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in-rory-land · 4 years

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Mini-fic: “You Don’t Have to Say Anything.”

58. “You don’t have to say anything.”

CW: Parental death. This one’s sad, guys. Same list as usual, linked here.

August 2019

The funeral had been lovely. For something that had been pulled together in the last three days, it was beautiful. Unorthodox, maybe, but it had been planned to suit Liz’s tastes, and that was all that mattered. The day had dawned gray and gloomy, putting a damper on the service that TJ had gone to great lengths to outline to the letter, and at war with the jovial Renaissance music and recitations of off-color, handwritten poetry shared by their friends. Her husband had explained that Liz had never wanted to be mourned, but rather celebrated, but the flat line of his mouth as his voice broke gave him away. There was no burial, no hymns, no viewing. TJ would take the cremated remains of the love of his life to their favorite Ren Faire the following summer; he would scatter them over the lake where they had camped, worked, lived, and vacationed with their daughter. The crowd, unsure how to react, had shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

The wake was awkward. Rock music from the 80’s poured from the sound system, and pictures of Liz at various stages of life were spread over every available surface. Held at the Gilmore house for no other reason than Luke was providing the food, the attendants allowed themselves the freedom to do what they did best: gossip. Quietly, discreetly, but vehemently. Rory caught snatches of their conversation as she plated a spoonful of potato salad for her son. So sudden. She cleared a space at the coffee table and settled him on his knees to eat. Drove right through a guardrail. She tried to dutifully ignore it, offering her son a smile and a fork. There was nothing left of the car. She winced at that, as she watched her mother wrap an arm around a numb Doula, giving her a squeeze and tempting her with a cookie. No luck. Too fast, she had been driving too fast. Luke was stone-faced, stoic as usual; if he heard the rumors flowing around the room, he didn’t let it show. Rory watched Jess, who had shed his suit jacket somewhere between the service and the house, offer his own form of comfort with a hand on Luke’s arm. There was a silent beat of understanding between them, as Luke cleared his throat and nodded. Relapse. I know the sheriff, he said she’d relapsed. Pills, I heard. Jess stiffened, his jaw clenched. Too far. She went to stand, to say something, anything to wipe that horribly defeated look off his face. He caught her eye and shook his head. He wouldn’t make a scene. Now was not the time. She watched him swallow thickly and turn towards, the kitchen, muttering lowly to Luke that he was stepping out for some air. Isn’t that terrible. And to leave behind that precious little girl. Terrible. Rory resisted the urge to snap at the busybodies whispering by the fireplace, instead pulling her own child onto her lap and giving him a snuggle. Oblivious to the somber tone of the room despite the cheery trappings, her son twisted to plant a mayonnaise-laden kiss on her cheek. She faked a smile for his benefit, gratified when he returned it and shoved another bit of potato in his mouth. She wouldn’t pretend to understand what made Liz the way she was, couldn’t even if she tried. But it wasn’t fair to her to be slandered at her own funeral. She glanced at the clock on the mantle. An hour left. They could hold it together for an hour.

Guests started to peter out thirty minutes later, with various excuses about plans and appointments for the rest of the day. A few shared condolences, many awkwardly gave their leave; Liz’s reputation preceded her and despite having lived in this town for over a decade, she couldn’t quite escape it. Especially now. Doula was stuck to TJ like a bur, staring blankly ahead out the window at the darkening sky and ignoring any and all attempts to engage her. The cookie Lorelai had offered her hung loosely in her hand, forgotten. To his credit, TJ seemed to understand he needed to keep some semblance of control for the sake of his daughter. He looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown at any moment, but shook hands, politely conversed, accepted apologies and sympathies. Rory scooped up both her son and his plate, determined to make herself useful and find someplace in the house where she could draw a breath.

