|
Awakenings 5
AUTHOR: The Corrupter
Tristan didn’t think it was possible for any one person to be so utterly clueless and exasperating. Usually, when he encountered anyone who infuriated him that much, he moved on. Let someone else do what he had no patience for. For all intents and purposes, Rory’s obliviousness, even after all his attempts to open her mind and heart to him, should have sent him running in the other direction. Strangely enough, however, it only drew him towards her, even as he desperately tried to look the other way. During the past few weeks, he could immerse himself in thoughts of his sick grandfather, occupying his mind and keeping all thoughts from wandering to Rory. Only now that his grandfather had recovered, he found that there was nothing to distract him. Nothing to keep him from returning to that overly-flirtatious and irresistible boy that had once roamed the halls of Chilton. He was aware that he had suddenly taken on a coldness when it came to Rory. Her inability to see through him, even after his outburst in the hallway the Monday after the fair, made it necessary for him to distance himself from her. He had been so close to letting his secrets slip. So close to giving her permission to making a farce out of their attempts to be anything close to friends, or anything more than friends. So close to ruining everything. And the only way he could remedy the potential torture he would have received at her hands had she been aware of his repressed feelings, was to take a few steps back and not let her see how much she continued to affect him. He was almost there, having accomplished the repugnant task of letting her think she meant nothing to him, and wasn’t even worth a second glance. They had sidestepped each other for weeks, afraid to invite outbursts of emotions that boiled so close to the surface. He had gotten things under control. Had reigned in all those foreign and hidden emotions that she had evoked in him. Only, things like this kept happening. Just when he thought he was in command of his every action and emotion, little slips kept getting in the way, threatening to out him once again. “So Coop is thinking about throwing a party this weekend.” Tristan wasn’t listening to his friend drone on about their weekend plans. He was preoccupied by the pert figure who was half-hidden in the recesses of her locker, located across the hall from where he stood. His friend was unaware of Tristan’s wandering eyes; his own eyes were busy perusing the contents of his locker for textbooks he would need that day. Not hearing Tristan’s dissent about attending a party, the friend continued. “West is going to bring his newest girlfriend. Some girl named Shane. I hear she can get pretty wild.” The friend grinned devilishly. “Should be fun.” He laughed loudly. Tristan didn’t return the jovial mood, and his friend finally turned to see what was going on. Seeing Tristan’s distracted look and intense focus on the girl across the hall, he tsked loudly. “Man, DuGrey, what is wrong with you?” There was amusement in his voice. Tristan finally broke his gaze and saw his friend eyeing him critically. “What?” he asked, immediately defensive and uncomfortable. The friend only shook his head. “You’re staring.” The response made no sense to Tristan. He could not recall staring at anything - or anyone -- in particular; he had simply zoned out, going to a place of comfort and contentment. And it didn’t matter that his mind was now inexplicably filled with visions of silky brown hair, innocently wide blue porcelain eyes, and a rosy pink complexion. “What are you talking about?” he asked, annoyed. He pulled away from the locker he had been leaning against and faced his friend. “Rory Gilmore,” his friend uttered, as if it were perfectly clear. “You were staring at her. And don’t even try to give me some bull about how you don’t have the hots for her.” Tristan stiffened, his eyes immediately flickering over to Rory, afraid she had heard his friend. She was busy getting her books, and didn’t even seem to be aware that he was standing in the same hallway as her. Satisfied she was ignorant of the ongoing conversation, he turned his attention back to his friend. “I don’t,” he informed, simply, haughtily. “Uh huh.” “Nice, Paul. I tell you I don’t, and that’s all you have to say in response? Uh huh?” Tristan egged on, grinning, and trying to diffuse any suspicions away from himself. His friend only shrugged. “You and I both know what’s going on,” Paul voiced, mysteriously. Tristan rolled his eyes again. “Whatever.” “Come on, man, why bother anyway? It’s not like she’s your type.” Tristan’s eyes flashed. He hated hearing the snickers that came with his friends’ questioning of what he could possibly see in Rory. Or what she could possibly offer a guy like him. And even though Paul had not been quite as rude as others, there was still tacit disapproval in the look he directed at Tristan. Swallowing, Tristan tempered the biting remark that had been at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he offered a smirk in his friend’s direction. “Ever hear of a challenge, Paulie?” he teased, trying to feel the arrogance he was exuding. He grinned, but it did not reach his eyes. “There’s a challenge, and then there’s wasting your time,” his friend shot back, just as easily. He watched for a reaction. There was none, and seeing that there wouldn’t be one, Paul turned his attention back to the contents of his locker. Tristan’s gaze returned to the figure across the hall. Rory’s back was to him. Sighing, he set his jaw and then leaned in towards Paul. “I wasn’t staring,” he informed, his voice lowered to enhance the edge in his tone. Paul only chuckled at his hotshot friend’s denials. Feeling he had set the record reasonably straight, Tristan’s eyes found themselves wandering, on their own accord, back towards the unsuspecting Rory. She was taking her time placing the books she needed into her backpack, as she tried to avoid being jostled by the students who found the need to run through the halls. She sighed deeply, exhausted from another mind-numbing day at school. All she wanted was an extra large cup of Luke’s coffee and a hilarious, tear-inducing anecdote from her mother to lift her spirits. Zipping up her backpack, she balanced it precariously on one knee and then blew at a stray wisp of hair that had fallen over her eye. Turning to leave, she glanced up and noticed Tristan. He was staring off into space. No… he was staring at her. She flushed, realizing what an idiot she must have looked like, blowing unsuccessfully at her hair. Tilting her head to meet his gaze with her own curious stare, he seemed to suddenly awaken from whatever reverie he had been lost in. His blue eyes flickered over to meet hers. And as soon as contact was made, they both immediately tensed, averting their eyes in embarrassment at having been caught staring at each other. Before he could see the bright red flush creeping up her neck and threatening to take over her cheeks, she quickly swiveled on her heels and hurried down the hall to catch her bus. Seeing his discomfiture - which was a new thing for her - she had suppressed the urge to gloat at his chastened look at having been caught. It never occurred to her to question why he was staring, just that his staring seemed to be another step towards normalcy between the two of them. And it wasn’t until she had reached the bus stop did she realize that not only was her heart beating rapidly, but that she had been holding her breath in anticipation. Of what, she wasn’t certain, and wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
