June 29, 2008
They've been sitting for a while in his study under the pretext of looking over a few of his books, but the main reason was of course some peace and quiet. They've just remained there, him in his new ergonomic armchair, her in his old one, reading to him. They're doing well ignoring the sharp voices and icy silences through the door, and suddenly she looks up mid-sentence just to find he's drifted off. She glances at the watch, if she wants to get back to New York tonight she should get going.
She closes the book. She gets up and retrieves the blanket from one of the armrests of his chair and spreads it over his legs, reaches for the handle under the seat and pulls it, tilting the chair backwards slightly. He'll probably wake up soon, but instructions are to let him rest when he needs to. She looks at the watch again, but still sits down in her chair, watching him; He seems so small, he's lost weight. She feels heavier from the observation, but still can't bring herself to exit into the argument outside the study door. She can hear it pretty clearly now anyway.
"Your childish behavior is the only reason she's putting her existence on hold."
"I haven't asked her to do that."
"She doesn't need to be asked and you know that, and after twenty-three years I think it's tall time you learned to keep up an exterior that bears some semblance to adulthood."
Rory gets up and exits the study as quickly as she can, closing the door behind her. Lorelai and Emily fall quiet in their spots at the end of the corridor and look at her. She frowns and gestures at them to go into the living room, she herds them from there to the dining room, where she stops by the door to the kitchen.
"He's asleep. With no help from you."
Emily and Lorelai glare at each other momentarily before the former walks past Rory heading for the study. Lorelai leans on the door frame, mother and daughter look at each other.
"Was he okay?"
"The two of you being at each other's throats doesn't help."
Lorelai sighs. Rory turns and goes after Emily, stops her before she reaches the study.
"Grandma, I have to go."
Emily looks at her, a bit absently, but not angry anymore. She turns and follows her down the hall.
"How is New York?"
"Fine, busy." After a second she adds: "Nothing on hold about my life."
Emily smiles bleakly.
"I'll call and check in in a few days." Rory says.
She kisses her grandmother's cheek and lets her enter the study before heading for the door. Lorelai is waiting by it and hands her the jacket.
"Tell me about work." She asks.
Rory slides into her jacket.
"Not much to tell, it's cake. Nothing I didn't do at Yale, including the occasional coffee run."
"Well, do you like it?"
She shrugs.
"It's fine. The content's not my cup of tea, but, I know what I'm doing which is nice, just-"
"Just what?"
She's not lying about work, it is easy. She's good at it, without liking it much, without really trying. She's starting to think that she's good at most things, and maybe that's her problem. It would be easy to get sucked into something she didn't even mean to do. She's starting to feel like she can relate to her father, even Logan, way too much lately.
She tries to remember when she last felt like herself, comfortable in herself, recalling mostly reading in her old room, watching dust float in the air, and that's not a lifestyle-option, but-
When she went back to Yale, that's the last time.
But, there was something different with her even after that, she'd started thinking of herself as lucky, so lucky, like a character from a story book, a role she knew well, that every girl knows well, not quite for her specifically, but not uncomfortable either, just plausible. She always has that option, go to college, find a husband, pick the road more travelled, but she wishes she didn't. You can always come back but you can't come back all the way.
"Just, something Mitchum said."
"Huntzberger? That's ancient history."
Lorelai looks worried, sounds upset, and she knows why, remembers what happened the last time Rory thought about Mitchum Huntzberger's words. A great assistant. That's what he said. And all Rory can think about is how comfortable her job is, dull for sure, but with a distinct place for her, or someone like her, and there might be many. And she has a stomach ache about the fact that someone as rotten as Mitchum may have had a point about her.
"Maybe."
She tries to take her mother's words to heart, but finds that the alternative doesn't make her feel all that awesome either, she doesn't miss the campaign trail. It all just seemed like someone else's life, the last year. Not what she pictured, or, maybe exactly what she pictured, one she had been prepared to lead, just, not hers.
She grabs her purse and walks out to her car. Lorelai follows her, wrapped in an oversized scarf.
"You could stay."
"I have work in the morning."
"Then why'd you let us keep you?"
"It's fine, mom."
She misses Lorelai as soon as she gets into the car, and a part of her wants to follow the Jeep to Stars Hollow instead, but- She's just so sick of their dynamic at the moment, how she will fall into best-friend-or-my-mommy-mode as soon as she gets back to that house and won't call Lorelai on the fact that she's as much to blame for the constant arguments as Emily is. She doesn't do this because there's no point, her mother and grandmother -and even grandfather, when he's up for it- seems to thrive from conflict. It makes her feel like she was born into the wrong family. And now, after a year on her own, and Richard falling ill, even more so.
So, she drives south instead, the sky slowly darkens as she does, the world falling into it, until all she sees are the lights of other cars, her own headlights and the stripes of the highway disappearing behind her.
