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Chapter 7
Christmas 2010
Jess felt oddly as though his life was picking up steam. Time seemed to flow rapidly, ravenously, surprising him when he would notice the date and realize it was already November, and then December. The publishing house was busy of course - Matthew and Chris complained endlessly but refused to hire extra help - but Jess knew that most of his hours were disappearing into his latest novel. Sometimes he felt dazed when he stood to stretch after hours of typing, his eyes strained by the light of his computer, unable to determine how long he had been working. It felt like coming up for air after being underwater, but Jess found drowning in it far more pleasurable.
Rory's editorship made everything better and worse. Better, in that he knew this was by far the best thing he had ever written. She had a knack for noticing the natural connections in his work before he did, stringing together characters and sketching parallel plot points in the far reaching corners of his universe. When he became stumped by a scene, or irritated by an inconsistency, she'd list out six different suggestions, each better than the last, enabling him to skip past his usual angry nights of writer's block and whiskey. His productivity was elevated and escalated, and he often found himself lost in the narrow handwriting that she scribbled in the margins and in the line spaces. He learned quickly to print his chapters single-sided and double-spaced. It was a waste of paper, but more often than not she would end up flipping the page and writing on the back, slanted, hurried, caught up in her own excitement. Jess never resented a single word. And when he reached the end of one of her edited chapters (always capped by a near essay-length review and a bullet pointed list of a dozen or so questions) he always felt a sense of emptiness, of loneliness. That drive, to get more of her feedback and to see her handwriting again, kept him up late into the night, typing and rewriting and stretching his talent as far as it could go.
It was worse because he knew he was being a crap worker at the publishing house, and because somehow it was already Christmas and he had no idea where the last couple months had gone. He'd imagined himself suspended in time, but time it turned out continued to move even if Jess paid no attention to it.
He had spent Thanksgiving with TJ and Liz, god help him, but decided to go to Stars Hollow for Christmas to be with Luke. He was rather looking forward to it. Back in November, a few days before Thanksgiving, Rory had called him while she waited for her train to Connecticut. "Will I see you this week?"
He told her no, unfortunately, that he was ethically obligated to spend time with his mother. For a brief moment, or perhaps it was in his imagination, she seemed to be disappointed. But then she quoted Oscar Wilde with impressive indifference. "After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations."
"I'm not sure anything as mundane as a meal can make me forgive Liz and TJ," Jess had said, amused. "Especially not a meal that in and of itself requires forgiveness."
Thanksgiving with Liz and TJ always irked Jess. They forced each guest to eat a turkey leg, à la Renaissance festival, and there were always little kids running around jousting. Jess normally had to put up with too many of their festival friends wearing tights and tunics, and although he always appreciated a good glass of wine, he appreciated it much less when he was forced to drink it out of a tankard.
Rory had laughed, and he told her he'd be in Stars Hollow for Christmas.
Now, a few weeks later, he was looking forward to being back in Stars Hollow and seeing her, but Jess was no fool. He was beginning to become wary of the precariousness of this new editing friendship, and checked the locks on that stupid teenage part of his heart that was inextricably and inexplicably bound to her. He figured it was normal - everyone has a first love - and he had done a damn fine job of forgetting his and burying it deep. So far, that part of his heart was quiet, unaffected by the literary kinship that had sprung between them. But Jess was a survivor, prepared and hardened by an abandoned adolescence on the grimy streets of New York City, and he knew how to prepare for a potential storm.
In August, when Matthew and Chris perfunctorily invited him out for happy hour (it was a miracle they still tried considering his steadfast refusal since Em had dumped him) he finally agreed and joined them at some dive place a few blocks away.
They were elated to have him back, and it soon became a familiar habit again. Chris had a girlfriend who would often join them later in the night, after Chris had drank a few too many and was positively delighted to see her, but Matthew was still trying to play the field. Jess would give him endless shit, laughing whenever Matthew acted cocky and received a fake phone number in return. But Matthew had an affinity for poetry and the sweet, approachable look of the harmless boy next door. More than once Jess left him at the bar, still deep in conversation with some pretty former English major, going on about Wordsworth or Kipling or, depending on their historical tendencies, a vivid confessional discussion of Sylvia Plath.
