Shoot the Moon
Part Four: The Storeroom
You walk into the diner the next day, bereft of your school uniform. Strangely, your mother is nowhere to be seen or heard. I watch you for a moment, twisting my ever-present rag in my hands, as you look down, brushing snow off your coat. Your hair flows down, sweeping your pink cheeks gingerly. Satisfied with the quick brush job, you look up, your eyes impossibly bright and blue. They flicker around the diner, looking for something; you don't find it, and approach the counter, oblivious to my presence. Taking the last empty stool, you fold your hands on the diner counter.
When you pass your eyes over the bustling diner again, you see me. Instantly, your jaw slackens, parting your lips just a little. Your eyes look me up and down in a cursory observation, then focus on my face. I keep looking at you, wringing the rag casually. Fishing for words, your mouth opens like you're going to address me, but you just shut it, blink, and stand up in a hurry.
You can't leave, not after our argument, not after I stayed in this Pleasantville of a town for you. "Rory!" I say, loudly. The entire diner stops chattering in .04 seconds flat, and the patrons are torn between looking at you and looking at me. Again, you look like you might say something, but close your lips tight and start fishing for your gloves. Swiftly, I walk up to you, standing just inches away. Every pair of eyes is fixated on us, and you blush. "Talk to me," I demand softly, trying to keep the conversation away from the piqued ears.
"You were leaving!" you exclaim quietly, sounding distinctly unhappy.
"Was," I say. "Come on." I put my hand on your elbow and lead you back into the storeroom before you can even say anything.
"I'm meeting my mom!" you protest as I shut the door behind us.
"She'll know what happened the second she walks in the door," I rationalize. You don't say anything, just purse your lips. "Are you mad at me?"
"You were leaving!" you repeat vehemently.
"Did you want me to leave?"
About four looks cross your face in a nanosecond. Rolling your eyes, you gesture widely with your hands, flailing about for an answer. "No!" you finally holler. I almost say something when you continue, "But you can't do that to me!"
What? "What?" I vocalize.
"Say one thing and do another."
"I can't do that to you?" I ask incredulously. "Rory—"
"No, you can't!" Finally, you stomp your foot in frustration. "I just want to know, one way or the other."
"About what?" I ask, refraining from yelling something I might regret.
"Anything! Are you leaving or aren't you?"
"No."
"Well then, what came up?"
"Oh, Christ, Rory, I made that up!" I yell, exasperated with your obliviousness.
"What? Why?"
"I had to get out of this town."
"Well, you still can," you snap bitterly.
"I wanted to see if you'd care," I admit, feeling utterly pathetic. Since when does Jess Mariano become defined by some schoolgirl? I'm almost mad at you.
"Well, I did," you say, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. You look around the storeroom, taking in the exhilarating jars of pickles and loaves of bread. In the florescent light, you look even paler than usual, your hair glinting dimly.
"Good," is all I can think to say.
"Isn't it?" you mutter. I don't say anything to that. Curiously, you look over at me. "Then… why did you stay?"
So this must have been the encouragement you were talking about. The air seems to have changed; this is clearly a defining moment. I've never been good at these kinds of moments, the ones where I can't joke, can't be sarcastic, and if I say the wrong words, the entire world is thrown off its rotation. Suddenly, unbidden, memories of my past relationships with the female sex inundate me. My mother floats in front of my face, with her mildly unkempt hair and pitifully wrinkled clothes, her perpetually tired expression, her wilted voice. I can see her face as she told me I was being shipped here, the way she could hardly stand to look at me anymore.
I see all my old "girlfriends" flash into my mind, their separate defining miniskirts and see-through tops, blurs of legs and hair. I can't remember then completely, just snippets of each; first names, usually, occasionally a last. Few characteristics come to mind, just simple things, favorite foods, a penchant for a certain type of sheet maybe, but little in the way of personality.
I even see my grandmother, possibly the only female to actually love me. Of course, she never saw me mature beyond the age of ten, when I was still an okay kid. I recall her soft touch, her ancient, creased hands, and her talcum powder scent. Her voice floods over me, mellifluous, comforting.
