Epilogue: The Chairs of Your Soul
At last I know what love is really like.
-Virgil
Rory Gilmore was a girl who knew what she wanted.
Ever since she was a baby, when she was covered with the Harvard sweatshirts instead of blankets like everyone else, Rory had known what she wanted. And she was fairly sure she'd gotten everything she wanted.
Lately, her lucky streak was failing to hold.
Lorelai Gilmore declared a night of watching every single movie with John Travolta, so Rory was subjected to the torture of watching Grease, Face-Off, Battlefield Earth and so on. Rory didn't make a pip about it, however. After all, she was still on her mother's good grace after failing to be there for Grandpa. And Jess...
Okay, so maybe watching such movies were better than thinking about him. And how she'd let him leave.
Three hours later, she was actively contemplating several possible ways of reading The Aeneid while pretending to watch the movies. It was just then the scene in yet another Travolta movie began to catch her attention. Where John Travolta was buying dozens of the chairs that the woman he loved had made and piled them up in his house.
"I didn't buy his chair," Rory said, the lightning insight doing nothing to lessen the shock.
Lorelai, leaning lazily across the couch, popped popcorn into her mouth. "Of course you didn't, 'cause why would you--huh? What?"
"He bought my chairs for me and I didn't buy anything for him. I didn't buy a thing. I didn't buy--how could I be so bad, bad, bad? I didn't understand him. I didn't even try to understand him, just because he didn't really ask me to."
"Since when Jess built chairs?"
Rory felt like burying her head into the thickest part of the earth's crust and not coming out. "I'm not talking about Jess."
Lorelai understood then. "Oh honey," she sighed and pulled her closer. "It's not something you can force yourself to do. You didn't love Dean. You thought you did. You liked him. But maybe not loved him."
"But he loved me. And I should've tried."
"Oh Rory, don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, it's not like Dean was being all mysterious and cool like Jess and begging for your attention. It's understandable."
Rory's head snapped up. "What?"
"C'mon, think about it, Rory. You looked at Dean, you didn't really think about some deep issues he has to have himself. You thought, smooches. Good for attending dances and lifting water bottles. It gets boring. You don't think about issues, passions, intellectual discussions. Only natural you went for Jess. Good for you. Go Rory. Good job."
"Mom."
"I mean, come to think of it, you made a great choice. Dean, except that body and all, nothing much there to--"
"Mom!"
"Oh. Sorry. Anyway." She turned her attention back to the movie screen, where John Travolta began sudden demonstration of telekinesis. "That's really a neat trick, though I'd want to rotate something cooler than a pen. We should stare at the night sky more often. Who knows? There'd be a bam and--"
As usual, Rory suppressed the urge to shake her mom, hard. "Mom, why didn't you share that shattering insight before I made all this mess?"
"Not like you asked for it, did ya? It's not as if I had years of experience on failed relationships and am an expert on the matter by now." Then she softened, her expression serious and wistful. "And you would've thought my advice was sprung from my Jess-hate. And you wouldn't have been completely wrong."
"God, what do I do now?"
"Well, think of it this way, it would be hardly the last mistake you'll make."
"Comfort, Mom, comfort here?"
"Hmm, comfort. Let me think. He, uh, still loves you?"
Rory blinked.
Lorelai cringed. "You know, maybe I really shouldn't have said that."
Rory, half in hope and half in despair, calculated the statistic impossibility that Dean Forrester could still be in love her.
And then the car accident happened.
She saw him on the bed in the white-plastered hospital, and for the first time, she realized she had never really known what she wanted.
"You were safe, you know? Not at first, but you just became this safe, safe constant and I liked it, but it wasn't enough. Now that I know it was never safe, because I could have lost you any time. I thought, I thought... I must've loved you more than we both thought I ever did, because I thought...when I heard.. that I might never see you again--"
She might have broken his heart many times before, but her heart really broke over him for the first time, when her mother brought back the copy of The Sun Also Rises.
She still remembered Jess, the fever of kisses. Oh, the kisses that burned against her lips. Did she miss him? Maybe. Honestly? Yes.
She couldn't miss Dean. He was everywhere, yet she didn't have the right to miss him. He'd been a mystery to her before, when all she could think about was the new boy with dimpled smiles and long legs and how he smelled incredibly good. He had thought she was special, an ego boost that enveloped her every time he watched her adoringly.
But Jess appeared just when Dean no longer seemed like a mystery, and Jess was extraordinary. And she had thought--it wasn't such a bad thing to start talking with him, right? Just a talk. In denial with a big D. But if she'd actually considered the chance that she might be in denial, how could she be in denial? People in denial didn't actually wonder whether they were in denial. So she wasn't. Good. No denial, then.
But everytime she saw Dean after Jess, she had thought of the Dog with Two Bones and went, oh, I can't. Then Dean went on and smiled for her, and then she thought, he's beautiful. He was a beautiful, beautiful boy, and that hadn't changed ever since he talked about Rosemary's baby and she talked about round cakes. But that was as far as it went.
