A/N: To avoid confusion, this is not the last chapter.
Chapter Eighteen: Every picture you paint I will paint myself out
He's watching her again. She can feel the strain of his gaze as he stares at the icy slope of her shoulder. The center of her back itches as if she expects his touch at any second, gentle – or maybe rough – something definitive to make her turn and speak. She waits but he stays on his side of the bed, edging on that invisible line without crossing it.
"Rory?"
She jumps at the sound of his voice as it cracks the frigid silence. She doesn't want to talk; she is too busy imagining the rest of her life. It is easy to picture the future of unsaid words and separate bedrooms as this one moment stretches in front of her, and he hovers without touching.
"Are you crying?" he asks.
"No." There are no tears, but she trembles slightly as dry sobs run through her, crackling just beneath the surface.
"Rory," he says again. He grazes her shoulder and then grasps it. His hand is warm against her cold skin. She rolls onto her back and stares up at him.
He leans over her, resting his left hand on her other side. She feels trapped, but this is no different from any other second she has been with him, so she does not resist. He kisses her lightly, and pulls away to gauge her reaction. Over the past couple of weeks, she has done her best to adapt the classic Roman personality. Stoicism, she thinks, may be the only way to survive.
He kisses her once more with added pressure. When his tongue presses against her closed lips, she turns her head, fidgeting beneath him. He sighs and lies back down beside her.
"What's the matter?"
She wonders if these questions – she gets them a lot – are genuine. She doesn't understand how he could be so oblivious to what she feels. She thinks maybe he asks to humor her, or maybe he wants her to confide. Darkly, she thinks maybe they have run out of things to say.
"I'm tired."
"This week will be better," he says with that obnoxious omniscient tone. "Just a few more days until the house is ready and then the week after, we move in." He touches her hand, relieved when she doesn't pull away. "Are you excited?"
"It's my first house," she says, noncommittal.
He nods enthusiastically, accepting her words as a statement of pure adrenaline. "You'll like it better when we have a house," he insists, "and are out of this apartment."
She rolls her eyes. He acts as if his apartment is a step down from poverty, and that a house will change their lives, saving both of them from the drudgery of normalcy. She thinks: Jess's apartment is smaller than this.
(But that doesn't matter because she hasn't heard from him in two weeks and sometimes, when she thinks about it, her lungs hurt.)
"I think I have something that will cheer you up," Blake announces.
"Oh?"
"I was going to wait until the engagement party but this is as good a time as any." He pulls a velvet box from his nightstand table and her hearts flutters.
He pops open the box and grins. "Do you want me to ask again?"
"No," she says. "Twice is enough."
He slides the ring onto her finger. It is smaller than the last – a thin silver band encrusted with several tiny diamonds. For a fleeting second, she thinks that he knows her. Finally!
"I know it's smaller," he says with an apologetic tone. "But it's more expensive than the last." He points out the tiny diamonds, tapping them with his pointer finger. "See? It's better."
"Oh." She nods and she wonders why she bothered to get excited. "Thank god. I'd hate to have a subpar ring."
He is familiar enough to pick up on the sarcasm, but too refined to comment. "On Friday, when we announce the engagement, you'll have a ring to show off and a brand new house to look forward to," he explains. "You can make all the girls jealous."
"I can't wait," she replies tonelessly.
"God, Rory. Please, please stop acting like this."
"Like what?"
He pounds the mattress with his fist and ever so slightly, she curls into herself.
"We're getting married."
"We can't keep having this discussion, Blake. We've exhausted the topic."
He turns to her and grabs her chin, but he does so gently, checking his temper. "You said yes. This has been set in motion. Just because we haven't made the formal announcement doesn't mean that it's a secret."
"I know," she whispers.
"Your grandmother alone probably phoned every member of her DAR group the night I got that ring on your finger."
She flinches. Proposing is supposed to be romantic and beautiful, but he speaks of it as something formal, like a business deal.
"Blake, I'm tired."
