AUTHOR: The Corruptor
RATING: PG, may be some bad words but nothing horrifying
CHARACTER: Tristan
SUMMARY: Lengthy and detailed Tristan POV during The Third Lorelai
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a continuation of another Tristan POV, but can also be a stand-alone fic. I took the liberty of filling in all the important gaps that were missing from the episode (mainly all the stuff that concerned Tristan) by creating situations and scenarios that I thought might have happened during the ep. Nothing more is planned for this “series,” (getting into Tristan’s head is too exhausting) but you never know.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, except for some references to events that might have occurred during the episode but were never shown or alluded to. Thank you GG for providing some of the scintillating R/T dialogue that may have been quoted in this fanfic. And now… brooding HA wants to think…

It’s out there now. Floating in the air. Around us. Between us. Everywhere.

Mocking us. Mocking me. Mocking this act that I’ve put on. Mocking the lie that I’ve tried to hide behind.

And there’s no way to take it back.

No way I want to take it back.

But it’s awkward. Dammit, it’s awkward. And uncomfortable. And tense. And it’s making me miserable. But in a good way, if that’s possible. Always in a good way.

On hindsight, maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea to kiss her. But she had sat there, commiserating with me, and we had had a moment. One of those moments where you just know that there won’t be another one just like it, or better than it. Ever. Well, maybe I’m being melodramatic. But it was a moment, nonetheless. It had seemed so right at the time. So necessary. Because I knew that to waste an opportunity like this would be to forfeit practically everything I had worked so hard for. Had denied for so long. Was still trying to deny. Wasn’t that what Summer was all about? Denial? And after our lips met, I knew that my period of mourning had ended. I didn’t need to be consoled anymore because quite frankly, Summer hadn’t affected me as much as I thought she had. All along, it had been Rory. All along.

It’s been about two weeks since the party. We’ve hardly spoken two words to each other, if at that. Even when we were throwing barbs at each other and she was trying to avoid me, we exchanged more words than this. It’s becoming annoying and irritating. And I’m sure that someone will notice or mention it soon. Because even though we haven’t spoken and stayed clear of discussing anything that happened at the party and subsequently afterwards, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Can’t stop but feel constricted, suffocating from my own fear of her rejection. Can’t stop but feel antsy every time she inadvertently comes too close to me or accidentally brushes up against me. I’m fidgety around her. I feel boxed in, too scared. Well, it really isn’t anything new. She’s always managed to catch my attention, but now, it’s getting worse. I can’t help but feel like I’m sneaking around, glancing at her furtively, trying to memorize everything about her. Trying to catch her looking at me. Secretly hoping that she would look at me.

It’s throwing me off my game. It’s making me bend my rules. No, more than just bend them… outright breaking them. Rules that have been held sacred for years and haven’t been broken for anyone. Except for her. And I don’t seem to mind breaking them for her. Actually want to break them for her. And here we are. End of week two, still haven’t exchanged words to each other about anything, except this stupid group project we’ve been assigned to. Sitting next to her in the circle, our desks practically up against each other, books and papers spilling all over the place. I have to pretend to be absorbed by my notes, by Paris droning on about the intricate details of the assignment that only she would be concerned about. Unable to concentrate and just going through the motions. I can’t stop looking at her, wondering what is going through her head. Does she regret what happened? Of course she does. She cried, for god’s sake. Does she even remember what happened? Or is she trying to ignore it, repressing it like a bad traumatic memory? Does she hate me? She’s been nothing but indifferent, though I’ve felt her eyes on me, too, sneaking quick glances. And she’s restless, sitting beside me, as if she just wishes she could leave. Does she want more? Of course not. She would have said something. Anything. Right?

She reaches over to turn the page, and her arm brushes against mine. In an instant, my arm is up, as if burned, but not really. Only the sensation is similar. A sharp tingling burst of electricity shooting all the way up my arm and into my head, making a detour to simultaneously stop and jumpstart my heart. It’s a sensation I’ve only read about but never experienced. Until now. My breath catches, but I try to act nonchalant, knowing that the others are watching, wondering. I can’t look at her, and I don’t want to see what her reaction is to finding out that she has such an affect on me. Her arm snaps back quickly, too. But I can’t be sure if it’s because she felt the same electricity, or if she just doesn’t want to touch me. We both awkwardly move our arms to avoid any future accidental physical contact.

