Chasing Aphrodite
Chapter 4: The Night in Question
Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls. It belongs to Amy Sherman- and Daniel Palladino, the WB, and its affiliates, etc, etc. I also don't own "The Night in Question" by Tobias Wolff. Any portions borrowed from it were used with the utmost respect and admiration for the author. In fact, on the chance-in-hell he's reading this: Tobias, I'd love to sit in on one of your classes!
A/N: Thanks to everyone who helped me as this chapter progressed, including Elise, Julia, Leigh, and Arianna. This chapter is dedicated to Sarah 'cuz I love her and to Elise 'cuz I really wanna be her when I grow up. (E, you're creating a monster…). Enjoy, everyone, and please, please review. Thanks. -Becka
Rory took off her coat and hung it on the hook beside the door, then immediately headed for her room. She was almost past the couch when her mother hurried through the door.
"Rory," Lorelai sighed, watching her daughter's retreating back. She opened her mouth to say something else but quickly closed it, knowing she wasn't going to fix this tonight. When she heard Rory's bedroom door click shut, she frowned and removed her coat.
Inside her room, Rory kicked off her shoes. One of them crashed against her wall, but she didn't flinch. She moved to her dresser and yanked the drawers open, searching for her favorite pajamas. Not finding them, she felt irrational tears of frustration start to burn the backs of her eyes. She dumped the clothes on the floor and plopped down beside them, rooting through the pile. They weren't there. She wiped angrily at her eyes.
There was a soft knock on her door, and, on instinct, she glanced in its direction. It inched open a little, and she saw her mother's hand sneak through the small opening, the missing pajamas dangling from her fingers. Rory glared at them, refusing to move.
Lorelai didn't say anything or come further into the room. She just continued to hold out her hand, waiting for Rory to give in and take them.
After a long moment, Rory stood up and reluctantly took the pajamas from her mother's hand. "Thank you," she mumbled.
On the other side of the door, Lorelai smiled. "You're welcome," she returned quietly before shutting the door again and leaving her daughter in peace.
Rory watched the closed door helplessly for a few seconds before slowly changing into her pajamas and crawling into bed. She settled her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. They opened again. She wasn't tired. She was too angry and frustrated and confused to sleep. Irritated, she yanked herself into a sitting position and leaned against her headboard, arms folded over her chest like a petulant child. Her eyes wandered aimlessly around the room and soon fell on the stack of books she'd put on her desk earlier that evening. Jess's books. She climbed out of bed and walked over to them. Flipping through the stack, she felt herself growing angrier. He knew she hated Hemingway, and yet he insisted on forcing her to read them, using any means necessary. Hemingway, Hemingway, and more Hemingway, she thought bitterly. Then she uncovered the book on the bottom. The Night in Question. Tobias Wolff. She gave it a long look before picking it up and flipping through the pages. Sure enough, he'd written notes in the margins. She ran her fingers over his words, wondering how he managed to write so small. Book in hand, she walked to her bed and settled herself under the blankets again. She turned to the first page and started to read.
-
"C'mon, Jess, hand it over," the ash-blonde ordered, angling for the bottle he held just out of reach.
He smirked and shook his head. "Nope, I think you've had enough, young lady."
"You're an asshole," she stated. "Give me the bottle."
"It's my last one."
"We can get more later," she bargained. "It's not the last beer on earth."
"Ah, but it could be."
"Only if we were in hell," she responded. "And we are not in hell."
"Not yet," Jess agreed.
She narrowed her eyes at him and yanked the bottle out of his hand. "Don't get serious on me," she ordered before taking a long drink.
He watched her, letting his eyes trace over the lines of her face. Glancing at him, she held the beer back out. He took it, his eyes meeting hers. They were green; he'd never noticed that before. He blinked and raised the bottle to his lips, letting swallow after swallow etch a jagged path down his throat.
