A/N: As always, thank you for the feedback. To Mai, because finals really do suck. To Stephanie, for being a huge help and for being so nice. Thank you.
Chapter Three
The sound of his key in the door startled her off her perch on the loveseat. Rory stood and walked to the center of the kitchen just as he appeared inside. She scrunched up her nose as a familiar scent wafted through the apartment.
"We won't need plates tonight," Jess said, gesturing to the table where Rory had set it a half hour earlier.
"Are we going to use chairs or are we going for an all out cavemen theme?"
He swung his arms in front of his body, revealing a plastic bag that had been hidden behind his back. She squinted trying to make out the creased red writing across its front. A few random letters were legible but the rest was unreadable. However, the smell was strong, and it was enough for her to guess what he had brought.
"Is that Chinese?" She asked, surprised.
"Yup," he said, setting it down on the table, and then lifting the unneeded dishes.
"We haven't had take-out since… June. At least. What's the occasion?"
"The occasion is that a woman three, possibly four times my age hit on me tonight. I was hoping some Chinese would soften the emotional scarring," he explained as he returned the plates to the cabinet.
"Aw, poor baby," she teased, pulling on his wrist so he would face her.
"Hey, she was grabby too."
Rory lightly gripped his neck, pulling him into a kiss, before letting her hands wander along his back. They slipped further down, and he grinned.
"I was able to dodge her most of the time, but…"
"I'm sorry it was a painful night. But she left you a great tip, didn't she?"
"She technically paid for dinner."
"Tell her thank you for me," she laughed, fiddling with his shirt.
His black bow tie was still around his neck, undone for the most part. She tugged on it, pulling it out of the collar of his white dress shirt. She then undid the first couple of buttons, before smoothing the material down. Once she was satisfied with her work, she glanced up and found him watching her intently.
"You like working there, right? It's not some kind of hellish demonic place that's slowly stealing your soul or anything?"
"I like it," he assured her. "I like both of my jobs. If I didn't, I would have vandalized one of them by now." He sidestepped her and sat down in a chair, and began to pull out the take-out cartons.
She hoped he wasn't lying. He had been a messenger when she first came to New York with him. It wasn't long before he quit that, however, explaining to her that the money had been only enough to support him when he was splitting the rent three-ways. Just after he and Rory moved into their new apartment, he had found an ad for a part-time position at a bookstore not too far away. He hadn't wanted to take it due to the poor wages, but Rory had insisted, knowing that of all the possibilities out there, that was the one that would make him the happiest. When he wasn't stocking shelves, mentally cataloguing which titles he'd have to check out at a later point, he was behind the cash register, nose in a book until a customer requested his help. He was basically paid to read; he had to take it.
He had gotten the restaurant job on his own, however; no input from Rory. He had known she would put up a fight about it. She didn't want him working in food services, not when she was stuck with the image of him standing behind the counter at Luke's, a rag flung over his shoulder, wearing an expression that bordered on ennui and irritation. She feared he would be miserable at this new job, although honestly, she couldn't picture him anywhere else. In her mind's eye, she always had trouble placing him in the working world, too used to his lack of motivation and apathetic nature toward responsibility.
The first time she had seen his uniform — black slacks, white dress shirt, bow tie (it was the tie that did it) — she had laughed out loud, before trying to block out the sinking feeling that threatened to seize her. His being miserable was the last thing she wanted, but it seemed that was the way this was going to go. She was convinced he'd quit after the first day. Surprise, surprise, when he came home moderately happy, promising that the training was no sweat, the job was a cinch, and most of the patrons were assholes, but they tipped very well (and that was what counted, really).
It was one of the nicer restaurants; most of the customers had plenty of money, and had no qualms about throwing away over thirty dollars for entrees. Jess had adapted to it quickly, finally discovering the thin line between being polite, and simply being quiet. He needed to be attentive here, but at the same time invisible, letting the patrons feel as if they were alone, the food magically appearing on their plates. He was good at the invisible part; as long as he didn't mouth off, it was a successful day.
