bartender to pay, but his glass has been refilled. He looks to his other side and finds a girl on a chair over, a woman really. She's slim, her hair blonde and short, her clothes drapey, understated. She smiles at him, coolly, raises her glass. A clear drink of some sort, with ice. He recognises her from the byline on her blog, she's putting together a book, an anthology, that Truncheon presumably is putting out. Right now he couldn't care less.
He glances back to the girl in the corner, she's looking at him like she's drowning. He's drunk, won't be fun for anyone, but she wouldn't care, he's experienced with her type, she's decided she likes him for no valid reason, so she will settle for anything.
Still, there is such a thing as manners. He looks back to his neighbor at the bar.
"I didn't need another one."
"Figured." She speaks into her glass.
He turns his body towards her.
"Well?"
She looks at him, raises an eyebrow.
"Matt was boring me."
"And you think I'll do better?" He returns his attention to his drink and downs a determined gulp.
"I'm not looking for you to do better, just that you'll sit here for a while and keep me company, so I don't have to go back."
"I'm not any sort of company tonight."
"And why is that?"
He looks at her. The question is filtered through layers of mannerisms, she's obviously in control of herself. She's asking to be polite, counting on his silence. The opposite should be enough to send her back to Matt. He still has to brace himself to turn the words into shrapnel the way he does sometimes when he wants out; It's how you line them up, pace them, emphasize them, or don't. For a second he shutters at the thought that he might do okay in a poetry slam. He takes a breath and answers her question.
"The girl I've been in love with since I was failing High School showed up to review my book, kiss me, and promptly realize she's in love with her boyfriend, a Porsche-driving dick currently squandering the education she worked all her life to attain. Turns out she was there for the sole purpose of making him pay for cheating on her by-" He can't finish the sentence, he's a delicate flower, he nails his gaze to the sticky, worn counter. "She knew I'd do anything. Ain't love grand?"
He downs half his drink, the alcohol is making his skin numb. It's quiet for a few seconds. He looks at her to see if any of that landed like he intended. Her small smile widens a bit. Damn it.
"So how did she like the book?"
Cold. He chuckles.
"She loved it."
There's a warmth in her eyes, a strange kind. She's not put off, but intrigued.
"So let me get this straight?" She leans in. "You love someone who's elsewhere, who used you like a tool and then chose someone else over you?"
He didn't bank on her brutality, but really likes it. It has a nice cauterizing feel to it.
"It's the only way I've ever loved anyone."
She laughs. It's a short, silent sound.
"Pathetic." She stirs her drink. "Unfortunately I can relate."
He realizes he knows tons about her. Her writing is all real life. Real shit. Her mother died early, her father worked abroad, sending a bunch of au pairs of varying quality, putting it mildly, to the Upper West Side apartment she lived in, more or less alone for her formative years. Poor little rich girl.
"Nikki, right?"
"I go by Nicks." She responds.
"Well, Stevie." He swallows the rest of the drink while she laughs, again, she must like him. "Thanks for the drink." He wiggles the glass. "It's been a hoot, unfortunately I'm not in the mood to commiserate."
She smiles broadly at him now, shows teeth, he finds himself wanting to stay, but he has wrecking to do. He glances to the corner and the girl who's still there alright, pretending not to look at him.
"Besides, I have a previous engagement."
He near bows to her, and heads to the corner, to the girl not requiring words.
And after that
The night disappears in deafening silence, as many others to come. He drinks and smokes too much and behaves pretty badly. This goes on for several weeks. It's release-party season so he's in good company without having to provide excuses himself. It's easy to mask. Nicks and her best friend, Paula, are at all the same parties. They sit at the bar a few chairs over fairly often, heads together talking lowly, providing an advanced level for guys trying to pick them up. When Paula's not around Nicks talks to him. Eventually they sit next to each other. Then they move outside into the alley, sharing cigarettes. Her work with the anthology progresses, and they work more together, go out afterwards.
One night she suggests they go to the movies instead of the bar, and he can't say no without coming out as an alcoholic and sad excuse for a human being, so he says okay. They wind up watching some black and white movie in french. It's insanely uncomfortable but they have a professional relationship, he can't just bail. He can't leave, or think of anything to say. They walk back to Truncheon together quietly and stand outside sharing a smoke. She hands him the remnants of the cigarette and wraps herself in her shawl.