Rory attempted to hand off the plate, now accompanied by at least three more she’d acquired on her journey into the kitchen, but her mother ignored her outstretched hand and relieved her of the baby, instead. Her son was more than happy to be plucked off Rory’s hip, laying his head on his grandmother’s shoulder and patting her back with a tiny hand as she hugged him tight. Luke came in from wheeling the barbecue into the garage, placed a kiss on his grandson’s head and then his wife’s. Normalcy. Her son had no idea what was going on and was his normal, happy self. Much needed today. Rory tossed the plates in the trash can; something was off. A suit jacket sat thrown over the back of the kitchen chair, black. Luke’s jacket was missing, but his slacks were navy blue; from the kitchen, she could see the arm of TJ’s suit where it was wrapped around Doula—gray. Not black.

“Hey, anybody seen Jess?” Rory frowned. A quick glance towards her open bedroom door revealed only her own bed and her son’s crib. She peeked out the open back door. The sky was an ominous soot color and the wind blew the grass so it touched the ground; the swing Luke had set up for her son blew wildly, but that was the only sign of activity in the backyard.

“Jess?” Lorelai looked around, as though just realizing he wasn’t there. Her son mimicked Lorelai’s tone, delighted when she rewarded him with a tickle.

“He said he was stepping out for some air,” Luke supplied. “He’d be back in a minute.”

“How long ago was that?” She didn’t like the look of those clouds.

“I don’t know—half hour, maybe?” Luke ran a hand through his hair. “Could’ve been longer.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“He’s a grown man. He didn’t tell me, I didn’t ask.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Lorelai rushed in, clearly more to placate Rory than anything else. “You could try calling him. He’s probably at the diner.”

“Probably,” Rory muttered, punching in her passcode and swiping to find Jess in her contacts. She pressed on his icon and waited for it to ring. A buzzing noise sounded from the suit jacket on the chair in time with the ringing tones in her ear. Damn.

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Lorelai laid a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. Rory nodded, but reached for her car keys on the hook by the back door.

“You got him?” Rory nodded towards her son, still perched on Lorelai’s hip and now playing with the pendant on her necklace.

“I got him.” Lorelai agreed.

“Great. I’ll be back.”

As she settled into the driver’s seat of her car and backed out of the driveway, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of self-doubt. What if he didn’t want to be found? What if he didn’t want to be found by her? Should she even be the one to do this? They had re-established a tentative friendship when she was pregnant; she’d jokingly pressed him into service as her editor, which meant more communication they’d had in years. He’d given her feedback, and professional boundaries blurred with personal ones, as they started finding excuses to call and text that had nothing to do with her book. And she’d put the whole thing on hiatus since the birth of her son, but that hadn’t stopped them from meeting up when he was in town, or her finding excuses to bring her son to Philadelphia for the weekend. But what level of friendship did you need to be at to seek out a friend who left his mother’s wake without telling anyone where he was going? And what level were they at now? The rational, type-A part of her brain pointed out that Jess would definitely not be overthinking this situation and would absolutely make sure she was okay if the situation were reversed. Emboldened, she took a right on Elm Street and headed towards the diner.

The rain that had threatened to fall all day came crashing down in a deluge as she pulled up in front of the diner. The thundering of rain pellets on the metal roof of the car startled her. The world outside her windshield was a wall of water. She pulled out her phone and called the diner, hoping that if he was there, he’d pick up and save her the soaking. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. At about ten rings, she remembered, belatedly, that the phone above the diner had no answering machine and came to the sinking conclusion that even if he wanted to be left alone, after ten rings, he would have picked up to tell—or more likely, curse out—the person on the other end. He wasn’t in the diner. He wouldn’t go to Liz and TJ’s. It was Sunday, everything else was closed. She clenched the steering wheel, wracked her brain. He hadn’t driven to the house after the service; he’d ridden with Luke. He couldn’t get far. An idea floated to the forefront of her mind and slotted neatly into place.