As life at Chilton had begun resembling school life from last year, Friday night dinners had also begun to take on a familiar routine. Emily glanced around, slightly exasperated, but still silent. She turned her eyes towards Rory, who was listlessly picking at her food. She turned to Lorelai, who surprisingly, was placing large forkfuls of her dinner into her mouth without complaint, chewing thoughtfully, and lost in her own happy thoughts. She turned her attention to the empty seat across from her, where a dinner had been left half-eaten. Then frowning slightly, she reached for her glass of wine, casually taking a sip. “Well, are we going to be doing this every Friday night?” she asked, conversationally. The other two glanced up, wearily. “God, I hope not. Are you saying you no longer want us over for dinner every Friday? Because if so, we could start with tonight,” Lorelai replied, the beginnings of a smile crossing her lips. Emily directed a displeased look at her daughter. “I’m just saying that lately, every Friday night dinner has been highlighted by a lengthy period of silence. I don’t like it.” “Well, I could rant and rave about dinner,” Lorelai offered. Emily frowned. “That won’t be necessary, Lorelai. I think we’ve had enough of your witchcraft from our last dinner. I’m actually surprised you’re eating your steak tonight.” Lorelai rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not really into dancing cows, but if you have any of that fish still floating around…” Emily cut her off, immediately turning her attention to the saner Rory. “So, Rory. Anything new at school?” She beamed at her granddaughter. Rory shrugged. “Not really.” “Nothing at all to share?” Emily lifted a quizzical brow, as if unconvinced. Rory nodded shyly. “Nope.” “How about your grades? How are they?” Emily prodded, eagerly. Rory swallowed quickly. “Fine. I got an A- on my English paper.” Emily beamed proudly. “How about the boys?” Rory blinked. “Um… they’re okay,” she stammered, not quite sure where her grandmother was going with this branch of the questioning. “Mom, Rory has a boyfriend,” Lorelai reminded, tiredly, as she made tiny volcanoes with her mashed potatoes. And as she reached for the gravy boat to add the lava, Emily’s hand shot out and took it away from her. Without even blinking, Emily continued. “I know that, Lorelai. There are plenty of nice boys from very distinguished and influential families that attend Chilton. I’m not suggesting she chase after them, just that she make friends.” Emily gave her daughter a pleased look, one that hid the mischief of her statement. Lorelai rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’m her mother. If anyone’s going to turn my daughter into a tramp, it should be me.” The pleased grin immediately became an annoyed frown. Emily turned her eyes back to Rory, the smile returning as she did so. “And what about the girls? Are you making more friends?” she quizzed. Rory nodded hesitantly. “I think so…” “Ooh, ooh!” Lorelai sat up in her seat, waving her hands in the air. “For heaven’s sake, Lorelai. What is the matter with you?” Emily cried out, reproachfully. Lorelai kept one hand up in the air. “I’m sorry. I wanted to answer one of the questions, and I thought I had to raise a hand to participate in Emily Gilmore’s unique brand of torture.” Emily rolled her eyes. “You’re making a mockery of our family dinner.” “Noooo. I just thought I’d add a little humor to our Family Circus like atmosphere. Tell me, when is it my turn for the oral exam? Because there’s a lot going on in my life that I wouldn’t mind sharing.” She smirked, knowing that her mother in fact, did not care to hear about her life. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, but we’re trying to have a civilized dinner here.” “Now, when you say ‘civilized,’ are you talking about acting all snotty and calling each other ‘Mum’? Because I don’t think we’re doing it right. At least I’m pretty sure a civilized dinner doesn’t end with all participants wanting to drown themselves in a bathtub full of liquor.” “Save your fantasies for yourself, Lorelai,” Emily advised, tartly. “My fantasies would never be so dull, Mother,” she snickered, needling Emily. “My ideal Friday night dinner would include something out of the Cirque du Soleil. You know… something acrobatic with a highwire act. And maybe a trapeze. I’m sure you could get your feet behind your head if you tried.” She waited a beat. “Oh, come on now… you’re not even trying.” Emily only stared at her, not amused. “I really don’t know where we went wrong with you,” she murmured, acerbically. “I think it was when you refused to get me a Barbie when I was six because you thought that refined little girls shouldn’t be playing with dolls that look like they’ve been surgically enhanced or whose clothes came off so easily,” Lorelai quipped. A tiny, weary smile teased the corner of Emily’s lips as she sat rigidly in her chair. “Are you finished?” “I’m just getting warmed up,” Lorelai scoffed. “Because I would like to know what is going on in my granddaughter’s life,” Emily informed. “Well, then, maybe you’d like to just come out and ask Rory what you really want to know, instead of playing 20 Questions.” Emily stared at her, her disapproval evident. “No one is playing games at this table except for you.” She turned her smile on Rory, but was interrupted as Richard came back into the dining room. His reappearance sent the room and its occupants back into curious silence. She waited until he was seated, his napkin securely spread across his lap. “Is everything all right?” Richard snorted. “Just Mitchell with the latest figures. Apparently, they couldn’t wait until a more appropriate time.” “Really, Richard,” Emily scolded gently. “I wish you would tell him to just call back. It’s Friday night, and he is, after all, interrupting our time with the girls.” “And of course, we shouldn’t let anything get in that way,” Lorelai quipped, grinning brightly. She shared a look with her daughter. Rory only suppressed a groan. Emily threw her a dirty look. Richard poked at his dinner, continuing to speak as if he had never been interrupted by either his wife or his daughter. “And Mitchell informs me that he spoke with Janlen. The old grouch is feeling better and is no longer in the hospital.” Emily’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s very good news. Isn’t that right, Rory?” She never forgot a conversation, recalling that Rory had been concerned about their old friend’s grandson during one of their past dinners. Richard, startled, looked at Rory critically. Then, a look of recognition passing his features, he nodded, smiling. “That’s right. You know Janlen’s grandson, don’t you, Rory?” “The guy who was supposed to inherit a buttload of money, when the old guy went to the Wall Street in the sky?” Lorelai directed a reproving look at Rory. She had yet to forgive her entirely for leaving out details of her relationships with the Chilton students. “Rory’s best friends with him.” There was a mocking sarcasm under her light, airy tone of voice. “Lorelai, really!” Emily berated. “Your lack of tact and good breeding is astonishing.” Rory cringed, averting her eyes from her mother’s in embarrassment. “I know him. A little,” she stressed, quietly. “Now, Rory. Let’s not be too modest. I think you should bake your friend a bunt cake or something. You know, to say congratulations on his grandfather getting better,” Lorelai teased mercilessly. “Lorelai,” Emily sighed, giving her a look of horror. “How can you be so flippant? The man was practically on his deathbed and his grandson was distraught over it. I’m glad that Rory cared enough to worry about him. Unlike you. I’m appalled to imagine how you would celebrate if your father or I ended up in that situation.” “What would I do? Are you asking about before or after I did my happy jig of joy?” Lorelai shot back, aware of the sarcasm and amusement inherent in her question even though the events that occurred the past Christmas were still fresh on her mind. She had been scared and frightened beyond belief when suddenly faced with the possibility of losing her father, and she knew she did not want to revisit those emotions ever again. Emily only sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry I asked.” “Don’t be,” Lorelai assured, breezily. Her twisted smile grew wider. “Do you want a preview? I’ve been practicing, although I’m having a bit of trouble with the pirouette.”