She wanted something extraordinary. She wanted to be extraordinary, like the novel extraordinary, because she was well-aware that she might as well drop into the sea of the ordinary if she didn't.
She just hadn't known how to see extraordinary in smaller things.
But it was too late. She was reminded of it every second when she walked by his garage yard, knowing she wasn't wanted.
Too late.
He looked tired. He looked sad. She wasn't egotistical enough to believe it was all her doing, all his hurt, but she knew enough to be responsible for parts of it.
And even though he was standing right in her house, even though this was right out of her imagination, her best scenario of to forgive and forget, she lost all her words. All she could think was that she hadn't known him, layers after layers. He was getting impossibly taller, impossibly falling away from her and what if she couldn't catch up? One thing she never had to worry about was her inability to catch up with anyone, and she was worrying -- what if he becomes taller and taller and she falls behind?
Before she couldn't even say the mere 'I am sorry'?
But there they were. She was sorry. Because she hadn't known.
And because he had.
Her hand, defying all her command, reached up and cupped his face. His cheek had a bit of stubble. His skin was cold. But he didn't pull away.
She fell asleep listening to his steady heartbeats.
When she woke up, he was gone.
But the warmth was still there.
She found him where she expected him to be. In the garage yard. And stupidly, regrettably, this was the first real time she was seeing him doing what he loved to do with all his heart. The first time, she thought, she was going to buy his chairs.
He smiled at her then, his face streaked with grease and his rough hand right there for her to take.
The sun rose in so many colors it broke her heart.
"You could shut up," Luke suggests hopefully.
Lorelai sneers, "Or you could so obviously be hearing the Four Horsemen of Apocalypse at your door."
"Could you please do shut up? I'm trying here, to--" Luke stops, as if looking for words.
"To kiss you," Dean supplements innocently from their bystander side. Rory, her hand in his, watches the history unfold in Luke's Diner, where every customer is watching Luke and her mother argue. Not that the sight of them arguing is anything new. Except:
"Yes!" Luke leaps at the word, "To kiss you."
"Really," Lorelai says.
"Really!"
"You better make it a good one then, mister, because I've been waiting for that to happen for far too long not to kick your ass if you don't."
"I better!"
"Yes, you better!"
"Right here!"
"Right here!"
"You know there are customers here and your daughter is watching right here!"
"Thanks for the enlightenment, because I so didn't know that we've been indeed standing and yelling right here for the last ten minutes!"
When Rory is beginning to think enough is enough, Dean takes the initiative and takes her hand to usher her out. "We'll get going then," he said loudly, although Rory doesn't think anyone notices, "Enjoy the kissage."
The moment they get out, Rory can't contain her grin that spills out from her chest. "You know, I think I'm going to do salsa dance on Luke's counter to commemorate the occasion."
"I think I'll pay to see that."
She slaps his arm lightly. "Free admission is not appreciated, so pay up."
"Well, I can think of a few ways." He doesn't do coy well, but he's cute when he tries.
They walk across the streets, and for a long moment, she owns this, this everything that she has. Perfectly content, something she used to think as bland and unchallenging. Now she appreciates it with an odd sense of desperation.
Dean pauses as they pass the softball field. Rory looks up, curious, and sees why.
"Amanda," he says.
Amanda MaCall stands across them. If she's startled, she doesn't show it. "Dean," she replies neutrally.
Rory has heard about what they had before, so she tells herself it's not entirely unjustified to feel threatened by Amanda's long blond hair and sparkly outfit and too much understanding that suddenly seems to exist between them.
Amanda, after a pause, steps aside. Dean doesn't smile, but Amanda does. "This is better," she says.
At that, Dean, too, smiles.
After Amanda is sufficiently out of earshot, Rory complains, "You looked at her funnily."
"I did not."
"You did. You had that look."
"What look? I don't have any look. I'm blank."
"Exactly what I'm talking about." She pouts.
"Are we seriously having this conversation?"
"Yes."
He looks totally exasperated and clueless at the same time. "Why?"
"'Cause I always wanna play the jealous type and I'm blessed with you, who's actually the type that never wanders so I have to at least fake it?"
He's suppressing a smile. "You're peculiar."
"But you love me."
"How can I not?" his answer is teasing, bordering on joke rather than truth, and it's clearly intended to be light without any seriousness. This is how they've been so long after all.
"I do, too," she says, after a gulp of air.
"Love yourself? How egotistic of you."
"You. I love you," she says, bravely ignoring the heart that's about to burst out of her chest. It's odd, this sensation. She can clinically diagnose herself that this shouldn't happen, not after she's practiced to herself for a week. It isn't as if this was her first time telling him this. She's told him this before, a long ago, not entirely meaning it as how she should have.
But it's been almost a year since they built their friendship again, and her statement doesn't seem to affect him at all. If anything, he stares back at her without any change in expression.
Maybe he isn't ready to hear this after all? She feels blush seeping into her cheeks and panic into her chest that's knotted into a tight grid.
But then he catches her hand. He smiles at her and when she smiles back, and it's all over.
