Author's Note: Please don't take what has been stated about Malaysia as completely factual. A few liberties have been taken to accommodate the timeline although I have tried to retain as much accuracy as possible.
Chronicling Babylon
2. Exodus
He wore a sarong, which in one place, one society, one time might have been an affront to his manhood but not here. Here was very different from what he had always known. And perhaps that was the appeal. Tristan had no past here. There was nothing to connect him to this land - unfamiliar, alien. He was a twentieth-first century colonist following the original dream of a new beginning; a new start; a new hope, because the world he had lived in held no hope for him.
One Sunday after Rory had left, he had boarded his own plane and from there had roamed the world with a backpack, a camera, a journal, his passport, and a wallet filled with credit cards. Not quite the minimalist living but he was on his own and he survived vastly through his own enterprise and ingenuity. He became a free agent the day he stepped on that plane to London. Tristan became an investor, a consultant, a dealer and a go-between; using the connections he had and the connections he made to provide a more than adequate living. The apron strings had been cut. Although there was an unspoken stipulation and agreement between his parents and Tristan, that regardless of his current deviant ways, he still had a responsibility to the family. His parents had invested too much time, too much money on Tristan being the future of the DuGrey empire. And so there were check-ups and obligatory drop-ins to meet friends, acquaintances and business partners of his parents. But he could live with them because he supposed he owed them that much, and ultimately Tristan had been granted his freedom.
After one year of traveling, he had decided to settle in Malaysia and for two years now this was where he existed. Malaysia: made up of two noncontiguous parts - east and west - with the South China Sea planted bang smack in between, and surrounded by neighbors such as Indonesia, Thailand and Singapore. It bordered the equator and was hot and humid with seasonal rains influenced by winds called monsoons. This was a world that knew no cold. And he learnt to love the heat. The sun shining, always shining, down upon you; your lips and tongue burning, and your eyes watering from the fiery flavor of the national cuisine; there was beauty in it all.
The capital city was Kuala Lumpur (KL) - an urban sprawl midst the tropical mangrove forests that spanned three-quarters of the country. It was modern and cosmopolitan and held the Petronas Towers, which at one thousand, four hundred and sixty-three feet had, at one point in time, been the world's tallest buildings. Still ancient culture coexisted with metropolitan progression here in Kuala Lumpur, and there was something admirable in that too. With a population of almost two million encompassing Malays, Chinese, and Indians and as the entry point for visitors, KL was a city of multiplicity, layers, cultures and hybrids. It was also, naturally, the city in which Tristan decided to reside in.
He learnt the national language - Bahasa Melayu - although it had taken him awhile to grasp the rudiments. Initially he was like a child, knowing and understanding and learning the most important, quintessential words. Tandas for toilet. Makan for eat. The numbers - satu, dua, tiga - one, two and three. Now the words flowed from his tongue, sometimes quite eloquent, and he spoke with ease because it was foreign; he was allowed mistakes; he wasn't judged so harshly; and there was freedom too in not speaking your own language. He had discovered the ability to express things he had previously not known how to say, or even, did not know he had wanted to say. Of course now that he had the means, he no longer had the inclination. It was all part of the c'est la vie rhetoric he had adopted along with his old mantra of no regrets. Although, admittedly, it had taken him awhile - months of convincing himself - until he finally believed, whole-heartedly, that there were no regrets. Tristan was content. He could live like this, a discovery that had been unexpected but welcomed.
The sarong hung low on his hips and he paused to readjust it, stopping in front of a window. Light streamed in from the window, filling the room with a brightness that heightened color. It lit up the room, lit him up; lit up his hair so each strand was a highlight of pure gold; lit up his skin so it glowed in an even shade of tan; lit up his eyes so that were more blue, more alive.
"Don't move!"
"Huh?" Pulling his concentration away from his sarong, Tristan looked up at the speaker: Malaysian Chinese, female, typically small - just reaching five foot one - and waif-slender like the majority of women in Asia.
"You moved, even after I told you not to," she chided.
"I'm sorry, Li Chang." He attempted to look contrite but failed.
She rolled her eyes, but smiled. "No, you're not, Mr. Tristan DuGrey, although I accept your apology, which I deserve. Because I was enjoying the image of you standing by the window surrounded by a halo of light. It was very pretty."
"And I'm here to look pretty for you?"
