Disclaimer: GG does not belong to me—the plot does however. Lyrics: "You've Changed," Eva Cassidy's Imagine. Some dialogue is taken directly from "Star Crossed Lovers and Other Strangers," of Gilmore Girls. And the book referred to is Emily's Quest by L.M. Montgomery.
Many thanks as always to the wonderful people who review my stories. You guys took my breath away on the last chapter... To: Karin, fan_fic reader, MiloliciousSTUDlover15, who cares, secret star, Elyssa, hah, k.ane, the Desert Fox, and especially Marissa (AvidTVFan) and Nate (MrSchimpf), thank you, thank you for your support. In all honesty, you are the ones who motivate me to write, and without you, I'd still be stuck on chapter 4. As always, this is for you.
Chapter 9
You've changed
That sparkle in your eyes is gone
Your smile is just a careless yawn
It's all over now,
You've changed.
"Ugh! I am so sick of reading these reports. Who honestly cares about how to properly address the chairperson?" Rory threw a notebook across the room. It hit the stuffed donkey and elephant that Lorelai had sent that week. Lorelai had sewn their arms together, so they were wrapped in a grotesque hug and proclaimed that she had finally brought peace to the political world. She had demanded that Rory bring it with her to work and tell her senator that he needed to find a Republican to hug, but Rory had squashed that idea. Sometimes, it paid to have a firm hand with her (albeit beloved) neurotic mother.
"You wait for the chairperson to—"
"Paris," Rory interrupted with a faint smile. "That was a rhetorical question."
"Sorry for assuming you were witless." Her roommate retorted with an actual grin.
Rory shook her head in amusement. It had been three days since their...fight, for lack of a better word, although since there had been very little yelling and crying, she probably ought to find a better synonym. The fight (disagreement? skirmish? dispute?), or whatever it had been had made a world of difference in their relationship. Three days ago, she had decided that she could never spend another hour in the same room with Paris and promptly started to compose the resignation letter to Headmaster Charleston. The post of vice-president certainly did not seem worth a year of torture, especially since it was a post she could cheerfully do without.
She hadn't really cared either. She was so tired of the drama that she couldn't even build up any kind of outrage at Paris's latest actions. A part of her hurt at the thought of somebody actually hating her—it sounded silly, but she had always been able to win friends eventually. Sure there were people who didn't like her, but she had always felt that the discomfort had been there because they hadn't gotten to know each other and those relationships had never evolved into true apathy. She had cried to Jess about her frustrations, dissolving into tears that night; he had responded by gently teasing her that she didn't always have to be voted Miss Congeniality, which absurdly, had worked in comforting her.
Jess had been amazing through the whole thing. She had worried about calling him, knowing that she would break down and probably freak him out—or worse, attain his disgust, by letting such petty matters as this trouble her. But the fears had been unfounded—he had sensed almost immediately that something was bothering her, and he had listened quietly as she sobbed out the story, Then without resorting to trite phrases of sympathy, he had, in a few short words, made her feel empowered—that she was strong enough to deal with this and that she had his full support. It lifted her out of her depressed mood better than anything anybody else could have told her and confirmed, once again, how much he had come to mean to her. It was also telling how she had chosen, for the billionth time this summer to call him and no one else—he was her best friend, one of the closest friends she had ever had outside her mother, and she felt eternally grateful for his presence on the other end of the phone.
In the end, she decided that it was inevitable: Paris had disliked her from practically the moment they met—the last incidents were hardly a deviation from the norm. So she had resolved quickly to make a clean break with good riddance and deal with the consequences later.
Then, just when she had washed her hands of it all, Paris had returned and actually apologized... It had taken Rory a few minutes to figure out that this wasn't some version of a cruel joke that only Paris would find humorous. But she had been sincere and it thawed Rory almost instantly.
And now, three days later, she and Paris were...friends. Or something. Their relationship never seemed to fit any typical molds, but it was definitely becoming more "friendish", more like typical roommates. Snap, just like that, as if somehow their awkward apologies had pushed the right buttons or dissolved some wall that had been between them. It was strange and Rory had almost given up trying to explain or even justify why.