It didn't take long before Jess was back to his reckless ways. It was only too easy, in the dark of a bar, when he had to speak low in her ear to be heard over the music. He was good at reading hints, probably from his practiced years of analyzing people and transcribing their mannerisms and their emotions into characters. He knew when a woman was interested but wanted nothing to do with him - no matter how polished he was now, he could never quite shake the air of trouble that seemed effused in his bloodstream - but he also knew when a woman came to a bar looking for his archetype. One thing would lead to another, and she would pull him outside, whispering in his ear, hands grasping at his until they ended up at one of their places, colliding, searching to feel something in the dark of the night. Mostly Jess enjoyed it, the rush of careless behavior and the heat of passion and intimacy that he always raveled into poetry in the morning. But he kept a careful distance. Once or twice he'd repeat a night, running into her again at a bar, eyebrows raised in recognition, teasing. But more often than not he let the night end and filed it away into his collective of human experience. He wasn't looking for anything serious, but he was looking quite earnestly to forget.
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When he got to the diner, the day before Christmas Eve, Luke was in a ferocious mood. Kirk had set up a Christmas tree selling stand directly in front of the diner, so the windows were blocked by what looked like a thick, encroaching forest. The light inside was dark, tinted green, hazy, and Jess was both claustrophobic and mildly entertained.
"And Taylor won't make him move it because god forbid we block the entrance to the town square and his ridiculous winter carnival," Luke banged the coffee pot into the sink as he tried to rinse it out. "Why is this allowed? Who issues these permits? I swear, if Kirk doesn't move it, he's going to have a pile of woodchips there tomorrow morning."
Kirk stuck his head inside. "I heard that, Luke. That's premeditated criminal intent."
Luke let out a choice string of expletives, revealing a far more sinister premeditated criminal intent, and Jess grinned. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the fresh pot and dropped into a seat at the counter, pulling a notebook and a pen out of his back pocket.
By the time the diner was closing, Jess clued in that the main aspect of Luke's frustration was that somehow, nearly six months after their last Lorelai-related conversation, Luke still hadn't proposed.
"Why?" Jess asked, perplexed. It didn't make sense. As far as he was concerned, Lorelai and Luke were married already. The man's life revolved around her, as if she was some fast-talking, over-caffeinated, quick-to-laugh sun. And, always to his surprise, Jess was fond enough of her at this point. He and Lorelai had reached a common understanding years ago on their shared loyalty to Luke, though Jess showed it with sarcasm and Lorelai showed it with an endless stream-of-consciousness joke monologue. Luke's broken leg last year had been the linchpin for Jess, when he saw the true depth of Lorelai's feelings - she was a mess, but a mess that was deeply in love with his uncle - and he'd never doubted her since.
"I just . . ." Luke took off his baseball cap and twisted it in his hands. "I had a plan. I wanted things to be a certain way. But plans never work out, and we've been so busy with the inn remodel, and she made all of these ridiculous My Big Fat Greek Wedding references for weeks leading up to Halloween and then there was the pregnancy scare and - "
Jess choked on his coffee. "Pregnancy scare?"
"No, no, it was Sookie," Luke waved him off, "no way, none of that."
Jess reined his imagination in real quick before he pictured Luke changing diapers and singing lullabies or whatever else grumpy middle-aged fathers did.
"Look," Jess said, firm, "you just have to do it when it feels right. Save your planning for the wedding - I'm sure your plans are great, but that woman is a cyclone and it's almost impossible to hit a moving target."
Luke nodded, eyebrows furrowed in thought, and then continued to clean up the diner, counting the drawer and wiping down appliances.
Jess wasn't expecting Luke to take his advice, let alone act on it two hours later. But as the temperature dropped and the air became colder, Jess began to feel an odd sense of premonition. It was likely just the barometer dropping, but still, Jess could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he kept looking outside, distracted from his work, frustrated by the pine trees that blocked every window.
