She concentrated on the screen in front of her, the blinking cursor guarding the finished paragraph with finality. She scanned over the words and released a breath carefully.
She was astonished at how easily the words came. She would sit down, having only one sentence in her head, or a couple of words, and by the time her fingers managed to push the necessary buttons on the keyboard, the rest of the words and sentences followed, rushing past her and onto the screen as though her mind was a vessel, a secret connection between some hidden storage of feelings and thoughts.
And as easily as it came, it would stop. Suddenly she would stare at the blinking cursor, unable to write anything more, unable to pick up the rhythm, unable to get back into that particular line of thought. As if the paragraphs were sudden revelations, uncontrollable, and untraceable.
She felt a shiver run down her spine and she turned around to see him stare at her.
He was leaning against the door frame, his face slightly pale from having probably just arrived into the warm apartment, from the cold street. His eyes were contemplative and content at the same time and she felt embarrassed, realizing he must have been watching her for minutes.
"Don't do that, it's creepy" she half joked.
"Sorry" he replied in a raspy voice, releasing a chuckle.
There was silence and she turned around again, studying his form. He hadn't moved and she remembered how he rarely stepped inside the study since she had started writing again. As if he were careful not to disturb not just her work, but her whole space, concentration and inspiration.
"You're home early" she said, her voice warm, giddy almost.
"Yeah" he mouthed "we're invited to dinner" he finished, his face distorted into a frown.
She furrowed her brows, trying to identify what he was referring to.
"Paris and Doyle?" he pointed out.
"Oh wow" she said, realization dawning "that's today?" she asked incredulous.
"Look, I could call, tell them I had to work late if you want to keep writing" he offered eagerly.
"No. No" she shook her head "I just completely forgot" she laughed.
"I wish I could too" he murmured, taking off his coat.
She watched as he disappeared from the doorway and she got up from her chair, shutting her laptop before walking after him.
She caught up in the kitchen, sitting down by the table as she watched him taking out a bottle of water from the fridge.
"We haven't seen them since Halloween" she pointed out, reasoning with him.
"Uh-huh" he affirmed between gulps of water, his face showing no signs of conviction and she smiled at his reluctance.
"You like Paris" she reminded him.
"I don't know, do I?" he wondered, his face in mock concentration.
She laughed.
"Yeah, and Doyle makes you laugh" she went on, listing off the reasons.
"Hmm" he said, obviously not convinced.
"Why don't we..." he said, placing the half finished bottle on the counter and pulling her off the chair, pulling her into his embrace as he rested back against the counter "hole up in here instead?"
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"We could order in, lay in bed all evening, in our underwear, and not get interrogated by the medical-nazi" he finished his reasoning and she listened amused.
"The medical-nazi?" she asked.
"She drew up my whole medical history the last time I had dinner with her" he groaned.
"Really? What was the conclusion?" she laughed.
"Mild chance of lung cancer, 60% chance of a heart attack by age 65" he replied without missing a beat.
"Nice" she said "50% for a peptic ulcer" she pointed towards herself.
"Wow, excellent" he replied impressed.
"She spent an hour trying to convince me to start taking proton pump inhibitors" she declared proudly.
"What?" he asked, falling out of his role.
"That's the actual medical term" she laughed "I liked it so much, I memorized it".
"It sounds like a secret weapon of a superhero" he frowned.
"I know, I was halfway convinced to take them" she laughed.
She disentangled herself from his arms.
"Come on, it will be fun" she laughed as she headed towards the bedroom to get dressed.
"Hopefully, she'll bring narcotics" she heard him murmur.
xxxxxxxxxxx
"Come inside, I am running late" they heard the blonde huff as she opened the door, but disappeared straight away.
Rory looked back at Tristan who wore an amused expression on his face.
"Okay then" he mouthed as he followed her into the foyer.
"We had this Whipple case and it lasted 8 hours instead of the 6 I was planing for, so I am running late - Doyle, entertain your guests!" the Paris yelled and Rory heard a chuckle from Tristan.
"What's a Whipple?" he asked under his breath.
