Stories

Sound, and a tragedy.

The reliable backdrop of movement, noise, energy, contained, echoing off Brooklyn brownstones, Manhattan skyrises, glass, stone and concrete. It's easy, so easy to sink in and disappear. The shrill whine of sirens; a threat. The plaintive, impatient, relentless bark and drone of car horns. People rushing, rushing, rushing. The squeal of brakes, the steady stomp of shoes on pavement, millions of people moving forward and back, working, thinking, eating, busking, hustling, stealing, selling, buying, lying, laughing, fucking each other over. So many of them have it worse than I do. A lot have it better, too, but I have places to sleep and friends. Walking for hours, slipping away from myself, looking outwards, not thinking of what to call a home that isn't home. The soft coo of pigeons and a sudden burst of wings. In another place, somewhere far away and green, maybe they'd be doves. Arbitrary circumstances of birth; who decides what plumage we inherit, what name? The clink and clatter of cutlery and the murmur of conversation every time I pass a restaurant patio—I can think about the couple sitting across from each other with their arms crossed, the woman sitting alone, the three old men laughing in their suits. The hiss and groan and hot steam from the subway under my feet—in half an hour, I could be somewhere else, in a neighborhood with a different sound, where they use a language I only know pieces of – ¿qué lo que? Ya tú sabes. I am unremarkable everywhere in the city, because everyone in the city is trying to stand out or blend in, busy clawing and scratching a way forward, and in our navel-gazing, everyone becomes unremarkable, part of the city, moving buildings, so I can watch and listen without being seen.

Good start…God, I miss the city. Now, what are my least favorite sounds?

The frantic scurry of mice and cockroaches startled by the kitchen light. The scrape of her key in the lock. The rhythmic thump of her flower child music that doesn't drown out the creaking of her mattress. The slur of her voice when she'd had enough to loosen her tongue; I her whipping boy, stripped to the bone. The rasp of my own voice when I bite back and lash out…

Jess sighed and sat back at his desk, looking over the notes he'd written the night before. He'd tried to write it all in one go without stopping to edit, but he'd run out of words faster than he'd expected. In the light of the morning, he found himself grimacing at some of it and scratched a few things out. He'd said no autobiography, but as pen connected to paper, some of the memories he'd boxed away had spilled out angrily on the page. The sounds were good. He could use them. But he had to build a plot around them. Still, he wasn't sure he could think about anything but his current situation.

So stick with a mother and son, but maybe the boy could be eight or nine instead of seventeen, he thought.

Jess chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment and started to scribble out a plot. A busy city street, mom struggling and strung out, a boy who likes to chase pigeons. Something simple, succinct, straightforward.

Would it have changed anything?

He bent to the page, remembering the icy glare that she often threw his way, and doubted it.

She'd probably have been relieved.

Early that same morning, Rory was sitting at her own desk, drinking coffee and planning. She had spent hours since she'd heard about Jess's mom researching what to do for people who were grieving, but she hadn't been able to find anything helpful for this particular situation. Liz had been a mother and a sister. Those were facts, but they didn't feel true. From what Jess had told her, he and his mother had had a fraught relationship, to put it mildly, and while Rory was sure there was grief in what he was feeling, she was just as sure that there was a lot of anger, and probably other things besides. She couldn't forget the way he had looked when she'd found him on the bridge—gray in the dim light, shuffling toward her like a specter of himself. She remembered thinking that he would walk straight through her and the goosebumps that ran up her arms. Then, after yesterday, when she'd stayed with him in the apartment and felt the air around him sparking like a fuse, she had decided to abandon the research and try to wing it. The pent-up energy she had felt in the air had given her an idea, so today they were going to go out.

When she arrived at Luke's apartment, she greeted Jess with a smile and a quick kiss before taking his jacket off the hook by the door and tossing it at him.

"C'mon," she said excitedly.

"What?"

"Do you have any cash?"

"I—what?"

"I don't think we'll need it, but get it just in case. Come on, come on, the bus leaves in twenty minutes."

"The bus? Rory, what—"

She clicked her tongue and went to his room, searching his desk and backpack for his wallet. "You're asking questions?" she teased. "What happened to 'wherever, whatever'?"

His head had still been in New York when she'd arrived, but her ribbing brought him back to the present and almost made him smile. He followed her into his room and opened the first drawer of his dresser where he kept his wallet under his socks.

"Got it," he said.

"Good, let's go," she said and took his hand.

