A/N: *blows off dust* Life got hectic, and I got a severe case of writer's block when it came to this story, I'm really sorry. I never meant to let this go for so long. Thanks to ALL my reviewers (I really appreciate all of you) and to Melissa, Marissa, Lia, Ali, and Mai (my dahling motivational Wakko). My muse randomly returned after I saw the premiere of Evanescence's (excellent) new video "My Immortal"—that is, after all, the theme song of this story. Also, Marissa asked me nicely for an update a few times, so I had to come through. I sure hope it doesn't disappoint.
Oh and here's a bit of a recap. I think it's needed: Rory and Jess are together, they're in love, they fight, and Jess gets in an accident the next day. He's in a coma, Rory's upset, and she chooses Harvard over Yale. She meets Sam at Harvard, falls in love, Sam proposes, and then Rory finds out Jess is awake (and has been for some time). She returns to Stars Hollow, she and Jess have an awkward first meeting, and a slightly better one later that night. They talk at the diner, Rory helps out at the inn for prom (which, by the way, is organized by Annabelle), Sam calls saying he may be able to make it up there for Saturday, and Rory's worried. Rory and Jess talk, read, and she falls asleep on his shoulder. That was on Thursday. The prom is Friday. It is now Friday. Got it? Good. Heh.
Chapter Eight: Melt
She sat on the bed, frozen, her eyes boring into the object that sat in front of her. The box wasn't very large; medium size, she supposed. Brown, nondescript, and very much an everyday, ordinary object that no one ever looked at twice. The top had never been sealed, which now she regretted not doing. It would be all too easy for her to kneel before it, gingerly lift the top and peer inside. If it had been taped, then she'd have to walk all the way to the kitchen to fetch a knife, and by the time she had returned, her nerve would be lost, the knife in her hand useless. That was what she was doing right now, she was sure of it. Waiting, breathing, in out, in out, and trying to stir up enough courage to go near it. Why she pulled it out in the first place was beyond her. She had been looking for something, a book maybe, or an old notebook, something from the past (she really needed to learn to let go), and she had stumbled across it. Then her mind had switched on to auto pilot, and she had floated along, watching as she pulled the box out, and then dragged it across her bedroom floor. Now it was still there, waiting for her, and she could only stare.
Her heartbeat was irregular, her breathing was impaired, and her eyes were blurry from tears she refused to accept were forming. The silence from the empty house hung around her, weighing down on her shoulders, slowly suffocating her. She wouldn't realize it until it was too late, when she'd try to breathe in and come up with nothing. Time was ticking away, and this was how she was spending her afternoon—a staring contest with a brown cardboard box, open and waiting. It was all about waiting, she realized too late. Waiting for something that as soon as you get, you won't want anymore.
Want? Or simply can't have?
She was tired of these puzzling thoughts; they swirled around her head, clouding any effortless action she'd try to complete. She was simply tired. As of late, sleep was incredibly troublesome, often escaping her grasp just as she closed in on it. The afternoon before, she had been lucky—or not, she still couldn't decide. She had fallen asleep in the middle of reading, and he had provided a most comfortable pillow. What had he done after she slipped into dreamland? Had he shoved her off of him, leaving right away? Had he stroked her hair, thinking back on times past? Or had he gone on reading, unaffected, not caring, because the memory he had intact didn't provide built-in feelings for her? Whatever it had been, she had woken hours later to darkness and an empty house.
It didn't matter though because she didn't care (she told herself that every night before she went to sleep, it was a meaningless mantra). So what if he had left before she woke? Sometimes there was no hidden meaning to analyze. Sometimes it just was, and she needed to accept that.
Like she needed to accept that she had been the one to drag out that box, exhume the past, and therefore, she would be the one to bury it again. Stop staring, the voice in her mind ordered. Go over and look at it, open it up, peek inside. You weren't supposed to forget, that wasn't how it worked: Remember and then let go. Five years, and she was still holding on, fingers gripping the edges, nails digging in, heels dragging on the ground. She refused to let go, and accepting a ring, despite her belief, was not moving on. It was a temporary distraction, and the sooner she realized that, the better.
Movement, now. It was her, finally standing, finally walking, and then kneeling in front of this brown unsealed box. Baby steps, she figured. At least she had gotten closer. A pause, because she was hesitant, unsure. First she needed to calm her heartbeat, take in a normal, even breath. She took her left wrist into her right hand and felt her pulse: irregular. This was borderline pathetic, so sad. She was such a sad girl. Pity looks, soft words, people second guessing what they said because they didn't want to set her off. Although she was very breakable, she never shattered in public. Tears were personal, and she saved each and every one for the comfort of her bedroom. She hadn't received treatment like that, however, in college. Only in Stars Hollow, right after the accident, when she came home during the summer, on select weekends when she visited. The townies, all with a careful eye on her, watching and waiting for her crumble.
