They sit in silence at their designated gate. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair, trying to adjust himself so that the terminal seems less enclosing. Stealing a glance at her, he sighs and growls an expletive beneath his breath. The delayed flight serves as an excuse for the most awkward silence he has ever experienced.
She pretends to read her book; he pretends to watch the planes taking off. Neither of them is able to focus properly on their assigned tasks as thoughts of each other swim in their heads. With a cleared throat alongside a garbled noise emitted from his throat that he is only slightly embarrassed by, he looks over at her again. She meets his eyes cautiously, and he can still see the mistrust in her gaze.
"You uh, you want something to eat? I think I might get something from the food court."
"It's the International Café," she corrects without missing a beat.
"Excuse me?" he raises an eyebrow.
"The food court...it's called the International Café," she repeats.
"Huh."
"I'm not hungry. I know, warning signs, right? But I can't eat, not now." She stands her ground, almost daring him to challenge her decision.
He doesn't. He knows better than that.
"Okay." In one fluid motion he is on his feet, momentarily immobile as he allows the blood to circulate throughout his limbs. He offers her a smile and she reciprocates. What's strange is that hers makes his look genuine.
From the Café he orders two slices of pizza, pays the vendor for three and heads back in search of the gate.
"You did?" This strikes him as a little odd, but he refuses to comment. She is speaking to him in phrases that aren't monosyllabic. To jeopardize that would be stupid.
"I did."
"It was crap." He says it so she doesn't have to.
But, in a way that only she can manage without his temper interfering, she disagrees. "No, it wasn't. I liked it a lot, it was wonderful. The characters, the dialogue, the description—everything, all of it, it was you and it was...it was good. Really good."
To keep himself from staring at her, and also to keep himself from reveling in the fact that her impassioned outburst has something to do with him, he mumbles a thank you and keeps his eyes on his lap.
"Mom read it too. She still won't admit it, but she loved it. I think she's read it at least three times now, and you know she hates reading. Don't tell her I told you, lest I witness the wrath of Lorelai," she blushes at his unwavering attention. "Sorry, I'm rambling."
"Lest?" he smirks a little, thrilled when she glares at him.
"Oh shut up. Don't mock me."
"Sorry. Lest," he snickers.
She pushes him and he feigns hurt. For one instant, they are the same as they were. Comfortable. Reliant. Happy. Her laughter is beautiful, but as soon as it's there, it becomes absent. Her features harden and she retrieves her book.
The conversation dulls back into a silence, and he goes back to looking out the window at other planes.
During the car ride from Hartford, he treats the rental as a disposable. Flying down dirt roads without concern for the speed or Rory. If she minds, she never expresses her distaste. Nor does she speak. Her interaction with him has transitioned from awkward to mute altogether.
"One question."
Tearing herself away from her book, she raises her head. "Answer."
"Why'd you ask me to come?" This is what he has wondered from the second her voice greeted him from the other end of the line.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I don't know I guess, I guess you were there and I needed someone to come with me and Jacob's not—"she stops as he cuts her off.
"Jacob?"
"My husband."
And suddenly his heart is in his stomach and he wants to vomit, but thinks that as much as he wants to destroy the vehicle he has no intention of cleaning it, even if the mess is his own.
"You're married?" he manages, fighting for his voice to be heard.
"I thought you knew..." she trails off, guilt warming her face.
"Would've remembered that one."
"Sorry."
Relenting, he lets her continue. "Forget it, you were saying?"
"Jacob, he's on a business trip in Europe. He's on a lot of business trips," she admits, and something about the way she says this tells him not to be selfish, because he doesn't have the right to be. "You were the first person I called. I didn't, I didn't plan on calling you, you know. It just happened. And you came, and thank you for that. You don't have to stay, you know."
There it is—his ticket out. She is giving him what little permission he needs to leave, sans a guilty conscience and a predicament he can easily do without. All he has to do is drop her off at home and hop the next flight back to New York.
"I'll stay," he pauses, "You're not talking, that's why I asked."
"Oh. I'm just worried about her is all. She's never been sick, Gilmore's don't get sick, right? But she is and she's alone and I'm there, and I can't be here all the time. I'm just worried, I wasn't trying to ignore you." Even if inherently, she is, she thinks.
"I didn't think—"There is no proper way to finish this thought. He cannot rectify the damage he has caused her, both in the past and the present. As much as he tries, their fate is always the same. She is hurt; he is the cause. It is a cycle perpetuated into oblivion, and the ending that should suit both of them is always out of his grasp.
Instead, he opts for the silence; it's the sole thing they both do well these days.
At around noon, he parks the car, now battered and mildly bruised, in front of her childhood home. She exits quickly and hurries up the porch stairs. They agree to meet at the Diner, as he has personal business to take care of and she wants to get settled.
It takes him twenty steps and he's standing in front of the sign, newly painted and bright with menace. His hand grips the doorknob tightly while he debates going inside. The decision is made for him as an elderly couple pushes forward and in the process sends him stumbling in. Subtlety is not his most prominent trait.
The man behind the counter eyes him disdainfully at first. Jess watches his glare bleed into familiar surprise before reverting back to anger.
"What are you doing here?" he asks; it is the same bluntness Jess is used to.
"Long story."
"Try again. Have a seat," He points to a stool that is propped up beneath the counter.
He sits. "How's business?" He doesn't want an answer. This is filler conversation that will not last; Luke won't let it.
"Real funny." There isn't a hint of a smile on the older man's face, and if he lets himself tease the idea, he will find that his uncle is particularly bitter this afternoon—more so than usual, at least. Time, however, has put a rift in a relationship that wasn't solid to begin with, so he assumes his theory is due to absence.
"I heard about Lorelai,' he says.
Luke stiffens, clenches his jaw, and scribbles furiously on his notepad.
Without a verbal confirmation, Jess persists. "She's sick, right? I flew in this morn—"
"Are you kidding?"
"Yeah, I'm big on the jokes."
"What the hell is wrong with you, huh? You brain dead or somethin'? Is this funny for you?"
"What?" he asks, incredulous. "You're crazy, you know that? Jeez, what's your problem?"
"Lorelai's not sick anymore," Luke says softly.
"That's impossible, Rory just got a call this morning saying that there was something with her heart. Do you know where she is or not, that's all I came here for." Tired of this conversation, he slides out of the stool, ready to leave.
"She's dead, Jess. Lorelai died six months ago."