A/N: Wow, thanks so much for the feedback. And a huge thanks and a giant cookie to whoever nominated this fic over at the P&P Awards. It's all very much appreciated. Also, huge thanks to Lee for the beta.
Chapter Six: But it's missed when it's gone
Instead of coming to terms with the exact reason why he now has so much time on his hands, Jess begins to pick up extra shifts whenever possible. He keeps his usual hours of bartending on the weekends and select weekday nights. He has always had the tendency to play waiter; however, these occurrences are usually limited to only a couple of times a week. Now, he finds himself filling his mornings with the slow brunch pace, and his evenings with the dinner rush. He serves families of four in the outside area under blue umbrellas that are of the giant variety, designed to keep the customers in a constant shade. He fetches clean silverware for anxiety-ridden mothers, and an extra beer for the on-edge fathers. In the back, he finds broken crayons for the kids to color with, only to throw the sloppy drawings of mutant dogs and superheroes away later with the rest of the half-eaten meal.
At night, he wards off assholes who believe that for one reason or another, they should be served first, and quickly, mind you; the kind of people who specifically ask for their drinks to be strong, as if Jess actually makes anything else. He works fast, thinking that at least this is better than his afternoons of mind-numbing happy America. Afternoons he almost never had to deal with before; people he almost never had to socialize with.
It hits hard, this realization. It had swum in the back of his mind, implanted years ago, but grew with time. Finally, after two weeks without Rory or anything else he considers substantial enough, it becomes crystal clear, flashing at him with neon lights: his life is merely a series of distractions. California had been real, a place brimming with opportunities for him; friends and an almost family that had treated him as if the relationship wasn't entirely artificial. Rory had been real, or at least, real enough, taking and taking from him. Sometimes though, she had given, and when she had, it had always been good.
He thinks maybe he's waiting for something; something better, or something more, and until then, he will simply continue finding ways to fill his time. His job has become almost his entire life, with an acquaintance here and there and a book or a party to break up the monotony. But essentially, up until a couple of weeks ago, his life had been Rory and work. Now, there is no balance.
With the scale tipped in favor of drinking and serving the masses, he mixes a tequila sunrise, and places it in on the bar. The waiting man takes a sip and walks off, and it's another couple of dollars in Jess's pocket.
"Hey there," a nearby male coos, puckering his lips, "got a light?"
"I reserve the right to smash your head in if you try to flirt with me," Jess warns pointedly.
The man slips onto a barstool and grins. "I've had a bad day… don't you want to hear about it?"
"Fuck you."
"Alright, sorry miss, don't get your panties in a twist. I'm just trying to lighten up your gloomy night. Rumor has it you finally dumped that rich bitch girlfriend."
Jess scowls at his friend, Len. This guy has no idea when his opinions and mere existence are not wanted. "One, you're slow on the rumor mill. Two, we weren't dating."
"Hey, I've had classes and you've been stealing all my shifts. If I'm never down here, I never get to hear the latest news. And that's bull. You two were dating, or at the very least, sleeping together."
Before Jess can respond, a sharp whistle cuts through the air, coming from a new customer that stands only a foot away. Immediately, Jess's face transforms into a mask of irritation.
"Here, Lassie," Len teases.
Jess pulls away and walks over to the man, a smile plastered on his face. "Can I help you, sir?" His delivery is exaggerated, and slightly disturbing to anyone who knows his usual disposition. The man shoots off his order, and Jess delivers, his pace slower, almost as if the easy movements require too much energy. He doesn't get a tip.
"Judging by how your tolerance for idiots is even lower than usual tonight, I say you need something really good right about now," Len observes, shifting in his seat.
"Are you going to give me advice or something? I'm warning you I can and will kick you out of here."
"You will not. You like having me around."
"I tolerate you," Jess says. "And I only do that so I can steal your shifts."
"Yeah, about that… when am I working again? I think I've been here for employment reasons only twice in the past couple of weeks."
"You don't need to work here. You go to Yale."
"How do you think I'm putting myself through Yale?"