"Do you really wanna know?" she replied, arching her eyebrow.
"My guests, why are they suddenly my guests?" Doyle asked annoyed as he appeared in the foyer.
Rory couldn't help but chuckle at his annoyed expression.
"If this is not a good time..." Tristan started, his voice hopeful.
"Of course it's a good time" Paris reappeared for a second "I just need to take a shower real quick. Unless you want me to smell like pancreas" she said, disappearing once again.
Rory frowned, taken aback.
"You definitely don't want her to smell like pancreas" Doyle pointed out.
"Okay then" Tristan stepped up, cutting Doyle's speech short "how about some drinks?"
"Yes, of course" Doyle said, turning around to walk inside the apartment.
Rory looked at Tristan, her face permanently fixed in a disgusted frown.
"Don't look at me, I wanted to stay home" he whispered as he followed Doyle.
Rory sighed, bracing herself for the evening.
She walked into the living room watching Doyle and Tristan prepare some drinks at the bar.
Tristan handed her a glass and she tasted it curiously.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Plenty of alcohol" he whispered coyly and she sighed.
They sat down by the table across from Doyle and silence settled over them.
Rory squirmed in her seat uncomfortably, smiling at Doyle who studied them.
"Okay, I'm here" Paris said as she stormed in, taking a seat next to Doyle.
Rory looked at her baffled.
"You are already done?" she asked confused.
"Yeah" Paris replied, slightly out of breath "gotta be quick, time cannot be wasted on showers when you are a surgical resident" she reasoned.
"She's got it down to 78 seconds now" Doyle beamed with pride "including drying off".
Rory stared at them shocked.
"Enough of chitchat" Paris said, not leaving room for further analyzing of the 78 second shower method "we have more important issues to address".
Rory looked around uncomfortably, as Tristan smiled, no doubt prepared for the insanity that was impossible to prepare for. She watched, part amazed, as he leaned back in his chair, his arm caressing her back absent mindedly.
"Issues?" Rory asked, her voice careful.
"You two back together?" Paris asked, her voice harsh, her expression stern.
"Uhm" Rory replied, suddenly embarrassed under the scrutiny.
"And I don't mean back together, fooling around, like you two were for god knows how long, but really back together, living and all?" she clarified.
Rory took an impatient sip of her drink, almost choking from the effort.
"Yeah, Paris, we are" she heard Tristan state, his voice calm.
"You going to confirm that?" the blonde turned to her and Rory swallowed hard.
"Yes" she stuttered.
"Good" Paris said, seemingly pleased "that whole drama back and forth was getting old. We can't afford to loose a couple like you. We are journalist-doctor couple, socially high standard, we're supposed to surround ourselves with people like that" she explained.
"You always warm my heart, Paris" Rory murmured.
"Doyle has no married friends, they are all dimwits and I, well, you know..." Paris continued "We need you to come off as strong and powerful. Hot shot lawyer - New York Times reporter, that's the kind of friends we need for show" she finished her monologue and Doyle nodded in unison.
Tristan chuckled and Rory sighed annoyed.
"Oh god, this is going to be priceless" she heard him say.
Paris and Doyle looked at them, their expression curious.
"You wanna tell them or should I?" Tristan leaned in, whispering.
"You are not being particularly helpful here" she bit back.
"What are you two talking about?" Paris asked, her voice impatient.
"I quit the Times" Rory said impulsively but regretted it straight away, as she saw the two sets of eyes bore into her.
She felt Tristan's hand clasp hers under the table and she took a deep breath.
"What?" Paris shrieked standing up for further stamina.
"Calm down, Paris" Tristan said, trying to calm the blonde.
"Why would you do such thing? You worked for that all your life. I worked for that all my life. You were supposed to go and be the best you could be, I was supposed to see what I could have reached, had I chosen journalism!" she yelled.
"While your honest concern warms my heart..." Rory started, her voice cynical.
"Don't be making this a joke" Paris cut her off "What could possibly justify that action?"
Rory scoffed "I don't need to justify..."
