The Wurlitzer Prize
Dedications: Once again, to emrie for being the world's best beta and a really cool person to boot. To Kate because she needs it. To Chris because she rocks. And to Hadar for graciously taking the post of head sucker.
Author's Note: Thank you to all my reviewers. I like hearing what people have to say about this piece. (Hint, hint).
Part Four: My Paper Heart
It's cool outside, that amorphous time of year where it's not still summer but not quite fall. Rory and Jess walk side by side on the misty sidewalks. Jess' hands are casually stuffed in his pockets; Rory's, defensively crossed across her torso.
"So," Jess says, stopping at the street corner. "You wanna get some coffee?"
"Sure." Rory is still confused. She wonders how he saw her in the dim, loud crowd and why he bothered to shout above the cacophony to get her attention. After today, after the scene at his apartment, she was sure he hated her. Instead of doing what she always does—assume and speculate and wind herself into a tired spiral of maybes—she asks him. "Why?"
"Why coffee? I was under the impression you liked it."
"Why did you seek me out?"
"Why did you seek me out?"
"I asked you first," Rory retorts, feeling as though she's in first grade, standing by the swings with Meghan Buette.
Jess shrugs non-committally. Rory remembers she hated this when they dated—that quick, sharp jab of the shoulders as her only answer always frustrated her.
"No, really, why?"
"Thought you had something to say to me."
"And you cared?" Rory asks incredulously.
"Oh, great. Guilt trip number two." Jess rolls his eyes.
"Not guilt trip number two. Just an honest question."
"You really wanna know, Rory?"
"Would I have asked otherwise?"
"I wanted to resolve this and move on. I really don't want to wonder what on Earth it was that you had to say to me when I'm thirty-five."
"So, basically, it's a get-rid-of-Rory tactic."
"Pretty much."
"Oh." Rory stares at the pavement as she walks, noting how her shoeprints stay for a second, then disappear into the gray. She's always liked snow more than rain; it's more permanent. There's almost a guarantee that when she wakes up in the morning, her footsteps will be exactly where she left them. Snow has a history.
"Here okay?"
Rory looks up to see that they are stopped at an anonymous coffee shop in the Fifties somewhere. "Great," she says dispassionately.
Inside, it's plain and clean. Rory and Jess pick a window table; Rory gets the creeping feeling that she can escape if necessary and wonders if Jess is thinking the same thing. They both order black house brews and wait for their orders in silence. Only the warm buzz of the lights and the muted chatter of the other patrons wafts between them. She is reminded of a similar dinner not so long ago.
"What is it." Jess doesn't say it as a question as he sips his coffee.
Rory's eyes slowly rise up to his face. There is no life in his voice; he sounds resigned and exhausted. A spark ignites in the pit of Rory's stomach to imagine that she has done that to him. Maybe she's done something to him. "Did I do something to you?" she blurts out.
Jess raises his eyebrows. "Like…?"
"Did I hurt you?"
When he exhales profoundly, Jess' top lip wavers slightly. Rory has the sudden urge to kiss him, but remembers that it would likely be frowned upon. "Rory…" He shakes his head and sighs, but says no more.
"Have you just moved on?" Rory is embarrassed at the pleading, childish tone in her voice, but refuses to back down. "I mean—"
"It took a while," Jess interrupts, looking into his coffee.
"How long is a while?"
"A while is a vague number that's less than an eternity and more than a nanosecond."
"Thanks," Rory says sarcastically.
There's a long silence, though it's not terribly awkward. "So what happened?"
"What?" Rory asks, snapping her attention away from the girl with the purple umbrella.
"To spark this journey-through-my-past thing."
Rory shifts her eyes down to the coffee cup and watches her hand as it swirls the straw in the black drink. "I got jewelry."
"A certain circularly-shaped piece of jewelry?"
"Almost." Rory doesn't particularly feel like sharing the entire Michael experience with Jess. She gets the feeling that he wouldn't feel much sympathy for her predicament. "What about you?"
"No jewelry as of yet."
Rolling her eyes, Rory glares at him. "I gathered that. I meant your current…coupling status."
"Involved."
"Ah."
"You?" he asks, although his voice holds little curiosity.