When they heard a rise of voices outside, Luke dropped his rag. "You know what . . ." And then he disappeared outside with a bang of the front door.
Exasperated, Jess stood up and walked out of the diner in time to see that it was finally snowing. Light flakes fell in the dark of the evening, layering the boughs of Kirk's Christmas trees and falling in flurries around the gazebo. It was late this year - global warming or god knows what had delayed the snow even after the beginning of December came and went.
Jess saw Luke hurrying across the frosted town square, and, from a distance, recognized Lorelai and Rory standing in the middle of the square with their faces upturned to the sky, revolving slowly, laughing. Luke grabbed Lorelai's hand and dropped to one knee, and Jess watched as Rory clapped her hands to her mouth and jumped up and down.
Smooth, he thought, shaking his head.
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They postponed engagement celebrations for the next night, when Lorelai was due to host Christmas Eve dinner for friends and family anyways. Jess was relieved - he wasn't sure he had enough energy to deal with family and festivities multiple nights in a row. So instead he retreated up to Luke's old apartment with a battered copy of Lolita. After a few chapters, uncomfortable and overwrought, he had to go down to the diner and steal a bottle of Luke's whiskey. Lolita sang at the corners of his thoughts and dragged her teeth down the spine of his consciousness. He pushed her away, but let her have him. We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.
He woke the next day, whiskey on his breath, Lolita whispering in his ear, and couldn't wait for Christmas to be over.
He and Luke showed up dutifully at Lorelai's at five o'clock, each of them wearing some form of blazer and carrying an alcoholic contribution. Luke also brought about six different appetizers, probably specifically to annoy Sookie, but Jess stuck with a tried and true scotch.
Lorelai flung open the door. "Why hello, love of my life and his tagalong vagabond."
Jess rolled his eyes. "Hey, Auntie."
She cringed at that one. Knowing he won the round, he sidled around her - not wanting to witness whatever physical way she greeted her now-fiancée, and made his way to the kitchen.
The house was warm and crowded. He caught glimpses of Rory's grandparents and Jackson and all of the kids, and possibly Lane and a couple of small boys that were banging on a collection of overturned pots and pans. It was very loud. He needed a drink.
Rory was in the kitchen, perched on the counter, chatting with Sookie as the chef tended to a dozen different dishes. Jess met her eyes and gave her a nod. He recognized the scotch glasses in the cabinet above her head, and, feeling reckless, approached her and leaned up against her legs, reaching above and around her for his target. She froze.
Jess backed away, glass in hand, and grinned at her. "Whoops, sorry, thanks."
Rory shot him a reproachful look - "Watch it, dodger" - and returned her attention to Sookie. Jess smiled as he poured himself a short glass of scotch - neat, of course, he wasn't a barbarian - and then glanced up at her to see if she wanted one.
She was holding the narrow stem of a wine glass, but her eyes were on him. She shook her head no when he gestured at the bottle.
"Suit yourself," he shrugged, and capped the bottle.
"I say, what is that?" Rory's grandfather entered the room. He was wearing a suit and tie, elegant as usual, his expression rather jovial. His attention was on the bottle in Jess' hand. "Is that a Lagavulin 16?
"Sure is," Jess swiveled the bottle to show him the label. "Want some?"
"Why, yes I would," Richard said enthusiastically, "thank you. Neat."
Jess obliged. Last time he had shared a drink with Richard had been Thanksgiving at the diner a few years ago, and it had surprised him how much he had enjoyed the experience. Richard handed his dirty glass to Rory, who hopped off the counter to rinse it out. Jess handed him a new glass with a couple inches of the dark, amber liquid.
"Grandpa, you remember Jess right?" Rory asked over her shoulder.
"Of course I do, Rory," Richard smiled as he analyzed the glass, "Jess, the young publisher, Luke's - ah how did Lorelai phrase it - hooligan nephew?"
Jess clinked his glass against Richard's, "Cheers."