"You are pregnant, aren't you?" Paris asked, her eyes dangerously focused "You knocked her up, didn't you?" she looked at Tristan accusing.
"That's enough, Paris" Tristan said, his voice strong and firm.
Rory looked at him, involuntarily, his face was serious, annoyed and determined. She watched in awe as the room fell silent. He had that sort of a presence. He rarely used it, rarely had to, but when he did, it gave her some incredible thrill, knowing he could be that straight forward, that powerful.
"If you could shut your mouth for two minutes, Rory might explain" he said, choosing his words carefully, as he tried to control his anger.
Rory watched him, thankful for his pose, but now, when all eyes were on her, she had trouble knowing what she wanted to say.
"I just... I didn't want to do it anymore. I wasn't happy doing that" she started, not daring to look up at Paris "your dreams aren't supposed to feel like a burden, are they? They aren't supposed to feel like they are someone else's dream, right?" she asked, finally looking up to see Paris stare at her, her eyes almost showing concern.
She took a deep breath, finding strength to go on.
"I know I disappointed everyone..."
"Don't say that" Tristan cut her off, squeezing her hand again.
She smiled at him, thankful.
"I know I did. But I don't care anymore. I want to find something that makes me happy, makes me whole" she finished, looking up with a new found determination.
There was a moment of silence, Paris and Doyle watching her intently and she felt good, having commanded that room to an impressive silence.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Paris asked, and Rory let out a long breath, her momentum gone.
"Are you going to be a housewife now? Or take classes at the community college?" she went on and Rory had to accept that she had valid questions.
"I don't know, Paris" she sighed, leaning back into her chair.
"This is ridiculous. You are throwing away your talent" Paris said, leaning back in her chair as Rory squirmed in her seat, hating that once again all eyes were on her.
"She isn't" Tristan stood up for her once again and she glanced at him, wondering when he would finally have enough of defending her. It seemed like that's all he had been doing for the past couple of weeks and she could tell it was taking a toll on him. Not because he didn't believe in the cause anymore, but perhaps because he was used to wining arguments quickly, in the courtroom anyway. Long cases wore his defenses down, because he was the kind of person that delivered the goods quickly and in a straight forward manner. He wasn't the one for lengthy warfare.
"What do you know? You're so happy she is back, you don't care if she's throwing her life away" Paris snapped back at him and Rory saw Tristan tense. She knew that Tristan let Paris get away with a lot of things, because they had a history, because he knew her, loved her even, but this was a low blow, even for her.
"Paris, that's enough" he said, and Rory felt a chill run down her spine hearing his voice like that. Paris must have felt it too, because there was a moment of silence and when she spoke again, she chose her words more carefully.
"What did Lorelai say? What did your grandparents say?" she asked, her voice still having that edge Rory knew so well.
"They were shocked. And pissed. My grandfather is not talking to me" she said honestly, her voice hurt.
"I don't blame them" the blonde replied, but didn't go on, silenced by a flash of Tristan's eyes.
"Paris" Doyle called out his wife's name, speaking for the first time since the whole discussion started and it seemed to have some sort of effect on her, because she rolled her eyes, sighing.
"Fine" she groaned "I suppose she could have a midlife crisis. If she recovers okay. You are going to recover, right?" she shot Rory a look.
"I hope" she smiled wryly and there was another silence, settling in on them, this time more calm, and Rory sighed thankful for the truce.
"Well" Paris suddenly said, getting up from her seat and dashing out the living room and into the bedroom "lucky for you, I have just the perfect thing to sort this mess out".
Rory glanced from Doyle to Tristan, her uneasiness unabashed.
Paris reappeared with a huge binder, with color coordinated dividers and Rory felt a slight déja vu as she dropped the massive thing on the dinner table.
"What's this?" she asked, already fearing the answer.
"This, my friend, is our 'Possible future prospects' binder from senior year at Yale" Paris stated proudly.
"Oh my god" Rory groaned "You kept this?"
"You bet I did, lucky for you" she retorted.
"What the hell is that?" Tristan asked, not hiding the annoyance in his voice.