"Not anymore," she says, miffed at his impersonal questioning.
"Hmm." Jess drains his cup then looks longingly at the door. "Anything else?"
Rory's eyes almost tear at the curt dismissal. Though he hasn't answered her question directly, she has figured it out; Jess is no more hurt by their relationship than steel is by a pillow. "No. Thanks." She throws some money on the table and, without looking at him, carefully exits the café.
It's late, and cabs are getting fewer and farther between. Rory is frightened to walk more than a few feet away from the safe light of the coffee shop, so she stops at the curb. Jess stands next to her and bows his head, studying the pavement or his shoes. "Sorry."
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"Everything."
"Don't bother apologizing. It's over now," Rory says with shortness in her tone, aping his voice in the coffee shop.
"Then don't bother analyzing. It's over now."
Angry, Rory faces him. "That's like saying, 'Stop analyzing that book; you're done with it.' Apologizing after the fact—and insincerely—is way different."
"Whatever."
But Rory is like a train; she gains momentum with every remark. "And 'whatever' is not an answer! It's two meaningless syllables."
"There's a cab," Jess interjects, pointing.
"God, can't you ever just answer a question?!"
"Fine!" Jess explodes. "Of course I was hurt! All right? You happy? I just happened to be able to get over it and move on!"
"Are you saying that I can't move on?"
"Hey, which one of us is standing many miles from their home?"
"I shouldn't have come," Rory says, looking down and wagging her head. "God, everyone told me not to."
"Still protected at age twenty-five?" Jess asks snidely.
"Still acting like a teenager at age twenty-five?"
"Wait a minute. You come barging into New York and demand that I answer some bullshit self-validation questions and you're bitching about the way I act?"
"Yeah, I'd say that's about accurate," Rory snarls, not giving him the satisfaction of a flounce.
"Unbelievable." Jess turns and starts walking away.
"There's one thing that's stayed consistent," Rory yells to his retreating back. "You always were good at walking away."
She's struck a nerve. Jess whips around and walks back to her. "You were always good at pushing me away."
"Bullshit! You were good at imagining that I pushed you away."
"Who would just clam up?"
"You did it too!"
"Not when it was important."
"Oh no?"
"No!"
"Sure, Jess. You were Mr. Share-Your-Feelings."
"And you were my cousin, Ms. Avoid-All-That-Might-Require-Discussion."
Another cab swishes down the street; Rory hails it. "This was a mistake."
"No kidding."
"I hope what's-her-name can stand you."
"I hope you find someone to even be called what's-his-name."
Rory leans into the cab without another word. Jess walks the other way with nary a parting glance. As the cab moves toward her hotel, Rory feels completely depleted. She lets her head loll against the rough seatback and listens to the hissing sound of the puddles under the tires and imagines The House of Mirth to help her calm down. Things can always be Lily Bart worse.
Her bleak hotel room does little to soothe her. Rory pulls out Garp and curls up in the mildly uncomfortable chair in the corner. The only illumination in the room is the ellipsis of light from the lamp. She looks like an island in her chair, the darkness swallowing the room like an ocean.
Rory can't concentrate. Her mind continually wanders back to the bitter, harsh conversation, the words echoing in her mind like bad bass on a stereo. Her head droops forward and her hand catches it, putting the pads of her fingers on the side of her forehead. Jess' angry accusations and her own cold sarcasm seem to be loud enough in her mind for the whole hotel to hear. The words build to a furious crescendo before Rory throws her book across the room and stands so quickly that she is momentarily dizzy. For a second, she is completely disoriented, wondering if she can stand. When she knows that she can, she walks over to the nightstand and flips her cell phone open, grateful for the lighted keypad. She can't handle the reality of light now.
"Jen?" she asks when her best friend answers.
"Rory? Hey, what's up?"
"Oh, uh, not much. I did the delve-through-the-past bit. I think I'll be back in town tomorrow."
"Wait. That's all you're gonna say?"
"Well…I was going to say that I found a pretty decent band."
"About the delve-through-your-past thing. That's all you're going to say?"
"Yup."
"Oh, no. No you don't. First, you just skip town without telling me first, go home, then leave me a message and skip off to—God, where are you? Stars Hollow?"
