First of all, I have to apologize for my pathological slowness, as school and work now govern my life. However, when I do update, it'll be in long and fatty chapters. Secondly, whoa, I feel so...loved. Thank you for the amazing feedback. While I don't deserve such high praises, I am glowing happily because of them. Now I'm just worried that I'll never meet the expectation. Sigh. ;)
6: Pathetic Fallacy and Expiration Dates
I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend,
Of worry and strain and doubt;
Before we begin, let us view the end,
And maybe I'll do without.
There's never the pang that was worth the tear,
And toss in the night I won't--
So either you do or you don't, my dear,
Either you do or you don't!
--'Ultimatum', Dorothy Parker
He had this fever-induced dream, where things broke into pieces. He was, by nature, a simple guy. Despite the evidence of the late that seemed to point to the contrary, he liked being simple, no deep-harbored darkness that ruled his subconscious. The problems always had been about struggling with the outside conflicts, not the inner stuff. It was one law he tried to abide by. Be simple.
Lately, this little law of his was becoming rapidly un-lawed.
In his dream, a door that led to an empty room revolved and whirlwinded, ripples of the lake turned into violent tides, and the houses broke to pieces around him, piece by piece. Then the cars. Then the people. Then him. All in pieces.
It was a descent. A slow one, by the feel of his skin, but fast, according to time. It was desolating. Frightening in its loneliness. The curious thing was, he knew this feeling. Somewhere far into his memory, he remembered feeling this exact sensation.
He woke up, sweat beading on his forehead and hands trembling.
This wasn't about Rory or her inability to love him, really love him. At least he liked deluding himself.
"See, I figured it all out," Amanda gushed out on the phone one evening, "People. They're all bored. They're all absolutely bored out of their life. That's why they're always talking about goals of their little pathetic lives, glorious careers, and painstaking dating rituals. For the most part of your life, you aren't consciously aware of this boredom because people always keep busy. Keeping busy is like a part of a grand self-deceiving plan from realizing that the hole in your heart is meaningless, you're meaningless, the things that you are doing are meaningless and the whole world is meaningless and you will just wither away and eventually become a pile of manure."
"Is there a cure for it?" Dean asked a moment later, after he had sufficiently collected himself. Amanda, another brand of philosopher. It was surprising, to say the least.
"Hmm, if the whole Pulitzer winning novels have any point about the slice of life narrative approach thing, that's why people want love desperately. Because, supposedly, love gives all the meaning there's to it. Love makes them forget of this...meaninglessness. I don't like being bored, so I do my best to make my life interesting. I don't care what others think."
Love giving all the meaning. Amanda's theory sounded rather alarmingly accurate, which meant he was turning into a sap, which was a Bad News with capitals. He had a feeling that he didn't want to analyze any kind of philosophy--not Amanda's, and certainly not his own. He changed the subject, "So, the no-boredom philosophy is why you made the freshman cry today, the one who confessed his undying love for you?" An incident that had helped building Amanda's bitch reputation which was already amounting high.
"The kid deserved it. Like I said, I don't care what other people think. Not, mind you, in the fashion of Jess the Outsider. I prize myself to be different from those types."
He didn't want to talk about Jess and the name that inevitably followed after that, but he had to for the sake of achieving a decent conversation. "You know Jess?"
"Nope, but this is Stars Hollow. I get to hear things, and Jess ain't the most popular lad in town. Well, I never exchanged extensive philosophical points of view with him, but I'm a firm believer that trying not to be truly bored of life doesn't mean you're allowed to 'seduce' someone else's gal. Even I don't do that."
Dean left a significant pause, and Amanda laughed. "Okay, maybe I did." She added shortly after, "But you said no, Dean. Rory didn't."
That hurt, because that about summed up his whole relationship with Rory way too effectively.
"You never bore me," Amanda concluded.
"Give it time. You will change your mind." After all, Amanda hadn't known him that long. It wouldn't take too long for her to run away from him screaming.
"I'm not your ex."