"Jess?" you ask timidly, concerned, dragging me back to reality.
"I'm not good at this," I say, too harshly, and start to leave. Unexpectedly, you capture my arm and draw me gently toward you.
"What were you thinking about?" you ask, your face soft and forgiving. You're apologizing.
I just shake my head slowly back and forth, looking to the floor. "I'm sorry," I finally say.
Your hand squeezes my arm hard, then you let up on the pressure until your hand is barely resting on my bicep. "Me too," you murmur. "I didn't want to hurt you," you say in a low voice.
You never want to, of course; you're not malicious. But you did, Rory, whether you intended to or not. This is where your inexperience is obvious. No one with romantic experience would say that, because it's beside the point. People will always get hurt when their hearts are involved, so there's no purpose is saying that you didn't "want" to hurt someone. But you wouldn't know that; you think that relationships should be logical, like math; you think there should be one correct solution where no one ends up suffering.
That's why I had been so careful in the past to keep my heart out of everything. Once you've put that out there, let yourself become vulnerable, there's no guarantee that you won't get hurt. I hope you don't have to figure that out.
"I know," I say after a long pause.
"Jess?"
"Yeah?"
"Did you…not go…because of me?" you inquire shyly, hopefully.
"Why else would I stay here?" I ask rhetorically.
"Right." You wait, then take a huge breath that I can practically feel. "Jess?"
"Yes, Rory?" I tilt my head and look straight at you, wanting to see every nuance in expression.
"Do you want to be with me?" you ask, then redden heartily, unaccustomed to being so forward.
I feel the blood course through me, but it doesn't feel like blood. It feels like air, like if I wanted to, I could float. You're giving me another chance at the defining moment, and I only have to say one word, but it just won't come. Biting your lip, you look to me, nervous. When I don't answer after a few seconds, you just nod and start walking towards the storage room door.
I can't let you leave. If I do, I'll kick myself, because I'll be the only one to blame. I don't want to look back twenty years from now and wonder; I'm not that person, always pining for the past. So I grab you and yank you roughly into me. Startled, you can't even react as you let your body crash into mine. One hand at the small of your back, the other at the base of your head, I kiss you, unleashing all the pent-up emotions I've had stored for a moment like this.
It doesn't take you long to respond, and you press against me, dueling desperately with me. The kiss stretches on and on, accompanied by the utter stillness of the storage room and the faded hubbub of the diner. A whimper forms at the back of your throat and I back you against a wall, molding myself into your soft curves.
All of a sudden, the door opens and I hear, "Ah, geez!" Quickly, we tear apart to find Luke shaking his head and rummaging for something or other. "You might wanna…take that upstairs," Luke says, studiously not looking at us.
"Wow, Uncle Luke," I say suggestively. "Should you really be advocating this?"
"Shut up," Luke snaps. "Ah, Rory, your mom's waiting…driving me insane…so, you know…soon…whenever you can," Luke flounders.
"Okay," you say, avoiding Luke's eyes.
"All right," Luke says, then leaves, taking his bottle of mustard with him.
We look at each other, the intensity of the previous moment shattered. You look warmly at me, then smile slightly, biting your swollen lip. "Was that a 'yes'?" you tease.
"Take it how you want," I say.
You grin, then cock your head towards the door. "My mom."
"Right."
"But I'll see you later, right?"
"Yeah," I agree, not able to keep the tiny smirk off my face.
"Good," you whisper, then kiss me lightly on the mouth before disappearing through the door. I lean against the wall and shut my eyes, remembering the feeling of your lips on mine, the heavenly feel of your softness against my body, your scent branded in my mind. Composing myself, I pick the rag off the floor where I dropped it and enter the diner as inconspicuously as possible.
It doesn't matter; all the gossips are already babbling a thousand miles a minute, no doubt commenting on your ruffled hair and engorged lips, your lack of lip gloss. You and your mom are at the counter, backs to the general assembly as you undoubtedly discuss you and me. Us.
That sounds good.
