A/N: Usual disclaimer. . . I don't own the wonderful Gilmore Girls or the
men in their lives. (But I'll pay a million dollars if someone will let me
touch Jess.)
Special Note: Thanks so much for reading my fic and for reviewing it. And to katem-23: thank you for totally "getting" where I am coming from! The same things that annoy you about fanfics annoy me (*a lot*). . . and the same things that keep you going, keep me going, too.
Chapter 3 - Wooden Bridges Falling Down
I walk with my head tilted all the way back, watching the stars that didn't exist for me this summer in a big city. I don't think about where I'm going, but I go there anyway. As I approach the bridge, I finally lift my head, anxious and yet dreading the sight that I know will greet me.
Jess.
He's there, as I knew he would be. Dangling his feet over the water and reading "Of Mice and Men."
Steinbeck. Things are worse than I thought.
He doesn't look up when I approach, and I stand there watching him, drinking in the sight and smell and feel of him. I am warmer than I've been in two months.
He radiates energy and heat and control and abandon. And anger.
"Hey," is my lame attempt.
He looks up at me, blankly. No emotion, no clues, not even acknowledgement. He looks down at his book.
I begin to panic. I sit down but am too afraid to face him, so I look out over the water instead. My hands begin to shake and I hold onto the wood beneath me to keep them still.
He notices my trembling. Two months ago he would have reached for me, quieted my nervous hands. Tonight he looks at me impassively and keeps his hands to himself.
"What?" he demands.
"What?" I parrot, startled.
He sighs. Impatient. With me. Oh God. "What do you want, Rory? Why are you here?"
"I'm. . . I want. . . I'm here because. . . ." God, his eyes are darker than I remember. Deeper.
He laughs, but it's not a good laugh. "You have no idea what you want. Go."
Go.
At that one word - Go - my insides crumble and my mind screams and my eyes blur. I am struck with the realization that I have only existed for the past two months because of a desperate hope that I would return and he would want me. I pinned my life on a faulty dream. Go. I think I'm going to be sick.
There is nothing in his voice. No affection. No joking. No emotion. No, that's not right. There is emotion. Hate and hurt and anger and bitterness. I can't decide if that's worse than no emotion at all.
Go.
"That's it?"
"What else did you want, Rory? 'Welcome home, and it's great to see you'?"
His anger stirs my own.
"So that's it?" I repeat. "We spent a year getting to know each other and reading together and reading for each other and that's it?"
His book drops. He's itching for a fight. He's been itching for it all summer. He faces me, ready. "I wasn't the one who made it better and then made it worse."
I turn to him, my cheeks burning. This anger feels better than whatever I was feeling before. Or it at least feels easier.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Kissing me and then running away."
"I'm sorry, Jess - "
"For kissing me?"
I hesitate.
He laughs that awful laugh again. "Christ."
I've been dishonest for so long that it almost hurts to tell the truth. I do it anyway. "No, not for kissing you."
His body stills, but his angry mouth won't stop.
"Right. Which is why you ran as fast as you could, as far as you could, away from me."
"I was confused. I didn't - "
"I have no idea how that must feel. Because when you kissed me and then avoided me for two months, I sure as hell wasn't confused, Rory."
He says my name like he's choking. He used to say it like he was reading aloud from Dickens.
"I'm sorry. I - "
"You said that," he spits, as he stands up. "You got anything else for me?"
I jump up, angry and close to tears because I know he's right. But he's not quite right. And now that I've started telling the truth, after avoiding it for so long, there seems no point in stopping.
"I wanted to talk to you. But I needed to think first."
"You didn't call."
"I know."
"You didn't even write me a goddamned letter."
"I did!"
"No, I'm pretty sure you didn't, Rory."
"Jess, I swear to God that I did. I wrote you, but I didn't - "
"Fuck, Rory! You can't even be honest now? Now, after everything is over and doesn't matter anymore?"
I'm crying and I'm too desperate to be embarrassed. "It's not over, Jess!"
"Yes," he nods his head. "Trust me when I say that it is."
