Shoot the Moon

Part Three: Upstairs

I rush into the warm heat of the diner, escaping the winter swirling around me, made tangible by the tiny white flakes. My dark coat is speckled with the frozen white weather and I half-heartedly brush it off. Grinning to myself, I remember that my mother predicted this last night. Luke already has a cup of coffee and a disapproving look ready for me. Thankful, I sit at the counter and sip for a moment, reviving my frigid body with the piping hot panacea.

Ten minutes pass, but still, no sign of you. Negligibly upset with the break in our established routine, I wait for Luke to come close. "Luke?"

"What?"

"Where's Jess?" I ask, then down the rest of the cup.

Luke jerks his head toward the stairwell. "He's upstairs."

"Oh." I bite my lip, and hesitantly shove my cup towards him. "Can I…?"

"Go ahead." Luke takes my cup and follows me with his eyes as I mount the stairs.

I stand outside the door of the renovated apartment for an indeterminate amount of time, trying to decide whether you wanted me to come up here or not. Maybe you were trying to tell me something by not being downstairs this afternoon. Knocking on the door takes courage; I never know what you're going to do. I manage to gather enough steel to tap lightly on the door. "Hey," I say apprehensively when you open it.

"Hey." You walk away from the door but leave it open. I take it this means I'm supposed to follow you, so I do, stepping into the appreciably larger space.

"It's nice."

"Yeah." You're walking down a hallway, and yet again, I trail you, wondering what's going on. We end up in what I can only assume is your room, based on the scattered books and CD's. My gaze lands on the bed; there's a half-full duffel bag, which you are hastily stuffing.

"Where are you going?" I ask, my heart contracting.

"New York."

I wish there was a chair handy, but I just have to force myself to remain upright. "What?"

"New York," you repeat, muffled in the closet.

Giving up, I sit on a clean edge of the bed, digging my fingers into the mattress. I can tell that you are in no mood to talk, but I have to know: "Why?" My question is greeted only by the shuffle of clothing as you arrange it in the bag like a Rubick's Cube. The silence lengthens until it is measurable in minutes. "Jess?"

"Something came up."

"Are you…going back…for good?" The words hurt to say.

"No." Your reply is short and succinct, like it wouldn't matter either way.

"What came up?" I know you hate it when people pry, but I can't stop myself.

Sighing, you throw some books on top and zip the suitcase. "Old friend."

"Your mom's okay?"

You shoot me a look. "Yeah…"

"When are you leaving?"

"Couple hours."

"How long are you staying?"

You shrug nonchalantly. "However long it takes."

"What takes?"

"I'm seeing the interest in journalism now."

"Jess." I give you a stern look, even though I guess it's really none of my business. There's no answer from you. "It's the holidays."

"So?"

Well, duh. "So…it's that warm, fuzzy, silver bells and fattening foods time of year. I mean…don't you want to be around for that?"

"It's just another few weeks."

"It is not," I say warmly, "it's special." You just roll your eyes and duck into the closet. "What?"

"Come on, Rory, you don't honestly believe the message of corporate America. I thought you were smarter than that."

Hurt by your tone and accusation, I cross my arms and stand. "I guess you were wrong." Again, there's only silence from your side of the room. "Have fun in New York," I mutter coldly as I leave. Once outside your bedroom door, I pause and think. You won't chase after me. Resolutely, I turn around and march back into your room. "Were you planning on telling me?"

Surprised that I've come back, you wheel around. "What?"

"Were you planning on telling me that you were leaving?" I reiterate, slowly. "Jess?"

"What's the point?"

"What?" I knit my brows together, puzzled. What do you mean, what's the point? "The point is that I…I wanted to know you were leaving," I sputter.

"Right, Rory. You wouldn't have even cared."

"I care."

"You care because I didn't tell you."

"Not true." I can feel my cheeks flushing as my aggravation keens. Frustrated, my eyes start to water.

"Come on, Rory. I'm just the friend who happens to be conveniently placed by the coffee maker." You walk closer to me as you speak, boring holes into my face with a smoldering, angry stare.

My mouth drops open a bit, and hurt and guilt suffuse my nervous system. "That's not true. And you know it," I add.

"Do I?" You grab the bag and shimmy past me. After blinking a couple of times and attempting to restore calm, I trace your steps. You've dropped the bag by the front door and are getting a glass of water.

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to be rational.

The clock hanging on the wall ticks as you finish your water. "You kissed me three months ago, Rory. You've broken up with your boyfriend, and I'm not attached. Since you're so good at school, what would be the logical progression here, Rory? Now I know this isn't multiple choice, but I think short-answers are still better than essays, don't you?"

Your words hit me like individual lightning strikes, and I just try to inhale and exhale normally. I know what I want to say: I love you, and I'm scared, but that definitely won't come out. "It's not like I've been ignoring you," I murmur.

