Story Title: Razor
Chapter Title: Day After Day, Cutting Away
Pairing: Lit
Rating: T (for now); some language
Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.
He stood in the back corner, surrounded by ceiling-height shelves, racked with new and used books—as many as could be packed into the confines of each horizontal space. His eyes grazed the spines of each title-each the culmination of someone's hard work, a portion of their lives and more of their sanity encased between the two covers-dismissing so many outright. It was his practice, to skim the titles, waiting for the one he was looking for, until finally he set sights on one worth pulling from the shelves and deeming worthy of testing out the first page. He used to work from lists—banned books and ones that had earned the praise of his own favorite writers. He'd long since read every book that anyone he respected could ever recommend to him. He wondered if that was part of the reason he wrote himself. It was becoming harder and harder to find things in his life that motivated him, that kept him going. Great books had always been his escape; writing offered him that kind of momentum, and, well, if he was going to be honest—there was one person he could think of that he would rather spend his time with, above all other activities.
They used to stand in aisles like this, side by side, sharing the occasional thought, looking for books and letting the world go by. Once they had made selections, if they'd both gotten lucky as to find something to peak their interests, they'd head off, in search of food or a place to read their newfound treasures. If only one had bought a book, perhaps the buyer would treat the other to reading their selection aloud. They lost hours, listening to each other's words, engaged in each other's thoughts, and inevitably tossing the reading materials aside to wrap up in each other's arms. To quote another writer, it had been the best of times.
Jess flinched as he touched the corner of one book, as he heard the employee from the bookstore announce his name and the single title he'd produced over the sound system, inviting anyone in the store to come listen to him read and answer questions in ten minutes' time. He checked his watch. He only wanted to read to one person and he hadn't seen her in weeks. The only question between them loomed over his head like a cloud—and he was growing weary of wondering if it had a silver lining or was about to unleash a storm.
He meandered back to the room where they'd invited him to relax and wait for his appearance. He poured some coffee into a paper cup, watching the steam roll off the top. He wasn't hungry, but he could use the sugar and caffeine. He'd been up most nights, writing, taking a nap until his flight that would take him to the next stop on his tour, and then he would be busy the rest of the days with whatever his agent had lined up for publicity. Some days he just gave local interviews, while others he was able to crash in his hotel room for a few hours of catch-up sleep before showing up to the next bookstore. Most days he could only be sure where he was by the ticket stub from the airline he had shoved in his pants' pocket. His solace at this point was that this was his last stop—tomorrow he'd be on a plane to Philly, back to his normal life. At least, until he finished his next book, which his agent said that he had several big-named publishers primed to pick up, even willing to distribute it under their umbrella while Truncheon kept it's one and only big-name author in house. The only thing his agent asked for was expedience. Sure, he'd been writing, but in all honesty, he only had a vague idea of what was flowing out of him. As with much of his life, the beginning had come easily, the middle was effortless until he hit a road block, and the thought of the ending made him break out in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.
A knock came to the door, and he looked up. "Hi. I'm Maria—the voice you've probably heard over the speakers. We're ready if you are."
He nodded and took one last swig of coffee. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said as he followed behind her a few paces. He did his best to remain quiet and let these people lead him around. They were just doing their jobs—it wasn't their fault that he'd written a book or been propelled by circumstances he'd never seen coming into something of a spotlight. Granted, he wasn't a household name. But within a very specific community, people were taking notice, and he was put into so many situations that were described by so many that went before him as coming with the territory. Writers didn't write to become famous. At least, the great ones didn't. Writers wrote to unleash all the little things that would otherwise build up inside of them, eating away until there was nothing left. It was their refuge.
He waited at the side as Maria introduced him to the crowd. He had to admit, the number of people that had been waiting at him at each location was definitely larger than his first appearance. He had actually been somewhat relieved to see seven people show up in Montclair, New Jersey so many weeks ago—not only that someone had come but also that it wasn't an overwhelming crowd. Fast forwarding to tonight, he scanned the faces to see what he guessed to be about fifty people crammed into the smaller area they had dedicated to the event, waiting to hear him speak here, in Savannah, Georgia. He'd been meaning to ask his agent if he knew how to read a map, having sent him criss-crossing back and forth this whole time, when it seemed more expedient to have him move either east to west or north to south or some other more logical fashion, but all he got in response was a long-winded speech about promotion and bookings and, well, he'd stopped listening at that point and realized he didn't care where he was going next.
At least, until now.
