Just warning you, if you are hardcore Rory/Jess this may not be for you.
I just finished Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life (again), and that last look Jess gives Rory kills me. It looks more like goodbye to me than "I still love you". I want more for him than harboring feelings for her forever so I wrote this so he could move on. This takes place right after.
I gave myself a couple challenges: 1:Writing love at first sight which I've never done. 2: Try to write in Gilmore Girls style, which OHMYGOSH is hard.
No one can ever write like the great Amy Sherman Palladino, but it was fun to try. Also I don't own any of the characters except the two I made up here and all that.
Lastly, I know you can't fly from Connecticut to Philadelphia. But there it is. It's an AU after all.
Enjoy!
...
The weariness had settled into his bones, but his brain was in overdrive. There was nothing, nothing more exciting than new pages filled with inky words he'd never read. Especially exciting lyrical ones that stroked your soul and were knit together in unexpected ways. The metaphors were buried, and he always enjoyed a good excavation. The writer was starting to tie the threads, and the pages were flipping faster. He had found it in Stars Hollow books, Andrew warily recommending it to him to hustle him out.
Would he ever live down his reputation there?
It was a new author, and Jess was so lost in the prose, he hadn't noticed the plane had landed and emptied until the flight attendant tapped him on the shoulder.
"Sir?" she asked uncomfortably. "You'll have to exit the plane."
"What? Oh."
He rolled the book and stood, tucking it into his back pocket. He grabbed his jean jacket, and threw it over his shoulder, hurrying down the aisle and out the door. When he finally made it down to baggage claim, he plucked out the paperback from his jeans and let his duffel bag roll by three times so he could finish.
He let his gaze linger on the last sentence, drawing out the sad melancholy of finishing a good book, then sighed and rolled it back up, grabbing his duffel from the carousel.
…
"Where to?" asked the cab driver.
"4th and Park," said Jess.
"Got it. Hey, you catch the Eagles game? You a fan?"
"Not really," said Jess. Oh no. This was going to be a chatty ride. And worse: sports chat.
"You not from around here?"
"New York originally," said Jess.
"Oh. Jets, Giants, Bills? I gotta nephew, lives in Brooklyn, loves the Eagles though. I taught him right. The philosophy of Philly sports."
"You're a regular Socrates," said Jess looking out the window. We done now?
"Which are you?"
"None," he said.
"Baseball? Mets? Yankees?"
"Not a big sports guy."
"Shame. What you into then?" The cabby looked in the rearview at him.
A few years ago, Jess would have hit him with a snide comment to shut him up, and then went silent. But he had a small soft spot reserved for mooks like this because of Luke. He sighed.
"I write," he said.
"No kiddin'!" said the Cabby. "You write a book?"
"Three."
"Anything I would have heard of?"
"Do you read?" asked Jess.
"Never. But maybe I passed it at a store or heard your name on the radio. Unless you were on tv. Don't watch it. Don't have time. But I listen to the radio."
"Then I doubt it," said Jess.
"Come on, what's your name? What's the book?"
"Three books," said Jess. He gave him the names, and the cabby shook his head.
"Never heard of you. You famous?"
"Nope, just an average joe. Small circulation." Jess pulled his newly folded book out, ready to devour it again, but the cabby kept going.
"What you write about?" he asked.
Jess put the book down on the seat and squared his jaw.
"I don't know man. Loss, truth, turmoil."
"You write about love?"
"No."
"Why not? My wife is into love stories. She's the reader. She likes that… I forget the name. Macomber or something."
"Yeah?" Jess rolled his eyes.
"What you got against love, huh?" asked the Cabby looking into the mirror again.
"Nothing. It's great for some people," said Jess.
"But not for you?"
"Listen man, if you could keep your eyes on the road, that would be peachy." Jess was now done, his patience almost gone.
"You're safe with me," he said. "Been driving one of these for twenty five years, never had an accident."
"There's always a first time for everything," said Jess.
"You're a tough nut to crack, but that's ok. You're the type that's the most fun to talk to. So, I take it you're not married?"
Jess looked out the window again. Trapped in the cab, they were on the freeway.
"No," he said.
