Author's Notes: Much thanks to all those who provided feedback. And for the people who egged for more or smacked and bribed me for more or simply were tolerant and supportive of my wayward self. You know who you are. Sorry, that this was long in coming, and unfortunately no promises that the next update will be any faster.
Back to R, because after some thinking it's really more of R than NC-17 and I'm not likely to get any more explicit than this.
Chronicling Babylon
3. Leviticus
"You have a tea addiction," she commented lightly.
"Yeah. I suppose it's something that I picked up, living here."
"Well, I'm still coffee obsessed." She gestured at her cup with a flourish and grinned but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
He smiled back, polite. It was always polite, nothing beyond the surface of superficial. They had friendship, lack luster and pale in comparison to what it had once been but it was friendship nonetheless. They met everyday, since Rory's phone call, and spent an hour drinking coffee and tea and talking about nothing except the mundane ongoings of their lives. The past was almost never broached and only then (always by her) tentatively and with caution.
Part of him wished it was easier, that they could slip back into the comfort of what they had once been. He knew that Rory felt the same. However, another part of Tristan, a larger part, was relieved (even happy) that they could not. The old saying went, "Once bitten, twice shy." He was twice shy and it wasn't really a bad thing to be.
"I still take my coffee the same way," Rory added, a little lamely.
"I've noticed."
"So I hear that Louise Grant is onto her fourth husband. I think she's trying to rival Elizabeth Taylor and I think it's why she keeps her maiden name. Less name changes. Oh and Paris just got engaged…to Brad of all people! Do you remember how terrified he used to be of her? Good grief, I wonder how their marriage is going to work."
"You still keep up with the Chilton alumna gossip? "
"Of course. Remember how amusing…" Rory's voice trailed off when she noticed a grimace, a hint of disgust, on his face. "Tristan? What's wrong? We used to do it all the time, remember?"
"Yeah, but maybe I've matured since then," he said bitingly. The confused and wounded look that settled on her face made him feel a little guilty for snapping at her. "Look, I don't meant to be harsh or whatever. I guess laughing at how people's lives have turned out has lost its appeal. I mean, I wouldn't like it if other people were doing that to me. So, Paris and Brad and found love in the most unexpected place. We should be happy for them. As for Louise, at least she has the foresight to get out of an unhappy relationship. It's better than continuing to live with a person you're slowly coming to despise."
"You're right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be cruel."
"No, don't apologize. I'm not the one you should be saying sorry to. For anything."
"Tristan…"
"I've got to go." He stood up abruptly, dumping some cash on the table and walked out of the café without looking back. Outside was humid and the streets were busy. An ordinary day for everyone else. Tristan let out his breath and wished he wasn't so hung up with everything concerning Rory Gilmore. He had honestly thought that things were getting better. He had hoped that their tepid friendship meant progression: a chance to move on, a chance to let go. But it seemed like part of him was still clinging on tightly to the past and all the significant and insignificant wrongs that they had inflicted upon each other, from the day he had called her Mary to the Sunday when she had left. Not for the first time in his life Tristan wished that he had never met her.
Tomorrow, however, was another day. They would meet again, he knew they would, and begin the routine of pointless conversation until she inadvertently pushed him too far and he would snap and leave.
*****
"So what do you think?" she asked him eagerly.
"It's good. Of course, you know that."
"Yeah, but I wanted to hear you say it. Your opinion means a lot to me, Tristan."
"I'm just stating the truth. Your writing has always been nothing short of amazing, Rory. This article is no exception."
"So enough about me, tell me about your day."
"Horrible. Absolutely horrible."
"Aww…poor baby. Tell me all, it'll make you feel better."
The banter was not lost, could not be lost. The banter had seen them through all variances of their relationship; it was reliable and their one stability. Sometimes as they exchanged repartees, Tristan and Rory pretended that they were still the best of friends. For a few minutes the illusion would take hold and then they were almost happy.
