A/N: Thanks so much for all the feedback! Thanks to Jewls for the helpful facts, and thanks to Ari, my wonderful speed racer beta, who is amazing.
Chapter Five: And it hurts a whole lot
He watches her hurry through the room, back and forth between closet and bureau. She is lithe, graceful, and he thinks that all he has to do is say her name to break her concentration and cause her to trip. She wears composure well, but he prefers a blush reddening her cheeks. It makes her look embarrassed and girlish; there's a flicker of the naïveté she used to possess as a teenager.
His mouth forms the two syllables, but before he can voice her name, she says his.
"Jess, can you help me?" She stands in front of her mirror, clothed in a pearl colored dress. He stands up and moves behind her as she curls her hair around the side of her neck. "Please," she adds politely.
His fingers barely touch her skin, as they slide down her back. He begins to zip the dress, lightly tracing the curve of her spine as he moves steadily upward. When he finishes, he gently pokes in her the back, smirking.
"You should skip tonight."
"I can't. Besides, you have work. I think your boss would frown upon you calling out on a Friday night."
"He doesn't seem to mind me showing up late though."
"When are you supposed to be there?" She asks, sitting on her bed.
"Ten minutes ago?" He feigns confusion and sits down across from her.
"You're going to get fired."
"Hasn't happened yet. Greg would never fire me, I make him too much money."
"I knew it! You're a gigolo too, aren't you?"
"I would be offended but I'm too busy being upset that this is not the first time someone has accused me of that."
She smiles, leaning down to pick up her shoes for the evening. Halfway down, she straightens back up, frowning. "I don't think I'm meant to bend over in this dress." She pauses. "Please, whatever lewd remark that just popped into your mind, keep to yourself."
"I have no idea what you're getting at. Your mind's in the gutter."
"Help me?"
"Again?" he asks in mock frustration, reaching for her heels.
He sets them next to him, and she lifts her leg, resting it on his lap. "Well, if the whole sleeping with women for money thing doesn't work out, you'd make a good butler."
"Stop having fun with this, or I'll let you go barefoot," he warns, slipping the shoe on her outstretched foot. As he begins his work on the straps, he continues, "And stop with the gigolo crap, it's degrading."
"Having trouble?"
"Shut up," he mutters. "These shoes are complicated. I think they're purposely designed to confuse men."
"You are now fifteen minutes late."
"Yeah, well, as long as I provide excellent service, my job will be safe for another week. It seems that I attract a high number of women to the bar, increasing profit and my likeability with the boss."
"Encouraging drinking among the female population. I'm proud."
He buckles the strap, and she drops her leg to the ground, swinging the other up. "Yeah, well, they like to buy me a drink too, so once again, more business."
"You're not allowed to drink on the job."
"You ever see Coyote Ugly?"
"You don't do that," she laughs.
"What, strip? No, of course not, that's off hours."
"No, not strip. I know what you meant… the beer bottle, right? That's so not you. Like you would ever spit out a drink."
There's something there, an underlying layer in her teasing. It's an implication. He looks up at her, allowing the straps to slip out of his grip. His hand falls onto her ankle, and he squeezes with just enough pressure to alert her to the change of mood. "What'd you mean by that?"
"I didn't mean anything, I was just… kidding." He stares, waiting. Uncomfortable, she continues, "It sparked something with you."
"Don't turn this around."
"Will you please finish? Blake's going to be here soon."
He scowls before turning his attention back to her shoe, oblivious to his own obedience. A moment of silence passes as he finishes, but does not remove his hands from her ankle. He begins to rub small circles on her leg, the stocking smooth beneath his fingertips, as he tries to curb the curt remarks swirling inside his head.
"I just worry sometimes," she admits, quietly.
He glances at her, and moves his fingers further up her leg as he slides off the bed. He kneels in front of her and inches closer, his hand still exploring.
"You need to not worry," he says, his body landing in-between her legs, his waist flat against her bed.
"It's what I do," she reminds him.
He kisses her slowly, swallowing her timid words. He teases her with the agonizing pace, until finally, she grabs the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He uses both of his hands as leverage, steadying himself by placing each on opposite sides of her.