It was all about waiting, wasn't it?
Her fingertips lightly brushed the top of the box, and dipped into the small opening between the flaps. Immediately they brushed a familiar fabric, rather rough but slightly silky, and now there was no turning back. Quick as a flash, the box was open, and her graduation gown was lying in her lap. Was that a small smile playing at her lips? Her senior yearbook was next, and faded remembrances accompanied it. She set this aside as well, because she knew, oh she knew, what hid beneath it. The first glance was meant to fool everyone, a box of school memories, of her graduation. But she saw this for what it really was; after all, she had packed it herself.
Howl came first. This thin book brought the shyness of a first glance with it, first meeting, first conversation. It was always a first, because even without him, there was one to remember. Anniversaries of kisses, and dates, and an accident: first time without him.
Oliver Twist, most appropriately, lay beneath Howl. It certainly fit with the thought process in her head. She had called him Dodger, and he had smirked, and the seed of friendship had been planted. That had been a most wonderful evening.
More novels were inside, littering the bottom. It had been her futile attempt to purge any memory of him. He had been ripped from her life, and now she was trashing the part of him that remained. But really, it was insane… there were too many books, everywhere, she'd never be rid of them all. Instead only a few made it in, never to be taken out, and she wondered why On the Road had never been hidden inside.
Because she didn't want to forget. Because she was too damn stubborn. She wanted to stumble across it. A part of her knew that.
Pictures came next, only a few. There was one of her, and it took her two full minutes to realize the reason behind its presence in the box. He had taken it, she could see that now. It was the camera she had received from her mother for kicks, and she had asked him to photograph her. He had begrudgingly accepted, held the camera in his hand, and stared at it with a clueless expression on his face. Cameras confused him, it seemed, or at least that one had—it had been rather complicated—and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Then she had stood right next to him, holding it in front of them, and gave an explanation for each button she pointed too. And he had listened! He had nodded his head, and even chuckled softly when she accidentally took a picture of their shoes (where was that one, she wondered). Then, satisfied with her lesson, he had brought it to his eye, told her that if she said cheese he'd mock her for the rest of the day (this had caused her to smile… now, she saw his trick), and click: A slightly blurry, titled picture, although she was free of red eye.
The next picture was the two of them. It was from the same day, she was sure of it, and the expression on his face was priceless. The two of them had been in animated conversation when Lane had ambled over there, secretive smile playing on her lips, and she had taken it without either Rory's or his knowledge. It was proof that he didn't always appear stoic, evidence that he was fully capable of a smile, of happiness. Of course, as soon as the flash went off, he had turned to Lane, anger etched across his face, and Rory had had to laugh. Hadn't he kissed her then? To shut her up, she thought now, but all the same, hadn't he leaned close, muttering about how evil and intrusive Lane was? Hands landing on her hips, a kiss lingering as she swallowed her laughter, leaning into him…
She was standing up now, in front of her bookcase. It was anger flowing through her veins, and she couldn't pinpoint the reason for this emotion. It was better than a never-ending flood of tears, she supposed, or at least would have thought if her mind had been fully functioning. She scooped up an armful of novels that stood in front of her and dropped them inside. Once, twice, she did this, until she fell back on her bed, taking short, ragged breaths. Tears were trying to seep out, but she wouldn't allow that. Blinking rapidly, she stood up, and stomped off into the living room. Seconds later she had returned, the final piece in her hand, On the Road… she threw it on top of the pile, shut the box, and pushed it backwards. It was heavier now, much harder to move, especially when she couldn't even see straight. Finally, she left it at the entrance of her closet, and the pictures and graduation memorabilia were thrown on top of it. She left her room then, slamming the door behind her, afraid a pale ghost would escape, because they were always haunting her, no matter where she was: Stars Hollow, Boston, New York…
She collapsed on the couch and closed her eyes, as the distant sound of her cell phone broke through her haze. Shutting her eyes tighter, she ignored it, even though she knew who it was. Sleep should have come then, but unfortunately, never did.
-*-
"Guess what?" Lorelai asked, plopping down on the couch next to her daughter, later that evening.
"Luke proposed?"
"What? No! Wait, why, have you heard something?"
"No, no, calm down. I'm bad at these guessing games."
"I think you get that from me."
"Must be genetic," Rory remarked.
"I want you to go into your room and put on a pretty party dress because—"
"No," Rory interrupted.
"What?"
"No."
"Oh come on, it'll be lots of fun."
"I don't want to put on a pretty dress and go to the stupid dance."
"Then we'll find you an ugly one."
"Mom," Rory said, warningly.
"Oh come on. It's not like you're just coming for the hell of it. You'll be a chaperone!"
"Are you insane?"
"I don't have that straight jacket hanging in my closet for nothing."