"The world is filled with pompous jackasses that I have no tolerance for," he whined.
"Because there can only be one pompous jackass, and that position has already been filled by you?"
"Exactly. Hey! You just insulted me."
"And it's good to see that you're still so quick on the uptake."
"You're meant to be lending a sympathetic ear to my tale of woe, not taking potshots!"
"But you make it too easy for me, Tristan."
"Whatever. I think I need a cigarette."
Rory laughed, "You don't smoke, remember?"
"Actually I do. Not so often now but occasionally you get cravings." He was serious now and surprise colored her face.
"Wow, that's new. And a bit sudden."
"It's been three years, Rory."
"Yeah, but what happened to the guy I knew who used to be so adamantly against smoking?"
"Things change."
"Yes, but it's bad for you. Cigarettes can kill. Lung cancer, throat cancer, need I go on? When did you start smoking? And more importantly why? They can kill you!"
"You've already mentioned that. Besides, a lot of things in this world can kill you and we're all going to die anyway. It's just a matter of time and how. Smoking is just a habit I picked up. No big deal." His voice was becoming dangerously flat but she seemed relentless in her questioning of this so-called new development. It was like she was deliberately crossing the unspoken rules of their daily meetings. Her innocent insistence was beyond infuriating. Anger welled up inside of him, unbidden.
"It's just seems so incongruous with-"
"With the Tristan you once knew?"
"Yeah."
"Like I said, I'm not that person anymore. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if I can bum a stick off the girls over there." He got up and headed outside to the two Asian girls, probably only twenty or so, who were puffing furiously on their cigarettes. He chatted amicably, flirting a little even, and soon the three of them were standing on the street blowing rings of smoke into the faces of passers-by. Tristan took extra satisfaction, knowing that a disapproving Rory was watching. Casually, he flicked some ash onto the concrete pavement and turned his head sideways so that he could catch Rory's eye. There was something of hurt and rebuke mixed into the blue of her eyes and that made him grin maliciously. He thanked the girls for their generosity before dropping the lit cigarette butt and crushing it with his foot. Then he walked away from her, from Rory, knowing that he had made his point clear: he was not the Tristan she once knew.
*****
"There's this thing with people that was highly recommended by a friend I know. It's meant to be really good. Although, you kinda have to dress up, well, apparently it's black tie. And it involves looking at things, pretty things."
"That sounds nice."
"Yes, yes it does sound nice doesn't it?" her eyes seemed to sparkle with eagerness and hope.
"Very nice."
"It would be extra nice to go. And I was thinking I would go, to look at the pretty things. Well, not to say that it's only pretty. I hear it's also confronting and challenging and intellectually stimulating. And some of the things might not be so pretty. But I, uh, can't guarantee that."
"Sounds like your sort of thing," he commented absently.
"Yeah. I thought I might go. And when I heard about it, I thought you might like it. That it might be your sort of thing." Her eyes were cerulean or azure or one of those sunny, clear skies blue. They were shiny with optimism.
"When is it?"
"This Friday night. I was hoping that maybe we could-"
Lately, Rory seemed intent on pushing the boundaries of their friendship. It annoyed him. She should have been satisfied with what they were, and what they weren't. There were rules and she was breaking them. He wished that she would stop wanting more. He thought he might hate her for wanting more. They had their daily hour of coffee and tea; there could be nothing else, no things.
"I'm busy," he interjected curtly. He wasn't lying either, he did have plans.
"Oh, well, I just thought but I suppose it is a little late and…never mind."
"Well, maybe next time." Now that was a lie.
"Yeah, next time. So did I tell you about this joke I heard from this guy at work? It was the funniest thing."
"No."
"Okay. Well, you have this guy, let's call him Bob. Anyway one day Bob meets this…"
*****
The gallery was filled with pretentious, obnoxious types all eager to praise and criticize as deemed appropriate. Soft almost inaudible music played in the background subtly adding to the mood. Conversation milled around him like the waiters offering flutes of champagne and from the snippets that had filtered through it appeared that tonight was deemed a success. Li Chang should be pleased – the operative word being should – for he knew her too well.