"Thanks," he spoke into the microphone after a small round of applause died down. "I, uh, generally do a short reading from the book, then if you guys have any questions, I'll stick around to answer them or sign your copies," he gave his little spiel, as outlined by what was expected of him. It all seemed superfluous to him; it wasn't as if Hemingway's words would have meant any more to him if he'd gotten to stand in line to have the guy scribble his signature across the title page. Of course, it might make him wealthy at this point, but getting into books for money was as laughable as starring in a reality television show to gain industry respect.
He went on to read his favorite selection from his novel, the few pages that were in his opinion the most intimate moments between his two main characters. They were just starting to trust one another, having spent more than a few encounters watching the other to see how they would react to each other. The passage included no dialogue—the two characters were just seated on separate ends of a restaurant, exchanging glances and reacting to one another as an event carried out in front of them—small town theater as it was often referred to. But it was the first moment in the narrative that showed that these two had more than separate interests in one another—rather they were connecting on a deeper level, and both beginning to realize it themselves. After that, well, all hell broke loose, which is key to most forms of entertainment, but this was the calm before the storm.
It wasn't until after he finished reading and began to truly look out into the crowd to answer the usual questions—was this based on real life events, was he considering writing another book, why couldn't he have let his characters be happy at the end-all things he not only had defended or discussed countless times, but answers he had so well-honed at this point that most people were actually satisfied with his responses. But as he was explaining why the main character's uncle, the man with whom he was living, had kicked him out instead of trying to help the kid, he saw her. She was standing in the back, with a few other people who had arrived too late to secure seats. She was wearing a fitted cream-colored trench coat over dark jeans, her long dark hair down over her shoulders and tucked behind one ear. Her eyes were trained on him, a slight smile on her face as she had listened to him read to her, as if no one else were there.
He realized he'd stopped in the middle of his answer and tried to push the meaning behind her being here out of the way so he could continue, but he to be honest, he wasn't sure that the rest of his answer made sense, though he continued talking. All he could think about was that this wasn't just the end of the book tour. His wait, for her answer, was about to be over as well.
Jess got through a few more questions, though none came from her, and signed their books, making as little small talk as humanly possible through the task. He did his best to be curt yet polite, and as his signature took him little of a second to scrawl on each page, he went through the line fairly quickly. Finally it was just her standing in front of the desk he'd been trapped sitting behind. He stretched his legs and looked up at her.
"You're an author," she said with no small amount of reverence. After all, she was just like him in respect to the written word. Words had always been her escape as well, and she had a high respect for the craft.
"What gave me away?" he asked.
"You were great," she assured him. "Those people, they were completely wrapped up in your words. They all bought your book. Doesn't that feel amazing?" she asked, by far the most personal question he'd been posed during all these many nights. Not one person had asked him how he felt.
"It's nice to know someone enjoyed it," he offered.
She studied him, and then shifted her weight. "I still think you should have won."
He met her gaze full on. "The same could be said for you," he offered, not offering her pity—he was sincere. He had no reason to schmooze her—she knew that he had read all the nominated work, despite their different categories. Her fate had been his that night, and not just because they'd both lost. Neither would have had anything to write about if it weren't for the other person's existence in their lives. He'd blamed her for all of this, the media circus and all the additional inconvenience that had invaded his life, but the truth was that he was the one that started this, a mirror of how they'd come to be. He was the one that turned to writing about her to deal with what he'd felt was somehow unfinished between them. He had just been seeking to find his own ending. He wondered if she had finally done the same.
"Thanks. I might not have won, but I did get a job offer," she admitted.
"Did it involve traveling to little-known bookstores to interview the poor saps who have to entertain in them?"
"Actually, it's with the Washington Post, their Foreign Policy department. One of the editors read my piece and liked my style enough to pull my portfolio and look over my stuff and decided to consider me for an opening they had. Apparently there's so much happening right now they can't find enough people to cover everything fast enough, and they're recruiting pretty heavily."
Jess studied her face as she spoke. She was trying to contain her excitement, but she had help from something else. Something was holding her back from truly embracing this opportunity. "Sounds like your dream job," he nodded. "You couldn't turn that down."
She bit her lip. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk?" she asked.
He stood up, grabbed his bag, and shoved the papers he'd read from into it. "I'm sure we can find something nearby."
XXXX
Maria, the contact at the bookstore, had been very helpful in recommending a place to eat that still allowed for a private conversation. They sat in a back, high-backed booth, him ordering coffee despite the late hour, and her opting instead for just water as they waited for their orders to arrive.
"So, should we sit here and beat around the bush, or just cut right to it?"