Of course. She wrenched open the driver’s side door, gasping when the wind blew a gust of ice-cold rainwater directly at her, slamming the door shut and soaking her instantly. God, it was supposed to be August. Even in Connecticut, August meant hot. She felt her teeth clatter together, but ignored it as she turned and headed in the direction of the high school.

It was both a surprise and a relief to see him standing in the middle of the bridge. She had been seventy-five percent sure that’s where he’d gone, and considering there was no other place in town she could think of, the other twenty-five percent had been hoping that’s where he’d gone. He seemed oblivious to the rain, staring intently down at the water below and his arms crossed over his chest. His hair dripped down into his face, his shirt now plastered to him and transparent. She could see him shivering from ten feet away.

“Jess?” she called, raising her voice to be heard over the drumming of the rain. He didn’t respond, but whether he was ignoring her or he hadn’t heard her she couldn’t tell. She left her heels on the far end of the bridge and walked across the wet boards in her bare feet. She laid a hand on his arm as she approached him, and at last, he turned to look at her. He wasn’t shivering from the cold as much as trying to keep it together. His hands clutched at his wet shirt under his arms, as though he could squeeze himself hard enough to keep the emotions inside. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his voice thick with emotion as he said her name. “Oh, Jess—”

She did the only thing she could think of in the moment to do, reaching for him an instant before the dam broke and his face crumpled. She pulled him close, an arm around his shoulders and another automatically smoothing the wet hair from his face. His arms released their vice grip on himself and banded around her waist, holding her as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. She felt him bury his face in her neck; the choking sob that came next shook them both. He seemed to choke on the emotion, less sobbing and more heaving, great breaths that robbed him of the ability to speak. He’d been trying to be strong. He’d helped TJ plan the service, and the wake, made all the necessary phone calls. He’d held his sister while she cried at the funeral, handed TJ a tissue to wipe his tears, and had dealt with it all in his usual silent way. God, had anyone even asked him how he was today? She couldn’t remember if she had. Couldn’t remember if they’d exchanged more than four words all day.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she ran her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck, the only part of him she could really reach. “Let it out. I’m right here.”

That seemed to strike a chord, and it was all she could do to lower them gently to the floorboards beneath their feet when his knees buckled. Sitting with him between her legs, he’d hardly moved, still holding onto her like a buoy in a sea storm. She could feel the muscles in his back roll with every new wave of sobs, and she again tried to be reassuring. It’s okay. You’re okay. I know it hurts. Headlights flashed on the road behind them and despite being soaked to the bone and bordering on hyperthermia, she prayed they were just passing by and wouldn’t stop to investigate. His grief had been sudden, all-consuming, but necessary; he needed to get it out and end it on his own terms, not out of embarrassment at being caught out. When the headlights passed by without incident, she let out a sigh of relief.

She couldn’t tell how long they’d been there, huddled on the bridge in the pouring rain, their own little bubble. Dusk was falling by the time the worst of it seemed to pass, as sobs gave way to gasps and sniffles, and his fingers untangled themselves from her dress.

“I hate her.” His voice was rough and gravelly.

“You should.”

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“God, it fucking hurts.” He flexed his fingers, frustrated with himself. “Why?”

“She was your mom, Jess.”

“It shouldn’t hurt.” I shouldn’t love her was the unspoken sentiment.

“I don’t think that’s really something you get to choose.”

“Why not?” Petulant, like a child. “Why do I have to care about her and care that she’s gone when she didn’t give a damn about me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.” The trembling under hands this time was definitely from the cold. She pulled away, a part of her aching for him as he resisted and a crestfallen look came over his face. She got a glimpse of the little boy he’d been; this scene—a need for comfort, rebuked—had probably played out a hundred times, each time Jess resolving to bury those feelings deeper and deeper. She felt a flash of anger, the same resentment he held towards Liz for being so selfish. She quickly moved to grab his hand and hold it tightly in her own. It was like ice. “Come on. It’s getting dark. Let’s get dry.” He gave a small nod and rocked back on his heels.

