Author: SweetThing
Chapter: 5 "They're Alright"
Disclaimer: I. Am. Own. I. Am. Own! "I'm sorry, the position has been filled." Click! Ah, the classic comedy of Robin Williams. Can't go wrong there, folks. Heh, seriously, when it comes down to it, I don't own anything, and I never will. Oh, and the title is inspired by the excellent song "Surrender" by Cheap Trick, and the lyrics are from "Burn Baby Burn" by Ash, from Free All Angels. Also, I don't "Lola" or any of the Kinks' albums.
Author's Note: I apologize for the delay of this chapter; I've been limited in online time since school started and everything. As always, thanks for all the wonderful reviews, even weeks after I posted chapter four. It means a lot.
Dedications: To Elise, for being her usual wonderful awesome beta self, Surya for putting up with my pregnancy (and other, lol) questions, and Susie for giving some great and much-needed advice. And Lessa, my namesake who rules and is a smut queen. Hee. I love you all, ladies. And of course, everyone who reviewed and is following the story. You all rock my world.
Vicious bitter words/becoming more and more cruel/But you always take me back/and let me lick your wounds…
I plop onto my mother's couch, waiting for her to show herself off. Her and Luke are supposed to be at my grandparents' in an hour, and, after about forty-five minutes of the two of us rushing haphazardly through her closet, I think I've finally found the perfect outfit for her to wear in her…well, state, right now.
"Mom?" I'm pretty sure she's looking at herself in the mirror in her bedroom, bemoaning over the weight she's gained over the past two months. Even though, at the most, she's about ten pounds heavier. While she doesn't mind the reason for the sudden fluctuation, she still grumbles over the fact that her favorite pair of jeans would now take a battle with Luke's stainless-steel pliers to button, never mind zipper.
"One minute, hon!" She replies, and I hear the sound of scrambling around for something or other (most likely one of the pairs of shoes we picked out to go with the skirt) until she walks down the stairs, clad in a simple knee-length skirt, black to make her look slimmer, and a flowing peasant blouse with a tiny floral pattern. I smile. Perfect. Understated, yet undeniably Lorelai.
"So, what do you think? Acceptable? We are talking about Emily and Richard, here. I am sure that on this, my first pregnant and not out-of-wedlock appearance in their household, they wish to have me dressed in the attire of a proper lady, even being indisposed as I am." She has adopted an English accent as she finishes, and curtsies primly to complete the effect.
I giggle. "Exactly, which is why wearing your sweatpants and 'sex kitten' shirt wasn't the answer," I say, referring to her earlier suggestion that she just go in those, as she was uncomfortable in almost all of her regular pants, and she didn't feel like changing her shirt.
"True," she turns around, channeling Kate Moss without the stick figure appearance, as I laugh and reply,
"You look great, Mom. Even for a pregnant lady," I tease.
Lorelai mock-glares at me. "You better watch it, missy, because in a few months I might just kill you for saying that. My hormones are already wreaking havoc in here. Yesterday I cried at a Wal-Mart commercial! I never cry because of TV. When Murphy Brown ended, I laughed! I mean, come on, who really hugs five people at once? Totally ridiculous."
"Says the woman who watched Dawson's Creek religiously for all six seasons," I quip, "And bawled when Jen got killed off."
"It was the finale! And she was the best character on that show!" She defends herself quickly, as her explanation has been used over and over for the past few years. I smirk to myself. "Alright, Mom," I say then, dismissing the subject, "I think it's time for you to do your makeup." I nod towards the clock, mounted on the wall next to the door by Luke a few years back.
She follows my eyes and notices the time. "Dammit, you're right. Plus my hair isn't even near done," she runs a hand through her towel-dried, half-damp locks before jogging back up the stairs. "Thanks babe!" she calls, and almost runs into Luke in the process, who's headed in the opposite direction. He notices her slightly disheveled appearance, never missing a beat as he half yells,
"Lorelai, if we want to get there on time we have to leave in fifteen minutes!"
"Great, plenty of time," my mother responds as she reaches the top step. Luke rolls his eyes, but I can tell there's something else beneath the annoyance. There always is. The two of them, they just…work. I'm envious sometimes, just a little, of what they have. To have someone who I know, without a doubt will always be there for me, in the sense of a romantic relationship, anyway, is actually something I once thought I was experiencing.
Until it all blew up in my face. I sigh. Thoughts of Steve are rarer now, but every so often something will remind me of him, and the ache comes back. I'm not sure if this whole thing with Tristan is the cause of it, nor do I want to be. Because that will mean the bastard was right, and even though I never verbally disagreed with him, I still wasn't sure it would really work, and I don't want to see the expression on his face, don't want to hear what he'd have to say if he "won" with this particular issue. It sickens me, it really does. I frown and roll my own eyes as I get up and head towards the kitchen.
From upstairs, I hear the slam of a makeup case. "Sweets, can I use some of that new eye shadow you bought the other day?" My mother yells down the stairs. I grin. Lorelai will most likely make them late. "Sure, it's on my dresser," I reply. From the living room, putting his shoes on, Luke calls up,
"How late should I tell them we'll be?"
"Honey, I told you, I have plenty of time! Were not going to be late," she says, as she runs back down the stairs.