There was still that tight fear, however, poking at her ribs when she watched him leave for work. She was afraid that he was unhappy but keeping silent because of the money. He never complained unless it was a verbal flogging of a rather unpleasant customer, and he always seemed alright. Nothing he did quelled the lump of guilt she carried around with her though, because she knew that he was doing this for her. All of this was for her.
Rory took the seat across from him, and pulled a container in front of her. She removed the top and found sweet & sour chicken staring up at her. She let out a small squeak of approval.
"I think I love you," she stated.
"That's good to know."
He began to chow down on his beef and mixed vegetables, while she dug further into the plastic bag. "Oh! Egg rolls!"
"It doesn't take much to get you excited."
"Egg rolls," she enunciated, shaking the small package. "If you don't worship them properly, you don't get to eat one."
"Are you threatening me? Don't forget, it was my good looks and boyish charm that got us this dinner."
She stuck her tongue out at him, and he stared back down at his food. A muffled word escaped his mouth, sounding too much like, "Mature". She ignored him. Wordlessly both began to eat, enjoying the stifled hum of the city that lay outside.
After a few moments, they both looked up at each other. "Switch?" Rory asked.
"Switch," he nodded.
They slid their dinners across the table, Jess taking Rory's and vice versa, adding a little variety to their meal. It only took one bite before he glanced up and pointed his fork at her. "You're not getting this back."
She shot him a pout but he stood his ground, having grown immune to her 'feel sorry for me' face. Rolling her eyes, she dove back into the take-out bag and removed the chopsticks she had seen earlier.
Jess arched an eyebrow, disbelieving. "You don't know how to use those."
Surprisingly enough, she knew how to hold them.
"Doesn't mean you know how to use them," he insisted.
She managed to lift a vegetable halfway in the air, her movements calculated, confident. But as she got higher, the vegetable began to slip. Quickly, she raised her hand up, bringing her face down to catch it before it fell back with the rest of her food. Unfortunately, it missed its intended target, and instead bounced off her chin before landing in her container.
Glancing up, she found Jess back to staring down into his dinner.
"Jess."
He met her eyes, trying to smother the laugh that threatened to escape. "I think you should try that again."
"Shut up." She threw down one of her chopsticks, annoyed, and used the other to stab the disobedient vegetable. Popping it into her mouth, she shot him a satisfied smile.
"Now that's class."
"We're eating from aluminum containers with plastic forks," she reminded him.
"Yeah, but colorful forks. Do you know anybody else who gets to color coordinate their utensils with their dinner?"
"That's a horrible silver lining."
They both continued to eat, easy conversation filtering in during the lulls between bites. Jess stood by his decision to keep Rory's original meal for himself, although it didn't stop her from reaching across the table with her single chopstick and stealing pieces of chicken. When they both finished, they cleared the table, sticking the leftovers in the refrigerator.
Rory moved to the sink to turn on the faucet, but paused when she felt Jess come up behind her. He settled his hands on either side of her, his fingers lightly resting on the counter, and leaned over her shoulder.
"What are you doing?"
"The dishes," she stated in a 'duh' tone.
"I understand your need to keep things organized but there are no dishes tonight. Step away from the sink, Miss Gilmore."
"There may not be actual dishes," she began, laying heavily on the final word, "but I can't say I'm doing the forks. That sounds ridiculous."
"Two," he mumbled, his lips brushing her earlobe. "You're really going to stand here and wash two forks?"
"Yes. I can't just leave them here in the sink. Then they'll just be there, staring up at me all accusingly. They'll want to know why I wash every thing else immediately after eating, but they have to lie here. They'll think I'm being selectively cruel."
"Geez, what is with you and these weird habits with inanimate objects? I should be worried."
"Why aren't you?" Rory asked teasingly.
"I guess I'm just used to it."
She was surprised to feel a tingling beneath her shoulder blades, his words slipping across her skin. They were tinged with a soothing kind of familiarity. He was used to her quirks; he was used to her.
She turned in his arms to face him. He seemed taken aback by her expression.
"What?"
"Nothing," she said, her voice quiet.