"Your parents are paying for it. The same parents who send you monthly allowances. Allowances," he enunciates, the word sounding ridiculous to his ears. "Jesus, Len, you really don't need this money."
"Fair enough," he shrugs, the comments rolling right off his back. "But I happen to like bartending."
"Too bad."
"You're an asshole, but for some reason, I like you. So I'm going to help you."
"Are we back to this?"
"Shut up. I'm going to find you a girlfriend," Len answers, a goofy grin spreading across his face.
Jess groans, once again questioning his friendship with this lunatic. He is merely a friend through work, an acquaintance of convenience. Len gives up his shifts to Jess on a regular basis, never minding too much due to his constant college workload, and the fact that money has never been a particularly large problem for him. These two characteristics of money and Yale normally would have turned Jess off from a person, as he really got enough of both from Rory. But somehow, the friendship continues through a haze of mild annoyance (Jess) and a carefree attitude (Len).
"I'm not exactly in the market for a girlfriend, but thanks so much for the offer." Jess shoots him down quickly with mild sarcasm to boot.
"Hey, if what you say is true that you and that Rory chick weren't dating that means you haven't had a girlfriend in…"
"A real long time?" Jess supplies.
"Exactly. Don't you miss having a caring, healthy symbiotic relationship in which you can give yourself fully, and wholly to one woman, and she too will return —"
He pauses as a woman saunters up next to him, resting her hands lightly on the bar top. Under the pale lights overhead, she looks younger than she is, her eyes wide and green, her blonde hair turned a dirty dishwater color. She is a mild kind of pretty, just enough to get a person to look twice. She slips her license onto the surface in front of her.
"You're hot," Len states, still stuck on giving her a once over.
The woman starts, instinctively moving further away from him. "Excuse me?"
"Wait," Jess cuts in. "He thinks this'll actually get him somewhere. I want to see where he goes with this."
The woman shoots Jess a look, a mix of disbelief and annoyance. He smirks in response, letting her in on the joke, and reluctantly, she gives him a smile.
"Hey, I'll have you know that she was for you," Len says, seemingly pissed off.
"For me?" Jess asks, picking up the woman's license. Her name is Megan; age 21. "I'm flattered. I had no idea I needed your help in getting women."
"I had no idea I was for sale," Megan remarks.
"Ignore him and order," Jess states. "I'll put it on his tab."
"Hey," Len breaks in, displeased. "I don't have a tab."
"Then pay up. She looks pretty thirsty."
"Two beers," she orders, her smile now easy and loose. Her eyes linger on Jess as he hands them over, and it's something different. Something new. He smirks again, unable to muster up a decent grin.
"Thanks," she says coolly, and walks off.
"I mean it, pay up," Jess says, snapping Len's attention off the woman's backside. Len faces forward in his seat and glares at Jess before begrudgingly removing a ten from his wallet.
"Keep the change."
"You're so good to me," Jess deadpans.
Len offers a sloppy salute before standing and vacating the bar area.
The next couple of hours pass at a snail's pace, as less and less people enter the restaurant. Most do not even stop by the bar, instead opting to sit down for a late meal. Idly, Jess finds himself cleaning glasses he already washed hours ago, almost wishing that Len hadn't left so early on. Truthfully, Jess hates the slow nights; he prefers having a crowd to cater to, a hustle and bustle to keep him going. He hates having too much time on his hands.
Eventually only a handful of people remain, including Megan and her group of friends huddled in a corner. Surprisingly, Len reappears as Jess begins to wipe down the counter. He has a smug expression plastered on his face; it's a twisted sort of pride that gives Jess the worst feeling.
"What did you do?"
Len proudly presents his friend with a napkin. "I got you a phone number." Sure enough, there is black ink in the center, a name and a number. "That girl that was over here earlier? Yup, I asked her for you. What do you say?"
"I say I bet you fifty bucks that this is a fake number."
"You don't trust me?"
"No, I trust you. But her name is Megan, not B. Spears."
"Just call the number."
"You're a moron."
"Call her!" Len insists, giving a half wave as he walks away.
