Authors Note: I struggled with where to take this, and finally settled on this. I apologize beforehand for the Dawson's Creekness of it all.
Rating: PG with some mild cursing and sexual overtones.
Disclaimer: None of it's mine except the batty ideas in my head.
Part 4
The clock on the wall read 1:30, and for a moment, Rory wasn't sure if it was a.m. or p.m. She squinted her eyes as she squirmed around in the bed, still groggy from her sleep. Searching for some point to orient herself, she craned her neck to look over at the window, on the far wall. Streams of light shone around the pulled blinds, giving the only indication that it was in fact daytime. Her mother was right. This place could be a dungeon. With the windows covered by the thick blinds and drapes, it was hard to tell the difference between night and day. In a way, the darkness was comforting, beckoning her to crawl back into the warmth of the covers, and submit to another hour of sleep.
She cautiously sat up in bed, running her hand through strands of her messy hair as she looked around the room. This room was definitely not hers. Knickknacks and posters adorned the wall, signifying what her grandmother believed every sixteen year old was interested in. Apparently, she had yet to realize that Rory wasn't like every other sixteen year old on the planet. She wasn't awed by the pop icons of her generation or fooled into believing persons of fame had some innate charm that separated them from the rest of society. She appreciated the effort her grandmother extended to make her feel at home. But nothing would replace the comfort of her own bedroom, even if it were half the size of this one.
She stood from the bed, her shaky legs barely supporting her clumsy, just awoken stance. She paused to gain control over her body, dreading a fall into the night stand that would mark up her charming features. Having gained her balance, she flipped on the nearest lamp, her eyes flickering to the mirror on the wall as she did so. She couldn't suppress the giggles at the sight of her. Her hair was a mess, mussed from the nap she just took, strands hanging in front of her eyes, and misplaced from the ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was smudged, mascara leaving dark circles under her tired eyes. Her eye makeup formed lines down her cheeks, and if she hadn't known better, she would have thought she'd been crying. She used her fingertips to wipe away as much of the mess as she could, deciding her eyes must have watered from pure exhaustion as she drifted off to sleep. Her outfit didn't help matters. She glanced down at her wrinkled clothes, deep creases forming where she had twisted in her sleep. She was still wearing the borrowed t-shirt and shorts, swimming in the masses of extra fabric draping her body. She looked to her feet, noticing the cause of her unsteadiness. The red straps of her shoes crossed her ankles, holding them firmly to her feet, yet unable to keep her from wobbling on the chunky heels. Lorelai hadn't given her the opportunity to change, for the second she entered the house, well, actually before she had entered the house, Lorelai had practically dragged her up the stairway to this room. She looked herself over in the mirror again, amusing herself with the less than stellar beauty queen appearance.
The cloud from sleep hanging over her thoughts had not yet lifted. She wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep, but she knew it was shortly after arriving at her grandparents' house. She vaguely recalled a conversation with her mother, but had so far been spared the interrogation that was sure to come from her grandparents. Bits and pieces of her conversation drifted in and out of her thoughts. She remembered something about a newspaper. And something having to do with Tristan. Her mother must have decided the best medicine following an eventful night was sleep, and she silently thanked her for that. She was grateful for the extra rest, still recovering from her lack of sleep the night before. Her fitful resting at the hotel had been less than peaceful. She had slept on and off, but being in the vicinity of Tristan kept her from completely relaxing and submitting to her dreams. The pull he had over her emotions was far from negated by his sleeping state. Even when he wasn't awake, he could make her question everything she ever thought about him. And about herself.
She stooped to relieve her feet from the confining shoes, losing the formality that contrasted sharply with the rest of her attire. She carefully undid the straps, pulling her feet from the fancy footwear. Grabbing them by the heels, she crossed the room, placing them neatly, side by side beneath the hanging dress. The dress had been returned to the protective cocoon of the garment bag. Her mother had been thoughtful enough to put it away, guessing the memories that one piece of clothing could hold. Feeling an inexplicable urge, she reached up to unzip the cover, needing to feel the fabric between her fingers. She ran her hand across the material, her fingertips gliding over the soft satin fabric. Pulling the dress closer to her face, she inhaled the myriad of scents retained from last night, each different scent flooding her mind with memories and thoughts from the night before. She could smell the perfume she wore mixing with the smoke lingering from the reception hall and their dirty hotel room. She easily picked out traces of his cologne, transferring to her dress as he held her so close during their dance. She didn't notice how she began to sway slightly to the music in her mind, remembering the feel of being wrapped in his embrace.