Tonight was the opening of her 'East meets West' collection. It was collection filled with the binaries that made the world go round. It was a collection that was vibrant and dull, clashing and harmonious, ancient and post-modern. Deliberately and controversially like her paintings Li Chang centered a small group in a pair of worn jeans, a crimson halter and sneakers. Amidst the formally attired clique she stood out: beautiful, unique and politely bored. Tristan stood some distance away sipping the champagne and dressed equally notoriously in jeans and a sweater. He could have easily conformed to the more formal black tie that was expected but Li Chang had long ago brushed off such conventions as ostentatious. "Wear what you like. Wear what you're comfortable with. That's what I always do and I expect the same from you," she had declared and Tristan had followed her instructions accordingly.
He glanced down at his watch knowing that in five minutes he would be called to gallantly rescue her from the hordes and sweep her away to McDonalds for a Big Mac and fries. It had become a game they played, an act, a routine of two years of gallery openings. This was how they had first met, at one of her exhibitions. A bond had been formed and together they had toed and then crossed the lines of social convention; their behavior excused because she was an artist prone to eccentricities and he was rich and a DuGrey. Tristan and Li Chang created ripples whenever and wherever they went and they enjoyed the tension they caused.
Only three minutes had passed but the tittering of the women nearby was getting on Tristan's nerves. He knew that if he didn't head over to Li Chang now, one or both would gather up the courage to accost him. Self-preservation kicked in and not caring that he was being rude, Tristan barged through the crowd and tapped Li Chang on the shoulder, "Let's go."
"If you say so." Her eyes seemed to twinkle at his impatience to leave and his obvious annoyance with the people around them. She gave her adoring public an apologetic smile as he pulled her away. When they were an appropriate distance away from the crowd she whispered in his ear, "Okay, what was that, Tristan?"
"What do you mean?" he asked; his hand on her back propelling her forward as they weaved their way towards the exit.
"Normally you're not so obvious."
"Normally they're not so inane."
"They're bad but I do believe that you're the one in an extra shitty mood, Tristan."
"I've lived all my life with their imbecility. Forgive me, if they're finally wearing my patience thin," he spat.
Li Chang simply raised an eyebrow, nonplused by his moodiness. "No, it's more than that. You've been on edge ever since-"
"Don't say it!" he interjected sharply.
They both knew that his prolonged state of agitation was due to the reappearance of a certain woman in his life but he didn't want to think about her now. He didn't want to think about how tonight was Friday night, the Friday night, and how he could have been out somewhere with Rory if it hadn't promised to accompany Li Chang to her opening. Tristan ignored the fact that he would have rejected Rory's invitation even if he didn't have a previous engagement. Instead, he indulged in this ridiculous, irrational resentment. It felt good; much better than concentrating on where Rory was and what she might be doing and who was with her. And then as if merely thinking about Rory could conjure up her presence in reality, she was standing before him and Li Chang blocking their exit.
"Tristan!" Rory gasped.
He didn't reply but simply took in the rosy pink slip of a dress she was wearing. The pink seemed to emphasize the hint of blush that colored the apples of her cheeks. Her partner had dark brown hair and absently Tristan thought that Rory must have a thing for brunettes. After all there had been Dean, Jeremy, that guy from her English lecture, Paul and now this man. Maybe if he had dyed his hair brown, but that was just another thing to add onto his list of maybes.
"I'm Li Chang. And I take it you're a friend of Tristan's?" He watched dumbly as Li Chang replied in his stead, taking charge of the situation.
"Um yes. My name's Rory Gilmore. And this is my friend Jess Mariano. It's nice to meet you." The three exchanged handshakes as Rory cursorily glanced his way. Li Chang attempted to nudge him into action but Tristan refused. His sudden bout of muteness created an embarrassing tension that settled onto the group.