"Er, Rory…"

"What?" she said, turning around, and he made a vague gesture toward himself. She followed his hands and saw what he meant. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. His hair was disheveled, and it was obvious that the Black Flag t-shirt he was wearing was one of his favorites. It was worn and torn in a couple places, rumpled. It lay across his shoulders and chest and fell past his waist, casually suggesting what lay beneath. Her gaze descended a little farther, drawn by a half inch of skin that separated his shirt from his sweatpants. Her stomach lurched suddenly like it did when her mom drove a little too fast over a hill, and Rory's eyes snapped back to his face. She was worried that the heat she suddenly felt rising in her cheeks would give her away, but Jess seemed not to notice.

"Gimme a minute to change, and then we'll go," he said.

Rory nodded and stepped out of his room. When the door shut behind her, she took a deep breath and held it as long as she could.

Less than three minutes later, the door opened again, and Jess stepped out in baggy jeans and a black T-shirt layered over a thin white sweater.

"So, where are we going?" he asked.

"It's a surprise," she said.

He glanced at his watch for the first time since he woke up and was surprised to see that it was only a quarter after eight.

"The bus leaves in twenty minutes?"

"More like fifteen now."

"Have you eaten?"

Her face fell. She'd rushed out of the house without even a pop tart. "Oh. Uh, actually, no. You?"

"Not yet."

"Oh. Well…"

"Cereal's fast," he said with a shrug.

Rory glanced at him and then at Luke's kitchen.

Jess noticed the look on her face. "He does eat Grape Nuts, but there are other options," he said.

She smiled, and he got out bowls, spoons, milk, and a box of knock off Froot Loops. By the time they finished eating and walked across the street to the bus stop, the bus was already approaching.

"Hartford?" asked Jess.

"Mmhmm."

He raised his voice over the squealing of brakes. "Isn't that where you go to school?"

"Mmhmm," she repeated, smiling.

"What's in Hartford on a Sunday?"

"You'll see," she said unhelpfully, stepping onto the bus.

He smiled and followed after her. There were only three other people onboard, but Rory chose a seat in the back by the window. They spent the ride talking and slipping into electric silence. They weren't going far, but they were going alone, and it felt like a taste of the future. Rory wasn't sure how much time had passed when he took her hand and turned it over in his own, tracing the lines of her palm with his middle finger distractedly. He was talking, possibly about a book. She was sure a book had been mentioned at some point, but she quickly lost the thread of what he was saying. She shifted slightly in her seat, angling towards him, so that her leg pressed against his, and the heat that gathered where their legs touched seemed to go directly to her cheeks. Her mind was drifting back to the kiss in the potting shed when she suddenly felt his fingers pause, and she realized he had gone quiet. Had he asked her a question? She glanced up at him and saw that his eyes were fixed on her. She caught the look on his face—warm, amused—and smiled quickly, self-conscious. Rather than draw attention to the fact that she had heard absolutely nothing of what he had just been talking about, she grasped wildly for something to say and changed the subject, chiding herself for being this distractable. Jess was so unraveled, and she was concerned about him, so she would diligently put aside her other thoughts. Still, the physical attraction that hummed between them was almost tangible, and she wondered if distracting him with that would be helpful or if it was too soon.

As they approached Hartford, the bus started to make more frequent stops, and there were soon people in front of them and behind.

A few minutes later, the bus slowed again, and Rory glanced up.

"Oh, this is us," she said and hurried him out of his seat and off the bus.

She turned to the left and took his hand.

"It doesn't open until 9:30, but they said it's good to get here early," she explained.

"What is 'it'?"

She smiled and led him up a narrow concrete walk. A breeze put a slight chill in the air, and as the leaves rustled on the trees ahead, they could see flashes of red brick. A couple of minutes later, they were standing in front of a large, red, brick and stick Victorian house.

"Wow," Jess said as he counted three floors and admired the steeply pitched gable roof. "What…where are we?"

"It's Mark Twain's house!" Rory said excitedly. "I was looking for things to do outside of town, and as many times as I've been to Hartford, I've never been here. I thought we could do the tour and then find a park and just, I don't know, be gone for a little while." She was staring up at the house, enjoying the ornate brickwork and the chimneys, when she felt him put an arm around her shoulders and pull her tight to his side. He kissed the side of her head, and she looked up at him. For the smallest moment, as their eyes met, she saw something in his eyes that she couldn't identify, but it reminded her of when she was eleven, walking down the sidewalk with her mother. She'd seen a fledgling dove sitting on the ground, new and alone, and she'd worried about it for days.

But just as quickly as she'd seen it, that naked thing in his eyes disappeared, and he was meeting her gaze with a playful glint in his eye. "Trust you to find something educational to do."

The corners of her mouth started to twitch into a small smile, but her eyebrows knitted together in concern so that she looked bemused. "Is this okay?" she asked quickly. "We can do something else." Getting out of town was more for him than for her, and she worried that she'd monopolized the day.

His mouth tipped into a small smile, and he shook his head. "Nah, this is good." And then, glancing at his watch, he said, "So it opens at 9:30? We have a few minutes. Wanna walk around?"