"Marriage is great when you find the right one. I had to look hard for Sandy. Thought I'd found it a few times. But when you really know, you know. Like you REALLY know. Takes a while. You ever felt that way?"
"What is this, like a new reality show? Taxi therapy and life advice? Are we being recorded or something?" asked Jess.
The Cabby laughed. "Nah, just curious friend. I like you. You remind me of me at your age."
Jess met his eyes in the mirror. This was taking a turn for the weird. He just wanted to go home. He could almost hear the click of the lock as he turned the key to his apartment. The sound of his bag hitting the floor. The feel of his sheets as he lay down.
"So," continued the Cabby. "What you got against love? You jilted or something?"
"Something like that," said Jess surprising himself.
"She just not that into you?"
"No. She found me fascinating for a while, but I messed it up."
"You skip town on her?"
Jess looked up. "How'd you know?"
"I told you, you remind me of me. Why don't you go back?"
"It was in high school. I just saw her in her town, and I'm pretty sure it was the final goodbye."
"So about 12 years ago it all fell apart?"
"Just about."
"You giving up?"
"Listen." Jess' head was hazy. "I'm tired. I've been up for twenty four hours, trying to extricate my mom and step dad from a cult, being best man at my uncle's wedding, who might I add just married my former girlfriend's mother who hates me. I had to stay for two days in a town that can't stand the sight of me, even after making amends to said girl, and now I'm being grilled by a sports loving cabdriver who can't shut up about love. Do me a favor man and just stop. I can't put up a pretense anymore." Jess slinked down in the seat and grabbed the book.
The Cabby was silent for a moment. "Man you really loved this girl," he said.
Jess dropped the book again.
"Not anymore. I'm over it."
"Yeah. She's not for you. There's someone out there who's more suited. I can tell you've done work to be better. You're not who you were."
Jess narrowed his eyes. "How can you possibly know that? I'm ripping you a new one. Maybe this is who I am."
"Nah. Like you said, you're sleep deprived. You're a good guy under all that tiredness. And you're a great author."
"I'm talking to Nostradamus," said Jess quietly.
"I'm just good at reading people."
Finally quiet, Jess eyed the cabby warily and reached for the book again. Any moment now he was going to start talking, he knew it. But his eyes were on the road and his mouth was closed. Jess scanned the pages, but the words weren't sinking in. He was unnerved now, and he couldn't stop thinking about Rory.
His long distance best friend, the person he knew the clearest. They were each others professional support system. She had hugged him goodbye in that stilted way. Just stiff arms and a quick touch of her cheek to his.
He'd often run over his choices and made himself sick with the should have's and could have's. But he finally felt like he was free from those things. Rory was Rory. Witty, smart, beautiful. But unmoored, lost and distant right now, even when she was focused on writing her book. He wanted the best for her, EVERYTHING for her. But he had his life to live now, the press was doing well, he was writing again. He couldn't keep waiting.
He felt the strings of his heart that he'd tied to her that first moment he saw her in her bedroom finally snipped, and he let it float away.
The Cabby pulled up to his downtown city apartment building and popped the trunk. Jess climbed out and grabbed his bag and walked around to pay him.
"Hey man," said Jess. "If I was rude or anything…"
"Don't mention it. Hey, I'll look up those books, give 'em to my wife. But give the love writing a shot. Don't give up after the big heartbreak."
Jess just handed him the cash and slung his bag over his shoulder. He watched as the cab drove off. He looked up at his building. It was cold and lonely, bathed in darkness. The concrete was wet under his feet. Suddenly he didn't feel like going inside. But he rolled his shoulders and marched upstairs.
His apartment was chilly and airy. Too much air. The sparse furniture felt aloof, unwelcoming. He dropped his bag on the hardwood floor and looked at his phone. Only seven o'clock. He punched in a quick order for Thai food in Door Dash, and saw an hour wait. Might as well go check the bookstore downstairs to kill some time.
He went down the steps, and out the door. It was raining, and he lifted his collar against the wind, even though he only had about twenty paces to the front of the bookstore. The reason he got this apartment in the first place.
He opened the door with a jingle, and the clerk smiled.
"Hey Jess," he said.
