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Chapter 9
Easter, 2011
On a rainy April evening, when Jess was hurrying back to the publishing house, trying to balance grocery bags and keep the hood of his raincoat up despite the gusting wind, his phone rang. "Damn it," he groaned, and fumbled with his coat pocket, trying to find his phone.
"This is Jess," he answered, his tone short. He nearly dropped a carton of milk on the rain-streaked sidewalk.
"Hey, it's me," Rory said. "Er, are you okay?"
"Yeah," Jess took the stairs up to the publishing house two at a time. He held his phone to his ear with his shoulder and tried to open the door, slipping with the wet keys. "Hang on - " With a deft flick of his wrist, he managed to unlock the door and pushed inside, kicking it shut behind him. "Sorry, just got back home. Give me a second."
Rory waited patiently while he ducked up the stairs to his little apartment, unlocked his door, and flicked the light switch of his kitchen with his elbow. He dropped the bags of groceries on the counter and rubbed his wrists, which he was sure were rubbed raw from the plastic straps.
"Alright," he shrugged out of his raincoat and tossed it on a hook, "what's up, Gilmore?"
He could hear her smile through the phone. "What have you been doing? Storming the fortress?"
"Just about," he kicked off his shoes. "Drawbridge caused a bit of a hassle, but I really showed up the front door with the battering ram."
"Glad to hear it," she was amused, "sorry if I caught you at an inconvenient moment in the battle."
"What's a battle without an extra challenge? Heroes have to persevere through much adversity, last I checked."
"In what universe are you a hero?" she teased. "Black knight, more like."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Jess began putting away the groceries, one-handed. "Battle's won. What's up?"
"I have an interview in Philadelphia this weekend," Rory said, "are you going to be around?"
Jess glanced at the calendar that he had tacked to the wall. "Yeah, I'll be around. What's the interview for?"
"Some publishing house downtown," her tone was casual, but he could hear the underlying excitement. "I guess they do a lot of poetry anthologies, but some longer prose works too."
"Great, you and Matthew can compete over signing melodramatic poets." Jess said sarcastically.
Rory laughed. "I'm not sure I can edit poetry - the lack of rules really bothers me. You free for dinner Friday?"
He leaned against the wall of his kitchen, rubbing his wrist. "I'm supposed to meet up with Matthew and Chris, but you're welcome to join."
"Alright," she sounded pleased, "text me a place and a time?"
"So demanding," he felt himself smirking. "Next thing we know you'll be asking for outrageous things like directions and parking advice. We're really not used to such high expectations here in Philly."
"Too right I will," Rory said, "and you'll be a proper host and respond in a timely and reasonable manner, I'm sure."
"We aim to please," he said dryly.
"I'll see you Friday," she laughed. "Bye, Jess."
"Later," he said. He hung up the phone.
He tossed the phone on the counter and finished putting away the groceries. His apartment was dark because of the storm, the windows deep blue and flecked with raindrops from the gusting wind. Jess always liked spring storms like this, when he didn't have to walk through them. It was great writing weather.
He pulled a can of chicken soup out of the pantry and heated it in a saucepan on the stove. The old building seemed to creak and shudder with the occasional gales of wind, but Jess enjoyed the pattering of the rain as he buttered toast and poured the steaming soup in a chipped bowl. He carried his dinner to his writing desk, by the large, old window in his living room, and flicked on a few lamps. Then he pulled a cold beer out of the fridge, cracked it open, and settled in his scuffed old chair.
The rain fell in sheets, occasionally slamming against the old window panes, but the storm was softer than usual. He watched the rain fall on the cobblestone street below, illuminated by the wrought iron lampposts. Then he opened his laptop and began scrolling through the chapter that he completed the day before.
The novel was coming to an end. Jess could tell that a conclusion was around the corner, narrative lines beginning to converge and coalesce. He'd forced his characters through the field of major conflict, and was left with the vestiges of shattered relationships and their patchwork reconstruction. Soon, he'd tie off loose ends, find some sort of final catharsis, and set the characters free in one unsteady direction or another. He liked the cycle of bringing them back to where they started, wavering, allowing the reader to develop his or her own opinion on what came next. He didn't feel qualified to say definitively what happened to his characters after he put them through the wringer and left them to their own devices.