And Paris was growing on her. Rory was almost becoming fond of some of Paris's more "quirky" personality traits, as if she could finally see beyond the socially inept front to the real, somewhat warmer and friendlier girl. They had gone to see the Smithsonian Museum of American History the day before, and Rory had a rather enjoyable time. Instead of getting annoyed at Paris's tendencies to dominant a conversation, she only laughed at Paris's extensive tirade on women's health and rights in the workplace after seeing the exhibit on birth control. Paris, in her turn, had squished her snort of disgust when Rory predictably squealed over the Wizard of Oz slippers.
Today, however, had been a long day and Rory was only too glad to kick off her shoes after her day in Mr. Riley's office. Politics was more exhausting than she had ever imagined, and even with Jess's encouragements running through her head, she had a hard time convincing herself that learning Roberts Rules of Parliamentary Procedures really would have any worth to her life.
She had managed to convince Paris to skip the dining hall and they ordered pizza. Paris had even offered to sneak it into their room. While her technique of hiding it under a pile of laundry needed a little work, even Lorelai would have been astonished at her enthusiasm and excitement for "breaking the rules."
So with a pizza in one hand and papers detailing the democratic process scattered across the floor, Rory settled down for an evening of study, hoping that the ideas for her paper would come quickly, leaving her time to finish a chapter of The Canterbury Tales (she had resisted buying a copy of The Lord of the Rings and reading ahead and had to satisfy herself by digging out classics she had always intended to read; she was quite proud of her fortitude) before Jess's call. Paris, too, was intent on her studying, nibbling on a pen, which she'd occasionally talk around to gauge Rory's opinion on the inherent risk of a residentially appointed judicial branch of government. It was nice, so nice to be at least comfortable with each other.
Twenty minutes later, she was completely bored. Some aspects of politics were interesting, she could admit that, but learning the history of parliamentary procedure was threatening to put her to sleep. She tossed her notebook aside, and turned to Paris, a mischievous smile lighting her face. "So...you were on the phone for a while today."
"Not that long." Paris replied, not looking up from her work, the end of a pen hanging out of her mouth.
"Well...? Was it who I thought it was?" She tried to suppress the growing impatience and excitement, keeping her voice passively neutral.
"Yes. It was Jamie." She still didn't look up, but Rory detected a slight smile playing about the corners of her mouth.
"Come on, Miss Brainy, your eyes are going to strain if you continue to pretend to ignore me and stare at the page!" She wheedled, an affectionate tone softening the insult, "Do I have beg for details?"
Paris sighed exaggeratedly, and took the pen out. "He called. He asked if I was enjoying my summer. I told him it depended on his definition; he made some awkward joke about double-checking with Webster. I pretended to laugh. He asked me out for coffee on Saturday, I agreed and now we're meeting at Starbucks." Her voice was flat and non-expressive; only a few days before Rory would have interpreted it as bored disinterest... Now, Rory was able to read the hidden mirth and the barely disguised worry underneath the cool demeanor.
She laughed brightly, her eyes twinkling up at her roommate. "That's great! I knew you'd hit it off." At Paris's brimming-with-skepticism glare, she laughed again. "Okay, maybe it didn't go that well, but still, you did say yes."
"He wasn't that bad. More like a Josh Lyman than a Sam Seaborn, but that's not too bad; I'd rather have the Deputy Chief of Staff to the president than the spin doctor of a writer—West Wing." Paris supplied at Rory's blank look.
"That's the one television show that Mom actually turned off. She said it made her think too much."
"Who cares? At least he didn't sound too condescending," she grudgingly continued, bringing the conversation abruptly back, "but, ugh. I hate trying to find conversation with a person I don't even know."
"But, you're excited, right?" Rory probed. Paris remained silent. "You're not? But... Hey, if you're having second thoughts, you can still back out. I'll tell him tomorrow that you're sick or something."
She snorted, flipping a wayward strand of blond hair behind her shoulder. "I'm way beyond second thoughts. Ninety-second thoughts is more like it. Yes, in a perverse way, I am excited. Or at least, that's what the butterflies in my stomach are telling me...But, I think I'm going to be sick long before Saturday comes."