She rezipped the garment bag, closing the dress and its memories into the protective lining. Her fingertips grazed the side of her head, massaging the strain from her temples. She knew full well the headache that was emerging from her lack of coffee, reminding her she was long overdue for her next fix. On her path across the room, she passed by the mirror, something about her appearance catching her eye. Pausing momentarily, she took a few steps backward, turning to face herself in it's length. She stood for a few seconds, pondering her appearance yet again. Approaching it so that she was only inches away, her eyes focused on the glints of light sparkling from the object around her neck. She gently lifted her hand, her finger looping through the necklace, removing it from its confines under the shirt. The rubies and diamonds twinkled with the sunlight that managed to creep into the room. She ran her hand over the jewels as they lay on her neck, a motion repeated many times within the last 24 hours. For a moment she forgot the price of the necklace, for her, the value resting far from the monetary denomination.
She reached her hands behind her neck, lifting her hair to get at the clasp. Her fingers sought to grab hold of the mechanism, struggling to open it. As she fiddled with it, her eyes looked into the mirror, focusing on the strand around her neck. As if in a different world, her hands stopped their actions pausing in her movements to stare at the piece surrounding her delicate neck. For some unknown reason, she refused to remove it, needing to keep the cold metal against her skin. Her hands once again returned to their protective covering the necklace. She ran her fingertips over the jewels, the ragged edges lightly scraping against her hand. She let her hands fall to her sides, staring confused at the image before her. Thousands of feelings and emotions coursed through her body as she focused on the object. She vividly remembered the feel of Tristan's hands brushing against her skin as he placed it on her, goosebumps and shivers overtaking her body with the contact. She took in the way his eyes seemed to reflect the sparkles whenever he looked at it. Shaking her head slightly, she refused to believe her reluctance to remove it had anything to do with Tristan. Admitting such was admitting the control he held over her emotions.
In the clarity that returned in the daylight, and the lucid thoughts forming after sleep, she wondered exactly what had come over her. The war in her mind raging between admission of her feelings, and refusal to accept their existence. She reminded herself silently of the night before, unable to accept the inklings of attraction she was forming, blaming them on the magical events of the night. She was moving too fast, letting her emotions take over the domain of her rational behavior. She was not accustomed to the complete and utter loss of power, fighting the spinning of her thoughts and the downward freefall she was learning to recognize. Thoughts of her conversation with her mother crept into her head, knowing in her gut it had somehow surrounded her feelings for Tristan. She tried unsuccessfully to recall the exact wording, chalking up her failure to retain information to the lack of caffeine in her system. Whatever she had said, she was sure it was uttered out of exhaustion, her mind clearly not thinking things through. Her mother of all people should understand the insanity that resulted from excessive lack of coffee.
She reached her hand up, tucking the necklace back under the collar of Tristan's shirt. Looking down on her outfit, she pondered the option of changing out of the shirt and shorts. The intimacy of wearing his clothes was unconscious to her, the same material that touched his bare skin still clinging to hers. She had other clothes she could change into, but didn't, deciding against delaying her caffeine intake. The shirt and shorts were an comfortable fit, covering her in the comfiness of their worn condition. Besides, wearing his clothes meant nothing to her, so why should she feel forced to change from them.
She frowned slightly at her thoughts, amazed that in a few short minutes after waking up she was already thinking of Tristan and what effect he had on her. Shaking her head, she refuted the idea that he meant anything to her beyond a friend. Denial. It was quickly becoming her friend.
As she crossed the floor reaching the door, she prepared herself for the onslaught of questions that would greet her downstairs. As she did, she paused momentarily, mentally clearing her thoughts of all things Tristan, a task that was becoming increasingly difficult. Simple things such as a necklace or a dress could evoke such strong emotions. She again denied the fact that she had a problem, convincing herself that she could stop thinking of Tristan at any second. She could stop wanting to be in his company, stop wanting to see his smirk in the halls, and most importantly, stop feeling the flutter of her heart when he walked into the room. She was beginning to think she needed to enroll in a 12 step program. Tristan-aholics anonymous. She sighed at the thought. She definitely had the denial down. Now what was the next stage? She wasn't quite sure, but she silently prayed that she would find it. She was already treading on shaky ground, dangerously close to wholly submitting to her addiction.