"Lorelai, it's ten till and your hair's not even done," he retorts. Over the years, he has become accustomed to the extended amount of time it takes my mother (and me, the older I get) to get ready.
She pauses. "At least ten minutes," she decides, and hurries into my room. Luke sighs knowingly and gets up to find the phone. As he passes, he says, "If she even wants to stop somewhere…"
"I'd be prepared, just in case," I reply, searching the kitchen for something to eat. Lately, Lorelai has been craving weird foods, as almost all women do during a pregnancy, but the strange thing is, instead of craving sweets or some weird type of taco only found in the Southern Hemisphere, she wants actual food. The type that's good for you. Hard as it is to believe, a few weeks back, my mother couldn't do anything else until she had a salad with Italian dressing. And the other day, she made her poor husband drive around for about an hour, looking for a good sub place. Our fridge, for the first time in Gilmore history, has fruit and veggies in it. There's cereal that does not contain ungodly amounts of sugar, beverages that don't have any carbonation, and frozen stuff that does not consist of pizza or French fries. Frankly, I'm just waiting for the X-Files theme to play.
Luke sighs. "The sad thing is, you're absolutely right. I better bring a little extra money, just in case." After he finds the phone and finishes the call to my grandparents, he goes back upstairs, continuing the sequence of stair ascending and descending that's been going on since five'o clock tonight.
A few minutes later, they end it, and Mom and Luke come down them one last time, together and ready to go at last. I smile. They look fantastic. And since this is no ordinary dinner at the elder Gilmore's, but a small "gathering of friends" as Grandpa likes to call it, they are expected to. Mom would've made up an excuse, but since they haven't seen her or Luke since they found out she was pregnant, Emily put Mom on a guilt trip she couldn't really dodge.
As they approach the door, they tell me the basics,
"We'll be home—" Luke starts,
"Early, as early as possible," Lorelai finishes for him.
Luke gives her a look, but continues,
"Just, you know the drill, make sure the doors are locked, that sort of thing."
"Right," Mom smiles at him slightly, "And we're taking the Jeep, but if you want Luke's truck, by all means---"
I laugh softly. "Somehow I don't think that's going to be necessary. I'm just going to stay in tonight, maybe watch a movie. I'm pretty tired."
They look approving. "Alright, well, have fun," Lorelai replies.
"You too. You look great," I assure them, "Just tell Grandma and Grandpa that true beauty takes time."
"You think I was going to tell her anything else?" Lorelai laughs, "And with me being pregnant and all, that's at least an extra ten minutes right there," She adds as Luke starts to open the door.
"Alright, Miss Connecticut, let's go," Luke says a bit wearily as he smiles and bids me farewell.
"Bye, Rory."
"Bye Luke! Bye Mom."
"See ya later, Babe," she returns as they exit the house. I sigh, for no particular reason, as I hear the Jeep pull out of the driveway. I fall onto the couch once more. I am officially in for the night.
*
Four hours later, it seems I'm not after all, as none other than Tristan himself follows me into the house.
"Tell me again why I had to pick you up, in Luke's twenty-year-old truck, of all cars?" I ask rhetorically, annoyed as we enter the living room.
"Hey, it's not my fault my car fucking broke down in the middle of nowhere, alright? Plus, I was coming over here anyway." He retorts.
I wave him off. "Okay, okay, don't get all hot and bothered, just…get in the house, whatever."
"You forget, O Undefiled One, that that's your job." He replies lewdly as we reach my bedroom. I shoot him a dirty look as I fall wearily onto my bed, arms splayed out in front of me.
"Alright, listen. This isn't going to be some one-hour tantric marathon, because I—" I yawn, "Am extremely tired. So, come on, Don Juan. Take me—" I say through my second yawn, "Take me now." I finish with as much of a dramatic flourish as possible. Then, Tristan seems to humor me a bit as he lands beside me on his stomach, halfway so that his head is near my hips.
"Wow, you really know what to say to get me going, don't you?" He jokes. I snicker, slightly slap happy.
"Well, I have had like, what, two months now to figure that one out? I think I've got it down." I reply, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Oh really?" Tristan responds, his voice challenging. "Because I happen to be a very complicated man. Not just anything turns me on, you know. I'm a particular person with particular ways and very particular needs---"
"Ha!" I snort, and start laughing harder than I expected to. "That is such bullshit! Tristan, you---" I start, getting a second wind as I prop myself up on my elbow to face him, "Are exactly like every other guy. You're so easy, and not just in this particular state, mind you, it's not even funny. The slightest thing will get you all excited and you'll start jumping all over me or beg me until you get your way, like a freaking toddler." I pause with realization. "Hey! Now I know what Fred Durst was talking about. What a perfect analogy." I finish, my laughter dying down. I sigh, "Oh wow, was that great."
Tristan rolls his eyes. "Somewhere, Fred Durst is getting off on your flattering complement."
I glare at him. "You're just mad because I called you on something you know is true, but you're too macho or whatever other sexist word to admit it."
He lets out a breath, annoyed. "Just because you think I, and all guys are easy doesn't mean you, and all women in general, aren't either." He finishes with conviction.
