The Wurlitzer Prize
Part Three: I've Got to See You Again
Dedications: To the usual suspects: emrie, without whom you'd be reading a miserable fic, Kate, who provides endless support and entertainment, Chris because she doesn't suck, and AvidTVFan for reminding me of my updating duties.
Author's Note: I really, really appreciate all the reviews. I love reading your thoughts and criticism. Keep them coming, please.
The next three days are a blur of old familiar people. Rory recalls the rhythm of conversation in this small town and easily slips back into being the small-town princess. It's a kind of kitsch-y entertainment to talk to these loveably crazy people again. Miss Patty, who if she could, would be a nymphomaniac, Babette, whose voice alone could cut through baked-on grease, Kirk, who never gets a break, Taylor, who really needs a break, all these oddballs Rory grew up with.
On Wednesday night, Luke comes home early from work. He looks harried. Rory observes him as he comes in the door; he looks just like he used to, with a little more gray here and there. He still wears the same flannel and cap, still has the same swagger, still looks as intimidating as before. Looking up, he notices her on the couch. "Hey," he says.
"Hi."
Luke hesitates for a moment, then sits next to Rory. She curls her legs under herself and watches him intently. "Ah—look." Luke pauses, uncomfortable and out of his league. He clears his throat. "Have a good time today?" he finally asks.
Rory shrugs, wondering what he's leading up to. "It was okay. Miss Patty dropped by and tried to enroll me in her nude yoga class."
Luke's face crinkles. "Nude yoga?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"That's a sight for hallucinating eyes."
They're both silent for a while. Rory finally asks, "Luke, is there something you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Ah." He looks at her briefly. "I think I know why you're here." When Rory says nothing, he continues, "Your mom still thinks it's that Michael guy, but I think it might be something—uh, someone—else."
"Like who?" Rory murmurs, her throat tight.
"Jess," Luke says point-blank. Rory's eyes go wide and her throat closes completely. No one has uttered the name in her hearing in years.
"Oh," she says in a small voice.
Luke doesn't ask her if this is true. He sits, trying to formulate something to say, but he's never been good at comforting or relationships. For a long while, the two sit, absorbed in their thoughts, interrupted when Lorelai crashes through the door.
"Luke?" she calls. "Your truck—" She stumbles into the living room. "Your truck's out front," she finishes. "Okay, what's going on? You two look like you're at a funeral." When she again gets no noise from either of them, she says, "Oh God you are. Luke, I didn't think you were serious about killing my coffee grinder. Please tell me we're giving it a respectable burial." Neither Luke nor Rory says anything. "For the love of God you two, what's wrong?"
Luke looks tersely at Rory. "Nothing." He stands and goes into the kitchen. Lorelai and Rory can hear pots and pans bang as Luke prepares to make dinner.
"Did something happen?" Lorelai queries, sitting in Luke's vacant spot.
"No," Rory says flatly.
"Really? 'Cause you two didn't look so great."
"We're fine!" Rory cries, standing. "Quit joking!" She storms out of the room and into her own, shutting the door with an angry bang.
Lorelai sits on the couch and blinks for a moment, confused. She gets up and goes to Luke, who's cooking burgers on the stove. "What in the hell happened?" she demands, hand on her hip.
"Nothing happened."
"Oh, that's why Rory just stomped out of the living room like Barbara Streisand."
"Guess so," Luke says non-committally.
"Why won't anyone tell me anything?"
"It's not my thing to tell," Luke says.
"So there is a thing."
"If there were a thing, it wouldn't be mine to tell," Luke backtracks, flipping the three patties.
Lorelai purses her lips and walks the short distance to Rory's door. "Rory?" she asks, knocking lightly. Rory doesn't answer, so Lorelai slips inside. "Rory?" she asks the ball on the bed.
"What?"
"What was the big production?"
"There was no 'big production'," Rory says sullenly.
"Well, it was no Superbowl, but Probowl at least."
Sighing raggedly, Rory twists around again, ignoring Lorelai.