The week passed without incident and Chilton life had begun to resemble something close to normal. Or at least it had settled into a regular and boring routine -- punctuated by moments of levity with Paris and short bursts of exasperation with Tristan -- that Rory could live with. Even Dean’s prompt appearance after school every Thursday no longer aroused curious stares. And the only other person who might have had a problem with his punctual presence never seemed to be around on those days, lingering inside the impersonal Chilton halls until well after she was safely ensconced inside the ulcer-inducing green truck. An unspoken truce had arisen between Rory and all of her former adversaries. With all their increased schoolwork and the burden of extracurricular activities now occupying their free thoughts, no one seemed to have the energy for anything other than friendly sparring towards one another. Only Rory was hesitant to celebrate just yet. If there was one thing she had learned about her volatile acquaintances with both Paris and Tristan, it was that the smallest things could inexplicably set them off. And because of this, Rory waited with bated breath for the proverbial other shoe to drop, mocking her for thinking that if she couldn’t be great friends with the two, that she could at least expect mutual respect. “I need you to do something.” Rory glanced at Paris sharply. As soon as she had entered the newspaper office, ready to hand in her newest article, Paris had accosted her at the door. Paris didn’t even wait for her to ask what was needed of her. She only surged ahead, with an almost anxious look on her face that pleaded with Rory for understanding, but not her ridicule for asking whatever favor she needed. “Headmaster Charleston asked that the paper do a feature on one of our major benefactors.” Rory let out the uneasy breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She had been afraid that Paris had remembered her vow to make Rory’s Chilton experience a living hell, even though they had become somewhat better friends from working on the paper together. Rory furrowed her brow in confusion. “And you would like me to…” “Write the story,” Paris replied, as if it made perfect sense. Rory responded with a dubious expression and a teasing smile. “Paris, I’m the music columnist.” “Yes, I know that.” She nodded, rolling her eyes with wry humor. “Good of you to point out the obvious.” Rory continued to point out the obvious, although amused with the position she had been placed in. “And this sounds suspiciously like a big deal. I thought you were going to make my life miserable on the paper.” “It is… And I am,” Paris played along, letting out a sigh of relief. She knew that Rory would aid her in her distress. “I’m just waiting for you to screw up.” “Thanks,” Rory remarked, dryly. “That was encouraging. You’ve swept me off my feet and convinced me to do it.” Her sarcastic reply came out flat but playful. “Rory, you have to do it.” Rory didn’t think she liked the way Paris was practically ordering her to take on an assignment that was beyond her field of expertise. She wondered why, if it was such an important assignment, Paris didn’t take it on herself. The overachieving girl preferred to do things herself rather than relying on the usually disappointing efforts of others. Rory narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why? Is this a trap to screw me over?” “I need you to do it,” Paris stressed. “Why?” Rory repeated, hesitantly. “Because you have tact, and you’re good with the adults.” She shook her head, smiling. “Not really. I’m always putting my foot in my mouth.” But Paris continued as if she hadn’t heard. “And because I don’t trust anyone else to write a good enough piece without trying to kiss butt.” “You could do it,” Rory pointed out, gesturing to the other girl. “You’re the best writer on the staff.” “I’m the editor,” Paris reminded, tiredly, as if holding that position precluded her from taking on any other assignments. “And you’re second best. Everyone knows it.” “So? You write the editorial. This could be a special piece for you.” “Rory,” she replied, chidingly. She directed an impatient look at Rory. The truth of the matter was that she had been bogged down with schoolwork and putting the newspaper together. No one else seemed to care about the paper as much as she did. And even if they did, she wouldn’t have asked for their help, not trusting anyone to take the paper as seriously as she did. Headmaster Charleston’s sudden suggestion had been relayed to her only the day before. And while she had initially decided to take on the assignment herself, she found she had little time to do so. The circumstances were almost ironic, but she really did think Rory would do a better job than any of the other writers on The Franklin’s staff. “What’s the big deal anyway? Who is it?” Rory teased, unaware of the reluctance Paris had experienced when trying to decide whether or not to broach the subject with Rory. She sighed, then frowned, earnestly. “Janlen DuGrey.” Rory’s smile disappeared and she took a few hasty steps away from Paris. She shook her head emphatically. “No way.” “Why not?” Paris demanded. As much as she would rather Rory not come into any further contact with Tristan or his family, she loathed being rejected. Rory mouth dropped incredulously, unable to grasp how Paris would even think that interviewing Tristan’s grandfather would be a wise decision. Especially after they had worked on a tentative truce with regards to each other. And especially when any unexpected and innocent actions, that may have been misunderstood as steps to getting closer to him, would be taken out of context and encourage him to become even more incorrigible towards her. “Paris, I think you’d know the implications of my interviewing him. He’s Tristan’s grandfather.” “I didn’t realize you were studying up on the who’s who of elite Hartford society,” Paris remarked, briskly. “I’m not asking you to interview Tristan. I’m asking you to interview his grandfather. For Headmaster Charleston.” “You really should be the one to write this article,” Rory murmured, speechless, and wondering how she always ended up in these situations. “Rory, I can’t. I’m swamped with other things. The Franklin doesn’t write itself, and it doesn’t put itself together every week.” Rory shook her head, sighing, defeated. “I have so many reservations about this. I don’t even know where to begin.” Paris only smiled encouragingly. “He’s a huge benefactor to the school, and he’s an alumni. It just has to be a short piece. That’s it.” “I don’t know…” Rory frowned. “Look, I’m not going to be upset, okay? This is strictly professional,” Paris assured, though it did nothing to ease Rory’s qualms about the impending interview and article.