"Why would I want to go tonight? I don't want to chaperone, or dress up, or move. I'll be just fine sitting right here, thank you."
"Come on sweetie, it'll be fun. I'll be there, and we can make fun of the girls who chose the wrong dresses and have hairstylists who obviously hate them. And if we're really lucky, some senior will spike the punch! And then the real fun will begin."
"I don't like you right now. Please leave me to my TV," Rory said, shooing her mother away.
"Come on, you've been in the house all day. It's time to go out. And I need another chaperone. Really I do."
"Ask someone else."
"But I want my daughter to be there with me. I need protection from Annabelle."
"She still driving you nuts?" Rory asked.
"Yes. But I figured two Gilmores against her can win out! Now come on, go throw on a tight skirt and a low cut shirt. I guarantee some high school boys will ask you to dance."
"Oh well in that case…" Rory said sarcastically.
"Please. I'll pout. I'll beg. I'll let you borrow my clothes."
Rory sighed, "Fine, I'll go. But if this kills me, just know that my death is all your fault. You killed your only daughter!"
"Fine, fine, I killed my daughter, I'm a terrible mother, whatever. Now go upstairs and raid my closet. I'm sure you can find some kind of skirt up there."
Rory did as she was told, and climbed the stairs, and headed into her mother's room. She opened the door to the closet (what was with her and closets today?), and began to sift through the hanging clothes. First she found a tasteful shirt, a cotton white that seemed comfortable enough, so she slipped her own off and put it on. A skirt was next, and easier to find, because anything would match. Although Rory didn't care much for matching, or looking good, or the whole idea of chaperoning at all. She wanted to do nothing other than curl up on the couch, and take a nap, the television providing a sort of lullaby for her. Why the prom? Why tonight? Why? It was frustrating and draining, and she was already having visions of a horrible time. She had never been to a prom, didn't want to go to one, and here her mother was, dragging her anyway.
However, she would play the dutiful daughter. She replaced her jeans with a black skirt, and turned to head downstairs. Her mother met her in the doorway, an approving grin on her face. "I have taught you well, Grasshopper."
Rory rolled her eyes and continued on her way through the hallway. Lorelai, meanwhile, moved farther inside, eyes on her daughter's clothes that lay in a crumbled heap on the floor. She lifted the jeans from the ground and shook them, preparing to fold them. But first the glint of a small object caught her eye. Something had fallen from inside the pockets. She leaned down and snatched it up before bringing it to eye level. So small, very pretty, a diamond ring that looked very much like…
"Rory!" Lorelai's voice rang out. "Rory?" She called as she entered the hallway, and came down the stairs. Across the room, at the door, was her daughter, impatiently waiting to go.
"No more talking. It's now or never and I'm three seconds from running away, screaming, and locking myself in my room."
"That'd be a sight," Lorelai said, taking a few steps forward. "I just wanted--"
"Nope, that's talking. We're leaving now…"
Lorelai nodded mutely, slipping the ring into a pocket of a hanging coat. She followed her daughter out the door, wondering when the right time would come to bring this up.
-*-
Rory was a wallflower tonight. Off to the side, she stood, eyes studying the happy dancing couples that were scattered about the floor. Smiling, everyone was having such a fantastic time. It was a carefree night, one that was destined to be memorable, and she wanted nothing more than to be a thousand miles away. It was pure torture. At first she had been convinced that she'd be fine. Entering the huge ball room, lights already dim, and only a quick feeling of regret sliced through her and then—nothing.
But, unfortunately, that was the problem.
It was the numbing emptiness that swelled in her chest, dipping further down into her stomach, that was killing her. She felt cold, an icy uneasiness that hung around her shoulders, as love songs filled her ears. She should have never come here tonight. She was better off at home, surrounded by ghosts from the past to keep her company. This was somehow worse than remembering. There was a certain element of fantasy present; a what if… anything could have happened. Anything. This night could have been theirs years ago, and each and every day after that… Now she was left alone to fill in the blanks, wondering and wishing, creating elaborate reveries that could have been before they were unceremoniously yanked away from her. Play another love song, dream of late nights and lost chances; this was going to be a long night.
"So… what do you think?"
And it just got longer…
She turned at the sound of his voice, not believing for one second that it was actually him. He wouldn't be here, couldn't be here. But then, there he was, hands in his pockets, stance slightly uncomfortable, waiting patiently for her to speak. When she didn't… "Better than jeans and a Metallica T-Shirt?"
"It's completely impossible that you remember that."
"Why?"
"Because I barely do." A small smile graced her face, and she looked him up and down, her grin slowly growing wider. "Oh wow, you are like thisclose to being dressed up," she said, holding her pointer finger and thumb close together. "Almost presentable."
"Almost doesn't count except for in horseshoes and hand grenades."
