The cool mist rolls over the bay, shrouding the green foliage and pale beaches; dark pines stand proudly, swallowing a thin dirt road that disappears into the darkness. Gray wavelets break upon shore, restless and restrained, in rhythmic cadence. Between breaks in the fog, they see the proud outlines of the old houses, the pride of New England, their haughty eaves and windows standing silently in the grey light. Lush hedges and long cobblestone walks are obscured; a damp flash of pink roses shows, then disappears again. A thin ray of sunlight struggles, pale and otherworldly, to break over a point in the bay. Shadows of a ship slip in the distance like old ghosts.
"Edgartown," he notes absently as they drive past the stately sign.
"A.k.a. New England's most elegant community, property of he Aryan Trustafarians."
His mouth struggles to the semblance of a smile, but she can tell he is thinking of something else.
They drive in silence past the Greek Revival style mansions, the New England colonials, and the mysterious gated drives that disappear into lush lawns. She pulls in front of a gate, saying a few words in the speaker, and the lacy iron pulls back slowly, granting them access. She parks in front of the house, alighting quickly and hauling out her bag. She changed at a gas station into a slightly wrinkled slip dress and sweater, sliding battered white sandals on her feet. Now she stands in front of the car, her hands moving nervously over her hair again and again and again, almost obsessively. He's not sure of his reaction watching her; he doesn't know if what he feels is anger or pity. She cares so much, she is so trapped.
She tucks her hair behind her ears again, patting it down at the roots, smoothing the slip dress as though trying to iron out the wrinkles with her damp hands. She examines her face quickly in the side mirror, wiping at imaginary dark circles under her eyes, pinching her cheeks and biting her lips, running her tongue over her teeth until he grabs her hands abruptly and she straightens up, face twisted in an expression akin to shame.
"Stand up straight. You're acting guilty. Am I really that embarrassing?" he smirks, something raw layered behind his words.
Her eyes flash blankly, open wide, face pale.
"Jess, I-"
But he isn't listening. He's already walking up to the door, halfway up the little marble steps. She hurries after him, standing next to him as the maid opens the door. They both set their faces into pleasant, bland expressions.
They are seated in the plush parlor, waiting. The room seems to be closing in on them with its gold embossed wallpaper, velvet and satin settee covers, dark mahogany floors, and luxurious ferns and details. A little silver drink cart covered in crystal decanters and set with linen napkins and Wedgewood glasses sparkles invitingly.
Then Emiliy glides into the room, with her elegant smile and perfectly set hair, doling out little pleasantries, engaging them in small talk, pouring Dom Perignon into thin flutes and proposing a little toast for this celebration. Richard, tall and imposing, presents himself impeccably with a certain practiced joviality and makes himself a Ketel 1 martini, but both Rory and Jess are hearing nothing really but the quiet pounding of the blood in their veins, their mouths opening without them, saying non-consequential little things.
"Darling, it's so grand to see you. I've missed you so this whole summer. We've been dying of loneliness on Fridays while you were gone traipsing around the country on this college tour of yours. I think Richard was almost afraid you'd find something you liked better than Yale," coos Emily in a voice much too pleasant for her. Rory supposes they all felt Jess's presence keenly.
Richard chuckles.
"She'd never let down her old grandpa like that. Rory's a Yale girl, and always has been. I wouldn't be surprised if she found her match there, like another certain Gilmore."
Emily smiles a little cocky smile.
"Oh Richard you're hopeless. The girl is not even 19."
She turns to Jess, thinking for a moment. Then,
"Well, it's certainly nice to be related to you! I must admit when Lorelai told me she was marrying the diner man I didn't know we'd be getting such a handsome young ……grandson…or…nephew?"
"Neither. Just a distant relation through marriage, I guess," he says, forcing his mouth into a smile that passes.
"Well, son," replies Richard, "it's nice to have you anyway. One of my regrets is never having a boy of my own. Perhaps you'd like to go out sailing tomorrow, get to know each other a little better."
Jess is smiling, nodding, but to Rory everything seems terribly wrong, terribly awful. It's as though no one else notices this nightmare; with a jolt, she realizes they wouldn't. No one knows.
She gulps her champagne, and quietly refills her glass, going unnoticed.
Jess is saying something about Mencken, Richard is smiling, Emily is nodding. The world is ending. Her palms are damp.
The maid announces dinner.
