Disclaimer: I just had to take out another ghastly loan for med school. Do you think I'd be doing so if I had royalties rolling in? Obviously not mine. Lyrics from "Time is a Healer," Eva by Heart (yes, I know it's about breaking up—work with me here, okay?) Three lines of dialogue were inspired/modified from GG episode 4.03 "The Hobbit, the Sofa, and Digger Stiles."
Dedicated as always to my wonderful reviewers: secretstar, roxybluegirl7 (from LJ), columbiachica, Stew Pid (sorry, I forgot you!), AvidTVFan, and Kimlockt! I deeply appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read this fic and those that have provided me with feedback. Special big thank you to AvidTVFan who not only reviewed to tell me to write fast, she also advertised for me.
Chapter 8
I spoke such harsh words before goodbye
Well I wanted to hurt you for the tears you made
You made me cry
All my hopes and dreams, well they started vanishing
Those tender hurt feelings became a dangerous thing…
"Did anyone call for me?" Rory asked, dumping her things, as usual, on the floor. The floor was becoming quite littered—a shirt and shorts that Rory wore yesterday were lying by the desk, four of her novels were scattered next to the door, and crumpled paper from when Rory had written her social issue paper were next to bed.
Paris gritted her teeth to prevent the sigh of annoyance from escaping.
"I don't know." Paris answered curtly. "I unplugged the phone."
"You unplugged the phone?" Rory repeated slowly. "Why?"
"It wouldn't stop ringing and it was disturbing me. Which, you are doing also, so if you would mind?" Paris gestured vaguely towards the door. She was tired, and developing a headache—her project with her representative had turned out to be more work than she had bargained for. It more than grated that Rory had gotten placed with a senator from Connecticut, and she, Paris the Student-Body President, had been stuck with a one-term tenured Republican from Utah.
Her only consolation was that Brad had been stuck with an absolute ogre from Texas down the hall, which meant the two of them could get together on their few free lunch hours (what was with these stuffy politicians and their blatant disregard of the child-labor act?) and hash out their resentment. Brad managed to elicit a couple laughs with his witty caricatures of his representative, which was convincing enough to send a nearby intern into a deep throttle panic. It still felt odd smiling and laughing—she hadn't realized how little she had done either until she felt the weird superposition on her normal expression, like folding your hands the wrong way—but it was becoming a more natural, although still infrequent, reaction. Oh, Brad still managed to irritate her at least three times a day, but somehow, the lunches made the whole day better.
However, today, Rep. Black had actually thrown back her proposal for an office efficiency appraisal and informed her in curt terms that she didn't have the time or the resources to even consider such a project. Hence the headache. And Paris, the self-proclaimed "I-thrive-on-stress" with never a headache in her life, was beginning to resign herself to the constant throb.
On top of this, Paris somewhat regretted her words to Rory a few days before and being in her company made her uncomfortable—not to mention that the tension in the room had risen tenfold. Terse silence, broken only by brief, absolutely necessary conversation had once again descended between them. She couldn't deny finding out that Rory was cheating on her boyfriend with the diner boy and lying to her mother on top of it all was the best scandal she could wish for. Part of her still itched to call Madeline and spread the news that Rory Gilmore wasn't as perfect as everyone thought.
But she had seen Rory's anguished face at her accusations, and for some reason, she kept hearing the sloshed advice of her mother. When the lack of friends in her daughter's life and therefore the stain on her reputation too obvious, Mrs. Gellar had decided the best way to reform her daughter was to buy self-help books and lecture from that. Her favorite had been one of proverbs and deep sayings—it made her feel educated to be quoting from famous people. So in between the makeup lessons and mandatory parties, Paris's life was filled with clichéd "words of wisdom." By the age of 14, she loathed Ben Franklin, Thoreau, Oprah, and especially Richard Simmons for his "you can't love anybody until you love your body" attitude.
Now those phrases replayed over and over in her throbbing head. It was crazy. Even after four weeks of living with the girl in near silence, with all the evidence pointing to the fact that they could have at best a working acquaintanceship only, Paris couldn't deny that she still wanted to be friends. Friends. It still made her laugh that just over a year ago, she was directing Louise and Madeline to ignore the threatening new girl and now she would have given anything if Rory would talk to her the way she talked to her mom or her friend, Lane—joke with her, confide in her, rant about their politicians, become Rhoda to Rory's Mary Tyler Moore. Oh, yes, life was funny sometimes.
But apologizing was not one of her strong points—she couldn't even think of the last time she was wrong enough to warrant such an action. Maybe her mother and ol' Ben were right—in any case, she was desperate enough to try almost anything, just to get things back the way they were. She opened her mouth, in an attempt to find some words of regret—
"Paris!" Rory exploded, placing her hands on her hips. "I was expecting a call today from Senator Riley's office to tell me when I'm supposed to be at the Senate tomorrow. Great. Now, they're going think that I'm some flake. Would it kill you to answer the phone once in a while?" The sarcasm was cutting.
"Yes, it would." Paris snapped back, her apologies fleeing back to the recluses of her mind. "Contrary to popular and misguided opinion, I am not your messenger service. Buy an answering machine if you're so worried about missing calls during your frolics!"
"You know, it could have been for you too."