"Jess," she mumbles against his lips in attempt to stop this. He misinterprets her voice, and instead kisses her throat, enjoying the hum against his mouth as she repeats his name. His tongue flicks out, catching her sensitive skin, and she lets out a small gasp. He finds his way to her collarbone, thoughts of work and her party disappearing from his head.
"Jess," she repeats one final time. "Do you ever think about what it'd be like now if you never went to California?"
The question is a curveball that causes him to stiffen against her. He is unsure if the inspiration for this inquiry is her attempt to stop his actions, or if she is genuinely curious. He tries to stand up, but she pushes back down on his shoulders, so he's directly in front of her again. He refuses to meet her eyes, and she frowns.
"Jess."
"No."
"You can't lie to me anymore. I've perfected the art of reading between the lines."
"I don't," he lies straight to her face, but she doesn't flinch. Her eyes lock with his; she refuses to back down. He gives in first, uncomfortable underneath her scrutinizing stare, and stands up. He kisses the top of her head to quell whatever anger his lack of cooperation has stirred up, and takes a step back. "I've got to get to work."
"Sure."
"Night, Rory." He goes to leave, and opens the door just as there is a knock. Blake stands on the other side, his hand still poised in midair.
"What are you doing here?" Blake asks at first sight.
"Just watching your girlfriend get dressed." He looks back at Rory, "Good show."
She shows no reaction of either laughter or anger causing Jess to turn and leave promptly, needing to get away from her. He shuts the door behind him, and Blake takes Jess's former position on the bed across from her.
"I don't like him."
"I know. You tell me that every time you see him. He just has an offbeat sense of humor," she says.
"I still don't."
"I still know."
"Ready to go?"
She nods, "Yeah."
She stands up, the blood rushing to her head, leaving behind a floating sensation that turns her stomach. A flow of heat runs down her arms, bringing with it pins and needles, and she frowns. As she walks over to her bureau to fetch her purse, she feels her movement impeded. She grips the edge of her dresser to steady herself. It's a malformed version of guilt, not quite striking the right chord, but not leaving her untouched either. She bites her bottom lip, still tasting Jess there. She applies lipstick in the mirror to rid herself of him, taking enough time for the uneasiness to subside. Blake comes up behind her and gently kisses her temple. She smiles.
"Let's go."
They're in front of Luke's when Blake pauses to kiss her, freezing them in the picture frame of the window. Only a moment passes before he pulls away, ready to head into the diner. She turns her head as they walk and catches sight of Jess, seated at a random table, openly staring at her. She is unsure whether the expression on his face is from witnessing the kiss, or simply from seeing her after all this time.
She is not expecting this sudden appearance, not after almost two years without a note or phone call to link the months together. A mix of anger and sadness launches her heart into her throat, but she feigns composure, pretending she is unaffected, blind to his return. She ignores the sting of uneasy excitement that runs up and down her rib cage, and instead grips Blake's hand, explaining that she wants to bring him somewhere new tonight. They eat pizza at a nearby restaurant, and he never questions why.
"Tonight is never going to end," Rory mutters under her breath, surveying the room.
Groups of people are scattered about with a few go-betweens mingling with everyone. Most have a drink in hand, holding it loosely, the wine inside sloshing with each movement. Rory now understands the need for the waiters moving around, offering drinks: there simply isn't anything other to do then sip from a glass. Talking is the only alternative, and she finds that she'd rather throw herself off the roof then hold a conversation with most of the people in the room.
Many had approached her at one point, ready to strike up a new thread of dialogue. They always opened with an inquiry about school, and her impending graduation. Half the time, she lets her mind wander because the questions are always the same, with a few interchangeable words. Her responses are all too rehearsed, slipping out with barely any effort. Her cheekbones ache from the consistent smiling she has kept up, and she wishes that someone with a personality would find her standing in this corner. She wants Blake to reappear from the room he headed into with a few of his friends. At least he can carry a real conversation.
Her savior appears in the form of a waiter. She smiles at him as she picks up a glass of champagne, and finishes it in three gulps. He leaves her with another one before whisking off to serve the rest of the masses; they all need to have a fallback.
"Rory, there you are!"
She turns at the sound of her name, and this time her smile comes easily, brightening her face. "Hi, Grandpa."
"It's so wonderful that you could make it tonight."
"It's a Friday, I wouldn't dream of missing this," she assures him.