Guilty, he thought. "I didn't say you were. And I'm sure there have been lots of others who didn't bore you."
"Well, you're the first one who's actually nice."
There was that 'nice' word again. That useless, stupid 'nice'.
"Amanda, I'm not what you want me to be," he said quietly, truthfully.
A short pause. "I'm supposed to be the judge of that, not you."
He said nothing. When she invited him over for a movie night at her place to celebrate his first day at the internship, he still said nothing. She took it as a 'yes'. He didn't say no. He was selfish, wasn't he? He was just so damn selfish. And he didn't want to be. But forgetting the desolation seemed easier around people. Forgetting loneliness seemed easier around Amanda. Maybe because she never left him alone.
Amanda was right. He, too, was plagued by boredom of life.
He went over to her house through the pouring rain that plagued the town, half out of obligation and half out of misery. They watched a movie called 'Chungking Express', following Amanda's claim that Hong Kong movies were not all Jet Li and Jackie Chan. When the blue and black and white shades of the opening scene unfolded on the screen, he thought of ridiculously made-for-TV and ridiculously absurd movies Rory and Lorelai had forced him to watch that were horribly pastel-colored. When the protagonist consumed thirty one cans of pineapple to commemorate the break-up with his girlfriend and ran like hell in the rain, Dean thought it hit way too close to home. When the protagonist found a small solace in a mysterious blond-wigged lady, this was no longer just hitting close to home; it was at home and pounding at it to break it down.
Amanda leaned against his shoulder, and her perfume -- some exotic flowers, strong and way too effective -- basked him.
/If my memory of her has an expiration date, let it be 10,000 years.../ The protagonist mumbled in the background.
Her hand reached his shoulder and he said, "I'm using you."
"We're all using each other. By all means, use me."
/If my memory of her has an expiration date, let it be 10,000 years.../
It wasn't that he didn't ache for a warm touch and a hand to hold him, because he did ache, despairingly, for them. It wasn't that he was a saint with a will of steel who could resist such advances, because he wasn't. It wasn't that he didn't like Amanda, because he did. Simply, there were some lines he wasn't ready to cross. That he would never cross, even at the expense of ditching this desolation of life.
If his memory of her had an expiration date, he would never find out.
"You know I can't," he said.
Amanda stared at him for a long moment until she sighed and turned off the screen. "See what I mean? You're never boring."
"I thought about why. Hard. Why things have to be like this. I wasn't sure before, but I think I know now. Rory...she made me forget about boredom."
Amanda took it better than he'd thought. The rest of evening they watched Simpsons and Battlebots. He went home at nine, and she kissed him on his cheek, bidding a good night. When he said good night, she smiled -- the smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"At least you tried, for me. Thanks," she said, her voice soft, just before she closed the door.
It rained all night.
When he dreamed again, it was of closed doors and pineapple cans, pouring rains and the people suffocated by loneliness.
Not so many people spent the night at the hospital. Its cafeteria was empty except for the two occupants at the far corner. Luke stared at some mysterious spots on the white table, and Lorelai, across him, fingered her coffee mug.
"I can't forgive her," she said, all gloomy.
"Lorelai..."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. You just won't."
She glared at him. "If you try to mesmerize me with the cliché-fest one more time I'm gonna hit you hard and brutally with this Heinz bottle so help me God!"
Just around the corner, Dean wondered whether he should join the bickering couple.
Richard Gilmore's room was off-limit. The option of leaving the flowers at the front desk was suddenly no longer appealing, and Dean had easily found the way to the cafeteria instead.
Water beads dripped from the vinyl wrapping of the flowers and his leather jacket, making small pools of rain on the floor. The white petals of camellias seemed unnaturally bright under the florescent light of the hospital, and Dean thought the flowers didn't look half as pretty as they had been when he bought them. But the scent...the plain yet somehow exotic scent of them still remained in the air. He imagined the scent quietly spreading in the stale odor of the corridor.