Rory was still shell-shocked from Paris’s request when she finally arrived home. And it didn’t help matters that her mother and former English teacher were in the middle of the kitchen, giggling and making out like teenagers. “Mom!” She dropped her bag to the floor, ready for an hour of nonstop coffee intake and venting. She came to an abrupt halt. “Oh! Hi…” The embarrassment on all three faces was evident. Lorelai disengaged herself from Max’s grasp, and smoothed down her clothes. She aimed an innocent look at Rory in response to her daughter’s reproachful shake of the head. “Hey, honey, how was school?” “Fine. I…” She was disoriented by Max’s presence, and it showed. “Are we practicing catching flies now?” Lorelai asked, teasing her about her wide-mouthed look of shock and bewilderment. Her voice took on a wry edge. “Rory, you remember Max, right? Max, you remember my daughter, Chatty Cathy,” she deadpanned, pretending to introduce the two for the first time. Rory rolled her eyes and gave her an exasperated groan. “Very funny. Is that coffee?” She popped onto her toes to look beyond Lorelai at the percolating coffee machine. Lorelai gave her a strange look. “What else could it possibly be? Are you feeling all right? You seem out of it.” She walked over and placed a hand on Rory’s head, which Rory swatted away. “Max, did you do something to her in school today?” “I’m not even her teacher anymore,” Max reminded, matter-of-factly, but watching the mother-daughter exchange with apt interest. “Oh, right,” Lorelai snapped her fingers, as if enlightened. She pointed an accusing finger at him. “But you’re part of that secret teacher cult, right? Where you guys huddle in the corner and talk about all your favorite students and put hexes on your not-so-favorite ones. I mean, you’re an English teacher. You know all that Shakespeare stuff, and God knows what kind of books you can get your hands on.” Max glanced at Rory, a helpless and baffled look on his face. “What is she talking about?” Rory’s eyes flickered to her mother’s, and were met by a look that challenged her to try to explain her behavior to Max. She only rolled her eyes in response. She was not deterred. “Mom’s looking for a book of spells. She thinks she can upset Grandma by bringing her dinners back to life so they’ll dance for her.” Lorelai stepped between the two, and faced Max. “Ignore her,” she advised, brightly. “She hasn’t had her coffee quota today.” Max chuckled. Hardly anything about the two Lorelais surprised him anymore. “I’d hate to see what she’s like when she has met her quota.” “Imagine me, just shorter,” Lorelai chirped, as Rory groaned at being cut out of the conversation. “Ah.” And as Max tried to envision it, the two adults shared meaningful looks. Bored, Rory waved her hand in the air to catch their attention. “Excuse me, but teenager with real problems in the room right now.” Lorelai rolled her eyes at the interruption, an action that was not lost on her daughter. “Oh right. She’s always trying to be the center of attention, too.” Lorelai sighed, as if put-upon. “I taught her that,” she added after a beat, the pride evident in her voice. “You did well.” Max grinned as he teasingly complimented her. “Um…” Rory crossed her arms in front of her and tapped her feet against the kitchen tiles, impatiently. Now Lorelai was groaning. She twirled around to meet her daughter’s exasperated look. “What is it honey?” Rory tilted her head and eyed her mother. Her voice was emotionless. “It’s the newspaper. And Paris.” “Did you know about this?” Lorelai turned on Max, good-humored accusation in her voice. “I don’t even know what this is about,” Max reminded, weakly. “Wow. Your mind reading skills suck,” she tsked, loudly. Rory continued. “Headmaster Charleston…” “El Duche…” Lorelai corrected pointedly, wiggling her brow at Rory. Rory shook her head flippantly. “Whatever. He wanted the paper to do a feature on a school alumnus, and Paris picked me to do it.” Lorelai beamed proudly, giving her daughter a little nudge in the arm. “Hey, that sounds like a step up,” she congratulated, enthusiastically. Rory was finished. “Only I don’t want to do it.” Lorelai was shocked. “Why not?” “Aren’t you even going to ask who I’ll be interviewing?” Rory asked, upset. “Nope,” Lorelai quipped cheerfully, giving her head a vigorous shake. “I thought I’d see if my telepathic skills were back online again after I accidentally hit my head on that ugly coat rack at Grandma’s.” “Janlen DuGrey,” Rory blurted, unable to hide the pleasure she received from watching her mother’s face turn white at the news. “I’m sorry?” She tilted her head towards Rory, as if not having heard correctly. Rory smirked. She reveled in the revenge of stunning her mother, given how lightly Lorelai had received her troubles. “I see you’re speechless. It was the exact same way I felt.” She could see her mother’s brain working as Lorelai tried to piece together the missing pieces of the puzzle. “Paris knows who he is, right? I mean, she knows that he’s Tristan’s grandfather, right?” “Yes, and I’m expecting all sorts of nuclear fallout from this.” Rory sighed, concerned. “She doesn’t seem to get it. Or mind that she’s sending me out to be sacrificed.” Max had stood back and allowed the two to speak in their rapid code. But now, hearing names that he was familiar with, he stepped in. “I’m not understanding. What’s wrong with Paris, Tristan, and Janlen DuGrey?” Rory’s shoulders sagged uncomfortably as she gave her mother a horrified look. Lorelai licked her lips, turning slowly towards Max. Though he knew only general concerns Lorelai had regarding some of Rory’s classmates, he did not know all the details. He had yet to be initiated into their world of Chilton student bashing and complaining, and now did not seem to be a good time to fill him in on the minutiae of Rory’s tribulations. And Rory did not seem willing to share at the moment. “Uh, it’s a girl thing,” she assured, vaguely. Max knew when he was being left out of a conversation. “Ok. I’ll just make more coffee then. Pretend I’m not here.” Lorelai smiled gratefully. “Good boy.” She turned back to her daughter, and steered her towards the other side of the kitchen. “So what are you going to do?” she asked in muted tones. “Call in dead?” Rory suggested, raising a hopeful brow. Lorelai gave her a disapproving look. “I didn’t raise my daughter to be a quitter.” Rory sighed, then glanced away. “I guess I’ll have to do it then. I mean, it’s just interviewing one of Grampa’s friends. There’s no way Paris can turn this against me. She’s the one who insisted I take on the assignment.” Lorelai nodded in agreement. “That’s right, sweetie.” “I just wish I knew what the big deal is,” Rory admitted, ruefully. Max came over, holding two mugs of rich dark coffee. He couldn’t help but interject, having heard bits of the conversation. “Janlen DuGrey has been one of the most consistent and generous donors to Chilton,” he informed. Then seeing the looks of amazement on their faces, shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry. I couldn’t help but listen to what you were discussing.” Rory gratefully accepted one of the steaming mugs. “I’m not even sure why he would want to be interviewed for the school paper. He’s been really sick, and only recently got better,” Rory remarked, dubiously. Max shrugged. “Sick or not, one thing rich people love is to read about how we extol their virtues and prowess as philanthropists.” “Especially when they do it better than their friends,” Lorelai quipped cheerily. Max chuckled. “Especially that,” he agreed, trying not to be amused by the vulgar way Lorelai referred to the people who paid his salary. He smiled supportively at Rory. “You’ll do fine. There’s really no way you can mess it up.” “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Rory sighed. Lorelai giggled. “That’s the spirit. Treat it like an ‘end of the world’ assignment, and then you won’t be so worried about the fallout that’s going to happen when Paris accuses you of trying to take over the newspaper with your spectacularly written article.” “You know,” Rory started, deprecatingly, directing a reproving frown at her mother, “with all your encouragement, I’m surprised I have any self-esteem.” “I’m your mother,” Lorelai drawled. “It’s my job.” “Hey, you’re really good at it,” Rory commended, sarcastically. The two women exchanged playfully sardonic looks, before smiling at each other.