"You know Rory, we just had the most marvelous conversation about the publishing business the last time we attended a holiday together. Have you heard about his work at his little shop in, oh, where was it, Boston? Philadelphia? Truly fascinating."
"Yes, Grandpa," Rory grinned, refilling her own wine glass. "I remember. And Jess is a writer too, actually, he's been letting me edit some of his work."
"Really?" Richard seemed fascinated. He leaned against the counter, "I enjoy talking to people connected to the literary world. It seems like everyone these days is some kind of software developer or tech entrepreneur, everyone making those apps for your complicated phones. How refreshing to see that you young people are still keeping the literature industry alive. What do you write, Jess?"
"Fiction," Jess replied, "self-indulgent mostly."
"It's great fiction," Rory disagreed, shaking her head. "Along the lines of Hemingway, Grandpa. Jess loves great literature, you can see it all through his work."
"Hemingway would also have liked the Lagavulin 16," Richard sipped his scotch, "my, this is excellent."
"Hemingway liked anything alcoholic," Rory snorted.
Sookie interrupted them, her voice a bit high-pitched. "You guys are great, you know I love an audience, but this kitchen has about ten too many people in it and I can't promise I won't accidentally catch all of you on fire if you insist on standing that close to the stove."
"Oh, sorry Sookie dear," Richard said, his tone hushed. He beckoned to Rory and Jess to follow him back down the hall.
Jess spent the next half an hour before dinner talking to Richard and Rory, his mood lightening, enjoying Richard's portly enthusiasm for literature and scotch and just about anything that wouldn't be out of place in a cigar and billiards room after dinner. Rory and her grandfather were close, as far as he could tell, probably because they were both quite obviously old souls. Jess knew Richard lived for the finer things in life, and valued art and education and all of those things that Jess used to think were for rich snobs. But Rory seemed to run along the same wavelength. Sure, Rory could watch crappy eighties movies with her mom and eat poptarts, but Rory could also live in the nineteenth century, absorbed in Austen, hands wrapped around a cup of tea. And Jess, finally at a place in his life where he could mention an artist like Dickinson or Bronte without pretending to scoff and be an icon of the proletariat revolution, found it easy to drink scotch and banter with the pair of them.
Before long Sookie banged a wooden spoon on a pot and announced that it was time for dinner. They had set up a mismatched collection of tables to create one long table, set with a random assortment of cutlery and groaning under the weight of Christmas food. Jess saw Luke's contribution tucked at the end behind the wine bottles, as if to hide it. He hid a grin. Luke's devilled eggs and bacon brussels sprouts did look a bit out of place compared to the obviously fancy and beautifully plated platters of food that Sookie had prepared. Lorelai lit a few long candles and ushered everyone to seats, careful to guide the gaggle of kids to their own fancy little set up at the coffee table and ignoring Emily's horror at the general miscellany of the table - "Do you even own a matching china set, Lorelai?"
Jess found himself at the end of the table, near Richard and Lorelai. Rory was settled on the other end, next to her grandmother. When Jess scanned the table, he caught her looking at him.
"Lorelai, this young hooligan is really quite impressive," Richard told her, "He's been published already - Rory said the New York Times reviewed his last book!"
Lorelai passed him the scalloped potatoes. "Yes Dad, the young hooligan has really grown out of his days of teenage angst and vandalism. That's why he's allowed in the house these days, see. We're not so worried anymore that he'll pillage and plunder and blow the house down."
Jess snorted. He filled his wine glass with the cabernet that was making its way down the table, and topped of Lorelai's glass too.
"No really, Lorelai, I just think it's remarkable," Richard continued. "And to think that Rory is editing his next book! This could be break she's looking for."
Lorelai shot them both a look as she cut her meat. "Rory's editing your book?"
"Yep," Jess said, glancing at the other end of the table where Rory was chatting with Lane. "Or trying to anyways, it's a load of crap."
Richard ignored his comment, much like Rory would have done. "Nonsense, if he's been reviewed by the Times, I'm sure it's quite good."
"I'm sure it's better if Rory's editing it," Lorelai seemed as though she was trying to sound casual. "How long as this been going on for? Don't you have a different editor anyways, Jess, being the fancy published author you are these days?"