Paris stared up incredulously at her roommate, all urgings to be nice gone. "Right. Of course. Wow, I knew you were completely consumed with Mr. Casanova, but I hadn't thought that you were losing brain cells too. How else could you have not realized that the phone hasn't been for me all summer?"
There was a strange look on Rory's face. "It could have been Jamie. I told him to call you."
"Jamie? Who's Jamie?"
"Jamie, I don't know his last name. The intern in my office, remember? I know I told you about him. He heard your speech last week, and he sat at our table at the Lobby luncheon. Anyway, he wanted to meet you. So I told him where you studied and … I gave him our number."
For a moment she just stared at this strange...thing that now inhabited Rory's body. There was no possible way—she had just misheard, right? No, this explained the unfamiliar guy who had come up to her in the library that day. She had squashed his suave attempts at conversation with curt no nonsense. When that didn't work, she left. And it had all been Rory's doing.
Paris jumped to her feet, seething in anger. All of the rage, the resentment that she had been feeling came boiling to the surface. "Great, so Rory Gilmore has decided to make me her pity project. Again. Because obviously I am such a social reject that no guy would date me unless Rory begs and pleads. What did you offer him this time, Rory? Is he another one that you think you can just pass on to me, even though he only has the hots for you? Your kindness moves me!" Her voice rose with every syllable.
"No, I—" Rory defended.
Paris cut her off. "Oh, save your sob stories. You just enjoy running everybody else's life, because you're Rory and you're the town's sweetheart who can do no wrong and it's your job to make everyone as happy as you. Well guess what, Princess, the world doesn't revolve around you and we all know how happy you are too!"
"Oh trust me, I wasn't doing it out of the good of my heart. The guy liked you, okay? It's not like you have any luck getting them yourself!" Rory spat heatedly with deep sarcasm. "At least I didn't tell him that he shouldn't even bother; maybe I should have and saved him the time!"
"Yes, you should have! You don't get it, do you? I told you with Tristan to leave my life alone, but I guess you can't take the hint. So I'll spell it out for you. GET OUT OF MY LIFE!" She roared, losing every shred of control.
"Fine! Would love to! But someone insisted that I be here! And it's been such a joy living with you! " Rory shouted back, her cheeks crimson.
"Don't give me the tortured act. You hate it here, you hate me and you certainly haven't made my life blissful either. Fine, then, go. Head back to your precious Stars Hollow. Go! I'm certainly not making you stay! Just get out of here!" Not wanting to hear anymore, not certain that she could stand another look at Rory's malevolent face, she stalked quickly out of the room, slamming the door as hard as she could.
Breathing hard, she made her way down the hallway, eyes snapping at all who dared glance in her direction. She had no idea where she was headed; she just knew that she had to get out of the building and fast.
Her furious strides took her to the union building, where she, still in a blind rage, bought the largest chocolate she could find, daring the pimples to try and show their heads. It was stale, the chocolate breaking into shards with each violent bite, but she paid it no heed.
Her feet had taken her halfway back to the dorms before she realized where they were heading. There was no way that she could go back. She didn't want to see Rory—part of her still wanted to rip into her and the other was scared that Rory would continue her tirade of faults. The rage was slowly draining away and all she wanted to do was curl up in some place where no one would ever find her. She clung tenaciously to her departing rage—she wasn't ready to feel guilty yet.
But somehow her feet were still leading her towards the dorms. She turned aside from her normal path and walked down an unfamiliar hall. Stopped in front of 106B. Raised a hand and knocked.
Brad answered the door, a perplexed and somewhat scared look spreading across his features. "P-Paris?" he stuttered. "Wh-what—"
"Look. I don't know why I'm here. Don't ask questions!" She ordered, as he opened his mouth again. He stepped back slightly. She felt a twinge of remorse—Brad was looking very much like he did before, before they had talked and she decided that he wasn't so bad. It wasn't his fault, the fight with Rory. She pushed her voice to a calmer pitch. "I can't go back to my place. Can I study here for the afternoon?"
"Um," he hesitated and glanced back in his room. Paris looked around him and saw four frightened-looking boys huddled around a computer, staring up at her with wide eyes.
"Forget I asked." She muttered, her face inflamed with embarrassment. It was one thing to admit to Brad that she needed help, quite another to announce it to the whole geek ensemble.
"Paris, wait!" Brad pleaded as she turned on her heel. "Guys, we'll do this later." There was a murmur of agreement, a quick shuffling of papers and bags. The boys filled out of the room, eyes cast to the floor, avoiding brushing against her. She waited in silence as they left. "We were trying to network our computers together, but we weren't getting anywhere—lack the proper LAN connection…." He trailed off, noticing that she had tuned him out at the first sentence. She stared blankly at the wall, the white cement blocks fading out of focus as the reality of what had happened finally started sinking in. "You wanna come in?"
She followed him in blindly. He pulled off a pile of laundry off his bed and shoved it hastily in the closet. "Laundry day, didn't get a chance to finish…" The bed was made at least, a home-style denim block quilt pulled neatly across the bed. She sat down gingerly, completely out of her element. Brad took the bed across from her, pushing aside mounds of blankets and stuff to find an empty spot. Tad, apparently, was a bigger slob than Ro— She shut her mind off at the thought of her.
She felt physically sick. Her stomach was rolling and her head's pounding had risen to jackhammer intensity. She instinctively glanced around for a garbage can—good, there was one in easy access if she needed it, but she steeled her stomach. She would have to get deathly ill before she showed such weakness in front of anybody.