Four cups of coffee, and an hour later, she was still fighting the war against her emotions. Only now, she was battling on two fronts. On one hand, she was defending Tristan, trying to convince her grandparents that he had been a complete gentleman with nothing but pure intentions. And on the other, she was telling herself to ignore the words coming from her mouth, because Tristan was not the great guy she was painting him out to be.
She cast what she hoped were killer glares at her mother, who was sitting across the room, amused by the whole situation. She couldn't help but think her mother was enjoying her turmoil, finally receiving a dose of what her mother went through so many times before. Her grandparents could be completely irrational sometimes.
"So you danced with him?"
"I already said that I did." Rory was quickly growing tired of her grandmother's demand for information.
"Was it a slow dance, or a fast dance?"
"I don't remember," she lied.
"Where were his hands during your dance?"
"Isn't this where you cue the stage lighting, casting dark shadows across my face as the criminal faces the interrogation."
Emily ignored her comment, though Rory was pleased to see a smile start to form on her grandfather's lips. She made a mental note to remember that if ever she wanted something from her grandparents, first seek out her grandfather, for he seemed to have a soft spot for her.
Reluctantly, Rory realized the torture would be over sooner if she just cooperated. "It was a slow dance, music by Faith Hill, I think. His hands were at my waist, mine at his neck, just like you see there." She pointed at the newspaper laying on the table. "When the song ended, the photographer took the picture, we broke away, end of story."
Letting the information settle in, Emily quickly moved to her next topic. "How many beds were in the hotel room?"
Before she could answer, Lorelai jumped in to save the day, deciding Rory had endured enough humiliation for the day, and probably for her lifetime. "Ok Sipowicz and Sorenson, I think you've gotten as much information out of this confidant as you're going to get. How about you release her to my custody and I promise to bring her back in for questioning if any new leads develop?" She walked around to stand behind her daughter's chair, placing her hands comfortingly on her shoulders. She looked back and forth between her parents, a pensive frown on her face.
"What's the matter?"
"Oh nothing. I was just trying to decide which one of you would be Sorenson. Because you know, Rick Schroeder definitely has a cuter butt than Dennis Franz. But then again, Dennis Franz has won a few Emmy's for his buttwork. Well, maybe not just for his buttwork, but I'm sure that's one of his many assets. Oh, now there's a word that could have so many meanings for this conversation. Ok, I'm stopping that train of thought before I start casting you guys by your butts, not that I've ever thought about your butts mind you." Lorelai shuddered at the thought, ignoring the flabbergasted look her mother was casting her.
"Lorelai, I'm not finished."
"Well I think Rory is."
"I think she can stand to answer a few more questions."
Lorelai sighed. "Well, Mom, I'm trying to get her out of here before the inevitable 'boxers or briefs' question arises."
"Don't you want to know what went on with your daughter and that boy?" Her voice indicated that she was not buying the innocent gestures her granddaughter suggested.
"No, Mom. I don't. I trust Rory and I'm not going to make her relive last night just to satisfy my curiousity. If she has something to tell me, she'll tell me when she's good and ready." Lorelai motioned for Rory to leave the room, and she happily obeyed, exiting into the hall. "And even if I did, as her mother I have first dibs on the juicy gossip which I plan to extract during the car ride home."
Richard calmly placed a hand on Emily's arm. "I think we've gotten as much as we're going to get. Why don't you give it a rest for now."
Emily huffed. "I most certainly will not. I think I'm entitled to a detailed description of last nights events, given it involves my granddaughter and the grandson of one of our closest friends." She began to stand to follow Rory out of the room. "Rory..."
Lorelai stepped into her path.
"What are you doing?" Emily tried to brush past her, but Lorelai again headed her off.
"For once in your life Mother, let it go." Her voice was firm.
Emily stopped, aghast at her daughter's tone of voice. Rory decided that now would be a good time to exit the house. She made her way out onto the porch, not wanting to hear the argument ensuing a few feet away.
Rory placed the dress and shoes into the back seat of the jeep, climbing silently into the front. Lorelai was already seated behind the wheel, glancing curiously at her daughter.