"Hey," he said back. He did not remember his name, nor would it ever be committed to memory.
Their succinct exchange over, he headed to fiction and decided to start in the L's this time. L for Luke, that wonderful now married dope.
He ran his finger over the spines, not sure what he was looking for, but that was half the thrill.
He heard a soft cough behind him and turned.
There, standing in the corner was a girl. Woman? She had a book open in her hands, soft red hair fell over her face and just past her shoulders. She had a beret on in a non-pretentious way, tilted to one side. They could be so phony on the wrong person. She had on a blue cardigan over a white tee shirt that had a quote written on it tucked into a short skirt.
Jess tilted his head to the side a little.
"If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed."
One side of his mouth curled up in a lopsided grin. Silvia Plath. Figures.
He was just about to go back to back to the L's when she looked up and met his eyes.
The world slowed down.
The air left the store.
The jazz music on the hifi became a symphony.
Oh shit.
It was like someone punched him in the gut. The only other time this had ever happened to him was…
She was staring back at him, her eyes searing pools of concentration.
He willed himself to look away, avert his eyes, but she held him in a spell. Well this was new. He never had trouble looking at a pretty face before, not even Rory. But this girl wasn't pretty, she was goddess-like. Athena or Aphrodite level splendor.
She was moving her mouth.
"What?" he asked like a deaf old man.
"I said, don't I know you?" she asked, as she closed the book in her hands.
"I don't think so. I don't know. Maybe."
She stroked the spine of the book, while her eyes narrowed.
Those green eyes. They were aquatic, nymph-like. He bit his lip.
"Please don't be unnerved, because I might blow your mind, but are you Jess Mariano?"
"Too late, consider me unnerved." What the hell? "But it's Mar-iano," he said lamely. His name on her lips sent a chill down his spine, even if it was slightly mispronounced.
"Too bad," she said. "The other way always reminded me of maraschino cherries."
"Those things will kill you. Have we met?" They had most definitely never met before.
"No, not formally. But I'm a fan. I was interning at the Paris Review when we published your short story."
"Ah. That was a while ago. I was about to call you Lior Suchard."
"Been a while since I heard a good Suchard joke," she said.
He smirked.
"You're older of course," she continued, "but I never forget a face. Your picture was attached to an email. Your hair's less poufy. We spoke on the phone once."
"Was that the runaround phone call? I think I was handed off to every intern and secretary in New York."
"That was the one. I only remember because you made a crack involving Alexander Graham Bell and a dead dog I think?"
"Ah yes, I may have been at my most offensive that day."
"It left an impression."
"That is me."
"I really liked that piece," she said. She leaned back against the book case.
Jess noticed the casualness of the stance and smiled. It was an "I'm settling in for a conversation" kind of lean. This was ok by him. More than ok. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
"Oh yeah?"
"Your protagonist was so clear. Just the right amount of Salinger."
"What if I wasn't going for a Goldilocks amount?"
"You were. There was a sentence that stayed with me. Something like, 'Because when you're not a chameleon and you lose at love, there's no way it's not your fault. Not changing is the worst kind of lost.' Something like that."
"Close enough."
"Even with the double negative, I felt it. You felt it and I felt it."
"That was a feeling line. So, what are you doing in Philadelphia?" He didn't always like it when his work was praised, since he was plagued with self-doubt. It was thrilling to have her repeat it back to him, but he was unsettled by being the only known party.
She ran her hand down through her hair absentmindedly. It looked so soft.
"I've lived here most of my life. I'm a suburb girl but I'm in an apartment down the street. Just came back from Italy."
"My homeland," he said.
She smiled and his stomach plummeted.
"What were you doing there?" he asked.
"Taking a month long art workshop in Rome. Eating. Drinking wine. Eating."
"Wow. I'm impressed."
"Don't be. I'm useless."
"That can't be true. So what do you do?"
She blushed. It was the color of pink roses. Roses? What was wrong with him?
"I do everything and nothing."
"Explain," he said also settling in against his shelf crossing his arms. This was fascinating.
"I do some freelance editing. That's my main source of income. I paint, not well mind you. I write a little. I'm in a band…"
"What? Seriously? Get out."
"Seriously."