Rory sat quietly in the backseat of the Lincoln Towncar. She ran her hands nervously over her blue plaid Chilton skirt. Having spent the past two days complaining to her mother, and putting off the inevitable interview, Lorelai had suggested Rory contact her grandfather about meeting her interviewee. And Richard, always obliging whenever it concerned his adored granddaughter, had arrived to pick her up after school that day. “Well, Rory, I’m glad to see that you’re taking your job as a reporter seriously. I’m also happy to hear that you’re taking some interest in the community. Janlen is a strong pillar of Hartford society and a fervent supporter of your school. He’s donated millions to keep Chilton from becoming just another private school,” Richard informed. He didn’t even bother to put down his newspaper as he spoke to Rory. Rory tried not to squirm in her seat. She had a hard time believing that any DuGrey could be so praiseworthy. Her relationship with Tristan had kept her on her toes and changing her mind with regards to his personality. “Thanks for offering to introduce me, Grampa. I felt really weird about just asking for an interview. Even if it was the headmaster’s idea.” Richard glanced at her over the top of the Wall Street Journal. “Well, don’t worry. Janlen is a grouch, but he won’t bite. Not at first, anyway.” He offered a good-humored chuckle. “But Grampa, he just got out of the hospital a little over a week ago. You don’t think this is a little… crass?” Rory asked hesitantly. “The world doesn’t stop revolving just because you’ve been sick. Besides, this will give him something to occupy himself with. His doctor insisted that he not put himself under any kind of stress for a while, which means no business dealings for him. And even men our age have nothing against spending some time talking to a bright and intelligent girl like you.” Rory glanced down at her hands, which were neatly folded in her lap, embarrassed at the compliment. “I just didn’t know what the hurry was,” she admitted. “Well, when you get to our age, Rory, everything becomes a hurry.” The car slowed down and Richard folded his newspaper. He glanced outside. “Ah. We’re here,” he announced brightly, turning to offer an affectionate smile to his granddaughter. They stepped out of the car and Rory was immediately overtaken by the sight before her. Janlen DuGrey’s manor was actually a four-story mansion. And while it looked as if it may have crossed the boundaries of time and space from a faraway fairytale land to end up in the middle of Hartford, a second look assured Rory that the building was actually more functional and sedate than her mind had first attributed to it. The pale gray coloring and the creeping ivy all managed to temper the fantastical first impression that had arisen in her mind. Janlen DuGrey, though given to excesses, was no fool, and his place of residence reflected as much. “Well, Rory? What do you think?” Richard prompted, seeing his granddaughter staring up in awe at the building looming in front of them. “It’s…” She was at a loss for words. “Huge.” Richard tsked. “It’s a monstrosity, is what it is.” He nodded to the driver, and led Rory up the front steps. “Shall we?” He offered his arm, which Rory took without question. A few minutes later, the two were swallowed by the large castle-like abode.
It had been ten minutes since Richard had directed a sunny smile at Rory, and informed her that he would only be a minute. He wanted to see how “the old coot was doing,” and to put in a good word for his beloved granddaughter before she faced his old friend. While he had climbed the magnificent curving stairs to the upper levels of the mansion, Rory had been gently pushed into the front parlor and told to make herself comfortable. Left to her own devices, she had glanced around the large room. Overwhelmed by the opulence in the room, she wondered what she had gotten herself into. Even at her grandparents’ house, she never felt so small and insignificant. But while there was a distinct elegance and richness in all the furnishings surrounding her, there was also a very noticeable air of loneliness. As if the rooms were hardly ever used except on special occasions. The house wasn’t so much lived in, as shown. Normally, Rory would have been hesitant to touch anything, afraid to break something she would never be able to afford to replace. The large family painting above the fireplace caught her attention. Whoever had been commissioned to paint it obviously had talent. A beautiful woman was shown sitting in a highback chair, gracing the center of the painting. Behind her, two suited men stood. The taller and older gentleman stood to her right, his left hand resting lightly on the woman’s shoulder. A playful smile on his lips mirrored the one that adorned the woman’s face. The other man, younger and shorter, stood on her other side, his hands behind him, an almost bored look on his smiling face. And although she couldn’t be positive that the painting depicted Janlen DuGrey, wife and son, she was certain that she could see the resemblance between the two men and Tristan. The blonde locks on the younger man were of the same color as Tristan’s, and the smiling but bored indifference found in his eyes were similar to an expression Rory had seen many times expressed in Tristan’s eyes. Likewise, the playful grin on the elder man’s lips was reminiscent of one of Tristan’s softened smirks. Her eyes lingered on the painting for only a few more seconds, before falling to see the few pictures lining the fireplace mantle below it. Curiosity getting the best of her, she carefully walked over to take a look. A series of five framed pictures stood facing her, giving her a glimpse into the DuGrey world. The first was a graduation picture. The same couple and son found in the painting above the mantle were depicted, years older, in the smaller glossy picture. Her eyes skimmed over this one, moving quickly to the next. A wedding picture. The young man who had just graduated from college in the picture before, was now standing with his wife in what looked to be an outside garden. They stood clinking champagne glasses, and seemed to be in love. Rory, despite herself, idly wondered whether they still felt the same way about each other. The picture in the middle drew her eyes towards it. A panoramic family picture. This time, the one DuGrey she was familiar with, stood at the end of the family gathering. The picture was probably a recent addition, and the overblown air of confidence that consistently oozed from Tristan during every single one of their encounters, had been perfectly captured by the unforgiving eye of the camera. Another wedding picture stood to the other side of this, but it did not interest her. What finally did catch her attention was a picture of a baby swaddled in layers of pale blue blankets. And instinctively, she knew who the baby was. The pale blue eyes, lit with the glow of future mischief, and something akin to a smirk on the baby’s chubby face, were further proof and brought a soft and affectionate smile to Rory’s face. Even if they were to make each other miserable for the rest of their lives, there was something very innocent about the picture that made it hard for her to think harshly of the boy in question. That boy was currently strolling down the hall through the foyer, passing the front parlor on his way to the front door. He had dropped by to visit with his grandfather after school, and seeing that he now had company, Tristan had decided that it was a good time for him to leave. Only movement in the parlor caught his attention. As he turned to see who was there, his breath caught in his throat. Recovering quickly, he inched towards the parlor and leaned against the doorframe, careful not to make any noise. And as he watched with avid fascination as Rory examined the pictures on the mantle, he wondered why she would be there. Then clearing his throat, before she could turn around and catch him staring, he interrupted her thoughts. “It’s not enough for you to annoy me at school? You have to come to my house?” Rory turned quickly, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. Her heart had skipped a beat as the all-too familiar voice, dripping with good humor and overconfidence, startled her. And she cursed whatever gods had thought it would be funny to have them run into each other at his grandfather’s house. She blushed, and tried to stammer out a reasonable explanation for her presence, even though there was a perfectly good excuse for her to be there. But as