But something about this project felt incomplete, unsatisfied. In his moments of writing he had felt as though he had dug his nails deep into the flesh of the novel, ripping it to pieces as he bled chapters for Rory's editing, but he was beginning to worry that he had really only scratched the surface. Something felt superficial, flimsy. He had a nagging sense that he was forgetting something.
It was the best thing he had ever written, but he knew it could be better. There was a distance in the prose, an invisible barrier that lay between the wounds and the reader. If Jess felt guarded and cautious these days, he could see it showing up in his book.
He had taken to reading Gatsby in the last week, relating to something in Nick Carraway's empty, disappointed disillusionment. There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired, Fitzgerald wrote. Most of Jess' life he had felt like the pursuing, driven by a relentless desperation to write himself to pieces. But these days he felt like the tired. He was exhausted by the energy it took to hold himself back and hold himself together.
He sighed and took a swig of his beer. Then he scrolled to the beginning of the chapter and began reading and editing for real this time, ignoring the distance, trying to pull everything to the surface. The rain gusted against the window, and he began to forget himself in the process.
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Matthew, Chris, and Jess had cycled through a fair share of Cedar Bar Reduxes over the years, but their latest version was a small, underground tavern ten minutes from Truncheon Books. It had decent burgers and a couple of pool tables and plenty of solid wood, dimly lit booths, perfect for small group conversations.
The three of them settled in their usual booth, tucked into a back corner. Matthew was already teasing Jess about Rory.
"This is the one, the one, right? The one who you went all googly-eyed for at the open house years ago?"
Jess rolled his eyes. "She's a friend. And she's an editor, you all should get along fine."
Matthew gave him a knowing look, "Only ever a friend?"
"You already know she's a high school ex girlfriend," Jess scanned the drink menu. He was completely unbothered by them harassing him. "But seeing as that it is prehistoric history at this point, I don't think it matters much."
Matthew grinned. "Prehistoric history, huh? So no unresolved tension? Unrequited love? Suppressed emotions?"
"Man, you've been around poets too much," Jess shook his head. "You sound like you're vomiting song lyrics."
Chris agreed. "Seriously, Matthew. We don't all live in Pride and Prejudice."
Matthew just shrugged cheerfully. "Just waiting for the day when broody finds someone to fit the jagged edges of that shredded heart."
Jess whacked him with the drink menu. "You're single too, asshat."
"Single and looking for love, not avoiding it like a disease."
"You're a disease."
"You're both going to wind up alone together, bickering and arguing prose versus poetry in some nursing home for ex artist bachelors," Chris signaled the waitress, "time for alcohol."
Jess leaned back in his chair. His friends were dumbasses, but he was grateful for them. Chris was a calming presence, a mediator between Matthew and Jess, the stable and effortlessly relaxed element of their trifecta. He spoke less but when he did, it usually had a bit more gravitas. And Matthew lived with his heart first and his brain second. He was earnest and caring, warm brown eyes openly desperate for someone to share his same yearning for life and love. He and Jess were more similar than Jess cared to admit - while Jess kept his romanticism buried underneath sarcasm, hidden in between the lines of his dark literature, Matthew wore it cheerfully and openly. He wore button ups and sweater vests like the college boy English major he always was at heart, and endlessly badgered Jess on finding love.
Before the waitress came back with their beers, the door opened and Jess saw a familiar head of brunette hair slip into the tavern. Rory scanned the room, recognized him, grinned, and hurried over.
"Hi," she gave the group a small wave, and pointed at the empty seat next to Matthew. "Can I?"
"Of course!" Matthew scooted over, and Rory sat across from Jess. Matthew reached out a hand out to her, "I think we've met, but I'm Matthew."
"Hi," Rory shook his hand. Chris introduced himself as well.
Jess made a halfhearted attempt at introductions. "Boys, Rory's an old friend and an editor. Rory, Chris is a fairly decent human and Matthew's a - "
Matthew interrupted before Jess could finish his rude and foulmouthed introduction. " - an all around total package. So lovely to have you here."
The waitress reappeared with three beers. Jess took a large drink. Rory ordered something and then turned to them, smiling. "So, how's Truncheon Books? Any new developments?"
"It's going alright, we're not on the brink of bankruptcy yet," Chris shrugged. "Although Matthew is arguably trying to get us there with his endless parade of subpar poets."
"One of my 'subpar poets' is the record holder for being our bestselling author," Matthew said dismissively.