"Uh, Li Chang…" Rory's partner, Jess, mused, "you wouldn't happen to be the artist, would you?"
"This is one of my exhibitions, yes." Li Chang confirmed.
"I love your work," Jess continued, "You can call me a big fan."
"Thank you. It is nice to know that other people genuinely appreciate your art."
"Yeah, Jess is a big fan. Huge fan, actually," Rory chipped in. "He's been raving about your paintings since forever. I thought I should finally come and see what all the fuss is about. Although, I'm sure it is all wonderful."
It took all of Tristan's strength of will not to gag, the exchange of pleasantries between the trio were nothing short of nauseating. He didn't want to stand here and listen to their meaningless ramble. He had better things to do like sleep or maybe slit his throat with a dull knife.
"Li Chang, we have to go." He tapped his finger against the face of his watch. She nodded in acquiescence and opened her mouth to bid Rory and Jess farewell. Realizing her intention, Tristan rolled his eyes then grabbed Li Chang's right hand and stalked out of the gallery.
The glass doors swung open thanks to the valets, and they were blasted with the overpowering warmth of the outside air compared to the dry coolness of the air-conditioned interior. Li Chang was not so gently slapping him on the shoulder, scolding him for his rudeness although she wasn't really upset but rather concerned.
"Could you stop hitting me, now?"
"You were extremely rude. Where did you learn social etiquette, Mr. Tristan DuGrey, because you need to go back to school!"
"Since when did you give a damn about social protocol? When did you become the poster girl for conformity?"
"This is different."
"How?" he demanded. "We arrive at some fancy shindig in jeans for God's sake! We leave early and ignore convention. We offend people. It's what we do. It's what we've been doing for two fucking years. How is today different from any of the other times?"
"Because this is personal."
"It's always personal."
"Don't fucking paraphrase the Godfather to me, Tristan. This is personal because this involves the girl. The. Girl. The one you barely acknowledged. The one who broke you and who you're now trying to break in return."
"All's fair in love and war."
"Another quote from you and you'll learn that I really did earn a black belt in martial arts. Whatever you're doing, Tristan, it isn't you."
"Y'know, I've been hearing that statement a lot these days. 'This isn't you, Tristan.' Like everyone else in this fucking world knows exactly who Tristan DuGrey is except me. Well, maybe none of you never really knew the real Tristan DuGrey. Did you ever think of that, huh?" He paused, mid-rant, to take a breath before he continued. "Shit, Li Chang, let me ask you this…what would you do if he came back? If he came back and wanted to be friends. And every day you see him for an hour and you have no fuckin' clue what you're doing. And you think you should stop seeing him 'cos you can't help hurting him in everything you do and everything you say. And he's there, all needy and wanting forgiveness and friendship and everything else you're incapable of giving. And he keeps on pushing and pushing and pushing like he doesn't know how to stop. And you, you know you should stop seeing him but something compels you to continue meeting him each day. What would you do?"
"I don't know," she whispered so softly that he almost didn't hear her. "I won't ever know because when he did come back, a few weeks ago, he made it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with me ever again. I'm nothing to him. Not even a waste of space and time. I'm absolutely, totally and utterly nothing. Do you know how terrible and lonely it is to be nothing? At least with Rory you're something. At least she cares."
"Maybe it would be better for both of us if she didn't." He smiled bitterly, thinking of the irony of their situation. "And for what it's worth, you're not nothing, Li Chang. You're something to me. I think I would even call you a friend." He brought her hand to his mouth and gently brushed his lips over her fingers.
*****
"How are you feeling?" he asked as he handed her a glass of water. They had retreated to his bedroom, in his parents' mansion, after the ordeal was over and the last handful of dirt had been thrown.
"As well as can be expected. You?"
"It's weird. I keep on thinking that it can't be real, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I do." Rory sighed, rotating the glass in her hand but making no move to drink from it. "It seems so cliched to say this but she was just so young."
"Our age."
