The Wurlitzer Prize

Part One: Hannah Hold On

Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls or any of the characters you recognize in this story. What I do own is the situation and the original characters.

Rating: It's a strong PG-13. If you have problems with cursing, you might have problems in later chapters.

Author's Note: Jess never went to California; Jess' dad never showed up. Just pretend that never happened and you'll be fine.

Dedications: First of all to emrie for being the best beta in the whole wide world. Without her, this fic would be really awful. To Kate for reading this thing so many times and giving me support. To Chris because she's cool. And to the Gilmore Girls fanfiction thread at FanForum for being crazy and awesome.

It's blue outside, that warm hue that comes at the end of summer, damp and drizzling, steamy with the end of a long, hot summer. The streets are chaotic, dizzy with people swarming, trying to escape the patter. A horn pierces the air, shrieking over the gentle hum of traffic and pedestrians. The woman ignores it, keeping up her pace as she plows down the sidewalk, bent on getting home before six. She cuts someone off as she turns into her apartment complex; they call her a name she doesn't register as she hurries up the steps to her third-story walk-up.

Inside, her apartment is bare. It contains little in the way of decoration; nothing matches. She wanders into the only bedroom, dropping her battered briefcase on the uncovered, dusty hardwood floor. Sighing, she sits on the rumpled bed and peels her stockings off, tossing them haphazardly on the ground next to yesterday's underwear. Her closet is in disarray per usual; she makes the same mental note that she does every time she opens it: clean it. Her fingers dance over the dull, bent hangers as she selects a dress.

The dress has that well-worn quality about it: not worn out, but used. The woman slides her work clothes off and stands in her undergarments for a moment of undefined length, gazing out the dripping window. Shaking her head forcefully, she steps into the dress and zips it up. It takes her a moment to get the zipper all the way up and she frowns as she sees that the dress is growing too small. She sees one high heel on its side by the bed and lies on the floor to locate the other; it is under the bed, next to her gray silk camisole.

As she gets up, the bell rings. Startled, the woman stuffs her shoes on and races to find her dressy purse. "Hold on!" she calls as she scours the living room floor. "I'm coming!" she adds as she jams her things in the tiny satin contraption. Breathlessly, she yanks the door open. "Hi," she greets the man as she brings her shoe up to her hand to make certain that it's clasped correctly.

"Hi," he replies. "I hope I'm not late."

Manufacturing a smile, she says, "No, not at all."

"Good. Shall we?" he offers.

"Right." As she steps out of the apartment, he takes her hand. She shakes it off under the guise of needing to lock the door, then crosses her arms. "Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," he says.

"A good one?" she asks, her mind whirling.

"I think so," he says, grinning. He opens his umbrella in the lobby before they step foot outside.

"It's bad luck to open an umbrella indoors," she chastises him.

"I don't want to get wet."

"It's just a few feet," she continues.

"Do you want to get wet?" he asks from under his umbrella. A woman passing gives them a strange look.

"It doesn't matter. It's only a few feet. I'll be dry before we get to wherever we're going."

"You don't know where we're going."

"No."

"Then how do you know how long it will take?" he inquires, tipping the umbrella back to rest on his shoulder.

"It doesn't matter. I'll be dry by them because I won't get that wet since it's only a few feet."

He almost says something, but sighs. "Look, whatever. I don't want to argue about this. What is your problem, anyway?"

"My problem?" she says in surprise.

"Yes, your problem."

"You're the one who's too uptight to even walk a few feet in the rain."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"Nothing," she says quickly. "Let's just go."

"Fine. Great." He walks out first, not bothering to hold the door for her. Miffed, she shoves the door open and walks at a deliberately sluggish pace. When she gets into his car, he has not turned the heater on and the leather chills the backs of her legs.

"I'm cold," she says.

"I'll turn it on in a minute." He doesn't look at her. Exasperated, she leans over and twists the knob all the way to the red side. "Did you not hear me?"

