A/N: Thanks so much for the feedback. It's very much appreciated. Thanks to Arianna for once again being a wonderful, helpful beta. You are amazing.
Chapter Nine: I'm glad you can forgive
Rory wakes up first. In the middle of the night, the pair parted, but they are still close, both edging toward the center of her twin bed. She turns toward him, so they are face to face, feeling almost bashful. This isn't the first time she's watched him sleep, lightly traced the area around his heart, resting her palm flat against his chest, so she can feel its rise and fall. Inching closer, she curls a leg over his, causing him to stir and flop on his back.
With this new position, she finds it even easier to move closer to him. So she does, cuddling into his side, resting her chin on his shoulder. She sneaks her fingers beneath his shirt and runs them across his abdomen, simply enjoying the feel of his skin. He doesn't get this, she thinks. The way she loves this, being here, lying against him.
His voice too, she decides. His condescending politeness for customers he doesn't like. The way he looks at her when he's angry. The way he looks at her when he moves over her. The color of his eyes. The fact that he's still here. The idea that she is the reason.
It isn't so much a kiss as it is a need to touch him more. She tilts her head up, and brings her lips to the spot beneath his ear, drawing them down in a straight line. She only stops when she reaches the top of his shirt. Smiling, she buries her face in the fabric, smelling a mixture of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and his cologne. It makes her dizzy, like a sensory overload, and she has to suppress a ridiculous giggle. The tendrils of real happiness nudge her ribs.
And then they disintegrate, leaving only the burning ashes behind.
The door opens.
Rory squeezes her eyes shut, finding the air sucked out of the room.
Above her head, there is a sharp gasp and a hard thwack (her mother backing into the frame).
The door closes.
She still can't breathe.
-
"Nothing happened," she tells her mother quietly as she shuts her bedroom door behind her.
Lorelai sits at the kitchen table with a blank expression plastered on her face. "Don't you have class?"
"Afternoon," Rory answers. "I have two on Tuesday afternoons."
"Oh."
Rory sits down across from her mother, feeling the foundation of their relationship tremble. It's too delicate, she thinks; neither is ready for something like this.
"Nothing happened," she repeats, because to her something is sex, and nothing is what she and Jess are to anyone who asks. "He came over really late, and I think he was upset…" They are half truths, but truths nonetheless. Last night, she could tell he was off balance. "He asked if he could stay the night. I said yes."
"When you stayed with Jess last summer, did you ever sleep in his bed?" Lorelai asks.
"Yes."
"Where did Jess sleep?"
"Sometimes he slept on the couch, sometimes he slept next to me."
"And did you two also then feel the need to be crammed against each other?"
"Nothing happened last summer," Rory insists and here, finally, is a completely valid fact. Last summer may have been a small awakening for both of them, rediscovering how comfortable and enjoyable each other's company (still) is. Maybe if she really wants to, she can trace the situation now back to last summer, and their constant close proximity. But it had all been building since she accepted his apology. This year, it exploded.
"Rory, I am going to ask you a question, and I trust you enough to tell me the truth."
And she's trapped because she's so desperate to make things with her mother alright again, she wouldn't dare lie. "Okay," she agrees softly.
"Have you ever slept with Jess?"
"Yes."
There is a small sound, a gasp or a sigh or a groan; Rory can't tell. The disappointment is clear enough, however. It slices through her, mixing with the leftover ashes.
"And unless you were making things up, your first time was with Blake. After Jess was gone. Right?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Rory. I may not like Blake, but you two always got along well. He was nice to me when I met him, and your grandmother loves him…" She cuts herself off then, perhaps catching on. "You can't do this. It isn't fair to him."
"I know."
"Do you remember Dean? Is this becoming some hobby for you?"
"Wha – no. You're comparing this to Dean?"
"This is exactly like the Dean situation, but it's so much worse," Lorelai explains. "Back then, you may have strung Dean along but at least you weren't seeing Jess behind his back. Now? You've been with Blake for twice as long as you were with Dean, and you're sleeping with Jess?"
Rory stays silent, knowing that her own inability to answer will incriminate her. She feels foolish and guilty, sitting here in front of her mother, getting chastised. It's unbearable.
"How long?" Lorelai asks.
"January."
"Of this year?"
"Of course this year!" Rory snaps.
"Well, what do you expect me to think?"
"I expect you to understand that I made a mistake, but I don't know how to fix it. I expect you to help me and not yell at me because I already feel guilty enough."
"Which is the mistake?"
"What?"
"The mistake… you said you wanted to fix it. Well, which is the mistake?"
"I'm in love with Jess," Rory says, half answering.
"So break up with Blake."
"Grandma talked me out of it."
"You are not in a relationship with your grandmother," Lorelai reminds. "Break up with Blake."
"I can't."
"You can do anything you want, Rory! Including sleeping with your ex. No one can stop you. Break. Up. With him."