She kept her glaze on the cement walls, refusing to meet Brad's eyes. All reason had left her and she had no idea of what possessed to come here. He seemed content just to let her sit there, for he made no attempts to draw out conversation. He folded his hands together and looked at the floor, inspecting the title of a book. A comfortable silence descended between them and suddenly Paris knew why she had come, although there were no words to explain why. Confiding in Brad just seemed right, natural even.
"Rory told me she hated me," she stated flatly, glancing up quickly at him. The scared look had vanished from his face but otherwise she couldn't read its expression. She focused again on the whitewashed walls. "We—we had a fight and she told me that—" The rest of the sentence clogged in her throat; her pride preventing her from pouring out everything.
"And what did you tell her?" His voice was neutral, although he looked like he felt he was the last person to be asking for advice. In less desperate times, she might have agreed, but what was the saying about beggars being choosers?
"I told her to get out of my life." The bitter feelings surfaced again. "It makes me so angry! Who does she think she is? Do I have "Rory's Pet Project" tattooed on my forehead? Do I?" She demanded.
"What did she do?"
"She set me up! With an intern! I've never met him, until he accosted me today."
"What?"
"His name is Jamie. What kind of name is that? Jamie. Sounds like one of Robin Hood's Merry Men. She's done this before, you know. Last year with Tristan."
"Oh, Tristan. How could any one forget?" He smiled faintly.
She pounced on the smile. "What do you mean?" She fired back.
"Paris, your outrage was felt all over the school—the halls, the classrooms, I bet it even penetrated the locker room."
"Oh, so I was gossip when sweaty boys showered, was I? I want details. Names and phone numbers." She bristled, stung at yet another piece of evidence of the deep dislike everybody felt for her.
"Do I look like the kind of guy who sits around in my towel and swaps stories?" He asked incredulously.
She paused in her rant. Brad had changed from his dress shirt and slacks into a tee shirt that read "I've got more Byte than you." Between his wavy blond hair, skinny face and ears that stuck out too far, there wasn't an ounce of jock in him. "No," she admitted finally.
"Okay. I didn't even know you then." He frowned. "Are you going…to do it, I mean go out with Jamie?" There was the same strange look on his face as there had been on Rory's when she had told her about Jamie—as if she had said something worrisome and he couldn't figure out how to process it. She interpreted it as welfare for her safety and something deep inside was touched by his concern.
"Of course not!"
"Good." He sounded relieved.
"I read the news and I know what happens to interns who go on blind dates—they end up dead in some park, their bodies decaying when found by some runners." She thumped her hands emphatically on the bed, disgust riddling her voice.
"So, if you're not going to do it, why are you so upset?" He probed, his voice puzzled.
She began her long list of grievances, becoming angrier by the mere memory of them. "Because I'm sick of being Rory's good deed. Because she didn't ask me if I wanted to be stalked. Because—"
He interrupted, "Because you're afraid that she doesn't like you and thinks so little of you that she would pass you on to all the creeps.
All of her righteous indignation dissolved away into emptiness, leaving her limp and so tired. She sagged back on the bed, her shoulder slumping. Tears gathered in her eyes and she didn't have the strength to hold them back. "Yeah," she choked around a sob. "I think I blew it this time."
Brad got up abruptly. "Hold on," and he left the room. He was back before she had noticed his departure. "Here." he said, handing her a wad of toilet paper. 'I don't have Kleenex, but it's from a new roll."
She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "It wasn't just the fight…I found out…some stuff…about Rory and…I threw it back in her face. We haven't gotten along…all summer, …she didn't talk to me…for two weeks…and it's been awful," she finished in a gulp and blew her nose noisily. "What am I going to do? I mean… She didn't want to live with me, but I've tried really hard to be a good roommate, to be her friend, but obviously I'm just too much to deal with."
"That doesn't sound like Rory."
She scoffed. Everybody always came to the defense of the little darling. "No, Rory's too much of a coward to say what she really feels. That why she sticks with her boyfriend because she won't tell him he's boring because it would hurt his feelings."
"That—that was rather harsh."
"Yeah, well, 'nice' isn't my middle name." She barked defensively. Her nose was bright red and she knew that her cheeks must be blotchy and swollen. She definitely wasn't one who could cry prettily. Already, she felt embarrassment at having lose her control and actually crying, bawling like she was four.
"So what—what are you going to do? You probably need to apologize." He probed awkwardly, after a pause.
'What are you, my therapist?" She lashed out, her anger boiling to the surface. He blushed brightly and withdrew from the edge of the bed; he lowered his gaze to the floor again and didn't say anything.
She felt awful. He had been nothing but supportive and it had been her who had dumped all of this on him—she who had never needed help with anything. He was acting like a friend, her one friend and she still treated him like garbage. Bow down to her, the queen of slime.
"I'm…I'm sorry, Brad." The words felt like peanut butter in her mouth, but he deserved an apology. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I do that all the time—lash out. It's not just Rory, you know. Everybody's scare of me. Paris the Terminator, I cause fear wherever I go. You were scared of me, still are. And nobody really likes me. I know that. " She was crying again. "Do you know why I'm even here? Why I'm president? Because I ran with Rory and Rory is sugar-and-spice and everything nice. And I'm not. Nobody voted for me. They voted for Miss Congeniality."