The scent of camellias was alluring, relaxing. Basked in it, he thought for a moment.
He thought he hadn't seen Luke or Lorelai for a couple of days and he always loved their company. He thought he might have to actually talk to them, though, if he were to walk over there right now. He thought he wasn't sure he wanted the inevitable talk with Lorelai that always seemed to lead to something he wasn't ready to face. He thought this might not be a good idea. But all the thoughts did no good, because:
"Dean!" said Lorelai, waving at him.
No way out now, he sighed to himself.
He slowly walked out from the corner, trying excessively hard to smile. "Lorelai. Luke."
Lorelai churned out a charming smile as if she hadn't been discussing her daughter with all the gloom that she could possibly conjure up a minute ago. Luke only said, expressionless, "You're dripping all over the floor."
Dean said, "Rain." And running in it. By all his rights, he should be shivering under wet clothes. Strangely, he felt nothing. It was only vaguely bothersome because he was like this walking flood.
When Dean was absently wondering what to do, Luke pulled out a towel from somewhere and threw it at him. It landed squarely on Dean's head.
Slowly, Dean pulled down the towel that was draped over his head and gritted out, "Thanks."
Luke was definitely, definitely hiding a smile. "Don't mention it."
"It's still raining?" Lorelai frowned, "This is so very Pathetic Fallacy." When Dean and Luke stared at her blankly, Lorelai began, point-by-point, "A fallacy in which feelings are identified with the weather in texts such as poems and fictions, sometimes often associated with...what? I'm a literary person. I do literary things and say literary things and has Rory as my daughter who would recite those things many times more than I care to count to the extent of me memorizing the whole thing."
"So," Dean said, slowly, "this rainy weather reflects our moods?"
"Supposedly."
"Or it could just mean that we're all very pathetic," Luke said.
"Or that, yes," was Lorelai's answer.
Silence. Luke stared at the spots on the table, and Lorelai played with her mug.
Dean could safely guess this was what they had been doing all night long--verbal judos after a periodic silence. "So, how's...?" He didn't dare to finish the question.
Lorelai caught up quickly, "Better. He's better."
Dean tried not to read into her dark expression. "They're not letting you in to see him yet?"
"No, and I'm annoyed."
"I'm sorry," Dean said.
"Nah," she shrugged. She then proceeded to kick Luke under the table. "Did you hear me, Luke? I'm annoyed."
Luke only said, "Okay."
From Lorelai's expression, Dean could practically hear the verbal ping-pong relay gearing up and ready to go. "I hate being annoyed," she said.
Luke, on the art of annoying Lorelai even more. "Okay."
"Please feel free to make me not annoyed."
"Not okay."
"But what of your pretty, pretty magic wand, oh fairly godmother? Aren't you supposed to use it for good deeds?"
Luke frowned. "Coffee does cause insanity, check."
"You could use the flipper instead. Your magic flipper."
"The what?"
"The scoop thing you use to flip things on the grill, things like eggs and burgers and all the greasy goodness that you attempt to deprive me of. Flipper."
"It is not called a flipper."
"It flips. Hence a flipper."
"It is not called a flipper."
"Can I call you a flipper then?"
"...No."
"But you flip."
"I do not flip."
"I can tell you I've distinctly seen you flip things many, many times."
"My flipping is none of your business."
"Can I make it my business?"
Dean, the only audience, almost choked.
Luke and Lorelai collectively glared at him, and Dean coughed. "Nothing. No, uh, I was just thinking if this was what people call 'live entertainment'. It's very...entertaining."
Lorelai scowled at him. "And free admission is not appreciated, so pay up--uh, hey, wow, are they camellias?" She saw what Dean was trying to hide underneath his chair and reached for it.
Busted. "Um, yeah," Dean admitted.
"Dad's favorite." She delicately touched the large white petals almost in amazement, took in the scent. When she looked up at Dean, a happy smile lit up her entire face. "I haven't seen this in a long time. It must've been extremely hard to find."