"Please," I say, "Women aren't the ones who watch porno's and masturbate to random celebrities."
"No, you read romance novels and get off on those sappy sensitive type guys who aren't even that good-looking!"
"Oh my God! You don't know the first thing about what a woman's really attracted to in a guy!" I reply in disbelief, "If a person is kind, caring, and has a good, strong personality---" I emphasize the word by getting in his face and saying it loudly, "Then yes, it makes them more attractive to me, even if they aren't the most handsome or cute or don't have the best body. But sappiness is not a turn-on! I swear, you males take one thing and twist it into something totally different. You need better comprehension skills."
He groans and rubs his temples, seemingly painted into a corner. "Look, spare me the surly Vagina Monologue, will you? I get it: Women, Good. Smart. Mature. Men, bad. Stupid. Masses of hormones."
"Well good, then. As long as you can process that. I know how hard it is for you," I shoot back.
"Are you sure you're not a lesbian, Lizzy Borden?" Tristan says irritably, but the obnoxious tone to his voice is there solely for my discomfort.
"Believe me, nobody else makes me question my sexuality more than you,'" I snap back in disgust.
He looks slightly incredulous as I turn away from him, and lie on my back, closing my eyes. I hear him mumble something, and the next thing I know…
He is moving.
At first I don't make anything of it, thinking that he's just shifting positions, but then I feel him move closer to me, forward on the bed. I tense up a little. I'm not quite sure what he's trying to pull, but there's no way in a frozen-over hell I'm going to let it get to me. He finally starts to speak again,
"Rory, come on, please?"
"There's no way," I reply haughtily, "Not after the way you just---"
Then suddenly, I feel his hand, slightly cold from the air conditioning, on the hem of my shirt. My eyes snap open, and I instantly protest,
"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing, jackass? If you think you're smooth or clever or something than you are sorely—"
But he hears none of it, and then I feel his breath on the exposed skin of my stomach, and he quickly starts kissing the aforementioned area. "Please----please---please---please?" He says, interrupting himself with the bussing of my abdomen. He pouts like a child. I am flabbergasted. Who does he think he is? I, in turn, start up my complaining again,
"I swear to God, you're impossible, you know that? You can't just start doing this and think I'm just going to cave like a pup-tent in the wind and let you—"
"Oh, I beg to differ," He replies, still not stopping the ministrations on my stomach.
"Please do both of us a favor and just quit while you're ahead before you embarrass yourself! No wait, scratch that, you already have." Still, he won't cease his fire. Ugh, I don't believe he's doing this. It's totally immature and manipulative, not to mention that when this is over, I'm going to have his saliva all over my midsection.
And he's practically pouting, for Christ's sake. Finally, I come to the conclusion that's he's not going to give this up.
"Aughhhh!" I groan, "God, I
hate you, you know that DuGrey? Hate you! And I swear, if you even think
that---"
A knowing smirk fills his features, and his expression says something utterly detestable, something akin to: "I came, I saw, I conquered!" And then, I am finally pushed to the proverbial limit.
"Fine, you know what? Have it your way. But I can assure you---no, I take that back, I will see to it, that this will be the worst sex you've ever had. And you--"
"Ah-ah-ah—" he stops me with his hand—"We both know that the only thing that truly needs to be said is that I was right---," he looks up to point at me, "And you were not," he finishes condescendingly, and returns to my stomach, seemingly too lazy to move. I blow out some air resignedly, saying,
"Just because you took advantage of me at a time when I was tired and more susceptible to well, giving in to you, does not mean that women are the horny miscreatins that so many men are," I finish defiantly, a smug smile appearing on my face.
"Whatever you need to fall to asleep to at night, you sex fiend, you." Tristan looks at me suggestively, an expression I've seen on his face so many times now that I've almost become accustomed to it. He finishes up on my stomach as I shake my head wearily, and wait for him to come up to my normal level, to start the routine, ride with the broken-in saddle.
Until I realize that his mouth is moving lower. I draw in a breath, my body reacting to this realization before my brain has time to process it. Before, he was doing it mostly as a joke, most likely to get me to lighten up, but something about it has changed. I look down at him demandingly, and see that he's at a spot just below my belly button. I don't whether I'm imagining it or not, but he pauses for a moment, and feeling my reaction, his mouth moves further southward.
I almost gasp. A feeling of extreme warmth covers me from my waist down. There's the feeling that's growing, thriving inside of me, threatening to reach full height at any moment. My tiredness reacts to this, putting me in a lazy, blissfully apathetic state that urges me to just let him do whatever he's going to do, or wants for that matter. And for a second, I give in to it.
His mouth is inches, centimeters away. He pauses for what seems like an eternity. My breathing is becoming baited yet shallow, heavy yet light, and I am scared and confused and I am sad and I'm going to lose it and I don't even know why all at once, frozen with fear but melting, apprehensive but anticipating. The feeling in the room, the seriousness, the steady quiet, overwhelms me. This is so much. This is too heavy. My mind is swirling with questions as to why this is happening, but the emotions drown them out almost completely. Yet it feels strangely…familiar? Wait, what's going on? This is---
Not right. I am suddenly overcome with the realization that this is not what I need, that we don't do this. We shouldn't be doing this. This is where the line is drawn. I quickly look down to protest, and Tristan meets my eye with an expression I've never seen on him before. His hand grazes the edge of the fabric near my exposed stomach. "Do you want me to…?"
