A/N: Carmen Elena Mitchell is a real writer. Check out her short story Black Cowboy in the short story collection Pieces. Also, this is not the last chapter.
Chapter Nineteen: If it makes you less sad, I'll move outta this state
California is slow, mellow, and unhurried. For once, Jess has opportunities spanning in all directions, overlapping and tumbling in front of him, so there is no need to rush. Ted is ecstatic when Jess moves in, but he is easygoing, keeping his enthusiasm to a contained level. Henry, their financier, is eager but calm, insisting that the trio take their time. He is a thin man, tall but slight, with a baby face and a knowing smile. His money is obvious, worn on his Armani sleeves, but he makes himself scarce, so Jess never gets the chance to hate him.
A week and a half after Jess arrives, the bid is accepted, and suddenly he, Ted, and Henry are the owners of a rundown office building located in downtown Torrance. Advertised as a fixer-upper with untapped potential, it is more of a money pit; four stories of broken windows and cracked ceilings and a shaky foundation. But Henry and Ted are all smiles, with supplies and cash and the unwavering confidence that this will work. Jess decides to trust them because there is nothing else he can do.
He finds a job at a small, intimate café, located halfway between Ted's apartment – his temporary residence – and his future waiting in a vacant lot. Days and nights, he alternates between serving coffee and painting stained walls. In his head, he maps out floor plans – offices, conference rooms, lounges. He pictures the design: warm oak paneling; deep, lush couches; and leather reclining chairs, so he can pop his head out the door and tell his secretary to please hold his calls, he's having an important meeting.
It takes three months of hard work before the building is ready. It is sparsely furnished but it has a neat appearance, simple and impersonal. Ted plans to add decorations as time goes on, hang posters and stock bookshelves with literary works chosen by Jess. "We'll make this into an office yet," Ted insists. "Before you know it, you'll love it so much, you'll never want to go home!"
Advertisements are run, flyers are put up. Business cards are made and passed out in bookstores, coffee shops, and libraries. Contacts are made thanks to Henry's influence and soon, they have their first client.
Her name is Carmen Elena Mitchell. She is young and pretty with honey brown hair, and an overly ambitious smile. She is a jittery youth; Ted assumes she's flighty. But she is on time for her first meeting and she jumps right in, shaking first Jess's hand and then Ted's.
"I've been turned down four times," she explains with a nervous fidget. She shuffles her feet impatiently and ruffles the papers in her lap. "I've rewritten this novel so many times, I'm not sure I can do it again. At least, not by myself. It's ready for editing. It's ready for print."
Jess sits in the corner of the office with a notepad in his hands. He's supposed to be taking notes for business purposes, but instead he's jotting down details of the girl's appearance: blue eyes, full lips, high cheekbones. If they used her picture for the back cover, it wouldn't matter how well she wrote.
Ted grins. "Writer's intuition?" he asks. "Only you would know when it was ready. You are the writer and the writer knows."
Jess rolls his eyes at his friend's attempt to connect. He's going to have to teach Ted some new phrases that don't sound so hopelessly artificial.
"Exactly!" Carmen smiles, relieved to finally be understood. "I don't want money," she says. "Or fame. I don't even want to be a household name. I just want to share my thoughts with the world."
Jess mentally checks out, deciding that Ted has this under control. He flips to the back of his notepad where he has a short story by Carmen; one he pulled up after a Google search and a quick stop at the local bookstore.
He rereads it for the fifth time but stops when he reaches the passage that makes him think of things past, things lost. (Remnants of home, and a big princess bed. From the days when I reigned. Before the crown fell.) He looks up at Ted who speaks with a grin, as Carmen nods; her blood, sweat, and tears in manuscript form held close to her chest. Jess swallows and makes another note: naïve.
Carmen stands and shakes Ted's hand. She smiles at Jess and takes a business card; she'll be returning at the end of the week.
"Writer's intuition?" Jess asks once Carmen is gone.
"Yeah, and?"
"You're such an idiot."
>
Somewhere in between working at the café and fixing up the office, Jess reluctantly begins night class, armed with a notebook, folder, and pen. He has no idea what to expect when he arrives at the classroom, and is undecided about whether or not to exert any effort. He disappears into the back row of the room with the stubborn resolve to speak to no one.
The class is small and made up of an eclectic group. A couple of Latino girls sit up front, chattering in Spanish before the teacher arrives. A pregnant woman in her mid-thirties – introduced as "CallmePattyandyesIamexpecting!" – sits two seats across from Jess. She talks the most and volunteers all the answers whenever one is needed. Jess thinks she is too perky for a woman in her second trimester, but he plays the part of the silent observer and never says a word.