usual, the presence of his infuriatingly self-assured grin made her pause and lose focus. “It’s your grandfather’s house,” she reminded pointedly. He merely shrugged. “We’re getting a little obsessive with the stalking, aren’t we?” He quirked a brow and waited for her response. She frowned, trying not to be amused by his arrogance. “Hello to you, too, Tristan.” She rolled her eyes. He pulled away from the door, hands jammed into the pockets of his gray Chilton trousers, and took a step closer to her. Her sudden attempt to halt their banter with a pointed response reminded him that though things were slowly returning back to their usual exasperating repartee, that any little thing could set them off again. What had once been a comfortable and predictable acquaintance based on effortless but exasperating exchanges of wordplay, had, over the past few months, become more and more volatile, threatening to change with every sentence that left their lips. While he liked to be kept on his toes, he didn’t like how he usually ended up on the negative end of the interplay. “What are you doing here, Rory?” “None of your business,” she huffed, afraid he would take her presence the wrong way. She tried to look past him towards the grand staircase in the hall, wondering why her grandfather was taking so long. The frown on her face only incited him to direct his smirk at her, trying to restart their rapid-fire banter. He knew that if she were truly angry with him, she would have found a much harsher retort than the one she used. “You didn’t trust me when I told you my grandfather was fine? You had to come see for yourself?” he needled, loving the way her cheeks grew pinker with his teasing accusation. “You’d think you could be a little nicer to me here. I’m a guest,” she berated, gently. “So am I,” he responded without missing a beat. He kept his eyes on her, and noticed that after a moment of trying to return the favor, she quickly averted her eyes from his intense focus of her. She wasn’t nearly as skilled as he was in that particular game. He didn’t know whether to be pleased that he could have that effect on her, even as she denied him his own power and manipulations. Truth was, he didn’t want her to be nervous around him. He sighed. “You don’t even know my grandfather.” Pause. The smile returned, as he raised an amused brow. “Unless this is just your way of trying to get closer to me.” That set her off. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, suddenly defensive, though she didn’t know why she didn’t let it roll off her shoulders like she usually did. Unlike Chilton, which could have been considered neutral ground, she was decidedly in his domain now. “Headmaster Charleston wanted The Franklin to do a piece on your grandfather, and Paris sent me.” “Interesting.” He furrowed his brow in feigned concentration. “You’d think,” she retorted, exasperated at how he made it sound as if he were unconvinced. “I don’t even know why I’m wasting my time on this. It’s obviously a fluff piece.” That made Tristan look up. Then shrugging, he informed flippantly, “He likes to see his name in print.” “Is narcissism prevalent in the male DuGrey bloodline?” she asked, squinting at him in mild disgust, although unable to hide her amusement at his conceit. He ignored the dig. “I remember how you looked when you saw your first article on page 3 of the first edition. Don’t tell me you didn’t get a kick out of seeing your name in print.” He wiggled a brow, dubiously. Rory paused, trying not to overanalyze what it meant that he had been able to recall how she had reacted that day. Or that her very first article had indeed been on page 3. She tried to convince herself that he had made a lucky guess. “Not unless it’s deserved.” Tristan chuckled, shaking his head, as if she could be so naïve. He took another step closer to her, bridging the distance between them. She refused to budge, refused to show any weakness, even as her knees felt as if they would buckle beneath her. She desperately wanted to know why he intimidated her so much. She needed a reason - anything - to help explain, and therefore combat, the simultaneous pull and revulsion she felt towards him. He pretended not to notice her look of fierce determination. “You don’t think my grandfather deserves to be in a stupid school newspaper? Do you know how much he’s donated to that school the past forty or so years?” he asked, incredulously. “So he’s to blame,” she quipped, throwing him a sardonic look. It occurred to her that while he had been speaking, he had taken another step closer. He was practically on top of her now. Undeterred, he let out a dramatic sigh, the faint whispers of breath stirring the loose wisps of brown hair by her face. “That school is going to get you to Harvard,” he reminded, voice lowering a notch, as if sharing a secret with her that only the two of them were privy to. She was unable to hide her surprise. “How do you know I want to…” she began, quietly, but was interrupted by her grandfather’s booming voice. “Rory!” Richard’s lively voice, which preceded him as he came down the stairs, effectively made the two teenagers jump from each other. Rory fumed internally, noticing that Tristan didn’t look nearly as embarrassed as she felt at being caught by her grandfather in what might have been mistaken as an intimate tête-à-tête. Richard entered the parlor, unaware that Rory had company. Then noticing Tristan standing before her, he turned to him, delightfully surprised. “Ah. You must be Janlen’s grandson. He mentioned that you might be roaming around today.” “Tristan, sir.” Tristan immediately went into his charismatic mode as he held out his hand in introduction. Richard shook the hand, noticing the firm grip. He nodded approvingly. “You look familiar. Have we met?” Tristan beamed. From where Rory was standing, she couldn’t decide whether the smile was genuine or not. She would have liked to believe that it was sincere, finding it hard for anyone to really dislike her grandfather. She decided that it was; and in that moment, Tristan didn’t seem so bad. But then again, she already knew that. Tristan nodded enthusiastically. “Last year. At Rory’s…” “Of course,” Richard agreed, recalling the moment with some fondness. “You’re the charming young man from Rory’s birthday party.” Tristan nodded once. He ignored Rory’s eye roll and light snort of sarcastic agreement. “Yes, sir.” “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you again.” Richard turned to his granddaughter. “Rory, Janlen is dying to meet you and to spend some time talking to you. I’ve told him nothing but good things about you. I’ll leave you to do whatever you newspaper people do best. I’m going to go now, but I’ll send Lance back to pick you up in about an hour.” As soon as Rory nodded her assent, he turned to give Tristan a smile. “Young man, I hope to see you again.” He waved goodbye and left out the front door. As soon as Richard was gone, Tristan turned back to Rory, grinning triumphantly. He lowered his head towards her, confidentially, almost intimately. “I did mention that your grandfather likes me, right?” Rory flushed at the reminder. Especially at how the two of them had behaved when the approval had first been given. Now they were both worlds away from those former personalities. “And he seems to be perfectly sober right now.” “Yes,” she retorted, noticing with some dismay that the perfectly normal voice he had used when addressing her grandfather had been automatically replaced by the overconfident and exasperating one he normally used with her. “But he’s blind as a bat without his glasses.” He seemed to ponder this, trying not to laugh. “I hope you’re nicer to my grandfather than you are to your own, Rory,” he scolded, lightly, feigning disappointment in her. She groaned. “I’m going to go be tortured now, if you don’t mind,” she informed, pointedly. Tristan watched as she headed towards the grand staircase and was met by the housekeeper who would lead her to his grandfather’s room. She stuck her chin out, refusing to meet his eye again. The gesture, informing him that neither he nor anyone else in his family intimidated her, made him crack a genuine smile. Deciding that he didn’t need to be anywhere urgent, he ran outside and grabbed his knapsack from his car. Returning, he settled himself in the plush cushions of the large couch in the front room, where he was afforded an unobstructed view of the staircase. Then spreading his textbooks and homework assignments out around him, he prepared to wait out her visit with his grandfather.