Paris continues to talk, oblivious to the strained drama that is playing out right beside her. She’s pretty much already figured out all the little details of the project, which is good, because I don’t think I have the brainpower or attention span to concentrate on anything that would count for a major portion of our grade for this class. And I don’t want to. She mentions Queen Elizabeth and wanting a king and queen for our government. I’m not really listening because she’s sitting next to me, and I keep remembering what happened the last time that we sat this close. And how she pretty much broke my heart all over again. Quite frankly, I’m surprised that I haven’t thrown a tantrum yet, although I had been in a foul, but confused and contemplative, mood the first day or two after the party. And when I had arrived at school that Monday after, the mood had vanished upon seeing her. She could keep breaking my heart and keep pushing me away, but I just know that I’ll keep coming back for more. She’s under my skin, in my blood, in my head, and I don’t want it to go away. Apparently, this new angst-filled, brooding, conflicted me, seems to suit me.

Paris suggests that Rory and I be the queen and king of our government. I’m not really listening, but hearing her name immediately catches my attention. It always has. Such power in a name. One word. It can send my whole heart and head into an uncontrollable tailspin. We both glance up sharply, our heads snapping up to look at Paris simultaneously. It would have been funny if we hadn’t both been so high-strung. We both hem and haw, stammering that neither one of us want to be royalty. That it’s a bad idea. Even though the idea of being labeled a couple, albeit in an imaginary way, sends tingles down my spine. It’s awkward. Because I’m supposed to want to be the king. I’m not supposed to refuse. No one expects me to refuse. In any other circumstance, I would probably have chosen the position before anyone else could offer or take it. And I still secretly want it, but only if she wants it. But it’s obvious from her demeanor and body language that she thinks it’s a bad idea. That she’s waiting for me to make the first move. So I decline the offer so she won’t have to. And in doing so, walked right into an embarrassing moment, realizing that I had agreed that I didn’t want to be queen, and not king. So I have to awkwardly correct myself. It’s embarrassing. And it’s tense. I’m not usually one to fumble with words, and I’m sure that the others are aware of my verbal miscue.

Paris stares at us, wondering, and I just know that she can sense the tension, can see that there is something wrong and weird between us. And across the circle, the others stare at us, noticing, too. Madeline offers to be queen, and she gives me a look and a smile. It made me uneasy, and I wanted to object, but my mouth shuts before anything incriminating can come out, remembering that it would probably be better not to call any more attention to myself. And Louise compounds it further by describing what position she wants for the project, describing low-cut dresses, and mentioning sex. She throws a sultry look and seductive smile my way, further increasing my distress. As if my being king would mean having lots of sex with her. She keeps her eyes on me, making me feel as if she were undressing me with them. Any other time, it would have inspired me to glorious heights of smarm and smirking, but here, I am just incredibly tense and flustered. It’s not me. I don’t like feeling so uncontrollably perplexed and disconcerted. I want to leave the room. And take Rory with me. But instead, I give Louise an almost guilty look – an uncomfortable one, as if she had discovered some newfound power over me -- as if she had seen through me and knew exactly what I was thinking. As if she knew that something had happened between Rory and me. As if she can see how uncomfortable and miserable I am in my own skin at that very moment. And in a way, she could be perceptive enough to see it. Rory and I have been acting more like two characters involved in an embarrassing and awkward “day after” scene than two people who were determined to dislike each other, as our behavior towards each other had often suggested up to this point. And I can’t help it. I turn to look helplessly at Rory, as if trying to apologize for Louise’s come-on. Wanting her to defend me. Protect me. And also, I look at her because she’s on my mind, and I can’t help my mind from wandering to what Louise mentioned. Only I’m inserting Rory in for Louise. It’s a reflex. And I’m almost ashamed of it because I know she doesn’t feel the same, and I don’t want to look at her or regard her as just another sex object or conquest. She herself is giving Louise an expression, a mixture of confusion and mild disgust. I don’t know if she knew that I was looking uneasily at her, or had just felt her own need to look at me. But as soon as her eyes turned to me, our eyes made contact for a split second and I quickly averted my eyes, not wanting her to see me look at her so intensely, or so helplessly or so guiltily. So lost.

Thankfully, the bell rings and the tension is broken. For a while anyway, but a much gratified respite nonetheless. Paris, however, has other plans, as she has decided that we would work through the weekend. On one hand, I’m looking forward to being able to see Rory again. But then, I was hoping for a few days away from her. Away from the tension and restlessness she incites in me. To get away from the exhaustion I’ve been feeling when I’m near her. She’s become a distraction that keeps my mind occupied when I should know better. It’s too exhausting and too taxing, trying to remember how I’m supposed to feel about her. How she’s supposed to feel about me. And it takes most of my energy to keep from touching her, trying to hold her, or attempting to kiss her.