*
In the past, Christmas break used to be my favorite school vacation. Aside from being the longest, it always involved snow, and that meant midnight walks and doughnuts with Mom. This year, though, in addition to being bogged down with homework, there's you. Isn't there always?
You left. Something came up, you said, something happened, and you had to leave. I should be jubilant at the thought of you not being here, especially after the yelling match we had yesterday. But there's a funny, empty feeling in my tummy, like a reservoir devoid of water. I should want you gone, but I'm weak, and I miss you instead.
At least the diner is safe now. I don't have to worry about bumping into you, all the jerky motions and strained lack of eye contact it entails. The only consolation I have is the ability to get coffee in peace.
It's snowing outside, coming down pretty hard. I'm grateful that I don't have to wear saddle shoes today, thankful that I can wear my snow boots and down coat. I step into the diner and start brushing all the snow off with my gloves. I know I can't get every little flake off, so I just leave it and stuff the gloves—black, with snowflakes, Mom's choice—back into my commodious pockets. Out of habit, I scan the diner for you, but you're not there. I'd thought as much, and I sit on the last empty barstool. Hopefully, one will open up before Mom gets here, or the person next to me will be feeling very unlucky.
Nervously, I sweep the diner one more time with my eyes, and I see you. At first, I think I'm hallucinating, but I didn't have that much coffee at home. Involuntarily, my mouth opens, wanting to say something, anything, but I make it shut again. I can't stay here, with you. I wasn't prepared for this. Abruptly, I stand up.
"Rory!" you call.
My own name sends tremors through me. The whole diner has stopped talking and is focused on me, I'm sure, as I revel in the sounds, the alternating consonants and vowels, the melody you make it into. I want to say your name, but I remember where we are. Shutting my mouth tightly to prevent any sounds from escaping, I fish in my disproportionately large pockets for my gloves and prepare to leave.
Before I can even make it to the door, though, you're right by me. Now everyone really is looking at me—at us—and my cheeks redden. You voice is soft when you say, "Talk to me." I know the softness is due to all the people, but I let myself fantasize for a moment, pretending it's out of tenderness.
Yesterday comes hurtling back at me, and I say, "You were leaving!" sounding terribly upset. The sounds are hissed and almost venomous, and I want to cringe. You don't deserve this.
Without a nuance of change in your calm exterior, you say, "Was." Your eyes flicker around the diner for a moment, and then you tell me, "Come on." You put your hand on my elbow and I feel something white-hot and dangerous course through me, flushing through my body and pooling like mercury in my belly.
"I'm meeting my mom!" I manage to utter as you enclose us in the storeroom. I struggle to make the words sound harsh and emphatic, but your hand is still on my elbow. As much as I hate being the girly-girl, my insides are mush.
"She'll know what happened the second she walks in the door," you reason, removing you hand. A peculiar coolness spreads, slowly fanning out from my elbow. I gently clasp my lips together, trying to keep the mercury in my stomach. "Are you mad at me?"
It disappears anyway with the space between us. "You were leaving!" I almost shout, angry and confused about the hot and cold.
"Did you want me to leave?"
Your face, as always, betrays no emotion. How can you do that? How can you seem to have no attachment to anything? I feel the anger flutter across my face. I should lie. I should be cruel and say that yes, I did want you to leave and never come back. That's not the truth, though, and I'm not a good liar. "No!" I finally exclaim. Your mouth opens, and I slip in, "But you can't do that to me!"
You look surprised. Ha, I think, some semblance of feelings. "What?" you say incredulously.
"Say one thing and do another."
"I can't do that to you?" you ask in disbelief. "Rory—"
"No, you can't!" I yell before you can tell me that I've done the same thing. Most times, yes, I'm romantically unaware, but even I can see that I've jerked you around, twisted you and coiled you until you were bitter and confused, loving me and hating me. "I just want to know, one way or the other." I know you won't leave now. Not after you stayed even in light of our fight. But what I want to know, what I need to know, is if you're in love with me, or if I'm just some schoolgirl, some challenge, some innocent you want to seduce.
"About what?" you ask, your voice tired and strained. I hate it that I made you sound like that.