Rory breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment, she had been worried that Paris would back out. The more time she spent with Jamie, the more convinced she was that the two of them would really hit it off. Of course, there was a small part of her that regretted there was nothing between Paris and Brad—although she still suspected that more existed on Brad's end of things; the more she thought about it, the more sense all of his actions made—but if Paris was unwilling to pursue that, Jamie seemed a perfect alternative. "You're just nervous. It's normal."
Paris scowled. "No, really? And from which of your books did you pick that up? That's what I'm telling you! I'm so nervous that I can't see straight. I just about dropped the phone, I was trembling so bad. What am I thinking?"
"You're thinking that you going to have a nice time with a nice guy. It'll be fine."
"Right. That's exactly what I'm thinking." She threw aside her book, and a troubled look rested on her face. "Help me, Rory. I'm no good at things like this."
"I'm not going with you!" She warned, teasingly.
"No, no," Paris responded seriously, flustered, "I don't mean that—"
"Relax, Paris. I'll help you out. You can borrow some clothes and makeup, if you want. Oh! I bet Kate would do your hair; she did Brigette's for her date last week." She clapped her hands, excitedly.
"It won't matter. I'll scare him off within ten seconds and he won't have time to check out my hair."
"Oh, pfft. Stop." She stood up abruptly, flinging papers across the room. She walked over to her closet, opened it wide. "Okay. Lucky for you, I did laundry. Hmm, try on this pink shirt; there's a matching skirt." Rory held them out to her roommate.
"It's for coffee. I don't need to look like cotton candy for that."
"Hmm. Okay, how about jeans and this one?"
"How about tomorrow?" Paris asked, bitingly. She sighed and visibly moderated her tone. "Ms. Black wants this stupid paper tomorrow so that she can put it on the table with all the other papers I've written and never touched. I'm tired. I'm ornery, and I just want to be done, so I can go to bed. I appreciate this, but can we do it tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Sure. You're in the study mode. I ought to finish mine, too."
"Thanks." Her eyes were glued to the papers, the pen back in her mouth.
Rory moved back to her patch on the floor, and started gathering her papers again. She exhaled and checked her watch, the desire to study long departed. Still twenty minutes to go before Jess's call—she sighed again, and reluctantly picked up a pen.
The phone rang shrilly. Rory leapt to her feet, heedlessly scattering the newly resorted piles, while still managing to avoid the remaining pizza on the floor. "I'll get it!" she stated, a smile stretching across her face at Paris's sniff. Although things had changed considerably between them since their fight, as this evening of peaceable study and pizza attested, Paris still flatly refused to answer the phone and it had become a sort of joke.
"Paris Gellar's personal secretary. How may I direct your call?" she said saucily, sticking a tongue out to her groaning roommate.
"Uh, Rory?" An uncertain voice asked.
The smile faded from her face as recognition set in.
"Oh, hi Dean!" She said brightly, sinking into her bed. Paris looked up in surprise and met her eyes. She must have read something there, something that Rory couldn't begin to decipher, for without a word, she nodded and began gathering her things. As she walked out the door, her look was combination sympathy, and was that encouragement? Rory shook her head and turned back to the phone.
" ...You okay? I haven't heard from you for a while. I finally got the number of Lorelai. Did you get my letters?" His voice was tinged with hurt.
"I'm, I'm sorry, Dean. I've been really busy..." She finished lamely, knowing how pathetic of an excuse it must sound. "This whole thing has been, well, you know, hectic and stressful."
He sighed, his breath echoing loudly across the line. "I've just missed you."
She sidestepped the implied response, suddenly unable to tell him the same. "Yeah, I know."
"So," he questioned, "tell me about what you've been up to."
"Um, this week, I'm working on a bill that Senator Riley's introducing to Congress about medical reform. I'm gathering the research—"
"Ugh, politics." Dean interjected. "So have you seen the sites? The Lincoln Memorial?"