Most of the students are female, although a few males are scattered around the room, strategically placed near the younger and prettier members of the class. Jess ignores them even though the oldest man – twenty-nine with a receding hairline – has repeatedly asked if Jess wants to join him and his friends for drinks after class. Jess has already decided that if he is going to survive this, his best bet is to lay low, trust no one, and do the damn assignments.
In the third week of class, a girl sits between him and CallMePatty. She brushes her dark hair over her shoulder and shoots him a smile. Her teeth are straight and startlingly white; he thinks she'd make a good Colgate model.
"I'm Charisma." She offers her hand. "Yes, Charisma. Yes, the word, and yes, it is spelt the same way."
"Bad introduction experiences?" he asks.
"Too many to count."
"You look a little bit like her," Jess says. "Charisma Carpenter."
Her eyes flash. "I think that's the best use of my name so far."
"Maybe this is the end of all those bad experiences."
She shrugs, and her curls bounce across her back. Jess watches the movement, wondering what it would be like to twist a ringlet around his finger.
"Maybe." She winks.
His eyes slide to her outline several times during class. Once, he catches her looking back.
>
Clients end up at their office as a last resort. Only after every possible publishing company in the continental United States (and certain provinces in Canada) have turned them down, do they even consider enlisting Ted and Jess's help.
In their first two months of business, they meet a Goth poet with a penchant for rhyming couplets and penning sonnets about his dead lover, a male novelist with good ideas but poor grammar, and an essayist with anarchy in her blood. Ted is rarely critical of ideas – he thinks any business is good business – but Jess is strict in fixing style, format and spelling errors. He takes editing seriously, and spends hours poring over manuscripts and scribbled poems on paper napkins, handed in by the Goth.
Jess cannot help but put everything into his work, because for the first time, he feels as if what he is doing matters. Suddenly, he understands words like ambition and potential and success. He feels the definitions crawling inside him, a new and vibrant part of him.
Henry is seen more in writing than in person; the building is in his name, so all official documents – including periodic checks made out to Ted – sport his signature. Jess is grateful for the money Henry provides, but it grates on him. He never says it aloud, not when he's discussing ideas with Ted, treating Charisma to coffee, or meeting with clients. He tries to stay silent and act thankful, but it's hard.
After concentrating so much of his energy on hating Blake and his money and the socialite scene, it drives him crazy that the only reason he is here now, living some sort of American dream is because of a rich boy who has nothing better to do with his trust fund. Day after day, he goes over it in his head, wondering if this reworked definition of independence was worth leaving her behind.
>
"I'd like to book a flight to California." Rory tugs on the phone cord, as she surveys the three hundred invitations spread out in front of her. The cards are small and white, with pink lilies stenciled along the edges. The calligraphy is neat and precise, announcing the impending nuptials of Lorelai Leigh Gilmore and Blake Michael Landon.
"Um, I don't care where it lands. Somewhere around Venice, I suppose." Rory tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She covers the receiver and calls out to the maid, "Anita, can you bring me a cup of coffee, please?"
"Date?" Rory stares hard at the stack of envelopes. She's not sure she knows three hundred people. "Anytime. Soon." She pauses, listening. "No, not this week. Next?"
The maid brings in a small blue cup balanced atop a matching saucer. She places it on an empty surface and stirs the drink. She curtsies when she is done; young and bashful, the girl is too eager to please and often gauche in front of guests. She has a bad habit of calling Rory 'madam'.
"Next Tuesday?" It sounds perfect. She imagines arriving at night, as the sun sets on California. She will walk along the beach, the same one he took her past when she accompanied him months ago. She'll watch the sky turn dark and the stars come out before she goes to his apartment.
She imagines him with paint smudged hands and tired eyes, laying on the couch when she knocks. He is slow answering the door; sitting up and stretching, an exhausted groan escaping his lips before he hobbles across the floor after such a long day.
He is surprised to see her. He is reluctant and angry; he tries to send her away. Then the moment passes and he pulls her inside, his hand cupping her elbow, his other arm around her waist. She pictures bare walls and hardwood floors, gouged and dirty with dusty furniture rounding out his existence. He kisses her forehead, her cheek, hides his face in her hair, and the six-month separation peels away like a layer of old skin; it is discarded and forgotten, and she kisses him back.