Jess allowed himself to be pulled up, to be gently led by the hand towards the town side of the bridge. He was docile, spent, but the tentative pressure of his hand in hers reminded her very much of an injured bird; one wrong move was sure to send him skittering away into the storm, which had only gotten worse as they’d sat there. It couldn’t be quite six in the evening, but the cloud cover and the haze of raindrops made if feel hours later. The distant roll of thunder from a system at least twenty miles away, charged the air with electricity. The diner, usually visible from the edge of the pond, was complete obscured by rain and fog. If they got out of this without pneumonia, it would be a miracle.

Getting to the diner was easy. Finding the spare key with one hand and fumbling it into the lock with shivering fingers was infinitely harder. She supposed she should be lucky Luke even left the spare key there at all anymore, considering the apartment above the diner was now a place for storage rather than his living quarters. But she supposed he left it for Jess; he’d taken to crashing on the couch while in town, upgraded to his old bed when Luke had stumbled upon him one morning. A quick flick of the light switch for the stairwell up to the apartment was useless; the power must be out.

They stumbled into the apartment with all of the grace of a newborn gazelle, but at least they were inside. And thanks to the wonders of natural gas, it was warm despite the lack of electricity. She shivered in spite of herself, acutely aware they were dripping rainwater onto the hardwood. It was dark. There were candles and emergency supplies in here somewhere, but the thought of doing that while they were still freezing was not appealing. She tugged Jess inside, still preternaturally quiet and passive, and closed the door behind them. His head was bowed, staring intently at his shoes. Tired, embarrassed, ashamed. She couldn’t tell. She squeezed the hand that still held hers. He lifted his eyes to hers, and was more than a little abashed.

“Hey.” She offered a smile. No change. His lips were turning blue and he shook from head to toe. “Come here.”

She tugged him until he stood in front of her, and as he made no movement to do anything except be positioned like a marionette, she lifted her hands to undo the top button of his dress shirt. The thing was still plastered like a second skin over his shoulders and arms, and she could feel the cold radiating off him as she slid the first button through and went to the next one. Perhaps it was motherhood that had inured her to things like this, but it wasn’t until she reached his waistband and reached out to tug the tails free from his dress slacks that her brain caught up with her and she felt a rush of heat down the back of her neck. She froze, her hands bunched in the fabric and close enough to feel his breath on the top of her head. A sudden flash filled the room with light as the thunderstorm descended on the town; the illumination reminded her of just where they were and all of a sudden she was seventeen, heart racing and blurring boundaries in ten minute intervals.

If Jess felt any of the same awkwardness she did, he didn’t let it show. He gave a slight nod at her hesitation, a tacit consent; she shook her head to clear it. She extricated the soaked tails from his waistband and eased the dress shirt over his shoulders. Shoulders much broader and well-defined than the last time she’d been in this position. Her cheeks grew hot as he rolled his shoulders to assist, the shirt dropping to the floor with a wet plop. He wore an undershirt, for all the good it did. It, too, was stuck to him like a second skin. And freezing; she could feel his shivers under her hands when she pulled the undershirt up and over his head.

The mature, rational part of her wanted desperately for this to be simple. Easy. She was a mother now; stuff like this shouldn’t faze her. But it did. As she plucked the undershirt free from his arms and threw it behind him to join the dress shirt, she realized she’d never seen him shirtless before. Not even back in the day; it was too risky in a town where she was constantly monitored and their movements reported immediately to their respective parents. And it was only towards the end that she felt confident, ready to take the next step, the one that never came. The rain on her skin was freezing, but she felt hot enough to evaporate.

“Jess,” her voice came out in a whisper, and she hoped it didn’t sound as rough to him as it did to her. He raised his head, looked at her. She gestured towards his dress slacks, which were gathering drops of water at the hems and creating a puddle beneath his shoes. They had to come off, too, but removing them while he was borderline catatonic felt wrong. He looked down, as though just realizing he wasn’t wearing a shirt and was soaked, but made no move to do anything. “Okay, that’s okay. I can–?” He gave a nod, embarrassed but physically drained.

