Not Alone
Chapter Two - Smoke
Disclaimer: I don't own Jess (most unfortunately), I don't own Rory, and I sure don't own New York. ;-) Lyrics again from "Drowning".
A/N: Thanks so much for the encouragement on this fic. This is more Rory-centered; most of this happens before the Jess stuff seen in the last chapter. The meeting is the same one Jess 'mentioned' before.
To Leigh (thank you so much!). To Christie. To Jin (thank you!!). To Elise. To Stephanie. To Molly (GQSecondAct). And to Lorena.
--
And you'll be sorry
Isn't that what they say?
Don't follow your heart
'Cause it just seems to get in your way.
--
It's the smell that bothers her, actually.
Not so much the smell, always, but the essence of it all, and the smoke more than anything else. There's always someone with a cigarette or cigar just downwind— down-air, rather—because she's lucky that way. The smell is bitter, the taste when swallowed makes her cough, and she's heard that secondhand smoke can kill you faster than smoking yourself.
She gets nervous, a little, but fights it down, and sometimes she can get so used to it that she calls it bittersweet instead of awful.
She jumps backwards, suddenly, avoiding someone barreling toward her, trying not to step on anyone herself. She picks her way through the huge group of people, knowing that she's going somewhere—where, though, she has no idea. Awkwardly, she brushes her hair behind her ear, feeling ridiculous, and she reminds herself that next year she will be twenty-six.
Like the substance that mostly makes it up, the atmosphere is intoxicating. It's probably not good, but it is and she can't help it and it is not her fault.
Somehow, she ends up sitting down, and their glasses are nice, real glass, with a handle that fits her hand comfortably. Concentrating on these simple, mundane things helps. The quality of the drink, of the club itself, is not something she knows about, she thinks. She's still herself.
She sips and she sips again, and eventually she tries to giggle without making noise. Even though the people around her are fuzzier than usual (what now?) she can tell the bartender is amused and trying to hide it.
Who cares, that was supposed to be her mantra: who cares, who cares, who fucking cares.
This world—or really, the way she views it—it's another one of her delusions. That's all it is, and she should learn to shut up even when she isn't talking. She should learn to shut up. To shut up, to shut up.
She pays for another glass, and maybe she's lost in a different way now. She didn't expect this in the slightest, before.
"How the hell did you get in here?" someone asks her suspiciously.
She gives him a withering stare and he recoils, and she discovers she was not lying, back when she was seventeen and told someone she could do that. Who was it she told again? Those "best years of her life" weren't the very best, she supposes; that must be why she doesn't remember much about them at the moment.
"You should get home," she hears from behind her, and whirls around, trying to go slowly. Who is this, who's talking to her? No one knows her here, and when she does turn around she is right: this guy doesn't know her. She lets out a relieved breath. Obviously, it's not that she's drunk, but still she probably looks awful.
His hair is spiked and his eyes are piercing green and they're staring right at her, but she admits he doesn't look mean.
"I'm fine, thanks."
"You don't look fine."
"I'm fine." I'm fine, I'm fine.
"Okay." He holds up his hands. "Okay, you're fine."
-
She molds herself into this new perception of the city: a dirty place, instead of a magical place where dirty stuff goes on. It all must be a façade, though; one that is understood when the hazing is over and you are indoctrinated into this new, incredibly extensive, huge group of people and places and things.
This isn't what it's really like in the end, not for People With Potential.
There's tons for her to reach for, out there; she isn't just a New York City girl. She isn't average. She used to feel shy and scared, admitting that, but now she knows it. She's positive.
It's not that she doesn't totally believe in this—how could she not? It's just that it gets so frustrating. There's a method here, she knows there must be. She has to let loose a little, and live, and have fun, but keep working, and suddenly she'll see the light.
She accepts the idea and moves on from her obsession with doing better, being recognized. She takes a breath of smog-filled city air and sashays just over the line between angelic and dark, with a bit of a flair as she goes. She picks things up easily; it's one of the talents she is most proud of.
She can't drive. As if she could afford a car and a place to park it, here. Her mode of transportation is resting in small-town Connecticut, so she relies on cabs, buses, and subways and she feels like a regular. She feels proud, and so capable. She knows how to manipulate the city to her liking.