"Yes." She added a nod for affirmation, stepping closer so her hands could play with his hair. "Pretty body. Pretty face. Pretty lips. Pretty hair. You're a pretty boy, Mr. DuGrey. And I'll add that you look even prettier today, in that sarong of yours."
"Well, I aim to please." He leaned in, invading her personal space, to brush his lips against the side of her cheek.
"You please very well." Her dainty hands played with his sarong until it fell away, dropping noiselessly to the ground.
*****
"Are you going to tell me why we're here?" Rory begged.
"No, because it's a secret," he stubbornly refused her.
"That is so not nice, Tristan. I don't like you. You're mean."
"Well, that's fine with me."
"Hmph." She crossed her arms and pouted before deciding to try again. "Will you give me a hint instead? Are we going somewhere fun? Will I like it?"
"Wait and see."
"That was a terrible hint. In fact, that was no hint at all."
"I know," Tristan smirked. She continued to pout and finally he couldn't take anymore of it. "Okay, I'm taking you to a B&B. A nice floral B&B with lots of fun activities and arts and crafts."
"You wouldn't dare!" A chuckle was his only reply, and Rory's eyes grew wide at the sound. "You would! That is cruel. Beyond cruel. Beyond evil."
"Okay, so we're not going to a B&B."
"Then where are we going?"
"Has anybody told you that whining is unbecoming, Gilmore?"
"I'm not whining!"
"You are too."
"Am not."
"Are too."
"Am not. And just tell me where we're going, DuGrey!"
"Nope, sorry. These lips are sealed."
"Arrggh! I'm this close to smacking you," Rory threatened.
"Hey now! No resorting to violence. What happened to being a pacifist?"
"Me? A pacifist? I'm sorry but you must have the wrong Lorelai Leigh Gilmore."
"No, I think I have the right one." His eyes smiled at her with sincerity and untold things. She smiled back and it would have been a moment, but an overtaking car diverted their attention.
Rory took advantage of the distraction to ask once more, "So, where are we going again?"
"Virginia," Tristan replied before realizing what he had said.
"We're going to Virginia?"
"Did I say that?"
"Yes, you did. We're going to Virginia!" she bounced excitedly in her seat. She paused mid-way through a bounce to ask, "Why are we going to Virginia? What's in Virginia? Where are we going in Virginia?"
"Can't you just sit back and enjoy the ride? Can't you be happy not knowing?" Tristan shot back.
"Nope and nope. I want to know. I need to know. Du-u-uGre-e-ey-"
"You're doing that whining thing again," he pointed out.
"And, I'm not going to stop until you tell me all I want to know."
"Grief, woman. Here I am trying to do you a good turn…all I thought was that we had the weekend free, and college seemed to be really getting to the both of us…"
"I appreciate it and you. Really I do," Rory interjected. "But I would appreciate you more if you would just tell me when, why, where and how."
"You know the when, you know the how and you know part of the where. Three out of four is good odds."
"You're doing the not nice thing again, Tristan. And you're being mean and unfair."
He shrugged nonchalantly as he continued to drive, "Life is unfair."
"Smart-ass."
"Well, my ass has been attributed with many qualities but I think this is the first time someone has called it smart."
"There are times, DuGrey, when I'm under the impression that you've changed since our Chilton days and then you say something like that and it makes me realize you're still the same."
"Why change when I'm already perfect?"
"Delusional boy. And stop trying to detract me from my search for the truth."
"Search for the truth? That's a bit grandiose."
"You're hiding things from me! And I don't like it. I'm warning you, Tristan, I have ways of finding things out. Don't make me resort to them!"
"Really?" he chuckled in disbelief, "I'd like to see that."
Defeated, Rory leaned back in her seat and insolently kicked the door. She glared at the passing scenery and the car was silent. Tristan continued to drive, smug in the knowledge that he had bested Rory. She shifted in her seat, deciding it was better to glare at him. She shot daggers at his head, his chest, his thigh…and then she stopped and smiled to herself. Ever so casually, Rory placed her hand on Tristan's knee and slowly, lightly, began to make a trail up his thigh.
"Uh, um, Rory?" Tristan croaked.
"Yes?" she asked innocently, even as her fingers crept higher and higher.
"W-what are you, um, d-doing?"
"Nothing. Just thinking." Her hand accidentally strayed - wayward - so it brushed against his inner thigh.
"Could you, um, stop it?"
"Stop what? Stop thinking?"
"No! That. That thing with your hand!" His voice was reaching the higher pitches, not customary for males.