"Um, Mrs. Landon?"
"Miss Gilmore," Rory corrects the maid as she runs a finger along an invitation. The ink stays strong, resisting smudge; Blake's name sings clearly from the front.
"Yes, Miss Gilmore, I'm sorry, but would you like help?"
"Help?" Rory's expression is blank; she drops the card and the maid rushes to pick it up.
"With the invitations, ma'am. Would you like help stuffing the envelopes?"
"Oh." Rory rubs her forehead, feeling displaced. She looks over at the phone, remembering the call from moments ago; the patient voice of the travel agent; the line wearing thin from wishful thinking. This is the seventh flight reservation she has made in the past six months. The tickets are never ordered with the expectation of use; she always lets them sit at the airport, unclaimed and untouched. But there is a small piece of comfort that comes with pretending. It's something to think about when she lays in bed at night; it's something to sleep to.
"No, Anita. I can do it."
>
It comes the first week of December. It is a surprise to see a small white envelope personally addressed to him. He moved into his new apartment only a couple of weeks ago, and so far, the mail has been a long line of bills and letters meant for previous occupants.
There is no return address. There is no obvious sign to warn him of what is inside, so when he opens it and reads the neat, precise script, it is a shock to his system; a rush of blood to his head.
He trips over a stack of boxes in a rush to the counter. He rips a pen from his workbag and marks the appropriate box. Stuffing the invitation into the preaddressed envelope, he runs the four blocks to the post office.
Not until that night when all traces of her are gone does his breathing return to normal. He ransacks the refrigerator, desperately rooting through its shelves before remembering that he no longer buys alcohol. He considers climbing into bed, but he knows only hours of staring at his ceiling and torturing himself waits there.
He calls his friend in a desperate attempt. All he can think of is the flowery cursive; the black ink; his name neatly written out on the envelope. He wants the image gone; the date burned out of his mind.
Ted answers on the fourth ring. "Hey," Jess greets. "When was the last time you and I got really fucking drunk?"
>
Rory throws the door open and stalks inside. She throws the ripped envelope onto his desk.
"How could you do this?" she demands.
"Rory, I'm in the middle of something," Blake answers tonelessly as he makes notes in his day planner.
She takes a book off his desk and hurtles it toward the opposite wall. It leaves a small dent; a white scrape against a blue wall.
"Hey!" Blake jumps up. He comes out from behind his desk, staring incredulously at his fiancée. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
As soon as he's close enough, she slaps him as hard as she can. "Why would you do that? Why?" She raises her hand again, but he grabs her wrist, wrenching it back to her side.
"Don't you dare hit me again," he warns. He drops her arm and she stumbles back, her skin discolored from his grip. "I've never raised a hand to you, so don't you dare start."
She takes a quick breath, letting her anger speak for her. "You sent him an invitation."
"What are you talking about?" Blake runs a tired hand through his hair as if he has no time her games. He turns around, returning to his chair.
"He's gone. Do you understand that?" Rory asks in a calm, measured tone. "He's gone. So don't try to make him miserable."
"Rory, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Stop!" She rubs her wrist where he grabbed her, trying to ignore how light-headed she has become. "You sent Jess an invitation. I know it was you," she accuses. "I looked at that list three times. I mailed all of them! He wasn't in there. You did it yourself."
Blake opens a manila folder and makes a note. Without looking up, he says, "We have dinner with your grandparents tonight. I hope you'll have calmed down by then."
"Leave him alone," she warns. "I mean it."
>
"Jess?" She sounds impossibly far away. "Don't hang up."
He closes his eyes, trying to picture her sitting at home, but he no longer knows where home is. Only a half hour ago, he was at work, and she was a million miles away.
"You don't have to say anything. I just… I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. Blake, he – he has your name and address in a file in his desk. He's keeping tabs on you. I guess he's scared you'll come back."
She covers her face, hot tears forming puddles in her palm. "He sent you that invitation. I just wanted you to know it wasn't me. I'm sorry." The words sound hollow to him, but he thinks she means it; he knows she's trying.
"Really, Jess. I'm sorry for that. For everything. This is the last you'll hear from me, I promise. I'll leave you alone."
"Rory…" Her name is an intake of breath. She thinks of his mouth, remembering how it used to feel against the hollow of her throat, the inside of her thigh.
She hangs up.
>
She has a panic attack the morning of her wedding as she tries to put on her gown. Standing in the middle of the dressing room in a flimsy slip, she takes deep breaths as her mother holds a cold cloth to her head and her grandmother flutters around nervously.