She notices his slight sign of distress at the four forks, two spoons, two knifes, two glasses, two plates and the salad set before him. She motions with her eyes, signaling for him to follow her. Smoothly, they both slide their napkins into their laps and pick up the three prong fork, smiling at the same time as though they are dancers in a nightmarish dance, performing in perfect tandem. Emily notices this quick duality, and something behind her perfect smile is now a little disturbed, although her face doesn't show it. It doesn't need to. Rory can read it in her eyes.
They barely make eye contact during dinner, but Jess holds his own with several well-timed and well-placed references that delight Emily and a few intelligent remarks about business that win Richard over. Rory smiles and laughs gently, indicating slowly and casually the proper dinnerware, patting the corners of her lips with the napkin, sitting up straight, and taking tiny bites. They have another drink after dinner, and Emily shows them to their rooms, impeccable guest rooms with monogrammed towels and little local prints on the walls. Rory plants two light butterfly kisses on her cheeks and says goodnight, and their doors close at the exact same moment. The identical clicks echo blankly in Emily's head.
At two a.m. in the morning, she quietly opens his door. She closes it behind her, and then presses herself against it, standing there like a small, guilty child in her slip of a nightgown that makes her cross her thin arms self-consciously. He is awake, sitting up against the headboard, smoking.
She takes a step forward, arms dropping to her side. The thin little strap slides off her shoulder, making her collarbones stand out starkly.
Her hair is neat and long and dark, her eyes glimmering damply in the semi-darkness.
"I was alone and I was thinking about you. I could not sleep," she whispers. There is no response, only the thin curl of cigarette smoke in the pale slash of the driveway light streaming through the window. Her voice is so small now, small and dark and anguished. "I wanted to………….."
There is a sudden, brusque motion from the figure on the bed.
"I hated you tonight," comes the answer. Her eyes burn in the darkness.
"I know," she replies helplessly.
A pause.
"Come here," he says roughly, suddenly. She moves towards him slowly, cautiously.
In a lightning flash movement, he's grabbed her arm and pulled her in the bed, pinning her against the headboard. Her eyes spark in fear. His mouth is rough and strong against hers. She presses her weak hands against him but they're useless.
"Jess," she whispers harshly, afraid. "They'll hear. Don't do this."
He pulls her down, and she falls against the pillow. His eyes are stones in the moonlight.
"I won't make a noise," he whispers back, something strange in his voice. "But you might," he adds wickedly.
She might have had the urge to grin if she wasn't so afraid. There is a queer, terrible mixture of fear and elation pounding in her chest. His hands on her are making her feel that recognizable warmth spreading through her, and she struggles against it but she can't stop it. He's being reckless, almost mean, teasing and torturing something strange that is growing somewhere down inside her, a dizzying feeling she'd gotten a taste of before but could never draw out. There is nothing here of the gentle boy that handled her so sweetly, so carefully, the night before. The boy that had tried to make it easier for her, the boy that paid such close attention to her pain, the boy that kissed her so gently and followed her contours with a damp towel afterward, as though he were bathing a baby, has disappeared. This is a new, strange Jess.
He is pressing her down into the white, lightly scented sheets, mouth buried in her neck, her slip nightgown pushed up under her arms; his hands are on her hips now, pulling down what's left, pushing her around and breaking her in two, and a strangled sound escapes her throat. His hand immediately covers her mouth, muffling everything that follows; he's relentless and too strong for her, but she's past caring, clinging to him. The thing that was clawing earlier is now steadily thumping; she feels a sharp thrum and assumes the end, as she has before, but he does not stop this time. And the feeling, miraculously, it keeps expanding, widening, pounding harder. He won't let her go, he won't stop, and she doesn't want him to. Then there is a strange silence in her body, and something is sweeping over, pulling her under, exploding, blooming, ever stretching. He clasps his hand over her mouth but he cannot entirely mask the cry. With a gasp, it's over, and he collapses on her, and they lay limp, shuddering, but he's not done taking his revenge.
He's kissing her again, then her stomach, and sliding down further and further and she's delirious and barely capable of letting out a half-whisper, half moan, a weak plea of resistance that has no effect on him. She's almost certain she can't take anymore but he's doing something else now that makes stars surface under her closed eyelids and she begs but he doesn't stop, and the feeling is back, clawing and clenching and leaving her limp again! and again! and again! and she bites a pillow and holds tight to the iron bedposts and lets out a wail that stops both of them cold.
They lay there, still, covered with the sheen of sweat and her tears, when they hear the creak of feet on the stairs.
She gasps, sitting up, half frozen with fear.