"So, how'd you do it?"
Rory looked questioningly. "How'd I do what?"
"How did you sit there and answer those questions without completely gushing about Tristan."
Rory scowled at her mother. "I don't gush about Tristan, nor would I want to."
Lorelai chuckled. "Is this the same girl who only this morning was finally admitting she had feelings for this ogre?"
"I did nothing of the sort." She crossed her arms in front of her in what she hoped was a convincing move, realizing after the fact that it more likely resembled pouting.
Lorelai looked at her through the corner of her eyes. "Oh, then that must be my other daughter. The one who was suddenly falling head over heels for some guy."
"I do not have feelings for Tristan. We're friends. That's all." Her voice sounded unconvincing , even to herself.
Lorelai let out a muffled snort.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, it's not nothing. Why did you just snort?"
"I was just thinking that you change your mind more often than Ms. Patty changes her cell phone battery."
"Are you saying that I'm fickle?"
Lorelai pondered the question. "Not fickle. Confused."
"I am not confused." She ignored the dubious look her mother cast her way.
"Then you're in denial."
She didn't respond.
"You know, we really need to get you some help. Maybe there's a 12 step program out there that can help you realize your obsession."
Rory's eyes shot to her mother's face, astonished that her mother could read her thoughts so well. "I am not obsessed."
"Denial."
"I'm not having this conversation with you."
"Ooh, anger. Still in stage 1 dear. Admitting you have a problem is the first step."
Rory turned to face the window, hoping her mother would get the hint.
"That's ok honey. Once you pass step one you move onto step two. Realization that you're powerless to control it."
Rory inwardly cringed at the thought. The truth of that statement stung. For no matter how hard she fought this feeling, she was powerless to control where it was taking her. Unwilling to believe that one person could have this much control over her thoughts, feelings, and emotions. Satisfied that Lorelai had finally dropped the subject, she leaned her head against the headrest, closing her eyes, willing herself to think about something, anything that was not him.
Tristan threw his keys on the bookcase by the door. His mother hated when he did that, the clinking noise disturbing the quiet mausoleum feel to the entryway. She also feared that he would knick the finish on the extremely over priced antique. At first he had done it for convenience, his keys accessible immediately as he ran through the door. It had since progressed to an action solely done to irk his mother, seizing every opportunity she gave him to make her crazy.
He bounded up the stairs, seeking the comfort of his room. It was the only place inside his 'home' that he truly felt like he belonged. It contained few aspects of the typical teenager's room, but instead reflected the self few people knew. Mounds of books were stacked neatly in the corner, the overflow from his packed desk and shelves. He never told anyone about his obsession with literature, keeping that piece of information hidden beneath the fake persona. He smiled to himself. If anyone knew of his activities, they would assume he took up reading because she liked it. But that wasn't true. As much as he enjoyed knowing they shared this passion, his love of the arts dated back to his childhood, long before she had entered his life.
He smiled as he remembered the way she looked last night. She was a picture of pure perfection in the dress, letting herself for once show off her beauty. At first she had been a little self conscious, but as soon as she recognized the looks he cast her way, she quickly gained her self esteem. Unlike most girls he dated, she was not sure of her beauty, not flaunting it to gain his attention. But that's exactly what she did. He couldn't believe that she did not know the effect she had on him. How being in the same room with her wreaked havoc on his control. He remembered how she looked in his clothes, the t-shirt all but hanging to her knees. Even in his clothes she looked like a goddess.
He yawned as he made his way to his bed, not even bothering to change out of his disheveled tux. The sleep he attained last night was minimal, for every time he started to drift off, she would shift positions in the bed, reminding him that the one person he wanted more than life itself was laying only inches from him. He marveled at his self control, amazed that he had kept himself from pulling her into his arms and placing kisses all along her neck. He smiled tiredly as he fondly recalled waking with her in his arms. While he could still master his actions while he was awake, his altered sleeping state had been unable to restrain the urge to hold her.
No sooner had he flopped on his bed, he heard a knock at the door. He let out a small groan at the interruption to his much needed sleep. Before he could answer, his door opened, both his mother and father entering into the room. He sat up in his bed, staring at them flatly, uninterested in anything they had to say.
This time, his father spoke first. "Your mother and I have decided that you will not be bringing that girl to any more functions."