"Rory, are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine, Grandma," she croaks. She clears her throat, speaks again. "It's just nerves."
"Rory, are you sure? We can't have you passing out halfway down the aisle."
"Mom, she's fine," Lorelai stresses. "She's tired. Planning this wedding was a lot of work."
"Thanks," Rory whispers to her mother. Lorelai smiles and smoothers back Rory's hair, gingerly touching the curls that fall across her back.
"You look beautiful, babe."
"Thanks," Rory repeats. She closes her eyes, and waits for her heart to slow and the nausea to subside.
Lorelai removes the cloth and squeezes her daughter's shoulder. "Want to try the dress again?"
Rory nods, hiding her trembling hands behind her back. "Sure."
>
The church is draped in spring colors to contrast the dark winter day. Flowers are crammed in every available space; hanging from beams, curled around pews, littering the aisle. The scent is overwhelming.
Rory stands amongst her bridesmaids waiting for the music and the forward march. Time seems impossibly precious, slipping quickly through her fingers. The last six months have passed in a blink of an eye, and she mourns the time lost, the wasted minutes of doing nothing to save herself. This day has always seemed so far away and suddenly, it is here.
The doors open and one by one the bridesmaids begin their walk. She catches a glimpse of Blake up front, looking modestly handsome in his tuxedo. She tries to alleviate her nerves by thinking of their last night together, when he kissed her sweetly and promised her the world. She tries to tell herself that everything is all right; this is not the end.
"Are you sure, Rory?" Lorelai whispers. "I can still sneak you out the back."
"I'm sure, Mom. Go ahead."
"Good luck, kid." Lorelai disappears into the church, the doors shutting behind her.
"Wow," a voice exhales. "You look expensive."
Rory turns and there he is. She thinks she has passed out and this is a dream.
"You're not here," she says.
Jess walks over, adjusting his tie. "I like your hair," he says quietly. "Is it longer?" He reaches out under the pretense of touching it, but he traces her collarbone instead, catching the soft material of her dress.
"Why are you here?" When he doesn't answer, she grabs his hand. "Jess, you weren't supposed to come."
"I wanted to see it happen. After today, I don't have to wonder anymore, do I?" He had no intention of coming, but after her phone call and her desperate apology, he decided he had to see her. One last time.
His hand is warm and familiar, and she tightens her grip. She looks thoughtful as she kisses his cheek through the light gauze of her veil. "Will you give me away?"
It is his turn to look startled. "What?"
"I couldn't choose someone. I was just going to go down myself. But now that you're here…"
The wedding march begins, muffled by the wooden doors. The pews creak as three hundred guests stand up, craning their necks for a glimpse.
"Please," she says. "It'll be over soon."
The doors open. Jess holds out his arm, and she takes it, leaning into him. She whispers a thank you, but he says nothing back. He doesn't tell her he loves her, he doesn't describe how much he has missed her over the past several months. He doesn't think of how much this will hurt afterwards when she is gone; when she is reduced to nothing more than a skipped heartbeat, a missed breath.
When they reach the end, Jess lifts her veil. He kisses the corner of her mouth in a brief moment of intimacy, his hand resting lightly on her elbow. He holds her gaze as he replaces the veil.
After Jess sits, the priest begins, and Blake grabs her hand, his nails biting her palm.
>
"Do you Blake take Lorelai Gilmore to be your lawfully wedded wife; and do you solemnly promise before God and these witnesses to love, cherish, honor and protect her: to forsake all others for her sake; to cleave unto her, and her only, until death shall part you?"
"I do."
"And do you Lorelai take Blake Landon…"
"Did you know that I'm love with him?" Rory whispers as the priest speaks. "I never said it out loud. I wasn't sure if you knew."
"Rory, don't do this," Blake warns in a low voice. "Don't you dare."
"…until death shall part you?"
She pauses and the silence fills the church. She doesn't turn to look at Jess, nor does she glance up at Blake. She bites her tongue, trying to remember the right words.
"Rory," Blake snaps, nudging her. "Rory."
She remembers Sookie's wedding a hundred years ago. It seems so silly and innocent now; the way she ran so fast from him, terrified at her first major mistake. She knows that if she could have a chance to go back, to change one moment with him, it would be that one. She would have stayed.
"I do."
When the priest pronounces them man and wife, she doesn't cry and she doesn't close her eyes and she doesn't kiss back.