"I voted for you."
She looked up at him; he was still staring at the floor. "Why?"
"Because—" he seemed to rethink his original reasons, "because you were the most competent. You knew what you were doing."
"Well, you were the only one. Maybe you should get a new tee-shirt that reads 'Sucker'."
"Okay, enough." He stood up and continued in exasperation, still avoiding her gaze. "Paris, just stop—stop tearing yourself down like that. People do like you."
"Tell that to my empty Valentine's box in elementary school." She snorted derisively.
"I've seen you with your friends—um, Madeline and Lisa?"
"Louise."
"Yeah. You can't tell me that they just follow you like puppies because you're blackmailing them."
She smiled faintly at his peculiar attempts to cheer her up. "Their mothers are in the same committees as my mother."
"And so are everybody else's mothers. They like you."
"Maybe." She wasn't convinced. Brad was the home-schooled politician kid, complete with the stay-at-home mother; there was little way that she could explain the inner workings of the socialite elite.
"So what if you're not the popular one? I never thought you were one who even cared about that."
She glared at him, irritated once again. "I don't! Do I look like a cheerleader with fluff for a brain, who only cares if Biff is going to ask me to the next dance? But a little respect and a couple of 'hi's' in the hallway might be nice for a change. Is that asking too much?"
Brad looked up and made finally reestablished eye contact. She was surprised, stunned to discover that he was grinning, shaking with laughter actually. She gaped at him, unsure of what to make of this reaction. He shook his head as he rocked in virtual hysterics. She was momentarily mesmerized by the wave of his sandy hair, the way it captured the glints of sun through the blinds and turned gold. Paris shook her own head vigorously, not wanting to even think of where that thought had come from. That's what crying got you—a headache and a soggy brain.
He got his voice in control. "You do know that you have major confidence issues, don't you?" He said around another chuckle.
"Somehow that doesn't seem very funny." She grumbled, unsettled that he would actually laugh at her.
He grinned wider. "I was just picturing you with a guy named Biff. You hanging off of his muscles, barking orders to his buddies. Come on, you have to admit, it's pretty funny. Paris and Biff."
A smile twitched the corners of her mouth.
He stood up abruptly, the bed creaking violently in protest. "Come on. I don't know about you but I'm starving. And I can't stand the thought of one more day of cafeteria food. There's a reason that they should ban the use of lima beans in chili."
She hesitated. She wasn't that hungry and exhaustion was threatening to overtake her.
"There's this Indian restaurant just off the Metro at Woodley Park. We could get some takeout, go to Rock Creek Park and, I don't know, play Frisbee or something."
"I don't know, Brad."
"Come on," he wheedled, "Getting out of here will do you good and give you time to think. Besides, as your therapist, I work better outdoors." His eyes twinkled.
She blushed deeply. "I said I was sorry."
"Don't be. Can you imagine how great my resume will look now that I can say that I was Paris Gellar's personal therapist? Although, I have to say, you've drained all of my expertise. All I can manage now is 'dude'." His smile was infectious and she found herself responding, the deep depression lifting for the first time all day.
He held the door open. The idea of escape, of leaving all of her problems behind and just enjoying one evening was alluring. She nodded, and brushed past him without further disagreement.
It was late, after ten when Paris and Brad returned, the dusk long since faded to the murky grey of the city. The evening had been, she admitted, unexpectedly wonderful: a reprise from the stress of the day and all of her concerns had momentarily drained away. They hadn't talked much, just sat at a picnic table and watched the joggers as they ate, then threw the Frisbee back and forth. He teased her about her atrocious skills and she, at one point, had stuck her tongue out at him, her impulsive act of childishness surprising both of them and they dissolved into snorts and gasping giggles.
Too early, the pleasant evening dissolved away. The dread returned with the setting of the sun, reminding her of the problems that she still had to face. Her feet dragged home with great reluctance, and Brad's cheerful chatter became subdued. She had feebly bid Brad good night—thanked him for the dinner and nodded at his brief inept words of encouragement and made her way up the stairs, the pit of her stomach gnawing again in fear.
She clutched her arms close to her side, feeling cold as she made her way slowly down the deserted halls—it looked like most had called it an early night. The dread turned in her stomach and it was an effort putting one foot in front of the other. Almost, she turned to flee, anywhere but here.
Almost. She steeled herself and prayed to whatever-god-to-whatever-religion-that-would-listen that the room would be empty and she could put this off for just a while longer, maybe forever if they were really generous with their blessings.
The door creaked loudly as she pushed it open. Rory lay on her bed, stretched on her stomach with the phone to her ear and her back to the door. She looked up briefly at the noise.
"Um, Jess" Rory continued into the phone, her hair falling over her face, obscuring anything that Paris could read there. "I have to go….Yeah, she just got back…Okay….I know….And, um, thanks. For everything….Talk to you tomorrow?….Bye….."
Paris crossed the few feet to her bed and sat gingerly on the edge, waiting for Rory to finish her conversation. She chewed on the edge of her fingernail, staring fixedly at a snow-globe perched on Rory's desk—a gift that she had obviously bought for her mother; no one else would ever want such a gaudy gift, with the major monuments clustered around cherry blossoms and a brilliant pink banner proclaiming "Welcome to D.C.!"