She paused. Jess would have never have interrupted her like that and brushed aside what she was saying. But then Dean had never been interested in this kind of stuff—he hadn't wanted her to come here to DC for that reason among many. Could she blame him when she was still unsure of whether she liked this? She tied to quiet a little voice in the back of her mind that insisted Still, Jess would have listened to her recount the most boring of weeks.
"Yes," she replied, "and the Jefferson, which is my favorite. How have things been going for you? How's home?"
"Oh, you know, same old, same old. I've been working full-time at Doose's. Taylor says that maybe next year I can work as a junior manager and actually order some of the stock..."
She tuned him out, letting him talk, looking down at her watch impatiently. Jess was probably getting a busy signal. Oh, why did Dean choose now to call?
She shook her head, appalled at where her thoughts were leading. What was wrong with her? She was sounding as if it had been Louise or some other random person she was talking to, not her boyfriend! Had she actually forgotten that Dean, the guy that she had loved for over a year, was her boyfriend? And with a sinking feeling, she knew that she had.
Sure, she had sent him a postcard, one of those generic "Wish You Were Here" cards from the Smithsonian the first week, but she couldn't even recall the last time she had even thought about him, beyond the casual "he's my boyfriend" reminder. And yeah, the conflict with Paris and this nightmare of a summer course were consuming, she could put some of the blame there, but that didn't excuse her for not making time for Dean, especially when she made sure she talked to Lorelai or Jess every night. No, she amended mentally: she made sure she talked to Jess every night. Of course, she had known how much she had been neglecting Dean, avoiding thinking about Dean, but now, she was appalled at her rotten behavior as a girlfriend.
Things had changed, the instant that she had kissed Jess, but being here in D.C. away from Dean and all of the reminders, she had lured herself into a pretense that things could still be normal—that when she went home, all of these problems would magically be fixed and she'd go on with her life, with both Dean and Jess in it. Of course she knew logically that it was never going to happen, but here, she had found escape, relief from the mess that she had gotten herself into. She had discovered in Jess one of the best friendships she had ever had and it had made everything right. Even after Jess had confronted her and gave her the ultimatum, she still couldn't force herself to come to any kind of conclusion, because she knew that if she actually dealt with it, thought about it rationally, everyone would lose. Herself included.
But all she was doing now was postponing the evitable. She'd be going home in a little more in a week and Dean would be there and Lorelai and there would be no place to run then. Dean, oh, she didn't want to hurt Dean. Never. That was what had held her back all summer from making a decision, knowing that no matter what she did, she was going to break someone. So, she listened to the nagging voice that told her she would end up destroying Dean for nothing more than a silly crush.
But by pretending that there was nothing between her and Jess, not even friendship, which she knew she'd have to do if she chose Dean, she would end up hurting Jess even more. She...couldn't bear that. Hurting him would be worse than anything. He was her friend, he meant more than just about anybody. He was more...
Suddenly, her thoughts came together in such a violent click she almost dropped the phone. Her heart beat so hard, she was sure that it was audible to Dean; but he prattled on, oblivious to the sudden knowledge that had come over her.
The way Jess both challenged and respected her opinions. He expanded her perspective, showed her a new world of thought and at the same time accepted hers completely.
The understanding that he provided, so she felt safe sharing anything and everything with him. And the feeling of connection when he told her about his life.
How he had become number one on her speed dial when things went wrong, like with this week's drama with Paris.
The jittery feeling every time she picked up the phone, hoping to hear his voice.
Or the extreme disappointment when it wasn't.
The calm that she felt when she listened to him read—she escaped into the images that his voice invoked.
In that moment of clarity, Nirvana was hers and she knew. It was a feeling unlike another, a sweet, warm comforting feeling of perfect knowledge. And yet, it was familiar, as if it had been so infused into her soul that it had become part of her, and she was just giving it a name, an identity. It certainly wasn't what she had expected it to be—there weren't angel choirs and she didn't feel like bursting out in song, but this—oh, this was it. More than a feeling or an emotion, this was part of her being.
"I'm in love with Jess." The words slipped out of her mouth, barely audible over the rush in her ears and the sudden pounding of her heart. But they had been clear enough to Dean.
