Inside Out
Chapter 3 – And I don't want to drag it out
Disclaimer: Again, chapter titles—Yellowcard's. Own practically nothing. GG is ASP's, despite my personal belief that they should hire a team from the lit thread. ;-)
A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews and feedback. I really, really appreciate it, and I love hearing what you guys think. Italics are what happened in the past (except the obvious for emphasis and thoughts, of course).
To Lindsay, b/c you take the time to review and encourage practically every story I know. Thanks. To Mai, again b/c you, my friend, are Mai. To Stephanie, b/c you refrained from giving me a papercut I deserved. lol. And to Elise, for being a fantastic beta, writer, and person. (And book recommender!) Have fun striking and un-strike soon! Hee.
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It's uncomfortable, leaving, first because of the way everyone looks at them. Questions that can't be asked hover just behind other customers' inquiring eyes, paying more attention to the two…(teenagers? adults?) checking out of the motel than to their breakfasts.
And secondly, because the first question on that unasked list is one they don't have the answer to: where are they going?
What are they doing here?
That's the second, and the answer to that isn't entirely clear either.
Jess concentrates on the sound of newspapers rustling, chairs scraping back from tables, soft chatter, waiting for their turn in line. Rory takes a business card from the stand beside them and begins folding it back and forth, into patterns, squares, triangles. Eyes bore into both their backs. They continue standing apart; don't move closer, avoid one another's glances.
Last night…
They stopped, nothing happened, why? There were times when they'd touch each other at any chance, just for the sake of contact, of being together. There was a time three nights ago like that!
Neither of them knows where they stand right now, and when they are both uncertain, this is how they act. It makes it worse. And the memories.
You look nice. The kisses. The way her hand brushed his arm, the way he held her before they fell asleep.
They make it worse too.
He does not want to have to be the one who says, even suggests, what he's been thinking this whole time.
Rory's never seen him upset, not seriously, and she's never going to. At least, she's never seen him act upset. She can read his eyes like no one can, and he is grateful that she has never responded to what she's seen when he didn't want it.
"Next?" the lady calls.
Silently, Jess steps forward, Rory behind him, and hands her their card.
They walk to the car, still nearly a foot apart.
It's like there is a magnetic force between them, Rory thinks. Like when she was a kid and thought it was so cool how magnets could repel like that…and she would hold them, facing opposite ends together, trying to force them as close as she could, watching one fall to the side when she couldn't get them to touch. She'd grin and try again.
That was cool. Very cool.
This is not so cool.
She wonders what magnet she turned around last night, what she did. Her thoughts return to the reason for this mysterious trip. The stress, the pressure, the running away so suddenly—it feels like the weight of what she's carrying is increasing, slowly but surely. Her eyes mist over and she swallows; watches Jess unlock the door. He's just tired. She is too.
It grates on both of them… What wouldn't she give for time when they don't have to worry, can relax and be together and have reasons to smile? She needs to see him happier, reassuring her. What if he gets drunk on driving, drunk on leaving, running, escaping? If his face freezes in that expression? There's little sarcasm in her thoughts, but that tiny vein of it is always there, always, because it keeps her sane.
That look, that feeling when she stares into his eyes. It's unnerving. As unsure as he is about everything, he's always had confidence. Always been cocky. She's used to it.
And he thinks maybe…
He gets angry, inwardly, seeing that she doesn't understand. Or thinking she does and is trying to make this all harder for him, for them. Angry enough that he wants to lash out, to scream, but instead he returns her kisses and he tells her he'll drive, he'll get it, he'll do that, despite her protests. And he sees that she doesn't think like he does, and her actions, her words—they're honest. She's willing to let him see everything, anything.
He tries to hide everything, yet she seems to read his mind. She's open, trusting, all of it—but she still seems entirely enigmatic to him: he can't see through a barrier that doesn't exist.
Ironic, eh?
And then when she seems to begin to see, why he did this, what he means, what he's thinking or thinks he knows…when she acts on it, eases away, or starts to…
An unknown feeling rises up and rests in his throat. And he wants to grab her and shake her and tell her this is insane. He needs her to say he is crazy, not thinking straight, she understands and it'll be okay, they don't need to do this, it's been a nice drive, hasn't it?
Oh yeah, it has.
He wishes he had her talent for rambling; saying random things and talking too fast but getting the point across anyway. She isn't taking advantage of this: it's another talent she doesn't seem to realize that she has.
Unspoken words hang in the air between them as they drive. He needs her to say something, and it's only been what, a few hours?
Pathetic.
His life would make a perfect book, and now that he considers it, hers would too. Theirs would, their story…closer to a romance or a thriller? He's always hated both.
It does not fit neatly into a classic tragic novel, nor could it be one whose plot travels up and down, up and down, and ends up perfect and happy.
It's been rough, confusing. There have been nothings and somethings by turn; there is no single adjective to describe their relationship. And this is one of the times where he just wishes there were something he could say, some thought he could pin down in his mind to describe how he is feeling, how he thinks she is feeling, and what really happened. Now the causes for strange actions, sayings, feelings, are not just from things that happened last night—it's a buildup of all the events, the drama points, the happy moments, the tears, as it has been for months now.