"So true. A rousing thirty-minute discussion after school seems to be my allotted Rory dosage. Prescribed by Lorelai?"

"My mother has nothing to do with this," I say firmly, maybe a little louder than necessary.

"Then what, Rory? Jesus, make up your mind!" You breeze past me and through the door, slamming it shut seismically after you.

Not even thinking, I hurtle out of my seat and run after you: through the door, down the narrow steps, through the diner of awe-struck onlookers, and out into the town square where you're walking rapidly. I catch up and grab your arm, causing you to whirl around and almost crash into me. "I have made up my mind!" I yell into your face, not caring who hears me. "Okay? But I'm not the only person in this situation. What encouragement have I been getting on your end, Jess? Do you ever make me think you might want more? Do you ever make me think that I'm worth it to you? What guarantee do I have that I won't make a fool of myself if I…" I let that sentence waft away, take a breath, and start in again. You're staring at me, partially shocked, partially angry, and, I think, a little chagrined. "So, yeah, it's my fault that I kissed you. But don't blame me for everything afterwards." I storm past you, turning to holler, "I hope you find someone worth it in New York!"

On the walk home, my statements roll over and over in my head. I've cooled down enough to realize that perhaps I was a bit harsh; you haven't done anything wrong after all, not really. It's my own fault that I don't have the guts to just come out with it. I know that I'll be racked with guilt and pain while you're in New York. I guess I can only hope that you think about what I said—or screamed, rather.

At home, I shove the door open slowly. "Hey," Mom says. "Where's your backpack?" As I make my way past her, I recall leaving it on the floor by my usual barstool at Luke's. It's not like we won't be going there tomorrow, though. "Rory?" she calls.

I just roll over, knowing she'll hear it from Babette in a matter of minutes. Jamming a pillow over my head, I drown out the world, close my eyes, and think about you.

*

Snow is swirling around outside my window, and I vaguely wonder if you've got your winter coat on today. No one was expecting this snowfall. Tearing myself away from the window, and—hopefully—thoughts of you, I continue packing my duffel, pretty haphazardly. I'm usually a fairly neat packer, but I'm in a rush today.

I hear your footsteps as you clod up the staircase. I bite my lip, torn between being pleased that you're seeking me out, and anxious at the thought of seeing you. All I can hear now is the usual hub-bub of the diner, so you're probably standing outside the door. In my mind, I can see you gnawing on your lip like a piece of chewing gum as you consider knocking. Somewhere, I think you're a little afraid of me. Finally, there's a soft rap on the door. I just open the door and stand there expectantly. "Hey," you breathe softly, and I almost forget that I'm mad at you. Your cheeks are flushed from the cold, and you hair still has a few persistent snowflakes scattered about.

"Hey." My response is the same word, but not at all. It's harsh and curt, and I almost wince. I abandon the door and slide back into the apartment.

"It's nice," you say. I'm fairly sure you mean the apartment, but I'm not looking at you.

"Yeah." That's a pretty universal agreement. I just continue walking down the corridor that leads to my bedroom, the first real bedroom that someone has reserved solely for me. My bag is lying open on the bed, and I stuff random things in.

"Where are you going?" you ask, fear slipping into your tone.

"New York." I purposely offer no details, wondering what you'll do.

"What?"

"New York," I reiterate, burrowed in the closet, retrieving whatever I can reach.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare straight ahead. "Why?" I don't want to answer that question. I don't think you'll want to know. "Jess?"

My brain races, trying to think whether or not I want to admit the real reason. It might make you see the light, but then again, it might just hurt you. "Something came up." That sounds good. Mysterious.

"Are you…going back…for good?" You pound out the words like an old manual typewriter, sounding strained. It makes me feel a little better.

"No." I keep my reply short, attempting indifference. Why the hell would I want to go back?

"What came up?"

You're only going to suffer for asking these questions. And now that I have you here, right where I want you, I just can't tell you. "Old friend." This is partially true. I'm staying with an old friend.

"Your mom's okay?"

I don't think I heard you right. If my mom weren't okay, Luke would have had a fit by now, closed the diner. "Yeah…"

"When are you leaving?"

"Couple hours," I toss off nonchalantly.

"How long are you staying?"

I just shrug. I'd been planning on a couple of weeks, at least until the holidays and break and all are over. "However long it takes."

"What takes?" You're practically trying to force it out of me. Maybe I was wrong that night in the car—that fateful night—maybe journalism is your thing.

"I'm seeing the interest in journalism now."

"Jess." You give me the "stern face." I stifle the urge to call you on it, and turn again into the closet. "It's the holidays."

I know that. That's half the reason for leaving this saccharine town. "So?"