"This is all the possible prospects that we considered during our last year at Yale. It has all Rory's qualifications, matched with possible fields of work, masters trainings, prospective jobs. All graded by a simple score system that I developed based on possible interests, adjudication and compensation" she explained, her face determined as she opened the binder, flipping through a couple of pages.
"Now, of course we would have to modify this, since a couple of years at the Times ought to weigh in with certain possibilities..." Paris went on, not paying attention to anyone else.
"Paris" Rory pleaded sighing.
"...but I'm sure we could find some acceptable solutions" she continued.
"I am writing a novel" Rory half shouted and she immediately scolded herself for having said it. She stared at a spot on the dinner table, thankful for the silence that settled over the room, but worried for what was to come.
"A novel?" Paris asked, her voice incredulous.
She shrugged, taking a deep breath as she looked around the dinner table. Doyle and Paris stared at her, wide eyed, but even from this angle, she could tell Tristan had an almost child like amazed smile on his face. She didn't want to look at him, worried for all the faith he had in her. She wasn't sure she could prove that faith right, but it was good to know someone believed in her, nevertheless.
"Just how are you going to..." Paris started, and Rory braced herself for another round of confrontation.
"Paris, just shut up" Tristan cut her off.
"Forgive me if I'm worried..." she spat back, but he cut her short once again.
"Don't" he said with finality.
"Am I just supposed to watch her..." she started to ask.
"Yes" Tristan replied, not letting her finish the question.
Paris sighed in exasperation.
"Fine" she said, shutting the binder in front of her with a sigh "do what you want. But don't come running to me when you bleed out from your ulcer!"
xxxxxxxxx
She watched him as he walked on the wet sidewalk, his hands in his pocket and his body relaxed as he maneuvered himself, carefully avoiding the puddles that littered the street.
The snow had melted, thanks to the unusual heat front that settled over the city in the past two days, bathing the streets in dirty molten snow.
She knew he wasn't going to ask her or push her to talk about it. He was not that sort of person. He would wait for her patiently, wait for her to bring important subjects up, even if it would cause silent tension between them for days, even if she was only waiting for one little push, even if she wished he would yell and scream and demand answers. He wasn't that sort of person. He liked his space and respected hers, above all.
"It's not really a novel" she said, coming to a sudden halt on the sidewalk.
He wasn't surprised at the outburst and she was partly annoyed at the fact. It was almost as if he'd predicted her spilling it out, almost as if he'd been waiting for her to start the conversation.
He stopped too, staring at his shoes, his face in deep concentration.
"What is it then?" he asked, quietly.
She shrugged, resuming her walk, feeling him follow her, only half a step behind.
"I don't know. I mean it's a novel, but I can't really see the whole of it. It's almost as if I have parts of it, but I can't really tell where it's heading or what it's going to be about" she said, her frustration being voiced for the first time.
He listened to her and she turned back to watch his reaction. He didn't have any. He walked beside her, his face solemn, his eyes fixed on the street and he reached out gently to guide her around a group of people she hadn't noticed.
She sighed annoyed by his lack of interest.
"It was stupid to start it in the first place" she murmured.
He didn't reply and she was starting to wonder whether the subject interested him at all.
"I don't know what I was thinking" she groaned coming to stop once again, her hands wiping her face in exhaustion.
He stopped too, studying her face. She got more and more annoyed by the second under his scrutiny.
"Do yo have anything to say or am I boring you?" she shot angrily at him and he took a deep breath.
"What do you want me to say, Rory?" he asked, his voice controlled, quiet.
"I don't know" she replied frustrated "tell me what you think".
"I think that this is not how it works. And I think you know that yourself" he said, his voice calm.
She swallowed as she watched him, his words sounding too truthful for her liking.
"I never thought you would sit down in that room and everything would magically turn better. I never thought you would go and write a book in a sitting" he went on, his voice still calm, but she could tell he was choosing his words carefully, because his eyes were focused, dark.