I grab his arm as he brushes past me. "Jess! I kissed you because I'd never been so happy to see someone. I ran because I was confused, guilty. But this summer I analyzed it, thought about it to death, and -- "
"It shouldn't have to be analyzed, Rory. Don't you get that? You either feel it or you don't. This isn't a goddamned test at school, to be studied and critiqued. It's people and your heart and your body, and you either know that it's real or you don't."
"Screw you!"
"Excuse me?" He's genuinely shocked, still feeling high-and-mighty, but also amused by my outburst.
"You heard me! Where the hell do you get off telling me how this is supposed to work? Maybe it's different for me than it is for you. I was confused. I should've talked to you but I was scared. Fucking deal with it."
"I did deal with it, Rory. For two months. On my own. Without a word from you."
"I'm sorry, but I need that time, Jess. I'm not as lucky as you. . . ."
"Lucky?" He whispers the word. But that whisper holds shock and disbelief and a deadly sort of challenge.
"In a way," I answer honestly. "You've had the luxury of deciding for yourself who Jess Mariano is. I've spent 16 years being told who I am."
"By your mother."
I can tell that he doesn't get it. He always knew me before, and now he doesn't get it at all. I'm pissed.
"By mom. My grandparents. This town. I'm sorry if it cut into your plans that I needed some time away to figure out that Rory Gilmore is a little more and a little less than everyone around here thought. But it scared the shit out of me, Jess. And I needed to deal with it."
"Well, congratulations on growing up."
"Dammit, Jess! Was it too much to ask that you give me some space to figure this out?"
His eyes lose their fire and his face calms into a disturbingly tranquil shadow of itself. "No. But you didn't actually ask for space, did you? You just took it. And I didn't know anything. I didn't know how much space you needed. And from what. And why. All I knew was that you were gone. You ran. From me."
His voice breaks on the last word. But he still walks away with his back straight and his hands clenched and his book shoved into his back pocket. If I weren't completely numb, I might feel sorrow or rage, but I only feel dead and alone and sick.
He's right. I'm right, too, but he's more right.
My legs give out and I stumble on the dock. I feel the skin on my knees rip as I land roughly. I barely make it to the side of the bridge before I get sick.
Special Note: Thanks so much for reading my fic and for reviewing it. And to katem-23: thank you for totally "getting" where I am coming from! The same things that annoy you about fanfics annoy me (*a lot*). . . and the same things that keep you going, keep me going, too.
Chapter 3 - Wooden Bridges Falling Down
I walk with my head tilted all the way back, watching the stars that didn't exist for me this summer in a big city. I don't think about where I'm going, but I go there anyway. As I approach the bridge, I finally lift my head, anxious and yet dreading the sight that I know will greet me.
Jess.
He's there, as I knew he would be. Dangling his feet over the water and reading "Of Mice and Men."
Steinbeck. Things are worse than I thought.
He doesn't look up when I approach, and I stand there watching him, drinking in the sight and smell and feel of him. I am warmer than I've been in two months.
He radiates energy and heat and control and abandon. And anger.
"Hey," is my lame attempt.
He looks up at me, blankly. No emotion, no clues, not even acknowledgement. He looks down at his book.
I begin to panic. I sit down but am too afraid to face him, so I look out over the water instead. My hands begin to shake and I hold onto the wood beneath me to keep them still.
He notices my trembling. Two months ago he would have reached for me, quieted my nervous hands. Tonight he looks at me impassively and keeps his hands to himself.
"What?" he demands.
"What?" I parrot, startled.
He sighs. Impatient. With me. Oh God. "What do you want, Rory? Why are you here?"
"I'm. . . I want. . . I'm here because. . . ." God, his eyes are darker than I remember. Deeper.
He laughs, but it's not a good laugh. "You have no idea what you want. Go."
Go.
At that one word - Go - my insides crumble and my mind screams and my eyes blur. I am struck with the realization that I have only existed for the past two months because of a desperate hope that I would return and he would want me. I pinned my life on a faulty dream. Go. I think I'm going to be sick.
There is nothing in his voice. No affection. No joking. No emotion. No, that's not right. There is emotion. Hate and hurt and anger and bitterness. I can't decide if that's worse than no emotion at all.