"This was nice."
He looks at her, stunned when he realizes she means it. He smiles at her for the first time just to show that he likes her. They say good night and he walks home, sleeps better than he has in months.
She reads his book. This is the only time she brings up the conversation from that night in april.
"Laura has to be your ex, right?"
"What makes you say that?"
"I just can't help hearing your voice when I read, and-" She pauses. "It just has this familiar treble when she's involved-"
"Familiar treble?" He mocks, but she ignores it.
"Angry, desperate, reverent."
"Oh come on!"
She smiles without submitting any control.
"Laura's a fictional character." He says, apparently he has to.
"Whatever you say."
"That's it."
He and Paula get on pretty well. She repeatedly teases Chris and particularly Matt over their game or lack of the same, with Jess there's nothing to attack. He's never had any trouble getting girls, well, except that one time. There really are no tricks to it in his experience, he rarely needs to do anything more than listen, maybe smile a bit, but that might depend on what girl you wanna get with. Paula seems to like him because she doesn't have to watch him with Nicks, the two of them have a distinct dynamic. Nicks likes him though, that's clear, she's not guarded around him like she is with other guys. He has his ideas on why but doesn't spend time considering them, he has no plans on getting together with her.
Once Nicks's full manuscript is done, at the end of the summer, she and Paula moves back to New York. When he goes there on business he stays with her.
One night, roughly a year after the thing at Truncheon, Paula's off on her own and they watch a movie in Nicks's bedroom.
"You can stay here," she says, when the credits roll.
He doesn't protest, does his best to be soft with her since she's one of the few people he can stand to be around. He knows the risk, but figures them being close just by sharing a bed might be good for the friendship, he's not used to that kind of intimacy, but reluctantly admits to himself that he's craving it. She probably does too.
When she touches him he responds to it, he hasn't had sex in a while, not since he figured out that it tended to make him feel worse. Still, his hand moves to grasp hers in a kind but firm no thanks but let's be friends. Only. Only he feels something, something new, warmth in his chest, a different surge. He cares about her. So, he doesn't say no. And it's good, great, actually.
He wakes up the next day and doesn't feel dirty, just calm. And when Paula shows up, she smiles. He goes back to Philadelphia but they get together on weekends. That's it.
April 1, 2006
Rory drives her car, leaving Philadelphia behind as best she can. She's doing her best to not speed. She starts singing loudly to herself to the song on the radio. Bad Day. She doesn't even like the song, but the thought of silence is horrifying. She briefly considers pulling over to ransac the glove box for something weird, put together by her mother, or something angry put together by Lane, but settles for cranking up the volume even through the adds. She chews on her lip and forces her thoughts to repeat the words; I'm in love with him. Just the words, even though they've changed nothing, she's still angry with Logan, disappointed, and now it's worse because-
"Stop it." She says loudly.
She hadn't expected it to be like this, she'd seen it in her mind's eye, like a movie, coldly smiling revenge, something to restore balance to the universe, but instead: his eyes, mouth, his smell-
"Shoot!"
It was him, and he was real. Too real, that's how he always felt, how could she forget? She'd recalled him with vitriol, his strength and ruthlessness, but when he looked at her she remembered; That was just one aspect of him, and rarely one she had experienced first-hand. Why are you only nice to me? She hadn't been honest in her intentions, but he had been. It turned out it was contagious, and she couldn't pretend that that wasn't the case. He kissed her and it was them again. Just like that. She can't do this again.
And after that
When she finds out Logan's in the hospital she's grateful. That dufus providing something for her to dive into and stay under.
"What were you doing in Philadelphia?"
It's weeks later, but Logan's question opens a wormhole that throws her back in time.
"What's it to ya?"
Her own tone is chipper enough to startle her, while she scrambles for a way back to her actual point in time. You can always tell him that we did something. She's sick to her stomach, but smiles anyway.
"Just curious." Logan says.
"Just catching up with old friends."
"Old boyfriends, right?"
She turns away from him, flipping her hair as theatrically as she can manage.
"None of your business."
He laughs. Her smile is frozen. She can't help but feel that she, they should have done something, really done something. But, she knows in an instant why she didn't; because it wouldn't have been just anything, it would have changed everything, she wouldn't even be here if they had.