"Thank you for those very wise words," she rolled her eyes. Jess shrugged and moved next to her, before leaning back against the wall. "What are you doing here?" She asked.
"I always hang out at the prom. It's a favorite spot of mine."
"Or…" she prompted.
"Or Lorelai mentioned yesterday that she was going to drag you here."
"No! She's been planning this since yesterday? I can't believe it!"
"She plans ahead. She is very manipulative, Luke can attest to that."
"So… just because I'm here, you came too?"
"Uhh, something like that… More of me coming to save you from a very cheesy, sugarcoated death. A self-inflicted one, if they play enough pop songs... Or, of course, if any crazed, middle-aged males look to dance with you," he explained, his gaze directed over her shoulder.
"What?" She stood up straight, alarmed.
"Don't look now, but I think the Algebra teacher wants to take you for a spin."
"You're kidding me! Six different guys ranging from teenage pervert to scary older pervert have asked me tonight. Oh god, he'll be lucky number seven… That self-inflicted death sounds kind of good right now… Do you think the streamers would hold my weight?"
"Come on, I'll dance with you instead. I'll be your lucky number seven," he smirked, just as the aforementioned Algebra teacher stopped next to Rory. She shot the man a smile, before politely excusing herself and grabbing Jess's hand.
"Alright fine, but I'm still considering death by streamers."
"So, I'm the only one who's keeping you from a party favor suicide?"
"Yes, yes you are," she laughed, as they both stopped, off to the side on the dance floor. Oh. Oh, they were really going to dance. She hadn't exactly thought ahead with this one. Jess had been cute, offering to be her rescuer, so she had accepted. Now he really was going to pull her close, loop his arms around her back, and she'd be able to smell his cologne.
One of her elaborate fantasies come to life: A slow song played, but it was only background noise as she rested her chin on his shoulder. Fingertips on the small of her back, chest to chest, legs bumping, and body heat, his, finally alleviating the cold. Now there was only a sensation left behind, slowly flowing through her body, leaving her dazed and relaxed, and god, it was like her entire body was melting.
She sighed, allowing herself to lean completely against him. If she could, she'd breathe him in. When he remained silent, she became nervous. She needed something, anything to break this spell. Why couldn't he crack some kind of joke? Mock a student, the Algebra teacher who was now trying to break the record for most baked goods consumed in one minute… hell, she'd settle for Jess making fun of her. She needed a distraction, anything would do… He was puling away from her slightly, so he could look her in the face. At first she thought maybe he would say something, her wish granted, but then her eyes traveled to his lips, and all thought process stopped.
It was she who moved forward first, even though she'd most likely deny this later. One moment, each second slowing, and she felt it all, frame by frame: eyes fluttering, head dipping, hands warm on her back, and his mouth, contact, barely a butterfly kiss, and then a shrill voice (her distraction—slightly late) interrupting.
"Rory!"
Her head snapped back at the sound of her name, heart beating considerably faster, and a crazed kind of panic filling her body. She turned, relieved somehow that this irritating redhead had stopped this before she had really done anything wrong. Regret, however, flitted through, a momentary emotion that she chose to ignore.
"Annabelle?" Rory asked.
"Rory, you're supposed to be chaperoning, not making out with your boyfriend."
"But I'm not… he's not…"
"No buts! I need you to go in to the girl's bathroom. Beth is crying her eyes out, and well, you're the youngest chaperone here, so you'll probably be able to help her out, okay?"
"But…"
"You can see your boyfriend later, now get to it!"
Rory turned back to Jess, trying to figure out what he was thinking. His expression was unreadable. "Jess…"
"Blah, blah, she loves you, she'll see you later, but now she has to go," and with that Annabelle grabbed Rory's arm and dragged her over to the lavatory. "Her name's Beth and she's the crying girl in the blue dress. The purple dress wants to be alone, so I wouldn't ask her what's wrong. And the red dress is absolutely schizo, so I wouldn't bother her either, alright?"
"Um, alright…" Rory tried, but she was already pushed into the bathroom, the music growing quiet as the door shut behind her.
She took a breath, mind reeling from the almost, the maybe, and began her search for Beth.
-*-
Rory stood there, frozen, staring at the door. A non-intimidating, wooden door that she should have been knocking on instead of gaping at. How in the world had she gotten herself there? Why was she there? Oh, right, the dance had ended without her seeing him again, and somehow, she had convinced herself to come to his apartment to see him. To finally, finally tell him. It was becoming quite obvious that she wouldn't last much longer around him, and it was a hope that if he knew he couldn't have her, then he wouldn't let it go any further. Right: Letting go. This was what she was doing. Remembering—the dance, the two of them—and letting go. She could do this, she could tell him. It was easy; she had a fiancée waiting for her in the city. Don't think about how he'll react, just don't think. She knocked on the door, held her breath, and waited.
It was all about waiting, wasn't it?