"I would have made an excuse for you if Emily hadn't insisted you and Blake attend. I know how incredibly dull these get-togethers can be. Now, how bored are you? Don't hold back."
"There are seven hundred and forty three dangling crystal things in that chandelier."
"My god, I hope you're making that up."
"I really wish I were," she teases.
"As long as we keep this conversation up, we should be safe from counting any other arbitrary items hanging around here."
"Good thinking. Although I'm already up to seven fake hairpieces, I guess it would be better to stop here."
Richard lets out a small chuckle, beaming at his granddaughter. "I can assure you that there are at least a dozen here, not counting the men. But moving on, I've wanted to ask you: Have you been making plans for what you'll be doing after graduation?"
"I've been looking through newspapers, researching certain companies."
"Any particular area?"
"New York City."
"Ah, of course. Where else would a young, inexperienced reporter go? I hope you'll be down to visit once in a while."
"Of course," she says, surprised that he would think otherwise.
"Good evening, Richard," a voice breaks in.
Suddenly, Blake is at her side with his arm around her waist, nodding at her grandfather. Richard forces a smile, his trademark look for every man she has ever dated. She likes that he never seemed to be as smitten with Blake as her grandmother immediately was.
"Blake," Richard acknowledges him. "I've got to get going, business to do."
As soon as he wanders off, Emily takes his place, as if she had been waiting in the wings for her cue.
"Hi, Grandma."
"Emily."
"Rory, Blake, how nice of you two to make it." No sooner is her greeting out of her mouth than she launches into a story that Rory can barely follow. It is more directed to Blake anyway, something about his father and the company. Rory tunes them out and looks back around the room, and spots an elderly man, his pants too long, his sleeves too short. She eyes his graying hair, darker at the top of his head, and grins. Number eight.
She then finds Richard looking over at her, inconspicuously gesturing to the man she had previously been studying. She smiles, and giggles inwardly, and watches her grandfather continue his trek through the room, stopping intermittently to hold a conversation. He fiddles with his tie as the others speak, and she frowns at his fidgeting. She snaps back to attention when she hears her name, and finds both Blake and Emily staring at her.
"ADD kicking in again?"
"Yes," Rory affirms.
"ADD? What is he talking about?" Emily asks.
"I have no idea. I usually only understand every other word," Rory says. "Grandpa looks tired."
"He is. I've been telling him that he needs more sleep, but he's always busy on the phone or at the office. He never tells me what's going on that is so important that he needs to stop performing the necessities of life."
"Oh." Rory nods. She tilts her head down slightly, trying to unnoticeably study Blake's watch. She can't read it from this angle. "Is Mom here tonight?"
She asks even though she knows the answer. Lorelai hasn't been to a Friday night dinner in ages, but still, there is an occasion when she allows herself to be roped into one of these functions. Even though there is strain present in the conversation, and the words never seem right.
"No, I invited her, but she said had inn work."
The inn is the number one excuse. "Oh." She's a broken record tonight. "Excuse me," she says politely, kissing Blake on the cheek before walking off.
She wanders down the hall, the lights becoming dimmer the farther she goes. Technically, this is a no trespassing zone; it's rude to wander off in the middle of a party, especially through the host's house. But the uncertainty is exciting, and she holds her breath as she tries each door. A bathroom, a bedroom, an office… she hopes to find a doorway that will lead her back into her dorm room, hours earlier, before Jess left so quickly. She wants to take back her question, and her comment on his work, but instead settles for the library that she finds on her fifth try.
She shuts the door behind her, and basks in the comfort of the most familiar place in this foreign territory. She seats herself on a couch, lifting up the book that rests on the cushion next to her. Without checking the title, she opens it to read, pushing thoughts of Jess and her mother out of her mind. Minutes slip away from her as she becomes enraptured by the nameless novel. She spends the rest of the evening with the book in one hand, a drink in the other.
Jess watches her as she moves from the small round bottle, back to her toes. Suddenly, she looks up at him, frowning, and orders him to stop staring. His gaze is not only distracting, but he's going to cause her to mess up. He doesn't understand this vain activity anyway; it' s the middle of winter, why the red nail polish? Calmly, she explains that she's reliving a tradition: private school girls are bad, and bad girls wear red nail polish. There's a nostalgic feeling tonight, she misses her Chilton days.