Time passes. She loves Logan. But later, when he leaves, over nothing, in her opinion, she wonders how she loved him. Maybe they traded personalities. She loved him the way he used to love her; carelessly, freely, joyously, and saw no reason for him to need anything different.
June 2, 2008
"Mom," Rory says into her phone, "I gotta go, this is the place."
"Oh, oh, tell me about it, is it as bad as the last one?"
Rory looks over the facade, the street signs.
"No. It's kind of great actually."
"Oh! Tell me more."
She stifles a sigh, glances at her watch, she's early, it's closer to the subway station than she thought. She gives the building a closer once over; It's three stories high, red brick, at the corner of the block. A fire escape zigzags down the wall onto the ledge over the entrance. There's a small, kind of scruffy looking deli two doors over, a juice bar, and another place hidden behind metal blinds with a sign announcing falafels. The sidewalk is cracked and worn, but clean, trees planted in even intervals along the walkway, rowan, she thinks, without knowing for sure.
"Uhm… the location's great, and if I'm correct, then this place is the entirety or at least the vast majority of the third floor, which is crazy, can't wait to meet whoever owns this place."
"Mister Moneybags. Remember hun, these guys prey on pretty young things like you, make sure your door locks from the inside."
"Mom!"
"What?"
"Way to scare me!"
"If I don't say it Emily will have my head, don't forget she's still pissed she weren't allowed to involve her real estate agent!"
"Yeah, yeah, I gotta go."
She hangs up before Lorelai has time to protest. She pushes the button to the apartment and puts her cool hand to her warm ear.
"Yeah?"
It's a guy's voice. Rory pushes her mother's insinuation aside.
"Yeah, hi, I'm Rory Gilmore, I'm here about the room."
"Oh, right, let me buzz you up."
She has to lean her entire body on the heavy door to open it. There's a tiny, ancient elevator, that she'll never ride, too much like a cage. When she reaches the floor, both doors on either side of the hallway are open. She tries peering into the one on the left, then the right. She jerks as a man's head pops out of it, giving her the once-over. He takes a step out into the hall and reaches for her hand.
"Hi! I'm Adam."
He's cute, seems playful, a definite puppylike quality about him, she has a hard time believing he would prey on anyone.
"Rory." She shakes his hand. "You're the owner?"
He laughs.
"Oh no."
"I'm confused."
He smiles, seemingly enjoying her confusion.
"Dominique's that way." He points across the hall.
"I pushed the wrong button."
"Pretty much. Not that I mind."
Maybe more foxcub than puppy. She smiles.
"You know each other, then?"
"Two peas in a very weird pod. Just let yourself in, she's probably in the kitchen, farthest room in the whole place. It's just a brisk walk to Mordor."
"Thanks."
She enters the apartment. There's a corridor. On the right a doorway to what looks like a large common room, several couches, armchairs and low tables are placed in groups throughout the space, a big TV stands in the corner. On the left a closed door with a name tag on it. She passes three more like it, as well as another common room and two bathrooms. At the end of the corridor she spots the kitchen, but no movement inside. The last door before it is closed but loud rock blares from the room behind it. She's just about to knock when a voice comes from the kitchen.
"In here."
It's a woman's voice. She smiles to herself. Miss Moneybags.
The kitchen is large, recently renovated from the looks of it, there's a bar in some kind of dark stone, maybe diabase, sticking out from the wall opposite the counter. A woman gets up from her place in one of the stools and reaches for Rory's hand. She's younger than she sounds.
"You're Madeleine's friend?"
"Yes, we went to school together." Rory answers. "How did you know her again?"
"Summers in France."
"I know of them."
The woman, presumably Dominique, offers her a stool on the opposing side of the bar and they both sit down.
"Tell me about yourself."
"Uhm, I'm from Connecticut. I graduated Yale a year ago, and spent the time since then on the campaign trail with senator Obama. Me and a bunch of interns ran a blog, sold pieces to the local press."
"Sounds busy."
"It was."
"And now?"
She's answered these questions a couple of times the last few days, while looking at places, but it hasn't gotten easier to keep her tone even.