They walked slowly around the exterior of the house. There was a room on one side made entirely of windows, and Rory couldn't wait to see what it looked like on the inside. She looked surreptitiously at Jess every now and then and noticed that, while he still seemed far away and busy in his head, he was also notably more relaxed than he had been the day before. She thought she'd been right; he'd needed to get out of the apartment and away from a place where everyone knew everyone else, including his uncle and especially his mother.

At 9:30, they approached the front door and paid for their tickets. There were only two other people with them on the tour, so they had less competition for space as they explored each room. The conservatory that Rory had seen from outside was everything she expected, a jungle of light and green, and it was attached to the library, where she and Jess both lingered, enjoying the play of color and light. Surrounded by the deep, faded teal of the carpet and wallpaper, they both noticed the warmth of the heavy wooden bookshelves, the orange and red fabric of old rugs, and the glint of ornate gold frames. Everything glowed cheerfully in the yellow light that fell into the room through the two floor-to-ceiling windows. As they continued through the house, Rory noticed that almost every room seemed to have that in common. Deep colors that, by themselves, would have made the air feel heavy and somber, but, with the help of the sun and large windows, felt inviting, charming. The number of fireplaces, bookcases, and stout, tufted armchairs made her think that even a thunderstorm here would feel more cozy than scary. Being a coffee drinker, she usually scoffed at the idea of tea, but this place made her want a cup of tea, in a dainty cup, with a saucer and a tiny spoon. She watched Jess, picturing him with the same kind of cup and saucer and almost laughed. But, as she studied him studying the rooms and walking with his hands behind his back, she instead wished she knew what he was thinking.

The tour lasted about an hour. Rory could tell that Jess wanted to keep moving, so they explored what they hadn't seen of the grounds outside and then walked back to the bus stop. They went to Riverside Park and walked until they were hungry. They found a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place, and Rory taught him how to use chopsticks. She wanted to ask how it was possible to grow up so close to Chinatown and not know how to use chopsticks, but anytime the conversation drifted toward him, he changed the subject. Books, movies, TV shows, politics, travel, his opinions about any of the above, that was all fair game, but if the conversation drifted toward him or his life in New York or his childhood, he steered it away with a firm, practiced hand. She told him a few stories about growing up with her mother and asked, out of the habit of friendly conversation, what he'd been like as a kid. He gave a noncommittal answer and asked if she'd seen Almost Famous. Rory accepted this, and hoped he knew she wasn't trying to pry. She let him guide the conversation after that, and they ended up debating the various merits of their favorite terrible movies. By four o'clock, Rory suggested they head back so they had time to choose and watch one of those movies at her house.

"Your mom is going to let me in the house?" Jess asked skeptically.

"Of course," she said, too quickly. But then, "Also, tonight she won't have to. She isn't gonna be home until late," she said vaguely, hoping he wouldn't ask why.

"Oh," he said, hesitating. "Okay."

They got back to Stars Hollow a little after five. On the walk back to her house, Rory noticed that Jess's shoulders were tense again. It was subtle, but he had held himself differently in New York and in Hartford. Less self-conscious. She chewed on her cheek as she considered him and her town and his life. She had grown up under the magnifying glass that was Stars Hollow, so feeling seen was entirely normal. She rarely even thought about it. But as she considered him, she tried to imagine being thrown into that kind of environment after growing up in a city with a population in the millions. It had to be awful for him. She reached for his hand and laced their fingers together, hoping that eventually they could talk about it.

As they stepped inside her front door, Rory told him to pick a movie and went to get snacks. She also took a minute to duck into her room and check the mirror. She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and then let it down again. She shrugged off the blue cardigan she'd been wearing and straightened the sleeves of her T-shirt. It was plain, white, and just fitted enough to hint at the curve of her waist, and she considered changing it. They'd been together all day, though, and she was comfortable. She refreshed her deodorant and spritzed the tiniest amount of perfume on her wrists and then went back to the living room with cookies and chips. She saw the TV paused on the opening scene of Monty Python and Jess sitting on the couch already with the remote in his hand. She smiled, put everything down on the coffee table, and sat down next to him. Her chest tightened when he lifted his arm and pulled her close to him. She'd worried that it would feel strange, being here with a different boy, but it didn't. He smelled so good. Soap and a subtle cologne that was bright, sort of sweet, and there was a hint of the air outside and a masculine something that she thought was from all the walking.