Tristan stared down his parents, startled by the conversation, yet somehow knowing this conversation was coming. "What? Dictating my career path wasn't enough for you? Now you want to tell me who I can be friends with?"
"You will not talk to your father that way." His mother's defense of his father was almost comical.
"Ooh, are you going to banish me to my room and take away my toys?", he asked snidely.
"You are a DuGrey. And DuGreys do not socialize with people of lower class."
"I am?" He faked a shocked expression. "Maybe you should have that tattooed on my forehead to remind me every time I look in the mirror."
"Don't mock us. We're serious about this. You will not bring her around again."
Tristan cast them a challenging look. "You can't tell me what to do."
"Either you'll follow our rules or face the consequences."
He balked at their empty threats. Any time he refused to live up to their perfect ideal, they played the money card. He was so used to this game. Money meant nothing to him and their threats only strengthened his belief that money would end his existence. "She means more to me than your money ever will."
He abruptly got up, purposely brushing shoulders with his father as he passed, signifying the lack of intimidation he felt. He left his room against his parents protests, taking the stairs two at a time. He grabbed his keys on the counter, intentionally dragging them across the wood, leaving marks and chipped paint in their wake. He fled the house and all that it stood for, needing to remove himself from the cold interior as quickly as possible. He hopped into his car, put it in gear, and peeled out of the driveway. He had done this many times before, running from his parents and their constant theories on how his life should be. He had no particular destination, the solitude of his car the only consolation he would need.
Monday morning rolled around, and Rory found herself sitting on the bus again. The familiarity of her routine provided little comfort for her worries. She was dreading the confrontations today, knowing that everyone and their neighbor had seen her picture in the newspaper. With Tristan DuGrey nonetheless.
She had hidden out in her house most of Sunday afternoon, not wanting to face the numerous questions and gossip floating around town. As much as she loved Stars Hallow, there were just sometimes she wished people there would get a life and stop caring so much about hers. She appreciated their concern, but she was not up for 20 questions with everyone from the produce man to the street sweeper. The number one question on their minds had been 'who is that boy?' Each person had offered a spin on the situation, ranging from Ms. Patty's declarations of Tristan's "hotness' to Taylor's insistance that he was probably a drug dealer. Their incessant prying had confined her to the inside of her home. She even turned down an offer to accompany her mother to Luke's, instead dining on a mixture of microwavable popcorn and Raisinets. Her mother had done a formidable job running interference, using a variety of excuses as to why Rory was unavailable. Rory chuckled a little at the confusion that was sure to ensue on the gossip lines as each person ran out to tell the newest development. Somewhere by now, they should be deciding between Rory skiing in the Alps or having came down with an incurable case of the hiccups.
Arriving at school, she quickly made her way through the courtyard, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone. She heard a few snickers and comments directed at her as she breezed through the halls. She wasn't sure why she felt embarrassed over the situation. It wasn't like her to really care what other people thought. And she very much doubted she had ever occupied their thoughts prior to this occasion. She didn't appreciate the stares or the jealous glares cast at her from all directions. If this was what it felt like to be popular, she'd gladly pass on that opportunity.
She purposely walked through the halls, making a beeline for her locker. She turned the numbers on the lock, struggling to open the sticky thing. Balling her fist, she lightly tapped the edge, a trick Tristan had taught her. The door swung open, finally giving her access to its contents. She arranged her locker, taking out the books she would need for first period and returning those she had needlessly taken over the weekend. She stood for a moment, making a mental checklist of all her materials. Satisfied that she had all she needed, she took one last look into the neatly arranged space. Before she had the chance to close her locker, she was greeted by the less than friendly voice of her classmate.
"I see you had an exciting weekend?", the girl accused.
"Good morning Paris," she replied flatly.
"I'm surprised they let a girl like you into a social function like that." Paris's eyes traveled the length of her, assessing her attributes, deciding she didn't like what she saw.
"They weren't checking bank accounts at the door." Rory was anxious to end the conversation before it went beyond their usual banter.
"But I guess Tristan gets anything he wants. I mean, he got you didn't he." The animosity in her voice betrayed the underlying jealousy.
Rory cast her a sideways glance. "He did not get me."