"Don't drink it all, you ass!" she exclaimed, smacking his arm. The bottle jerked away from his lips. She grabbed it back and shook it. "Nice. Really nice," she complained. "I liked this beer."
"That's because I'm not cheap like Wade," Jess intoned.
"True," she nodded. "Very true. You steal only the best, Jess Mariano. I'll give you that." She glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes and giggled. "Not even denying it?" she asked, shoving him again. "I knew you fucking stole it."
"You think I can afford that shit?" he asked.
She giggled again and threw the bottle on the floor before settling back against the couch. Jess moved to mimic her position, and they silently sat side-by-side for a while, letting the buzz take over. After a long moment, she sighed and looked at him. "You'll be able to afford that shit someday."
He turned his eyes to her. "What?"
"I was just thinking about it – about you, and I had this vision. You're gonna be somebody someday." She patted his leg. "I have high hopes for you."
He scoffed under his breath and faced forward again. "I knew I should've cut you off."
"What does that mean?"
"You're hallucinating," Jess replied, "which means in about three hours, you'll be throwing up." He rested his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes. "I'm too tired to hold your hair back."
"Like you would," she snorted.
He peered over at her. "Somebody'd have to, and you can sure as hell bet Wade won't go near you."
"You're so charming," she said sarcastically.
"I'm just stating facts."
"Well, I can hold my own hair back, thank you," she said, throwing the long strands behind her shoulders. "And I'm hardly drunk at all."
He closed his eyes again. "If you say so."
"I do say so," she repeated insolently.
"Okay then," he mumbled sleepily. He was just drifting off a little when she spoke again.
"Hey Jess?"
"What?" he muttered.
"Look at me."
Annoyed, he hesitated, and then he slowly opened his eyes and glanced over at her. She didn't say anything, just stared at him. "What?" he asked again.
Without a word, she scooted closer and placed her lips on his. His body tightened in surprise for a second, and she pulled away. He watched her, not daring to move.
"I don't know why I just did that," she admitted.
He nodded slowly and started to open his mouth to respond when she leaned in again, kissing him with more force this time. She took advantage of his parted lips and let her tongue dive between them. Then, lifting her hands to cradle his face, she repositioned herself on his lap, her bent legs on either side of his.
Jess let his hands move to her waist, holding her in place.
-
Rory turned the page and smiled. She'd been reading for a while now, and she had to admit it – she liked this book. But it wasn't even so much the book; it was what Jess had written. It was seeing the stories through his eyes. Like the first story… it wasn't long, just a short tale about an obituary writer who gets fired for writing a notice for someone who isn't dead, a confusion created by the undead man himself. It was an interesting story, but what was more interesting was what Jess had written beside the question: "What do you pride yourself on?"
A lack of pride.
She'd giggled at the four words. So simply put and perfectly ironic. And yet, at the same time, she knew he'd meant more by them. She'd wished she had him there to interrogate. Instead, she'd sighed sadly and continued on.
She'd seen him in a character in the second story: Ryan, the mouthy member of an army unit. Given Jess's tendency towards silent observation, she found it strange that she saw so much of him in a character that talked and talked. But, she decided, it was the way Ryan constantly pushed authority figures, forcing the lieutenant to admit his weakness, forcing him to see his folly.
"He's such an asshole," Ryan said. "Somebody's got to brief him on that, because he just doesn't get the picture. He doesn't have any hard intelligence of what an asshole he is. Somebody around here's got to take responsibility."
Beside that, Jess had written Amen.
He didn't write anything on the pages of the next story. Not a word. It was about a boy who spent a weekend skiing with his fun-loving but irresponsible father. She read it twice, and the second time, she noticed a slight pencil mark beside a line. "Your mother will never forgive me for this," the father said to the son. Rory felt a wave of sadness rush over her, but she kept reading.
"She won't forgive me for this," he said. "Do you understand? Never."
"I guess," I said, but no guesswork was required; she wouldn't forgive him.