"I heard you." She turns her head to look out the window. After a couple minutes, he turns it down to the middle. The rest of the ride is spent in an unpleasant quietus with only the sound of the rain to accompany it. He pulls up at the curb of a large, indistinct building and her face falls. She had hoped for a more romantic date for their fourteen-month anniversary, but yet again, she will settle.

He opens her door as usual, but looks distantly away into the rain as she clambers out. After she climbs out, he locks the door and ushers her into the restaurant, the same one they always go to, Theo's. When they stand, waiting to be seated, he puts his hand on the small of her back absently, like an armrest. She moves away from the impersonal gesture, but he does not acknowledge it.

A minute later, they are seated at a table by the window with a view of the now-dreary street. She studies her menu diligently, as does he. Their silent symphony is filled by the clatter of silverware and the drone of chatter. "Do you know what you want?" he asks after ten forevers.

"I think I'll just have the chicken Alfredo."

"Hmm. I might have the prime rib."

"Great," she mutters sarcastically. When, she wonders, did she become so boring? They always ordered the same things when they went out; they always went out to the same restaurants; they always saw the same people.

He does not react to her sarcasm, just looks back at his menu for no reason. She fiddles with the necklace around her neck and casually surveys the restaurant. In the distance, she notices an obviously new couple. They are staring into each other's eyes, truly absorbed in what the other is saying. The woman is dressed impeccably, everything in place, her hair perfectly done. He is fidgeting with his tie, clearly unaccustomed to its restriction. They are leaning towards each other, hands creeping together.

She looks back at her date. He is slumped in his seat a little, his menu propped up against the table, his tie loosened a bit. Her eyes flicker to the table, and she plays with the cutlery, rearranging it in nonsensical patterns.

"Are you ready to order?" the waiter asks, jolting her out of her game.

"She would like the chicken Alfredo—"

"Caesar or house salad?"

"House," he answers. "And I would like the prime rib medium well with a baked potato and the Caesar."

"Drinks?"

"Merlot." He folds his menu and extends it toward the waiter, and she does the same. She doesn't have the energy to tell him that she hates salads in all capacities and that she doesn't like red wine.

"Happy anniversary," he tells her, his voice rather dull. A red velvet box is pushed across the table, and she merely looks at it, stunned and stultified. "Open it," he commands.

"You didn't have to get me anything," she says automatically, which is her requisite reply at all Christmas parties.

He stares at her strangely. "Of course I did."

Reluctantly, she takes the box and eases the hinges open. Inside is a diamond tennis bracelet, shimmering at her mockingly. "Thank you," she says mechanically, even though she never wears bracelets, or jewelry except for watches or necklaces. This will be deposited into her drawer, next to the dangly diamond earrings he bought her for their one year anniversary. She does not have pierced ears.

"You're welcome." He gestures for the package and she holds her wrist out. Concentrating on the miniscule clasp, he secures it around her thin wrist. She notices sadly that she no longer jumps inside when he touches her; in fact, she has no reaction. It is as platonic as a pair of cousins. She knows that he senses it as well, as he simply returns the box to her and looks out the window. Suddenly, she feels like sobbing, for she knows that this is the end. Isn't one supposed to cry when something dies?

"I'm going to go to the ladies room," she whispers, her voice strained. She stands quickly and speed-walks to the ladies restroom. There is an elderly woman inside, applying a taupe-y lipstick with shaky hands. She locks herself in a stall and sits on the toilet, allowing her head to drop into her hands. The older woman drops the lipstick into her purse with a plastic clink and exits, leaving the room in absolute stillness. No sound penetrates the thick door, and there aren't florescent lights to buzz overhead. She massages her temples, willing herself to refrain from crying; she has no mascara in her purse. After five minutes, she feels stable enough to return to the table.

As she leaves, she sees her face in the mirror. It looks the same as always, childish and plain, pale with pink cheeks. But, if one were to scrutinize closely enough, he or she could see her multifarious worries etched into her face. Today they are particularly evident, especially in the depths of her crystalline eyes. No one looks in them deeply anymore, though, she reminds herself, departing hastily.