She continued to stare at the globe long after Rory hung up the phone, trying to convince herself that it was because she was making sure she had visited all of the importance sites. Had she visited the FDR Memorial yet?
Rory didn't say a word and Paris could not force her eyes over in Rory's direction. The silence deepened and virtually crackled with tension—she thought it ironic that it if had been this quiet this afternoon, their fight would never have happened.
Fifteen seconds passed. Thirty. Each lasted an eternity.
"I'm sorry." The words were hoarse—contrary to popular opinion, apologizing did not get easier with practice. She had hoped that just maybe, perhaps, her earlier apology to Brad would have broken some internal dam. Finding the next words was even more difficult and she stumbled over them, stuttering. "I, I…shouldn't have…I mean…I shouldn't have said…what I…did. And…I'm sorry." She stopped, unsure of how to continue, her eyes never budging from the Washington Monument in the globe. If she looked out the window, she would see the tip of the same building soaring over the trees, an effulgent glow in the moonlight. Strangely, she found the thought comforting, perhaps if she looked hard enough, she would find a miniature version of herself who had escaped all of this.
Rory didn't say anything. Not a word. Paris waited, expectantly, for some kind of reaction—a noise, a hand gesture, something. Tears pricked her eyes and she brushed her hand across her face angrily. Fine. She had humiliated herself and she was tired of feeling embarrassed and vulnerable. She had tried to make things right, something she now swore she'd never do again. It hadn't worked, and if Rory wasn't even going to acknowledge her efforts… Well, it didn't matter and she didn't care. Really.
She reached across and grabbed her pillow, the tears hot in her eyes. There was a couch out in the commons area—she'd sleep there tonight and talk to the R.A. in the morning, demand a room change. But there was no way she was sticking around here.
She pawed for her toothbrush, a dozen emotions threatening to overcome her—anger, hurt, bewilderment—emotions so foreign that she lacked words to describe them.
"I don't hate you." Rory said quietly. Paris looked up, her hand paused over her pajamas. Rory had shifted, her feet tucked under her. She brushed her hair back from her face and Paris noticed for the first time the telltale puffy cheeks. The afternoon had not been easy on Rory either.
"You don't like me though." Paris observed, feeling the sting of the disclosure. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to hear the answer, but she was too tired to care anymore. She wanted to hear the truth so she could just leave and leave everything behind.
Rory didn't answer right away. "Sometimes, you make it…hard. But I do like you." She continued more hesitantly, a hint of justification in her voice. "But you…you…you haven't exactly liked me either."
Paris was too exhausted for any type of pretense. "No." She admitted, dropping her hand limply to her side. "I didn't. You were…perfect. You came in and breezily took the life that I had spent all of mine trying to get. I hated you. And then I didn't. But it was too late."
"I guess we still have some things to work through." Rory smiled slightly.
"I don't know what you expect from me." Paris confessed in a low tone.
"I don't know either." Silence lapsed between them. "So what now?"
She shook her head, and then in a rush of honesty, said softly, "I want to be your friend. I mean…Remember that night that I stayed over? That's the first time I've stayed over at someone's house since I was ten. My mother called Bethany's and demanded that I be invited to her birthday party too. So Bethany and her friends spent the entire night throwing popcorn at me. I woke up with toothpaste in my hair.
"So you asked me to stay over and even though we didn't braid each other's hair or stay up until dawn talking like you're supposed to do at slumber parties, I thought, wow, maybe Rory and I are friends. That's why I asked you to be my running partner."
"Oh. I didn't…It didn't mean…"
"To me it did." She stated flatly, her voice masking any shred of emotion.
Rory appeared to digest what Paris had told her. It struck her, what she had revealed to Rory and the vulnerable feeling made her ill to stomach again. It was almost worse now, having exposed herself and now waiting for the verdict.
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Friends. We can try being friends."
"Friends? Just like that?" Paris repeated dubiously. "We've barely said two words to each other all summer and now you'll wave your magic wand and it'll be all better?"
Rory shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. I don't hate you, you don't hate me—it's a start. Couldn't we just start over at the 'Hi, I'm Rory and you are?' stage and try it?"
Paris shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think they've invented a memory eraser yet."
Rory gaped at her for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. Paris matched hers. "I never realized that you were capable of making such cheesy jokes."
"Then you do not know me that well."
"I guess not… Okay?"
"Okay." The tension in the room ebbed away, as if there was no reason for it to stay: the skirmish was over with small victories on both sides. Oh sure, Paris wasn't delusional enough to think that they still didn't have things to work through, that everything was fine and dandy and they'd be exchanging first-borns, but for the moment, things felt…settled and there was an almost hopeful air about them.
"So where did you go this evening?" Rory asked as if to move the conversation to safer ground, tucking her knees under her chest. Paris was relieved—while it felt good to get some of this off her chest, she did not enjoy confessing her inner emotions for Rory's perusal.
"Nowhere, really. We went for Indian food, threw a Frisbee in the park."
"We?"
"Um, Brad came too." She was reluctant to reveal this for some reason. People had a tendency to read too much into innocuous circumstances…
"Brad? Brad from our class Brad? I thought you hated him."
"I never said that." She defended quickly. Hate was very different from…strong dislike.
A knowing grin spread across Rory's face, although surprise still etched her voice. "You and Brad? This is great! Why didn't you tell me?"
"What?" Paris sputtered. Her cheeks and ears were suddenly aflame.
