A/N: Thank you so very much to all those who reviewed me. I can't tell
you how much your words mean to me! They provide encouragement and
motivation to keep writing. Thank you!
Disclaimer: GG isn't mine. Rory isn't mine. Luke isn't mine. Stars Hollow isn't mine. And if Jess were mine, do you honestly think that I'd be sitting here writing a fanfic?! (
Chapter 5 - Letters, Lost and Love
I race into the diner, and in my haste, through the tears gathering in my eyes, I almost miss Luke looking up from behind the counter and frowning with concern.
"Rory, what. . . ."
I run up the stairs without answering. Feeling horrible for ignoring one of the only men who really ever gave a damn about me, but with a need to see Jess so strong inside of me that I think I might collapse from the weight of it if I slow down. Or think. Or breathe. Or do anything that might break the fragility of this moment. I am barely hanging on to sanity, and any movement - any thought, any breath - might make me let go and fall away from reason.
I fling open the door to the apartment and stumble inside. It is cool and dark. Jess looks up from his book. Expressionless. Of course.
"I did write," I manage, only slightly incoherently.
"What?"
"I did write. You said that I didn't write you. But I did."
"Interesting. Because I didn't receive any letters." His voice is cold. But his eyes are. . . cool. Not hot for me, not warm with affection. . . but not as bitter cold as his voice. Not yet. There is time.
The tears come in earnest this time.
I want to kiss him, I suddenly realize. Or I want him to kiss me. I'm not sure which. I'm not sure it matters. All I know is that to get from standing here to being in his arms, I have to make him understand. I am desperate to make him understand. I am desperate in my need. Desperate as a disjointed explanation finally finds its way out of me.
"I did! I did, Jess."
He looks at me disbelievingly. His disbelief, his distrust - those are worse to bear than his indifference. His indifference is studied, rehearsed. His distrust is raw and true.
I am losing. Him. My mind. I can't find the words. For once in my life - for the first time it ever really matters - I can't find the words.
Sobbing, desperate, I finally remember the box, crushed under my arm. I fling it towards him - the sooner he sees, the sooner he'll stop hating me. Or at least start hating me for the right reasons.
He looks at the box calculatingly.
"Shoes?" His tone struggles for blasé. But his voice strains. And for a moment his eyes plead with me to make him believe again. Trust again.
I rip off the top of the box and step close enough to him to feel his heat. "Letters," I whisper urgently. "Forty three of them. Every one to you. A few only half written, but most of them finished. Finished, Jess. Never sent, but finished." I sob but my voice grows stronger. Last ditch effort. "While I was in Washington. Dean wrote me every other day. I never wrote him. I wrote you. Constantly. Everything that I'll never have the nerve to tell you to your face."
His hand reaches for the box and digs into the pile. He opens one, recognizes my writing. His eyes flicker. He opens another. Another. Another. He reads a few lines, glances at me, finds another letter, reads a few lines. More quickly, he sifts through the contents of the box, dropping paper around him in his increasing haste. His eyes warm and his mouth relaxes. I begin to breathe.
"You should have sent them." But it isn't an accusation. His fingers close around mine where they have remained, clutching the box like a lifeline.
"I was terrified."
"Of me." He's hurt by that and I want to hug him for it.
"Of you. Of me. Of not loving Dean the way I was supposed to. Of not being the 'Rory Gilmore' that everyone in Stars Hollow has raised me to be. But mostly of. . . . how you. . . ."
"What do I do?" Concern. Oh, thank God. Concern in his voice.
"You make it. . . ."
What could I say to make him understand? That he fills a room so that I can't breathe, don't want to breathe when he's near me? That I don't know whether I'm separate from him because when he touches me my heart adopts his rhythm and my skin yearns for his and my hands ache to touch him? And that I don't care whether I'm separate from him? "As soon as you look at me, it's like I'm. . . ."
"Drowning."
My head snaps up at his matter-of-fact statement.
"Yes," I nod. "You surround me and use up my air and I'm lost. I can't see or breathe or think or stand. And I don't care because you're there - you're everywhere, touching me even if you're across the room. And all I want to do is drown in you."
He's kissing me. Hard and desperate. The box has fallen and his fingers are in my hair and I don't know which one of us is breathing and which one of us is crying.
"I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm sorry, but I need you, and I didn't know."
He shakes his head - to say that this separation is over and of no consequence anymore.
"I'm sorry for Shane." He can't meet my eyes as he says it. He knows I feel cheated on, even though I don't have the right. And he feels guilty for it, because whether or not we were even speaking to each other when he dated Shane, we were still together and it was still cheating. "I tried. . . with her. . . I tried to get back at you. Get over you. I shouldn't have done it that way."
Now I shake my head. "Just please, when we lose each other again, don't try to find me through some other girl's lips."
Jess grins against my mouth and tugs at my lower lip with his teeth. I shiver. He smirks. He's too arrogant in his knowledge that he can make me quiver this way. But the arrogance is warranted, so I don't care.
I'm lost. In his eyes. In his kisses. In his hands.
Oh God, his hands. They create unspeakable black magic.
I'm lost.
Is this what it is, then? Is this what it is, to fall in love? To be lost and found at the same time. To fall hopelessly, uncertainly. But also to know, without a doubt, that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
In his arms.