"Luke said it was your thing to tell."
"It is," Rory says coldly.
"So tell?"
"Just because it's my thing to tell doesn't mean I want to tell it," Rory says.
Lorelai sits on the edge of the bed. "You're more than a little sixteen."
Rory stands up suddenly. "So what if I am? It's better to me 'more than a little sixteen' at twenty-five than to be twelve at forty-one."
"Excuse me?" Lorelai says.
"You heard me." Rory crosses her arms and stares out the window.
"Oh," Lorelai mutters.
"'Oh' what?"
"I get it now."
"Get what?"
"This whole coming-home thing. This isn't about Michael." Lorelai pauses for dramatic effect. "This is about Jess."
Rory's eyes flash, but she doesn't deny it.
"You're pulling a High Fidelity."
"Oh, come on."
"I am. You're going to get over Jess and move on. Self-prescribed therapy."
"So now you're the New Age Freud?"
"It won't work, Rory." Lorelai shakes her head.
"And just what is that?"
"Dinner!" Luke calls through the door, accompanied by a clinking of dishes on the scarred wooden table.
Lorelai just stares at Rory for another moment before rising and stalking out of the room, leaving Rory alone with the musty smell of an argument full of memories.
Half an hour later, there's another knock on Rory's door. She's sprawled on her bed, trying to keep her mind as blank as possible. "What?"
Luke enters, bearing a plate with a burger on it. "Thought you might like some supper."
"Not hungry." Rory wraps her arms around her stomach and turns away from Luke.
"Your mom said you guys had a fight."
"It wasn't a fight."
"Okay." Standing, Luke starts to walk to the door. Halfway there, he spies the picture of Rory and Jess. Rory has moved it to her bookcase, wedged between some meaningless trinkets. "Rory, I think it's a good idea."
"What?"
"Talking to him."
"Oh." Using her elbow for help, Rory rolls over to face Luke. He's staring awkwardly at her bookcase.
"But, you know…" Luke trails off, wondering how to phrase this. "Jess can be kind of—you know, stubborn."
"Don't I know it," Rory mutters darkly.
"Talking to him is your choice. Straightening out…whatever happened between you two is probably good and all, but I don't want you to get hurt all over again."
"I won't."
"Well, just think about it." He doesn't look at her as he gently closes the door behind him.
Rory sits up. She stretches, extending each limb to its limit, reaching for unreachable points in the air. Feeling looser, she heaves herself off of the bed and extracts the picture from its prison on her bookcase. Staring into his face, she recalls their last fight, namely his hurtful words. Maybe, she thinks, Luke is right. Maybe he's just going to cause me more pain than the first time. Maybe I'm just setting myself up to be hurt.
In her mind's eye, Rory sees Michael, sitting at the table, his face crumpled with defeat. She sees all of her boyfriends, some serious, some not, as she breaks up with them. In their eyes, she sees a little of the misery Jess caused her. She wonders if Jess' girlfriends go through the same things; she wonders if she hurt Jess at all.
And she knows. She has to find out. What if she'd been going through this all these years and Jess felt nothing? It infuriates her, and she starts throwing things into her suitcase again. Time to stop being sixteen, she thinks.
Rory knows she will not be able to sleep tonight. Whipping out her cell phone, she calls work, requesting her two weeks vacation time, which the night clerk writes down without comment. At Jen's she gets the answering machine and tells it not to expect her home for a little while.
Luke and Lorelai are in the living room, watching television. The expression on Luke's face is pained, and Rory quickly glances at the screen. Lorelai has turned on The Anna Nicole Show and is gleefully singing along to the theme song. When she makes herself known, Luke looks up at her expectantly. "Do you have his address?" Rory asks.
Luke gives her a hard look. After a minute, he disentangles himself from Lorelai and brushes past Rory to get into the kitchen. "You're doing it, huh?" Lorelai asks, muting the commercials.
"I need to."
"Okay," Lorelai nods. "You know you can call us if you need anything."