"Brad hasn't said anything. Oh, I'm sorry. If I had known, I'd never had suggested that you date Jamie. You should have told me!" Rory's face had lit up and she was practically bouncing on the bed in excitement.
"Me and Brad?" Pairs squeaked out in disbelief, "You think we're dating?"
Rory paused. "You're not? There's nothing between you two?"
"Nothing! He's just a sort of a something, a semi-friend. He's not even that. He's just…here."
"Oh." Rory considered the issue. "Darn?"
Paris raised an eyebrow. "Darn?" She repeated.
"Yeah, darn. The two of you would have been, I don't know, cute together."
"Cute?? Don't tell me, you've got stashes of Seventeen under your bed and have been reading all about how to become just like Mandy Moore." Paris groaned in disbelief.
Rory giggled. "You don't like cute?"
"Do I look like a 'cute' person to you? That's the second time someone has accused me of thinking like a cheerleader." She shuddered, but continued, more seriously. "Rory? Don't set me up again."
Rory pursed her lips. "I said I was sorry. I didn't know you'd react that way."
"No, but you do know that I like running my life my way." She stated emphatically, then in a lower tone. "It didn't work with Tristan, it's not going to work now."
"Okay." Rory nodded slowly in agreement. "No more setups. I didn't mean—I didn't mean to upset you. I honestly thought that you would like him."
"Why? Because he's as socially backwards as I am and can't get a date without your help?" The hurt was still there in her voice—apparently, she hadn't purged all of her demons concerning Rory.
"No." Rory protested, her voice not changing in timbre. "Because he seemed like the type that you could be attractive to."
"You know my type?" Paris wasn't sure if she even knew her own type.
Rory smiled slightly again and waved her hand in the air. "He's smart and funny. And he's going to Princeton. Plus, he's the type that you could discuss the inner workings of the government and he would actually be interested and probably fight back with you, and he's interested in journalism, too, I heard him tell one of the other interns that he works on the campus newspaper. He's cute, too and he liked you. I don't know, he just seemed right for you."
"You really thought so?"
"Yeah." Rory defended.
"But he is okay, mentally? There's nothing wrong with him? He's not a sociopath or OCD is he? Does he brush his teeth every day? How does he dress? I bet he has a nervous tic, doesn't he? And—"
" Hey, just breathe. He's a nice guy, a little intense, but somehow I don't think you'd mind."
"Then why aren't you interested in him? There must be something wrong and you're not telling me."
"Um, I have a boyfriend, remember?" No, Paris hadn't forgotten, although she had suspected that Rory had. She stopped the thought—that was the type of malicious thinking that had put her in this situation to begin with.
"And you think I'd like him?"
Rory nodded. It hadn't occurred to her that maybe Rory had done this because she actually thought that there was a possibility… Without analyzing it deeper, she blurted out, "Do you have his number?"
Rory's face twisted slightly in confusion. "No, but I…I could get it for you."
"No, no. That's alright." Paris blushed hotly under Rory's scrutinizing gaze. "Okay, I'll do it."
"What?" Rory sputtered.
"Just promise me that you'll never—and I mean never—set me up again and I'll give this Pretty Boy Jamie a chance."
"You're kidding, right?" Rory looked utterly shocked, and her mouth worked as if she was having difficulty forming her words. "Paris, you don't have to do it. It's okay, he's not going to get mad if I tell him you're not interested."
Paris almost laughed at her disbelief. "Tell him he can call me. Tomorrow. And I'll talk to him. And see. I'm not making any promises, but…"
A dawning look spread across Rory's face. "This isn't because I thought that you and Brad…You don't need to prove to me that you're not romantically involved—I believe you."
"I know. It's not that. It's…" She trailed off, unable to find the words to even begin an explanation. How could she when all she had were strange emotions and she had never considered herself one of those touchy-feely personality types? She thought about what Brad had accused her of earlier that day. It was true, somewhat, she decided with sudden clarity. She was swayed by popular opinion—only she had been so steadfast in believing that nobody had anything nice to even think about her that she was determined to do exactly the opposite of popular opinion, just to show them that she was above their pettiness. And now look at her. She had been so sure that Rory had set this thing up with Jamie as some malicious trick—the thought that it might have been a kindly (albeit badly misguided) gesture had never even occurred to her. When had she become so pessimistic?
She rubbed her eyes wearily. It was no wonder that nobody else liked her—she loathed the person she had become. She felt old, as if she had lived three lifetimes in this one day. More than that, she was tired, tired of herself, tired of hating herself.
With that realization, the self-imposed blockades came crumbing down and the words just spilled out beyond her control. "This summer was supposed to be it. The big opportunity. No one knew me here, besides you and Brad, I mean. Do you know what that meant? It was a chance to start over, wipe out the last seventeen years. My chance to show everybody that, hey, Paris Gellar can be fun too. And we're now, what, five weeks into this never-ending nightmare, and it's exactly the same thing as home. Nothing's changed, and I'm just…sick of it all."
"Paris, I don't that going on a blind date is the answer—"
"That's not it." She interrupted. "It's me, I'm the problem." Today just proved it. All of her responses had been classic Paris—take offense, strike hard in retaliation and never mind who else got hurt.