By the end of this (the end? It's a scary phrase) they'll both be certifiable, won't they…
Or only he will.
He sighs, and she turns toward him yet again with a look of concern.
"Don't ask me if you can drive," he warns.
Her expression is more startled than he expected. "Fine."
"Geez." It's to himself, not her. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes soften, her mouth still a thin line. "Yeah, okay." These apologies, agreements, quick awkward moments, are getting more frequent. Too frequent. Her gaze travels to the window, forward, backward, to the floor, and returns to his face. "Don't you think we ought to stop somewhere?" She'll say it again; maybe his response will be different. Maybe just now he's forgotten that this same basic conversation occurred yesterday.
"Stop? Like where?" he challenges her. Their thoughts are there, unvoiced, and they fight silently for dominance, for agreement. Who gets to speak first; whose turn is it to give in?
He always does though, eventually, even if she tries to before he does.
"I don't know, somewhere, stop, think about this, talk about this." (They need to. Don't they?) There's an edge to the way she says it that he ignores.
"Where do you suggest?"
"Damn it, Jess, I don't know!" Rory bursts out. "You're the one who got us into this stupid car anyway, took us out here, drove us away. And," she adds, gaining strength, "you've been driving practically this whole time, in case you haven't noticed!" She sits back, half satisfied, half embarrassed, but her classic, stubborn determination still burns in the centers of her eyes.
He takes a while to respond, and his voice is far lower, softer, than it normally is. "I'll find somewhere."
She takes a deep breath, wondering if this is what she should say.
"That's not the point."
"Really?" He almost considers breaking and pulling over.
There are a thousand different things she could answer, is thinking. Not the point. Not the point. Not what this is about; he doesn't understand, he doesn't get it! She thinks that he still does not know why she came with him in the first place, and it scares her that he wouldn't ask and that he left anyway.But the amount she misses their banter takes over.
"Do you seriously want to end up in the Atlantic Ocean? Give me the map."
"I don't think we're heading towards the Atlantic," he replies.
"Well, you're not going to know until you hand me that."
He shakes his head, biting his lip, and reaches over to find the map to give to her. She takes it, her hand resting on his arm for a few moments longer than it needs to.
Another almost-fight resolved. Maybe one of these days he should just let it go and not fight, let something stupid bring the axe down. The longer everything continues, the more it will eventually hurt. He's less and less confident that he can deal with that, at least, deal with it the way he'd like to.
But that isn't part of their journey today, apparently.
The light fades to dusk and then to darkness, and he switches their headlights back on. Rory sits in the passenger seat, torn between being grateful for his willingness to drive on and on and keep her from having to worry, and frustration at her inability to do anything. Her instinct to be part of things, to help, is totally useless. To him, to them.
It's his fault.
Everything is his fault.
That's what he'd say. Maybe he's right. Maybe he's not.
The car slows, jerking Rory out of her half-sleep. A look of sudden decision crosses Jess' face, and Rory has just time enough to catch a glimpse of the exit sign before he swerves off the freeway.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I don't know," he answers, candidly, continuing to drive. He looks at her, watches her for a while, his gaze only half on the road in front of him, transfixed. It's part of what brought them together at first, the reason all their history together happened, the reason she's in this car with him now. (And the reason they have no definite plans, the reason they're heading blindly into nowhere, instead of going straight to some dirty corner of New York or some other big city where nothing matters. But she doesn't know that.)
There's something about her…when he looks at her, he can't make himself stop. And it's not just that she's beautiful. He can't describe it, not even to himself, but… Something about her.
She can glance at him and look away. She does it all the time.
Now she pointedly ignores him, stifling relieved, nervous laughter. For some reason, his 'I don't know' comment got to her: he taught her spontaneity, and even with her doubt, she listened. (She listened, all right. She doesn't recognize a single one of the place names on these signs, here.) It's kind of nice to know that he follows his own rules.
God, if only she knew.
But again, she doesn't. In fact, that is in large part the point of this, of so many things they've done. She doesn't know, but she wants to. It's one of their biggest differences—it changes everything.
They are a perfect example of a couple with everything in common, as well as an example of the saying "opposites attract."
Does that word even apply to them anymore?
He turns back to the road for a moment, and she thinks that his change of attitude there was possibly part of her imagination.
Except then he tilts his head back toward her. "We should stop somewhere, right?" She ignores his imitation, a grin hidden. It should be wrong for him to say this, after the way he's acted, the way he's continued to take everything. But somehow it doesn't seem that way.
And she smiles, a genuine smile. "Right."
He gets it.
He pulls into a parking space at the edge of the street; slips coins into the meter, and wraps an arm around her shoulders.
They're walking together on a concrete sidewalk, with the kind of cracks that mean it's not new, but it's not that old either… Her mind drifts away from analyzing the scene around them, stuck on this detail.