"I should go take a shower, get dressed. I need to get back to Yale."
"You said your classes weren't until this afternoon."
"I need to finish my reading. I left the book in my dorm." Rory stands up, and turns, heading back for her bedroom.
"Rory, you don't have to stay with Blake to make my mother happy. You don't have to attend those functions or make appearances or sneak around with Jess."
Rory glances back at her mom, a distant look on her face. "I didn't want to break up with Dean because I didn't want to disappoint you or the town."
"You didn't want to break up with Dean because you were afraid of disappointing me and the town," Lorelai answers calmly. "You don't have to please everyone."
Rory moves back for the door, eyes on the wood, hand on the knob. Her veins are hardening, her muscles are stiffening, and she's certain her limbs have turned to stone. It's become impossible to walk or speak or breathe anymore; she's stuck, practically immobile, and the sensation is only increasing. This is how it's been for months now; it's getting worse.
"I'm always on your side. But you can't keep doing this."
Rory breaks, regroups, and walks through the door. Closing it behind her, she finds her bed empty, and it hurts so much that the room spins and her vision blurs and she has to sit down.
-
He feels torn in the most literal (and painful) sense. It is almost like being split in two, but the line is jagged, like a haphazard lightning bolt running down the center of his body. There is the rational side and the irrational one, each with their own appropriate thoughts. Last night was foolish on his part, starting something again that neither of them might be able to handle. He can't help it though; he likes falling asleep next to her.
But with the disappearing act he pulled, he can sure as hell bet he is going to need to do something for redemption. Once again he led her on, only to shut her out without a proper explanation. He'll have to seek her out within the next couple of days, and explain, although first, he needs to get his head on straight. Right now, he wouldn't know what to say.
An escape is what he needs. He's known that for the past few weeks; a nice break, like pressing the pause button, so he can take a step back and figure his life out. He likes his plan, and so far, thanks to a miraculously well-timed phone call, everything is working out.
"Yes, Jimmy… Alright! I will. Thursday morning. Yes, very soon. As a matter of fact, I booked it ten minutes before you called. I think I'm psychic; I should open one of those... What? No, I don't know what you do to sarcastic people… Sounds painful… Alright. Yes. Bye."
He hangs up and does the most unusual thing he can think of: he smiles.
As he places the phone back on its stand, he hears a knock at his door, and there is a slight hitch in his step. Once again, he finds Rory on his doorstep, wordless and beautiful. He tries to think of what to say, but she kisses him first.
In the half light of the after-hours diner, she aches for him. It is a dull, throbbing pain that she can never pinpoint the location of. It often immerses her to the point where she cannot speak or move without worsening the sensation. He hurts. His presence hurts. Looking at him conjures up two images, ones that often overlap. First there is a dark bedroom, and his faraway answers; a tangible sadness and his body moving slowly, tantalizingly over hers. Then there are the two of them on the bus, a black and white snapshot with the edges tinged in red. The pictures explode like fireworks beneath her eyelids, and the pain is enough to send her to the door, making excuses for why she can no longer eat there.
Tonight is different in the sense that the emotion is receding. The scars are closing up quietly, the stitches thin and fragile, ready to burst at any moment. His voice, the aloe, keeps going, however, not allowing for this to break again. Jess is giving her exactly what she asked for: reasons. Solid, real reasons. She wants to know what was going through his mind during his final weeks in Stars Hollow, and why he said nothing of value on the bus. She wants to know that he missed her, and felt guilty, and still does. She just wants to be put at ease, to understand, and at the beginning of the evening, she never thought she would be.
Then, like a jigsaw puzzle, it all falls into place. The bigger picture is glaringly painful, a deep restlessness and a sense of losing control, but it's Jess and his reasons, so she takes a good look. She understands, she thinks. Why he ran. (Why he came back.) Why he didn't contact her.
He never once says he sorry, but somehow, she gets that he is. She gets him. In a small voice, she asks if he found what he was looking for. After looking at her for a second too long, he simply tells her:
Yes.
In the doorway of his apartment, he kisses her back and wonders if she will slap him once he pulls away. He takes the chance and breaks contact, knowing he was an idiot to give in again. Frowning, she stares at him in confusion, waiting for an explanation.
"I didn't mean for this," he states.
Her eyes widen, and he can practically see the streak of anger run the length of her body like blue fire. Then, just as quickly, she deflates.
"You're the one screwing things up now."
"I… Shit. Rory, I shouldn't have —"
"Come over?"
"Kissed you."
"I don't…" She shakes her head. "Should I even be here?"
"Yes," he answers.
"Then what is this?"
"You said we were friends first."
"I meant that."
"Well?"
She glances down at her feet; he knows she's holding something back. But then she's staring straight back at him, and she's made up her mind. "So we're friends again?"
"Yeah."