"Look," she continued, struggling to find the right words, "nothing's changed, because I haven't changed. I'm the same person I was when I came here, and unless I do something I'll leave the same way, angry, lonely, not trusting anybody and hating myself. So, yeah, I want you to set me up with Jamie, not only because it's probably time I added blind dates to the 'been there, done that' category, but because…I want to trust you, Rory, and not constantly think that you're just out to stab me in the back. So this is what I have do." The proverbial leap of faith. She'd probably end up missing the other side of the cliff and fall to her death, proverbially speaking, but at least, it'd be something different.
Rory had remained quiet throughout her tirade, an unexpected look of understanding flitting across her face. "Okay, no problem. I'll tell him, if you're sure?" Rory questioned once again, a stall that evidently a last chance for Paris to back out.
"Just do it." She stated flatly. "Don't ask me again, or else I'll start overanalyzing it, like always, and I'll be back where I started."
Rory nodded and quiet descended between them, a comfortable, pleasant silence. Paris glanced over towards the window, again spotting the snow globe. This time, the gaudy touristy trinket cause a bubble of amusement to rise up—she was so relieved with how things had turned out, she was practically giddy. She, Paris Gellar, had an almost uncontrollable urge to bounce on her bed and whoop loudly…. Yeah, there was a sure sign of hysterics.
"Oh gosh!" Rory exclaimed. "It's after one! I have to be at the Senate meeting by 7:30 tomorrow!"
"Mmm. I guess we should go to bed."
"Yeah, I'd hate to fall asleep and snore when Mr. Riley presents all of my research to the committee, without crediting me, obviously, the bastard." The venom was layers deep in her voice.
Paris stared Rory, who encapsulated the whole "if you can't say something nice" philosophy and was probably a mascot at Disney to boot—she had never heard Rory use such strong-for-her language. It was unnerving.
Rory laughed weakly at Paris's shocked face. She slipped a nightshirt over her head and reached for a pair of pajama bottoms and continued, "Sorry. Long day. I spent hours this past week researching the impact of his Medicare reform proposal. Believe me, the staff at the Library of Congress is getting to know me because I'm there so much.
"So today, everybody's super busy getting the final draft ready of what Riley's going to say and I find out that while the interns at least get their names on the proposal, I don't. Apparently, because I'm just a high school student, all of my work is dibs for grabs. I don't get anything—no credit, certainly no pay. Just 'experience'!"
"At least you get that. Black just thinks that I'm one of her many gophers. I've spent more time trotting little messages back and forth, I swear, I ought to become a postal worker. The woman apparently has not figured out the magic of email."
Pairs pulled her hair back in a scrunchy, then reached for her bottle of face toner. With the chocolate that she had consumed today, she could just feel the pimples developing. "A part of me is so looking forward to when I get into office and can trounce her and her ineptitude. Hopefully, by then, her constituents will figure out what an idiot she is and elect someone new."
The comb paused in Rory's hand, as she turned to Paris. 'You actually want to go into politics, after all of this?" She squeaked in disbelief.
"Maybe. Yes. It's…exhilarating on some level. I enjoy the challenge and I would love to take on some of these stuffy old geezers in a heated debate."
"I guess it does suit you." Rory admitted after closely scrutinizing her. She pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. "There's no way I could ever do this. I'm looking forward to saying goodbye to this all." She yawned widely, "Oh, I'm so tired!"
Paris flipped off the light switch, the room blackening in an instant. She made her way gingerly over to her own bed. "I thought you were used to this late night stuff—you are always on the phone long after I go to bed." She should have kept her mouth closed, she realized an instant later. Of all the tension that they had cleared up between them, the Jess thing hadn't been addressed and lay uncomfortably between them—too much for even sideways references.
Rory didn't seem to notice, as she answered around another yawn. "Not this week. The sleep deprivation caught up with me. So I told Jess that we had to move our conversations to nine so I can at least be in bed by eleven or midnight."
"Oh."
Rory didn't say anything. As the silence lengthened, Paris figured that she must have fallen asleep, and turned over on her pillow to do the same.
She was just started to drift off, her thoughts relaxing into nonsense, when Rory's voice floated up softly in the darkness. "You were right, you know."
"Hmm?" She questioned sleepily.
"About Jess. About me…hiding him. I do. I shouldn't…I shouldn't lie to my mother and I do."
"Oh." Paris honestly couldn't think of anything else to say. Was Rory looking for advice?
"I kissed him, you know."
"No, I didn't." There, that seemed like a safe answer.
'Before we came here. He had just moved back and I was just…shocked to see him, I guess, and I just…kissed him. I've never told anybody. Not even Lane. Certainly not my mother."
"Why not?" Her eyes were starting to adjust to the relative darkness—with the light across the parking lot shining directly in the room, not to mention the city glow, it never got completely dark—and she could make our Rory's form on the opposite bed.
Rory gave a short snort. "Admitting that you cheated on your boyfriend is not an easy thing to do and my mom hates Jess so much…I couldn't ever get the words out."
"Was he a good kisser?"
Her snort transformed into a startled laugh. "Yeah," she said after a moment, "he was good."
"So then, what's the problem?"
"I don't know. Me, I guess. I still love Dean, I guess. He's been so sweet to me."
"But Jess?" Paris probed, a little amazed that Rory was confiding in her, telling her things she hadn't told anybody else.
"He's my best friend. I've never had a boyfrie—, a guy friend before, not since kindergarten and Mark brought frogs, which disgusted all of the girls but me. We played together in the mud for a whole month until everybody decided that he had cooties."