She feels empty and alone and for a second she wants to stop the car and call Logan. Let him sweep in and scoop her up. It happened once already, in Sacramento. After they broke up she missed him, but was just, so busy. She worked all the time and was grateful that she didn't have time to think about what had happened, but when the campaign reached California she cracked, called him, and he came, took her out, took her mind off things, and it was first when they landed back in his hotel room she realised she had nothing new to say. Neither did he, and all they wound up doing was crying for a bit. She went back to her motel, angry with him for not seeing reason, for being so stupid, for being right in a way, about where their story could go. She got up the next morning and went back to work. That was it.
Now, all she can remember is how good it felt getting rescued, so she reminds herself that she really wasn't, that nothing changed, that all it really did was change her focus for a little while. She forces herself to think that there's nothing he can do, nothing, and it's true. But neither can anyone else; She sees the end of Richard Gilmore clearly, and the path there, littered with chaos and still so unyieldingly straight.
She blinks away tears, can't stop the car, can't stand the radio, so she mumbles a rhyme to herself instead: A broken bowl, that cannot hold, one drop of water for my soul. Jeez. What's with all the Rosetti lately?
June 30, 2008
It's past midnight when she arrives and it takes a while to find a decent parking space and walk the distance to the apartment. It's Sunday, or Monday to be precise, and this part of the city seems to be bracing itself for another week. She drags her feet climbing the stairs, and unlocks the door as quietly as possible. There's a whisper of canny sounds scraping along the walls. She approaches the common room and the light from the TV moves against its walls. She leans in through the doorway.
Jess is on the couch. His face is pale from the light, his hair on end, he's in a black t-shirt and sweatpants.
She has barely seen him since last weekend. She stayed out of Matt's way the rest of the time they were here and that meant the rest of her roommates too, then on Tuesday night Izzy made some remark about how she'd never heard Jess put so many words together at the same time as that night they went out, and Rory was happy to work late during the rest of the week, leaving for Stars Hollow as early as possible on Friday. Now she's forgotten why.
His eyes flick to her, she smiles.
"Hi."
He smiles too.
"Hi." He points the remote to the screen and the sounds are muted.
She steps into the room.
"What are you doing up?"
"Nicks kicked me out, got tired of me tossing and turning."
She struggles to fit this piece of information inside herself comfortably.
"How about you?" He asks before she succeeds. "You been driving 'til now?"
"What about it?"
She tilts her head, tosses her handbag in the armchair closest to her and slips out of her jacket. He smiles inwardly, shakes his head a little.
"I just got back from Hartford." She says.
She sits down next to her stuff, leans her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. He straightens from his slouched seat.
"What's up?"
"Tired." She answers. "Driving back was horrible, and I got zero sleep last night, and I can't keep track of my head. Like, I keep-" She stops herself and just adds flatly: "My grandpa has moved back home."
"I was meaning to ask about that." He's still, eyes on her.
"They're fitting the house to accommodate his illness, 'cause there will be more incidents." She needs to say it. "It's gonna kill him eventually." She feels the cracks in her own voice at the end, and clears her throat. "But I don't know, maybe I'm just using that as an excuse."
"What do you mean?"
She shrugs.
"I can't help but feel a little relieved by this whole thing, working with something I'm used to handling, living here, with people who don't really know me. Present company excluded."
She's not sure where this is coming from, she hasn't even thought these words to herself in the privacy of her own head.
"Sorry."
"No, I like you knowing me."
Their gazes lock into each other's. Right, that's why she kept her head down all week, the realization burns her in an instant. But it's true. Seems inevitable he knows her, and that he does it in a way that's all his own, not like anyone else. So, she keeps talking, blowing off steam, she tells herself.
"Do you know Laurel Thatcher Ulrich?"
He chuckles.
"Not personally."
"She's a history professor at Harvard, she coined that quote that Eleanor Roosevelt usually gets all the credit for; Well-behaved women rarely make history."
"Okay?"
"I think about that quote all the time."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She takes a breath and exhales slowly. "I think I'm a really well-behaved woman. And I don't know how that happened because my mother is on the other side of the spectrum and she raised me on that stuff, so-" She interrupts herself, she might like staying in a place full of strangers but apparently she needs this too. "I just feel inadequate, when I behave and when I don't. And when I don't- it hasn't led to anything good, hasn't made history, I've just ended up paying for everything with interest." She pauses, and forcibly makes her tone lighter. "I guess you were right, it's too rough for me."
He laughs. She glares at him. He holds up his hands.
"I was being an asshole!"
She knows it, but is just too low to be amused. He stops smiling.
"Life is rough. No matter what you do." He says. "You pay for everything, Rory, well-behaved or not, in some kind of currency." He sighs. "And I doubt the quote was meant for what you're doing with it."