He stopped talking about his plans to go back to Chicago for a few weeks, the abruptness slapping her across the face. Silence, painful, tormenting, everlasting silence stretched over the line. She couldn't breath, her finicky heart refusing to beat now.
"You love Jess." It was more than a question, a statement of finality that begged to be refuted, dry ragged need haunting his voice.
She swallowed. She could no longer deny it, this love that lay at the very foundation of her being. She had read that phrase before in a book, when she was younger and had liked it. When she was twelve, she used to daydream about finding true love like that. Twelve didn't know a lot about love. She wasn't sure that seventeen did either, but she couldn't refute that the phrase resonated deeply now. Whatever she was feeling now was a lot closer to love than what she had thought previously, of that she was sure.
"Yes," she whispered.
"How long."
"I don't know." Since her trip to New York? Or was it earlier than that?
"Have you," he halted as if the words were too painful to say, his voice hollow and dead. "Are you dating him."
"No!" She protested faintly. "I haven't seen him in weeks." She had to be completely honest. Dean deserved that. Jess deserved that. No more hiding. No more lying. "We talk. On the phone. And I...kissed him. At Sookie's wedding." There. The words were finally out. Surprisingly, she felt no desire to take them back, although they hung heavily over the phone line. It was a relief, a burden removed.
The eternal silence was back. She couldn't take it. "Dean, I'm...I'm sorry."
He cursed. "You think that helps? Rory, it took you months to say that you loved me, remember? I broke up with you because you couldn't say it. 'Saying I love you is a really difficult thing. I just need a minute to think. It's just not easy for me.'" He mimicked sarcastically. "And now, you tell me that you love Jess. We had been dating six months, Rory, six months!! You've been gone, what is it, five weeks, but that's long enough for you to decide that you are in love with the scum of the streets. What is it, Rory, I don't have enough bad boy sex appeal for you?"
"That was mean." She replied quietly.
"Well, somehow I'm not in the mood to be nice." Anger laced his rising voice. And then, oh so quietly. "Did you ever really love me?" The question was evident this time.
"Yes..." She paused. She couldn't recall feeling this before, not towards Dean. As much as she cared for him, maybe it hadn't been as much as she thought. "I don't know."
The click this time was audible and final. Rory sat on the bed, holding an empty phone in her hand. It hit her then—the finality of what she had done, the anguish she had inflicted. The abruptness of it all clouded her previous elation and surety. Again, a line from a book floated up: "what a nice, pleasant, friendly thing death would be." She had never yearned for death before, for complete oblivion. She did now. What had she done?
Endless minutes later, after a lifetime or more had passed, Paris's rather timid knock at the door filtered through her consciousness. She ignored it.
"Rory?" Paris's voice muffled through the door. "Are you still in there? It's been twenty minutes and my glutteal muscles are going to sleep and Gwen and Janet are arguing again, which makes it impossible to study, not that they care, and—" She stopped abruptly, and apparently decided to peer into the room herself, for the door creaked loudly open.
Paris's attempts at conversation died. Rory started shaking uncontrollably, as the realization of her actions penetrated her body's defenses. The certainty of her decision had faded away, leaving her mind numb and cold; a faint thought wriggled through that she must have looked like a fright, with her hair falling over her face and she wondered, fleetingly, if she was freaking Paris out, before the thought dissolved into the dark abyss.
"Rory? Are you okay?" Paris asked, a tentative note in her voice.
Rory didn't look up. "I think I just broke up with Dean," she whispered and clutched the phone receiver tighter in her hand. But the tears wouldn't come. Why wasn't she crying?
"Oh." Under the curtain of her hair, she noticed Paris lingering hesitantly by the door. Part of her want to yell at Paris to get out, leave her alone, and the other part needed her more than anything. That part won out. Before Paris could inch her way out, she continued, "It just came out. One minute he's telling me about work and then the next... the next, I'm telling him that I'm in love with Jess." She gave a hollow, bitter laugh.
Paris sat down on the foot of the bed, crossing her legs, still carefully keeping her distance. She didn't say anything and her hands were clutched tightly in her lap. Rory looked up for the first time and searched her roommate's face for answers and was stunned by what she found. There was no astonishment at Rory's actions, no disbelief, only a quiet look of understanding and faint relief; Paris's eyes were unexpectedly softened with sympathy.