She doubted she could explain it to him, the way she had become accustomed to his presence. There was this dependency she could count on: she knew in the morning she'd wake up to him, his head shoved under the pillow, ordering her to shut off the "evil, unneeded technological advance" that was the alarm clock. In the evenings, he would be home to eat dinner with her; sometimes he would make it, sometimes she would. She liked their cooking lessons, when he would stand behind her, his fingertips light on her elbow, the small of her back. At night, he'd sometimes fall asleep on the loveseat, his head drooping against her shoulder, or they'd both go to bed together, up for hours after the fact.
He had become used to her. He had eased into this way of life, even though she had originally thought that that was the last thing he wanted. He seemed to hate predictability and routine; he didn't seem the type to stay in one place too long.
But here he was. In the beginning, she had feared that one morning she'd wake up alone, his stuff gone, their relationship packed into a small note hung on the refrigerator, almost an afterthought. Now, she found herself pushing him out of bed, eager to stretch out by herself. Because he would come back. He was always coming back.
"You're just… really good at this," she finally finished.
"At talking you down from cleaning?"
"No. Just… this," she said cryptically.
She nodded her head to the side in a kind of gesture that meant: look around. Using his peripheral vision to his advantage, his took a sideways glance of the room before concentrating back on her. His expression softened, and she thought maybe he knew what she meant. That he had kept his promise, and she loved him for it.
Instead of speaking, Jess leaned down and kissed her; she tasted sweet n' sour sauce on his lips. Sometime inside her shuddered, warm and light, and she pulled him closer. Her fingers danced down the buttons of his shirt, brushing against his stomach. She wanted to stay just like this.
The phone rang, and she pulled away, startled. "Do we have an undead phone?"
"The bill was due yesterday. I'd give it a few days before they shut it off," Jess answered.
"Oh." Reluctantly, she stepped to the side, and headed for the living room where the portable was resting on the loveseat.
"If it's either of my bosses looking for extra hours, tell them you finally got fed up and killed me with a leg of lamb."
"And then I fed the lamb to the police?"
"Exactly. Hey, don't give me that look, Hitchcock was a genius."
She dropped onto a cushion and picked up the phone, as Jess turned on the sink. He picked up the sponge and one of the forks and began to scrub. He was about to tune out her side of the conversation when he heard her tone of voice change from nonchalant to nervous.
"No, no, of course this is a good time! Of all the times of all the days, this is the best time. Really."
He shot her a baffled look, but found that she was now pacing across the kitchen floor, her eyes locked on the wall in front of her. He shut off the water and dried his hands on a nearby dish towel. Moving behind her, he touched her arm, trying to get her to calm down. She jumped when she felt his hand and skittered away, hiding in the bedroom to finish the conversation. The door shut behind her.
Surprised at her response, he stared at the door for several seconds, straining to hear her voice from the other side. He couldn't though; she was speaking too softly. He headed back for the sink, trying to ignore the vise that had taken hold in his chest. It squeezed and squeezed in the silence of the apartment; he sucked in a breath and finished cleaning.
A little later, she emerged from their bedroom, phone in hand, a blank expression on her face. She placed the portable back in its cradle and looked down at him, where he sat on the sofa. He figured she'd tell him what had happened, but instead she remained tightlipped and jittery.
"Who was that?" Fine, he'd ask then.
"My grandfather."
The vise snapped in half, and the pain was left reverberating through his entire body. "How'd he know the number?" He didn't look at her, instead focusing on the wall behind her.
"My mom."
His eyes flew to her face, startled. "Your mom? I thought maybe Lane would have given it to them. She's the only one who knows the number." He hoped his tone wasn't coming off as accusatory. He was doing his best to sound neutral; it wasn't working.
"My mom knows it too," she responded, caught. "I gave it to her."
"When?"
"I don't know, we talk sometimes, I can't give you a specific date."
"Talk? When do you talk? Lane's the only person who ever calls here."
"I call my mom."
"She's never appeared on the phone bill," he said.
"What do you check them and look for the Stars Hollow area code?"
"No, but sometimes when I sit down to pay the bills, I happen to go over it. You know, just for fun." He could feel the sarcasm seeping in, but he was starting not too care.
