A/N: To everyone who has reviewed thus far, thank you so much. Another chapter will probably be done soon. Spring break has gotten me on a writing spree of sorts. Also to angeleyez: If you are reading this, I want to say that you are my role model in this whole Rory/Jess fiction thing. I've been reading your stuff a lot lately and it is amazing. And now, onto the story.

This is the seventh time she has listened to the message. Nothing changes. She silently hopes each time she presses play that it will be different. But, it isn't. She cringes at his words. She cringes at the way his breaths become short and strained. She cringes at his mention of Dean. She cringes at all of it sounding so much like the truth.

She picks up the phone, slowly bringing it to her ear. She listens to the dial tone for a few seconds before she hangs up again. She presses play on the answering machine and whispers, "Number eight." as she refills her wine glass.

There is desperation in his voice. He is almost pleading for her to tell him all of this is true. He needs to believe that he is right. That these are the only reasons she hasn't been with him. That the only thing keeping them apart is their fear.

For a moment she doesn't listen to the words, only to his voice. He has started smoking again, she can hear it in the way his voice is breaking. She is taken back to the times when they were together. All the whispers against her ears. How safe his voice could make her feel even though he was what she was most afraid of. She is smiling despite everything.

And then something snaps inside of her. She suddenly remembers all the times he left. All the times he never said goodbye. All the times he tried to guilt her back into a relationship. All the times he let her down. He doesn't deserve to be mad. He doesn't deserve to hate her. The phone is in her hands again. She leaves a simple message this time. One that doesn't need any alcohol, the anger boiling in her veins is enough.

"Fuck you."

The darkness that has been following him for the past week envelops him entirely when he hears her recorded voice that night. Because he was wrong. Because she was the one broken. Because she didn't understand that it was all for her. All the leaving, it was for her. If he had known that staying wouldn't hurt her, he would have.

With gritted teeth, he speaks into the phone, his lips crushing against the plastic. "I did it for you." And then he takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair, gathers all of his pieces, puts himself together. "We can't keep doing this. This phone tag thing. I need to talk to you. Rory, there are so many things you don't know. Please, let me see you."

Only when the phone is out of arm's reach does he let all of those gathered pieces scatter from his hands.