Rory remembered looking at the photo albums with Liz – the absence of any pictures of Jess's father. She looked at his small pencil mark, the only indication he'd read the story. She understood.
-
She tasted like beer and cigarettes. Jess couldn't get enough. His fingers tightened, balling the hem of her tank top a little, and then released. He let them trail underneath the cotton, encountering soft skin. It must've tickled because she giggled and shifted on his lap. He gasped quietly, and she froze, meeting his eyes. Then, with a sly smile, she did it again, and again, and again.
They didn't notice as time slipped away. They didn't hear the footsteps outside the door. They didn't hear the key as it slipped into the lock, and, moments later, they didn't hear it clank against the kitchen counter. It was only when he spoke his girlfriend's name that reality contracted once and then widened around them.
Jess flipped his best friend's girlfriend off his lap. She landed with a dull thud on the cushion beside him, her shirt crumpled where his fingers had dug in.
"Jess?" Wade questioned, his voice pained and disbelieving.
"Shit," Jess muttered. He couldn't think of a different word. It just kept repeating itself in his head over and over. Shit. Shit. Shit. Beside him, he felt her stand up and hurry over to her boyfriend.
"Wade," she pleaded, reaching out.
He jerked away. "Don't fucking touch me, Terri," he ordered. Her name sounded like a curse word as it sliced through the air. She took a step back, and his eyes turned back to Jess.
"Jess," he said again.
Jess sat on the couch with his head in his hands. Shit. The damn word wouldn't go away. He couldn't think. Why couldn't he think?
"Jess, goddammit! Look at me, you fucker!" Wade yelled, taking a step towards him.
Jess didn't move. He sat and waited for Wade to grab him and punch him. Kick him. Do something. Anything.
But he didn't. Jess wanted him to beat the hell out of him, but he knew he wouldn't, because they were friends. They'd been friends for as long as he could remember. And you don't beat the shit out of a friend, no matter what. And you don't kiss a friend's girlfriend, no matter what. It was understood.
Wade silently stood there and looked at him. Jess could feel his eyes puncturing his body. If it'd been knife blades he was feeling, he would've lost count of the wounds.
His limbs felt unbearably heavy when he stood up, and his head swam a bit, only partially from the alcohol. He didn't meet Wade's eyes when he walked by. He didn't venture a look at Terri. He just walked out the door. As it closed behind him, he heard the sound of an expensive beer bottle shattering against the wall.
-
Rory read and read. At one point, she glanced at her door and noticed that her mother must've gone to bed. Beyond the door was darkness. She burrowed further into her covers and looked at the book again. She read about a man – an everyday high school teacher – who became fixated with a woman he met in passing at a bar. The comments Jess wrote in the margins varied from humorous to philosophical to flippant, finding different ways to look at the moralities within the stories. And, not often, but sometimes, he just underlined.
That when the truth did more harm than a lie, you had to give the lie its due. That if other people had to suffer just so you could have a clean conscience you should accept your fallen condition and get on with it.
He didn't comment on the passages he underlined. It drove her crazy. She had a feeling underlining meant something to him that only he understood. She read those passages five, ten, fifteen times, trying to get into his head.
She moved through a story of two boys with big plans to build an airplane, read as one of the boys realized that things change, and you can't go back. She read about a girl whose father was institutionalized – read her conversations with her stepmother. She smirked when she read one line and made a mental note to mention it to Jess later.
Then, Rory reached a story about a man who was pulled off ambush duty because his mother died. Convinced it's a case of mistaken identity, he goes along with it, grateful for being taken out of the endless waiting in the cold, damp hole beside the road. The man knows it isn't his mother because his mother wasn't sick, because she couldn't be dead. He hadn't spoken to her in two years. Rory read, a pit of foreboding knowledge growing in her stomach. When she reached the underlining, she hesitated, not from surprise but because she didn't know if she wanted to go on. She did.