She didn’t know what to expect. He was a friend of her grandfather’s which gave her some hope that she might get away with embarrassing herself badly. But the man depicted in the pictures downstairs suggested a man who would not be easily won over. The first thought that had entered Rory’s head as soon as she tread onto the second floor and was escorted into the main bedroom was that she had stepped into a different world. While the first floor was solely decorated for show, the upper levels were purely functional. Nothing was too opulent, too luxurious. Comfort was key to the furniture and decorations. Everything was geared towards living, and not impressing, resulting in an air of informality that could never be achieved on the lower, more public floors. There was a presence in this room. And that presence was currently staring at her from across the room, where he was propped up by at least ten pillows and covered in layers of thick, fluffy comforters. There was nothing remarkable about the sixty-odd year old man sitting before her… except that he was remarkable. She could tell that he was tall with a lean build, even though he was seated. He looked younger than his sixty-something years should have made him look. Time had been kind to him, leaving a mat of hair that looked as if it had just recently gone silver; his hair was cut short and stylish for a man his age, giving him a very proud and distinguished air. The resolute line of his lips informed her that he was a no-nonsense man who probably did not take fools kindly, but the wrinkles near his twinkling blue eyes revealed that he was also a man who enjoyed himself and had learned to laugh. Seeing her linger at the door, unsure of herself, he frowned slightly, though the action did not mar his handsome features. Even at his age, there was a boyish charm to him, and Rory found herself wondering if Tristan would age to look anything like his grandfather. She took a timid step towards him, aware of the critical look he had focused on her -- a look and sensation that was not much different from the one she experienced every day under Tristan’s watchful gaze. Well, at least one more thing ran in the family. Seeing her reluctance to move any further, he gestured for her to enter the room, his nimble hands making a wide sweeping arc towards the comfortable pale blue armchair that had been pulled up alongside the king-sized bed. Awkwardly, she took hurried steps towards the proffered seat and sat down, smoothing her skirt. She was aware that the man was watching her every action, and she wondered what it was about her that seemed to encourage the intense DuGrey stare to be directed at her. She ducked her head, pretending to scrounge in her bag for a notepad and pen. Anything to avoid having to meet an older version of the fiery blue eyes she was so familiar with. “You don’t happen to have any of your grandmother’s famous cream puffs, would you?” The question startled her, and her head snapped up. “What?” she managed to ask, confused and breathless. He was no longer eyeing her critically, as if he were about to list all her flaws. Instead, he was openly chuckling at her bewildered expression. And in that moment, Rory decided, much to her annoyance, that Janlen DuGrey was just as exasperating as his grandson. “I used to go to all of your grandparents’ parties. They were always entertaining…” He let his voice trail off just a bit. Then turning his eyes towards her, she could have sworn he winked at her. “Your mother was always a comedienne.” Rory blushed at this, believing him. She could only imagine what kind of antics her mother participated in during one of her grandparents’ stuffy gatherings. “I haven’t been to one of their parties in ages, yet I distinctly remember magnificent cream puffs.” “She hasn’t made any in a long time.” Rory didn’t recall anything near “magnificent cream puffs” and was certain she’d know about such delicacies. He only shrugged. “I suppose she’s waiting for me to accept one of her party invites before she serves them again.” He was incorrigible, too. Rory wondered if there was anything about Janlen DuGrey that wouldn’t remind her of Tristan. “I… suppose,” she humored him, lightly. His eyes had drifted away, but suddenly snapped back towards her. “So, are you comfortable yet? Are you at ease?” He didn’t wait for Rory to stop gawking at his sudden changes in topic. “Then let’s get on with this so-called interview so we can continue our discussion regarding your grandmother’s fine taste in desserts.” Rory had to chuckle at the order. She glanced down at her notepad and skimmed over the questions she had jotted down during her free period in school. Taking a deep breath, she surged ahead with the questions, desperately wanting the interview to be as short as possible. Luckily, Janlen DuGrey had the same mindset. His answers were short, to the point, and still managed to make her chuckle every once in awhile. Even to the point where she forgot who he was related to, and that the particular relation in question was most likely waiting for her downstairs to continue his torture. They both knew the interview and subsequent article was meaningless fluff, conceived by the headmaster to generate some interest in the alumni and student population. And if he could get some of those wealthy and aging alumni to donate some money towards the cause, so much the better. Rory flipped her notebook closed and recapped her pen. Having long grown accustomed to it, she didn’t notice that the elderly man had resumed watching her again. “You remind me of your mother when she was younger.” His statement surprised her, but also caused her to blush. “I do?” she asked, curiously. He gave a curt nod. “She was always breaking all the rules. Aggravating child. Tell me. Do you like to break the rules, too?” Rory didn’t answer, only averting her eyes slightly. He nodded to himself, as if having already known the answer to his own question. “Didn’t think so.” He paused. “And that might be a good thing.” Rory only rolled her eyes at his conclusion. He continued, curious about the girl sitting before him. “You like Chilton, don’t you?” She nodded. School was a safe subject, and she was always up to talking about academics. “I love Chilton.” She smiled gently. “Is it any different now than when you went there?” A quick glance at her watch told her she still had some time to kill before Lance came to pick her up. It would be extremely rude of her not to strike up some kind of conversation with him. “Very. I hated that school.” The old man sighed dramatically. Rory couldn’t help but grin at that. Even though it had been decades since he last stepped through the hallowed Chilton doors as a student, the school had left enough of an impression for him to recall his time there with such passion. She wondered what kind of memories she would have of her high school years. “If you hated it so much, why would you agree to be interviewed?” she asked, tilting her head to one side to contemplate the man. “Your headmaster is afraid I’ll die without opening my wallet one more time.” The man leaned towards her, shifting the comforters around him. “And he thinks that by profiling me, it’ll be accomplished much faster.” Rory quirked a brow. “Will it?” she asked, dubiously. There was an almost mischievous edge to his smirk - another thing to add to the growing list of familial quirks shared by the two DuGreys she was now acquainted with. “No… but I’d love to see my name in print one more time.” The statement made Rory chuckle. He hadn’t meant it. She knew he wasn’t the type of man who would be concerned with a student publication. “I’ve already contributed money to that godforsaken, pompous school.” He directed a pointed look at Rory. “Back when I went there, it used to be concerned with academics. Now, that ass of a headmaster is only concerned with prestige.” There was a tint of disdain to his enunciation of that last word, making the amused smile fade from Rory’s face. “Then why do you still donate money to that school?” she asked, interested. He took one look at the girl’s bright, inquiring blue eyes, and decided that he did indeed like her. “Inquisitive, aren’t you? I admire that.” He nodded to himself, and then directed his gaze across the room, focusing on something she could not see. “I still donate because even though I hated it there with a passion, it’s where I met my wife.” His voice had lowered in timbre, as if he had become lost in faraway memories. Rory perked up. “Really?” she asked, quietly. She loved to hear a good story, and by the soft, distant gaze in his eyes, she knew it was probably a good one, although she doubted she’d hear any of it. “She loved it there. She loved to learn. She loved to read…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes turned back to Rory. He seemed almost startled to see her still sitting there. “You almost remind me of…” His voice snapped back to normal. “Do you like to read?” He raised a brow, waiting for an answer, but not really expecting one. “Of course you do,” he answered for her. “You should come and read in my library. No one touches those books anymore.” Rory glanced at her watch, nervously. Ten more minutes until Lance was scheduled to show up to take her back to her grandparents’ house. She wondered if the ever-punctual driver would break tradition and perhaps show up a little early. She wasn’t sure how much of the elder DuGrey’s story she would like to be the recipient of, and the idea of his offering her access to his house and his books, did not sit well with her. She hated to be forced to turn down his innocent offers just because she didn’t want Tristan to question her motives. “I sent my son there. It’s a DuGrey tradition.” There was irony in the voice. Rory’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Did he meet his wife there, too?” she asked, conversationally. And even though she wasn’t one to gloat and exact vengeance on people who made her miserable, the thought of Tristan finding out about this conversation made her grin. He would, no doubt, be incredibly upset to discover all the information was gaining concerning his family. Janlen DuGrey laughed heartily. “My daughter-in-law? Heavens no. Which would explain why my son turned out the way he did… although I suppose some of that to be my fault.