I see that she’s left her notebook on the corner of her desk, probably having forgotten it in her rush to get away from me. At least one of us has been able to act somewhat normal ever since the kiss. I pick it up, sighing, ready to return it to her. She rushes back into the classroom, practically running into me, and I back up quickly, reeling, to allow her room. It’s a necessary action to avoid any physical contact that might break down all my walls and end up embarrassing the both of us. And it leads to the first real conversation we’ve had the past two weeks that wasn’t forced due to the nature of the project. It’s still awkward -- amazingly and excruciatingly awkward -- but it’s still better than nothing. Better than the silent treatment. Better than pretending that neither one of us are there, when it’s painfully obvious that we are. She takes the proffered notebook and turns to leave at the same time I do. But we realize that in our haste, we both can’t walk through the doorway at the same time. Embarrassed and slightly flustered, we joke about it a little, the tension broken and replaced by lightheartedness. Still, we are not able to meet each other’s eyes. I tell her to go first, and as she does, I am able to watch her and to smile at her freely, because she does that to me. Lifts my spirits. Makes me want to scoop her into my arms, twirl her around, and laugh with her. But she makes an abrupt turn, and the smile leaves my face immediately. Because she is not smiling. And I know exactly what is coming next.

She suggests we talk. And my heart and stomach do a couple of flip-flops. The kind that makes me nauseous, nervous, and panicked because I know that she’s going to tell me what we did was wrong. That I had made her cry. That she really felt nothing for me. That I was wasting my time with her. That nothing I could ever do, no matter how grand a gesture, would ever change her mind about me or about my worthlessness. It was the moment that I had been dreading ever since she ran out of the piano room. Because it’s the only thing I’ve been thinking about. The kiss. Her lips on mine. Her subsequent rejection. It’s the only thing I think about. The only thing I’ve been able to think about. At first, I pretend to be ignorant of what she’s talking about. Play dumb and maybe she’ll let it drop. But she calls me on my bluff. I’m conflicted. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to discuss the party or the kiss. I’d rather talk about the weather, Chilton, our teachers, the newest book she’s reading, the new movies in the theater, or anything as mundane as food or laundry or the composition of dirt. But those aren’t the topics she’s interested in discussing. And I find that I’m afraid. Of her. Of what she’ll say. That she’ll tell me to stay away from her, or that the kiss meant nothing, or that I mean nothing. Because I know that if it had meant something, she would have said something already. She wouldn’t have let it drag out for two weeks, causing the both of us consternation at having to see each other at school. Having to sit next to each other. Having to pretend that everything is peachy normal, or that we both still hate each other and still make each other miserable. That this thing isn’t out there, hanging over us, between us, driving the both of us nuts. But it’s important to her. I can see that. And I give in, hesitantly, agreeing that maybe we should talk. We both head for the door again, and she warns me a second before we recreate our gaffe, that she’ll go first. I pull back, laughing nervously at what an idiot I’ve become around her, and watch her proceed. I give my head a self-effacing shake, the stupid grin still on my face, trying to wonder exactly how much longer I’ll continue to act like this around her.

We head outside, by the gardens. School’s out and throngs of students are milling around under the afternoon sun. No one really notices us. No one cares that we’re walking through the campus, as if we were friends and not enemies. I let her lead slightly as I lag half a step behind. There’s still some tension, but we can at least concentrate on walking and not on each other. I need to get it over with, need to put myself out of my own misery. Need to finally know what she is thinking. So I start the conversation, initiating, and hoping she’ll finish and not be too harsh in her rejections.

-- So, we’re supposed to talk. -- I say, as if it had been forced on us like a class assignment.

-- Yeah, about the other night. -- There’s hesitancy in her voice, and it cuts at me.

I try to assure her that I hadn’t meant it, hadn’t meant to do it… lying to her when in fact I had meant it, though it had been a moment of weakened impulse. She assures me that she was upset about him. It’s amusing, almost, seeing her trying to comfort me, as if she had been the one to initiate the kiss, had taken advantage of me. So I put the both of us out of our shared miseries, telling her that the kiss meant nothing if we had both been heartbroken about other people when it occurred. I’m doubtful, because I know that at least to me, the kiss had meant something. I’m hoping that she’ll contradict me and tell me that it had also meant something to her, too. Instead, she agrees readily, and it throws me for a dejected loop, though I can’t say I hadn’t been expecting it. Waiting for it. That damn proverbial other shoe. Stammering, I try to resolve it, try not to seem too hurt or too morose, chalking it up to just a bad night between us. Too many emotions run through me, and I want to just blurt them out, but I can’t. I can’t lose any more control over this. Because she’ll only look at me and pity me. Before she gently refuses me. But only if she doesn’t feel the same. And there’s no way I can know for sure. No way I can ask without outing myself. I’ve got to either beat this thing or let it beat me. And right now, without any encouragement from her, it’s better to accept the loss and try to recoup. Try not to act too pained or hurt. Try not to become bitter about it.