"One of your poets," Jess emphasized. "The rest are fighting for holding the record of being our lowest selling author."
"They can't stand that I have our best seller," Matthew confided to Rory, "but you know, let them talk shit. Numbers don't lie."
"Like the number of tanking poetry anthologies you've forced us to publish?" Chris asked lightly.
Rory laughed. "Poetry takes a specific kind of audience, doesn't it? What's your most mainstream work that you sell?"
"Chris has a knack for historical fiction that does pretty well," Jess said, "but we're convinced it's only because people buy them thinking they're smutty historical romance books."
"We pick vaguely provocative cover art to encourage the mistake," Chris said, nodding. "But hey I'm not complaining. Wish we worked on commission, I'd be raking in the cash over these two."
"And Jess has decided he's too good for publishing work and has disappeared for the last nine months," Matthew added. "Seriously, you're lucky if you find him at work, ever. I have no idea why we haven't fired him yet."
"I haven't disappeared," Jess rolled his eyes.
That wasn't entirely true. Jess had been a crappy employee at Truncheon Books for months, often showing up late or disappearing in the middle of his shift because something struck him and he wanted to go upstairs to type it up. But he tried to make it up to them by working irregular hours on nights and weekends, doing inventory at three in the morning sometimes whenever he hit a block in his writing and needed a mindless activity to wipe his brain clean. He had pushed a few of his authors onto Matthew, but took a couple from Chris when Chris' girlfriend's dad died and Chris had needed to take two weeks off to help with selling the house and planning the funeral. Jess was trying, but he knew he needed to step it up now that his novel was reaching its end.
"Jess has been taking time off in favor of writing the next great American novel that he refuses to talk about," Chris explained to Rory.
Rory shot Jess a look, her eyes dancing, "Yeah, I've heard something about that." He narrowed his eyes at her, but he knew he didn't really need to communicate for her to maintain discretion. Rory was smart - she wouldn't announce to the boys that she'd been editing Jess' work for months now.
"We're putting up with it for now, but I swear to god, Jess, if you don't ever finish it, you're paying us a year back in paychecks," Matthew warned.
Jess responded with a rude hand gesture.
The waitress showed up with Rory's drink, and Chris held his glass aloft. "Cheers to everyone idiot enough to work in the literary world."
"Cheers," Rory said, smiling. The four of them clinked their glasses together.
The conversation ran easily, meandering through a few rounds of drinks in the dim corner of the tavern. The group ordered burgers for dinner, and Matthew and Chris laughed uproariously at Rory's stories of high school Jess. Teasing him, she recounted him vandalizing snowmen, showing up with a black eye at her grandmother's uppity house, and participating in small town festivities with all the enthusiasm and grace of an angry adolescent scrooge.
Jess just shook his head, drank his beer, and let them have their fun. He was years removed from his days stuck in that ridiculous town. He was more fond of it now - mostly because it reminded him of Luke - but Stars Hollow often felt like a weird dream to him. The surrealist town holidays and caricatures of townspeople were strange enough, but he couldn't detach the town's oddities from the deep well of emotion he locked up from falling in love there for the first time.
After a while, the conversation, predictably, turned to Matthew's endless quest for love. "I'm refusing to online date," Matthew sighed, "because where is the romance in that? But honestly, I've been ghosted by the last three girls I went on second dates with, so I have no idea what I'm doing wrong."
Chris and Jess laughed, but Rory was concerned. "The last three? What are you saying or doing that makes them run off like that?"
Her question only made Jess have to work harder to cough down his laughs. Matthew shrugged, "Oh there's a whole list. I have a bad habit of writing poetry on bar napkins for them. I talk about marriage and kids way too early. I ask inappropriately personal questions about what ended their last relationship."
This time Rory giggled too. "Well . . . yeah, I don't know how to help you then."
"Sometime, someday, I'll meet a girl who isn't scared off by it," Matthew said cheerfully, "but until then, the hilarity parade continues for these two idiots."
She glanced at Chris and Jess. "You all have the privilege of witnessing this?"
"All the time," Jess confirmed.
"Every weekend," Chris agreed. "It's more funny because the girls are always calling Jess back, trying to see him again, and Matthew's drop him after a night."