"No, New York."
"And you didn't take me with?"
"You have no vacation time."
"I'll take sick days!"
Rory laughs. "You don't have any of those, either."
"Damn." Jen thinks. "Okay, but I need details! I'm not going to get out of work for the rest of the year, at least keep me happy!"
"Not tonight, Jen. I just wanted to let you know I'm okay."
"Nuh-uh. Something happened."
"Like what?"
"Sometime having to do with the delve-through-your-past thing. I can tell."
"How?"
"Well, one, it's about twelve-thirty and you would never call this late, but you obviously haven't been paying enough attention to look at the time, which means that you're upset."
"Whoa." Rory's eyes are wide in the dark. "That was spooky."
"I know you. Now come on, cough it up."
"Oh, Jen, it was awful," Rory sits on the edge of the bed and puts her head in her hand again. "Just terrible."
"I could have told you it was going to be miserable."
"Everybody could have. I should have listened."
"That's true," Jen says calmly. "Now what happened?"
"You're like a heartless reporter."
"I missed my calling." Jen is sensitively silent.
"We just yelled at each other," Rory says softly, a tear dripping down her face. The tilt makes a strange path for the droplet, and it lingers on the tip of her nose. Rory doesn't brush it away. Jen says nothing. "I thought it would be different."
"Oh, honey," Jen says sympathetically. Rory can almost feel the coolly comforting touch of Jen's pale hand as it passes a coffee cup to her.
"I just want to be home."
"You're coming tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm coming home tomorrow," Rory reiterates, her voice growing stronger.
"Good."
"Yes."
"Hang in there, Rory. No one has a perfect breakup."
"I just wish it didn't have to be so messy."
"Well, what happened in the end?"
The question is spoken so offhandedly; Rory is blindsided. It has been years since she's allowed herself to think about the final moments, the last words exchanged between herself and Jess, other than "It's yours, take it."
The scene erupts in her head in tiny fragments, in frames from a poorly edited indie film. There wasn't a final big blowout; she and Jess didn't exchange loud words and he didn't storm out. That wasn't his style. Jess never yelled much.
The first frame that jerks through her head is from days before the end.
He is lying in bed, watching television; she has just come home from class, anxious to get out of her dress clothes from the mock reporting exercises. With vivid clarity, the sharpness of a high definition TV set, Rory can recall sliding her shoes off and kicking them haphazardly in the closet. In her mind's eye, she sees her hand trail up her skirt to pull off her pantyhose; the sharp sound of her zipper; the skirt's swift descent to the ground. Her fingers move deftly to undo the buttons of her Oxford blouse and she straightens her arms to let it glide off. She enjoys the feeling of the soft fabric skimming her arms.
Jess is in the exact same position when she turns around in her undergarments. He does not face her and she can see his disinterest lightened by the blue glare of the TV. "So there's this thing on Friday night," she says nonchalantly.
"Hmm," is all Jess says, his attention riveted on the television.
Frustrated at having to vie for his concentration with an inanimate object, Rory crosses the room and stands at the edge of the bed. He still does not look fully at her. Setting her face determinedly, Rory crawls on top of him and straddles his lap, blocking his view. "The thing on Friday night," she repeats.
Finally, Jess looks at her. "I don't want to go."
"Jess, I haven't even described it yet."
"Rory, I don't like these people. They all look at me like I'm vermin."
"How do you think they look at me when I show up for everything alone?"
"They don't care," Jess scoffs, shifting under her weight, trying to get comfortable.
"They do," Rory insists. "They think I'm making you up."
"So let them think it." Jess squirms again, readjusting his thighs under hers.
"Oh, yeah, Rory Gilmore, the schizophrenic. Let's hire her." Rory rolls her eyes. "Jess, it's just a few hours. Please?" she wheedles.
"They aren't my thing. If you're looking for an escort, go date a rich Princeton boy." Jess bends his arm and leans on his elbow, looking around the curve of her side.