"I haven't either. Now, I guess Brad is my friend." It didn't seem so odd admitting this aloud. Brad was her friend. Not best friend, no, not even close, but friend nevertheless.
"Maybe it's normal, then. Being…attracted to them. I mean, maybe we think 'oh! Boy! Have to have hormones' and we confuse the friendship vibes with…something else."
"I have never been attracted to Brad." She quickly replied—she had already spent enough time squashing that belief this evening. One moment of fleeting psychosis did not count!
"Then maybe it is just me and I'm just messed up. Do you know what this is like? My mom has been my best friend since I was seven. I've told her everything. And in the three months, I've told her more lies… Shouldn't that be telling me something? Everybody seems to think that he's just out to corrupt me. Maybe he has and I just can't see his smooth moves."
"Do you think that's what's happening?" Paris asked in disbelief. She didn't know Jess that well, but he didn't seem that dangerous that fathers should be locking their daughters away and guarding the door with a shotgun. Sure, he had a James Dean complex, but his biggest problem was in moving to a town that was still stuck in Little House on the Prairie.
"No" Rory admitted, rolling over onto her side, so Paris could make out her pale face. "They don't know him, nobody does. But nobody will trust me; they think I'm just a mindless victim who's been taken in by his charms. And Mom, mom's so upset at him for hurting me and for ruining her relationship with Luke that there's no such thing as a second chance with her."
"Wait, he hurt you?"
"Car wreck. Broken wrist."
"Ah."
"Yeah." She gave a dry chuckle. "I'm even starting to talk like him. Monosyllables. I just wish that I could talk to her about it!"
"Lorelai." Paris supplied.
"Yeah. Get advice. Stop lying, so I could feel close to her again. Jess asked me to choose, you know." The words were very quiet; Paris had to strain to make them out.
"He did?" Paris was surprised, there hadn't been any hint in overheard conversation that he was pressuring her in any way.
"He told me that I was afraid of change and that I kissed him and I needed to decide. Between him and Dean."
"But…you haven't."
"No. I told him I needed time to think, and I've done nothing but try not to think about it this whole summer. But no matter what I do, somebody will get hurt. I don't want to choose between them! I shouldn't have to! But if Dean even suspected that I was still talking to Jess, he'd be furious. There's no way that he would believe that it was platonic."
Paris sniffed slightly. As much as Rory would like to convince herself otherwise, there was very little platonic in that friendship. A guy didn't call you every night and not have some other motive—Paris might have been socially backward, but she at least knew that. And Rory's behavior—well, it had been many weeks since she had heard anything endearing mentioned about Dean.
But she kept her mouth shut about that. Rory obviously needed to get acquainted with her own mind and nothing Paris said could help that process. But then again, maybe it wouldn't hurt…"I'm not good at the dispensing of advice, but in my opinion, it's time that you do think about it and make a decision. It certainly hasn't gotten better by you just ignoring it and pretty soon everybody is going to find out that you have been keeping things."
There was a small silence. "I know." Rory confessed at last. "I just needed a kick in the butt, I guess."
"Considered it kicked." She paused, "Why did you tell me this."
Her voice was lightly surprised. "I know you think it's just because I couldn't tell anyone else, but…you do at least know Jess and you don't hate him, at least I don't think that you do. You're the closest thing to an impartial observer that I have—and I know from personal experience that you wouldn't hesitate to tell me that I'm behaving like a Sandra Dee turned black-leather-wearing, cigarette-smoking bimbo. And I trust you."
Paris's breath caught. Trust. Such a simple word, but it caused the tears to well up in her eyes again. Trust.
"Oh, man, it's so late!" Rory's now very sleepy voice interrupted her thoughts. "Maybe—" another audible yawn, "we should do this in the morning…. I'm so tired…" Her voice was fading away. "G'night."
"Good night, Rory." Paris whispered. Her body was exhausted—every cell seemed to be calling out begging for sleep, but her mind whirled, still trying to process the events of the day.
She turned over and firmly closed her eyes, willing sleep to overtake her body. Sleep, she needed sleep. Sleep would help her reclaim the control on her emotions that had gone haywire today. And sleep would make today yesterday and tomorrow would be today… Her thought processes slowed down and as she drifted off, it occurred to her—tomorrow might be the first day to which she had ever looked forward. And it promised to be a good one.
A/N: Producing this chapter was one of the most excruciating events of my life. The little fairy who sits on my shoulder left me and I had to extract each sentence word by word from the recesses of my brain (which incidentally is currently filled with the disease processes of anemia—not something that inspires creative thought). 17 pages later, I'm still not satisfied with it—I think it's one of the worst I've written. I hate dialogue. I have complete admiration for people like Holly Gilmore who can write 106 chapters of pure dialogue. But I decided to throw caution to the wind and post it and pray that it's not as bad as I fear. As always, I adore reviewers and would love to hear your opinion, even if it is that my stories suck and I should die a painful death for inflicting it upon the hapless readers.
Oh, and as another aside: Can anyone tell what the official spelling is for Tristan/Tristin? I thought it was Tristin, but after reading some stories and seeing a few girls get thrashed for using that form, I figured I'd better play it safe and go for the other. It's not such a big deal, I probably won't mention him again, but, for my curiosity's sake…