She walks towards a bench that is half-hidden along a side path, and to my surprise, apologizes for the crying. She wants me to know that it hadn’t been the kiss that had made her cry. For some reason, I can’t seem to believe her. Girls didn’t usually cry when I kissed them. But she wasn’t other girls. So it had been a crushing blow when she had run out of the room afterwards, clearly in tears. But hearing her reassure me again lifts a heavy weight off my heart, and I have to smile. Because she even admitted that the kiss was nice. It’s not exactly the word I was hoping for, but it’ll have to do. She’s sitting down on the bench, and I follow, keeping a respectable distance. But as she admits how nice the kiss was, I can’t help but move closer to her, needing to be near her and as close as possible without being all over her. She’s the first person of substance that I’ve met here at this stupid school -- in my entire life -- and I need to be near her. To reassure myself that I have some substance, too. She seems to find it amusing that I’m wary of her enthusiasm. And I have to smile at that. She assures me that the kiss was definitely not crying material, prompting me to make a joke about trying it again, using the same flirty tone I had tried on her a million times before but every time rebuffed. But this time, I’m half-serious, too. I want to be pleasantly surprised by her, to have her agree to my spur of the moment suggestion. Other girls -- girls I’m more used to dating -- would have done it. But that’s not Rory, and I’m glad it’s not her. I don’t want her to be like them. And in a way, I’m willing to wait for her. She comments on my rapidly mending heart, and I tease her back, sarcastically agreeing that I’m more than fine. It’s the truth, though. My heart stopped hurting over Summer the moment Rory sat down at that piano and we shared a moment, and subsequently, a kiss. My heart – everything -- always stops hurting when she’s near me. When she’s not the one unconsciously and unknowingly causing the pain.

It’s different. This. Sitting here with her, not needing to put on an act. Suddenly, I’m at ease. At peace. It’s a wonderful feeling. I’ve never been this relaxed with anyone, especially any girl, before. And I’m glad that she’s the one who does it to me. We’re both suddenly in a very lighthearted mood, so I tell her that I’m thinking about swearing off girls for a while. She finds it funny and I tease her, pretending to be affronted at her lack of conviction in me, and because she teases me back. I like this. Joking with her, like we’ve always been friends, and that there hadn’t been a contentious history between us. I like being able to sit here with her, reveling in her laughter, making her laugh, sharing her jokes, forgetting to keep up the image I’m supposed to have, and just being me. Being loose. She inspires this playfulness and passion in me. I like being the only one she sees here. Me. Not him. And I like that she wants to be here with me. And I especially like how she challenges me, making fun of me, immediately grasping the half-serious nature of my comment and calling me on it. No other girl has ever bothered to even care about what I say, to analyze my words, to provoke me, to defy me, dare me, mock me, or duel me. I can sit there and let her go on forever. But then, out of nowhere, she suggests that I date a girl with more substance, listing a few of those exceptional characteristics and qualities that she thinks I deserve in a girlfriend. I nod along, agreeing, listening to what she has to say. She’s describing herself, of course, and I half expect her to volunteer herself in making my dating life more substantial. But she throws me for a loop by suggesting Paris instead.

It confuses me. And I realize that even while she described the perfect girl for me, she doesn’t realize that she’s described herself to a tee, or that I’ve already discovered everything she’s telling me. I hold my tongue, not wanting to point out the obvious, not expecting her to agree with me anyway. Knowing she would fight me tooth and nail in order to refute that possibility. Not wanting to break this tenuous connection we have at the moment. She doesn’t know how right she is, about how I should want more in a girl. Because I do. And she doesn’t know that I already have that “perfect” girl pegged. Smart. Driven. Ambitious. Rory. It’s Rory. It’s always been Rory.

Only now she’s telling me Paris. And honestly, I never pictured myself with Paris. Never even thought of her as anything more than a classmate or a friend at best. We’ve known each other for years, having grown up together, and quite frankly, I’ve never felt an inkling of romantic interest in her. But I sense that it’s important for her that I swear off the girls I’m used to dating. Her opinion matters to me. And if she thinks I should consider dating Paris . . . If she wants me to date Paris . . . Rory ends the conversation, telling me how she thinks we just may become friends. It’s a position I would love to be in, and hope she’s right. I have no problems being her friend. I relish it even though I yearn for more. I only wonder how long it’ll take her before she realizes how I really feel about her. How all her characteristics fit that “perfect” girl she had described. I doubt anyone can be that clueless, right? Especially someone so incredibly smart.