"Life is just, not what I expected it to be at this point." A broken bowl.
"That's the problem with expectations." He shifts in his seat, then leans toward her. "Lemme ask you a question: Did you ever take me up on my offer?"
"What offer?"
"To lie, about what happened at Truncheon."
Her heartbeat picks up.
"Why? Are you trying to make a point or are you curious?"
"Can it be both?"
She can't make out his expression, it's almost… hungry. She clears her throat.
"Well, I could've just told him the truth; we kissed, that would've been pretty bad."
He smiles, perfect mix of amusement and tenderness.
"But you didn't tell him."
"I let him believe what he wanted to." She shoots out her chin.
"Which was what?"
"Probably that I'd never do anything like that." She mumbles. "You know when I dropped out of school, it was because Logan's father took one look at me and decided I wasn't cut out to be a reporter. And the air just went out of me." A broken bowl that cannot hold. "I lost my footing. And now I can't stop myself thinking it was 'cause he was right. Why else would I be so easy to knock over?"
"Stop." He moves a seat over, closer.
"He told me that and it derailed my life, and-"
She falls silent but the rest of the sentence burns in her throat: you saved me. It's first now that she sees it. He rescued her, he swept in, scooped her up, and actually made a difference. And she didn't even need to call him.
He leans in.
"He was just some guy who was in a position to hurt you and casually did it. It meant nothing to him. You can't let it matter to you, still." His voice is near a whisper but it's firm, so sure. "When you just do things to try to prove him wrong, it's gonna stop you from being free. You know what would've happened if I listened to all the shit people said about me?"
One drop of water for my soul. She swallows.
"I thought that's what you liked about me."
He frowns.
"What, that you wanted to be Christine Amanpour? No."
She's increasingly frustrated with this conversation.
"What was it then? What did you see?"
"Someone I wouldn't have figured out in a week, someone I wouldn't mind spending time figuring out. Advanced studies in Rory Gilmore, and you know how I feel about school."
She laughs, it's a silent, taken sort of thing, almost a long needed breath. He continues.
"You were already this entire person, it was all inside you."
She has to make a joke, or she'll die.
"Like Dorothy."
"Click your heels." He smiles, accommodating.
"My mom always says she would've stayed in Oz."
He laughs.
"I bet. And how about you?"
"I don't know. There's no place like home."
"I think it's a good thing to get to be homesick."
"I guess, but I hate admitting it, makes me feel so… tame."
"You're not tame, Ror."
"Then what am I?" She's beyond feeling bad about asking for his comfort.
"Something else."
She can't for the life of her make out his expression, all she knows is that it makes her feel good about herself.
"You kissed me and you didn't tell him even if you could have told him more. It's good and bad, you don't need to be one or the other." He leans backwards a bit again. "And changing your mind about what you wanna do, it doesn't change who you are. I should know."
"So. What do you wanna do now?"
"More. Something useful."
"And you are. You're getting that GED."
He laughs quietly.
"You've got to stop gushing about that."
"I do not!" She raises her voice and lowers it again when she remembers the time. "Jess, you didn't graduate High School. It would have been so easy for you if you tried."
He nods, serious again.
"I had stuff going on."
"Yeah."
"Stuff I didn't tell you about."
"Yeah."
"Stuff I should've told you about."
"Well, I still have those ears. It's not too late." She smiles.
The response came automatically, but she regrets it almost instantly, the thought of touching on their old issues tonight of all nights is overwhelming. He opens his mouth but hesitates too long. She goes on.
"My point is, you deserve this, I'm so happy you finally realized that."
He looks a tad taken she decides, his eyes on the verge of darting all over but meets hers, as if he's forcing it, holding an appropriate pause. Then he smiles.
"Thanks." He drags a hand through his hair and picks up the remote control. "Wanna watch a movie? It usually helps me, something about committing my time for the next two hours puts me right to sleep."
She nods, moves over to the couch and he makes room for her.
"Say when."
He zaps between the muted channels. She sits, trying to get used to the proximity of him like this. He has no product in his hair, so he smells like himself, and a little bit like bed linen. She glances at his plain t-shirt, with holes along the rim, so thin it's transparent in places, and his pants, strange, to see him in sweats. A minute or so passes, then:
"You know, I dreamt about Luke dying, a couple years back, took me days to get over it."
The thought of it is enough to chill her, but she shakes it off.
"That'll never happen. He'll outlive us all out of spite." She says.
"Unfortunately not." He sighs. "Your grandfather will go too. But not yet."
The channel changes and Jurassic Park comes on, in the middle of the Brachiosaurus scene.
"When." She yawns.
He leans back and unmutes the TV. A few minutes pass.
"Hey," he says after a while, "have you read The Year of Living Biblically?"
She shakes her head.
"I hear good things though, I did read The Five People You Meet in Heaven."