"My grandpa had a heart attack, my mom's kinda ill equipped to handle it." She smiles, it helps. "Figured I better get closer, stay put for a while. New York has always been a dream. I'm too chicken to buy or rent on my own, I have this idea I'll be too tied down."
"So what are you doing- or planning to do for rent?"
"Writing, freelancing, maybe get a part time gig. I have a foot in as an assistant on Pulse. And, you don't have to worry about money, I'm good for first and last month's rent, plus a deposit."
"I rarely worry about money."
"I didn't think so-"
"I'm thinking more of messy habits, illegal substances, rowdy boyfriends."
"I have none of those. I wash my clothes by color, legal substances only, no boyfriend."
"I'm surprised."
"Thank you?"
"About the boyfriend-bit."
"Well, I broke up with my last one about a year ago." Logan, she hasn't really had time to process it properly, been too busy, so his name is still like a loose tooth. "Distance wasn't what he signed up for, and since then all I've done is work."
"How 'bout rowdy girlfriends then? Because those are always welcome."
Rory laughs.
"They tend to range between angry, nerdy, and chatty."
"Well, they're all welcome here." Dominique smiles, slides off the stool and gestures for Rory to join her. "Let me tell you about the place." They walk down the corridor. "The blue doors are for my tenants, there are three at the moment. Closest to the kitchen is me, and my boyfriend, he's playing music so we'll be undisturbed, it's not always like this." She walks slowly as she talks, vaguely gesturing at the doors. "Then there's Izzy, she's a paralegal, I have no idea why she's still here. Mark is from Münich, was only supposed to stay for six months but he met someone, now he works as a waiter at this fancy restaurant in Manhattan." They reach the entry hall again and the last door. "This one's my best friend, she works as a kindergarten teacher, she's just the greatest." She turns and leads Rory in the other direction. "The one in the middle would be yours. You smoke?"
Rory tries not to say no too fervently. Dominique opens the door with no name tag.
"Well, there's a fire escape, previous smokers have made use of it for their habit. It's furnished, as you can see-"
Rory walks into the room. It's weirdly shaped, like corner spaces tend to be. A bed straight to her left, doors to a wardrobe by the end of it and an empty bookshelf by the opposing wall. Behind the door is a reading chair and a worn sofa table next to a lamp. The window is big, the glass is old, the winters here are likely cold, but it's summer now. The fire escape is steely black outside the window, in stark contrast against the foggy, blue sky and matt brick red and brown of the window and building across the street.
"-there are two bathrooms, the red doors, the closest one is across the hall, but we all take turns keeping them clean, same thing goes for the kitchen and the common rooms via rotating schedule. How does that seem to you?"
That sounds like an invitation, Rory has trouble believing her luck.
"It seems great, the place is great. How long have you had it?"
"You mean how do I afford it?"
"Sort of."
"My useless father had the good sense to pass away a few years back."
Rory jerks a bit at the harsh words but Dominique's face is calm.
"I put my inheritance and trust fund to good use."
"Making room for a chosen family?" Rory tries.
"In a way. Got the practical space alright, working on the emotional one."
Frank. Rory likes it, likes her, she hasn't had her particular difficulties but feels a familiarity all the same.
"As far as I'm concerned the room's yours if you want it."
"Really?" Rory smiles. "I'm so happy."
"Glad to hear it, when do you wanna move in?"
"Next week, if that's okay."
"It's totally okay. I'll get the papers."
It's quick, efficient, It's clear her new landlord has done this a few times. She makes Rory a macchiato on her fancy machine and walks her to the door while browsing the papers. Rory's halfway out the when Dominique speaks.
"So, Lorelai Leigh." She smiles.
"Legally. But Lorelai's my mother."
"Pretty, though."
Rory smiles back.
"You're one to talk. Dominique. The Fountainhead is one of my favorite books."
"I haven't read it, Rand is sort of-"
"A political nut," Rory finishes.
"Exactly. But I go by Nicks anyway."
"Like Fleetwood Mac." Rory remarks.
"Like that." Nicks raises her hand. "See you in a few days."
"Yeah, see ya."
Even with the door to the apartment closed, the music from Nicks's bedroom leaks out into the hall. Dinosaur Jr, Rory thinks. She walks downstairs, has to pull the door open with her entire body weight. She squints at the sunlight and picks up her phone to call her mother back.