"We're in the middle of a conversation."
"I don't want to talk anymore." She yawns. "I want to sleep, okay?" She hates the way she sounds, as if she's asking permission.
"Fine."
She turns onto her side and closes her eyes. Seconds later, his lips are on her neck, his hand traveling across her shoulder.
"I said I was tired," she snaps.
He retracts his hands with furious velocity. "Fuck, Rory, I'm just saying goodnight!" He shakes his head, thoroughly pissed off. "Are you thinking about him?" he asks.
"What?" She flips onto her back once more. There is no way she heard him correctly.
"Tell me what you see in him," he demands. "I want to know why it was him."
She contorts her mouth in a twist of disbelief. "Excuse me?"
"Tell me why it was… Jess."
"Don't do that," she warns. "I hate it when you do that."
"Do what?" he huffs.
"You say his name like he's beneath you." Blake scoffs but she presses on, figuring if he really wants to know then fine, she'll tell him. "When you look at Jess, you see this person that isn't worth your time because he doesn't have money or a proper education. You see every flaw and amplify them until he isn't even a person, but some piece of trash."
She takes a shaky breath. "When I look at him, I see… everything." She doesn't know how else to describe it. She sees the reasons for smiling, the reasons for laughing, the reasons for being happy and for once, not wondering and hoping and craving something better.
"This thing with Jess," Blake begins in a low voice. "It wasn't just a fling, was it?" When Rory says nothing, Blake sits up. "I'm sleeping on the couch."
"Don't bother." She grabs her pillow and gets up, heading for the living room.
>
It's strange, the silence that comes with severed ties without the expectation that they can be mended, and differences can be put aside. Rory's absence from his life happened with the finality of broken glass as he smashed a coffee mug on the way out her door. Her appearances after that were fabricated and now that he is trying to keep away from alcohol, there is no way to bring her back outside of his dreams.
He lays the last page of the newspaper out on the kitchen floor, and steps back to inspect his work. Every square inch of the floor is covered by the Wanted ads from different newspapers. Over the past four days, he has picked up every copy he could get his hands on, and now that he has a finished product – a potential job everywhere he turns – he doesn't know what to do.
He walks across his kitchen, stepping lightly so he doesn't kick up any of these opportunities. Eyes turned to the ground, he finds plenty of things he can do. There is a cleaning service in Trumbull that has been very successful – they have clients all over New Haven County. The hours are flexible – days and nights, all depending on the client. This is something he could do easily. He can vacuum, mop, and dust. Cleaning isn't hard, it's only time-consuming and slightly humbling, but it's something.
Office buildings are looking for secretaries – Jess can type – and assistants – he can make coffee – and unimportant people to work in the mailroom – he can sort too. There are a hundred and one restaurants hiring, and despite his screw-up at the bar, he is fairly sure that his boss would be kind enough to be discreet.
All of these choices, and not one is desirable. These are all odd jobs, designed for people in-between jobs, or for teenagers killing time until college comes and their lives really begin. For Jess, this is the rest of his life, and whatever he's looking for – he's still not sure what – cannot be found in black and white pages full of people searching for something themselves.
With a sigh, he kicks up the newspapers until it's a flutter of ads, and he has ink all over his hands and nothing to show after four days of hoping.
>
Rory sits on her mother's bed with just enough force to pop Lorelai out of sleep. Lorelai flies into an upright position, blinking madly, until she focuses on her daughter.
"Rory?"
"I got a new ring." She holds out her left hand and wiggles her fingers. "See?"
"Oh." Lorelai leans back into her pillows and pats the space next to her. Rory flops down beside her mother. "It's very pretty."
"Thanks. I thought so too." She rests her head on her mother's shoulder and it feels good, familiar in a way only her mother is. Lorelai smells good too, like flowers and something earthly – Rory has always thought it was a motherly scent, always there and always like home.
"Your party's tomorrow night," Lorelai muses. "You'll be the belle of the ball."
"I don't know what to wear."