"I was downtown, uh, my new job's there. I just saw it and thought, you know, your father might like it." Which was a total lie, of course. Richard supposedly liked flowers with difficult names and different tree flowers that were definitely not florist friendly. Dean hadn't even known what camellias looked like to begin with, and he had gone through five florists on the assumption that at least one shop had to have it.
There was no fooling with Lorelai, who obviously knew this. She put down the flower to the table and gave him an appreciative look. "Thank you, Dean. Dad'll just love it."
Luke was cheering her up just by being here, but Lorelai looked so happy with the camellias that he thought that maybe she could use all kinds of cheering up. He thought of the half-crushed flower in his inner pocket that he had had no intention of showing to anyone. He took it out carefully and found it miraculously intact.
"And...this," Dean put it down to the table, embarrassed. The flower looked lonely by itself, with its small violet petals and a short stem that seemed to complain its early demise.
Luke eyed it suspiciously. "And this is..."
"Azaleas. Lorelai, remember? Once, Rory read this poem and we didn't know what azaleas looked like and you wondered whether these obscure flowers actually do sell and whether you'd actually see it once in your life. Well, here. I just saw the name tag, and you know, bought one."
Lorelai stared at the flower for a long time.
Then she looked at him without a word. Dean couldn't figure out her expression. It was as if she couldn't decided whether to be angry or sad or touched. Like she saw through him. Like she understood everything.
And it was way too uncomfortable. "It was just an impulse," he told her, looking away, "It doesn't mean anything, Lorelai."
"Of course it does. It means you're sweet and thoughtful, you'd definitely be off the market if I was just ten years younger, and my daughter can be just so stupid sometimes."
He stared at the flowers on the table. Pinkish violet of azaleas crashed with the large white petals of camellias. Roses and tulips would've made a better pair than them.
"This isn't for Rory," he said.
"I know," said Lorelai.
Luke, naturally, said nothing, but looked significantly uncomfortable. Silence showed every sign of descending on them again, and Lorelai, after moment of collecting herself, put a stop to it.
"So," she said, her expression suddenly transforming into the one of a sunny day, "Heard you snatched a fancy internship downtown playing with cars--Lane told me about it. You know," she drew her index finger, "chicks just dig guys with slick, sexy cars."
Luke rolled his eyes conspicuously. "Do they now."
"Luke, are you contradicting me on the matter of the babe psyche? How daring of you. Dean, tell him."
"Uh." Dean decided it would be good for his well being and his future coffee consumption rate to stick with one-vowel answers. "Well."
"Well what?" Lorelai probed.
"I just like cars. I mean, cars are better than people."
"They are?" Luke arched his eyebrow.
"They are. It's just...hard to explain." He couldn't explain that he loved to feel the engine hum underneath his skin, the vibration that spoke length without a single word. That he loved when it moved according to his will, his wheel, the way it was always under his control. That he loved every single thing about cars and never that happy with people.
Lorelai suddenly spoke, "Cars don't betray; people do. If something goes wrong with a car you made, the chances are, you can check and know what you did wrong, what went wrong. You just can't do that with people. It doesn't work that beautifully with people." She turned to Dean, her face masked with a bright smile which didn't hide her eyes -- the eyes that said otherwise. "Is that any close?"
Close. Too close that it hurt.
Because Rory was all Lorelai had.
"Lorelai, I... Rory--" Dean stopped when he saw Luke shaking his head. "Close enough," Dean said, finally, with a forced lightness. "But I'll still have to go with the sexy cars and chicks theory."
Their smiles were facade.
Dean wasn't angry. He wasn't angry with Rory. If he hadn't been angry with Rory when she dropped him like a sack of potatoes over Jess, and he could certainly never be angry with Rory over this, he was sure.
He couldn't even be angry, and he desperately wanted to be.
Dean stared at the flowers and thought how they looked much prettier before this, before hospital. He stared at the coffee mug and thought how it was like him, this white ceramic mug cup. A little chipped on the side, but still usable, resilient. Cheap, often to be seen with the hundred likes of it in A Dollar Stores. Chipped, broken, but still recycled. That was him.