He closes his eyes again. He listens to himself breathe and feels the familiar, almost muscular ache of knowing that he is beyond his mother's reach. That he has put himself where she cannot see him or speak to him or touch him in that thoughtless way of hers, resting her hands on his shoulders as she stops behind his chair to ask him a question or just rest for a moment, her mind somewhere else. This was supposed to be her punishment, but somehow it has become his own. He understands that it has to stop. It is killing him.
She was so focused on the story that she didn't notice at first that Jess had written beside it. The first time he underlined and wrote. His words: He has to die eventually.
-
Jess sat on the fire escape, letting the cigarette in his hand burn down to a small stub. Every once in a while, the ash would grow too long and crumble and fall between the slats of metal. After one cigarette burned away, he'd light another, take one drag, and let the rest fall to the ground.
He didn't hear her at first. Then, gradually, his ears picked up on the unfamiliar noise. She whistled again. He looked down at her.
"Let me up?" she asked.
He sighed and stood, lowering the fire escape ladder to the ground. As she climbed up, he sat back down and lit another cigarette. Reaching his landing, she scooted off the ladder and sat next to him.
"He kicked me out," she said flatly.
Jess exhaled smoke into the night air. "He'll change his mind."
Terri took the cigarette from Jess's hand and lifted it to her mouth. As the wisps of gray slipped out between her lips, she smiled a little. "It tastes like you."
He looked at her, his expression solemn.
"I always wanted to know, you know? I knew you'd be different than him," she observed, taking another deep breath of cigarette.
Jess stared down at the dumpster.
"He hates you," she stated matter-of-factly. She was always cruel when she felt vulnerable. Jess knew that about her. "He'll forgive me, but he isn't going to forgive you." Jess blinked but didn't meet her eyes. "You were more important to him," she said with a shrug. "He expected more from you." She stopped to consider that for a second then added, "They're all going to hate you. Me? I'm just a stupid chick who fucks up."
She let the cigarette roll from her fingers and float lackadaisically down to the alley below. Then, she turned her eyes to him. "You've got nothin' to lose now."
He lifted his eyes to meet hers. Then, in a flash, he was kissing her. She smiled and returned it eagerly. "Inside," she mumbled against his mouth. Together, they stood and floundered in the direction of the window. She climbed through and, losing her footing, fell to a heap on the floor. She was laughing riotously when he made it through the window and yanked her to her feet. "Thank God your room is small," she joked as they stumbled onto the bed.
He kissed her again, effectively shutting her up. When she lifted his shirt over his head, he didn't falter. He just kept going, finishing what they'd started.
-
Two Boys and a Girl. As Rory read the title of the story, her heart started thumping. Two boys and a girl – it was a pretty simple way to summarize her past year. She started reading, deciding not to look at Jess's comments until her second time through the story. This one, she wanted to read for herself. After the first two pages, she'd fallen in love with it. It was the story of a boy who slowly fell in love with a girl and carefully, over time, chiseled his way into her heart. She knew without looking at Jess's notes which role he played.
Gilbert was deeply ironic. At the high school where he and Rafe had been classmates, the yearbook editors voted him Most Cynical. That pleased him. Gilbert believed disillusionment to be the natural consequence, even the duty, of a mind that cut through the authorized version to the true nature of things. He made it his business to take nothing on trust, to respect no authority but that of his own judgment, and to be elegantly unsurprised at the grossest crimes and follies, especially those of the world's anointed.
Rory liked Gilbert immediately. It wasn't long before she realized, however, that Mary Ann, the girl in the story, was not her. But it didn't really matter. As Rory read the story, she pretended she was Mary Ann, being won over by Gilbert's sarcastic charm. She read it quickly, caught up in the love story, but soon it became obvious that the story was also one of betrayal. After all, Mary Ann was the girlfriend of Gilbert's best friend. When Rory finished and found the ending to be an unhappy one, she suddenly felt glad that she wasn't Mary Ann. Then, she went back and read it again, this time paying attention to Jess's notes.