"What thing with my hand?" Another brush, this time lingering.
"I-I-" Incapable of words, he pulled his right hand away from the steering wheel in an attempt to stop her.
"Hey! Both hands on the steering wheel, mister." Rory scolded as she put his hand back on the wheel, before continuing her ministrations.
Several times he shifted, uncomfortably, around in his seat but it was useless. He continued to drive, helpless to her straying hand. And finally, after almost a minute had passed, Tristan could take it no longer. In desperation, he swerved the car onto the side-road, turned the engine off and glared at Rory.
"You, Ms. Gilmore, will stop that unless you're willing to face the consequences!"
She gulped nervously, "The, uh, consequences?"
"Yes, the consequences." He leaned in so that their faces were only inches apart; so she could see the intensity and sincerity of his words. She licked her lips, nervously, and for one brief millisecond they both thought that he might kiss her. But he pulled back abruptly and started the engine, although he added as a last reminder, "The consequences, Ms. Gilmore. Remember them."
*****
He woke to a naked back and long black hair splayed across his pillow and over his arm. Carefully he extracted himself out of the bed, trying not to disturb the sleeping Li Chang. She looked at peace now, for he had been well aware of the shadows that clouded her face, the torment in her eyes. He wondered what had brought her to his bed today, though it was not in him to ask her directly. It would become one of those things, never stated, between them.
Li Chang was his sometimes lover, but not his friend. Tristan had no friends, only acquaintances and companions. She was a companion who had become a lover because they shared an understanding that others did not - could not - comprehend. They were living in times of war; not of guns and machines, military and other armed forces but something more internalized. It was a battle against a faceless enemy and there would be no glory, no heroic, triumphant tales akin to the Iliad. It was random, desperate shooting out into the murky cloud of reality and your vision was always impaired by you. They both had scars - he and Li Chang - though no one could tell from the perfectly smooth skin of their bodies. But the scars existed as did the wounds that festered. And so they clung onto one another, sharing and taking comfort when they could; when they needed it most. She carried a key to his house as he carried hers, and it was enough that they had each other, for the moment.
Still, he wondered how long they must continue to man the front, always on guard. Always. They were world weary and fatigued. He was tired of holding up arms, fending off the faceless. She was tired too, and horrified. Tristan remembered kissing away her tears as he entered her; how she had felt warm and yet cold, so very cold.
He had a meeting soon and would have to leave but he was reluctant to wake her. Instead Tristan showered and changed and when he returned to his bedroom found Li Chang still sleeping. After a moment of debate, he scribbled her a note, kissed her forehead and stroked her hair and left. One of them deserved a reprieve and today she obviously needed it more.
*****
The night was balmy and cars flocked to a lengthy block of extended concrete where numerous hawker stalls were set up. He could smell food, overpowering and enticing; it was spices sizzling through the air and assaulting his senses. Tristan clambered up the stairs and perused the open-aired platform trying to decide what he was hungry for. There was the nutty entreats of satay being grilled; there was chicken rice, rice with roast duck, rice with BBQ pork, rice with virtually anything you desired; there were the variety of noodles from Singapore to Hokkien; and there was curry, rendang, nasi lemak, which were all guaranteed to burn your tongue and leave you gasping for water. Having circled the stalls three times, Tristan finally settled on a bowl of curry laksa and paid his dues to a worn, middle-aged woman who had already seen too many customers tonight, so that she only cared that the right amount of money exchanged hands.
After this, it was the struggle to find a spare seat amongst the rows and columns of people and white, plastic tables and seats. He battled with the people, always battling, and they became one with the faceless enemy that had no name. His meeting had gone well but rather than celebrating in some fancy restaurant in KL, Tristan had opted to drive to Petaling Jaya to eat some of the local cuisine. The food was better, tastier, here than in some fancy restaurant. Although the first few times he had sampled the local cooking, Tristan had been unable to stomach it and consequently fell fate to food poisoning. Now he could eat with relish, secure in the knowledge that his stomach was iron steel.
After dinner, Tristan was planning on going to the Pasar Malam - a street market that operated during the night and rotated throughout the suburbs, attracting the general populace and tourists alike. It was just across the street from the hawker stalls, and he looked forward to sifting through the goods for sale. There would be more food (mostly of the dessert and fresh fruit variety), local pottery and arts and craft, clothing and cheap imitation wares.