"I know."
"I've got some arsenic in the kitchen, if you think that'll be helpful."
"No, I'm good." Rory leans against the doorjamb. "Which episode is this?"
"Dentist—ooh!" Lorelai squeals, turning the sound back on. Anna's aggravating voice grates on Rory's ears. Luke returns and hands her a slip of paper with a hastily scrawled address. With Anna in the background, he gives her a tight hug and whispers something in her ear. Rory feels tears pool in her eyes and smiles bittersweetly. She gives a wave to her mother, then picks up her partially-filled suitcase in her room and leaves through the back door.
It's easy to obtain a bus ticket in Stars Hollow, even at eight in the evening. Kirk is selling them tonight. "New York?"
"Yes."
"Dangerous city," Kirk says, ringing up the sale. "You shouldn't go with a purse. I always strap my money to my waist."
"With one of those waist-pouches?"
"No, with packing tape. It's much more secure. A little tough to get off, but you get used to the pain." Kirk counts her change into her hand. "Have a safe trip."
"Uh, thanks," Rory says, putting the money into her purse. She sits on the sole bench in the Stars Hollow bus station, staring at the wall. There are no people milling around as they should be; there's just an eerie silence under the chafing sounds of Kirk shuffling papers and the grind of the heater. Rory plays with her feet, making nonsense patterns on the floor. The quiet is irritating; it gives her too much freedom to think about where she's going, why she's going there, and who she'll see there. After what seems like forever, a high-pitched, drawn-out squeal lets Rory know that the bus is here. Without a look back at Stars Hollow through the bus station windows, Rory climbs on.
There are only four people on the bus, so Rory retreats to the back corner where she leans against the dark window and removes a book. The only one that had looked appetizing at the house was The World According to Garp by John Irving. It's quirky enough to keep her attention; right now, she can't handle the slow, drawn-out, symbolic books that are usually her forte.
The bus ride doesn't take long. All too soon, Rory is in New York, as confused as when she was seventeen. "You're still a little bit sixteen," echoes in her head; she shoves it to the back of her mind and hoists her suitcase off the ground. For the second time in three days, she finds herself standing on the edge of the road, clutching a suitcase like the Little Match Girl would hold her match.
Again, her cabbie speaks little English. Rory listens to the swish of the puddles under the tires and plays games with herself, trying to guess how many stories the buildings are. The angles she's seated at won't allow her to see the tops of some of the tallest ones. It feels like being a very small child again.
The hotel isn't fancy. It's a run-of-the-mill hotel: clean, with few amenities. Rory sits quietly on the edge of the bed for some time and looks out the rain-drenched window. Rain appears to be her new best friend—or maybe her new shadow; it follows her everywhere. It's ten by now, and most of the franticness of the city has subsided. Switching the light on with a sharp click, Rory rolls on her side and opens Garp.
She must have fallen asleep. When she opens her eyes, there is offensive sunlight hitting her retinas, and Rory stomps across the room to shut the curtains. The internal clock she's developed for work refuses to let her sleep peacefully beyond eight A.M. Resigned, Rory starts the difficult task of dressing.
Does she want to see Jess now, first thing in the morning? Would it be best to get it over with? Probably, Rory decides. After all, she does not want to spend another day—even a few more hours—wallowing and contemplating. She selects a pair of nice slacks and plain button-up blouse. A look in the mirror tells her that she looks too mannered. Discarding those clothes, she picks out a pair of jeans and striped knit shirt with some old sneakers. Good. It looks spontaneous. It looks like she hasn't been thinking about coming for months now.
Downstairs, they offer free coffee, which should have been Rory's first clue. She fills a Styrofoam cup, but it's far from palatable. Rory manages not to spit it out, but throws it away at the first opportunity. Her first mission will be to get some decent coffee.
Just down the street, there's a promising place. Rory ducks inside and orders from a college girl who is pretentiously made-up. She flirts the order to the college guy making the coffee, who takes a split second too long to hand it back to her. With an annoyed expression on her face, Rory snatches the coffee from the girl and thrusts a five at her. Is the entire world in love?