Go.
"That's it?"
"What else did you want, Rory? 'Welcome home, and it's great to see you'?"
His anger stirs my own.
"So that's it?" I repeat. "We spent a year getting to know each other and reading together and reading for each other and that's it?"
His book drops. He's itching for a fight. He's been itching for it all summer. He faces me, ready. "I wasn't the one who made it better and then made it worse."
I turn to him, my cheeks burning. This anger feels better than whatever I was feeling before. Or it at least feels easier.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Kissing me and then running away."
"I'm sorry, Jess - "
"For kissing me?"
I hesitate.
He laughs that awful laugh again. "Christ."
I've been dishonest for so long that it almost hurts to tell the truth. I do it anyway. "No, not for kissing you."
His body stills, but his angry mouth won't stop.
"Right. Which is why you ran as fast as you could, as far as you could, away from me."
"I was confused. I didn't - "
"I have no idea how that must feel. Because when you kissed me and then avoided me for two months, I sure as hell wasn't confused, Rory."
He says my name like he's choking. He used to say it like he was reading aloud from Dickens.
"I'm sorry. I - "
"You said that," he spits, as he stands up. "You got anything else for me?"
I jump up, angry and close to tears because I know he's right. But he's not quite right. And now that I've started telling the truth, after avoiding it for so long, there seems no point in stopping.
"I wanted to talk to you. But I needed to think first."
"You didn't call."
"I know."
"You didn't even write me a goddamned letter."
"I did!"
"No, I'm pretty sure you didn't, Rory."
"Jess, I swear to God that I did. I wrote you, but I didn't - "
"Fuck, Rory! You can't even be honest now? Now, after everything is over and doesn't matter anymore?"
I'm crying and I'm too desperate to be embarrassed. "It's not over, Jess!"
"Yes," he nods his head. "Trust me when I say that it is."
I grab his arm as he brushes past me. "Jess! I kissed you because I'd never been so happy to see someone. I ran because I was confused, guilty. But this summer I analyzed it, thought about it to death, and -- "
"It shouldn't have to be analyzed, Rory. Don't you get that? You either feel it or you don't. This isn't a goddamned test at school, to be studied and critiqued. It's people and your heart and your body, and you either know that it's real or you don't."
"Screw you!"
"Excuse me?" He's genuinely shocked, still feeling high-and-mighty, but also amused by my outburst.
"You heard me! Where the hell do you get off telling me how this is supposed to work? Maybe it's different for me than it is for you. I was confused. I should've talked to you but I was scared. Fucking deal with it."
"I did deal with it, Rory. For two months. On my own. Without a word from you."
"I'm sorry, but I need that time, Jess. I'm not as lucky as you. . . ."
"Lucky?" He whispers the word. But that whisper holds shock and disbelief and a deadly sort of challenge.
"In a way," I answer honestly. "You've had the luxury of deciding for yourself who Jess Mariano is. I've spent 16 years being told who I am."
"By your mother."
I can tell that he doesn't get it. He always knew me before, and now he doesn't get it at all. I'm pissed.
"By mom. My grandparents. This town. I'm sorry if it cut into your plans that I needed some time away to figure out that Rory Gilmore is a little more and a little less than everyone around here thought. But it scared the shit out of me, Jess. And I needed to deal with it."
"Well, congratulations on growing up."
"Dammit, Jess! Was it too much to ask that you give me some space to figure this out?"
His eyes lose their fire and his face calms into a disturbingly tranquil shadow of itself. "No. But you didn't actually ask for space, did you? You just took it. And I didn't know anything. I didn't know how much space you needed. And from what. And why. All I knew was that you were gone. You ran. From me."
His voice breaks on the last word. But he still walks away with his back straight and his hands clenched and his book shoved into his back pocket. If I weren't completely numb, I might feel sorrow or rage, but I only feel dead and alone and sick.
He's right. I'm right, too, but he's more right.
My legs give out and I stumble on the dock. I feel the skin on my knees rip as I land roughly. I barely make it to the side of the bridge before I get sick.