By sheer luck, a space opened as a family of four departed and Tristan clamored, as others did, for the seats. He claimed one and proceeded to eat, not paying attention to his neighbors. The laksa was delicious; a nice blend of curry and milky coconut. Using his chopsticks, the proper way, Tristan fed himself the noodles and enjoyed the sting to his palate and the encompassing heat that filled his body as he swallowed.
"Tristan?"
He choked at the sound of the voice, her voice, and coughed and coughed, clutching his throat as he grasped for his cup of ice water. The water quenched the heat but not the feelings of trepidation. Reluctantly he looked up and across the table.
"Rory."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Oh. Good. Because that coughing thing…"
"The laksa was just a little bit hotter than I expected," he lied.
"Oh, well, yeah. I'm surprised you're even eating it because you never could eat hot. The slightest bit of chili would have you crying like a baby and diving for water or in one case ice cubes and then there was that other time when-"
"Rory," he interrupted.
"What?"
"You're babbling."
"Oh, thanks for stopping me." They lapsed into silence and she seemed to be searching for something to say, to fill in the gaps, but Tristan made no effort to help her. Finally, she gave up some of the pretense and simply said, "You look good. It's been awhile."
"You look good too. And it's been three years." He picked up his chopsticks and recommenced the eating process although his appetite had considerably diminished.
"Three years…" she mused, half to herself and half to him. "It doesn't seem that long but it's been ages."
"A lifetime."
"And it's funny because out of all the-"
"This isn't Casablanca," Tristan stated flatly, anticipating what Rory had been about to say. "We were never Casablanca."
"I'm not…never mind."
"Good."
"Good? How can this be good? You just left."
"I just left? Like you can speak, Gilmore. Is it still Gilmore? Not that it matters."
"I wrote you and never got a reply. I called and always got the answering machine. And one month later, I was informed that Tristan DuGrey no longer lived at this address. He'd moved and no one knew where. And if your parents knew they weren't saying. Oh, and it is still Gilmore."
"Huh, who knew my parents were good for something. And my condolences about still being Gilmore. I figured that by now you and Mr. He's No One Important would be happily married and with two point three kids. Is it two point three? My general knowledge is bad like that."
"Let's not do this."
"Do what?" he faked ignorance.
"This…this whatever. Let's not do this. It's beneath us."
"Is it? Are you absolutely sure? Maybe it's just beneath you; maybe I'm just beneath you."
"Tristan, you know you're not. Things are just awkward…different," Rory observed.
"Well," Tristan grinned sardonically, "time does that."
"What are you doing in Malaysia, Tristan?"
"What are you doing in Malaysia?" he reiterated.
"I'm on assignment."
"I live here."
"You live here, wow. I never expected that."
"Neither did I, but life throws you the unexpected now and then. And Malaysia's not a bad place. I like the climate. It'll probably suit me in my old age when the cold threatens to overwhelm."
She nodded, not really listening to what he was saying but more intent on the sound of his voice. With the tip of her spoon, she moved the rice across the plate, gathering the courage to confess, "I missed you."
"Did you? I missed you too. For awhile. And then I stopped." He said it; too casual, matter-a-fact.
"You never used to be deliberately hurtful."
"The thought of you and our so-called friendship never used to hurt. But I got over it. I made sure. I'm immune to you now, Rory Gilmore."
"I'm not. I was in love with you too, but it wouldn't have worked. Not then."
"So she says three years after. You know what, let's not do this. Let's just eat."
She opened her mouth to object but realizing the futility, Rory picked up her spoon and fork and quietly began eating her rice instead. The din of the crowd was all encompassing - noises everywhere - but it was not enough to hide the emptiness that stretched between them. He ate quickly, intent on his food and refusing to look at her though he was too conscious of her presence. Tristan was not as immune as he would have liked to have been but he could pretend. She made no such attempt and her eyes were upon him, watching and waiting.
"Could you stop that?" he finally grumbled in exasperation, uncomfortable with her scrutiny.
"Stop what?"
"Stop looking at me."
"There's no law against looking. Besides you're sitting right in front of me, it would be kind of hard for me not to look at you."
"Fine, whatever. I'm leaving."
"You're just going to get up and go?"
"I have finished my meal, Rory. And there are people waiting for a seat."
"That's not what I meant and you know it."
"What do you want from me? It was nice bumping into you? It's been great and we must do it again some other time? See, I'm a little rusty on the social protocols and etiquette that this situation requires so you're going to have to tell me what you're expecting."