"You're not surprised." Rory wondered if her voice sounded as ashen to other ears as it did to hers.
"No, not really. It was rather obvious." Paris answered uncomfortably, looking out of her element. The relief because more prevalent, she noted tenuously, as if the girl no longer had to worry about letting something slip.
"To everybody but me, I guess. I really thought we were just friends, you know. Even after I kissed him—that was just crazy hormones taking over. No, no, I knew, I knew I was attracted to him, I tried to tell myself differently, but even my mom saw it, and you saw it, and.... And suddenly I just knew..." Her face softened for a moment at the thought of Jess, the first thought that penetrated the void of her mind. Jess, she mouthed his name, tasting it as for the first time. She pictured him and his wild hair, the warm feeling taking residence in her belly again. "We just clicked, you know. Everybody hated him, but he made me laugh and we could talk..."
"Yeah, I know. Hours." Paris responded dryly.
"Am I crazy?" Her mind suddenly started to work again in overdrive, thought speeding across her mind.
"What do you mean?"
"Paris, I just told my boyfriend of two years that I am in love with a guy that I've know for what, six months?"
"So?"
"So! I'm delusional! How can I possibly be in love with him?"
Paris's look was one of faint disbelief. "Is that some rule in a dating handbook that I don't know about? A timeline of when you can feel things and when you can't? Not before three months, but if it's after four, well then..." She made a slashing motion in front of her throat.
"No, but—"
"I don't see what the problem is. If you love him, then it's okay."
"But that's just it! I say that I love him, but we're not dating. Sure I've kissed him, but was just one time. And I'm deciding that I love someone based on that." She was rambling and she knew it.
"No," Paris replied, in a matter of fact tone, faintly tinged with exasperation, "you decided because you've practically spent every waking moment of the last month talking to him, and not just about the weather. You got to know him, he got to know you. End of story."
Paris's words, a breath of reason, subsided her frantic thoughts. "Yeah, but..."
"Look," and her voice was usually soft for the outspoken girl, "you want advice? Don't doubt yourself. I've overheard enough of your conversations with Jess. The two of you seem to have a real thing there, and if you think it's more than friendship, then it is. Believe me, you've got more in common with him than with String Bean."
"Don't call him that," she defended automatically. She sighed, reliving the earlier conversation with Dean, and she felt anew the raw hurt he had conveyed.
Like she had done only a few weeks previously on the backs of the Potomac, she let her mind flash back to their relationship, comprehending at that moment that, this, what they had had, was gone. Forever. She knew that there were bad aspects to their relationship —distrust, stifling overprotective moments, monotony, but for the moment, she could only see the sweet, good things about it. Their first kiss. The dance where she had rested in his arms, protected from the childish actions of her schoolmates. The moment she told him that she loved him. And thought that she did. A million kisses, sweet and lingering. All gone.
Remorse flooded over her and she jumped up from the bed, stalking back and forth across the room.
It hit her then, what she needed to do, and it dazed her that it hadn't been her first line of action. Yet another reminder of how things had changed this summer. "I've gotta talk to my mom."
"Okay." Paris replied, slowly, a hint of hurt flitting across her face. "I'm not good at this consoling thing, am I?" She started to get up from the bed.
"No, see, I tell my mom everything. You know. Everything and she'll know what I need to do." Rory picked up the phone from where it had fallen on her pillow, and started to dial. Then stopped and threw the phone to the floor. What was she thinking! "I can't call her! What would I say? No, I've got to go home." She grabbed a bag and started to throw things in it. At least she had just done laundry.
"Are you sure?" questioned Paris, obviously wondering if this was yet another fit of insanity.
Rory collected herself and reigning in her hasty train of thoughts, which were once again trying to get away from her. She slowed to fold a pair of jeans and tucked them into the corner of the bag, trying to put on a calmer demeanor. "Yeah, I'm sure. I need to do this. I haven't seen my mom in weeks and she'll...she'll make this better..." She trailed off. At least that's what her mom did before. "I have to tell her everything. I've never told my mom that I lied to her before. I can't tell her that on the phone."