"She was really nice too. Like she was genuinely impressed that my mom made my dress for the Chilton formal. My first Chilton dance."
"Your mom made that dress?" Tristan asked, astonished. "I remember that dress. It was all blue and silky."
"It was a nice dress. Madeline was a nice person. She didn't deserve this."
"No one does."
"I wish that I'd made more effort to stay in touch. I really liked her. She was one of those people you could easily like and imagine being friends with. I guess I even considered her to be one of the few friends I made in Chilton. But I wish I had taken the time to be better friends."
"She was a really happy person," he remembered. "Madeline used to dot her i's with smiley faces. And her favorite color was yellow since third grade. She said it was a happy color."
"The newspaper had some article on teenage road deaths yesterday. I remember reading it and thinking that it was all a bunch of statistics. And Madeline had become just another number, but she was more than a number. She was this person. This person we actually knew, and went to school with. This can't be real, Tristan. I keep on expecting to wake up and realize that it's all a dream. And I'm sick of people with their sympathetic faces and saying that 'it's only life'. Because, why does it have to be life that people die? It's like everyone else is saying that they understand but they can't, not my mom or my grandparents or Luke or Lane or anyone else. Only you and Paris and-" Her voice suddenly seemed stuck in her throat and she couldn't form the words.
"I know. I know." He felt so broken like the world had been dramatically changed because Madeline wasn't in it anymore. But it wasn't the world, just him.
Tristan was no stranger to deaths. He had attended his first funeral at the age of four; some distant relative had died. Since then he had seen family friends, other relatives and even his grandfather buried into the deep recesses of the muddy earth. This was different though. Maybe because it was someone his own age. Maybe because it was someone he had known since pre-school. Maybe because it was Madeline Lynn, that slightly ditzy brunette who he had kissed and felt up during sixth grade at Daniel Mansfield's birthday party when they were playing 'seven minutes in heaven'.
He turned to look at Rory and noted how pale her skin looked against the black of her clothing. Pale and lost. She was still rotating that glass of water around and around, spinning it so that the liquid swirled up and out. The water splashed onto her black skirt and Rory made a little expression of surprise, like 'o'. In a befuddled flurry they both leapt towards the direction of the tissue box and their bodies clashed. Rory lost grip of the glass and it fell onto the carpet with a dull thud, splashing the rest of the water over both of their clothes and on the floor.
"I'm sorry," she exclaimed, her voice reaching the higher pitch of hysteria.
"No. No, it was my fault," he apologized in return. "I'm sorry."
Tristan would never be able to say what exactly happened next. He would never be sure who had made the first move or if they had both moved in tandem. What he would be able to distinctly recall was Rory forcibly pushing him down against his bed. She was the first girl he had ever brought up to his room.
He fumbled with the buttons of her shirt. His fingers were clumsy and he was having difficulty undoing them. Recklessly, desperately, he popped the three stubborn, remaining buttons and discarded her of the black shirt. It seemed important to rid her of everything black. So the shirt was the first to go, then her skirt. Her shoes had been kicked off, on her own accord, a few seconds ago, but the pantyhose and her underwear were also black. He stripped them off her until there was only white, the pale white expanse of skin. She might have looked like an angel but her lips were too red and swollen. Her captured her mouth and they kissed.
They had kissed, but it was more like sucking the life out of one another. He was aware of her nakedness and his own. Naked and vulnerable. Mortal. Her nails dug into his skin. He flinched, involuntarily, and winced when cat-like she dragged those nails of hers across his back. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her hands away. "That hurt," he lightly admonished before kissing her palms. Her hands were so small compared to his, almost tiny. Examining them, he realized that she must have drawn blood because her fingertips were stained crimson.
Next she straddled him, running her hands over his muscles. Her brown hair fell wayward over her face so that he couldn't see her eyes. "You're tense," she murmured. Then she leaned down and nibbled his neck.