Matthew made an outraged expression, and began to rebut Chris. Jess just drained his beer at that comment. He wasn't sure he wanted Rory to know how he spent his hours in bars with Matthew and Chris, but he supposed it didn't matter much. Of course she must assume that he wasn't living like a celibate monk, up in his attic writing for hours. But he avoided her eyes all the same.
" . . . Besides, it's not my fault that women like assholes," Matthew continued, "Jess ignores them and they can't get enough of him. I express genuine interest - tell them honestly that I like them - and they can't stand me!"
Rory smiled, her eyes flickering to Jess. "Not all women are like that. You'll find one that likes the honesty and the lack of games."
"Yeah, well, sign me up for one," Matthew groaned, "I can't live this life of heartbreak in dive bars much longer."
The waitress came back, drawn by their empty glasses. They ordered another round and Matthew continued complaining.
Jess looked at Rory, made eye contact, and gave her an apologetic expression that he hoped indicated that he felt bad about Matthew's endless griping. She smiled back at him, eyebrows raised, and for a brief moment, Jess understood Fitzgerald's appreciation for the intimacy of large parties. It was easy, in a crowded and noisy tavern, to meet eyes and communicate with no one watching.
Chris, finally fed up, told Matthew to stop whining and go get quarters so that they could play a game of pool. Rory stood, laughing. "I'll be right back."
As soon as she was gone, without preamble, Matthew and Chris leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Dude, she is into you," Chris said.
Matthew nodded, "Really into you."
Jess drank his beer. "No, she's not."
But Jess wasn't stupid; he could tell that Rory had been looking at him differently. He saw it at Christmas, when she had eyes on him throughout the night, when she leaned into their conversation, playing casually with handfuls of sparks. And he saw it during that terrible storm in New York, when he visited her at the hospital and she carelessly broke down plenty of the carefully constructed, fragile boundaries that had defined their friendship in the last years of running into each other at Luke and Lorelai's. When she had fallen asleep on his shoulder, he had nearly gotten up and left, mostly unwilling to play this game or let her play with his locked up heart. Instead, he had let it happen, but he felt himself being more guarded than ever. Can't repeat the past? . . . Why of course you can! Fitzgerald coaxed him. But he ignored and avoided all of it like a practiced survivor.
"Are you going to do something about it?" Matthew pressed.
"No," Jess said, shortly.
"Why not?" Chris seemed curious. "She seems great."
Jess was getting annoyed. "She brings a lot of baggage."
"Well that's just rude," Matthew was affronted.
Chris tossed a napkin at him. "Not her baggage, dumbass. Their past relationship baggage."
"Ah," Matthew nodded. "So you're not into her?"
"No," Jess repeated.
"Then you're an idiot," Matthew advised.
Their conversation was cut off by Rory returning. Jess was grateful - Matthew and Chris were pointing out all of the signs that Jess had been steadfastly disregarding and evading for months, and he wasn't in the mood to put up with them. He kept that inner part of himself locked up, tight.
"Well, we're going to go play a round of pool," Chris glanced at Jess, smirking. "Come join if you want to play doubles."
Jess resisted the urge to hit both of his friends.
Rory sat across from him, her hands playing with her glass. If she was bothered by their conversation about Matthew and Jess hooking up with girls in bars, she didn't show it. Her blue eyes were bright and cheerful, her mouth curved into a slight smile.
Jess, sensing danger, changed the topic. "How's Richard?"
He knew Richard was doing better, knew this was a safe area of discussion.
"He's doing great," Rory said, breaking into a true smile, "really great. Luke told you he woke up?"
Jess nodded. She continued, "He got moved back home last week. He's still on bed rest, and they had to hire an at-home nurse - Grandma's already fired three of them - but he seems like his old self. They let his bridge club come over to play, and he fixed it up in the will that Grandma isn't allowed to sell the house unless she has the actual death certificate in hand."
Jess snorted. "That's cheerful."
"Well, she kept threatening it when he was in a coma, so he's not taking any chances," Rory shrugged. "Mom is over there a few days a week. I visited last weekend but it's been harder now that he's not in the city anymore."
"I'm glad he's doing well," Jess said. He meant it.
"Me too," Rory agreed. She glanced over at the pool tables, where Matthew and Chris were setting up. After a few moments, she spoke again. "Your friends are funny."
"They're something," Jess said matter-of-factly.
"Poor Matthew. I hope he finds someone."
"God knows he's trying," Jess leaned back and took a drink of his beer, "it's exhausting. You're a saint for listening to him for so long. Usually we kick him to the curb and tell him to get over it."