He sits up too, and before he can open his mouth she is gone, slipping out like a shadow. He cannot even hear the sound of her door closing again. What seems like lifetimes later, he hears the creak of her door opening, and the murmur of voices. He tiptoes to the wall, pressing his ear against it.
Emily's suspicious voice filters through the wall.
"I swear I saw you out in the hallway and I heard this noise, it sounded like a …scream or something. Are you alright?"
He hears the bed covers rustling. Then,
"I had a terrible nightmare. I went to the bathroom to wash my face, I'm all covered in a cold sweat. I suppose I must have cried out."
He hears the sound of sobbing suddenly, then Emily's comforting murmur, and a thin little smile spreads on his lips, a weary, sad smile. He opens a window, grateful it wasn't his door she chose to open. After all, there is no mistaking the smell of sex.
It is morning. The four of them sit silently at the breakfast table, Richard reading the paper, Emily buttering her toast and studying Rory, Jess staring at his coffee.
"So, where will you two be heading next?"
There is a pause after this sentence.
"Home," I suppose, replies the girl, a faint rose rising into her cheeks. "My semester at Yale starts in two weeks. I…should…buy pencils….."
The older woman nods sharply.
"And what about you, Jess?"
His head jerks up, and he stares at her, seemingly dazed.
"New York. I'm working for half a year to pay for college, and I'll enroll in the spring depending on how matters stand. I have two scholarships on hold from the state."
Emily's tone is crisp and polite.
"How nice to see such an independent young person."
There is another silence after this.
Richard folds his paper and smiles, oblivious.
"Jess, how about that sail?"
The two women are left facing each other. Emily stands up straight, her bearing almost regal.
"Perhaps you'd like to join me in the study," she says, and her heels clack softly on the wooden floor, and all of a sudden Rory is Lorelai and there is something so strange and terrible and beautiful about this feeling, finally understanding, finally getting it. The past 18 years of her life, everything Lorelai has never been able to explain, it's all here now and in spite of the bitter taste of fear rising in her mouth, for the first time since she has kissed Jess there is a sudden calm in her, a steeliness she does not recognize.
She has no way of knowing it is inherited.
There is not much to say in the study. Emily stands by the window, her back facing Rory, her voice even and soulless.
"The maid found an undergarment belonging to you in Jess's room this morning."
There is a long silence. The foggy ocean is visible from the window, shrouding the verdant lawns, turning the world into a strange dream.
"This situation is one that I will not allow. Not only is it disgusting, seeing as you are now related,-"
"We are not blood relatives," the girl's voice cuts in, clear and calm. "It's legal in any state, anywhere."
"Don't interrupt!" whispers the older woman, back still turned, in a strangled tone. "You're embarrassing us! Do you realize what people will say? Do you realize what you are doing to the Gilmore name? How will this be received in Yale!? What will happen when people find out?"
She takes a deep breath, steadying her voice.
"If you still want that money for Yale, you need to put an end to this immediately. These are the conditions. I'm sorry it has come to this."
She turns around, walking straight up to Rory, whose back is majestically straight and whose face is completely calm.
"Then it seems to me we part ways here, Emily," Rory replies, and watches the way her grandmother's face crumbles at this impersonal use of her name that she has never uttered before. "I'll call Yale and defer my acceptance for a year. Perhaps by then I will have saved enough and gotten some scholarships as well as a loan."
Neither woman speaks. Rory walks out, closing the door behind her quietly, and grabbing their bags. She puts them in the car, to the surprise of the two men who are walking out to the gate at that moment. She signals to Jess, and with a shrug at Richard, the boy jumps in the car and they tear through the open gate and keep going until they come to a grey, sandy beach on their left. Rory suddenly swerves into the parking lot, killing the engine.
Her head hangs down, face masked by her hair.
He stares ahead silently.
Her shoulders begin to shake. She raises furious, tear-stained eyes at him. Turning towards him, she deliberately raises her arm and slaps him hard across the face. He says nothing, but looks steadily at her.
Then she's crying, crying and beating her small fists against him, trying to hurt him but he grabs her close to him, trapping her arms. He can guess what has happened. And somewhere in the terrible guilt stabbing at him there's a wave of fear, but also relief. He's so afraid all of a sudden, so scared of this thing he has done, of how he's destroyed her dream, and for the first time since he has met her a single tear courses down his cheek, his eyes burning hotly. It's followed by another, as he struggles with her, stone faced, holding her down as she cries I hate you I hate you over and over again.
He's so afraid she might mean it.