Paris snorted a half laugh. "You know, you almost had me fooled. I thought that perhaps, just maybe, you really didn't have feelings for Tristan. But of course, I was right. I did, however, expect you to put up a bigger fight when he came knocking at your door."
"You're delusional."
"Oh, I am, am I? I'm not the one with my face plastered across the front page, obviously in an intimate embrace with a guy I claim to hate."
Rory raised her voice slightly above normal speaking tones. "There's nothing going on between Tristan and me. We're friends that's all."
Paris scoffed. "Funny. I don't look at my friends like that, nor do I stand so close when we dance."
Rory seized the perfect opportunity. "That's because you don't have any friends Paris. And I'd hope you don't stand that close when you're dancing, cause as I remember it, you can't get anyone to dance with you who isn't obligated by blood relation." She slammed her locker with more force than she intended, and turned on her heel.
Rory was fully aware of the glares that followed her all that day. Eyes of Chilton students burning holes into the back of her blazer. She tried to block out the snide comments, strategically muttered above a whisper so that she would hear, each one making their mark on her confidence. And Paris didn't seem to be helping matters. Any time Rory tried to refute a story, Paris was right there to add her two cents.
And it most definitely didn't help that Tristan missed the entire first day of school. It was rumored that he was out sick, a story unsupported by the pictures promoting his glorious weekend. She overheard comments from guys hinting at her bedroom skills, saying she must be something to wear out Tristan DuGrey. She ignored their childish comments, knowing that all they wanted was to get under her skin. And only one Chilton male had ever managed to do that. She had looked for him in the classes they shared together, waiting for him to stroll into the room and defend her honor. Just wanting him to appear and make it all better, make her feel safe like he had managed to do when she was confronted by his parents. Only he never came. Instead, she went from class to class, praying that she would make it through the next hour unscathed.
Tristan finally made an appearance after lunch. He looked tired, and she wondered if indeed he had came down with something. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, regardless of the fact that being seen together would further add fuel to the fire. She didn't care what they thought. They were friends, and friends were allowed to talk to each other at school. If other students had a problem with that, then it was their own fault. As long as she and Tristan were straight on their relationship, that was all that mattered. Only, she wasn't certain that she was clear on that matter. She saw him turn the corner toward his next class, unable to catch his attention before he trotted off to 5th period. She sought him out between classes, each time coming up short. She had caught his glance once, receiving an encouraging smile. He seemed oblivious to the commotion that was surrounding them that day. Either that, or he was so familiar with being talked about he noted nothing unusual about the day's events.
In the last class of the day, Rory finally found a moment to exchange a few words with Tristan. They exchanged a few brief pleasantries and she asked about the rest of his weekend. He avoided the topic expertly, using the excuse that class was about to start. They took their seats in the back of the classroom, sliding in just as the bell sounded. Sighs of relief echoed through the class when their teacher decided to wave off lecture in favor of some well deserved study time. With finals approaching, Chilton teachers decided now was a good time to cram as much information into such a short period. The wells of knowledge were overflowing and subject matter was meshing with subject matter. She wasn't certain anymore if the Pythagorean theorem was a math term or a fancy term for a style of writing research papers. The unusual break from lecture was a welcome one.
Nearing the end of class, Rory sat staring at her open textbook, her brain refusing to process any more information for the day. She looked around the room, noting the studious positions of the other students. Everyone was taking advantage of the time, hoping to prove to the teacher that they could wisely use the study time, in hopes that she would be lenient again in the future. She glanced at the front of the room, trying to ascertain her instructors attention to the surroundings. Ms. Hampton had her face buried into a novel of sorts, oblivious to the students before her.
Deciding she was safe, Rory slipped a loose piece of paper from her notebook and jotted down a few words. She folded the slip over on itself neatly. Leaning back in her chair, she discreetly dropped the note onto Tristan's desk behind her. She heard him shuffle his papers, as he reached for the note. Crossing her arms in front of her, she returned to her position over her book. A few moments later she was jutted out of her thoughts by her teacher's sharp voice.
"Mr. DuGrey, please give me that." She was standing beside Rory's desk, her hand outstretched in front of Tristan.
Tristan's mind raced, searching for a way out of this. He was shocked when Rory had dropped the note on his desk, for that was so out of character for her. He had just started to open the paper when Ms. Hampton was upon him. He nonchalantly switched papers, instead handing over one of his pages of notes. He was not sure what she had seen, and was hoping he could convince her that Rory had been returning some of his notes.