Expensive and breakable china, Tristan. A thick clay coffee mug with some obscure paintings, the one preferred by college students and the so-called intellectuals and used for their coffee breaks: Jess. He was this broken mug. He felt very much broken.
Or maybe he was a Styrofoam cup, quick to be used and even quicker to be discarded. Yeah, that sounded like him, too.
Being pathetic had to have some sort of limit, he thought. This just wasn't acceptable.
Lorelai's cell phone rang, interrupting his pathetic line of thoughts and bringing him back from the world of broken cups. She didn't look very happy when she hung up.
"Rory will be here soon," Lorelai announced, not really looking at Dean. After a moment of hesitation, she blurted out, "With Jess."
Dean stood up immediately. "I have to go."
Lorelai stood up after him. Her hand was on his shoulder, her voice soft, "Dean. Dean, you don't have to go."
Well, yes, he had to. And Lorelai would be okay; she had Luke. "I'm not here for Rory."
Lorelai met his eyes, her voice was still soft, but it was also stern, "Then there is no reason to avoid her."
"I still love your daughter, Lorelai. That's a good enough reason."
Back in Chicago, he used to ride Metra train at night. He hadn't known anything that seemed felt deeper than the silence of the empty parking lots he had looked down from the train, but he knew now.
Dean made a point of avoiding their eyes, whatever emotions they might hold. He didn't want to know.
"I see," Lorelai said finally. "I see."
Luke said nothing.
Dean left the flowers on the table.
When he came out, it was just inevitable that he had to see them. At the entrance of the hospital, the two stood. He watched from around the corner, waiting. Jess stood beside Rory. It was his imagination that her head stayed fallen, her eyes only following the pattern of the ground bricks. It was his imagination that she didn't look at Jess, not once.
It had to be his imagination. A wishful thinking.
He searched for another exit.
Pathetic Fallacy was right. When he slipped out from the hospital, it was still raining.
Interlude:
This has to end.
"Honey, open the door."
This has to end.
"Dean, open the door. Please? You're scaring me."
The world is whirling around him.
"Dean!"
He would, he really would, if he can just get up. If only he can get up.
The world is whirling around him.
The ceiling is white, as it always has been.
So is the wall of his room.
There are grey cracks on his window. Curtains slightly dusty. They block mild sunrays from entering. Shadows everywhere.
Desk. Computer, white and black monitor. Clock, brown and circular. Keyboard, rectangle. Frames, oak and square and dusted and forgotten. Door that keeps revolving in his dreams, open and close, open and close, then close again. Phone that does not ring.
Under his desk, a small shelf for old textbooks. The Catcher in the Rye, The One Who Flew Over Cuckoo's Nest, The Lord of the Flies, War and Peace.
War and Peace.
The world is whirling.
Hands clammy. Feeble. Head feels light, too light. The bed sheet is cold. He is cold.
A loud crack and a thud. The door opens, and a cool hand finds his forehead.
"He's burning up."
"He came home drenched in rain the other day."
Movements. People are all around him, surrounding him. Cool water on his lips.
"Drink, Dean. You need to take this."
A firm voice that demands his obedience. Dragging himself up painfully, swallowing a pill. His mouth tastes like ashes.
He tries to speak; nothing comes out.
"What's that, honey?" Mom, immediately on his side. Worried.
More water, and ashes slowly dissolve.
"...am fine," he rasps.
"Dean--"
"I...am."
He isn't, not really in the sense that everything is okay. But he is fine, at least when it comes to this cold because it can't nearly hurt as much as something else he suffers from.
He cannot understand. He cannot. This drags on like a bad soap opera with sour tangy aftertaste, no sweetener. There can be no bitter soap opera, because by definition, it's supposed to be sweet, sickeningly sweet. Yet it is still here, this bitter melodrama, this candle that does not burn out.