"What wonderful, understanding friends you are," Rory shook her head, amused. "The boy is lonely!"
"Aren't we all," Jess said dispassionately.
Her eyes were glimmering again. She continued looking at him, refusing to play along with his attempts to avoid eye contact. "Doesn't really sound like you're so lonely, Jess."
He felt himself groan internally. He did not want to have this conversation. But he couldn't think of a segue, so instead he stayed quiet, watching the pool tables.
"I'm only teasing," she offered, her tone light.
Jess forced a half smile and deflected. "What about you? Do you have any bad habits of picking up men in bars?" He highly doubted it. Rory Gilmore tended towards the safe and the certain, eschewing spontaneity or bad decision making for thorough vetting and established emotional connections.
"Only one," she said. That surprised him. Then she continued, "I think we're sort of dating now."
That was less surprising. "Good for you," Jess gripped his beer. "What's his name?"
"Noah," she said. Her eyes were on him, curious.
Jess processed quickly and efficiently, ignoring any sort of interior emotion. He kept everything buried. He felt detached and unconcerned, but he could tell that she was looking for his reaction.
"How's the 'sort of' dating going?" he asked. His tone was friendly, mocking.
"Pretty good," Rory said, straightening up slightly, sounding more or less enthusiastic, "He's nice, he likes coffee shops, he can keep up with the Gilmore speed of conversation about half the time."
"Nice, caffeinated, sometimes capable of talking," Jess ticked off his fingers, "I mean really, Rory, sounds like you've found a winner."
She rolled her eyes, smiling, "He's great. And he really likes me, I can tell."
Jess nodded, "Definitely meeting all the bare minimum requirements for a guy you're 'sort of' dating."
If they were sitting next to each other, Jess was sure she would have batted at him. "It's good, really. Going well. I'm happy."
Jess pretended to bow out and take her word for it, but he could sense a hollowness in her I'm happy. She was bright and smiling but it all seemed a little too composed, a bit too friendly. It reminded him of something, like déjà vu, but he couldn't quite place it.
"He's sweet and he works hard and he's successful," she added, unable to resist making her argument, like she was laying down a defense. "I'm optimistic."
Jess suddenly realized what she was reminding him of. He could picture it, a seventeen-year-old Rory, steadfastly and stubbornly defending her 'sweet' and 'perfect' first boyfriend even as her eyes followed the lining of Jess' jacket, raking over him while she swore she was ignoring him. She played that game for months, her eyes following Jess everywhere, unable to even pretend to stop her body language from turning towards him, searching for him. She held Dean's arm like a vice grip, threw herself into him, and still watched Jess over his shoulder.
Of course Jess had loved it back then, back when he was risky and shameless and doing everything he could to get her to look at him. But now, he could feel Rory watching him as he listened to her empty words claiming the opposite, and he didn't want much to do with it. He kept pushing away the fear, checking the locks, determinedly refusing to engage. He built up a wall of caution and refused to acknowledge the deep cracks forming in it.
"It sounds like that could turn out great," Jess said. "Happy for you."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Pool?" He offered, standing up. He was done talking about all of this. He wanted a whiskey and a cigarette and a cold shower and a blackout writing binge.
"Sure," she grinned.
They joined Matthew and Chris, and wiled away the time with a few games of pool. After their conversation, Rory seemed to decide that drinking was the best option for her, and she became rather lighthearted and funny and charming. Jess smiled despite himself as she leaned on her pool stick, her usual rapid fire pace of dialogue only getting worse under the influence of alcohol. She was as magnetic as ever, even in the dim light of the tavern, playing with her dark hair and teasing Matthew when he caught the eye of another doe-eyed undergrad in the corner with a notebook.
At one point Chris sidled up to Jess. "You're sure about her?" He asked in a low voice.
Jess shook his head. "No."
A ghost of a smile appeared on Chris' face, but he stayed calm, pretending to focus on the game. "Seems like she's pretty sure what she wants."
"She's sort of dating someone," Jess said. He said the words automatically, but he knew they didn't really matter. Rory didn't give a shit about this Noah guy.
"Well Matthew's right," Chris said. "You're an idiot if you don't do something about this."
Jess shrugged. "I might be an idiot then."