She'd never do anything illegal. She'd never be seen wearing sparkly clothes; she'd be careful where she walked at two in the morning. She wouldn't do anything wrong.
She has a life; it's not a crime.
All is temporary (those are magic words).
-
She looks different and there are more circles under her eyes more often, but inside she hasn't changed, not what matters, isn't that right. She can still pull the same wide array of smiles, too: innocence, sweetness, sly joking, sarcasm. Get-the-hell-away-from-me-I-know-what-I'm-doing. Oh-my-god-it's-you-I-missed-you-what-are-you-doing-here. Yeah-that's-nice-please-go-away-now.
Every shade of the rainbow.
And she is still fucking perfect. It's comforting to know this: that kind of impression lasts.
-
There are crowds on either side of the crosswalks that could form opposing baseball teams, even after weeding out the people who don't like to play.
They are busier even than the sidewalks are, but she's never figured out quite how that works.
You run into people you know and people you don't know. It's a wave, a flash of the hand, someone looking up to wonder hey, do I recognize you? and a confused look following as all he or she sees is a line of different colored coats and backpacks flashing past.
But somehow she notices him there.
Suddenly those "best years" flood back, and suddenly she's dragging him away from the curb and to a corner of the street. What in the world.
"What?" he says, staring at her. His eyes aren't as clear as they used to be; not as perceptive, not as worthy of freezing and melting over.
The hell? It's her, and him, and that's all he's going to say? They didn't split on good terms, but she has gone over it so much in her head, smoothing the edges, she is sure the things they said once upon a time were never really as bad as they seemed then.
"Oh my God."
"You look surprised."
"Oh, no," she says sarcastically. "In a city this huge I totally expected to meet my ex-boyfriend walking across the street. I mean really."
Ex-boyfriend. It wouldn't matter, it just sounds so cold and casual, like it should sting him. It doesn't, but the thought presses at him that maybe it should, maybe it will later when his head is clear. Now, it's pounding. There are shitty drivers out where he works. Too many blasting car horns. Too much waiting in crowded trains.
He's still shocking her, even now when she's stopped breathing so hard in surprise, and they're staring at each other and they've calmed down. Her heart's beating, and not in a million years would she think he could hear it, but she can, and that is bad enough.
She thinks she feels her glittering baby blues shooting arrows through him, claiming him as hers. He pays no attention whatsoever; he's immune to it by now. She should never expect him to be here, should never have expected to lay eyes on him again.
And yet something has wormed its way through her consciousness that tells her this was never unlikely and she should have been counting on it, all this time.
Perhaps his is the face and the touch and the voice that will release her from this prison she's created for herself. But she doubts it.
He looks different. Something about his eyes captivates her (but of course not really). The way he's standing there, totally confident: she is insignificant in his world. It's nice, to know he's better (better?). But it hurts, to think maybe he's never needed her at all.
Fine then, she thinks, fine then. It's polite to say hi, not that politeness has ever been anything he gives a damn about. She's sure to be sorry, for calling herself to his attention, but maybe something took control of her back there, or something. She'd had to.
She's missed dry humor that was never really humor at all but cutting ways of telling the truth. Sarcasm to match hers, even her mother's. Smarts and speed reading skills to contest her own, possibly because they're hidden so much better and don't get nearly so much use on display.
No, she just misses unusual people, she thinks. Eccentricity is the normal for her now—she wants to see someone stand at the edge, pay no attention to what everyone else does, and still take all in stride.
"What else would you expect?" he says dryly.
"Jess." What he says; it resonates too well with the ideas speeding through her mind, so rapidly, allowing her only flashes of what should be detailed thoughts.
"Don't say my name."
"Jess—"
"I said don't fucking say it like that."
"What, someone stalking you?"
"Nah, it's just the effect it all has." He rolls his eyes and looks at the sky for a minute. He hears it in his head, her voice, saying Jess Jess Jess. It kills him again every time.
No one's died more times than he has.
It springs up on him so suddenly, and then he has the undeniable, desperate urge to get away. The city presses in on him from all sides, and so does she, and he wants to rip the sky apart.
He won't remember all this, later.
"You okay? See you around."
He turns to start walking away and something tugs at her heart. She hates him messing with her like this. Yes, it was his fault, it's all him, it always is! Damn him.
Damn them.
It's not fair.