This has to end, this has to end, the fever has to be gone as has Rory, this time for certain because he let her go, and this has to end.
Hurting now is ever the more bearable option than the prospect of falling, falling, falling again, to go on living with the inevitability of the end.
This has to end.
Hot, hot, hot.
On an afternoon, amidst the haze of the hot sunrays and exhaustion, he found himself sitting on the bench at the bus stop. He stretched his legs and back, and practiced sitting as still as possible. This sudden through-the-roof-temperature phenomenon after a week of freezing rain was such that if he moved even a tiniest bit, he felt himself sweating, hot and sticky all over. On a separate note, a pounding headache was working its way around to his temple, and even a little movement triggered malicious retaliations. He figured that if he kept still like this, he felt slightly cooler. Saner.
He draped his arms on the bench shoulder and leaned back, eyes closed. Buses came and went, and no one bothered him. The sounds of bus engines and the hot rays on his skin brought a lot of fragments of images to float around in his less than awake brain. A bus and bus stops. Departure and arrivals, points in between. Sitting still when everything else came and went, passing, walking away. Left behind. Constantly. Alone.
He stopped there, and decided to think safer stuff. Like Tom Hanks and a box of chocolate and a floating feather (and hope, always too much hope, and way too perky and subdued at the same time, not really a thing for him in this mood). Almost Famous, a boy journalist and an insane rock band stuck in a bus together (extra points for the director, who also directed Say Anything--'She gave me a pen'--Jerry Maguire--'You complete me'--and Vanilla Sky--'Open your eyes'. Vanilla Sky, which Lorelai hated because of its relation to Magnolia Read: Tom and complained all the way through the movie along with Rory, who, in all her rights, looked and seemed more like Penelope Cruz than Cameron Diaz, but still discussed the merits of the suicidal blonde rather than existentialistic theme of the movie or the science--or science fiction--behind it. And he's really not sure he'd jump from building that high himself, conquering fear or not, and what if it was all dream? He's get his dream girl and so what if it's all fake--). People who waited for the bus that had not come for two years and the bus that left with Thora Birch in Ghost World (never read the comic book, way too refined for Todd the comic-man, so never really found its way to him but still cool, although he has this vague fright that he'll become like that Seymore dude, owning car pieces instead of the broken LDs, always looking, always searching for something they all know he can't get, and by God, he really knows way too much about movies and it's all Rory's fault because he's a very simple guy and does prize himself for it but she makes him do this circle thinking thing, and it's just unacceptable, not anymore, so he should throw out the DVD player of his house right away, and maybe hammer it down instead of non-existing cars--).
Strange day. Dean thought if he kept this up someone might come up to him and say--Life is like a box of chocolate, or, Open your eyes, or, I'm a golden god, and if he willed it, Cameron Diaz would be standing in front of him now, wearing nothing but that blanket from the movie (what? he is a healthy, normal teenage boy, for god's sake, and he has needs. Let his id have some fun since what possible excuse would be better than dehydration, not including intoxication because that has already happened before and he'd rather choose dying by drying up than dying by hangover, which, Rory can tell him, are in essence the same thing, and with one look at her small all-knowing smile he'd go tingly all over and just shut the HELL up!) he'd be a very happy man--
"Hi," she said softly (but not seductively, how disappointing), out of his dream.
Almost out of his dream, because after a long second of basking in glow, he realized Cameron Diaz had suddenly turned brunette, and her body was casting a shadow over him, and since his brain wasn't really clever enough to manufacture such a detailed dream that concerned with casting shadows by--my God, it was Rory.
He almost choked and passed out, right there.
His ex-girlfriend stood in front of him, uncertain whether to look uncomfortable or curious or shocked or to be here at all. The world was hazy and distant in every direction; only Rory was the constant.
"Rory," he tested the name just to make sure.
"Dean," she said, uncertainly.
Hallucinations rarely talked back. So...this was Rory.