Minutes later, the group in the corner stands and they begin to collect their things. They pay the bill and head for the door. Passing the bar on the way, Megan breaks away from her friends, a coy smile on her face. She heads over to Jess.
"Hi," she says simply.
"Hey."
"Uh, your friend asked me for my number. He said you were lonely and desperate." Jess winces at this remark, but she continues. "Your friend kind of freaked me out, so I gave him a fake number. But just in case what he said was true… I wanted to give you the real one." She drops a new napkin on the bar top, her (real) name written in small, neat script above a number.
"I'll see you around."
"See you," Jess responds, watching her go. He touches the napkin lightly, angling it toward him. After considering it for a moment, he gingerly folds it, and slips it into his pocket. He goes back to cleaning, the seven numbers burning a hole into his side.
Jess knocks on the door once, his courage dwindling with each passing second. He doubts he could raise his hand to knock again. After waiting too long, he almost turns to leave, figuring no one is there. The thought relieves him. But then, she is standing in front of him, looking very much surprised.
A hello stumbles its way out of his mouth, and she says hi back, mostly out of instinct. Her voice sounds shaky, and it alerts him to what he didn't notice at first sighting: her face is flushed, hair disheveled, and she is clad only in a robe. He can see the slope of her right shoulder, and the beginning of her thighs, and he tortures himself with the idea that she is wearing nothing beneath. He is so caught up with the fantasy that he temporarily forgets what all this adds up to.
Behind her lurks her dorm room, the door closed. There is a man in there, most likely the one he saw kiss her the week before, in front of the diner. He has interrupted an intimate moment, and he feels foolish for thinking he could waltz over here without notice. He only wants to speak with her. He's fishing for another chance: friendship with her, the comfortable silences they had before they dated.
He shakes his head, and mumbles a never mind, and walks back to the parking lot. She doesn't come after him; he doesn't expect her to.
Lorelei. He pictures her on the rock in the Rhine Valley, the sun turning her hair lighter, the blue in her eyes swirling, the same color as the sea. He can hear her voice in his head, a haunting message leading him to destruction. Now, he waits in front of her, afraid of what she has to say.
"Hi." Her voice is small and cautious, treading carefully on uneven ground.
He needs to send her away. That is the point of the break-up: keep her at arm's length. Don't go to Yale; she won't come to the restaurant. It is the unsaid agreement, set in stone with anger, and a bitter lining of hate. When she hurried away from him that night, and didn't attempt to contact him later, he figured she understood. Even now, he thinks she does. She's just testing him.
He takes a step back, allowing her room. "Come in."
Rory offers a crescent moon smile that barely lifts the corners of her mouth. But it is enough. She enters and immediately heads for the couch. She sets her messenger bag down on the ground, and to his surprise, pulls out a textbook.
"It's too loud at the dorm," she says. "Paris was lurking in the library."
"Okay."
Study sessions with Paris are the worst, so she uses the next best place: his apartment. He has never turned her away before, so why stop now after he cut the ties that linked them? He's supposed to be the enigma of this relationship, but in this moment, he feels transparent. She lies back on the couch, interchangeably glancing from her book to her notes. He can't read her at all.
She's quiet after her terse explanation. For the next half-hour there is only the slight rustling of pages turning, and his footsteps shuffling uneasily around the kitchen. He opens a beer and takes a long sip, hoping it'll calm him. Her presence has put him under the microscope, and he cannot figure out what he was doing before she came, or what to do now that she's here. Finally, he finds a task for his idle hands and puts on a pot of coffee. The scent wafts over the short distance to where she sits on the couch, and she turns her head, catching him in the act.
"Is that coffee?" she asks, simply to say something.
"Yeah. Help yourself."
"Thanks."
Once again, she sounds almost childlike. He is taken aback at her shyness; how hesitant she seems to be in his presence. It almost bothers him, this change. He liked how she was always comfortable around him, how perfectly she always seemed to fit.