I show up at school on Saturday, having considered Rory’s suggestion. I don’t want to do it, because I know that I’d rather be with her. That I like her instead. But she’s right. Maybe I should be looking for smarter, more driven girls than the ones I’m used to dating -- the would-be trophy wives that my parents would have appreciated. The ones I knew, in the long run, would drive me inexplicably insane and bitter. I’m realizing now that I don’t want that. I don’t want to repeat anything even close to what my parents and those countless other disaffected Chilton parents have to endure. I want to be able to have a stimulating conversation, want to be able to laugh with and make laugh, an incredible girl. But it’s important to Rory that I try. And I will. Because there’s some sense to what she says about Paris. I’ve never considered Paris as anything other than a classmate or a potential friend even though I knew that she liked me. Had a huge crush on me. I only thought that maybe she had outgrown it since our childhood. Rory didn’t think so. And who knew, maybe I had been so blinded by all the other girls at school that I had never seen what a treasure Paris could be. We did have history, having known each other since we were practically in diapers, having kissed her already once before, in sixth grade and on a dare, and I wasn’t averse to the idea that maybe there could be something there. One never did know for sure until they tried. And I was willing to try. For me. But in my heart, I also knew, for Rory. Because she had asked. And I would walk to the ends of the universe for her if she let me.

I was the last one to enter the classroom, and I saw both Rory and Paris. Sitting there. Together. It was slightly awkward. The girl I wanted, and the girl she wanted me to date, sitting there next to each other. Hoping to alleviate some of my distress, I asked Paris to step outside into the hallway so I could ask her out. I wasn’t nervous like I had been with Rory when I tried to ask her to the winter formal. Paris was almost like a sister to me, or at least that’s how it felt. I already had a sense of danger, of foreboding, that nothing good would come out of this. But still, I couldn’t be sure, and I had promised to at least try, hoping to be pleasantly surprised. When we returned, I knew that she had immediately told her friends. Told Rory. And I knew that Rory would be pleased. And proud of me.

It made me nauseous. Because I didn’t want to use Paris to get to her, not after the kiss and our friendly conversations. I knew she thought that I had redeemed myself, partly. And I didn’t want to go back to making her miserable. So on one hand, while I hoped that things would work out between Paris and me to avoid disappointing Rory, I also didn’t want to lose Rory. Because she’s absolutely amazing. Within a span of three weeks, she’s managed to forgive most of my past sins against her. Because I had apologized twice, and hadn’t believed that she could forgive me. But she proved me wrong. She’s always proving me wrong. And because she’s so unique, I never know what to expect from her. Because everything she does makes me want to smile, to grin like an idiot.

Clown donuts. She brought clown donuts. With hats even. And even though I don’t normally like donuts, I take one because they came from her. When the rest of us are trying to act older and more unaffected than we really are, she inexplicably acts her age. She acts like she’s sixteen. And the clown donuts and the coffee are so her. There’s no reason behind it. Except that there is, in fact, a simple reason. She’s Rory. And that’s all there is to it. It’s as simple as that. Rory.

Dinner and a movie. That was what we had decided on. Something simple and average. I wasn’t sure how I was going to last through it. But when I arrived at Paris’s house to pick her up, I was pleasantly surprised. She looked nice. She looked better than nice. And she was embarrassed and uncomfortable. I tried my best to get her to relax, and by the time we got to dessert, we were talking like we were old friends.

And that’s what it was, really. Old friends. Even if I was a major and incorrigible flirt as I sat across from her at dinner, trying to get her to eat a dessert. Laughing with her and talking with her. Sitting beside her at the movie theater. Discussing the movie afterwards. She was easy to be around when she wasn’t with Madeline and Louise. And when she wasn’t so self-conscious or at school. When she loosened up. I was pleasantly surprised by her. And when I dropped her off, it never occurred to me not to kiss her goodnight. Because she had been fun to be around, and she had had fun. And because she looked like she wanted to be kissed goodnight, and it had been done out of habit. I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t kiss a date goodnight. This one was different, however. It lacked the passion I usually put into it. It was gentlemanly, refined, and gentle. It never occurred to me that even that would be wrong. That it would be leading her on, misguiding her to my intent. We had had fun, like really good friends. And I was sure that she had noticed that there hadn’t been any romantic or sexual sparks either. I never knew exactly how crazy about me she really was. And maybe that was my fault for being so blind.