She stood in front of him, beside the pole and right out from the bus, hesitant. Her hair glowed in dark amber against the sun, and her uniform... He looked up and caught the number of the bus that was just leaving.
Oh man. He restrained the urge to hide his face behind his hands. This was conspiracy, id and ego and the whole freaking subconscious revolting against superego, somehow bringing him here, to Rory's bench, just the time she'd get back from school. But excuse was excuse. He was here now, so he had to deal with now.
...And who cared about dealing? He desperately wished her somewhere else. Not here, certainly. If he blinked furiously, would the not-mirage of Rory go away?
Nope, she was still here.
Damn.
She wasn't gone. Instead, almost feathery, she sat beside him, a safe distance away from him. If she moved an inch to the other side, she'd fall off from the bench.
More buses came and went, and silence stretched into eternity.
"It's getting hotter," Rory commented offhandedly, in the unique way she had, after two more busses had passed by. He wasn't sure if the weather was the reason she was blushing.
"It is," Dean agreed.
"Very summery, 'cause it's almost...summer."
"Yes."
"Hot."
"Very."
"Because..."
"--summer, yeah."
The absurdity and stupidity of the situation made him chuckle. He and Rory shared a small, reserved grin, both looking elsewhere, never directly at each other, aware of the awkwardness that still existed but realizing it had just begun to thaw, even a little.
"The camellias, I saw them," she said. "You remembered."
"Yeah."
She stared at the seams of her skirt. "Thanks."
"It wasn't for you."
She met his eyes briefly; her blue eyes cooled him under the sizzling sunlight. "I know. So, thanks."
A cyclist passed. Two kids with cotton candies and a happy couple with bright hats and even brighter smiles walked away.
"You were right," Rory said, her eyes faraway. "What you said in the hospital. To get something new, I need to give up something. I thought I could integrate the new with the old, but I couldn't."
Oh no, please don't, he thought. This wasn't them. He and Rory never had this kind of conversation, not even when they were going out. Not the heart-to-heart, not the why-my-life-sucks tales. This wasn't them.
"Rory--"
"I thought I wanted to give up everything. But I love too much of this"--she looked around the town, her expression wistful--"to give them all up. Not Mom, not this town, not the old me."
Don't tell me any of this, he thought. I don't need this. He was hanging onto a very thin thread as it was to control himself, and he really didn't need this.
"I never asked you the right questions, did I?" she said. She was in her own world. "I talked, but I never listened. I didn't ask the important things. That's how you knew I didn't..." she swallowed hard, "love you."
This would never end, he thought. This would never end. She was so slippery, her thoughts and feelings, and just...her. They were always so ambiguous, perhaps because he knew her so well.
There was a long pause, and when she spoke again, she looked positively sick and her voice came out strained, as if just making words come out was a trying experience. "If I were to ask you to be my friend again, that I don't want to lose you, that like this town, whether the degree of love or not, you're important to me, and I'm not ready to go on without you, you--"
"No," he said automatically.
"I figured that," she said quietly, a faint trace of pain behind the voice. "Because it's too late. I know. It's too late. Too soon."
The most surprising thing of all was that he had seen this coming, had it figured out even before he had actually become aware of it. It frightened him now, because he wasn't a calculating guy, more like he didn't want to be, but there it was; the answer had been there long before. And when Rory spoke softly now, his Rory, smart Rory, having already figured out what the answer would be but still hoping maybe, maybe, he gave the expected answer.
"You're wrong, Rory. It's not me you need. You don't need me, you never did."
She wanted things to go back to the way it was, to the when everything she did automatically meant joy and happiness and acceptance from everyone she knew, the biggest fight she ever had with Lorelai never lasting for more than a day, and in that picture, Dean was there. Dean the first boyfriend, Dean the approved. The safe.
Whether Rory realized or not, that was what she wanted, something safe. Because something she craved didn't work out.
He wasn't going to be the substitute.
"What happens when you're finally ready to give up this way, this town, Lorelai, and finally move on, when you find something that's worth all this? I may not be as smart, but think I figured it out. I can't be in your life like that. Another addition to your picture-perfect past image."