I shake my head quickly, "No." He nods and folds the elastic band back up, pulls up my pajama pants from where he had been slowly discarding them just minutes before. He seems to understand what I have just come to know, and as I tie adjust them and tie them back up, he turns around on his back and distances himself from me a little. The intense atmosphere lifts, and I sigh in relief.
But I still don't know what to say. A few minutes of a normal silence passes, until Tristan breaks it with,
"Well, under normal circumstances I'd leave now, but you're my ride home. No pun intended."
I roll my eyes, probably number 1,253,765,690 on the roll-dometer. "Now that's refreshing." I smile a little in spite of myself, "But then you know, I was just shocked you didn't resort to the double meaning in circumstance, as stupid and irrelevant as it is." I'm not really serious, but I use the weak joke anyway. It is glaringly obvious that girls take longer to get back to normal after this sort of thing, even if the said "sort of thing" didn't actually happen.
"Oh, come on! That's just tasteless, even for me. Plus, you know I save my best, not to mention grotesque, innuendos for you, revered Queen of The Frigid Earth."
"How did I know that?" I retort, getting annoyed again.
He grins evilly. "Well, you know me. I aim to piss you off. It's one of the greater joys in my life."
"You do realize how sad that is, don't you?"
"I prefer to think of it as more of a hobby. I can quit whenever I want," he says defensively, mimicking a drug addict or a heavy smoker.
"Hmm. No, I don't think so, you're definitely a junkie."
"Nah," he mock-scoffs.
I shake my head, disagreeing, "Sad but true."
Tristan seems to ponder this for a moment. "Eh, maybe I am. But, according to you, I'm also a nymphomaniac, so where does that leave us?"
"Fucked. Extremely and sincerely fucked." I decide on with finality. Once I hear my own words, I can't help laughing a little.
"You know, that's another sad thing right there," He responds.
"What do you mean?"
"That's exactly what we were going into this whole thing."
I pause. "Wow, we are really pathetic."
Tristan shrugs, "Well, no more pathetic than we were then, so that's something, I guess," He pauses, almost mock-thoughtfully. After a moment, "Yes, I do believe we're making progress."
I laugh suddenly, unsure of the exact reason why. "Funny, I wasn't aware this was a twelve-step program."
"Oh yeah. I have plans for it, big plans. Pamphlets, public appearances, TV spots. We're going to go national with this, babe. Maybe even a book deal," he jokes, then seems to indulge himself by continuing, running his hand across the air, "Just Sex? Hell Yes! The Transcendent Cure For The Broken Heart."
At that point, I lose it. I'm cracking up, blaming it on my exhausted state as I say, "Exactly! Sleep with a person you can't stand!" I finish his headline-slash-book title for him.
He joins in my laughter as he adds,
"But who is also in the same heart-broken position, mind you." My hysteria subsides for a second as I have a stroke of comic genius, remembering his expression from earlier,
"No pun intended!"
Then Tristan can hardly breathe, and we are in tears as I clutch my stomach, struggling to calm down.
"Did your office arch-enemy's latest bum dump her ass, again? Jump her in the office and hold on tight!"
"But remember, the hatred must be mutual. Exhibit A: Drew Carey and Mimi Bobek from the popular comedy series---" I can't even finish.
Another round of hysteria ensues as that image crosses my mind and apparently, his. I suddenly realize that that is, in a nutshell, us, and I'm about to verbalize it when he says,
"Oh my God, that is us! We are two overweight underpaid TV characters. We are so fucked up!" He gets out as he wipes his eyes. "I mean, look at us, it's—"
"I know," I break in, "I don't think about it most of the time, for this exact reason. This, just---" I pause "This whole thing is just so…" I gesture with my hands, spreading them out widely in circular motions, not finding the right words to express what I'm saying.
"Oh believe me, I know," Tristan comprehends, "A year ago, if someone told me I'd be here, I'd have directed them to the nearest de-tox clinic." He shakes his head, but then something sad overshadows his features, something I know all too well, from my own experience.
Remembrance. Of the bitter persuasion. You'd think the correct adjective is "bittersweet", but you'd be wrong. There is nothing sweet about the expression this kind of recollection evokes. The vivid feelings and thoughts of the worst times in the departed relationships resurface for a moment, or possibly the exact moment you knew there was no hope for a sudden reconciliation, like at the end of the Meg Ryan and Sandra Bullock movies you watch to cheer yourself up in your time of mourning. But of course, they never help. Are they even supposed to help? They never worked for me, not that I expected them to. I just…when things with Steve were truly over, I just didn't know what to do with myself. So I did all the customary remedies, trying to fill the void that haunted the inside of me (and still does sometimes), making my id a very dark place to be. I knew it was normal, but I hated it.
Oh my God, even in my thoughts I ramble. I shake my head and try to attend the silence that has fallen in the wake of Tristan's one-way trip down what a more sentimental person would call memory lane. I, a slightly less sentimental person, just know it as relationship hell. You know, it's weird. I used to consider myself pretty sentimental, I even wanted a traditional wedding, with beautiful white lilies everywhere and hundreds of guests, and an elegant white dress, and… But the devastation over Steve and the Tristan situation has brought out the realist in me, I guess.
