A/N: The italics are flashbacks. Just to let you know.
If we get through tomorrow then we'll be fine
He merely roams the streets for a while. Aimlessly searching for something to do. It's late, and he knows that it's quite dangerous to be out. The streetlights are on, and they cast an eerie glow over him.
He doesn't bother taking the bus back, the walk soothes him, as he finds he rather fancies it compared to his cramped up apartment. Her face remains in his head. The glow of her eyes, the touch of her hand against his. The look of contempt of Clark. He laughs despite himself, remembering how Clark had become increasingly jealous and pulled her tighter. As if he somehow posed a threat. The loneliness in her eyes stands in front of him, the genuine smiles. He shivers at it, remembering the last time that had happened. Who knew he could even remember things that far back?
He reaches his apartment with ease. Finding no comfort in the fact that he's home. Once inside, he falls onto his old couch, but he's hours from sleep and he knows it. He hates her, all of the sudden. He hates that she can do this to him, by simply shaking his hand. He's tried to forget her, he's had at least 10 different girls and it had worked, for a while at least. Until now, in which he falls asleep with her smile and touch dancing slowly in his head.
Days later he finds that he can forget about 'the visit' as he refers to it, to himself. He doesn't think about it nearly as much as the previous days, and once again finds solitude in his work. Maragret, he notices, has become increasingly futile in her attempts to flirt with him. Her monologues which are accompanied, despite his glowering stares, with rampant and suggestive glances, usually fill him with a slight pleasure, knowing he has things to do and can not be bothered with his previous occasions.
He stands, packing more books, into the shelves, something that has become increasingly difficult, as the result of the lack of people actually buying books. When actual pushing doesn't work, he finds himself flinging his body at the rows of books, hoping (and praying) that they'll fit in. He does this once or twice through the course of the day, but only once does he turn around to see if anyone is watching him. And only once, does he wish he hadn't.
He almost dies at the sight of her, more like the shock and embarrassment, but he still has an aching feeling in his stomach. She stands in front of him, her mouth turned up into a genuine smile, obviously from watching his display of stupidity. He feels his cheeks burn slightly and reaches up to rake a hand through his hair, a sure sign of embarrassment. Her hair is as it was when he first saw her, her skirt hits right above the knee and her shirt is a subdued blue, which he notices despite himself, compliments her eyes quite nicely.
"Hello," she says, holding back her laughter.
He doesn't know whether to grin, smile or just walk away. So he just stands there, nods at her (his own form of 'hello') and awaits her next move.
"I came to give this back to you," she says, handing a book to him. "I was right; it was a total waste of paper."
He nods at her, lost for words and takes the book from her hands. She begins to realize he hasn't said anything since she's arrived and begins to become worried.
"Are you alright?" she asks him with genuine concern.
He nods again, and realizes himself he hasn't said a word to her.
"I'm fine," he tells her.
"Right, well I also came here to give you this," she says, pulling another book out of her purse.
He takes it from her and reads the title.
"Pride and Prejudice?" he asks incredulous.
She merely smiles at him.
"Give it a chance."
He's about to tell her, there's no way in hell, but stops himself.
"Ok," he says. She smiles at him, and he begins regretting altogether ever seeing her again. He realizes, with hope that their conversation is drawing to a close, but she stops his thought.
"Jess?" she asks.
He almost jumps at the sound of his own name.
"Would you like to grab something to eat with me?"
The look on her face, is enough to make him want to reach out and touch her. She looks so alone, as if she's asking him to come sleep next to her tonight. And for the first time he really sympathizes with her. He realizes she has no idea, no clue at all, what's happening. She has no idea who he is, and even the bad boy in him finds it hard not to pity her.
"Yea," he tells her, "it's my lunch break anyway."
He finds even though she may have lost her memory. Her cravings for coffee have not subsided, neither has her large appetite, if anything it's increased. He finds her thoroughly amusing and sometimes he finds it hard to believe he's actually talking to her.
"Do you always carry around books with you, like that?" she asks pointing to his back pocket.