He'd made comments here and there, passing thoughts. A quote from "On the Road" near its reference in the story. Small things. For the most part, the story was free of comments, and Rory realized that it hadn't affected him as it had her. Then, she got to the betrayal. She read what he'd written beside it, her brow furrowing. She read the passage again.
He was about to betray his best friend. To cut Rafe off from the two people he trusted most, possibly, he understood, from trust itself. Himself, too, he would betray – his belief, held deep under the stream of his flippancy, that he was steadfast and loyal. And he knew what he was doing. That was why this whole thing was tragic, because he knew what he was doing and could not do otherwise.
Uncertainly, Rory turned her eyes back to Jess's scrawled words: the night in question/and so I answered.
-
He stared at the ceiling. He felt the bed shift beside him as she moved, but he didn't look in her direction. He just lay there.
She propped her chin on her hand and studied him. "Jess?" she whispered.
He still didn't move.
"Jess?" she repeated, letting her fingers brush across his arm just enough to get his attention.
He turned his head and looked at her.
"Shit! Don't look like that," she pleaded. "It's okay. He'll never know. I won't tell him, and you won't tell him. It's okay. I promise."
Jess almost laughed. It's okay? Nothing had been fucking okay in a very long time, and now? Now it was…
"Please stop looking at me like that," she said quietly.
He turned his eyes back to the ceiling.
She laid her head back on the pillow but kept watching him. "Are you all right? I've never seen you like this."
Then you haven't been looking hard enough, he thought absently.
Feeling useless, she sighed and muffled a small scream in the pillow. Then, understanding, she glanced at him again. "I'm your rock bottom, aren't I? This is it for you."
He slowly shifted his eyes to meet hers. They said everything that needed to be said.
She opened her mouth to say something but closed it before she spoke. Instead, cautiously, she inched towards him and placed a soft kiss on his lips. "I'm sorry," she murmured. Then she pulled away and flopped backward, the back of her head hitting the pillow ungracefully. They both turned their eyes to the ceiling. More to herself than to him, she whispered bitterly, "At least I'm finally something."
Jess closed his eyes.
-
Rory continued on through the book, reading each story and taking in his thoughts but also finding her own connections with the stories. It was a rare book that could bring out such a variety of emotions in the reader, make them question what they believe and who they are, make them think about life in a slightly different way. She began to wonder if Jess had consciously chosen this book to give to her or if he'd forgotten how powerful it was. She read about a couple torn apart and brought back together, revenge that spiraled out of control, young love squandered and allowed to slip away, strength in the face of childhood trauma.
She smiled sadly when she got to Firelight, the story of a boy being dragged to unaffordable houses by his single mother in her attempts to provide him with a dream and hope for the future. She was surprised to read how warmly Jess seemed to view the story. It obviously reminded him of Liz but not the side of her he resented. He'd written her name beside a passage:
This time I just stared at her sullenly. She looked wrong in the rocking chair; she was too glamorous for it. I could see her glamor almost as a thing apart, another presence, a brassy impatient friend just dying to get her out of here, away from all this domesticity.
Beneath his mother's name, he'd written an entity unto herself.
Rory wondered how long ago he'd written it, knowing enough to recognize that any warm thoughts Jess had of his mother were stuck in a distant past.
He'd underlined the end.
This is the moment I dream of when I am far away; this is my dream of home. But in the very heart of it I catch myself bracing a little, as if in fear of being tricked. As if to really believe in it will somehow make it vanish, like a voice waking me from sleep.
-
"Jess?" a voice exclaimed shrilly, jolting him awake. He squinted against the bright light streaming in from the hallway. Confused for a second, he glanced around and saw the mop of long, blonde hair beside him start to stir.
"What the hell is this?" Liz yelled, taking in the sight before her.