"So…it's that warm, fuzzy, silver bells and fattening foods time of year. I mean…don't you want to be around for that?" Oh, God. You sound like Taylor, like a townie.

"It's just another few weeks."

"It is not," you say heatedly, "it's special." Rolling my eyes, I seek refuge in the closet again. I might put a book or something in there at some point, for all the time I'm spending in there lately. "What?"

"Come on, Rory, you don't honestly believe the message of corporate America. I thought you were smarter than that." The last statement is cruel, but maybe it'll piss you off. Maybe it'll make you mad enough not to miss me and just forget about me.

There's a pause after my display of jerkiness. "I guess you were wrong." I remain utterly quiet. "Have fun in New York," you say sarcastically, then leave. I breathe a sigh out, knowing that you hate me again. I guess everything's in the right: Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf are in their established places. "Were you planning on telling me?"

I almost fall over. Why on earth would you come back? "What?"

"Were you planning on telling me that you were leaving?" you repeat, enunciating every word. "Jess?"

"What's the point?" I finally explode. It doesn't seem like an explosion, but it is. Some wire has short-circuited, and you're going to get hurt. I don't want you to, but this ridiculous wishy-washy cycle of yours has got to be stopped. I want to shout that I'm going to New York to get away from you. You won't have school, and you'll be in the diner, tantalizing me with endless discussions that lead nowhere.

"What?" You look perplexed. "The point is that I…I wanted to know you were leaving," you stutter.

"Right, Rory. You wouldn't have even cared," I sneer.

"I care," you say defensively.

"You care because I didn't tell you."

"Not true." Your cheeks are reddening again, and you look intoxicating, your eyes burning bright.

"Come on, Rory. I'm just the friend who happens to be conveniently placed by the coffee maker." It's true, isn't it? I involuntarily step closer to you, my anger magnetically attracted to yours.

Your jaw drops a bit, and I recall the night on the bridge before refocusing. "That's not true. And you know it."

"Do I?" How would I know that, Rory? Have you ever told me that you have intentions other than just talking to me, teasing me? I grab my bag and weasel through the aperture between you and the door, noticing strands of hair that cling to me. Damn it, I'm going to smell like you. In the kitchen, I can think of nothing to do but get some water.

"What do you mean?" you inquire, following me.

I finish the water, gathering my thoughts. "You kissed me three months ago, Rory. You've broken up with your boyfriend, and I'm not attached. Since you're so good at school, what would be the logical progression here, Rory? Now I know this isn't multiple choice, but I think short-answers are still better than essays, don't you?" I'm feeling truculent, and I know from the look on your face that I've hurt you.

"It's not like I've been ignoring you," you mutter helplessly.

"So true. A rousing thirty-minute discussion after school seems to be my allotted Rory dosage. Prescribed by Lorelai?" I wonder haughtily.

"My mother has nothing to do with this," you say emphatically.

"Then what, Rory? Jesus, make up your mind!" I storm past you, not bothering to grab a coat, and stomp down the stairs, past all the pathetic patrons, and out into the blistering cold. It's still snowing, pretty hard, and I feel the cold hack at my body. It feels good. It feels like something.

A tug on my arm makes me turn around abruptly. Evidently, you've caught up. You yank me so hard, I nearly end up smacking you in the face when I turn. "I have made up my mind!" you scream. "Okay? But I'm not the only person in this situation. What encouragement have I been getting on your end, Jess? Do you ever make me think you might want more? Do you ever make me think that I'm worth it to you? What guarantee do I have that I won't make a fool of myself if I…So, yeah, it's my fault that I kissed you. But don't blame me for everything afterwards." You flounce off, turning only to holler, "I hope you find someone worth it in New York!"

I just sort of waiver there in the cold that has now made me numb, and stare after you. I feel almost happy, or as close to it as I have since that night on the bridge. Isn't it funny? All my happiest moments are connected with you. You feel something for me. It might not be what you felt for Dean, and it might not be as great in volume as what you feel for your mother, hell, even Luke, but you feel something. You with your straight-arrow perfection have some sort of emotional stirrings for the abandoned, trouble-making Brooklyn hoodlum.

I stand out there forever, freezing and not feeling it, until Luke comes out. "Jess?" he asks in his usual gruff, but somehow affectionate manner. "It's practically a blizzard out here." I still can't answer. "You look like Lorelai, standin' out here," he finally mutters, grabbing my attention. Lorelai? I'm nothing like Lorelai.

After a little, I trail Luke into the warm diner, so warm it almost hurts. Still sullenly silent, I plod up the stairs and shut the door securely behind me. The bag is still on the floor, looking dejected in a way, knowing before I did that it wouldn't be used. I pick it up and carry it to my room, tossing it in the closet.

A/N: Thank you for all the positive reviews. I really appreciate it. Please, tell me what worked, what didn't…even if you think it sucks, tell me.