He shrugs slightly and answers, "It's a habit."
She merely chuckles at him, thinking it's rather cute and continues on enjoying her meal. After a moment she pauses, seriousness in her tonality.
"Jess, before, when I knew you, were we friends?" she asks quickly.
He can tell that she's most definitely embarrassed. Her cheeks have turned a rosy hue, and her eyes can't seem to meet his.
"Yea, we were friends," he tells her, forcing the words out of his mouth, but finding it extremely hard to admit it.
"Were we - close?" she asks him.
His eyes glance at her slowly, she's staring at him, as if her confidence is slowly gaining but he finds it aching at his insides.
"No," he says flatly, lying straight to her face. Lying has become a habit to him.
The answer doesn't quite shake her, actually he sees her relax, as if the thousand pound weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She resumes eating, but pauses for a moment, staring at him intently.
"I'm sorry," she tells him. He chokes on his burger, startled at the revelation before him.
"I don't remember you, but I guess, I really wish I did. It's better then, that we weren't close," she tells him. He knows she's near tears. Tiny droplets of water have formed at the crease of her eye and it takes every amount of self control he has not to reach out and brush them away. She takes her napkin and gently pats the sides of her eyes. He watches her thinking that high society has most certainly changed her.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," she tells him, chuckling, trying to downplay her display of naivety.
For the first time he decides to be the better person, the stronger person. In nearly every relationship he's had, he's been the jackass, the unreliable guy. But seeing her fall apart, right in front of him. Her fragile hands and troubled eyes. He wants to make it better for her, but somehow he doesn't know where to start.
"Don't worry about it," he says, trying to muster up a soothing voice. He takes his hand out from underneath the table and gently places it on hers, desperately trying to make her feel better. But when he does touch her soft skin, a shockwave flows through him, so much that he withdraws his hand almost immediately. He looks up to see if she's noticed it, but she's merely scraping at her food.
"You know what I think?" he says, gaining control of his rapid heartbeat once again. "I think we need ice cream."
She lifts her head gently up at him, a full bright, cheery smile on her face.
"I think you're right," she tells him.
The thing he has noticed about her is that her favorite ice cream has changed. She likes Mint Chocolate Chip now, instead of Double Dutch Chocolate. They find a park bench, almost a block away from the ice cream vendor, who had seriously overcharged Jess to the point, that he wonders how he's going to get dinner that night, but he doesn't worry because right now he's concentrating on the delighted smile on her face.
She licks at her ice cream cone, and to him she almost resembles a little girl. Funny how such simple pleasures can make a world of difference. He's noticed though that since she only knows one thing about him, her tendency to pick up the subject is rapid. They only talk about books.
"So what have you been doing lately?" he asks her.
"Reading, mostly, my job is being saved until you know, I remember more," she says rapidly finishing the last part of her sentence.
"What are you reading?"
"Everything. All my books over and over again. You know I have a lot of books," she says.
He smiles and takes another bite of his ice cream, dreamily remembering her bookcase, shelves and drawers filled with literature.
"But you know," she starts. "It's the strangest thing. I found, in some of my books. They have little bits of writing in them. Like little side comments, they were really good though, but I don't know where they came from."
He continues eating his ice cream, trying not to make eye contact with her. She seems to be formulating it all out in her head, wondering who could have possibly written it.
"Maybe you did," he tells her.
However to his dismay she shakes her head decisively.
"It's not my handwriting though. It looks like a guy wrote it. But it was brilliant little comments and they made me laugh too."
He just takes a bit of his ice cream, but finds the flavor is no longer to his liking. In his state of mind, he's trying not to draw too much attention to the subject. He really wishes she would just drop it. But he knows her, and her mind and knows it could be a very long time. But after awhile he assures her, it's probably from an old boyfriend. This makes her more subdued and they let themselves sink into a silent bliss.