Back at the table, he is sitting in exactly the same position, as though her presence is in no way needed or recognized. Vaguely, she wonders if he even noticed her absence.

He turns to her. "Rory," he says.

"Michael," she answers, noting the somber note in his tone. The marriage proposal that Jen predicted is not impending.

"I think that we need to talk."

"Oh," is all she can say.

"Look…" He pauses. She can see everything he wants to say float across his face, and for the first time in months, her heart clenches for him. He's seen the deterioration too. He's seen that past few months of their slow moving apart like erosion. He's seen the fissures start to pronounce themselves in the relationship, even though it seems like he's paying no attention at all.

"I know," is all she says in response. He releases a great breath, and she smiles wanly, then stands.

"Where are you going?"

"I think I need to leave," she says. She walks to his side of the table and kisses him on the cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," he says sincerely. "You don't have to go."

"No, I do." A sad nostalgia creeps through her stomach as she turns her back on him and saunters through the restaurant and out the door.

She lets herself out into the rainy night feeling tentatively lonely. Some plaintive notes and a hazy feminine voice from a jazz club down the street float into the night as rain gingerly assails her body. She considers catching a cab, but just keeps walking through the musky night towards home.

The usual nothingness greets her as she pushes the door to her apartment open. The red light on her answering machine is a steady red stream, indicating the usual lack of new messages. Soaking, Rory falls onto the couch and sighs deeply. Oddly, she feels nothing powerful yet, just a strange inner tranquility. With her toe, she turns on the stereo to some Diana Krall, inspired by the jazz club.

Head lolling against the back of the couch, she lets the notes waltz over her body like the rain. Closing her eyes, she watches the past fourteen months unravel before her eyes: meeting Michael, their first nervous date, the subsequent phone tag for two weeks, and then, the comfortable routine they had established. Dimly, Rory wonders how she let another relationship trickle away. There had been no defining moment wherein the relationship had collapsed; it was slow and sneaky and almost imperceptible, like jazz. There had been no climactic moment, which, Rory reflects, might have been the problem.

Deep down, though, Rory knows the real problem: they didn't know each other. He still didn't know that she despised salads and red wine, and she wouldn't know how to order his steak. All spontaneity had petered out of their affair; the umbrella argument was merely trivial manifestation of the fact. A deep melancholy pinches her stomach, and a tear leaks down her cheek. Rolling over onto her side, she curls up on the threadbare old sofa and lets the tears rain down as the music fills the room like smoke.

She wakes up the next morning, cramped and stiff, her dress drowned in wrinkles. The sun is pouring through her windows, poking obtrusively through her open curtain. "Shut up," she tells it irritably and whisks her curtains shut. Wobbling on her heels, she teeters into the kitchen and scrounges up some coffee; she is dangerously low, and she needs to go to the market. While the machine gurgles, Rory leans against the counter and squints at yesterday's newspaper, pretending to read it. She is good at pretending.

A streak of sun sneaks in through the curtains, and a glitter catches her eye. The tennis bracelet on her wrist is gleaming, resplendent in the morning sun. For a minute, Rory just stares at it, reflecting rationally on the life she might have had; the next minute, she takes it off and slips it into an anonymous kitchen drawer, next to some gizmo she's never used. The coffee is done by now, and Rory fills a cup to take with her to the bathroom.

The towel from yesterday's shower is still on the floor, and Rory picks it up to recycle it. She turns the shower on to a scalding temperature and immerses herself in the water for half an hour while her skin turns red and dry. After getting out, she doesn't bother to lotion herself as usual; no one's going to see it anyway, she tells herself dismally.

Outside her apartment, she can hear the commotion of a usual Saturday. Grumbling, she switches her stereo on loudly to drown the cheery people out. For once, Rory Gilmore does not feel like being cheery.

As she's getting dressed, the phone rings shrilly. She makes a mental note to herself: change ring. Of course, she makes the same mental note every time, and chances that it will get done are slim.