It didn't feel strange to be here with him now, but she couldn't help but consider how different it was in this familiar space with Jess, who was still unfamiliar. She'd been so impatient to get here, and now she was, and she felt her skin begin to hum. He was shorter than Dean, which was nice when they were standing because she didn't have to crane, but now, pressed together, she could appreciate other differences. Where Dean was lanky and stretched out and towering even when he was seated, Jess was compact, lean, and well-muscled. He had pushed his sweater up to his elbows while she was out of the room, and since he couldn't see her face the way they were sitting, she could openly admire his forearms. She longed to trace the subtle veins that ran from the crook of his arm to his knuckles. His skin was darker than Dean's, olive, maybe, and she wondered suddenly if his last name was Spanish or Italian. Either way, it was beautiful, all soft consonants and softer vowels. He pressed play, interrupting her train of thought, and she leaned her head on his shoulder, willing herself to focus on the movie. They'd both seen it enough times to be able to quote every line, which they enjoyed for a while, but as they settled more deeply into the couch, Rory found herself distracted by the way he was running his fingers lightly along her arm, which was slung across him in such a way that her fingertips were in reach of the hem of his shirt. He felt so solid next to her, and she thought of the strip of skin she'd seen peeking out below his T-shirt that morning. She gently began to edge his shirt up until she felt the warmth of him under her fingers. It was barely anything; she'd exposed a small patch of skin near his waist, below his ribs, and the pads of her fingers had just enough room to trace tiny circles there, but she felt his breathing change, and with her head basically on his chest, she thought she could feel his heart start to thump a little bit faster. She wasn't completely sure that it wasn't her own heartbeat in her ears, though, until she heard him say her name. She pulled her fingers away quickly, because his voice was low and thick with an emotion she couldn't identify, so she sat up and looked at him. His lips were parted slightly, and there was a depth in his gaze that drew her in. She was busy trying to interpret the way he was looking at her when she noticed the glow of the low light in his irises.

"Your eyes are kind of hazel right now," she blurted before she could stop herself.

He nodded, but then he squeezed his eyes shut, and she thought maybe he hadn't heard what she'd said. When he opened them again, he slid his hands gently under her jaw, his touch so light it sent a pleasant chill across her skin, she knew that he hadn't, and as he tilted her face towards his own, she couldn't remember what she'd said either. His eyes searched hers, and she tried to give him the answers to whichever question he might be asking. Yes, I want you, too. I'm so sorry about everything. I want you to. I'm so, so sorry about your mom. I know you're sad and angry, but you don't scare me. You can tell me anything.

She wasn't sure she was conveying everything well and opened her mouth to say something when suddenly his lips were on hers.

Jess held his breath for a moment when he felt her moving his shirt up and when skin touched skin and she began to draw little circles with her fingers, goosebumps rushed across his belly and almost made him shiver. This weird space they were in between attraction and tragedy made everything so complicated and confusing.

"Rory…"

His voice trailed off and picked up again in his head.

I don't know how to do this. I'm not…good. Look at where I come from. How did I get here? With you? I'm such a bastard. Literally. No one's ever wanted me, so why do you? Do you, really? Do you know what you want? Goddammit. Your eyes are so blue. I'm going to fuck this up. You're so beautiful, and I'm going to fuck this up.

He closed his eyes, wishing he knew what to do. He had no one to look to, no healthy relationships to aspire to. His mother? He almost scoffed. Luke? His strategy was clearly not working. The only other person he could think of was his best friend's mom, Mrs. Blakely, who was a widow, and she was nice and let him crash at their place, but that was as far as it went. So, he was alone, feeling his way along, looking for clues in the dark.

He opened his eyes again. Something twisted inside when he saw the pink flush rising high on her cheeks, and he thought his heart was breaking or maybe it was trying to piece itself back together. There were so many questions he'd wanted to ask her after the kiss in the potting shed, things they needed to talk about, and then his mother died. Now his head was full of smoke. Rory was the only thing that was clear inside, growing quick and clinging, like honeysuckle. But it felt strange, these two opposing things going on inside at the same time, filling him up until he wasn't sure what would be left of him. His mother had left him with a crushing anger, but something fragile hummed inside when he thought of Rory, and he was afraid if he looked at it too directly, it would wither away. So, he stopped digging around inside and focused on her physical presence. Her skin was so clear and soft, and he thought his thumb would fit perfectly in the dent of her chin. The blush of her lips against her porcelain skin drew his eye, and he took her face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across her cheekbones. Her eyes were traveling back and forth between his, and they were full of questions and something else he couldn't decipher, but then she hesitated, and her gaze fell to his lips, and his resolve crumbled. He brought his mouth to hers, which was already open, about to speak, and where there had been words, suddenly there were his lips, asking permission, softly and patiently, and then there was his tongue, exploring, gentle and slow and thorough. When she began to do the same, timidly tasting, he retreated, teasing and cautious at the same time, seeing what she would do, and when she took his lower lip between her own and sucked gently, fire shot through his veins.

Before he could respond, the phone rang.