And there I sat, watching the blinking red light of my answering machine. Four messages. I listened to them. Each and every one of them, though my attention span waned after the first few seconds of each one. Secretly hoping that maybe one would be from Rory, asking how the date went. But I was deluding myself on that point. She didn’t have my number, didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it, had no need for it. And if anything, she would have probably called Paris first before even trying to get in touch with me. We hadn’t gotten anywhere close to that level of comfort between us. And I was right. All from Paris. Gushing about what a great time she had had with me. It was funny. It was cute. It was a refreshing change from the girls that I was used to dating. Maybe a little infused with hidden desperation, but refreshing nonetheless. But I didn’t call her back. I wasn’t sure why. No, I did know why. Again, because while I had had fun, I hadn’t felt anything for her. She wasn’t Rory. And as I stood there, the phone rang again, and my hand instinctively went for it, stopping just centimeters away from actually picking up. The machine did the dirty deed, and standing there, I could hear Paris’s voice coming from the device. She was calling again to tell me how much she had enjoyed herself that night. I’m not sure why I didn’t pick up the phone, begin the conversation to tell her how much I enjoyed having her as a friend. Maybe I hoped that I didn’t need to. That she was as smart and perceptive as Rory had said she was, as I knew she could be, and that she had figured it out on her own. But mostly, I hadn’t wanted to think about how big a deal the date had been for her. I wasn’t really expecting any trouble. After all, no one decides to go steady after just one date.

But I should have known that even here, her inexperience and neediness would show. As I walked into school on Sunday, I noticed her talking to Rory out in the hall. She was grinning, ecstatic. And Rory was smiling, too, happy for her. And in a way, happy for me. Because of me. In some weird, demented form of rationalization, I had put that smile and glow on her face. Me. I walked by, giving a noncommittal greeting to the both of them, unconsciously keeping my eyes more on Rory than on Paris, hoping that Rory had been pleased that I had done what she thought I should have done. Had taken her advice. Paris came in later, while I was talking to the other guys in our group about hanging out together that night. She was smiling widely, a different Paris than the one I was used to seeing in a school setting. I remember thinking that she should have done it sooner, more often, and that it softened her, made her really likable… pretty even. And again, she thanked me for a wonderful evening. I told her I had gotten her five messages and had already gotten that impression. Embarrassed, she apologized. I had to smile at her innocence. It really was cute. Especially coming from her.

And smiling even more, she suggested that we consider doing it again. I agreed wholeheartedly. I had had a great time. And I didn’t have many female friends. Never really needed to when there were girls all over the place. But I had enjoyed her company. So I told her that we should go out together again, as friends. And her face immediately fell, even though she tried desperately to regain control of her expressions. She seemed to agree to the friends thing as I asked her whether she had noticed that we were better as friends than anything else. That neither of us had really felt anything more than just that. She agreed again, though I knew she was disappointed, could hear the disappointment coming off of her in suffocating waves. I thought I was helping out, assuring her that I did want to get to know her better and did want to hang out with her. But every fiber in my body reminded me that there really could be nothing more. Because I liked someone else. And that it went beyond just like for that person. I don’t know why I told her about Rory’s suggestion. I suppose I thought she knew, or should have known. Or I suppose I’m just dumb, a typical, clueless teenage boy. Or maybe it had been a calculated move to make turning her down easier for me, and I’m too self-righteous to admit it to myself, or to admit that I could be such an asshole. At the time, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. She and Rory had gotten to be friends, and wasn’t that what friends did for each other, tried to set each other up? I suppose I needed her to know the truth, that I had been willing to try it out, had been willing to be surprised by any potential connection, but ultimately had been disappointed. No, not disappointed, because I really hadn’t been. Nor can I say that I was truly relieved. I hadn’t really felt anything. No expectations. Nothing. Only resigned, I suppose.

Had Paris been anyone else… Had Rory been anyone else… And had my feelings been less strong, I might have still kept up the asshole image and played along. I could have kept leading her on, the both of them. I could have made it work, forced the issue. Kept Paris wrapped around my fingers. But it was a dangerous move. And it wasn’t safe. And I certainly wasn’t that kind of guy, no matter what my actions and words suggested I was. I admit to being a major player because it’s easier not to get hurt that way. But the game can only be played when both parties understand the rules. Rory knew the rules, and she didn’t want to play. Which made the game cheap and shallow for me. Paris didn’t know the rules, but she did want to play. Which, had I kept it up and strung her along, would have made me the bad guy. It would have made the both of us bitter and angry at each other. And honestly, I don’t want to be bitter about Paris. I truly do like her. But only as a friend. Always as a friend. And even if my heart had been totally in it during our date, that little fact would never change.