"No not that. I want the note that I just saw Ms. Gilmore drop on your desk."
She again heard him shuffle through his papers, searching looking for something to hand over. After a few agonizing moments, she saw Ms. Hampton's satisfied look. Panic struck as Rory realized that Tristan had reluctantly handed over the note.
Ms. Hampton made her way back to the front of the classroom. Rory expected her to make a comment, asking her to stay after class. She was certain she was going to pay in some way for this. She was unprepared for what happened next. Ms. Hampton turned to face the students, carefully unfolding the note. "Well class, it appears that Ms. Gilmore has something very important to say to Mr. Dugrey. Since it's so important that she thought it necessary to interrupt my class, I'm sure we'll all benefit from reading it out loud."
Sheer terror crossed Rory's face as Ms. Hampton began to read aloud her words. Fear froze her in her chair, unable to peel her eyes from Ms. Hampton's form.
Ms. Hampton flatly read from the paper. "I have your clothes from the other night. Thanks again for letting me borrow them. Did I leave my watch in your car? I can't seem to find it anywhere and I'm starting the think I may have left it on the bed at the hotel."
The room was filled with gasps from some students, and snorting and chuckling from others as the last line was read. Paris shot a look of contempt at her while Louise seemed to be forming a new admiration.
Ms Hampton's glare focused on Rory. "I trust Ms. Gilmore, that in the future, you'll discuss your extra-curricular activities with Mr. DuGrey outside my classroom."
Rory's face was burning with embarrassment. She fought against the trembling that was overtaking her body, shaking from a mixture of humiliation and shock. From her position in front of him, she could not see Tristan's face matching her own shade of red. Her innocent words were so easily twisted into something very far from the truth.
Rory fled the room as quickly as possible, twisting her arm from Tristan's grasp as he tried to stop her. She knew she couldn't blame him for this, but she also knew she couldn't face his cockiness at a time like this. She ran to the bus stop, not even bothering to stop at her locker and exchange books. She held back the tears threatening to fall. This was not something she needed to add to the inner turmoil she was already experiencing thanks to Tristan. She avoided the eyes of everyone around her, certain that by this time tomorrow, every student at Chilton, and even most of the faculty, would be convinced that she was sleeping with Tristan DuGrey.
Tristan followed the directions scribbled on the napkin in his hand. He knew that this was probably not the smartest move, but he also knew he couldn't let her run away from this. From him. He needed to gauge her reaction, to comfort her and remind her that the asinine comments of his classmates should mean nothing to her. She was better than they could ever hope to be.
He was tired of running himself. He had spent the night driving around, to no where in particular. Running from his parents. Running from himself. He had been late to school due to his avoidance of his house. He waited until his father left for work and his mother went to her weekly hair appointment before he dared to enter his house. Only then changing into his school clothes and venturing off to Chilton hell
He was surprised at the reaction he received at school, not quite understanding the pats on his back and well wishes from his friends. He didn't understand the impact of his relationship with Rory nor could he fathom why anyone else would even care. He was used to being talked about, being measured up in the halls by the girls. But lately, he had given up his flirting, instead focusing all his energy on one in particular. Perhaps his sudden change in demeanor contributed to the overwhelming interest in his love life. And invariably knowing she was involved had increased their interest in her.
He pulled his car in front of her house, just as she was climbing the stairs up the front porch. He jumped out of the car, jogging across the lawn.
"Rory."
She whirled around at his voice, a range of emotions dueling in her mind. She raised her hand to brush away the tears, uttering the first words that came to her mind. "How did you find my house?"
Tristan was slightly taken aback by her tears. He wanted to pull her in his arms, stroke her hair, and tell her everything would be alright. He wanted to comfort her and let her know that she didn't need them. "I stopped in town and asked around. Someone recognized me from the paper and gave me directions."
"Dammit. Why won't everyone just stay the hell out of my life." She was exasperated.
Tristan was surprised by her language. He had never heard her curse before and somehow the words coming from her seemed out of place. He reached for her arm, but she quickly pulled it from his grasp.
"What do you want?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, obviously trying to keep her emotions in check.
"I wanted to see that you were alright.."