She looked up at him, her eyes going wide. "Um. Okay. Right," she nodded, but didn't say anything for an extended beat. He had never been very patient, and it was becoming quite clear that as she hadn't greeted him with open arms and a long-anticipated kiss she was doing her best to give him a gentle goodbye. Perhaps she felt she owed him that, despite him never affording her the same gesture. Though why she felt the need to ambush him here and now was still yet to be seen.
"Rory?" he frowned. "Just say it, all right? It doesn't matter if it's because of him or this new job," he began. "If you don't want to be with me, just say it."
She looked up from her napkin, which she'd been tearing slowly into strips. "I'm pregnant."
He sat back. Words left him—air left his lungs. His mind went blank for a good minute. No one had ever said those words to him—he had never even imagined anyone sharing that news with him.
"Jess. Say something."
"Give me a minute," he requested. She sat back, taking another drink of water and going back to shredding the napkin. A million questions ran through his mind, but only one seemed most pertinent. "Are you okay?"
She her hands stilled. "I was in shock. At first, I mean. I'm just starting to feel sick sometimes, otherwise I feel okay."
He nodded. "Have you told … anyone else?" He did his best not to say the other man's name, about as loudly as he had ever not said anything.
She shook her head. "I haven't told anyone else. I just got confirmation yesterday and the job offer last night."
"Jesus," he muttered lowly, desperately wanting to get through this conversation without the inevitable fact that he would most certainly piss her off once he put his foot in his mouth. He was bad at normal conversations that involved feelings, but this was a whole new ballpark. She was just supposed to have to choose if she wanted to give up one man for another—not giving up her dream career for a baby with a man that she might not have choose given other circumstances. "Do you want this?"
A tear slipped from her eye, and she pushed it away. "I … don't know."
He nodded. "What do you want from me, Rory? Do you want my opinion or my support? I can't read your mind, and I really don't want to make your situation worse."
She pulled out a pamphlet from her purse and slid it across the table. He picked it up with a furrowed brow and paled when he read the title. "Prenatal Paternity Testing?"
She nodded and swallowed hard. "They have to do that test between ten and thirteen weeks. I'm at nine weeks, so I'm here to ask if you'll agree to give me a DNA sample, then I can know for sure. Then I can decide what I need to do from there."
The reality of the situation came crashing down on him at once. It wasn't just that she was telling him she was pregnant or that it was inconvenient timing because of her job offer. It was that she was pregnant and she wasn't even sure who the father was; just whom she was deciding if she was going to put off her career and have a baby with, if at all. If it was his, would that make a difference in her actions than if it wasn't? He suddenly felt sick.
"It might be his?" he managed.
Rory chewed her bottom lip. "It might be. The timing…," she shook her head. "It's not an exact science, but it was around the time we were together. And Logan and I were," she began, but he closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands over them. She stopped as his ability ingest more information waned. "I didn't want to put this on you. But I haven't told him yet, about us, and it just seemed," she cut off, and he removed his hands to look into her eyes.
"Easier," he finished for her. She nodded.
"I'm sorry, Jess. God, I'm so sorry. I never meant," she breathed out unsteadily.
"What do I need to do?" he asked.
"Really? Just like that? Don't you want," she paused. "I don't even know what I think you should need before you agree to help me. Everything's happening so fast."
He stayed silent as their server brought their food and placed it in front of them. He was no longer hungry. He wondered if even she could eat after a conversation like this. As soon as the waiter left, he pushed his food aside and leaned forward. "I just have to know one thing. I'll give you whatever you need, but I think you owe me one answer."
She took in an unsteady breath. "I owe you more than that," she acquiesced softly.
"Before all this," he acknowledged that so much had changed from the last time they'd seen one another, "did you ever decide, I mean, were you ever even going to bother finding me again?"
She looked down, at her plate, or her hands, or maybe her stomach. He couldn't believe the woman in front of him might be carrying his child. His DNA, as it were. "Jess," she managed. "If this isn't yours, do you really want to know what I wanted?"
Suddenly she was asking him to do the impossible. Treat her as if it were his, just in case, but possibly be holding her hand while she found out it was another man's child. It seemed a cruel hand from fate had found a proper revenge for his having stolen his moments with her from another man.
"I understand if you don't want to have anything to do with this. You can just walk away, and I can man up and confess everything to Logan. But I was really hoping to avoid that if I could."
There was something in her voice, something she wasn't fully conveying to him. At least she knew what she was asking. He got the feeling that she'd come all this way and put all this on his shoulders, not just because she was trying to hide her sins, but because she had run to the place she felt safe. She was sitting there, waiting for his answer, but most of all, she just wanted a place to rest.
That was all he needed to know for now. "Come on," he said, standing up from the table and waiting at her end of the booth. "You look like you could use some rest."