"Don't worry about that. I intercepted the monstrosity your grandmother wanted to put you in and I made it pretty."
"Thanks." Rory's voice is soft and truly gracious. For the first time in weeks, she feels… nice. Content, even.
"And I'm going to make you look beautiful," Lorelai says. "Well, more beautiful than you already are."
Rory laughs and it doesn't feel so forced.
"They'll take a picture, you know. Run it in the paper with the formal announcement."
"I know."
"It doesn't make it permanent though," Lorelai says. "You can't believe everything you read in the paper."
Rory laughs again and kisses her mother on the cheek. "I know."
"Good." Lorelai smiles. "As long as you know."
>
Jess wonders what it'd be like to be homeless. He imagines it with a distant point of view – like this is for fun, not a real possibility. He knows that if it ever came to that he had Len or even Luke to give him a place to live. It's not as if losing his job is the end of the world. It's just a bump, something to throw him off course. Eventually, he'll be fine.
On the street though, it'd be hard. He pictures himself as the New York City kind of homeless – the kind with class. He would grow a beard and hold a sign, and he'd stop scowling so much. He'd practice looking sad and desolate, which would be easy really – he simply had to project what he felt into the expressions he made. He'd hang out in alleys and sleep in museums, which he thought would be rather novel. Maybe he'd do it just for fun.
He likes his apartment though. As he scrubs the dishes from his last three meals, he doesn't mind because they're his dishes, and it's his sink, and this floor he's standing on – it's his too. He pays for everything he has, and no insult or punch can take that away.
As he dries his plates, his phone rings and immediately he thinks that that will be the first to go.
"Yeah?"
"Jess! You prick, you never called me back."
"Hi Ted." Jess rolls his eyes, and flips the dishrag onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry that I didn't want to discuss the failure of your latest idea."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, really depressing. But I have news."
"Joining the circus?" Jess asks. "Opening a zoo? I think an amusement park would be more of a money hole, myself."
"Shut up before I hang up. You're going to want to hear this."
Jess leans back against the counter. "Fine. I'm all ears."
"Are you sitting down?"
"No." Jess sighs, wanting this conversation over with.
"Sit down."
Jess waits a total of two seconds before saying, "Okay, I'm sitting."
"You're not but I'll tell you anyway." Ted pauses – for dramatic effect – and asks, "Do you remember that rich guy I told you about? The one who wanted to invest in the publishing company?"
"Vaguely."
"Well, he was pissed when it fell through. Then he disappeared for a little while, to gallivant around Europe, getting foreign girls pregnant, paying them off… you know, the usual rich guy shit."
"Yeah." Jess is losing patience, and fast.
"He got back yesterday, called me up and said: 'hey, I want to fund your company'."
Jess doesn't speak. He can't. Even his breathing is irregular, as if the wind has been knocked out of him. "You're kidding."
"Hell no. This guy, he has like this family legacy fortune type of thing. I think he's ticked off at his parents and wants to piss his money away just to drive them crazy. But who the hell cares as long as he's pissing his money away on us?"
"Yeah." It's the only thing he can think to say.
"Look, Jess, I know you have a job up there and a really hot girlfriend, but, you know, I'd really love for you to be a part of this."
"Okay." He doesn't even have to think about it. Agreeing has never been this easy.
"Okay? You fucking serious? What about that little brunette?"
"It's fine," Jess promises. "She'll be fine with it."
"Your job?"
"Consider me unemployed," Jess says, skimming the truth. He'd rather just abandon everything here without Ted knowing why. He can start fresh in California. He doesn't have to be stuck in-between.
"Yes! This is going to be great, Jess. I've got a place lined up – I already put a bid in. And summer's just about here – so, you know, summer classes for you."
"When do you want me there?" God, he's excited. He can't believe it. He can't remember the last time he felt this level of enthusiasm.
"I don't know, uh, yesterday? I want you down here as soon as freaking possible."