She made quick work of the slacks, trying not to focus on the holy shit aspect of this situation and thanking whatever higher power there was that Jess wore boxer briefs. That were, thankfully, relatively unscathed. She was going to burst every blood vessel in her cheeks and they were never going to go back to normal. She gathered the wet clothes off the floor and tossed them in the direction of the bathroom, missing the mark completely and leaving a water mark on the wall, instead. If Jess were himself, he’d make a comment about her lack of athleticism, but as it was, he looked dead on his feet. She pushed him in the direction of his bed, still unmade from that morning, and covered him with the blanket.

She spotted a folded towel in a laundry basket on the table as she turned away. Perfect. With any luck, there would be hot water in that shower and she could get some feeling back into her extremities. She took two steps away and felt a hand on her wrist.

“Don’t.” The word was barely audible. “Please. Stay.” She was quite sure he’d never said that to anyone in his life, ever.

“I’ll call Mom,” she agreed. “She’s got my kid.”

“Oh. You don’t have to.” Another tentative reach for comfort, another anticipated rejection. Giving her an out to protect himself.

“She won’t mind.”

“You sure?” She could see him visibly relax.

“Positive.”

“’Kay.” He was already drifting off, the hand on her arm growing slack. She couldn’t resist swiping a wet lock of hair out of his face, as his breaths evened out. He looked younger this way. She’d been surprised at how rugged he’d look when he strolled into her office at the Gazette. Much less starving college kid and more grown man; he’d been on the cusp of a beard then, a contrast to the patchy whatever-that-was when he showed her his novel. Now, he had shaved for the funeral, and looked more like the punk kid who’d tried to sneak her out her bedroom window and stolen her books. And her heart. In the same evening, if she wanted to be completely honest with herself. She hadn’t been able to write the J-word part of her own book yet; it seemed to close, still too raw after over a decade. He was to forever be that what-if part of her life.

To her delight, the natural gas extended to the hot water heater. Or, at least, she assumed. She wasn’t asking too many questions. She stood under the spray until the water ran cool, satisfied when her fingers flexed and didn’t tingle. She wrapped a clean towel around herself and prayed her mother had left something in the dusty chest of drawers that Luke hadn’t bothered to bring when he moved in. She found clean underwear and an ancient set of leggings, but either Lorelai walked around topless or she wore something of Luke’s, because that was about it. And she didn’t really want to entertain either of those scenarios for long. She rummaged through the dresser that had been shoved next to it, finding a worn gray t-shirt she assumed had been Luke’s but smelled clean enough. It was better than the alternative, anyway. She tugged it over her head.

Belatedly, she realized her phone was in her car. Which was outside. The outside where it there was still a torrential downpour going on; as if to punctuate her point, a roll of thunder shook the window panes. There had been a phone up here, once upon a time; she and Jess had spent an inordinate amount of time talking on it. But whether or not it was still here, nearly twenty years later, and it still worked was another story. She found it buried under a pile of years-old diner invoices on the desk, and thankfully, a dial tone. If Lorelai found anything weird about Rory spending the night at the diner, with Jess, by themselves, she didn’t let it show in her tone. She agreed that Jess probably shouldn’t be alone right now, and if she had opinions on whether that person should be Rory, she didn’t voice them. She could watch the baby, that was fine. Like Lorelai was going to say no to time with her grandson.

They said their goodbyes, and as she hung up the phone, she felt the weight of the last few hours hit her all at once. Her body felt heavy, her limbs like lead. There was a pillow and blanket folded neatly at the end of the couch, a remnant of the days before Luke had re-built Jess’s bed and he’d crashed there. A couch from the sixties with worn plaid upholstery had never looked more enticing in her entire life. She glanced over at Jess, who hadn’t moved since she’d left him to shower. Clearly as exhausted as she felt. She could barely pull the blanket over her before she felt her eyes close and sleep take her.