"And you won't suddenly kick me out without a solid explanation?"
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"Jesus, Rory. I promise."
"And you'll let me in tonight and make us dinner?"
"I wasn't planning on cooking."
"But you were planning on eating."
"At some point." It takes him a moment to realize that the uneasiness has passed, and she's playing with him. She made the journey back to friendship in the blink of an eye; she's trying to get him to catch up.
"Then you cook, and I'll help."
"Are you going to set my kitchen on fire?"
"It's not as if I'll go out of my way to do it," she teases. "I'll make a salad." A pause. "Can I come in?"
"Yeah."
-
She makes good on her word. She sets two places at the coffee table in front of his couch, and pours each of them something to drink. Soda for the both of them, because even though he requests a beer, she pretends not to hear him.
As she takes out the ingredients for the salad, her cell phone rings. Checking the caller ID, she rolls her eyes, and sets the phone on the counter, ignoring it. Jess is able to guess who it is. He pictures Rory not picking up his calls, pushing him away. Somehow, it gets under his skin; the shill ring makes it worse.
"Rory, would you just fucking acknowledge the guy?"
She looks up at him in surprise, completely stung. Grabbing the phone, she puts it to her ear.
"Hi, Paris."
Son of a –
"I can't tonight, I'm out with a friend. Tomorrow, okay? Yes, I'm very aware that finals are less than a month away. If you'd like, I'll hyperventilate after I eat dinner." She pauses. "No, I guess that wasn't very funny. I'll talk to you later."
She shuts off the phone and puts it back in its former place. The silence is so heavy that Jess can feel it pressing down on his lungs. Seemingly oblivious to any pressure, she goes back to retrieving the salad ingredients.
"Sorry," he mutters, shocking the hell out of himself.
She wants to tell him that she doesn't ignore Blake's phone calls. If her phone is off, it's off. If it's on, she answers. She wants to tell him that she tries not to be a horrible girlfriend, but the instinct to mouth off and rebel is coming in stronger and stronger, just as her instinct to please has only heightened over the years. Instead though, she stays quiet, entertaining the idea that her silence is making him squirm.
Then, as she cuts tomatoes for their salad, he tells her.
"I'm going to California."
There is a sharp, muffled cry, and she turns to him, her finger in her mouth. She's cut herself.
"For the weekend," he adds.
"You really need to finish your thoughts faster," she warns, studying her finger. Moving past him, she washes the wound in the sink, and dries it. When she turns, he's holding a box of Spongebob band aids. She smiles.
"When I snuck those into the cart, you said you were going to burn them as soon as you got home."
"I figured I'd save them for an occasion like this one," he says. Peering inside, he asks if she would like the "sponge wearing the tie" or the "squid with the stick up his ass".
"Patrick," she decides.
"And he would be?"
"The starfish."
She holds her hand out, and turns her head away, suddenly girlish and silly. He puts the band aid on, and then grabs her wrist to study his work.
"When are you going to California?"
"Thursday morning," he answers, looking up at her. He forgets to let go.
"Going to see your dad?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." She nods. "That's nice that you're going to see him and your sister."
"She's not my sister. He and Sasha aren't married."
She is about to reply when she glances down and retracts her hand from his hold. Suddenly taken with an idea, she asks in a small voice: "Can you leave Thursday night instead?"
"If I have a good reason."
"I'd like to come."
"Come where?"
"Your dad's," she answers.
"My dad's?"
"This conversation is going to be so much longer if you keep repeating what I say in the form of a question."
"You want to come."
"That was a statement. Better," she teases.
"You have class on Friday and dinner with your grandparents."
"I'll skip class, and make an excuse not to come on Friday. I just… Please, Jess? It'd be kind of nice to get away for a few days."
"Blake will go insane."
"I wasn't going to tell him."
"You're just going to…"
"Disappear. I'll tell my mom and then…" She shrugs.
Sometimes her irresponsibility catches him by surprise. She is never spontaneous or thoughtless except in his presence; he knows he brings this out in her. Taking her with him is probably one of the worst ideas yet, but he finds himself wanting to say yes. She wants to go for the same reason as him. She just wants to escape.
"So?" she prompts.
-
His secretary, Bethany, answers the phone, and Rory takes a deep breath, rehearsing what she has to say in her head.
"Richard Gilmore, please."
"He's in a meeting at the moment. May I take a message?"
"Hi, Bethany, this is his granddaughter."
"Oh, Rory! Hi, I didn't recognize your voice. Your grandfather is out for the afternoon. I think he went home, he seemed awfully tired."
"Oh, I don't want to disturb him…"
"It'd be a good idea not to, he's seemed stressed lately. Business problems, he keeps saying. Why don't you leave me the message, and I'll give it to him."
"Thanks, Bethany. Can you please tell him that I won't be able to make it to dinner Friday night? Something very important has come up."