"I'll have to drive down there, but I'll need a couple of days to get everything in order," Jess says. "Just give me two days."
"Perfect. I'll see soon."
>
Jess finds it the following afternoon in the middle of packing. His clothes have already been shoved into boxes, and his books are tucked away. He's leaving the furniture behind, the dishes too and all the appliances. He doesn't need it. He'll be moving in with Ted, and eventually, he'll have his own place and everything will be shiny and new.
On the surface of his bureau are his brush, gel, wallet, keys, and change. He has a picture frame in the corner too; it used to hold a picture of him and Rory. Months ago, Rory had brought it over as a gift, and he smiled behind her back as she positioned it. It's empty now though. He forgets where the picture is.
He picks up the frame, considering throwing it away, when he sees a piece of paper slip from where it was stuck to the mirror, held there by the frame, to his bureau. Curious, he picks it up.
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
And I'm so sorry for doing it.
He crumples the piece of paper, letting it fall to the floor. He guesses that Rory stuck it in the upper corner of his mirror, hoping he'd see it, but it fell before he could. His hands curl into fists and he thinks and thinks and thinks but nothing makes senses, and it's not a surprise, because nothing with her ever does.
He thinks back to the days when he wouldn't question a gesture such as this. Back in high school, she was the kind of girl to quote poetry because she had no other way of getting her point across. During those days, her innocence was real and her naivety was genuine, and when she smiled, it wasn't calculating or manipulative. He could take every word, every gesture, every kiss at face value, never wondering if there was something else there, some other reason, an ulterior motive.
And he misses that. He misses the days when he was going to ruin her, not the other way around.
He is leaving. Bags have been packed, arrangements have been made, and –
"Shit."
>
The dinner is good. There are four different courses, but Rory only remembers a sort of beef – it had tasted spicy – and even that memory is vague. She is aware of the wine, though. She hasn't put her glass down since the waiter handed it to her two hours ago. Since then, there has always been someone hovering near her elbow, ready to refill at a moment's notice.
"Come dance with me," Blake requests, coming up from behind. He rests his chin on her shoulder. "We'll be making the announcement soon, but I want to dance before it's official."
"I'm busy."
"Doing what?" he demands. "You've been standing over here by yourself for the past fifteen minutes."
"It's tiring," she says, "watching everyone else have fun."
"One dance, come on." He kisses her jaw and swings around in front of her, grabbing her free hand.
"Fine," she relents. "Let me put my drink down."
"I'll get the band to play something good."
Rory heads over to her table – it's long and rectangular, the kind brides and grooms request at their reception. The entire night feels like one giant bout of déjà vu, and she wonders if it's possible for something to feel familiar before it has happened for the second time.
She drains the rest of her wine and sets the glass down. She is about to head for the dance floor when she hears the soft sound of her cell phone ringing from the inside of her jacket. She answers without checking the caller ID.
"Hello?"
"I need to talk to you."
"Jess?" Her heart jumps but the movement hurts, as if her body cannot stand this type of exuberance.
"I'm outside," Jess says. "In the gazebo out front."
"I'm coming out right now," she says, forgetting about Blake's promised dance. "Just wait. I'll be right there."
She drops her phone onto the table and hurries out of the room toward the bar. There are several man gathered there, drinking and smoking. None of them pays attention to her, so she exits through the side door.
She hurries as fast as she can, and he hears her coming, the click-click of her heels. She climbs up the gazebo steps and there he is, as promised. Her stomach tingles as if she is seeing him for the very first time.
"Hi." She hears the word in her head, but has no idea if she actually says it.
"I went to your house, and when you weren't there, I went to Luke's, but it was closed. I found out from Kirk where you were."
"Oh." She nods dumbly. "Yeah, Luke's inside with my mom. Big party." She looks like she's going to say more, but she rushes forward instead, wrapping her arms around his neck. As soon as contact is made, she breathes out, and it's easy, so easy.
"I'm glad you're here," she mumbles against his neck. "I've missed you, but you didn't call, so I didn't think I could."