"I expected more. I don't know. I just hoped-"
It was the last thing he wanted to hear - her hopes. Abruptly, brusquely, he pushed himself off the chair and left. He found himself stumbling into the crowd and allowed himself to be swept away, following the stream of people which led him to the Pasar Malam stalls. And then he stopped as the crowd pushed past him, glaring and impatient, but he did not notice; he could barely breathe.
The owners of the stalls took it upon themselves to deign him a potential buyer. They shoved imitation Gucci watches in front of his face, dangled faux Calvin Klein and took his silence as bargaining. They lowered the prices, offered little extras and would not leave him alone. Blindly, without care, he shoved some cash into their hands and accepted their goods, and then they left him alone still struggling for air.
His lungs pushed his ribs outwards, the outer-costal muscles not used; the absence of chest expansion which led to cavicular breathing. Strained and lacking. He tried to retain control: inhale and exhale evenly. From his childhood Tristan remembered the breathing exercises his Speech teacher had made him practice. It came back with amazing clarity and necessity: "Stand easily with your hands resting on lower ribs. That's right, Mr. DuGrey. Breathe deeply, without force. In and out through your mouth. Yes, yes, feeling your ribs move outwards as you breathe. Relax. Relax."
"Tristan." He swung around and there she was, standing away from the throng, and he couldn't breathe again.
"Rory," he managed.
"Tristan."
"W-what do you want?"
She hesitated, biting her lip. "A second chance."
He shook his head vehemently, "I don't know if I can."
"Please."
"R-rory." Was that his voice breaking? He wasn't sure, he couldn't tell. The air was stifling, the people overwhelming - too many people - and the heat scorching, and he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"I-I have my card," she fumbled with her purse before pulling out a standard, white business card. "I'll be in Malaysia for six months. Just, please, think about calling me sometime. Please."
Her arm was extended, her hand holding the proffered card and he slowly, hesitantly, reached out to take it. His trembling fingers brushed against hers - familiar and yet unfamiliar touch. He pulled back, the card in the palm of his hand.
"Thank you," she whispered, a wavering smile on her face, before she turned and immersed herself back into the sea of faceless people.
*****
The key was being stubborn and wouldn't fit into the lock. He fumbled a little and it fell from his grasp and a steady stream of curses flowed from Tristan's mouth. There was little attempt to be quiet although it was nearing two in the morning and when the door finally opened, he shut it with a bang. Then he stumbled through the darkness - tripping and falling and muttering oaths and curses - until he finally reached the bedroom. She was awake; the lamp by her bedside table on; a steady, dull glow of light in the darkness.
"I woke you," he apologized.
"You really should stop apologizing when you don't mean it," Li Chang stated simply. "Because one day you'll apologize and I won't know that you were sincere."
"The boy who cried wolf."
"You've been drinking, Tristan."
"You can smell the alcohol from here?" he marveled.
"I know the signs."
"I'm that predictable?"
"No," she shook her head, "I know because you are a mirror reflection of me."
"Actually, I'd say that you're that much prettier."
"Thank you, Tristan." She smiled ever so slightly and then stated with knowledge, "You saw her today."
"Saw who?"
"Saw the girl who broke you."
"How can you be so sure that I'm like this because of some girl," he questioned, playing the devil's advocate because he was feeling disgruntled and difficult.
"Because it is true," Li Chang replied, unperturbed. "So, do you feel like talking?"
"We sat on the same table during dinner. Right opposite one another like a sad, twist of fate."
"It did not go well."
He laughed once, bitter. "Define well. It's been three years. Three fucking years. Three years, Li Chang."
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I've got you beat, Tristan. Try six years."
"Really? Six years? And here I was hoping that given time-"
"I do not think a lifetime will make any difference," she declared.
"More fools are we."
"We are not fools, at least I do not like to think so."
"Maybe just tragic players in a comedy?"
"Perhaps, although that isn't really any better."
"No, it isn't." He could feel the card nestled in the bottom of his jacket. "Her name was Rory. Actually Lorelai but she went by Rory. We went to high school together for a year. I had this crush on her then and she never knew. We met again in college and became best friends but nothing more. Never anything more. And one day, one Sunday, after graduating from college and living life on the career fast track, she ups and informs me that she's leaving. God, that sounds so pathetic. I'm decided, my life is a comedy." This time he chuckled - lovely, lovely self-derision. And then, curiosity overcoming him, he asked, "What happened to you today, Li Chang?"