Even if that meant the world of misery for him.
There was a rueful smile on her face. "How did you become so wise? You seemed to have grown up without me."
He closed his eyes, because she was beautiful, and he didn't want to see that. Just a brief glance at her expressive face and he would be sold. He didn't want that. He didn't want that so much that it ached. When he opened his eyes again, he saw something on her wrist. He sat up straight, feeling like he was suddenly hit by a truck.
"Rory..." he couldn't finish.
She hurriedly tugged at her sleeve, practically hiding the bracelet. "It's the familiarity thing," she looked away, blushing furiously, "I felt kind of...weird without this."
Too much ambiguity. He wanted to choke something to death, preferably himself.
"Rory, what do you want from me?"
"I just missed you," she bit her lip so hard that he imagined it might bleed, "I thought about this. I thought about this so hard that it just...God, it's too much. I...would like another chance, if you'd let me."
He sat there, couldn't move. His right arm was across the bench shoulder, and his right hand clapped over his mouth, unable to move. He didn't believe himself enough to let it go.
This was the dream stuff. On sleepless nights, he may have imagined this sort of things coming true. He may have imagined saying yes, oh yes. On sleepless nights, he would have stared at the ceiling and imagined Rory wearing the bracelet again, the bracelet he'd made for her.
Finally, he let out a long breath. "Wow. Your timing."
He thought she might just cry, just like this. "I know, bad. It's too late. I know that. I just...needed to tell you."
It was destined to end like this, he thought. Back to the narrative inevitability of a fairy tale that was told over and over at night with small details that transformed into something else but never the ending.
This story was something she was weaving, completely at her power. He hated it. He hated it just so much.
"You forgot something, Rory. You don't get to miss me."
She turned to him. "I--" she turned away, her face pale. "You're right."
Anger was built like sand in hourglass, simmering darkly underneath, patiently waiting for eruption, wailing for catharsis. "You truly have no regard for me, do you, Rory. You can't go backward. Just because you can't bear the consequences for the decisions you've made, you can't just go back to who you were and make things better, be the perfect girl you were. But about me? What about my goddamn heart that gets broken? Have you ever once considered my feelings? Once?"
Startled by the venom in his words, Rory reached for him, her hand in the midair. "Dean..."
"Did Lorelai tell you? Did she say-- Forget it. Forget everything. You broke my heart hundred times and over, but I kept coming back. But it was okay, because you always had me. Yesterday, you had no expiration date for me, you know that? You had no expiration date for me."
Rory's hand trembled. He was vaguely aware of this. Tears fell. He was vaguely aware of this, too.
Anger was cold and smooth, a silky scarf slowly wrapping and tightening your heart in a muted hiss, leaving you gasping for breath.
Until you were out of breath.
"I think," he exhaled, "there is no one who can make me this miserable but you."
"Dean," she said.
Dean, she said.
Dean, she said, as if the world was ending.
Somewhere far into his memory, he remembered hearing exactly the same word, exactly the same way. A long ago. When he'd first told her he loved her. She had said Dean. Dean. As if the world was ending. But she still hadn't told him that she loved him.
The single word. It was a descent. A slow one, by the feel of his skin, but fast, according to time. It was desolating. Frightening in its loneliness.
Dean, she said.
Anger was vicious, a monster tearing at you with ugly claws, leaving you bleeding and brokenhearted. Arising in every minute and every second when her eyes no longer smiled for you. You, who hid the bruise and scars with a stiff smile and a quick kiss on her cheek that no longer meant anything, all so long ago. All so long ago, before Tolstoy.
He would not set himself for another fall, because this would not end. This would not end.
"Rory," he said, before walking away, "I don't want to see you ever again."
The forecast said rain tonight. He planned a midnight jogging.
TBC...
(This part was supposed to be therapeutic, but wasn't really. Now I need Tylenol, or, of course, feedback. ;))