Rory came into the room at that point, setting her things in a back row. I turned to watch her, couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Wanted to show her that I had made friends with Paris. That I wasn’t cold and dead inside. That I valued what she thought of me. Paris excused herself and stalked over to Rory. Her outburst had startled me. And then it had dawned on me at just how big a crush she had on me. And that she blamed Rory for our failure to connect as anything more than friends. That had startled me, too. I debated whether or not to go over and help Rory, defend her, calm Paris, take the blame. Ultimately, I didn’t because I realized that my presence would only incite Paris further. And I knew that I was the last person she probably wanted to see at that moment. And I knew that I would have to face Rory’s wrath later. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Unlike the first time she had unleashed her anger on me, awakening me to her many complex personality layers, I was worried about the impending lashing. I was . . . scared. Because what it all comes down to is the fact that I don’t want to be the one that upsets her. So I sat there and gawked, as it dawned on me that Paris hadn’t known, and I had been the one to let the secret slip. But what hurt the most were Rory’s displeased eyes, looking at me, disappointed, as she assured Paris that she had only suggested that I ask her out because she had seen potential there. That she thought Paris and I would have made a good couple. That knowledge made me uncomfortable. There I was, trying to show her how much I liked her -- how much she affected me -- and all she could think of was setting me up with someone who was not her. How she was able to see my coupling off with Paris as a good thing, and not the two of us. And I was also distressed because she was receiving the brunt of Paris’s rant, when it had really been my fault. When I should have been the one to receive Paris’s anger. Louise and Madeline came in just as Paris was proclaiming her hatred towards Rory, and even they left to side with their friend.

As Rory came towards me, I became more and more aware of the complications I had just incurred on all of our lives. Her face was already hidden beneath a mask of anger. Well, not really anger, but it made me nervous nonetheless. I knew I was going to get yelled at and I couldn’t help but feel guilty, like a little child caught in the act of blatantly causing mischief. I don’t know why it occurred to me to feel that way, act all nervous about facing her impending wrath. It seemed more like something a boyfriend would do or feel in the face of their girlfriend’s ire after having done something incredibly stupid. I cringed before she even got to me, bracing myself for the worst. She was upset, demanding to know how I could be so stupid as to tell Paris that she had been the one to get me to ask her out. That I had practically admitted to her that it would never have occurred to me to date her until Rory had asked me to. That ultimately, I hadn’t wanted to ask her out, and that she had been a pity date. And in all honesty, I hadn’t known that it was supposed to be a secret. Chalk it up to your average, teenage boy stupidity and cluelessness. But Rory was upset and that answer, especially said as a weak-hearted attempt at explanation, wouldn’t appease her. Paris had gotten upset with her, and now she was taking it out on me. And it made me upset that she was upset with me. Because I don’t want her to be upset with me. Don’t want her to be angry with me unless she can forgive me, allow me to redeem myself, allow me to make it up to her. And she wouldn’t let me. Not this time, as I tried to calm her down by assuring her that Paris and I had tried. And that at least on my behalf, I couldn’t muster up anything more than friendship for Paris. That Paris had to have seen how wrong it was for us to be anything more than friends. You can’t force someone to like you. And as hard as I wanted to like Paris, I just couldn’t. Not in that way. Not in the way that Rory had inadvertently hoped I could. And certainly not in the way that Paris was hoping I would. And I’m sorry about that. Because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not Paris. Not Rory. I just can’t help it. It’s hard enough and rare enough for me to fall hard for any one girl. Rory’s the exception. I did it for her. And now look where it’s gotten me. What it’s gotten me into.

It pained me to sit there, listening to Rory reprimand me, accusing me of not trying hard enough. Of backing out on trying. And me, trying to get her attention. I almost let it out, told her what she meant to me. But she was too upset. And I hadn’t been able to interrupt. Had thought better of it. Had caught myself before it was too late to take it back. Like the kiss. In the back of my mind, it registered that we were basically having our first argument. And here, my sense of humor interjected silently that maybe I should have stopped her so we could commemorate it, but I didn’t think she would have been in quite such a receptive mood at the moment. But that thought was far behind realizing the fact that our conversation was beginning to be too intense. All I wanted to do was calm her down, get her to take a breath. Say her name. It felt good to say her name. It even felt good to be having an argument with her. And I couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it would be like to be in a relationship with her, matching wits, butting heads, making up. But it hurt. And it hurt to hear her accuse me of backing out on my word, of not keeping up my side of the bargain, of not trying hard enough when I’ve done nothing but try. For her. Always for her. I had to apologize to her for making Paris upset. And I was truly sorry that Paris was upset. I had thought that I let her down gently. It was a lot better than how I’ve treated other girls, or had been treated by other girls, by Summer. But Rory had to know part of the truth, even though I was too scared to fully admit anything just yet. And before I knew it, it had slipped out. I asked her if it was fair to Paris if I kept dating her even though I liked someone else. There it was. Out there in the open, but not really out there. Still hidden.

-- Oh.

-- Yeah. . .

Our argument had taken an abrupt contemplative turn. Too far. Too fast. Too intense. Too much. I wanted to take it back. Wanted to find some other way to try to calm her down, to get her attention. But it was her face that stopped me and made me hold my breath in anticipation. I thought the look meant that she had figured it out. That my admission had come at her like a speeding bullet and was finally able to penetrate her inability to see… her refusal to acknowledge how I felt about her. I tried to prompt her, to make sure she was on the right track. I should have known better. Should have known it wouldn’t have been that easy. Everything else in my life – all the insubstantial things -- had been easy. It would only make sense that the one important thing that I’ve wanted more than anything else would be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to work for.