He knew this was a mistake. But in the end, after enough thought, he realized he had to say goodbye. He had to end this properly, unlike the last time when they sat side by side on the bus, and he lied to her face. This way, when he leaves, he cannot be blamed for their split, written off as some thief who stole away in the middle of the night. He is here, and he will be truthful. He will say goodbye.
"Rory, I need to tell you something."
She pulls away but stays close. "Okay." She doesn't get it yet. She's too mixed up to pick up on what he feels, the vibes he's giving off.
"I'm going to California."
She falters. "For the weekend?"
"For good."
It never felt like this before, not when he kissed for the last time at the bar and told her it was over, not when she caught him with Megan or when he backed her into her bureau and tried to make her feel small. The closest she can think of is when she stood over his pale form in bed, and the idea of losing him blossomed from something unthinkable into a reality. It is possible that one morning, she can wake up and he will be gone.
She can't accept this. After so many years of depending on him, he has become synonymous with permanency. She pictures her life as one bright, vivid scene, but in the middle is a hole, huge and jarring, too distracting too allow for normalcy. Without Yale, he is the only thing that brings her happiness, the only thing that fits. She wants to tell him, but she doesn't know how to explain. There are no words, no proper clean cut phrase for him to understand that he is the one that smoothes the edges, giving her life an underlying flow – something natural and reliable. Something to fall back on.
Even now, standing on solid ground, she feels her balance slipping, the world at an angry tilt.
A hole, she thinks. A missing movie frame. The death of the protagonist in her favorite story. Holding her breath for one second too long. He grasps her hands loosely – one tug and they're not touching – and she wonders if she's turning blue.
"No." One single word. "No!" She shakes her head and she creeps closer and closer to hysterics. "Why? Why would you be leaving?"
"Look, Ted – do you remember Ted?"
She hates the way he's speaking to her, slowly and clearly as if she is a child.
"He offered me a job, Rory. A really good one."
"I know you need a job. I went to the bar, I talked to your manager, but they have a policy and he can't give you your job back, but I can find you another one." She tugs on his wrist, trying to make him listen. "I can get you a job. Anywhere you want. Did your super kick you out? Because I can find you an apartment," she promises. "A nice one."
He knows he can say yes, and she'll do everything she says. But he doesn't want charity. He doesn't want to give in once more, just because it's easier.
"You can't do that for me, Rory." She tries to break in that she can, yes, of course, she can, but he continues. "This job is big. I really want to do this."
"You can't!" She hugs him again, fistfuls of his shirt caught in her hand. "I'm selfish, okay? I'm selfish and I'm terrible, but you can't leave."
"Rory…" He wants her to let go, but he can't seem to push her away. He hugs her back.
"I love you. You don't believe me, but I do. And do you know how hard it is to say that and actually mean it?" she asks, her voice desperate. "To say it, and not wonder if it's for the wrong reasons, if you're mistaken, if what you feel isn't quite love yet. But I know," she says. "When I say it, I know."
He deflates in her arms, hiding his face in her hair. He squeezes her sides and she keeps him there, standing and solid and real. It's tempting to give in, to just let her hold him for once, let her assure him that staying is okay, that she will take care of him instead of the other way around.
"I can't stay here." He feels the change as he says it, the violent surge within her.
"I'll break up with him," she says, pulling away to look him in the eye. "Right now. I'll do it. I'll do anything you want."
He shakes his head because she can't – she won't – and it's too late for grand gestures. "Rory…" He sighs. "You look really nice tonight." His hand slips from her elbow to her hand, and he shakes it, surprising her. "Congratulations on your engagement."
"No." He pulls away and turns around and she says it again. "No, Jess. Please don't do this." He walks down the gazebo steps and he hears her again, crying and begging. "Jess, please."
He follows the path out into the parking lot where he gets into his car. He sits there for several minutes but she doesn't come and he doesn't go back, and finally he puts the car into drive and he's gone.