"Anything! Are you leaving or aren't you?" I know the answer, but it's the simplest question. I can't bear to ask the others yet.
"No," says you, sullenly, sounding rather upset.
"Well then, what came up?" I ask. I genuinely wonder what could be so important yet so negligible.
"Oh, Christ, Rory, I made that up!" The words reverberate in the storeroom, all the frustration pinging back and forth in my ears. My eyebrows come together, displaying my confusion for you to see clearly.
"What? Why?"
"I had to get out of this town." Your voice is sharp, short.
"Well, you still can," I snap, disturbed that you made up an excuse to get away from me. Am I that repulsive? Have I really let my indecisiveness affect someone else to the point of running all that way just to escape me? Am I truly destined to end up like Lorelai, torturing men to the point of no return?
"I wanted to see if you'd care." Shocked, my eyes widen briefly, but I calm down, hoping you didn't see that. Never did I expect to hear you say that. I feel tempted to look outside, see if Kirk has a car or if Taylor bought an Eminem CD. Or a CD for that matter.
"Well, I did," I say, folding my arms. There's a quietus, and I scrutinize the storeroom. In all our years of eating at Luke's, I've never been in here. I've never seen so much food and so many condiments in one location. I imagine that if Mom and I were permitted an entire night in here, someone would have to roll us out in the morning. While the silence stretches, I start counting. Luke has thirty cans of coffee that I can see.
"Good," you finally say, breaking the stillness.
"Isn't it?" I mutter. You don't say anything. I twist my head to look at you, staring for a moment. Then, gathering all the courage I have, I ask, "Then… why did you stay?"
I don't know if I want to hear the answer to this. I don't know if it will be the answer I want. I don't know what answer I want. All I know is that it's out there, and there's no taking it back. You've heard it, you're considering it, and now I can't just act like I didn't say it.
It's a little embarrassing, really, feeling like I have to beg for your affection. I feel, suddenly, like Dean must have, fishing—practically using a radar device—to gather encouragement. I'm pretty sure of why you stayed, but as the quiet lengthens, I'm not so certain. What if you stayed for an entirely different reason? What if you're standing there, piecing together how to let me down easy? Would you let me down easy?
Your face keeps changing. I've never seen you like this, ever. You seem so…vulnerable. That's never a word I thought I'd associate with you. All of a sudden, you look like a small boy, abandoned and alone, and I wonder what you're thinking about. It's not me, I'm almost certain. I want to crawl inside you, nestle in your stomach, feel the tugs and aches and pains, try to take the sting away.
As the time continues to lengthen, I become increasingly concerned. Maybe this question was a little more complicated than I intended it to be. What if I've sent you into a reminiscent reverie that you never want to have? "Jess?" I ask. My voice sounds like a small girl's, high like a tinkling bell.
"I'm not good at this," you say. Your voice is hoarse and forced.
Unsure of protocol in this situation, I gently pull you towards me. "What were you thinking about?" I murmur. I feel awful about triggering this, but what am I to do? How do I apologize?
For a long time, you turn your head tediously back and forth. "I'm sorry," you eventually say, breaking the delicate silence.
"That's what I wanted to say" flashes through my mind, and I subconsciously pinch your arm with my hand. I don't know why you're apologizing, exactly, but I'm certainly sorry. "Me too," I say. Taking a deep breath, I let out the last half of the amends. "I didn't want to hurt you." I really didn't. I never wanted to hurt you or Dean or my mother, but somehow, I always manage to. I never wrote to you, I never paid attention to Dean, and my mother…this thing, this amorphous quasi-relationship thing I have going with you is killing her. When I was smaller, I always marveled at older people's love lives and promised myself that mine would never be the same. It is though; it's as convoluted and twisted as my mother's, and I'm scared, because I don't know how it got there and I don't know how to fix it.
You're far away again, thinking. I wet my lips and watch you, wondering what you'll say next. I'm always wondering about you. "I know," is all you say.
"Jess?" I ask in the little-girl voice.
"Yeah?"