"Hello?" Rory asks, sounding almost hostile.

"'Hello?'"

"That's a customary greeting, Jen."

"Okay. You forgot."

"Forgot what?" asks Rory, tired of this circular game.

"Coffee? Ten?"

"Damn," Rory mumbles, buttoning her jeans awkwardly. "How about now?"

"I'll just come over. I'm close enough."

"Fine. Bring some coffee with you."

"Way ahead of you." Click, and Jen is gone.

Jen is always way ahead of her. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, Rory is relatively sure that Jen knows her better than Rory knows herself. A slight smile breaks her frown as she remembers meeting Jen on her first day at Harvard.

After a semester of Yale and being tied so tightly to Stars Hollow, Rory decided that college was time to explore and she transferred to Harvard and moved to Cambridge. After all, Elizabeth Wurtzel didn't suffer her worst bouts of depression in New Haven, Connecticut. Cambridge, Rory was convinced, was a far more literary town.

Her first day was a total disaster. By the end of it, she was missing Stars Hollow, missing her mother, even missing New Haven, the world's most boring town. And then came Jen. Rory slunk into a dank coffee shop and Jen, petite Jen with her straight, smooth, shiny hair of an indeterminate blonde-ish color, served Rory a special coffee with a quadruple shot. Rory always had liked people in food service.

Jen went to Boston University, but commuted to Cambridge to work at Harvest because her boyfriend had once worked there. He quit, "but I couldn't," Jen explained to Rory on one of their late-night coffee-benders, long after the place was closed to the public. They became inseparably close: Jen knew about Rory's childhood and her mothers, and Rory found out that, to her surprise, Jen was a Rules girl.

Rory quickly stuffs her clothes under the bed and runs into the kitchen to attempt some damage control. Frantically, she looks in the dishwasher for a place to stash the dishes stacked in the sink, but it is full. Clean or dirty, she has no idea. Rory uses her last resort: the stove. The stove is a mystery to her; therefore, its only occupation is destined to be dish- or shoe-storer.

As she's clanging loudly in the kitchen, the bell slices through. "Argh," Rory mutters, hastily getting up. Her bare feet slap the floor as she goes to the door.

Jen says nothing in the way of salutation, just breezes through in her usual cleanly-ironed, neat clothing, carrying two take-out cups and a large can of Folger's. Rory stands at the door for a moment longer, pretending that the two exchanged pleasantries, then trails Jen into the living room.

"Jesus, Rory."

With a tinge of horror, Rory remembers that she's forgotten to shut the oven door. "Oh, yeah," she says vaguely, waving her hand as though that makes the situation rational.

Jen stares at her hard, and Rory twists her head away. "Not again," says Jen.

"I didn't initiate it!" Rory exclaims defensively.

"Rory…"

"Here we go," Rory says sullenly.

Tugging her jean jacket off, Jen drapes it over the back of a chair and collapses into a chair. "I thought he might be the one," Jen says sadly.

"Okay, but I have to think he's the one."

"Rory, you're never going to think anyone's the one. I might as well pick. I have good taste."

Rory snorts derisively. "Oh, yeah. Scott. Real winner there."

"Hey," Jen snaps. Rory knows that picking on Scott is not the thing to do. Jen, for all her worldly advice about relationships, can never seem to keep one. In fact, her attitude towards men is almost archaic; she focuses on getting and keeping a man. Scott has stuck around for a year, and Rory has to admit, he is a pretty decent guy. But it doesn't mean that she's not a little jealous that even romantically-challenged Jen is in a happy relationship.

"Someone's getting defensive."

"Quit it. Quit turning this around."

"You're not my mother, Jen. It's not a big deal. So I broke up with Michael. Woo-hoo, I'll slip it in the paper tomorrow."

"It is a big deal, Rory. Michael…Josh…Eli…Aiden…Alex…Allen…Jared—"

"Okay, I get the point. I am unmarriageable."