"I'm gonna go take a shower, it was a long day at work," he says suddenly, needing to be away from her to figure this out. Two weeks without a word, and here she is, cautious and on alert, as if he'll strike at any moment. He needs to know why she is here, why she has jumped back into this. He broke this off! He should be the one to decide when it is alright for her to see him again.
"Is it okay if I stay and study?"
"Yeah," he nods, and makes a quick exit.
His shower stretches on longer than necessary as if waiting her out. Stealthily, he slips into his bedroom wearing only his towel. He does not want her to catch him half-naked and soaked; he's not sure he has enough willpower to resist her if she did in fact come on to him. In truth, that's exactly what he's waiting for. He is almost certain that if he spends enough time in the same room as her, she will try to kiss him. She knows he'll let her. Even when he was trying to break up with her, he let it happen.
He emerges from his bedroom, fully dressed, hair damp. With new strength and a curiosity to uncover her motives, he heads directly for the couch. He finds her taking up most of the space, her legs bent as a makeshift desk for her textbook. She is not reading, but instead flipping through the channels with the remote control in her hand. He takes a seat at the opposite end, her toes just brushing him.
"Studying hard?" he asks with a surprisingly playful tone.
"Study break."
"Hand over the remote, I know you love to screw with my channels."
"Do not," she insists, finally tearing her eyes away from the screen to look back at him. Their eyes meet, and he feels the sharp electricity that he has come to associate with her. He has to beat down the urge to crawl on top of her, and make her forgot all about studying and the TV, and how he ended things between them.
As a distraction, he takes the controller from her and clicks the favorites button. "I knew it," he remarks. "You changed my favorites."
"Did not!" she insists, sounding very much like a petulant child.
"CNN, MSNBC, CNBC," he clicks through the news stations, and then, "Cartoon Network? Yeah, this just completely blows your credibility."
"Hey! I'll have you know that that cartoon on TV right now is an older people cartoon. That's Family Guy."
"Family Guy?" he echoes. "Is that a talking dog?"
"Yup."
"Huh."
A few moments of silence pass, and much to Jess's surprise, they're comfortable. He keeps the cartoon on for her amusement, as she settles in and pretends to read from her textbook. She creeps forward slightly under the pretense of readjusting her position, and ends up resting the tops of her feet on his thigh. Instead of over-thinking this or asking her to give him space, he simply watches the television screen.
"Jess?" she asks quietly, grabbing for his attention.
"Yeah?" His eyes stay staring straight ahead.
"I still have a key."
"I know."
She pauses, the fuzzy sound of a commercial filtering in, heightening the awkwardness. "Do you want it back?"
Yes, logic tells him. She is supposed to be kept at a distance. She is only making things worse for him. Being here with her right now shouldn't even be happening! Never mind the good feeling that comes with her touch; she is selfish, and it's wrong. All wrong.
"Keep it."
"Okay," she half-whispers, returning to her studying.
He stays seated on the couch next to her, eyes flickering between the television and her. She falls asleep an hour later, and he lets her stay, remembering when this was a usual, normal occurrence. Two weeks ago, he wouldn't have thought twice. Two weeks ago, he still had the warped idea that she was maybe his.
-
Another week passes, and he works just a little less, giving Len back his hours. Rory comes over often to study and watch TV, sipping the coffee that Jess still buys for her when he goes to the grocery store. It is almost normal again, the two of them talking and just being together; nothing more. There is desire and instinct, but neither acts on it. He doesn't ask if she sees Blake the nights she doesn't spend with him. He knows she does.
It is on a Thursday when Jess calls her, convinced that if Rory is going to being around again, he needs something else. So he dials the seven numbers, and waits for a voice to come through on the other end. She answers and he thinks he'll make Len work Saturday too.
"Hi, Megan? It's Jess… from the bar."
-
She wants to be an actress, but cannot act. She wants to sing, but cannot carry a tune. Being a writer crossed her mind, but unfortunately, most of the words she strings together only hold attention for a few minutes. She's hopeless, she says. Jess tells her that she should be proud of her brutal honesty; she holds no illusions about herself.