It's chilly outside, but Rory has forgotten her coat at the hotel. She knows if she goes back, she may never get the courage to start out again. So, with her arms wrapped around her torso, Rory trudges through the mass of pedestrians toward Jess' apartment. It occurs to her that she could just get a cab, but something about the trek there appeals to her. It's almost as though she's making a religious pilgrimage.
Too soon, she's there. She stands shivering at the bottom of the building, looking up; wondering which one is his. There's no blinking neon lights advertising his home, so she opens the front door and enters a tiny foyer. Like her building, there's no front desk to greet visitors, just an elevator. Rory looks unnecessarily at the crumpled scrap of paper in her hand. She already knew it was 7B, but looking at it again made it truer.
The elevator is creaky, and Rory dimly fears plummeting to the basement. She's far too worried about her upcoming encounter with Jess to take the fantasy farther, though. All of a sudden, it seems, she's right outside his door. It's plain green, chipped in places, especially near the bottom, where Rory imagines it was kicked. The florescent light overhead buzzes, partially burned out. Along with the sunlight breaking through the dirt caked on the window at the end of the hall, it creates a ghostly glow.
His knocker is fake brass. The finish has flaked off in most places, leaving a dull silver color in its place. Rory hesitantly bangs it against the fake-brass plate and holds her breath, waiting to see him. The door swings open and Rory nearly faints. But Jess is not on the other side.
"Yeah?" the strange man asks.
"Oh—hi. Hi."
"Hi," he says suspiciously.
"Is Jess here? Jess—Jess Mariano?"
"He's out."
"Oh." Rory bites her lip. "Do you know when he'll be back?"
"Should be about ten minutes." The abrupt man looks over his shoulder into the apartment. "You wanna wait in here?"
Rory shifts her eyes as she considers. What if Jess doesn't really live here? What if this man is some crazy rapist? What if she is being invited into Buffalo Bill's successor's lair? "I'll just…wait out here."
"Sure." The man shuts the door without another glance and Rory stands clumsily outside the door. She looks out of place. Finally, after about five minutes, Rory just gives up and sat down. Her back slides against the grimy wall, scritching slightly. She draws her knees up to her chest, formulating what to do in her head if a madman came and attacked her. "Break his collarbone!" Jen always says. For some odd reason, between her men, Jen is consumed with the desire to read self-defense books written by die-hard feminists. Hence, Rory knows that it only takes twenty-five pounds of force to break the collarbone.
"Rory?"
Her name makes her head jerk up like a student caught sleeping on his desk. "Yes," she says automatically. Her breath catches when she realizes that she's looking into Jess' eyes. "Hi," she says, her voice breathy as she struggles pathetically to stand up.
"What are you doing here?"
"Oh. Well, I was just…walking," Rory says, floundering. Her hands are shaking slightly, the tiny piece of paper making crinkling sounds. "Walking, you know, around here, and I thought I'd just…stop by…"
"You live in Boston," Jess says neutrally.
"I—well, yeah, but I was on a trip."
"Ah." The two stand there for a minute. Rory nervously crosses her arms in front of her. God, she's making a fool of herself. "Nick Hornby," Jess says, out of the blue.
"What?"
"You're doing the Nick Hornby thing. I'm Charile."
Rory huffs. Her mother, now Jess, seeing right through her. "No," Rory says stubbornly. "I just thought I'd stop by."
"Right," Jess says dryly. He looks at his door, as though longing for escape.
Now she's here. He's standing right in front of her. She has the opportunity to ask him anything—anything at all, but nothing refuses to spill past her lips. With her mouth, she makes tiny motions, trying to form some words. "I broke up with Michael," comes spewing out. Mentally, she whacks herself.
"Huh." Jess looks confused and impatient.