Finally, I look in his direction. He is staring into space, absorbed in nothing, yet transfixed. After a moment of thought, I say,
"You know, I think that was the first time we've ever mutually laughed at something," Tristan is a bit startled as he snaps out of his reverie and rubs his eyes. He chuckles.
"I noticed. And it wasn't at the other's expense, either. Well, sort of. I don't know. Jesus." He sighs tiredly, the weight of his silence bogging him down. I echo it. Then suddenly, comprehension strikes me from behind, and I now know exactly what he's going to do next. It's the agenda. Slightly different on this occasion, but understandably so.
The rubbing of the temples.
The stretching of his arms.
The look that makes me want to do him extreme bodily harm.
And finally, the chose de resistance. The clincher.
He turns to look at me again, back to normal. Then he speaks,
"So, Rizzo, you putting out tonight or what?"
The line.
The reluctance. "Why do I—"?
A snort. "Now, now, quibbling only wastes energy, which you need for…obvious reasons." The leer.
I am at a loss for words, to put it plainly. A sound leaves my mouth, my head is shaking, but I just don't have the anything in me tonight to try to fight him off. Plus, this revolts me to say, but the weariness is making me shall we say…slightly…stimulated.
Alright, fine, I'm turned on. I have been a bit out of sorts lately due to my monthly cycle or whatever you'd like to call it, and since it's due in about a week or so, my hormones have been on overload. Ugh. This is sick; He has me right where he wants me. Not that he knows this, of course. Ha! Like I'd tell him. Inwardly, I smile evilly. If he knew what I know right now, he'd be bouncing off the walls.
I look at Tristan, divulging nothing.
"I stand by my earlier comment," I say snottily, "But I do have to ask, what is it with you and all the name calling tonight?"
He smirks nastily. "What are we, five? I wasn't aware you used kindergarten tactics, Rory."
I quickly throw a throw pillow at him, hard. "You know what I mean! Undefiled One? Ice Queen?"
"Revered Queen of The Frigid Earth," he corrects me.
"Like it matters," I reply in aggravation, and continue, "But Rizzo? Come on, even you can do better than that. I was sure you'd at least get my stereotype right and go for Sandy, or even Patty Simcox"
He suddenly bursts out laughing. "Patty Simcox? Yeah, right! You'd need about a month's worth of speed to even remotely resemble her. But," he continues, "There is a method to my madness. Sandy's the goody-goody girl, and normally, yes, that would be your Grease character, but since that beloved piece of pop-culture mainly revolves around one particular thing—" he stops to give me a knowing glance---"You are Rizzo. You're not a virgin, obviously, or a prude, well, not especially, and I don't have to get you to wear a ring to get you to do it. You just do, it's a given. You didn't have to turn into a whore in leather pants to prove it. It's you, not to mention your jaded nature." Tristan finishes with a grin, waiting practically in glee for my pissed off reaction.
I wrinkle my nose. I'd be pissed off, and disgusted, and I actually am, obviously, but I'm used to this.
"You know, that is insulting and derogatory and…oh my God, I'm a sure thing." I realize rather calmly, and my head drops in defeat. I'm done. I despise it when this happens.
"Exactly! How right on was I?" He exclaims happily, victorious. I look over at him, annoyed and apathetic. "Wow." A quick silence descends as he meets my eye, our faces about an inch or more apart.
"So—"
"Eh,"
"Ro-or,"
"Uhg—fine,"
And that's it. After a series of mumbled phrases he finds my mouth and tongue and I'm spent for the night, as his hips are connected roughly against mine as he practically falls on top of the bed, and me respectively. I am still annoyed as he fumbles to unclasp a bra I'm not wearing and bites my neck ever-so-stealthily even though he knows I can't stand it, and I just don't like the state I'm in right now. It gets harder and harder to concentrate as the seconds pass by, but I gather that I'm tired, PMS-ing, and thinking about Steve like I used to when I was raw from our departure, and took about four naps per day. And I hate it, I know it's temporary but I hate my emotions and I just want them to quit. I want a clear, normal, un tampered with state of contentment, so I get into that particular frame of mind.
And after I do, all that's there is what Tristan and I are doing. So I jump on it. The progression of fooling around to actual sex (very short in this case) is evolving, and I suddenly realize that I've been lost in thought this whole time, but still seem to be doing what I'm supposed to do, because at that moment he groans, snapping me back to reality. Then I feel everything again as my attention is held hostage by it. It almost overwhelms me, but after a second or two it's just like the usual. I let out a breath, and I am suddenly reminded of an event that happened earlier tonight, and that is the absolute last thing I want to think about, so I crush his mouth to mine urgently, hoping he'll get the message. He seems taken by surprise at my sudden strong response, but over the past month and a half, our relations, for lack of a better word, have become more of a "you scratch my back I'll scratch yours" kind of deal. It's still the same as it was, but we know what the other one responds to the most, and we can read the other's signals now. It's sick, but that's how it goes, I guess.
