Pt. 4—He helped her pass her time.
And yet, she stayed.
Frankly, even she was shocked. This was the last place she expected herself to be. She's a Yale student, for goodness sake. Yale students don't just run off with their ex boyfriend (was that even what he was anymore? She wasn't sure what to call him.) with no call, no notice, to anyone.
Yet, she's been here for a week now, and the only contact she's had with her mother is a message on her answering machining, telling her she'd be busy for awhile, and might not be able to check in. She hasn't been back to Yale, talked to Lane, Paris, Dean, anyone. She hasn't left Jess's apartment, mainly because she hasn't wanted to.
Jess has to go to work every night (pay the bills, he supports himself now, how responsible.) so she's left alone. The apartment's quiet then, not that it's all too noisy when he's around, but it's truly silent when he's gone. She doesn't bother to fill the void, she just lays on his bed, lights off, eyes slammed shut. She just sleeps, because there's nothing else to do, nothing else she wants to do. She's not happy, but she's not completely sure she's sad. She's tired of these feelings, because they keep on coming and they don't give her room to breathe. She just lays around, a complete waste of space, and she likes it. She's never felt like this before, she's always been told to do something. Jess never makes her do anything.
Every night, she hears Jess come in, trying to be quiet, but the creak of the floorboards always wakes her up. He always comes to the bedroom first, seeing if she's still there, she presumes. She sees him as he leaves every night, studying her intently as if he'll never see her again. And as he comes in late at night, he sees her lying on his bed, and she hears his sharp intake of breath, relieved that she hasn't been taken away from him, surprised that she'd think him worth it to stay.
She's still not sure he is. Worth it, that is. He did nothing but put her through pain when they were together, and while they were apart, for that matter. It was a punch to the gut when he wasn't around, and she could breathe when he was.
She had so much going for her, so much potential. She was going to be Christiane Amanpour. That was what she wanted, to get away from Stars Hollow, see the world. And then she met him, and he was this whole other world...
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Tonight is like every other night. She lies there, on his bed, comforted by blanket of darkness. But it's different, because this time, she can't take it. She just cries. She's been wanting to do this for the past year, but she couldn't find the strength to let it out.
She cries, big open sobs, turning on the faucet and not knowing how to turn it off again. She cries for the past year, that wasted time she spent, trying to convince herself she was okay, that she was back to her old self, the 15 year old who had never been kissed. (Briefly, she blames Dean for starting this all, but it's not his fault, not really. She didn't have to go along with him.) She cries for her 18-year-old self, wondering helplessly how she could have driven Jess to leave her, for herself last spring, telling him she didn't love him, didn't want to be with him, even though she didn't mean it, not really. And of course, she cries for whatever possessed her to come here and actually be with him.
This was painful, this...whatever it was. Love, probably, every sad story had said it hurt. But then again, she had always chosen to believe those were just stories.
She's crying hard enough that she doesn't hear him come in. He comes silently, lying next her and putting his arms around her from behind, and she acts like she doesn't notice, she just keeps on crying.
He's probably thinking she regrets this, him. She's not sure yet if she does or not. It's a scary thing, not knowing, but slightly liberating. She's never done this before, never felt shaky ground. She's feeling defiant, leaving all that's expected of her for uncertainties. She's never rebelled before, not until he came along, and never to the extent of leaving everything she knows to be with him (ever the uncertainty).
She should hate him for bringing this out in her, but she loves this feeling. She thinks she loves him too.
Her sobs quiet down, and she turns to face him. Her face is solemn, and he looks worried. Without a word, she wraps her arms around his neck. She's staring intently in his eyes, and she can tell he doesn't know what to say or do. She'll make it easy on him.
"Tell me the truth," she says, voice steady.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he says, and his calm. He's come to expect this from her, this searching.
"I don't care what you say, as long as it's true." He pulls her even closer, so his face is buried in a mass of her brown strands.
"I love you," he whispers, his voice hoarse, but the words come out easily. "You're so damn beautiful. I love you."
She could swear her heart has stopped beating. She's finding it harder to breathe, and she wants to slap him for lying to her, even though she knows he's not.
He loves her.
He fucking loves her, and he means it!
She doesn't even know if she hates him or not, let alone love him. Love is such a dangerous word, you never know where it's real, but he says it and she's shaking. She knows he means it, and she hates him for meaning it, but she can't hate him.
He loves her, and she can't tell up from down.
She doesn't know what else to say, so she kisses him slowly. He reciprocates, gently.
ooo
A few more days pass by, and nothing happens.
During the day, they're together, and it's almost blissful. She wakes up next to him, and his arms feel so warm and secure, fastened around her waist. He smiles when he sees her in the morning, breathing in her scent. He looks happy, and she doesn't think she ever saw him like this before.
It almost hurts to see him happy. She's still not sure she's doing the right thing.
Sure, she's happy enough. She's dreamed about this, him being next her every night, knowing he'll still be there in the morning. She's smiled plenty and every touch brings that shock that comes at the beginning of a relationship. (But this isn't new, it feels so old.)
Her cooks for her, and she good-naturedly whines about him not letting her cook. He teases her back, saying he would never trust Rory Gilmore to touch an oven. Once, she gets him to cave, but she burns the toast, so now they joke about that.
It's all too easy, but she thinks that maybe it should be hard, maybe it's too easy. Senior year is always looming over their heads, threatening to screw everything up.
Sure, they've talked, but it was a short talk. Neither wanted to get into it. 'Sorry's were exchanged, and that's that.
Maybe it was enough. Right now, she's sitting on the couch, and he's at the opposite end. Her feet are on his lap, and they're trying to read, but she knows it's only a matter of time before he decides to tickle her. She'll squeal loudly, trying to get out of his grasp, and they'll end up on a pile on the floor. Eventually, it'll lead to sex. And she likes it like this, because at times like these, she can't even think about her mom, or Yale, it just feels right.
But then he says he loves her and she doesn't know how to say it back. She knows he's aware she hasn't said it, and loves him, hates him, for not caring.
She sighs, flipping the page in her book. She feels his fingers along the bottoms of her feet, and looks up. He's smirking devilishly, and she can't help but smile.
And she wonders why she can't always feel like this.