"No. You're just noncommittal."

"Oh, good." Rory crosses her arms over her chest and finally sinks into the sofa. Dejection is written all over her features; she feels worse now than immediately after the split.

"Look, Rory—the guy, that one guy you're always thinking about—"

"Stop!" Rory cries, standing suddenly. "You don't know anything about that." Even in all their late-night chats, Rory never mentioned Jess, even when she was with him. To this day, she's not sure if it's because she was embarrassed of him or because she wanted to keep it her pleasant little secret.

Jen looks mildly satisfied, which pisses Rory off. She sits again. "So you got your heart broken. That's about as big a deal as breaking up with the first three guys. Get over it, Rory."

"It's not that simple," Rory argues, still miffed about the self-aggrandizing expression on Jen's face.

"Rory. You're right—I don't know anything about the guy. But I do know that he's slipped into every part of your life. He's—it's keeping you from being happy. It's not healthy to fixate."

What the hell does Jen know? She's the one who falls ass-backwards in love over a one-night stand, then spends a week crying about it. "I'm not fixating, Dr. Laura."

"No?" Jen raises her eyebrows. "All of those guys were perfectly nice. Michael is a doctor, Rory—"

"Not yet."

" –always good to you, rich, handsome—"

"Okay, fine! So I screwed up my life. What do you want?"

Jen rolls her eyes. "Never mind. I'm just trying to tell you that if you're ever going to be happy, you need to let go." With a glance at her watch, Jen rises and collects her coat. "I gotta go."

"Whatever."

With another roll of the eyes, Jen walks to the door. "Just think about, okay?"

"Go, go," Rory urges, waving her hands. A last hard scrutiny, and Jen is gone.

After Jen leaves, Rory drinks both of their coffees and takes her emergency Ben and Jerry's out of the freezer. It's TV time.

But an hour later, Rory's mind is still rotating Jen's words. What if Jen was right? What if she is irreversibly stuck on a guy who broke her heart? What if she never moves on and spends her whole life pining for someone who's probably long since moved on? Even Springer fails to capture her attention as she absently twirls the spoon in her mouth, ice cream eaten many minutes ago.

What she needs is a second opinion. But where to gather one? She and Lorelai have become oddly separated. They call with some regularity, but even then, it's simply not the same. Rory, who used to be the center, is now out of focus in Lorelai's life. Of course, a bond like the one between Rory and Lorelai can never be fully broken, but it has changed with time and distance. Lorelai would not be able to offer an accurate assessment anyway; she does not know the intricate details of the incidents leading up to the heartbreak, nor does she truly understand Rory anymore. Jen doesn't even know the man's name, and other than that, Rory has no close friends or relatives.

The phone sounds, but Rory lets it ring. She curls into a tiny ball and puts her hands under her cheek. The TV casts a pale-colored glow in the room, illuminating the ice cream carton like a peculiar light fixture. The hum of people has grown louder, and combined with the chant of the Springer audience, Rory's ears are ringing. She feels suffocated.

In her first swift move of the day, Rory stands up and half-runs to her bedroom. She pulls her well-used suitcase (courtesy of her grandparents) out of the closet and shoves clothing into it. Every clean item of clothing she has is rammed in; it's a tight fit. Panting, bordering on irrational, Rory jogs into the bathroom and packs makeup and toiletries in with the clothes, then zips the luggage up. Nodding to herself, Rory puts on old socks and a pair of sneakers and drags her suitcase to the door. Before she leaves, she shuts off all electronic paraphernalia and shuts the door to the oven.

She lugs the suitcase down the stairs and smiles at the man who holds the door open for her as she half-drags it outside. There is a plethora of people on the streets, and Rory Froggers her way to the edge of the sidewalk and hails a cab. The foreign cabbie helps her fit her luggage in the trunk and Rory climbs inside. It takes him three tries to properly understand the locale, but they are soon on their way. Rory looks out the window at the smoggy city and grins. She has a mission.