"You're insane!" she tells him, well aware that she is too. After all this crap…all this I'm so perfect, all this 'I hope' and 'I think maybe'.
"Entirely," he concedes. "Let go." She's still gripping his sleeve, her knuckles white, and she tries valiantly not to let herself turn red—she had forgotten she was holding him, was keeping him with her. Does she even want to keep him here? Should he even be here in the first place?
Should she?
"Would you let go." Again, it's not a question.
She's crazycrazycrazy and she doesn't know what she's doing and she thinks maybe that is the whole point. The way he's staring at her is making her crazy. The way he's casually leaning against a building wall and doesn't look shocked in the least.
This is the point of everything, with him and guys like him. He always appears when she's doing something wrong, or something insane, or something that's hurting herself or someone else. He always makes her end up sorry, makes her think back and regret things, which is a feeling she's been lacking lately. (It may be good for her, might it not?) He always makes her heart act up, and if someday she needs bypass surgery it won't be fast food; it'll be all his fault.
He won't even come to the emergency room to see if she's okay.
She has a selective memory. Particularly for the points of past relationships, points to be used in future reunions. If she wants to fight there's nothing good, and if she wants to make up there's nothing bad, and if it's somewhere in between, she remembers only the things about herself.
"Rory?"
"Don't say my name." Her body and her voice are forcing her to do things she would never consider, and she is being possessed, and god she's crazy she needs help!
She's fucking crazy for him right now.
He makes her crazy for him. She hates him! She still hates him. She told him that she did, once upon a time, and she's sure that she meant it.
She wants warm skin against hers and the comforting reassurance that not everything is supposed to be okay. The smell of smoke she can't stand mixed with the low roughness of his voice after he used to kiss her, and the gentle brush of his hands against her back. The promise that everything fixes itself eventually, and the confirmation it is true that good girls drink.
Going crazy, dealing with it. She's learned how to do that.
"Fine." He shoves his hands in his pockets. As she steps forward she's pretty sure she smells alcohol, and she revels in the scent of something familiar.
She presses herself up against him, leaning on him, melding herself against him and discovering that she still fits perfectly. Her mouth to his, his hands on her shoulders, so suddenly. His arms wrap themselves around her, holding her there; sprinting away is not an option. Instead she kisses him again, more forcefully this time, and he responds eagerly, even desperately, so quickly. More than just a kiss, she thinks. This is more than nothing. This is different and special and just for me.
His lips move against hers, and then she breaks away and breathes deeply; drunk on him, this alluring mystery that comes with him. Part of the package. He's holding her up. His hand touches her face, gently sliding through her hair. She feels everything at once.
Everything's alright.
His hand is cold on her flushed skin and she blushes deeper, aware that she's staring. He touches her, wrapping his hand around her gloved one and she's tempted to slip off her glove.
That is clearly too romantic for anyone like Jess.
She buries her face in his shoulder and she's overwhelmed by smoke, the cigarettes he hasn't stopped smoking and maybe never will.
She whispers "quit" into his jacket, silently, moving her lips. Give me hope.
He can tell, but he doesn't apologize. He has to let go of her now, and he does, and reluctantly she pushes every bit of desire she once had for him to the back of her mind and her heart and consciously destroys it. It's gone for good.
Never mind him.
It's all over in an instant and then he has disappeared. She thinks she should cry but she still feels his lips on hers, and after all, it was just a chance meeting on a street in Manhattan.
Nothing unusual or wrong about that.
Casually, she slips her hand in her jacket pocket, continuing down the street with a spring to her step. The wind stings her face and she's biting her lip so hard it bleeds, but she'll be fine.
Absolutely fine.
He won't remember this as anything, she knows. He had that dazed look in his eyes, that youaresoforgettable look. She's seen it before, and now she has fallen victim to temptation, like she swore she never would.
She's only so far done that with people she loved.
It's hilarious how fast things change, switch, blink from scenario to scenario. She thinks of songs that would fit in the background of this video montage, but even with all the music she stores in her head for times like this, none that fit right come to mind.
She disappears into a crowd and she's gone, from him, from everyone but herself. Satisfied that she has proven she's changed, but not too much.
She is willing to do things, "things" being defined in a huge multitude of different ways.
But like she is supposed to, she still feels just a little guilty.