I can't believe I'm about to do this. It won't remedy anything, but I have to ask, have to get it out into the open. It needs to be exposed, good or bad, because I'm sick of being a cliché. "Did you…not go…because of me?" I wonder, still with that teeny voice. I wish I sounded stronger, more sure of myself, but I can't.
"Why else would I stay here?" you ask dryly.
"Right." I purse my lips, processing this information. I've gotten this far, and Rory Gilmore is not a quitter. "Jess?"
"Yes, Rory?" You look at me again, with those deep eyes. I feel pressured, so I look slightly away.
"Do you want to be with me?" Oh dear God. I can't believe I've just said that. My mouth is dry, full of thick air.
You aren't saying anything. This is definitely not good. All you're doing is staring at me with the funniest expression on your face. The lower left corner of your mouth twitches a little bit, but still, no answer. Hoping against hope, I draw my lower lip under my teeth. Finally, I just nod and start walking. I need to get out of this storeroom; it's suffocating me. I must leave, go home, make some strong coffee and just lay down and cry.
I don't make it to the door, though, because you take hold of my forearm and wrench me backwards. I hit you hard, unable to brace myself for the shock. Swiftly, you move your hand from my arm to the small of my back and weave the other roughly in my hair and press your lips firmly against mine.
The kiss is passionate and dangerous. I feel like every single emotion that you've put into you and me is pouring through your lips and into my mouth. Gathering myself, I reciprocate and give myself over to the kiss. There's a wonderful familiarity to this kiss, having already occurred three times. But this one is different, like you're finally giving me the last piece of a puzzle. That thought triggers something indistinct in me, and I can't suppress the humiliating whimper that weasels out of the back of my throat. I'm surprised when you back me against the wall, pushing against me, fitting our hips together.
Just when I feel on the brink of irrationality, Luke's voice pulls us apart like opposite poles of magnets. "Ah, geez!" We separate. "You might wanna…take that upstairs." Luke refuses to look at us, and I know my face is flaming.
"Wow, Uncle Luke," you say calmly. "Should you really be advocating this?" How can you be so placid? I'm shaking from that kiss.
"Shut up. Ah, Rory, your mom's waiting…driving me insane…so, you know…soon…whenever you can," Luke sputters.
"Okay." I won't meet Luke's eyes. He's like my father, and I'm a little ashamed to have him catch me in this position.
"All right." Luke leaves with a bottle.
You and I just gaze at each other. My blush dies down and I stop trembling. I feel my lips curve a little as I think about what just transpired. "Was that a 'yes'?" I ask, stuffing a giggle down.
"Take it how you want," you say nonchalantly. Okay, then, I'll take it as a yes.
"My mom," I remind myself out loud, grinning like a moron.
"Right."
"But I'll see you later, right?" I ask hopefully. It sounds so…well, nice.
"Yeah." And you're smirking again.
"Good." I kiss you very gingerly on the lips, not wanting the moment combust like the last time. I let myself back out into the diner, not looking back lest I meet your eyes. My mother is on my old barstool, and the diner is still packed. She sees me and turns to the man sitting next to her. I see an odd combination of gestures and facial expressions, and the man goes over to sit by Kirk. I slide onto a barstool weakly.
"So, diner demimonde, details."
"Must you come up with these names?" I ask my mother.
"It makes it more fun." My mother nods towards the storeroom door, where I notice you slipping in. "So. What happened?"
"I…we…"
"Well, you've obviously been kissed," Mom says, straightening my hair. "I'm assuming Jess is the culprit."
"Oh…yeah."
"Wow…you're out of it," Mom says. "Coffee?"
Coffee? "Oh, yeah, sure. Coffee," I state dumbly. I can't think.
Mom frowns a little. I know she's worried, but that's the thing: she shouldn't be. She's worried because I'm not being her. She thinks I am, but I'm not; I've admitted many a thing to myself in the last ten minutes, things that she can't seem to come clean with to herself. The kiss, you, the storeroom, they all mean that I'm not going to turn out like her. Stealthily, I peer at you from behind a thin curtain of hair, looking at you as you move, recalling how you felt. I smile to myself.
A/N: Dedicated to Kate because she rocks.