"Yeah." Rory takes a deep breath. She knows there's no way of stopping this tirade that's about to come flowing out of her mouth. "He's, like, my tenth boyfriend in four years. Everyone thought he'd be, you know, the one. My best friend has been planning the wedding. She had the colors down and everything. I never really saw the point in picking out wedding colors—I mean, white and black, right? But she's kind of into that stuff. Romantic at heart."
"Rory, look, if there's a point, can we just get to it now? I'm in a hurry."
"Oh—sure." Rory bites her lip. What might her point be? "You hurt me," she finally mutters.
Jess rolls his eyes and slides the key in the lock. "Nice chatting with you."
Rory purses her lips and slips closer to him. "So you can't even spare ten minutes?"
"Not now." Jess opens the door and steps inside. "I'm busy."
"You always were," Rory concedes. She steps away from the door, awkwardly putting her hands on her thighs to keep from fidgeting.
"Hey, look, don't come seeking me out and then attacking me for things I did in the past."
"Things in the past aren't just swept under the rug, Jess."
"The whole point of breaking up is that they are, Rory. I know this might be a new thing for you, but when relationships end, so does most interaction between the two parties."
"That's not true," Rory argues. "Just because I'm not kissing you anymore doesn't mean I shouldn't see you anymore. And the things you did in the past, the ones that were supposed to be swept under the rug? It was my rug."
"Your rug."
"Yes, my rug! The one in my apartment that has a big lump under from all the crummy things—"
"Stop," Jess says, boredly. "Look, you wanna analyze the demise of your relationship skills? Ask my mother. Ask your mother. But don't come crying to me about your tenth boyfriend in four years."
"That's just like you. Blame it on someone else."
"And what are you doing?"
"Hey, at least I'm trying to right my wrongs."
"You're trying to right my wrongs."
Rory shakes her head. "I should have known this wouldn't work. Stupid!" She bends and retrieves her purse from the floor. "Have a nice day." Without waiting for a rejoinder from Jess, she walks down the hall, her pace brisk. There are tears streaming down her face, like the rain on the window last night.
It is night. Rory wanders down the street, looking for entertainment. There's a band playing just down the block, loud punk rock blaring into the street. It appeals to Rory, its roughness singing out to her like a beacon.
Inside, there are people with studs, people in black, people with hair colors not found in nature, much less many Crayola boxes. Rory feels instantly out of place, but she doesn't care. The music in its brashness sounds good to her ears. Its pulsating, crass beats hurt her eardrums, but she doesn't care. She weaves through the crowd, trying to find a place to sit and listen to the harsh music.
The only place offering seating is the bar. Rory thinks for a moment, then sits down. She has only had one experience with drinking. It was her senior year of college and she and Jen, after exams, decided they'd go out for a few drinks. Jen kept talking, Rory kept drinking, and before she knew it, she and Jen were standing in the hallway of Jen's apartment building, turkey-bowling. Rory shakes her head at the bar; that, if nothing else, would certainly teach her moderation.
"Virgin strawberry daiquiri," she tells the bartender, who nods mutely.
The club is pulsating with people thrashing their heads to the music, moving their bodies in tandem. It is fascinating to watch—these people so close to one another, yet so far apart. Idly, Rory sips her daiquiri, enjoying the bass vibrating in her glass.
"Stalking me?" someone hollers into her ear.
Rory whips around to see Jess. "Of course," she mumbles to her drink. It stares back at her reproachfully. "I'll leave," she screams at Jess, digging through her purse for a five while trying to simultaneously down the remainder of her drink.
Jess lays a five on the bar. "I got it," he mouths to her.
Rory blinks. Since when did he feel so benevolent? "That's okay," she says awkwardly, still rooting for a five. All she can find are three singles and a twenty.
"Come on," he yells into her ear, then turns and starts walking out of the club. Rory looks back at the head-thrashers, wishing, just for a moment, to be in such a group. They look as though they have lost all sense of reality, and that's just what she needs. She looks the other way, and sees Jess' back. Her head swivels between the two possibilities, but like the good girl she is, Rory chooses real life. She follows Jess.