His view was slightly hazy, the glaze of lust tingeing his sight, but the impression of childhood memorabilia struck him. There was the gold of some trophies he had won and the blue of the first place ribbons; the silvery shimmer of his dream car; the faces of members from his favorite bands; and a collection of words and phrases making up the titles of books he had once read.
Almost unconsciously he kneaded her breast, his thumb pressing down on the soft, fatty tissue. Their lips found each other again, and tongues invaded mouths, and they were devouring souls. Her hand began to tentatively stroke his erection and he shifted his body up, pressing himself against the palm of her hand.
She was wet from tears and other things. He hadn't even noticed when she had begun to cry. He kissed them away and found himself stupidly mumbling, "Don't cry. Please don't cry, Rory."
She smiled at him and replied, "I'm not. You are."
He blinked in surprise, "Oh." Tristan wanted to say more but the feel of her hand running up and down his length was too distracting. He moaned instead and then, with effort, wrenched her hand away and pushed her off him.
"What? What's wrong, Tristan?"
"Condom," he simply stated. He reached for the top of bedside drawer knowing that he had a stash of Trojans there. She waited patiently, flowering his left shoulder with quick kisses, as he fumbled inside the drawer until…success. The wrapper was ripped open and the condom rolled onto him.
By some wordless consensus, they had shifted positions so that he was now on top of her. She wrapped her legs around him and as he looked down at her body below, Tristan was once again struck with the whiteness of her skin. It was a creamy white and not the grayish pallor of death. Her chest heaved, somewhat erratically, from breathing and her heart was throbbing. If he listened very, very, very carefully he might have been able to hear the beating of their hearts as they pumped blood through their veins. She was white. So white. And beautiful. A mortal angel. He plunged into her.
They set their own pace. The first time it was fast and furious and their climax came almost too quickly. The second time they were slower, taking their time. It was languid like the ticking of the clock held no meaning for them. As he moved in and out, his face hovered over hers, only inches apart. He found himself memorizing her expressions. Like the way her eyes would dilate and her lashes flutter. Or how her body quivered and trembled and she would bite on her bottom lip, but that still didn't prevent the throaty moans and gasps from escaping. A few times she screamed, 'God' and 'Tristan' mixed up together. He had never pegged her as a screamer, and she wasn't really. It was only those few times when she was close to the edge and about to tumble down into a free fall of ecstasy. And then, who could really blame her for screaming?
Eventually they grew tired; their youthful bodies could still only take so much. Exhaustion set in, a mixture of their recent activities and the events of the last week, which had cumulated up to today. Heavy lidded, they kissed once more. Gently, he brushed her hair away from her face and he was staring right into her eyes, beyond her blue irises and her black pupils. And then she shut her eyes and fell asleep, her arms wrapped around his waist hugging him tightly. He entered a dreamless state soon after.
When Tristan woke, his bed was empty. He was naked and alone and there was no sign of Rory. There wasn't even a note from her saying goodbye. Panicked and worried, he dialed her number only to get the older Lorelai Gilmore. He was informed that Rory was at home, safe and sleeping. He left a message for her to call him back. Looking back, Tristan would suppose that part of him knew (or should have known) that she wasn't going to call him.
He found himself dressing and heading outside to the garden. The absence of Rory had made his room too lonely and so he retreated to the comfort of nature. He found himself marveling at the array of flowers in bloom. And there was life all around him: birds flying overhead, worms in the ground, a spider weaving its web, a beetle crawling on the green of a leaf. Eventually, Tristan made his way to the corner of the garden that was his. The corner of the garden where he and Rory had planted the apple tree. It was with surprise that he discovered that there were actually apples hanging on the tree. They were a wonderful red and large in size that they almost looked artificial. Tempting. Sweet. And delicious. But they sat on the higher branches of the tree, too high for Tristan to reach. He wondered if their existence was somehow an omen of something.