"I bet you liked that." He shoves her shoulder lightly.
"I've read edgy stuff too!" She protests. "I read God Is Not Great in its entirety and I demand recognition!"
He laughs.
"The reason I ask is 'cause that writer I mentioned the other day is having a release party for his book on the twelfth."
"Yeah?"
"He's written this autobiographical observational compare-and-contrast manuscript on what it's like being an irish-catholic from New York travelling the south, and ending with him visiting Dublin, I'm thinking you might like it."
"If you want me to come to your party just say so." She puts her finger to his side and he twists away from her with a grunt. "I'd come for whatever book you were releasing." Then she gets serious, mumbles while trying to keep it casual. "Is Chris and Matt gonna be there?"
"No." His answer is immediate, firm.
She breathes easier and sinks further into the couch. A few more minutes pass. He turns his head to her.
"Just fyi, you were wrong the other day."
"Objection! What about?"
"It didn't end badly."
"No?"
"We're here."
It actually takes her a few moments to be able to respond. She chuckles and a thought overcomes her, she reaches for the remote and lowers the volume on the TV.
"Everyone is making such a big deal about this, us living together. Why is that?"
He shrugs.
"I hear relapses are a thing." He looks away and fiddles with a thread from his shirt. "And I hear you know a thing or two about that."
He means Dean. It only stings for a second, she's generally stopped feeling bad about that part of their relationship, figures she paid for it by them being wildly unhappy together.
"That was different. I never looked at him like-" She stops herself.
He smiles, a little tightly.
"-A friend." He finishes.
She nods. Her illusions on remaining friends after a relationship are mostly shattered, she knows by now Dean never meant it, and she can't picture her and Logan doing it, since she can't picture a scenario with them compromising, it's never worked before. But Jess has been a surprise so far. She's onto something now, and eager to get there, to find some common ground, even if they have to mould it themselves..
"I just don't think that because it didn't work out between you and I we should have to stay away from each other forever, it's absurd." She gestures for emphasis. "So what if we have a history? So what if we like each other? So what if some of that are leftovers from what we were? We're obviously handling it. Pretty well too."
"Right."
He looks… soft, she settles with, his lips slightly apart and then pressed together in a smile, small, but warmer than before.
"You really helped me tonight and it's like you're the only one who could," she says, "and it's not the first time that's happened either, and it makes no sense to cut that out of my life when I-" She pauses, but it's too late to have second thoughts about what she's about to say. "-need it."
He takes her hand and squeezes it. She stops breathing. So rare. So good. His hand is warm, the veins visible on its back, she's hypnotized by them and forces herself to look at his face, his gaze is locked to their hands too but meets hers. She tries smiling but doesn't think it works, it feels more like a tremble. He blinks, pulls one corner of his mouth into a smile, squeezes her hand again and lets go. This is why she kept her head down all week. But it doesn't make what she said untrue. They deserve to keep each other. They're handling it.
He picks up the remote.
The movie rolls and they take turns speaking along with the lines, then they get increasinlgly quiet. She has trouble remembering how she wound up on the couch, how she ended up feeling at ease, why she needed to. After a while she lies down, resting her head on one of the arms of the couch, pulls up her knees to leave room for him on the other end. Somewhere around the Gallimimus things start to blend into each other and then there's nothing.
Nothing until Jess's voice in her ear. I'm gonna carry you. His arms around her. You can't, she says, or thinks, but either way: Yes I can. And then there's a shift and a sudden sense of panic and safety that keeps her under in spite of the first and she locks her hands around something, him, some part of him, tenses, and is rocked slightly before she senses her own room closing around them. She breathes him in deeply and doesn't wonder why he did this instead of waking her up or leaving her there, she lets it be what she wants it to be, pretends she knows his mind too. She could wake up, but that would mean the end of this. There's a tilt, and soft weightlessness, his nearness and the insistent grip on him. For a few moments there's just that, and the released breath of him, heavy from having held onto it and her. So good, but not enough, she knows that, in the darkness of slumber where she doesn't have to think about what that means. Then his hands grasps hers and peels them from him and his weight is lifted off her and replaced with soft darkness, and then that disappears too.
When she wakes up she's on her bed, in her clothes with a blanket kicked down by her feet. She goes to work. When she makes coffee later that night Jess wanders into the kitchen, his eyes locked in a book. He sees her and smiles wordlessly while he gets out what he's there for. A simple overwhelming impulse overcomes her when she watches him, she wants to go over and put her arms around him, and she has to stop herself from taking the first step. She opens her mouth without having planned to, his gaze hooks into hers, question clear. She shrugs, smiles helplessly, pretends he knows her mind, pretends it would be possible, allowed for him to. They're handling it.
Notes: Paraphrased poem is "A Better Resurrection" by Christina Rosetti, and unmarked lyrics from "Mississippi" by Bob Dylan.