Rory feels very cold and alone all of a sudden. She's nearly nude, sitting on her boyfriend's lap in a bed, but he's more engrossed in the "Seinfeld" rerun than her. The tears in her eyes make it seem like she's looking through antique wavy glass; Jess' face is blurry. All she can see is the light and dark, the ups and downs. Slowly, she slips off him and goes to her drawer to find some old, comfy pajamas. Jess does not change positions.
"Rory?" Jen asks, dragging her back to the present. "Maybe we'll talk when you get home."
"Yeah, maybe."
"Okay…I'll see you tomorrow, then, right?"
"Right." Rory nods in the darkness, nods to the lonely light of the lamp in the corner. The next sound she hears is a dial tone. Jen is gone; it's just her and the lamp and the book, lying somewhere on the floor. Just her and her memories, wafting like smoke through the room. She can smell their acrid scent, feels them tickling her nose. Letting go, she flops back onto the pilled bedspread.
The smoke of another memory intermixes with the breath she breathes, making its way through her veins and to every capillary of her body. It's a happier memory but still feels dreary in light of recent events.
It's late; Rory should be home, but she knows that Lorelai won't be home herself for several more hours. They're in his car, the one she always makes fun of but is secretly grateful for. It's her escape, transportation to nearly anywhere. And it always means Jess will be there.
"So this guy's saying that Dickens' childhood didn't influence the way he wrote!" Jess exclaims in wonderment at the density of others.
"Right, and the Holocaust didn't influence Elie Wiesel." Rory rolls her eyes and Jess lifts his hand off the steering wheel for a moment to make an agreeing slap.
"Exactly. God, I can't believe someone could own a bookstore and not even like books."
"No one said he didn't like them. He just wasn't that bright."
"You have to be bright to a certain degree to like books. What's reading if you don't even take into account the author's life and times?"
"True," Rory says and leans her arm on the door. With the crank, she rolls the window down and lets the cooling summer air whistle through her hair. It's a gorgeous Connecticut night, clear and mild, with stars. She and Jess are out in the country, a detour on the way back from Hartford. By leaning her right jawbone in her hand, Rory has a good view of Jess as he focuses on the road. And she knows; it's time. "Pull off," she says suddenly.
Surprised, Jess looks at her and slowly veers to the right. "Are you sick?"
"I said off, not over," Rory demands, her voice calm and rational.
"Rory, if you're going to—"
"I'm not sick."
Jess blinks. In his face, Rory can see that realization is dawning on him. He deliberately pulls back on and searches for a side road. They find a narrow incision in the trees off to the left and take the bumpy ride to the end. Jess cuts the engine and nervously puts his hands flat on his thighs and breathes out profoundly.
Rory remembers her naivete in this branch of life and sits awkwardly, not know quite what to do with her hands or eyes. It's deathly quiet other than the sound of the wind now and then, intermittently making a soft rustle through the trees.
"Are you sure?" Jess asks quietly, looking at his hands.
"I'm sure," Rory whispers.
Jess slides over on the vinyl seat, his jeans making slithering noises against the cheap material. He carefully cups her cheek in his hand. "I don't think this is right." His voice is more gentle than she's ever heard it be before. "Your first time isn't supposed to be in a car."
"Says who?" Rory retorts, her voice shaking a little at his proximity.
"Decency."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about."
"Rory—"
"What's wrong with now? Luke isn't going to walk in, my mom won't walk in, no one from Stars Hollow can see us, even Taylor with his telescope…where doesn't matter…it's who…" Her voice trails away as Jess gradually descends on her mouth and presses harder on her cheek.
The last bits of her memory disperse into many parts of her and all Rory sees are miscellaneous flashes of flesh, a soft, sudden intake of breath, the moist slice of skin against skin.
Rory realizes her eyes are shut; when she opens them, she's greeted with the indifference of the impersonal hotel room. It's all very surreal to her; just a few days ago, she was a perfectly rational woman and now here she is, lying in a hotel room in an unfamiliar city, remembering things she's willed herself to forget.
The worst part is that Jess is not coming after her. They'd had many a fight where Rory stormed off, and Jess always followed. Now, of course, he has no idea where she's staying, not to mention to inclination to come. For one of the few times in her life, Rory feels tremors of loneliness shiver through her body.
Exhausted, she falls asleep dreaming of Jess.