"Sometimes I call her from the payphone outside the laundromat."
"Why? You can call her from here, Rory. It's why we own a phone. To call people."
"I just… It's not a big deal," she said, waving him off, and heading into the kitchen. She didn't seem to know what to do; she was just trying to walk away from him.
"If it's not a big deal, why didn't you tell me?" He asked, following her.
"I don't know. It never came up."
"You were hiding this from me."
"I was not! I just didn't want to talk about it."
"Rory, come on. Why?"
"Because it hurt! When I first called her, I had to beg her to hear me out. She wasn't saying anything and I was so scared she was going to hang up. You wouldn't get it, Jess. You can't understand what it was like to call her, and apologize over and over because when it comes to you, I always make the wrong choice."
He froze. He had already been standing still, waiting for her to finish, but now he could feel himself stiffening. Wrong choice. Yeah, he had heard that one before. He was always the mistake.
"I'm going to bed. It was a long day at work." He spun on his heel and went straight into the bedroom. He slammed the door; she didn't move.
----
The television screen flickered across her face, the lack of color unusual in the dark. She had on a black and white classic, some late night movie that had come on after the news. She sat, unmoving, her eyes following the action, but nothing really registered. In the hours that had passed, there had been no noise from the bedroom, no sign that he was in there, wanting her to come to bed.
She stood and sauntered across the kitchen, stepping as quietly as she could. She opened the door, and stood in the frame, looking over at the bed.
"Jess?"
No answer.
She crept inside and sat beside him. The interior of the room was too stifling. The August humidity had leaked in, and she choked on it, swallowing the heat. She could feel it condensing inside her, filling her lungs with water. She peeked over his shoulder.
"Jess, are you awake?" Her voice was small, desperate. She heard tears, but when she touched her face, it was dry.
When he still didn't answer, she leaned down, resting her forehead on his upper arm. His skin felt cooler against hers.
She had wanted to tell him about calling her mom, but didn't know how. The rational part of her knew that he wouldn't be angry; he understood the fact that she needed her mother. No amount of distance would change that. But after each phone call, she felt drained and upset, bouncing back and forth between two lives.
He couldn't understand. He wouldn't get the bigger picture here. That night when she had gone back to Stars Hollow for the inn, her first and only visit this summer, she had watched the last part of her world crumble beneath her. Lorelai, stressed and betrayed, had run around trying to make everything perfect, only briefly acknowledging her presence. Her grandparents had taken the much colder route, completely freezing her out when they weren't bickering with each other. She had seen the way they looked at her: with disappointment, anger.
Dean had torn into her the one time they saw each other. He too felt betrayed by her careless antics, running away with Jess, leaving everything behind for him. After Dean had finished half-yelling without her bothering to pipe up and defend herself, he had walked off, taking with him the final pieces of their friendship. Then there had been the rest of the town, who Rory had expected to bombard her with questions and whisper behind her back. They had only done the latter, however. They had nearly ignored her, as if she wasn't even there, as if she hadn't made an effort, as if she had stayed behind in New York, forgetting about her life here.
It was the most terrible realization for her: going home to find out that it no longer was hers.
When she had arrived back to their apartment and crawled into bed, it had taken every ounce of willpower for her not to cry. It had run through her mind over and over: go back now! If she had packed up then, shown up on her mother's doorstep, she could have salvaged it. Everything would have eventually gone back to normal; it was still fixable.
Jess had crawled in later, easing into the bed slowly, trying to not to disturb her. She had been turned away, feigning sleep. He had kissed her lightly on the neck, before running a finger down her spine, falling down the stair steps of her vertebrae.
He was splitting her in two.
Even now in the darkness of the bedroom, she could feel the strain, the tension running through her, cracking. She was coming apart at the seams. Jess had done this, made it this way; he had turned this into an ultimatum. Him or everything she knew. Him or her future.
Rory sat up, brushing her fingertips across the side of his face, catching his hair. She slipped out the room, and closed the door softly behind her. The phone call from her grandfather ran through her mind, as she made her way back to the sofa. Turning up the volume of the television, she blocked it out.