A few days later, Tristan and Rory were back in college. Nothing was said of their time in Hartford. Everything returned to normal, like before Madeline Lynn's funeral. Assignments and finals began to take precedence. They went to parties, watched movies and dated other people. Boyfriends and girlfriends entered and exited but Tristan and Rory remained as the constant in each other's lives. Friends only, of course. They forgot that Madeline was dead. They forgot the tears and they forgot to be sad. They forgot that they had had sex. Or at least they tried. Everything returned to normal, on the surface.
*****
They sat at opposite ends of the table refusing to look at one another. She concentrated on her coffee, which was losing warmth, while he was more intent on rocking his chair. The café had just opened and the Saturday morning crowd had yet to filter through; it was still rather early. He knew that his movements were annoying the hell out of her so he continued to tilt his chair back and forth, leaning back more precariously each time and silently daring her to say something. Her eyes were fiery as she picked up her spoon and began clanging it against her cup; Rory knew that this would annoy him. The clanging continued in an irritating fashion until finally Tristan frowned, set his chair back on its proper, upright position and grabbed her hand to forcibly stop the clanging. She mustn't have been expecting his touch because she froze at the feel of his hand against her own. Their eyes met and she quickly dropped the spoon and looked away. She seemed nervous and uncertain. Minutes passed and the silence between them grew more palatable. Unsettled and uneasy she shifted in her chair, opening her mouth several times to speak before shutting it, no words spoken.
"So," she finally managed to say, but then abruptly stopped there.
"So what?" Tristan asked.
"So are you going to continue being like this?"
"Being like what?" he contorted his lips into a smirk, knowing that it would infuriate her.
"Being like this. Being deliberately cruel!"
"Am I being cruel? Well then, good."
"I think I might just hate you, Tristan DuGrey."
He shrugged nonchalantly, "It wouldn't be the first time."
"Why did you come here today?"
"Because we had an appointment."
"Well, why bother to continue meeting me if you're going to be like this?"
"I don't know." He answered honestly, just as puzzled as Rory.
"You hurt me last night. You hurt me each day for an hour and I let you. And I don't know why I let you. Maybe because I think I deserve it, after everything I've done. Maybe because I need you in my life too much. Of course, I promised myself I would never become one of those girls."
"Funny that, because I promised myself I would never be one of those guys."
"One of those guys?"
"The ones who hurt people they care about. The ones who need someone else so much that that they lose themselves when they're gone. I promised myself that, Rory, when I was twelve years old. Twelve years old is old enough to understand how fucked up your parents really are. And their marriage was no marriage. I was four when I walked into my dad screwing around with some other woman. The woman wasn't important; she never was. All that was important was that my mom was hurt. My mom, she threatened to leave so many times. She did leave, so many times. Dad was always lost during those weeks or months when she was away. Like he couldn't function without her. He needed her too much. And she always returned because she needed him too much. I think, once upon a time, they really loved each other. But somewhere along the lines one or both fucked up. And whatever happened, they couldn't forgive each other. But they needed one another. I promised myself I would never need someone. However, I'm scared, no terrified, that I might just need you, Rory Gilmore. I thought I didn't, but you just had to return into my life and prove me wrong."
"I don't want us to become your parents, Tristan."
He smiled somewhat sadly. "Do you think I do?"
"No, I don't think you do. And that's got to be the something going for us, right? We're both determined not to become like that. So all we need to do is figure out a way to fix this."
"Easier said than done, Gilmore."
"Well, how about you promise to stop hurting me? And I promise to stop letting you hurt me?"
"We can try, I suppose."
She grinned, "You better try, mister. Okay, what's next? We should make a list."
"You and your list."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch. You know from experience that me and my list comes mighty in handy. Ah ha, that's another thing. We deal with the past."
"That's not going to be fun," he warned.
"I know but if we want our friendship to work then it's something we've got to do."
"Our past. Wow, that's going to take us right back to Chilton days when you first waltzed into school looking like the Virgin Mary's clone."
"Good times, they were. You were such an obnoxious, egotistical jerk back then. Looks like not many things have changed," Rory teased.