She woke to brightness, the light awash in mid-morning sun that belied the downpour that had raged for hours the previous night. She could hear songbirds twittering and the sounds of traffic, as sparse as traffic was in town this size. She blearily opened her eyes, confused. She was now looking at a different wall than the one she’d faced going to sleep. And that definitely wasn’t the scratchy wool throw from the end of the couch. She scrubbed at her face with her hands as the rest of the evening came back to her. Nightmares. There had been nightmares. And another plaintive request for her to stay. She tried to go back to the couch, but after round three, it was easier just to eliminate the distance and stretch out beside him instead. They’d dozed off at dawn with his arms wrapped tight around her waist and his head pillowed on her shoulder. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d touched this much and it surprised her that it hadn’t felt awkward. The situation was awkward. And pretty crappy, all things considered. But her usually overactive mind had been surprisingly silent as she’d slid under the covers and allowed him closer. And while some of that was probably the sleep deprivation, there was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite name.

She looked over to the spot next to her, fully expecting him to still be asleep, but she was alone. A cursory glance of the apartment found him sitting silently at the table. He was running a finger absent-mindedly around the rim, staring out the window at the nothing in particular. He’d dressed, though his feet were still bare. At the sound of her stirring, he turned to look at her. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Cleared his throat. Went to say something, but thought better of it.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she rushed out, throwing him a life preserver. “Really.”

“I don’t even know what to say.” He took a drink from the mug, grimaced at what she assumed was cold coffee. Put it back down, stared at it. “Thank you seems…insufficient.”

“You don’t need to say it at all.” She ran a hand through her hair, which she was sure looked like something the cat dragged in. “Jess, your mom just died. It’s okay.”

“It’s not, but thanks for saying it.” He shrugged. “Liz was an addict. She was an addict before I was born and she died an addict. Even when she was sober, she was trying to find something to fill that void. Even if it was a cult.”

“It can still hurt that she’s gone.” He shrugged again. He rubbed a hand across his face, groaned.

“I can’t believe I just crashed like that.”

“It was a good one,” she agreed. “Go big or go home.” That got a laugh out of him.

“Well, thank you. Really.”

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” she said. “You shouldn’t have been alone back then, and definitely not last night.”

“It would have been fine. I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Story of my life.” He was closed off again. Embarrassed. She wondered how many teachers, librarians, social workers had tried to reach him, only to encounter those same walls. Humor or anger, often self-deprecating, to deflect the attention away from Liz. She grit her teeth, but decided to change the subject.

“Please tell me you have more coffee somewhere.”

“This is Luke’s. Pretty sure he bought stock in Folger’s after started dating your mother.” He obligingly rose from his chair, pouring his own mug down the drain and pulling a clean one from cupboard.

“A smart man, that Luke.”

He crossed the room, handed her a doctored cup of coffee, then settled on the bed next to her. She took a long draw on the mug, unsure of what to say. He filled the gap, brining up the book he’d read recently—always their go-to topic of conversation. She’d read it, in the nights before her son was born, when she couldn’t sleep. It was easy, this back-and-forth, discussing literary tropes and segueing easily into music. She’d made him laugh when she admitted the most played song on her phone was “Wheels on the Bus,” and he promised to at least look up an alt-rock version to make things more interesting. It wasn’t until her coffee was gone and he automatically took the empty cup that she registered his hand on her knee, and that they’d moved from sitting face to face to sitting side by side, with the length of his arm pressed against hers. As though the night they spent curled up together in the tiny twin bed hadn’t been enough. When he leaned back against the wall, once more bringing them flush together, he made a comment on her choice of attire, the gray shirt (which was his, by the way, did she know that? No, she had not) and hot pink leggings with neon green polka-dots making an interesting fashion statement. She laughed and impulsively linked her fingers with his. He was going to be okay. And maybe, one day, they would be, too.

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