She doesn't go to college either. Ten points immediately are awarded.
The date goes well in that sweetly awkward way that only first dates can. Megan is nice, and conversation with her is enjoyable, and easy to do. She noticed immediately that he wasn't a big talker, so she filled up the empty space with her own words. Her voice has a quiet quality to it; he finds it nice. He stays interested.
He invites her back up to his apartment expecting anything. Coffee or sex, he can settle with either. She accepts. It's progress.
"Alright, before we go in," she says, freezing them outside his door. The key is in his hand and halfway to the lock. "I need to ask you a very important question. The answer may very well decide the rest of the night."
"Time to pay attention," he notes.
"Exactly." With her right hand, she covers her eyes. "What color are my eyes?"
"Are you kidding?"
"You wouldn't be surprised at how many times guys have gotten this wrong."
"I hate to break it to you, but you're not exactly wearing the most revealing shirt. I have no reason to gawk."
"Liar. Name the color."
"Green."
She drops her arm only to find him now standing, blinded by his own hand.
"Color?" he asks.
"This isn't fair."
"Girls usually know this one."
"I have trouble making eye contact," she complains.
"I may not —"
She takes a bold step forward and pulls his hand away, then kisses him, cutting him off mid-sentence. He returns the kiss eagerly, swamped by this new sensation. He pulls away for several short seconds to fit the key in the door, and swing it open. Then, both are stumbling inside; he shuts his front door with his foot.
She is shorter, he notes. She isn't as skinny; she has curvier hips. Experimentally, he grabs them, pulling him against her. This is met with a small gasp of appreciation, and he works her further into his apartment. He thinks he'll angle her to the couch, not wanting to scare her off by pushing this too far. However, they only make it a couple of feet before she trips, and their teeth clink together.
He keeps his hands on her, and thankfully, she doesn't try to move from his grasp. Fleetingly, he thinks they both want the same things here. Both look down to see the obtrusive object that caused them to stop. She giggles at the messenger bag; he recoils.
"Shit."
Megan looks up at him in surprise, and he surveys the apartment, looking for a clue.
"I'll be right back," he assures her.
He heads into his bedroom, the only place she can be. His door is partly open, and he enters to find Rory perched on the edge of his bed, steered toward the bookshelf on the left wall. She has her elbows on her thighs, holding up her chin, as she reads from a novel that lies in her lap.
"This is mine," she states without looking up.
He closes the door quietly and steps further into the room. "Fine, take it."
Startled by his curtness, she glances up. Immediately she sees a change, an urgency, and stands to face him.
"You need to leave."
"Why?" She sounds sad at his request, and a small part of him that is not throbbing with desire or anger feels bad. But it is far away, and not enough.
"Rory, could you just go?"
She looks confused for a moment, taking in his sight. Then, she frowns. "I thought you were at work," she says. "I figured it would be okay if I came over to study. I'm sorry I was in your room," she tries, doing her best to come up with the problem here, "I was just looking for a book."
"You can't just let yourself in! I don't know what you're trying to do, but we ended things, alright? There is nothing between us anymore, and if you're trying to make something happen…"
"Excuse me?" She looks angry now; upset. She's been coming over for a week and up until this moment, she thought things were getting back to normal.
"You're always screwing things up, and I can't do that anymore. That's why we broke up."
"You said I could keep the key. You said it was okay!"
"Rory…"
"You're an asshole," she spits out. "I'm not trying anything. What is wrong with you?" She sighs in frustration. "We were friends first, Jess. We have always been friends first. I… missed you."
Suddenly, she looks ashamed of herself and brushes past him out the door. She catches sight of Megan sitting on the couch and bites back a sob. Tears threaten to slip through at any second, and she hates herself for it; god, she hates him.
Grabbing her backpack from the ground, she heads for the door.
"Rory, could you just…"
She turns, and looks back at him, surprisingly with a cool demeanor. "I should go," she shrugs as if he hadn't just told her the same thing a minute ago. "I don't want to screw up your date. I hope you at least know her first name."
Then, she walks out, slamming the door behind her.