"I do have another editor, yeah," Jess said, keeping his tone light. "She's on maternity leave now though, and it never hurts to get a second opinion."
Most of what he said was true. His editor was on maternity leave, not that it really mattered when his work was unfinished and he had no upcoming deadlines. And it didn't hurt Jess to have a second opinion on his work. But he wasn't sure his editor would be thrilled at his current arrangement if she knew about it.
He felt Rory's eyes on him again, and knew that she must have heard her name once or twice and was curious about the subject of the conversation. But the table was loud and he didn't make eye contact.
"Have you read any of his work, Lorelai?" Richard asked, perfectly happy to continue the topic, even though Jess was more than ready to get the spotlight off of him and his melodramatic literary career.
"No, I leave that whole 'reading' fad to Rory mostly," Lorelai shrugged. "And I feel like Jess and I would have fundamental disagreements about how much angst and sarcasm are overkill."
Jess chuckled. "Probably."
"But anyways, Dad, what was Mom telling me about you two going to Europe again?" Lorelai deftly changed the subject. "When is that happening?"
Jess appreciated the change in conversation, and listened to Richard explain his plans to sail the Danube and visit the great institutions of western civilization. But Jess knew that Lorelai changed the subject on purpose, and wondered absently why Rory hadn't told her mother about their editing partnership. Although, now that he thought about it, he hadn't exactly updated Luke on the situation either. It didn't feel like it mattered that much. Rory edited Jess' work in the same way that Jess came down to the diner to help Luke install a new shelving unit - people did favors for each other.
He knew, though he did his best not to think about it consciously, that Rory's editing probably meant more to him than the shelving unit did for Luke. But he felt Lolita tugging at him once more. Look, at this tangle of thorns, she whispered, but Jess pushed her away, focusing intently on the conversation.
The group ate their way steadily through the food. Jess could hear holiday music from old school Hollywood Christmas specials playing cheerfully in the background, and drank his wine to stifle his usual distaste for holiday stereotypes. But sitting with Lorelai and Richard was, as always, more pleasant than he expected. Before long Lorelai was teasing both of them, throwing rapid-fire references that Jess - usually fluent in Gilmore, thanks to years of practice - caught only most of. He retorted skillfully enough, sticking to his usual specialty of short, sarcastic rebuttals, but found the flow of conversation gratifying enough to prevent him from switching back to scotch. Richard just chuckled and purposefully ignored Lorelai's jokes - he seemed to have years of practice of doing just that - and tried next to engage Jess in a conversation about the southern bourbon trail.
When the dinner plates were clear, and Sookie began threatening to bring out dessert, Lorelai waved her hands to get everyone's attention. "Hey - hey!"
Jess leaned back in his chair, looking up at her.
When everyone was quiet, Lorelai stopped waving and flipped her left hand, showing the sparkle of the engagement ring that Luke had held on to for so damn long. "Luke and I just wanted to say how grateful we are for all of your support and for showing up tonight for Christmas Eve, even knowing that you'd be roped in to celebrating an engagement too. We know you all meant to just have to deal with a holiday tonight, but we're shamelessly taking advantage of this to celebrate us too."
Sookie snorted. "It's about time!"
"It is about time," Emily Gilmore agreed, her tone stern. Amused, Jess saw his uncle look determinedly in any direction that wasn't Emily's.
"Thanks, Mom," Lorelai raised her glass, rolling her eyes, "so, happy Christmas Eve - or solstice or any pagan event you choose to celebrate on this night of great food and drink - and to boring married years to come!"
Rory cheered, "Here, here!"
The table applauded. Jess leaned over, reaching behind Lorelai, and clapped Luke on the shoulder. His uncle seemed embarrassed by his own happiness.
The conversation dissolved into well-wishing, and Jess stood to begin clearing dinner plates. He gave Luke enough crap about all of this, he didn't need to listen to Sookie plan the wedding menu and Emily recommend a florist. Hell, he knew Luke didn't care about any of it, as long as it made Lorelai happy. Jess disappeared alone down the hallway, hands gripping a stack of plates.
