They pull out of the neighborhood, tires screeching, leaving a very surprised little girl on her lawn staring.
Rory awkwardly crawls into the front seat, and he unashamedly checks out her legs as she does so. She is sleep warm, mellow, half-awake and shivering from the cool morning air. She tucks her legs under her like a little girl and drops back the front seat, ignoring the seatbelt. Her lips have a secret smile on them, small and hidden, as though she is having a dirty dream. He grins, thinking this to himself.
They are driving fast in the early morning, blinding sunlight high above them, air warming fast; she wakes up and grabs a book, and insists on stopping in another town that has a Wal-Mart.
"What the hell for?" he growls.
"Because."
"Natalie Portman had a baby in one."
"Ok, now the valid reason. And I hope you know she didn't really have a baby. It was just a movie."
"Whatever. We can't eat out every meal; we'll run out of money quick. We stop, get a jar of peanut butter, some bread, baby wipes, microwaveable pizzas, a pack of diapers, you know," she says lightly.
"No, I really don't. First, thawed pizza is about as edible as the seat you are sitting on."
"Wrap it up in tinfoil and stick it under the hood while we drive."
"I'm assuming this works with burritos, baked potatoes, filet mignon, maybe a souffle......."
"Baby wipes for cleaning. I did bring toilet paper."
"Good, then we don't need the diapers now."
"Ugh, Jess, the diapers are for bathing. You soak one in water and then use it to wash your whole self off. None of that nasty sponge bacteria. You get a big pack cheap."
"The amazing Rory and her lists," he grins, forgetting his annoyance. "We could stick one on the radiator too if it starts leaking."
"Yeah! Or use one to clean the windshield!"
"Or strap one on you so we won't have to stop for restroom breaks until we hit Maryland!"
"You're pushing it, Jess," she scowls.
"You're the diaper enthusiast."
They stop in front of the Wal-Mart and park. The sun has grown glaring hot, reflecting off the gray cement. When they enter the dark lobby, he sees the strange grin on her face and groans before the words even come out of her mouth.
"Plus, I thought maybe you could get us a discount."
"GOD! Who told you?" he almost yells.
"Luke told Mom told me, of course. You live in Stars Hollow now, you have no right to privacy. So, wanna give me a tour? Or a sticker? Maybe wish me a nice day?"
"I can wish you a nice walk back to Connecticut."
"Ooh, touchy, Dirk Squarejaw. Apple pie?"
"Rory, get away from the baked goods."
"Fine."
They wander around, reveling in the cool air conditioning; they pile stuff onto the card, not thinking too logically. They are enjoying this too much, this random impulse spending. He buys a pack of undershirts, she gets a headband with bunny ears on it, they throw in a nerf football, a pair of cheap flip flops, a glittery sequined thong which she keeps throwing out and he keeps throwing back in. He momentarily strays to grab some Doritos, and when he returns to the frozen food aisle, he is momentarily struck still.
She is pressed against an open door, clouds of freezing steam floating out around her, turning her cheeks pink; strands of damp hair stick to her neck and shoulders. Her eyes are closed, breathing in the chilly air, her arm fogging up the glass, and she's rubbing a packet of frozen french fries on the back of her neck.
"Rory."
She quickly looks up, caught, quickly throwing back the french fries, letting the door fall shut.
"What the hell were you doing?"
"Just.......chillin'...."
They both groan. She can't help giggling at her own corniness.
"I can't let you out of my sight for a minute and you're getting intimate with some french fries?"
"Ok, it's really hot out there. I was sweating in the car."
"Get a cooler," he commands, turning the cart around.
"What?"
"A cooler. We'll get a bag of ice and use it in the car. I drove like that across two states in July with broken air conditioning."
She looks at him, horrified.
"Are you saying it's broken."
"Well,......yes."
"God!"
"Are you allergic to hot air?"
"I'm allergic to you!" she snaps, and stomps down the aisle, peevishly throwing in a carton of Ben&Jerry's.
He's a little surprised at her outburst, but not angry. He can understand. Things will be this way until they really talk about what has happened, and he knows it will not be easy. But they are both here right now.
They stand next to each other in line silently.
"Will it make you feel better if I let you watch me use my discount?"
"Yes."
The first fight is resolved, and as a peace offering, she throws some mint Lifesavers in the cart. He knows this is potentially very meaningful. You don't need mint Lifesavers if you're around someone you hate. You can just let them suffer from your dragon breath. But she put them in the cart; it means she is no longer irritated. This is how he establishes that self humiliation is a good method of keeping her happy, and then he knows he should have done this last fall, when all the bad things happened.