"Ha, ha. Very funny. Okay, so we deal with our past. What else is on that list of yours?"
"Meaningful conversation during our daily meetings. Not just 'I ate breakfast today, took a shower, went to work, blah, blah.' We used to talk and I mean really talk."
"Next?"
"We do things beyond these one hour a day meetings. I miss things like our dinners."
"And the salsa dancing?"
She giggled, "Yeah, and the salsa dancing."
"Because it leaves you hot and sweaty."
"The weather here is enough to leave me hot and sweaty," she retorted.
"Really?" he waggled his eyebrows suggestively and she swatted him.
"Tristan, be serious! Okay, the next thing on the list is for you to quit smoking."
"What? Cross that out. It's not like I even smoke. Much."
"You still smoke."
"And please, pray tell, Ms. Gilmore, how my smoking will affect our friendship?"
"You'll get yellow teeth and bad breath and therefore I won't want to hang out with you."
"So I whiten my teeth and use breath mints."
"You're quitting smoking and that's final!"
"Ooh, scary. For one moment I thought you were channeling your mother." He mockingly cringed in fright.
"Well, if I call and tell my mom that you've taken up smoking, I'm sure she'll be on the next plane to Malaysia to deal with you."
"Do you think some spanking will be involved?"
"Eeew. Tristan!" Rory shrieked. "That's just gross. You're beyond perverted. I can't believe you said that!"
"Aww, c'mon. You know you've missed my lewd comments."
"But not about my mother!" She grimaced at the thought and smacked him hard on the head. "I still can't believe you said that!"
"Okay, so it was out of line. But, you gotta admit your mom is kinda hot."
"I admit to nothing. And please direct your gutter mind as far away from my mother as possible."
"By the way, how is she?"
"She's good. Really good. I miss her though."
"Yeah, I can imagine. Although, I'm thinking that your phone bills must be astronomical."
"Pretty high," Rory agreed.
"So…"
"So what?"
"So about last night," he paused, uncomfortable and ashamed. "I'm sorry. About my behavior. I didn't mean to be rude. Well, actually I did. But I shouldn't have been. It's no way to treat a friend. So, I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted." Her eyes were sparkling and Tristan was glad. "So Li Chang seemed nice. She's really beautiful and talented."
"Yeah, she is."
"Um, are you dating?"
"No. I'm not dating anyone. Li Chang and I, we're not like that. We're…friends."
"But you've slept with her?"
Tristan let out a short laugh, "I almost forgot that you always had some strange radar that could tell you whether or not I'd slept with someone."
"Well, you could always tell with me. And besides, it's not really a radar. It's more like years of observation. You treat a woman you've had sex with differently from others."
"So, what about you and that Jess guy?"
"Jess Mariano. He's a friend. We dated briefly in high school but we've ended up just as really good friends. You might remember me talking about him."
"The name did sound familiar. He's the one from New York? Who went to college in California? Luke's nephew?"
"Yup."
"What brings Jess to Malaysia?"
"Well, he's actually been in Singapore for a few months. He came across for Li Chang's exhibition and for some other business. And, uh, I'm not dating anyone either."
Tristan nodded as he clasped his hands together and twiddled his thumbs. So, they had just established that they were both single. He wondered what they meant, if you believed in cosmic interference, the Fates or God. However, he didn't want to ponder or think too deeply along that particular train of thought. Instead, he worked himself up to asking a question he needed to know. "Who was he, Rory?"
"Who was who?"
"The guy you uprooted your life for? And don't tell me nobody, because he wasn't just nobody."
She looked pained and torn. "You don't want to know, Tristan. Please."
Perhaps he should have listened to her and left it there, but he didn't. "I want to know. No, I need to know."
Rory looked away, refusing to meet his gaze as she whispered her answer, "Dean."
Tristan felt as he had been suckered punched, again. He clenched his fist until his knuckles were white. So, now he knew. Dean.