So that is why he obliges me by discarding more clothing and speeding up the process. I know full well he only does this to get something back in return, but I don't really care. On another day? Yes, possibly. But right now, the only thing I really care about is getting rid of this feeling inside me that won't seem to leave. Stopping Mr. Estrogen's wild ride on the Menstrual Express.
And I am selfish. Jesus, what's wrong with me?
I am ashamed. I am vulnerable. And I'm officially done feeling any internal sentiments. He's above me now.
So I drown.
Needless to say, he didn't go near my stomach.
*
The next day, I wake up hours before Tristan and quickly take a Midol. The reason I am up so early is due to extremely annoying cramps, and I have to get him out of the house before Luke gets up, only a few hours away. I sneak into our kitchen, find the pills and swallow two of them. Closing the bottle up, I mentally check it off my list. After putting on some coffee, I move on to the next task: getting my fellow offender in the other room to get his ass out of bed. I pad back to my bedroom, where sure enough, Tristan is snoring peacefully (if there is such a thing) on his side of the bed. I say this because ever since the arrangement started, he's kept to the left side, never moving, even in his sleep, hardly. I figure it must be some male territory complex. I sigh, in desperate need of caffeine, as I make my way over to him. His snoring is gratingly consistent; conveying that there will have to be some physical force involved in rousing him.
"Tristan," I say semi-urgently, making sure it's within his range of hearing. "Come on, get up. Consider me a rooster. Well, it's probably hard to because I can't make the noise a rooster makes, but, come on, imagine a rooster. It's time to wake up." The last part is considerably louder. He stirs slightly.
"That's it, rise and shine. You can nap later. Up, I say!" I'm trying everything here. Finally, he turns to face me restlessly, and shifts. A groan escapes his mouth. I hold my breath. "Now you've got the idea. Come on, you know you're awake. If you're faking it I can assure you there will be extreme bodily harm involved!" I tell him in a singsong voice normally reserved for Sookie's two-month-old, Annie. I sigh. It seems it's not going to work as he turns back towards the wall. I then realize he must be in the middle of a dream or something. "Tristan, please, for the love of---"
"Charisse…" My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. I cringe. Shoot. If this is the kind of dream I think it is, then----
Oh, God! I have to get him up. Now! "Tristan, get your lazy ass out of bed before I sue you for dry-cleaning fees!"
His eyes slowly open. Upon seeing me, he looks vaguely disappointed. "Jesus, what the hell's going on?" He asks groggily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He immediately checks my clock after, and when he's done he turns back to me in disbelief, still getting his bearings back.
"Fuck, Rory, it's not even six a.m. yet!"
I sigh, irritated. "I know, Rip Van Winkle, but Luke gets up extremely early to open the diner, even when he's been out late, so I have drive you home before he does. Now, come on, get your clothes, splash some water on your face, and let's go," I finish. I then exit the room to brush my teeth and do something to make my hair look decent, just so no one mistakes me for that crazy cat-woman who lives in an alley on the edge of the state line, hoping he's starting to dress.
When I come back, Tristan is indeed, thankfully, half-dressed, looking for his shirt and stretching kind of simultaneously. I snort. If there's one thing I've learned about him, it's that he is definitely not a morning person. I use this time to run to the kitchen to get the coffee out of the maker. I take comfort in the fragrant beverage as I find a mug and start nursing it.
I then return to the doorway, where Tristan emerges and turns to me. "Alright," he yawns, "Drive, Miss Daisy." I lead the way out of the house, coffee and keys in hand. As we walk, I can't help egging him on a little.
"Wow, I see your movie referenced quips are pretty weak this morning," I say as we approach the front door.
"You woke me up at the crack of dawn, what do you expect? If I weren't so sleep-deprived I'd be flawless, as usual," He replies half-jokingly. "Speaking of which, is there any possible way to get some caffeine in my veins, here?"
I glare at him. "Why didn't you say something before? I just made some!" I gesture towards my cup. "Didn't you smell it, or I don't know, see me carrying this out of the house?"
"Obviously not! I told you, I'm half-awake here. I don't usually drink regular coffee, I buy the insanely expensive flavored stuff from Starbucks or some equally trendy place," He says sarcastically, then sighs and reveals the true reason. "Plus, I thought you only made enough for yourself, alright? Jeez."
I look towards the sky, begging whoever's up there for strength. "You know what, forget it. I'll go back and pour you some," I say evenly, and start towards the house. He looks surprised, but shrugs and gets into the Jeep.
When I make the exodus out of the house, for the second time, mug in tow, Tristan has started the car and has the air-conditioning blasting. As I buckle my seatbelt, I shiver, handing the mug to him.
"God, is it cold enough in here for you?"
"Hey, it was a friggin' sauna in here. Did you want me to suffocate? Wait, don't answer that," He decides, taking the mug. "Ah, sustenance."
I look at him weirdly. "I didn't realize you had a thing for my coveted beverage," I pull out of the driveway and check my blindspot as he replies,
"When I'm rudely awaken at an ungodly hour of the morning I do," he says, never missing a beat.
I roll my eyes. "Touché."