They drive across New York, stop at Columbia University, and Maryland, then Washington for a night to see Georgetown U. They are walking in the evening, because she wanted to buy something pretty, and he wanted to see the house where the Exorcist was filmed. Later, they sit on the edge of the Reflecting Pool under the purple night sky, shaded by the orange streetlights. They eat Indian food in take-out containers, danging their feet and talking about things that flow into each other smoothly like seconds flow into time.
"Nothing fabulous so far."
"Dunno why you're looking. You've already sold your soul to Yale," he mutters into his curry.
"Oh c'mon. Mom is leaving for her two weeks of honeymoon with Luke. We have nothing to do. Pretext is the vocab word for the day."
"Kind of a dastardly situation. What the hell were we supposed to do?"
"I dunno. Are we related now?" she asks, and he can sense a hint of worry in her voice.
"Not legally. I'm sort of a ........step....cousin?"
"That makes no sense."
"None. By the way, we should have bought some plug in Glade. We'll smell like Cafe Bombay for a few days."
She shrugs, watching the lights shimmering darkly in the reflecting pool. The shadows flicker on their faces in the warm night air, thick with city sound, streetlight, and the salty smell of the Potomac.
"It shouldn't matter if we never fall in love with each other," she says thoughtfully, sending a sort of queer stab through him.
"Yeah."
The wind ruffles her hair, drawing it in lines abover her eyes, painting it in brown and orange streaks glinting below her eyes. Small, white teeth peep from between her chapped lips; she is smiling.
"What are you smiling for?" he asks, strangely sad.
"Nothing........it's just...a beautiful night and we're getting along and I ....just feel nice. This is nice."
It is then that Jess realizes it will be a long time before she forgives him, because it is her turn to torture him now, her turn to make him hurt as he had hurt her.
She leans back, grinning, and he smiles sadly.
"Yeah, this is nice."
So they drive this way: all windows down, bag of ice between them on the floor. The wind flings their hair everywhere, they put ice down their shirts, they eat it, rub it over themselves while they drive to keep reasonably cool. They are damp, minimally clad, overheated. He has given up on the shirt; she does not seem to be offended, only jealous. They have a larger collection of bugs on their grill than the Smithsonian. The backseat floor is littered with junk food wrappers, soda cans, diapers they have filled with ice and used as neck-rests, and half a million empty coffee cups. The ash-tray is brimming, discarded dirty clothes have made a pile behind Jess's seat and the windshield is covered with Rory toe-prints.
He points this out to her, and she shrugs.
"It's part of the roadtrip...magic."
"It's disgusting. Something's starting to smell," he says pointedly.
"Maybe it's you."
"Very mature, Bart. Maybe it's that half a peanut butter jelly sandwich you dropped between the seats two days ago."
"Maybe."
"I suggest it's time for a rest station stop."
"Ooh, can I buy one of those "Virginia is for Lovers" mugs?"
He ignores her hidden stab that goes deeper than she knows.
"You can buy whatever. When we run out of money, you'll be the one who has to dance on tables just to get enough gas to get to the next county."
"Only if you can sing me the entire Wyclef's Strippers Anthem," she scowls, scratching her neck.
"Sorry. But remember, it don't make her a ho, no."
"I am not dancing for money."
"Neither am I."
"So.......what are we gonna do? Sell our hair? Donate a kidney or some blood? Wash dishes for a few days?"
"Rest station stop."
They pull over, and he puts the trash in the garbage, the dirty clothes in a bag and empties out the ashes. He stocks up on some cigarettes while she eats a popsicle that turns her lips blue and washes the windshield. Her legs are getting brown, her shorts are getting rattier, her pink ballerina tank top sticks to her ribs while her arms vigorously scrub the windshield. She's cracking out of her mold, like a damp butterfly struggling to open her wings, hair fluttering in the humid breeze. She's a little more brash than the innocent Rory he'd found almost two years ago.....a little more conscious of her own power.
Every twitch of her toes moves a muscle in her thigh that he finds starts a pulse in him; every yawn and stretch shows a sharp hip-bone in the low, loose waist of her shorts or an innocent strip of cotton. Every time she sleeps her mouth falls slightly open. Yet she never acknowledges it. Sometimes she makes him physically uncomfortable, but never seems to notice his tense, thin, drawn lips or clenched fingers. He struggles just not to touch the freckles on her shoulder while she sleeps; to stare straight ahead is supreme control.