She imagines little kids jumping over the cracks, standing on tiptoes to avoid walking on any. She remembers how Lorelai had always said, laughing, that she was more likely to break her back by not looking at the sidewalk, so by all means, be sure to step on as many cracks as possible.
There are brick buildings around them, gift shops, bookstores. And…
The sun reappears from behind a cloud, and buildings, traffic lights, everything, is lined in gold. The whole unknown town looks like it's out of a novel or something. Jess seems to be a champion of serendipity—so she's again lucky that he's with her. That she's with him. Things can work; they could talk here.
She pictures a small motel room with cheap blankets and cheesy pictures but a nice view, and him standing beside her with his traditional almost-smile. And she realizes the room she's picturing—she's been in it, they've been in it, just a few days ago.
It never goes away. Never disappears. It can't escape her, either of them. It is a fact and it's there; there forever, no matter what either of them wants to be true.
But…
"I love you, Jess." Yeah, he taught her spontaneity. Which means she tells him how she feels, what she thinks, mostly. What she thinks he needs to know.
At least for Jess, the world is not spinning right now, for this instant. Frozen, frozen. Reaction or tradition or polite response or what happens now, huh?
They stopped. And the pain, right behind them, on its indefatigable chase—it's caught up. He closes his eyes for a split second.
The pause is too long, by just enough. He wouldn't want me in the car if he didn't think that too—
Her flash of thought is gone, and he holds her closer, meaning her to understand, which she does: He does feel the same way. Gestures can be interpreted in one's own way. He's thankful for that.
And does he ever feel like a liar right now. Rory shouldn't be here.
It was her choice. Her choice, her choice, initiated by him.
The arguments crash in his mind, over and over, a storm of indecision—
They do have to talk.
He remembers it so clearly. Well, of course he does. It was less than a week ago…his usual automatic blockout of—unneeded—memories doesn't look like it's going to come into play now.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and slams the car door, turning around to back out, to leave. But she's standing there.
"You can't do this!" she shouts.
He gets out of the car, slams the door again, more forcefully than is necessary. He grabs her arm and he moves her out of the middle of the parking lot. "Jess…" she continues as he makes her walk.
She's so confused, hurried, and he can tell: her hair is messy, her shoes untied, and she's wearing his shirt. At this observation he puts his hand on his forehead, caught between exasperation and…and just…
"It wasn't right." He's shaking his head as he says everything, trying subconsciously to deny it all. No, no, no, that didn't happen. He didn't do that.
They didn't do that.
Except for the fact that they did and she knows it, and he knows it, and that look, God, that look is still in her eyes.
"What are you doing?" she yells again, and quickly corrects herself, nearly hysteric: "You can't. You can't."
"You're not making sense," he starts to say, but he stops himself because it's not true. He knows what she means.
What happened to his heart being impossible to break? To his pride being impossible to crack, to his guilt being impossible to invoke? All of that was always just a façade, but it used to be a stronger one than it is now.
"Rory…" It's all he can think to say.
He impulsively pulls her closer. And closer. Until she's leaning on him, he can feel her shaking, and then…his mouth is on hers and she's kissing him back, continuing their dance.
They break apart. "Damn breathing," he whispers, kissing her again.
He almost starts to shake himself, because he knows she's responding like she wants this, for a reason. This isn't supposed to be her reason. He isn't supposed to be her reason. No. Way.
He pries himself away from her; slams the door a third time, now as a wall between him and the world. He leans on the steering wheel. But she's on the other side of the car, opening the door, answering the question he would never, ever ask her. "Of course I'm coming."
"Rory…"
She is so damn stubborn. She is so damn wrong right now. But he can't explain it all, what he's thinking. He's not quite good enough a liar to tell her last night was nothing, to tell her she's nothing, to tell her they are nothing. And maybe he's partly glad. Because maybe this way, it doesn't have to end right now. It'll just stretch out, painfully, him knowing the eventual result every step of the way. Wonderful.
"It's okay."
"You're sure?" he asks, knowing her response already. She nods.
They aren't nothing. But as he drives away, it feels like that.
"Jess?" she says again.
"Yeah?" he replies absently. They're here, walking on these town streets together, him and her, and it's been days, and it seems much longer, and she should be much more upset than she is, and this is all wrong.
Tell me I'm insane?
Make me say I—
Make me say I love you? Make me say something. Let you forget that any of this exists.
He wants to believe she might do that, but he does know her too well. Sometimes.
She grins again, but her expression softens almost immediately. "You are sleeping tonight," she informs him. She's kind, too kind, concerned. About him. "You need it."
"Yeah, yeah, okay."
He isn't used to being this confused, because before there was always the option of simply not caring, and he keeps finding that harder and harder to consider.
The circle is more vicious that it seems at first.
The hidden part of his mind tells him, again and again, to break out of this, tell her how he feels, ask her what she's thinking. To stop ignoring the fact that not everything is normal. To force her to stop ignoring the fact that not everything can always be okay, that yes, something happened.
To quit running, to let the pain take hold and shatter things and let them come back, differently, maybe better.
But he's not listening.
He knows what he wants, really. Except acting on it, on that, is too fcking hard.