He's lying on her bed, while she's carefully stacking various books into the cardboard box below her. One of the books, sparks his curiosity, while she's not looking of course, he takes it in his hands and begins to flip the pages incessantly. One of the things he loves about her, is not a word has to pass between them. A word might slip here and there, but altogether, nothing needs to be spoken. On occasion of course words can be his friend; he relaxes knowing she expects nothing he can't give her. He snatches his pen from the back pocket of his jeans, beginning to write notes on the side. She turns around again, to watch him, because she thinks one day she'll look away too long and before she knows it he'll be gone. Her beautiful blue eyes spot him writing and she grins sheepishly.
"Jess…."
He doesn't stop writing though, but fails in concealing a grin.
"Just one thing I promise," he tells her.
"Jess…" she says again, but she still doesn't do anything to try and stop him.
With the dotting of the last 'i' he places the book back down.
"Half of my books have you written all over them," she tells him, laughing at the thought.
She mindlessly plays with her hands, but he grabs one of them, pulling her forward, towards him, towards the bed. The brunette allows herself to be lowered down and pulled closely to the body of the boy lying next to her.
"One of these days I'm going to open one of these books and wonder who wrote in it," she says. He tries to grin, but the full weight of her comment, collapses anything resembling a smile. Her words, from his point of view, take it to mean that they have no future. He finds himself drifting apart from her slightly, after all what's the use hanging around if she sees nothing past now with him. His hand loosens around her body and she feels him move away from her. Her realization of his taking of her words, are too slow.
"Oh, Jess…I didn't mean it like that –"
"I know," he says getting up and stretching. But no matter how many times he's lied, he can never seem to truly bypass her. She eyes him carefully knowing he's throwing this way out of proportion. "I have to go," he tells her.
"Don't leave," she says trying to make it sound vague and informal, put a plea unmistakably passes from her lips.
"Bye Rory," he says, pecking her on the lips, lingering only long enough to make her wish she could take back her words. She finds sometimes that with him words can be her worst enemy.
When she does finally return home, she has a full fledged smile on her face. She enters the stony steps of the home she and Clark share. There's nothing special in her eyes about that magnificent piece of architecture. It's grand to be sure, but there is no brilliancy in its story and within its walls, she feels nothing but loneliness. She hears the roar of the television and she knows he's home. His eyes spot her as she enters the living room, and she finds a football game adorning the TV screen.
"Hey babe," he says, acknowledging her presence but not taking his eyes off of the screen.
She nestles her body down next to his on the couch cushion. She has yet to become wholly comfortable with his presence, yet there's something deserving in his nature that she finds incredibly alluring.
"Where were you?" he asks her, putting an arm around her, yet again, not looking at her.
"With Jess," she tells him.
His eyes immediately jump from the TV to her. She reads his face of suspicion and jealously and suppresses a laugh.
"Don't worry Clark, he's a friend. He likes to read, and I know you don't like to read anyway."
She strokes his hair; she finds it's a habit now, as if she used to do it before the accident but when she reaches the top of his head all she finds it hard, gelled hair. He's still looking at her, trying to decipher her words, as if there was a hidden meaning.
"Damn right I don't like reading, reading is for –"
"I read," she says calmly.
"Yea, but sweetheart you're a girl and guys read to get girls, otherwise they are –"
"Clark…he's an old friend, there's nothing between us, absolutely nothing. Can you understand that?" she asks him, smiling, letting him know, she is serious without being mad at him.
The anger slips off his face. "Sorry, I just…well I don't want anyone taking advantage of you. I love you Rory," he tells her.
She bites her bottom lip, not seductively by any means, but more as a defense mechanism. She has yet to become accustomed to the 'L' word, as she has yet to use to in front of him.
She kisses him softly before he turns back to the television. She gets up and makes her way up the flight of stairs and throwing herself onto her luxurious bed, wondering if what she just told Clark was absolutely true.
A/N: this is I think my favorite chapter so far…Look what happens when you're stuck at a cottage, writing bits of a story on looseleaf paper and napkins. Please tell me what you think. Feedback Appreciated, as always. :) Lacy