Her smile was sad and her eyes seemed to see into some distant past and future. "Tonight isn't about me, Tristan. Tonight is about you."
He shrugged, letting her evasion go; not wanting to press the issue any further. After all, under normal circumstances Tristan would have never asked, but he was drunk and tonight was by far from normal. Besides, he wasn't sure if he had the energy and the strength to handle her problems tonight. It was probably a little bit selfish but it was also self-preservation. Still, he needed to say, needed her to know that he did care. "I'm always here to listen or whatever if you need me. You know that right?"
"I know, Tristan."
"I'm tired, Li Chang. So tired. I-I-" He gave up on speech then and instead crossed the distance between them in two determined strides and grabbed hold of her shoulders and kissed her.
Kissed her as an outlet for everything he was feeling. Kissed her to gain semblance and control. Kissed her because he could and because she was letting him. He kissed her because her eyes weren't startling blue; because her hair was raven black instead of a rich brown; because her skin was a darker shade of gold rather than the pale, milky white he had grown accustomed to. Had grown to love.
*****
It was the smell of Chinese tea that woke him. Not really strong, but subtle and with a distinctive aroma. Enough to make Tristan sit up in bed. He had learnt to love Chinese tea since his arrival to Malaysia. It had become his morning necessity instead of coffee.
"Good, you're awake." Li Chang observed. "I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away. You sleep like the dead, Tristan, only you also snore. Loudly."
"I'm not quite sure if I believe you, about the snoring. You're the first person to complain and I'm inclined to think that you're making it up."
"Perhaps everyone was too polite to tell you to your face."
"And here I thought Chinese women were renowned for their politeness and their mild manner."
"That is a myth. Besides, I would think that politeness is beyond us by now."
"You're right, Li Chang. Although, would it be improper for me to express my admiration at your ability to pour tea?"
"It is an art; one that I never learnt. You are a great flatterer and liar, Tristan DuGrey." He smiled unabashedly at her as he took a sip of the tea. "By the way, this fell out of your jacket when I went to hang it up." She handed him Rory's business card, knowing its significance.
"You could have thrown it in the bin." She merely looked at him and Tristan sighed. "Tell me what to do, Li Chang. Tell me if I should call her."
"Do you not think it is a little inappropriate to ask your lover whether or not you should call the woman you've been in love with?"
"So I shouldn't call her?"
"It is your decision, Tristan. I cannot make it for you."
"I wish you would." He made a little puppy-dog face, hoping that she would reconsider.
She smiled but shook her head, merely stating, "Drink your tea."
He did as Li Chang commanded, letting the brewed water and tea leaves warm him as he traced the letters on the card. Lorelai Leigh Gilmore. And the telephone number – lots of eights and lots of fours in equal proportions. If he was Chinese and superstitious, Tristan wondered what he would have made of it. Good or bad luck?
*****
Each day he picked up the phone and dialed the number to her cell phone; he had it engraved in his memory by now. Every single time he hung up before she could answer. It had almost become a ritual; the third ring was where he'd lose nerve and slam the handset back onto the receiver. There was something he was lacking, the courage maybe, to talk her. To be friends again.
And he was becoming more and more aware of the passage of time. Initially it had been a day and then two, later a week and then more weeks, but now it was months. He was running out of time and just like the superstitious value of Rory's phone number, he couldn't decide if it was a good or bad thing.
There were theories on predestination and making your own fate that ran through his mind every time he picked up the phone and hung up. There were bohemian truths about love conquering all, and old schoolboy ideals about friendships making a man. There were constant internal and external debates, all conducted and argued by him. And finally there was the dial tone that mocked his failure; an echoing click that resounded through the sounds of normal, ordinary life. He heard it every day when he failed to complete the call. Worse yet, he heard it in the tone of people's voices – a dull finality; the noise of a tongue meeting the upper palate of a mouth. It was discovered in the shutting of a door; rhythmic in the footsteps of a crowd; cars, trains and buses sung a chorus of these clicks; and he could not escape it. He could not block out the sound, even with mufflers and earphones because it was there, too, in the recesses of his head, ready and waiting to taunt him.