Disclaimer: GG isn't mine. Rory isn't mine. Luke isn't mine. Stars Hollow isn't mine. And if Jess were mine, do you honestly think that I'd be sitting here writing a fanfic?! (
Chapter 5 - Letters, Lost and Love
I race into the diner, and in my haste, through the tears gathering in my eyes, I almost miss Luke looking up from behind the counter and frowning with concern.
"Rory, what. . . ."
I run up the stairs without answering. Feeling horrible for ignoring one of the only men who really ever gave a damn about me, but with a need to see Jess so strong inside of me that I think I might collapse from the weight of it if I slow down. Or think. Or breathe. Or do anything that might break the fragility of this moment. I am barely hanging on to sanity, and any movement - any thought, any breath - might make me let go and fall away from reason.
I fling open the door to the apartment and stumble inside. It is cool and dark. Jess looks up from his book. Expressionless. Of course.
"I did write," I manage, only slightly incoherently.
"What?"
"I did write. You said that I didn't write you. But I did."
"Interesting. Because I didn't receive any letters." His voice is cold. But his eyes are. . . cool. Not hot for me, not warm with affection. . . but not as bitter cold as his voice. Not yet. There is time.
The tears come in earnest this time.
I want to kiss him, I suddenly realize. Or I want him to kiss me. I'm not sure which. I'm not sure it matters. All I know is that to get from standing here to being in his arms, I have to make him understand. I am desperate to make him understand. I am desperate in my need. Desperate as a disjointed explanation finally finds its way out of me.
"I did! I did, Jess."
He looks at me disbelievingly. His disbelief, his distrust - those are worse to bear than his indifference. His indifference is studied, rehearsed. His distrust is raw and true.
I am losing. Him. My mind. I can't find the words. For once in my life - for the first time it ever really matters - I can't find the words.
Sobbing, desperate, I finally remember the box, crushed under my arm. I fling it towards him - the sooner he sees, the sooner he'll stop hating me. Or at least start hating me for the right reasons.
He looks at the box calculatingly.
"Shoes?" His tone struggles for blasé. But his voice strains. And for a moment his eyes plead with me to make him believe again. Trust again.
I rip off the top of the box and step close enough to him to feel his heat. "Letters," I whisper urgently. "Forty three of them. Every one to you. A few only half written, but most of them finished. Finished, Jess. Never sent, but finished." I sob but my voice grows stronger. Last ditch effort. "While I was in Washington. Dean wrote me every other day. I never wrote him. I wrote you. Constantly. Everything that I'll never have the nerve to tell you to your face."
His hand reaches for the box and digs into the pile. He opens one, recognizes my writing. His eyes flicker. He opens another. Another. Another. He reads a few lines, glances at me, finds another letter, reads a few lines. More quickly, he sifts through the contents of the box, dropping paper around him in his increasing haste. His eyes warm and his mouth relaxes. I begin to breathe.
"You should have sent them." But it isn't an accusation. His fingers close around mine where they have remained, clutching the box like a lifeline.
"I was terrified."
"Of me." He's hurt by that and I want to hug him for it.
"Of you. Of me. Of not loving Dean the way I was supposed to. Of not being the 'Rory Gilmore' that everyone in Stars Hollow has raised me to be. But mostly of. . . . how you. . . ."
"What do I do?" Concern. Oh, thank God. Concern in his voice.
"You make it. . . ."
What could I say to make him understand? That he fills a room so that I can't breathe, don't want to breathe when he's near me? That I don't know whether I'm separate from him because when he touches me my heart adopts his rhythm and my skin yearns for his and my hands ache to touch him? And that I don't care whether I'm separate from him? "As soon as you look at me, it's like I'm. . . ."
"Drowning."
My head snaps up at his matter-of-fact statement.
"Yes," I nod. "You surround me and use up my air and I'm lost. I can't see or breathe or think or stand. And I don't care because you're there - you're everywhere, touching me even if you're across the room. And all I want to do is drown in you."
He's kissing me. Hard and desperate. The box has fallen and his fingers are in my hair and I don't know which one of us is breathing and which one of us is crying.
"I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm sorry, but I need you, and I didn't know."
He shakes his head - to say that this separation is over and of no consequence anymore.
"I'm sorry for Shane." He can't meet my eyes as he says it. He knows I feel cheated on, even though I don't have the right. And he feels guilty for it, because whether or not we were even speaking to each other when he dated Shane, we were still together and it was still cheating. "I tried. . . with her. . . I tried to get back at you. Get over you. I shouldn't have done it that way."
Now I shake my head. "Just please, when we lose each other again, don't try to find me through some other girl's lips."
Jess grins against my mouth and tugs at my lower lip with his teeth. I shiver. He smirks. He's too arrogant in his knowledge that he can make me quiver this way. But the arrogance is warranted, so I don't care.
I'm lost. In his eyes. In his kisses. In his hands.
Oh God, his hands. They create unspeakable black magic.
I'm lost.
Is this what it is, then? Is this what it is, to fall in love? To be lost and found at the same time. To fall hopelessly, uncertainly. But also to know, without a doubt, that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
In his arms.