Rory caught up with him in the kitchen, her hands full of cutlery. "I think, if you're not careful, Grandpa might try to adopt you. Or induct you into his bridge club."
"Bridge, huh?" Jess set the dishes in the sink and leaned back against the counter, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. "Can't say I'd benefit him much there, but I'd be a great sport for after-dinner cigars."
"I'm sure he'll offer you one as soon as dessert is done," Rory shook her head.
Jess smiled. He watched as Rory rinsed the cutlery in the sink, throwing handfuls in the dishwasher. She was wearing black jeans and some kind of maroon sweater, her hair pulled loosely in a dark, silky ponytail. She already seemed lighter since he'd since her last, the familiar spunk and that he was accustomed to returning in the relaxed tilt of her shoulders.
She turned to face him, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Do you have another chapter for me soon?"
"Art takes time, Gilmore," he said. "I can't just write to please you."
That was possibly a lie. He was writing faster than he ever had, late into the night, consumed, nearly-but-not-quite desperate to send his work so that he could receive a quick reply. She was as integral a part of his writing process as coffee or his laptop - if he wrote for anything, it was for the narcissistic catharsis of feedback.
Her feedback, Lolita hissed and bit his earlobe, but Jess ignored her. Years of secret suffering had taught me superhuman self-control.
Rory's eyes narrowed, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "You're supposed to make your readers happy, Jess."
He shrugged. "My readers are never happy. They have to read my work."
"Not true," she contradicted, "I'm happy."
He kept his face blank, but he felt an internal twist, somewhere deep behind his abdomen. When she said I'm happy her bright eyes had that dance to them, the spark that had hooked him hard when he was a teenager. She was playing with sparks, throwing them up in handfuls. And he saw her body language, saw the way she leaned slightly towards him, her eyes dancing, and, if he wasn't a cynic or a nihilist or an idiot, he knew that if she was another woman looking at him like that in the dark of a bar, she wanted him.
Dangerous thoughts. Lolita was pissing him off. I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.
Jess shrugged again, but he watched her, guarded. "I should have another one for you later this week."
"Great," she flashed him a bright smile. "Feed your addict."
"Again - if you want something worth more than the back of a cereal box, you're just going to have to be patient."
"Readers aren't patient, Jess."
They returned to the other room, bantering, but Jess felt himself unconsciously drifting further away from her, brushing the wall. He was wary.
The room was bright, full of laughter. Emily and Sookie had decided to ignore Lorelai completely and were sketching out wedding plans on the back of magazines. Lane high-fived Lorelai, who was leaning against Luke's chair as she chatted with Jackson about how many family members are appropriate to not invite to a wedding. Rory heaved a happy sigh.
She swiveled to face him. "What are you reading right now?"
"Nothing," Jess lied. He was smooth enough to be convincing - he was not going to say that Lolita was tracing her name on the small of his back.
"Why?"
"Because I have an editor that is driving me up the wall," he retorted. "The normal writing process isn't quick enough for her. I have no time to read - just writing and writing, day and night, chained to my computer, a slave to her need for material."
Rory laughed. "I don't believe that for a second . . ." She continued talking, but Jess was distracted.
At the far end of the table, where Jess had been seated earlier, Richard half rose out of his chair. He looked confused, concerned. His hand rose to his chest, clutching at his dress shirt, scrabbling at the fabric.
Jess felt himself tense. The noise in the room seemed to fall away.
"Jess?" Rory's voice swam to him.
Richard lost his grip on the arm of his chair and fell forward, hands gripping the table, head bent.
Rory whipped around, following Jess' eyes, in time to see Richard collapse onto the floor, the sound of the scotch glass shattering causing a sudden silence in the room.
"Grandpa!"
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And the rest is rust and stardust, Lolita murmured.
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Apologies for mixing Lolita and Christmas - but I doubt Jess would care.
Thank you for your amazing feedback! Your reviews have made me smile so much.
