Rating: M
Summary: Lit. "She doubts that they have ever had as much in common as they do now, with their shared expressions of guilt."
A/N: To Elise for the beta.
Constant Reminders
by efw
The campus reminds her of a ghost town as she slips silently through the deserted grounds. She passes by her old Poli Sci classroom, and pauses to glance in the window. It's hard for her to believe that she is through her first year of college. Chilton seems like minutes ago. She still does not understand how it all lead her here.
She runs a hand through her hair. She is still not used to the short locks, falling at her chin. They stick out every time she looks in the mirror, like a reminder that she's trying to be someone she's not. Like she's trying to be older, wiser, smarter, when she really just feels like a silly little girl.
She walks on, passing more classrooms, dawdling, despite the fact that evening has cooled the air, leaving her to shiver on her journey.
The cab takes an hour to reach the pub. She is sitting on the sidewalk out front when it finally pulls up, her knees pressed tight against her chest, a book propped up on her feet. She has tried reading it, but the street light keeps flickering on and off, and, eventually, it aggravates her to the point of giving up on High Fidelity. She tries dialing her mother's cell phone, but it is off, so she sits, bored, staring at the cracked pavement of the street in front of her.
She pulls open the door to her building and steps inside. The air inside is thick, stuffy now that the window units have been retired. She is reminded once again that she is completely alone here. At this moment it feels as though she has all of Yale to herself.
She pauses outside her door, reading over the messages that have accumulated recently, well wishes for the summer. As she slides her key into the lock, she hears the hall door open. She jumps at the noise. In so much silence, the smallest of sounds bangs like a bomb across the campus.
When she sees him she freezes. A rush of ten thousand emotions flood over her: anger, dread, joy, pain, relief, and hatred. When she does move it is to step backward, colliding with her door.
He is so tentative as he steps inside, so unsure of what it is, exactly, that he is doing there, a high school drop-out at an Ivy League institution.
She says nothing. What is wrong with this day, she wonders. The final, the date, the cab, everything is against her, she thinks, every wrong move, every mistake, has lead her to this moment.
"Can...can we talk?"
He looks thin, she thinks, maybe even too thin. His black leather jacket hangs loose on his frame, his jeans look like they might fall off.
"Are you eating?"
She doesn't know where the words come from. Is she asking him to join her for dinner? She doesn't think she has any food in the dorm room. But as she ponders this, her stomach growls, and she remembers that she, herself, has yet to consume anything substantial.
"What?"
"I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
He knows better than to question a hungry Gilmore. He merely nods. "Sure."
"Okay."
She doesn't say anything else, but turns back to her door and pushes it open. He does not know whether or not she wants him to follow her inside. He does anyway.
Her belongings are all boxed, and he wonders what the dorm looked like occupied. He knows that she shared it with Paris. He finds the thought of the two together again, after everything they went through in high school, the betrayal, the hatred, the competition, laughable. Then he remembers his own betrayals.
"I think I have some goldfish somewhere," she mutters, either to herself or to him, he can't be sure. She begins digging through a nearby box, pulling out a notebook, a slipper, and a stuffed chicken in the process. No goldfish.
She doesn't find them until the fifth box. He follows her around the room, silently stuffing the odds and ends back into their cardboard homes. She lets out a shout when she finally stumbles upon them, trapped beneath an old copy of The Professor and the Madman and a pair of reindeer socks. With the first bite he can tell that they've gone stale, but he says nothing.
They do not speak to each other until the bag is empty. It is then that she turns to face him and asks him what in the good Lord's name he is doing in her dorm room on a Saturday night.
He looks her in the eye and tells her that he has no idea.
At this time of night the highway isn't all that crowded. She turns her high beams on and cranks her music just a little bit louder than usual, drowning any leftover noise from her head. She tries to think about the summer that awaits her. The chance to see Lane every day, Sookie's blueberry pancakes, and weather warm enough that she can sit outside and read.
But the images don't come. Instead she drives in total silence, unable to hear her CD.
She has not been kissed in a good long while, she realizes, as she presses her lips to his. His body feels familiar against hers, comforting, so she doesn't resist as his tongue explores her mouth, pressing against her own and reminding her of all the things she has spent the past year trying to forget.
He tastes of stale goldfish. She can tell immediately that he has quit smoking, the usual hint of it is gone from his breath, replaced by licorice and leather. She doubts that it would have mattered anyway. As her hand slips beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt (his jacket lies discarded across the nearest box) she realizes that nothing is likely to stop her now.
Her earlier suspicions were true, she notices, as her fingers trace his ribs. He is too skinny, but his skin is soft and hairless. She leaves behind a meandering trail of goosebumps.
Welcome to Stars Hollow, the sign reads. She decides, for the first time in her life, that she hates this sign, and all the reminders that come with it. It might as well read, Rory Gilmore: Town Princess, in place of the mayor's name. For a split-second she considers running it over. She stops herself just in time.
His hands are warm against her back, cradling her to him. When she wakes up, her fingers are tangled in his new emo hair. Her arm sticks to his shoulder as she pulls herself away. Their combined sweat leaves her feeling unclean. She covers herself with his jacket just as he's waking up. She doubts that they have ever had as much in common as they do now, with their shared expressions of guilt.
"This can't last," hers reads.
"I won't stay," says his.
Her car roles up in front of the house at three AM. Her t-shirt is slightly rumpled, but other than that her appearance is perfect. It doesn't matter, though, Lorelai is too asleep to notice. Like a robot, she carries box after box from the car to her bedroom, stacking them neatly against the wall. The contents are as jumbled as her insides, but the outsides look pristine. Looks can be deceiving, she reminds herself as she sets the last box down.
It is then that she begins to cry.