"Yeah, I'm just peachy, can't you tell? What gave it away, the running humiliated from school grounds, or the tears making their way down my face?" She again wiped away the wetness from her cheeks. "Why do you even care?"
His voice was concerned. "Because I don't want to lose you over this."
Rory scoffed at his admission. "Lose me? You never had me. All of the sudden you think you have some sort of claim to me?"
"That's not what I meant," he said calmly.
"Oh, what did you mean? You wanted to be sure I didn't stray too far so that whenever you're ready, I'll be here and waiting?"
"I don't want to lose you as a friend."
Rory looked into his eyes, searching for an answer to her next question. "Is that all we are?"
The idea that she could think that they were more caused his heart to skip a beat. "Is that all you want us to be?"
"Don't answer my question with another one."
"Rory, you know that friendship isn't the only thing I want." He prepared himself for what he knew was coming.
"Then what do you want?", she asked hesitantly.
"I want you," he whispered.
Rory frowned slightly. "You want me to what? To be the next notch on your belt? To be the next conquest so that you can run and tell your friends what a score you made with Rory Gilmore?"
"You know that's not true."
And in her heart she did. But in her distraught state, she couldn't let her heart take control. "No, I don't."
"Rory, I like you. More than I've ever liked a girl in my life. And I'm so afraid these feelings will not be returned, and I'm not sure I can deal with that."
Rory refused to believe him. "Save it Tristan. I'm not the gullible little girl you believe me to be."
He looked at her, knowing she didn't mean what she was saying, yet unable to convince her it was true.
"Today just proved that everyone else believes it too. Every person in that school thinks you're only after one thing. You never had an interest in me as a person. I was some sort of silly challenge that you had to prove to yourself that you could win. I should have known not to get involved with you." She wanted to stop the words coming from her mouth, but she couldn't.
"I don't care what they think. This is about you and me." He pleaded with her to understand.
"Well I do. I can't be that girl Tristan. I can't be the girl people verbally assault in the hallway. I have enough trouble fitting in at that school without having to worry about what's being said about me behind my back. What do I do when you get tired of me? When you've decided you've had your fun at this game and move onto someone else? Do I just wrap up my feelings and pretend that I haven't fallen for you and life will go on as before?"
He tried to process all she was saying. Was she saying she had feelings for him? He took a chance. "What do you feel, Rory?"
She sighed. "I don't know Tristan. I don't know what I feel. Sometimes I think that I am attracted to you, and other times I want to do nothing but run from you. And I don't think it matters. Because regardless of what I feel, you and I would never work."
"Yes we could." He took a few steps closer to her.
Her heart leapt as he moved within inches of her. She looked up into his eyes.
"In about five seconds, I'm going to kiss you. I'm giving you fair warning, so if you want to walk away, now is your chance. And if after I kiss you, you still think that there's nothing there, then we'll know."
She stood in front of him, willing for her feet to move. Willing herself to pull away from his mesmerizing gaze. She knew there was something there, and she didn't need his kiss to confirm that. She watched as he searched her eyes, needing to see into her heart. She saw him slowly lean into her, hesitatingly, expecting her to pull away.
His lips brushed against hers, tentatively at first, awaiting her reaction. The feel of his lips on hers broke her resistance. She began moving her lips against his, responding to his gentle touch. He put his arm around her waist, molding her to him. Her hand grasped the back of his neck, pulling his lips harder against hers. They were oblivious to the fact that they were standing in broad daylight, in plain view of the town's biggest gossips. His tongue flicked lightly against her lips, gaining access as she welcomed him into her mouth. He tilted her head up, exploring the recesses of her mouth with his tongue. He lost himself in her as the floodgate of emotions broke down, fire coursing through his veins.
Her heart was racing, aware that she was falling harder and harder. In a moment of clarity, she braced her hand on his shoulder, and pushed away. She stepped back from him, looking into his confused eyes. Her breath was labored, matched in urgency only by his own. She took another step backward, unable to break her eye contact with him. It was useless to try to hide the effect he had on her, knowing by his look he was having the same reaction to her.
Taking another step backward she softly whispered. "I can't."
She turned quickly and entered the house, knowing that if she looked back at him, he would be able to convince her that she could. She shut the door, leaning back against it for support. Her legs started to wobble, and slowly she sank to the floor. Silent sobs wracked her body as the tears she thought she had exhausted returned in full force.