Her mother would never forgive her. She trembled as she imagined their conversation; there was no way that it would go well. She would be injuring her mother, her best friend, so badly, even worse than Dean, when she told her. She'd never trust her again. But there was no backing away from it now. Even more so than Dean, her mom deserved to know the truth. And then, maybe somehow, she could mend their relationship, although the likelihood seemed very slim at this moment...
She brushed at her still dried eyes, and wondered why she wasn't crying. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she cry when she destroyed the lives of those she most cared about?
Paris had grown quiet, watching the haphazard packing with wide eyes. Rory paused and looked up at Paris, who hadn't moved from her awkward perch on the bed. Her presence had a calming influence, and she was more than grateful that Paris had found her. "Thanks. You did a great job on the comforting."
Violet coloring spread across her face. "You're welcome... Can I do anything?" She asked, hesitantly, still unsure of how to best deal with this situation.
"Would you mind calling the bus station? Maybe there's still a bus to Hartford tonight." Her mind worked quickly, sorting through different options. It was only ten, so maybe if not the bus, maybe there was a train out of Union Station, she could catch the Metro and—
"Why don't you take my car?"
"What? No, I couldn't." Rory looked up, startled at the very unexpected offer. Paris was offering her car, the one that she fretted over their whole entire journey down to D.C? She didn't know what to think; she must have misheard.
"Why not? I mean, I'm not letting you go until you've calmed down, but this way you could come back when you're ready. Or stay, since it's almost the weekend." The offer appeared genuine, although it looked like it had startled Paris as much as Rory. Paris crossed to her desk and fished out her keys, removing her dorm key and handing the rest to Rory.
"We have that dinner tomorrow night, remember? I can take the bus." She argued back, trying to hand back the keys.
"It'll take you seven hours to get home that way, you know that and then you'd just have to turn right back around. I'll tell our 'facilitators' that you're sick; no one will miss you. Take it. It's not like it's moved from its parking place since we got here." Paris smiled wryly.
Rory chewed on her lip. "Okay, but just for tomorrow. I can't miss your date. Not after our plans. I can't do that to you."
Paris waved her hand, although her face pinched momentarily at the reminder. " You know your mom won't let you come back so soon. It's not that big of a deal. I'm seventeen, surely I can manage to dress myself. And I don't think anybody should be forced to be witness to my emotional instability. Go."
Rory grinned, the first smile since the call. At that moment, she was feeling very much like the definition of emotionally instable. "Okay." Her hand tightened around the keys. "Thank you," she said earnestly, immensely grateful for the sign of unconditional support. Impulsively, she reached down and enveloped her in a hug. She could feel Paris's hesitation. A hand reached around and lightly touched Rory's back, then more firmly, and they embraced tightly.
The tears started then. She tried to hold them back, but the confusing mire of emotions finally overwhelmed her. Paris's arm tightened, and she sank down on the bed, crying into her shoulder, weeping for all that she had lost, for that she had gained at such a horrible price. She was so tired of her warring emotions and she wept in longing for that sense of innocence that this summer had taken away.
The tears were slow to control, but eventually, they stopped. Disengaging from the hug, she wiped her eyes on a Kleenex, blew her nose. They sat next to each other, quietly for several seconds.
She reached over and grabbed her bag. "I think I'm off."
"You'll be okay?" There was concern thick in Paris's voice.
"Yeah. I'll be good. No more crying, I promise." She smiled wanly, as she made her way to the door.
Paris trailed behind her. She held the door open, as Rory wrested her things through. "Drive safe."
Rory met her eyes; they were slightly damp and bright. A warm smile touched her lips, parallel to one on Paris's face. "I will," she whispered faintly, and she turned to leave.
Somehow, this moment had finished the process that their fight had started. No longer just roommates, they were friends.
A/N: I think this chapter was the reason that I wrote this story—I needed to have the breakup my way. As always, please review and tell me how I'm doing. I love my loyal readers!
A side note: The Emily books are some of my favorite, and the phrases that I took from the book were where Emily was breaking up with her Dean. Isn't that freaky?