He recognizes her explanation; not the exact saying, but the flavor to it. It sounds like Lorelai, and he begins to wonder if Chilton is the only thing she misses. If she really longs for it at all. He moves behind her, and sits on the bed. Watching her from this angle is easier; her back is to him.
He suddenly hears himself telling Rory to call her. He knew that it was the right thing to suggest, but does not remember deciding to voice it. He sees her sit up, her shoulders square, her hand frozen in its current position. Finally, she shakes her head and goes back to painting. He stands up and walks over to her, and lightly rests his hand on her back. After no reaction, he tucks her hair behind her ear, so the strands don't catch on the tears that weren't supposed to slip out.
It is on his mind throughout the night; it won't go away. The tune is as constant as the hate he sometimes can never get out of his head. But this is fear. This is uneasiness, doubt. This is the assurance that the two of them will never work. Their fight from the week before seemed solved and laid to rest, no need to linger on a closed case. But it reopened tonight with her question about California. How could he tell her that while he regrets the way he left, he doesn't regret doing it? A part of him remains in Venice Beach, calling him back with each breath, asking if he remembers how good it was there. That clean slate that he was handed, the one he used to his advantage.
Happiness is only three thousand miles away.
With Rory here, he cannot picture going back, not for an extended period of time. But sometimes the longing hits hard, and he can't believe he's sticking around for a girl that's not even his. Her question tonight, the unresolved issue of last week's fight… it never goes away. It is a ghost that haunts him always, reminding him of what he has lost, and what he can't get back.
It is an extra chip on his shoulder that he doesn't need. He still wants her, but he doesn't want this. He thinks he can give her up if it'll make his life easier. He'll try.
She walks in much later, past closing time. She stops at the bar, and smiles at him, and he wants to hate her. She has everything, while he's stuck on the sidelines, trying to keep the pieces of his life together.
"Hey, Frank, let's play a game called 'don't sexually harass the brunette that just walked in'. If you win, I won't beat the shit out of you, okay?" Jess warns the man perched on the stool in front of him. A grunt is the only answer he gets.
"Is that how you treat your customers?" Rory asks, already having moved several steps away, after she caught the man staring too long.
"Only the ones who stay until last call. They linger, and they piss me off. Frank, I'm talking to you."
No response.
Great.
"Alright, we're closed. Get out." Jess walks out from behind the bar, and grabs Rory's elbow and leads her off to another part of the restaurant, down a short hallway leading to the kitchen and backroom. It's empty; the bar is the only thing that stays open this late. "He'll either drink himself to death now that I'm no longer standing guard, or he'll go home. I already called for a taxi."
"You're so caring."
"Yeah, a heart of —" His response is cut short by her lips, as she leans into him, the kiss urgent.
Instinct pulls him in, and he responds immediately, pushing her into the wall. Her hands meet behind his neck, before slipping down to his tucked-in shirt. She tugs a portion from his pants, and slinks her fingers up to his chest, hitting an undershirt instead of skin. He grips her shoulder, and presses harder against her, molding her into the wallpaper. The pressure is so intense, she finds herself trying to breathe through him.
He cuts the kiss short, and rests his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. Her hand slides down to his pants, and she threads her fingers over the top. She tilts her head up, ready to resume the kiss, but he takes a step back, causing her hand to drop back to her side.
"Rory," he begins.
The room tilts; she sees it right away. "What are you doing?"
"I want to say breaking-up, but we'd have to actually be dating in order for that to work."
"Jess…"
"I don't want to do this anymore."
"What are you talking about? You just…"
"You kissed me," he corrects.
"And you kissed me back. What, were you being polite? If we had been at your apartment instead, would you have given me pity sex just because I initiated it? What is wrong with you?"
"I'm sorry."
"I don't understand," she says.
"Come on, how long did you think this would last?"
"God, Jess, this is sounding a bit like the fight we had a couple of weeks ago. I thought we already worked through this. You know I can't —"
"I know you can't. Neither can I. Not anymore."
His words carry her out of the small hallway, and she bursts through the restaurant door. The cool night air doesn't penetrate; she's too numb. She climbs into her car, and starts it, wasting no time in getting the hell out of the parking lot. She doesn't notice that she is crying until she is halfway back to her dorm, and the acid teardrops burn her tongue. She thinks of cigarette smoke, his mouth stained with the taste. And it hurts.