"Mm-hmm," he mumbles knowingly as he takes a sip. As I drive, I feel the immediate need for background noise and fumble with the radio. When I settle on a station that plays everything from Stone Temple Pilots to Bjork, a few minutes pass as I reach the town's limits. As soon as commercials start, though, he reaches out to change it and I immediately protest.
"Hey!" I push his hand away forcefully, "My car, so we listen to my music, buddy. Plus, there is no way in hell I'm going to be subjected to Pink Floyd and Queen for the next forty minutes."
He throws an irritated glance in my direction. "Would you relax for a second, please? First of all, I was just looking for other music to play while your indie-crap station went to commercial. I had every intention of turning it back. I'm sure it's on your presets,"
"Uhuh, okay," I say, unconvinced as I merge onto the interstate. He continues,
"And furthermore, I don't only listen to bands of that genre, you know."
I snort. "Sure. Come on, Tristan, I've been in the car with you. I've seen your CD collection. It's typical guy music. Nothing more, nothing less."
He wordlessly goes through the radio with the seek button, and stops at a classic rock station, where a song has just ended. When the next one starts up, I immediately recognize the opening chords.
"Ooh, turn this up!" I order him. "I love--." Meanwhile, at the same time, he's exclaiming, "Okay, that's it, I'm stopping here because I---"
We both stop for a second. "You like this song?" He asks in disbelief.
"Yeah, the Kinks are great," I explain, as the song continues, 'She walked up to me and she asked me to dance/ I asked her her name and in a dark brown voice she said Lola/ L-O-L-A Lola.'.
It's a classic song, and I remember first hearing it and then finding out how controversial it was when it was first released.
Tristan is triumphant as he says, "See? You're not the only one with supposed good taste. I happen to like the Kinks myself. I even own an album or two of theirs."
I look at him doubtfully. "Yeah, I'm sure you have their greatest hits, but that doesn't mean anything. What about the influential albums? The Green Preservation Society, The Decline And Fall—"
"…Of The British Empire?" he finishes for me, "Yeah, I've got both of those, not to mention Something Else by The Kinks and Give—"
"Okay, okay! You made your point; you have semi-good taste in music. Now just turn up the radio and shut your mouth, please." I sigh. He complies smugly, and I unconsciously mouth the words to "Lola", until Tristan decides to sing along out loud, around the third verse.
"'Well we drank
champagne and danced all night
Under electric candlelight
She picked me up and sat me on her knee
And said dear boy won't you come home with me
Well I'm not the world's most---'"
He's interrupted though, because at this point I'm in hysterics, almost drowning out the song. "Alright, you know your 70's bands, I'll give you that, but please, don't ever sing in my vicinity again!" I gasp, struggling to regain my normal breathing patterns at his warbling, hopelessly off-key voice.
He glares at me half-seriously, "Hey! I suppose you can do better?"
"Better than that!" I exclaim, "But whatever, shut up, I like this part." At this point, the song is almost blaring as Ray Davies wraps up his tale of a seductive transvestite. I, not caring what I sound like now that I've heard Tristan's, err, unique set of pipes, sing with him.
"Oh, so you can sing but I can't? I see how it is." He mocks hurt as the song's last verse starts up, and sings just to spite me, "'Well I'm not the world's most masculine man, but I know what I am and I'm glad I'm a man and so's Lola, Lo-lo-lo-lo-Lola!'" At this point, we are both singing rather loudly, trying to drown the other one out. When it ends, we are both laughing at the irony of the song's message.
"Such a touching tale, that song." Tristan jokes, pretending to wipe a tear away as another song starts up, by the Who this time.
I giggle. "Isn't it though? It just makes you want to salute every young closeted homosexual who's ever gone to a club."
He laughs, raising his cup of coffee as I stop at an intersection. "To the naïve gay boys!"
I follow suite, and our mugs clink together, "Cheers!" Our laughter dies down then, and I shake my head as I get a green light. As irritating as he is, at least he can appreciate some good music. The ride continues, us arguing every so often when the radio plays a song the other doesn't like. Then we are silent for a long time, and I am slightly weirded out. I shrug it off. This reminds me of something, and I, since I am a bit curious, inquire,
"So, this morning, when I was trying to get you up, I don't know if you know this but, umm…"
Tristan looks up at the sound of my voice, "Oh God, was I talking in my sleep again? A few of the guys have told me I do that," he explains, "It can be humiliating, depending on what I say."
"Yeah, you were a little bit," I say, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, "Actually, you mentioned---"
"Charisse, right?" He sighs. "Jesus. Yep, I did have a dream with her in it, now that I think about it. I always think I'm going to stop having stuff like that happen to me, you know? That this is the day I'm going to stop thinking about her, and be totally over her. But I think---" He pauses. "I think that something like this never completely goes away, you know? Like when someone dies. You heal, but they're always with you somehow. I just wish it wasn't so painful." He averts his eyes toward the window. While I completely understand him on this, I also feel some remorse—shocking myself---that this is the first time he's ever felt like this, that he ever really lost something. It's probably the hardest time, because everything is so new. I clear my throat.
"You know, eventually, it stops hurting. I mean, of course that person---Charisse, is always going to be a part of you, but in a while, all the memories and the experience of everything will stop being bad. I'm not lying, I promise. I'm not that cruel." I smile wanly.