Shit, Jess muttered. He jerked his legs out of bed a second before Liz could yank on them. Pulling on his boxers, he stood up.
Terri lifted her head.
"Terri?" Liz shrieked, recognizing her.
Immediately, Terri buried her face back into the pillow.
"Terri's in your bed, Jess?" Liz shouted, turning angry eyes on him. "Wade's Terri is in your fucking bed? What were you doing? Oh no," she stopped him, even though he hadn't attempted to speak. "I know what you were doing. What is wrong with you?" she accused, reaching out to grab his arm.
He jerked away and walked past her. "None of your goddamned business," he retorted.
"None of my business?" she repeated, following after him. "None of my business! My son – my teenage son – is in his room in a bed with a girl, and it's none of my business. Since when is that none of my business?"
He chuckled under his breath and turned on her. "Since forever!" he shot back. "Don't act like you care now!"
"I have always cared, you ungrateful shit!"
He rolled his eyes and walked back into his room. Terri was already gone, leaving his window wide open. He moved over and slammed it shut before grabbing his jeans off the floor and yanking them on.
"How long have you been sleeping with her?" she asked. When he didn't respond, her voice rose. "How long have you been sleeping with her, Jess?" Then, an idea taking root, she practically choked. "How long have you been sleeping with anyone? She was the first, right? Just Terri?"
She heard him mumble a curse word and 'clueless' under his breath, and she about lost it. "Shit, Jess!" she yelped, panic in her voice. "Tell me you were safe. Please tell me you were safe."
He grabbed a shirt and headed out of the bedroom. Before he could reach the apartment door, she rushed after him and yanked on his arm. "Tell me you were safe."
"I'm not an idiot!" he yelled back.
She froze. Then, she released his arm and numbly sat down on the couch. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" she asked herself.
"It's just sex!" Jess spat angrily. "It's not the end of the world. You, of all people, should know that."
Her eyes shot up to him. "When did this happen? When did you get like this? Sleeping around? Drinking?" He opened his mouth to protest, so she quickly added, "I can smell it on your breath. And stealing? You don't think I know you've been stealing?"
Jess couldn't believe this. He couldn't believe she was actually blaming him. "You did this!" he argued, his voice pained. "You did this! Not me!"
"Jess," she said sadly.
He shook his head. "You're unbelievable."
Liz rubbed her temples. "I can't do this. Why did you have to do this tonight? I cannot handle this tonight," she mumbled.
"Yeah, it must be hard to be sober for once," he agreed. "Maybe you should just ship me off to Luke then? Isn't that how you handle all of your fucking problems? Drag him in to fix them?"
She looked at him again. "You're right," she agreed.
"What?"
"I can't do this anymore," she admitted.
Not quite understanding, he watched her stand up and walk to the bathroom.
"You can be his problem now," she muttered under her breath before letting the door click shut.
But he'd heard her.
The next day, when she sent him away, he didn't even put up a fight.
-
Rory read the last page and closed the book, sliding down to rest her head on the pillow. For a long time, she just laid there, thinking about the stories and what Jess had written. He had given her what she needed. In a small way, and maybe without even knowing it, he'd let her in. She felt a tear roll down her cheek, remembering their fight. No longer mad at him or her mom, she was irritated with herself for being so stupid, for expecting more than he was prepared to give. She glanced at the spine of the book on the pillow beside her then sat back up. Flipping through the pages, she found what she was looking for. She read the passage again.
In the solemnity of her attention he heard himself saying things he had said to no one else, confessing hopes so implausible he had barely confessed them to himself. He was often surprised by his own honesty. But he stopped short of telling Mary Ann what was most on his mind, and what he believed she already knew, because of the chance that she didn't know or wasn't ready to admit she did. Once he said it, everything would change, for all of them, and he wasn't prepared to risk this.
Grabbing a pen off her bedside table, Rory angled the book and wrote in the margin beside the passage. Then she'll wait.