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then chuckling, he pointed to a framed picture on the nightstand beside him. “This is my late wife.” Rory didn’t hesitate. “She’s beautiful,” she murmured. She recognized the woman from the painting downstairs. Her eyes drifted towards another smaller picture half-hidden behind that one. The corners of her lips curled up into an amused grin. “Is that…” But she already knew who it was. Even at that age, everything was familiar: the cocky smile, the mischievous twinkle of the eyes, the casual and charming posture. Six years old, and already exhibiting all the personality traits that would torture her to no end. Rory blushed despite herself. It wasn’t because he was so different; he wasn’t. It was because of the air of innocence surrounding the picture - something she was certain no one else at school had ever been privy to, something that Tristan had let her see at certain times during the past year. It was an innocence and vulnerability she would never assume he had -- or could have -- if she had not already been a reluctant witness before. The elderly man answered unnecessarily. “Tristan. My grandson.” There was affection hidden beneath a professional and clipped tone. The voice surprised Rory, but she was too busy examining the picture to question it. She couldn’t suppress the grin that threatened to overtake her face. Pictures of babies and young children always made her smile, and the fact that this particular picture was of a young Tristan did nothing to change that. “He looks so…” “Harmless?” He watched her reaction and noted with some satisfaction that her eyes snapped up towards him. A rosy blush had heightened the pink in her cheeks. No, he was anything but harmless. “Do you know him well?” he asked, an innocuous question that was anything but. Rory shifted in her seat. “He’s in my classes,” she answered, vaguely, not sure she wanted the conversation to continue. “But you’re not friends,” he probed, matter-of-factly. Rory squirmed. “Just a little.” Emphasis on the “little.” The man seemed to ponder her response. “Why?” Rory didn’t know how to answer. Then, afraid that being even more uncomfortable and evasive would cause the man to continue with his questions, she opted for another tactic. Meeting his curious eyes with slightly defiant ones of her own, she simply remarked, “I don’t think he likes me enough to be friends.” She waited for him to disprove her. The old man only chuckled, and Rory wondered if Tristan had ever mentioned her to him. She shuddered internally at the thought, not sure she even wanted to hazard a guess as to what the boy would have said about her to his relations. Nothing good, she was sure. “You need to watch out,” he advised, good-humoredly. “The boy’s a charmer. He gets that from me.” He paused to flash a smile at her. “He’s a good boy. I bet you didn’t know that.” From the roll of Rory’s eyes, he gathered that she didn’t believe him, and that made him laugh. He lowered his voice confidentially. “While his parents sit by my bed, waiting for me to drop dead, he sits beside me, hoping I’ll live. Although God knows why. I make his life hell.” He chuckled at his own joke. “I’m sure he deserves it,” she responded, confidently. He glanced at her, the surprise at her sass very evident in his shining blue eyes. “I like you,” he informed, with some finality. Rory could only blush and smile back. Before she could object, a cough startled the both of them. Two sets of blue eyes turned quickly towards the door and met a third. Tristan stood, hands jammed into his pockets as he casually leaned against the doorframe. His eyes wandered from his grandfather’s bemused smile, to Rory… and lingered there. She couldn’t decipher his neutral expression and ducked her head to avoid having him read hers. Silently, she berated herself for having been too open with his grandfather, and she wondered, with some mortification, at how much of their conversation he had been present for. There was no way she could tell just how long he had been standing there, and there was no way she was about to ask him. Nervously, she occupied her flustered mind by busying herself with packing up her things. “Rory, your car is outside,” Tristan finally said, after a moment of heavy silence had passed in the room. She stood up quickly, grabbing her bag. That was her cue, and she only hoped she could get past Tristan and downstairs before he caught up to her and engaged her in conversation. Rory took a step towards the gracious old man, and held out her hand. “It was a pleasure talking to you. Thank you for the interview,” she said, smiling brightly. Janlen DuGrey clasped her hand within his. She was surprised to find them strong instead of brittle. “Always a pleasure. There’s nothing like spending an afternoon chatting with a bright and pretty young lady. I’ll be waiting for my copy of the article, Miss Gilmore.” Rory grinned, then said her goodbyes. She brushed past the still neutrally blank-faced Tristan and hurried downstairs. She didn’t need to turn around to know that he was right on her heels. He had been too passive in his grandfather’s room. If there was one thing she knew about Tristan, it was that passivity was definitely not him. One quick glance at those familiar dancing blue eyes informed her that something was spinning in that head of his. She didn’t think she wanted to stick around for the inevitable exasperating and one-sided flirtatious confrontation. “What’s your hurry?” he asked, offhandedly, as soon as she had reached the bottom of the stairs. “Homework,” she mumbled. “I have lots of homework I need to do.” She was almost to the door and freedom. “You know it can wait, Rory.” He sighed. “What? You’re not even going to stop and tell me how awful my grandfather is, and that you finally figured out where I must get my obnoxious personality from?” Her hand reached for the doorknob. And then stopped. She twirled on her heels, chewing on her lower lip. He had no clue what thoughts had passed through her mind during her interview with regards to the similarities between the two DuGreys. She rolled her eyes and affected an almost bored and detached demeanor. “Your grandfather’s not so bad.” Tristan chuckled, seeing her perplexed look. As if she couldn’t believe she had actually admitted that. “Hey, if you can’t say anything nice…,” he clucked, shaking his head gently. He didn’t finish. She threw him a dirty look, but it was not meant to be hurtful. It was merely another expression of her exasperation with him. “That’s not what I meant.” Still grinning, he lowered his head towards her. “So I guess there’s hope for me, huh?” he asked, voice suddenly huskier and filled with suggestion. She stood her ground, willing herself not to blush under his leer. Placing a no-nonsense hand at her hip, she gave him a mild look of disapproval. “I wouldn’t push it,” she admonished, lightly. “But… maybe just a little.” His brow raised, surprised at even this bit of concession. “No kidding.” There was no disguising the look of unfettered awe towards her. No matter what he did, she never ceased to amaze him with her capacity for forgiveness. Still, he didn’t want to push it. He understood the concept of limits, and he was certain he had managed to just barely sidestep hers many times already. “A little,” she repeated, stressing the word in case he had entered into another one of his moments of selective hearing. “I heard you,” he huffed, feigning annoyance. “I can live with that.” It was her turn to be surprised. “Really?” Somehow, she had doubted that he would accept anything less than full-fledged friendship or more. He wiggled a brow at her, the lascivious look returning automatically. Then, as if thinking better of the instinctive action, his face softened to a genuine smile. “Some things are worth working slowly at,” he reminded gently, almost flippantly. She was left speechless and breathless for the better part of a minute. Her mind could not seem to accept a sincere Tristan, but somewhere in her gut, she knew that his statement, as self-assured as it sounded, was not meant to be a trick, even with its decidedly flirtatious overtones. Her mouth snapped shut before she even realized it had been left hanging open. And even though she was certain he wouldn’t try anything, she directed a suspicious look at him anyway. Old habits died hard, after all. “Well… I guess I’ll see you at school then,” she finally managed. She grabbed the doorknob and opened the door quickly, stepping through and towards her grandparents’ waiting car. Tristan took a step out into the afternoon sun to watch her hasty escape. “Oh, I’ll be there,” he assured, calling after her loudly. She didn’t turn around, but he could almost sense her rolling her eyes at his overture. And finally, after being reigned in for the past few minutes, the familiar smirk returned to grace his boyishly handsome features.
|