"I thought it was going to be a struggle and you would have times of self doubt and questioning and times when you would want to give up the whole thing all together, but I also thought you would know these times would come. And you would get over them somehow. I'd rather have you struggle with this for years than see you as lost as you were in the last couple of months" he said, finally meeting her eyes.
She could feel the amazed expression of despair that settled on her face, she could feel her mouth slightly parted, her eyes squinting and the distant sting of what were probably tears, and she could feel the disenchanted, unalterable weight of his words slowly find their righteous place in her heart, firing up the beacon of her exasperation.
She knew he was right and she knew there was nothing left to say, nothing left to discuss. She suddenly understood his silence from before, his solemn strength and she was thankful and angry and exhausted at the same time.
She must have looked tired and small and lost at that moment, because he stepped up to her, his hands going to her scarf, drawing it tighter around her neck.
"Rory" he said and she swallowed again, not wanting to be weak enough for tears "look at me" he tugged at her coat gently.
She looked up, taking a deep breath.
"It's hard, right?" he asked.
She nodded silently.
"And you don't know how you are going to manage?" he went on and she nodded once again.
"Would you trade it for anything else though?" he asked with a smile on his face "That feeling you had this afternoon?"
She thought back to the afternoon when he arrived home, their home, to find her working and she smiled at the memory, knowing he was right.
"Because I wouldn't" he answered for her "that expression that you have when you write. That lightness that you exude when you are obeying your true calling. I want that Rory. I love that Rory" he said with a bright smile that seemed to be contagious, because she found herself smiling.
"I've loved that Rory since I was 16, and I don't care what brings her to life, movie marathons or dark moccachinos or writing something that doesn't make sense to her yet, but I want her. I want her" he finished as she buried her head in his chest.
"Why are you so good to me?" she murmured, her chest surging with emotions.
He chuckled.
"You're really good in bed" he replied, joking and she sighed, knowing he was bound to lighten the mood with his trademark humor.
"Plus you have excellent friends" he went on, smirking as he took her by her hand and started to walk.
"Oh yeah?" she played along "You like them?"
"Oh, yeah. Great company, great food, what's not to like?" he replied.
"The constant harassing?" she asked playfully.
"Oh don't be such a crybaby" he smirked.
"I honestly don't know why I got stuck with her" she wondered out aloud.
"That's a mystery to me too" he chuckled "If you were to tell me that back in Chilton, I would have laughed my ass off" he pointed out.
"God, if you would have told me that, I would have shot myself" she replied.
He laughed.
"What if I would have told you that you would end up with me?" he asked her, his eyes gleaming playfully.
She scoffed.
"I would have shot you" she said.
"Mary, you wound me" he replied lightheartedly, but she came to stop, suddenly feeling guilty.
"Was I really horrible to you?" she asked, her face solemn.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Well, let's see. You cried when I kissed you. Told me it was a mistake and that I should date... Paris. Then declared in front of the whole school you hate me. And made me watch as you paraded with... Bean" he listed off her crimes, frowning at the last deed.
"I don't mean those things" she shook her head and he looked at her curious.
"I feel like if I had put in a little more effort, then I could have seen past all the charade. The annoying playboy mask. I could have seen this real you. And I could have helped you feel better. Not get into trouble. For your life not to end up like it did" she said, watching as his expression turned serious, his eyes mirroring hurt.
"I don't know if there was things to see behind that surface" he murmured.
"Yes there was, you always had this..." she said, her voice emotional as she thought of what he had to endure and go through.
"Rory, I was an asshole" he cut her off "I didn't deserve you and I wouldn't have appreciated you".
She stared at him, slightly shocked.
"That's not how we were meant to be together" he said, his voice more gentle "I wasn't supposed to get you then. I had to go through all that crap to become someone who could".
She nodded, accepting his reasoning.
They started walking again, silently holding each other's hand.
"You think we were meant to be together?" she asked, her voice small, playful, teasing.
"Did I say that? I didn't say that" he said, smiling coyly.
"You did" she protested.
"Yeah, well I tend to be delusional" he reasoned and she smiled as he pulled her along.