Chris eyed him. Then he clasped his shoulder, briefly, and moved to take his shot. Jess leaned against the wall. He felt exhausted.
The night concluded after Rory spent a solid thirty minutes coaching Matthew on how to talk to the pretty undergrad in the corner. By then it was late, Jess was irritated and hot and restless and aching for a cigarette, even though he'd been quit for over a year. Rory was clearly a bit tipsy, and Matthew was drunk enough that he was spinning verses out loud, quoting poets and being generally loud and rambunctious and obvious.
They left the tavern. The April night was dark and damp after a week of rain. Rory brushed Jess every so often as they walked, but he couldn't tell - and didn't want to care - whether it was because she was a little inebriated or because she was trying to communicate something.
"What a great night," Matthew exclaimed happily, his voice loud, as they reached the corner where Chris and Matthew would turn towards their apartment. "You guys are the best. Rory, you're the best."
Rory grinned and hugged him, "Wishing you the best of luck in your romantic endeavors. Stop quoting William Blake."
"Yes, ma'am," he saluted her.
"See you all," Chris grabbed Matthew's jacket and gave Jess a look. "Sorry about him."
Rory waved goodbye, and turned up the street. Jess saw Matthew's eyes follow her, until Chris pushed him towards their apartment.
Jess shook his head. He was in a bad mood. He hurried to catch up with Rory.
He didn't want to offer it, but he knew he needed to. "Do you need a couch to crash on? Where are you staying?"
"At a hostel. It's kind of terrible," she shuddered. "A couch would be great. Is that okay?"
"It's fine," Jess said.
He brought her back to Truncheon Books, and then led her up the stairs to his apartment. He flicked on the lamps and grabbed a glass of water and a few blankets. "I'd offer you the bed, but I promise the couch is more comfortable and it's way cleaner in here," he explained, setting up a bed for her on his couch.
She swayed very slightly as she stood, her arms wrapped around herself. She smiled. "This is perfect. I really appreciate it."
"No problem," he tossed a pillow onto the couch and set her water on the coffee table. "Need anything else?"
Rory shook her head no.
"I've got a bit of a headache," he said. It wasn't a lie - his head was pounding and all he wanted was to be alone with a bottle of whiskey and his laptop and a damn cigarette. "Are you cool if I call it a night?"
"Of course," she seemed a little surprised and concerned, "no worries at all, I'm exhausted, I'll be asleep in a minute. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he forced a smile. "Shout if you need anything."
Before he did or said anything worse, he turned and disappeared into his room. He closed the door and leaned back against it, his eyes closed.
Jess didn't hear anything from Rory. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer, tossed his laptop on his bed, and began writing, half tangled in his pile of sheets and hitting the whiskey a little too hard and aching for a smoke. But he had no cigarettes - he would not go buy cigarettes - and before long the whiskey smoothed his riled bloodstream and calmed the ache in his head and made his thoughts blurry and muted and less dangerous. But every once in a while he would remember that Rory was asleep on his couch, a few feet away, and he would close his eyes and fervently wish he could just pass out and not deal with any of it.
No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart, Fitzgerald advised. Jess swore at him.
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Hours later, the morning dawned, grey and cloudy and threatening April rains once more. The soft light slowly illuminated Jess' mess of a room. He threw down his laptop and yawned. He honestly didn't know if he had slept or not.
He didn't want to be there when Rory woke up. He didn't, or couldn't, deal with seeing her again this morning. His muscles were sore and aching from the effort it took to wrap extra iron bars around everything related to her in that stupid teenage part of his heart. He couldn't deal with her blue eyes or soft voice when he felt this exhausted and tenuous.
Quietly, he gathered his computer and notebooks into his bag, and threw on a fresh t-shirt. He swirled the whiskey taste out of his mouth with mouthwash, and grabbed a jacket.
He opened the door to the living room. Rory lay curled up on the couch, breathing softly, her eyes closed. Strands of her dark hair were strewn across the pillow. She looked peaceful, younger, a vision of her seventeen-year-old self with more prominent cheekbones.
Jess stared at her for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. Then he shook his head and headed for the front door, careful to close it quietly behind him, his heart beating rather loudly in his throat.
Fitzgerald sighed. And for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires.
Jess hurried through the misty morning to a coffee shop, trying to forget.
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Sending lots of love to everyone who has left reviews! So grateful for wonderful readers.
I promise, things are picking up . . .