She flips through the vocabulary list. There are others books, her books, on the blanket that covers only a patch of the garage yard. "Okay, 'perfidy'?"
Dean grunts under the car and struggles a little with a part that refuses to be fixed. "Who uses that kind of words? Wrench, size 2."
"Well, SAT, for one. Which one? The round one?"
"Yep, that one. Perfidy. Noun. Meaning treachery."
"Okay, what about 'recalcitrant'?"
"Adjective. Disobedient." He pushes out himself from under the car briefly. "What are we in charge of again for today?"
She tries to remember the list. "Balloons. Lots of balloons. All pastel. Oh, and I need to go at least two hours early."
"Needs that much time decorating?"
"Nope, gotta make myself pretty."
"That's something you never need to do."
A causal statement, but it's still making her blush. This isn't good. This is like she's suddenly turned into her sixteen year old self when everything was blush-worthy. "Well, and I gotta help Lane dolling up. Dress to impress."
"Dave?"
"Dave," she confirms.
"He's nice," Dean approves.
"Mmm-hmm, I agree. I have to tell you something."
"Good or bad?"
"Bad. Very bad."
He braces himself. "Shoot."
"Um, Mom insists on baking pies for the party."
"She can't," he says with disbelief. "Is she really doing it?" Rory nods gravely. "Oh man. Casualty?"
"Three plates, two flying pans with grease that just won't come off, and two ovenware. Plus various disposables. She's in the phase when she's very insecure about her domestic ability. Hence she's out to prove that she can indeed be a housewife when she's willing. Our dishwasher's being punished for our sins even as we speak."
"You probably need to go rescue the kitchenware before Lorelai destroys them all. I'll take care of the balloons."
"You sure?"
"Of course. And I'm ready to see you in a dress."
She quickly plants a kiss on his nose. "See you soon, then."
She gathers her books and generally attempts to tidy up. One of his books falls, however, and two pieces of paper land on her lap.
She's about to put them back when she really sees what they are. She does a double take on two crumpled pieces of paper. Two tickets for an outdated PJ Harvey concert. They are familiar, and this can't be familiar. She turns to Dean. "How? I mean, where did you...?" Puzzlement and short stop her breath short. "How did you--?"
"You know what they are?" he asks, but she can tell from his mischievous eyes that he already knows the answer.
"Uh...I think I do."
"I'd like to know," he says, with all the sincerity. "Tell me?"
Drat, she thinks. Now she actually has to tell him. "Uh, um. Do you remember the guy from Chilton? This guy, uh, you know--"
"Tristan?" he supplements.
"Yes, well, I wasn't sure I was allowed to say his name again after..." she trails away, flushed. "Well, so, Tristan, like a very long time ago, sort of asked me to go with him. To this concert."
"And you didn't go."
"No. That's when you, uh, came to me to Chilton that summer. That time, when I told you--"
"That you loved me."
"Yes." She's blushing profusely at this point.
"Hmm, interesting," he states thoughtfully, obviously enjoying her discomfort.
"Dean."
"Mmm?"
She mock-glares at him. "Where did you get these?"
"A friend. He saved my life once. This," he points the red convertible he's working on, "is the least I can do for him."
"And where did he get these?"
"You can ask him when he gets here for the party today."
He isn't talking about the one she thinks he is talking about, is he? He can't be. Right? She tries to remember Tristan when she last saw him. And she sees Dean in front of her. Impossible. "You're having a secret," she pouts. "That's not allowed."
He smiles then, all his face cracking because of his smile. There's a bit of grease on his fingers that touch her cheek when he kisses her, but she doesn't mind.
"See you soon," he says. The taste of his lips, just like the sense of comfort and happiness that bubble up in her heart, lingers in the air around her.
Smaller things, small, extraordinary things. They are to be savored like a book that she doesn't want to finish. Books. She used to think of life as numbered pages of a single book that will end, with designation and goals. She had a Dean. She had a Jess. Like her own rite of passage. And now...
Now, her book is about all blank pages. To be written. The I.N.G. The present tense. Cliché, but this way, she can be as happy as she can.
Yep, she can handle a few secrets.
They lie on his bed, him reading SAT scorebook and her reading Camus.
"Shouldn't you be studying?" she asks, teasingly, when he puts down the book and leans forward to kiss her.
"I'm appreciating Tolstoy," he murmurs against her lips.
She is happy.
Happiness
A state you must dare not answer
With hopes of staying,
quicksand in the marches and all
the roads leading to a castle
that doesn't exist
But there it is, as promised.
with its perfect bridge above
the crocodiles
and its doors forever open.
--Stephen Dunn
THE END
Note:
I cannot believe it's actually done. I had no idea this story would take such a long time and a lot of effort when I began to write it with the bare ideas of Tolstoy, PJ Harvey, a car accident, and Tristan with his postcard. It just became longer and longer as Lorelai, Lane, and Luke wanted me to make rooms for them and Dean wanted it to be his life tale, not a just Dean/Rory story.
I have to thank a lot of you for sticking with this fic for such a long time, for supporting me throughout. I hope all of you had fun reading this as much as I had writing it.