He meets my eyes. "Well, you can be pretty cruel, I don't know…"
I reach over and smack him on the arm. "Alright, alright! Touchy, touchy. Seriously though," he continues, sincere this time, "Thanks."
I nod and shrug. "No problem."
The drive goes on in a peaceful lull of conversation, and at this point I'm just about to enter Hartford. As I get closer to his house, he shifts, prepared to leave the Jeep. Here and there we end up chatting a little, but we're basically done with voluntary co-existence. After all, we won't have to be in the same car anymore in a minute.
When I pull up in front of his house, I put the car in park. "Well, that's it. End of the line, DuGrey. Now beat it." Tristan unbuckles as he replies, "I didn't realize that domination was one of your fetishes. I'll be sure to make note of that for—"
I interrupt him rudely and a little desperately, "Get out of the car!" He leers crudely as he shuts his door, then says,
"Well, I must say, doll, it's been a slice."
I shake my head resignedly. "As always." He walks around to my window and gets in one last jab.
"Thanks for the lift, Jeeves."
"Finally, he gets the movie reference right! Believe me, if I had a hat I'd be tipping it," I reply in annoyance and amusement, despite myself.
"Oh, and what I wouldn't give to see you in one of those old-fashioned southern-style dresses." Tristan says amiably, to his credit (the first and last time I will ever say that).
I snort. "Why, because of the cleavage?"
"Because of the discomfort over those corsets they had to wear! See, I'm not that transparent." He quips proudly, "Bye, Rory."
I roll my eyes as he starts towards the walkway of his house. "Bye, Tristan." He gives me one last salute and is gone, into the ridiculously expensive mansion. I frown in astonishment as I turn into his street, over a couple of things: the fact that Tristan and I actually have something (however small) besides the obvious in common, and at how I drove at six in the morning, on about four hours of sleep, and didn't get into an accident. Yet. God bless the lazy, over-sleeping American who doesn't go out anywhere in the wee hours of the morning.
I head onto the highway, my mind basically blank. The only thing that's on my mind is getting back into bed unnoticed, and then holing up in the living room until tonight, when Louise and Madeline are carting me to some party thrown by Paris's longtime boyfriend, Daniel Shepard. I smile at the thought of the two of them. Paris met him last winter at an art gallery she brought her roommate to, to expose her to some culture. They clicked immediately, and the rest, as they say, cheesy though it is, is history. They've been dating ever since, and she's even been thinking about moving in with him. Apparently, they've been debating on whether or not to take that next step in the relationship. He's really great, and is as no-nonsense as she is, something no other guy has brought to the table. I've never seen her so happy.
And at times, it has made me sick.
I quickly shake the thought away. Not anymore. It's bullshit. I curse Mother Nature internally and concentrate on the road. After a minute or two, my mind starts to wander, and I briefly wonder where Tristan will be going tonight, or if he's doing anything. Most likely there's some party or he's meeting some of his cronies somewhere. I nod to myself.
Just then, I hear thunder, and it slowly begins to drizzle. I groan.
"Wonderful, I'd love to drive home in the fucking pouring rain!" I say out loud in frustration, and put on the window wipers. I turn up the radio, where a Monkees song is on its eightieth chorus or so. I try the other stations quickly, but find them all in the middle of commercial breaks. Even better! The road is getting increasingly monotonous, the rain is increasing, and I feel extremely hot. Still, I resolve to just try my hardest to make it through the rest of the drive, and am just about to heed a stop sign when something flies at my windshield.
I scream, louder than I thought, apparently, and come to a screeching halt. I breathe (somewhat) evenly to shake off the scare I just had, and see that it's nothing more than a flyer or something that just hit the front of the car. I sigh gratefully. I was terrified it was some kind of bird gone berserk because of the storm, Alfred Hitchcock style or something. I pull over to the side of the street to remove it.
When I get close enough to read the paper, it says something I've seen a thousand times before. I shake my head knowingly.
A kegger. I snort. Who actually goes to those things? Alcoholics? Ha! Most likely. I sigh, noticeably vexed, as I trudge back to the Jeep.
The rest of my drive is long and impatient, and when I finally reach my house, I am so relieved I could kiss our old beat-up mailbox by the front porch. Finally. I pull into the driveway hurriedly and turn off the engine and everything in two nano-seconds flat, and run up to the porch quietly.
When I get inside, I walk cautiously through the entryway and slip off my blue flip-flops, sniffing the air. Nope. No brewing coffee, which means that even if Luke left, Lorelai is still asleep. He usually leaves her a pot to heat up later, which annoys her a bit, so then she usually dumps it out and makes a fresh one. "If I wanted cold coffee I'd just go to Starbucks, or…dig up a pile of dirt and throw water on it. Mud, I'd drink mud! How could I forget the word 'mud'?"
I sigh, letting everything bad that happened drift off me and float away, and, at long last, fall onto my couch, much like I did last night. Oh wow. Last night. That seems so far away. I block all incoming thoughts of it and close my eyes, savoring the release that's surrounding me. I was going to get back in bed, but this will do. I let out a huge breath, adjusting the pillows and myself until I am content.
It's been a long day.
And I'm not even dressed yet.