"Would I have heard of you?"
"Maybe. You go to any clubs?"
"It's been a while," he confessed. "What's the name?"
"The Heartful Dodgers."
Jess' mind exploded. His world coming full circle. "A twist on Oliver Twist. Nice. I haven't heard of you, I would've remembered. Genre?"
"Riot grrrl punk. At least we were. Our lead guitarist is getting more singer/songwriter nowadays."
"How very Jackson Browne."
"She wishes."
"Well I'll have to come check you guys out."
"No one comes. Like literally, it's not a thriving venture. Punk is dying. Sure that's your scene?"
"If you're there it's my scene." Dammit. He was blowing his wad too early. He glanced at her nervously, but she was pursing her lips and her eyes were boring into him in a not alarmed way. It was alarming how not alarmed she was. The corners of her mouth curved up in a slight smile.
"So you write too?" he asked changing the subject, desperate to keep her aiming that coy smirk at him. "Renaissance woman. What do you write?"
"I have a few short stories published here and there. Some poetry. Just some little collections. One Novella. It's not much."
"What is much?" he asked.
"I'm less prolific than you. I've read your books."
"Oh shit."
"No, I told you I was a fan. I kept up." She filed the book back on the shelf, making sure it was in the right spot and he smiled. You didn't have to respect societal norms, but at least respect books. Unless they were yours after purchase and they got rolled up in your pocket. That was a different kind of respect.
"I'm afraid to ask," he said.
"I thought your third was the teensiest bit derivative, but the first two were so so good."
"Well, that's what I was going for."
"I'm sorry! I'm not your editor, I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, you were spot on. You're absolutely right. I pushed it out too fast."
"But there was still some excellent writing in it."
"Thanks."
"That's actually how I know your face. Not just an e-mail." She crossed her arm grabbing her elbow and looked at him shyly biting her lip.
This was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.
He saw the two leather chairs in the corner were empty. He gestured to them with a jerk of his head.
She walked over and sank into one, crossing her legs and patted the armrest on the other chair.
He followed suit and spread out, arms and legs.
"So why are your irons in so many fires?" he asked.
"Good question. Does my hour start now?"
"Not psychoanalyzing you, purely curious."
"Purely?" she raised an eyebrow.
God dammit, she was making him blush. Another tick on the 'things that never happened to him' list.
"Curious," he said again.
"Well, I've psychoanalyzed myself to death already. At the end of the day, I don't want anything to get boring."
"You're not that," he said.
"I'm planning a trip to Switzerland and Austria later this year."
"You going to Julie Andrews it?"
"That's why I'm going. That's my favorite movie."
"Come on," he said incredulously.
"You come on! What more do you need in a movie?"
"Less singing."
"Don't make fun. That movie inspired me to learn to sew."
"You sew too?"
"Too domestic for you?"
"I didn't say that."
"I'll have you know," she said now kneeling on the chair. "Pride in the domestic arts is a form of feminism."
He had nothing to say to that, because she was getting riled in a playful way, and it made visions of their future roll slowly out in his head. Her hitting him on the shoulder when he annoyed her. Burning dinner. Lying in bed, holding her close, reading to her as she fell asleep on his arm, her hair soft against his neck. It was a good thing he was meeting her now. They didn't have to deal with all his previous bullshit.
"So you wanna?" she asked.
"Wanna what?"
"Come to Switzerland with me."
It was as natural as breathing.
"Yes. But I refuse to join a choir, visit a nunnery or wear lederhosen made out of curtains."
"Deal. So you have seen it."
"Of course. It's an anti-Nazi classic. Maybe I should know your name before we buy me a ticket though."
"Gillian. Taylor."
"Wait…. No."
"Yes."
"This Gillian Taylor?" He pulled the book out of his back pocket. The delicious one with words like candy.
"Oh God. Yes, that's me."
His phone lit up. Door Dash was here.
"You up for Thai Food?" he asked.
"Yes."
If she came upstairs, he already knew she wasn't going to leave. The moving boxes would start to arrive next week. Oh geez, she was going to buy curtains wasn't she?
He stood and offered her his hand.
"Shall we?" he asked nodding at the door.
This time someone took it.