Today, the calendar marked the passing of four months. Two more months left. Tristan wondered if today would be any different; he doubted it. Sure enough, his hands were itching to end the call just after he had finished pushing the numbers to her cell. The first ring came and went, his hand inched a little closer to the receiver. The second ring sounded and he pulled his hand back, thinking that maybe this time would be different. Or maybe not. His test would be the third ring and he sat and waited for it.
"Hello? Lorelai Gilmore speaking."
Tristan froze, only conscious that his third ring had never come.
"Hello? Is there anyone there? Hello?"
"Sorry, wron-"
"Tristan? Is that you?"
"Um, yeah." There could be no hanging up now.
"You called." She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and gratitude, and he found himself breathing with her, somehow, strangely, a little in sync with her emotions.
"Yeah, I did."
"I didn't think you were ever going to call. After the first month…I hoped but…"
Perhaps it was something in her voice or maybe it was something - some need - within him to tell her all. "I did, y'know. Call that is. Every day for four months I picked up my phone and dialed your number."
"I never got any of your calls or a message." It wasn't quite an accusation nor was it a simple statement of the facts.
He could read in between the lines, knew what she was trying to say and he found himself nodding, though she couldn't see him, and saying, "Yeah. I know. I always hung up."
There was a quick intake of breath from her side of the phone followed by an un-interpretable silence. Then, as if she felt she didn't have the right, she tentatively asked, "If…if I hadn't picked up just now, would you have hung up?"
"I don't know, Rory." He wasn't quite sure of the answer himself. "Maybe. Probably. Most likely."
"Oh," she sounded disappointed and resigned, wanting more but not really expecting more.
Inspite of himself Tristan felt the need to reassure her, "That doesn't mean I didn't want to call you, and talk to you. I did. I do. It's just that…the thing is, Rory, I'm not sure if we can just go back. I don't think we can just pick up the phone and talk and be friends again. And at the same time I want it so much, so badly. I miss our friendship. I miss us. But I'm scared. Scared that everything we had is gone, that too much time has passed and we'll find ourselves unable to be friends. Worse yet, I'm scared that the reverse is true, that nothing has changed. That three years hasn't altered anything."
"I'm scared too, Tristan. I know I messed up," she apologized, as if she could not apologize enough.
"No," he disagreed; finally acknowledging what he - in anger and bitterness - had long ignored, "it wasn't just your fault. I messed up just as much, in my own way. There were things I could have done, things I could have said but I didn't. And then you made a decision, and it was easier to pinpoint and place the blame on that one decision. But really, it was an accumulation of things. And those things - we were both to blame."
"You're being entirely too nice, DuGrey."
He smiled at the endearment; it had been a long time since he'd heard his surname spoken in that same soft but clear voice. "You should know better, Gilmore. I was never known for my niceties. There was always some ulterior motive."
"That's not true. You had your charitable, non-evil moments. Rare and far between but still existent."
"Ah but they were only to impress you, hence an ulterior motive." She laughed and his smile broadened at the sound. "You or some girl that took my fancy."
"Always the player."
"Yeah, always." The light-hearted banter between them began to take on extra meaning; it encapsulated the friendship they once had and they suddenly grew somber again.
"I can't change anything, Tristan. I'm not even sure if I want to. Those three years, they were hard and difficult but I also learnt a lot. And grew. And what I said to you, that Sunday, still holds true. We needed the space because we were going nowhere. We'd found ourselves in this cycle or rut of something more and something less. And I couldn't live like that, not anymore. And even if we were in love with one another, everything was wrong - the reasons, the timing. We would have ruined everything. So, I'm not sure if I would have changed how it was all played out. But regardless of all that, I do know that three years without your friendship was something I never wanted. Something I still don't want. I don't want to imagine another three years or more without you in my life. So I'm asking you, please-?"
He took a deep breath. His mind was full with everything - choices, decisions, possible futures, memories, emotions - but one thing stood out above all: her. "Okay."
"What?"
"Okay," he reiterated.
"Okay? Really, okay?"
"Yeah. Really, okay." Tristan confirmed.
"Oh, wow. Okay…" she sounded like she was in shock. "Are you sure?"
"Would you like me to change my mind?" he couldn't resist teasing.
"No! I just-wow. Okay. O-k-a-y. Okay."
"Okay." He felt, not happier, but less burdened. It was a nice feeling. Something he could get used to, not to mention the thought of Rory Gilmore back in his life.
"Thank you, Tristan."
"Don't thank me yet," he forewarned but he still couldn't help the feeling of hope. It was foreign and alien and almost wrong, but it was there.