-- I didn’t realize. . .

She seemed to get it. Seemed to be on the verge of it. On the tip of her tongue. And I was willing to forgive her anything. Willing to take all the blame for what happened with Paris. For taking her advice and twisting it around. Willing to do anything, and repent for anything, if only she could see through me. Into me. Into my heart. Into my soul. And through the act. It didn’t matter how much she exasperated me, because I would forgive her every time. My heart was ready to burst with repressed emotion. If only she would grasp it.

Instead, the admission had merely caught her by surprise. She stopped, her face immediately a canvas of bewilderment. She was speechless. Because she knew I was right. It wouldn’t have been fair to Paris. And in the long run, Paris would see that I had done the right thing. I didn’t want to hurt Paris any more than I had to, and the knowledge of my liking someone else while indifferently dating her would have been capable of devastating her. Even I’m not that big of an asshole. Even Rory could see that I was doing the right thing. She apologized, though not in so many words or so blatantly, for pushing me into asking Paris out when there was someone else on my mind. Little did she know. I hoped that she would get it, would realize that while I said it, I had been looking at her. That I meant her. But she didn’t. She thought I still wasn’t over Summer yet. And staring at her, for a beat, I wondered just how clueless she could be to my affections. It was exasperating. It made me ache. It made me feel alone and isolated, and lost. And it threatened to make me bitter. So instead of just telling her, I backed off, still upset. Gulping, I knew that I would have to admit something that wasn’t true. I’d have to lie to her. Not only to her, but in front of the other guys in the room, who would most likely spread the rumor that I was still pining for Summer, when in fact, I wasn’t. The words wouldn’t come easily. They had a hard time just leaving my lips as I tried to formulate a sentence that wouldn’t incriminate me, and let us both off the hook. I sarcastically agreed that I wasn’t over Summer yet as I tried not to get angry and upset. She must have seen the frustration, sarcasm, and exasperation on my face, even as I tried to turn away from her before she could catch it. Or heard the petulance in my tone of voice, as I turned abruptly and walked away from her. Or seen the incredibly frustrated look on my face.

I don’t know what stopped me from just telling her outright. Maybe it was because there were two other guys in the room, watching intently, recording everything for prosperity, ready to spread everything they heard come Monday morning. It wouldn’t be good to let them see me practically begging for her affections. Let them know that Tristan DuGrey liked someone, but leave it at that. It would cause tongues to titter and wag, but it wouldn’t be a controversial, or even monumental, piece of gossip. Because even though she was changing me, teaching me, and I was learning, there was always a reputation and image to keep intact. But mostly, I think I stopped short of revealing everything because she wouldn’t have appreciated it, especially not after what had just transpired with Paris. She would think I was cold, heartless, reverting back to being a jackass. That the nice me -- the one she had been privy to these past few weeks -- was just a ruse after all, even though Paris really had overreacted. I had been trying to save her further heartbreak and embarrassment. Better to let her know now than lead her on. And it wasn’t like I was breaking things off permanently; I really did want to be her friend. But just friends. And not telling Rory my feelings . . . Well, it wouldn’t really hurt anyone but me, and I was pretty much used to that by now. Still didn’t like it, but used to it nonetheless. So I didn’t tell her who I liked, purposely leaving it vague. I hadn’t even meant to let it get that far. I had already said more than I wanted to. Because if she hasn’t figured it out by now, what this transformation is all about, then my voicing it out loud really wouldn’t change a thing. Would be useless. Make her think and feel differently towards me, and not in the good way. Make her feel uncomfortable around me, and make her avoid me. It might even turn her away from me. She frustrates me so much. I just want to yell or do something to make her see. I can’t make it any more obvious. Yet, it still eludes me. How can anyone that smart be so oblivious?

I’m still not sure if it’s dawned on her. She doesn’t know, and it’s driving me crazy. Or she does know and doesn’t care. Doesn’t feel the same way for me. I keep trying to figure out how long she can keep herself in the dark, and how much more obvious I have to be before she finally gets it. Before she finally realizes just how much I want to be with her. How much I like her. How much she is constantly on my mind. How crazy I am for her. For the life of me, I can’t tell if she really is just that oblivious and unsuspecting, or if she suspects and just doesn’t believe. Or just doesn’t care. She’s modest. She always has been. If she is suspicious, and modesty tells her that she’s being too selfish to even think that I could have fallen hard for her, then she’s wrong. I’m really not that great a catch. I’m not out of her league. It’s just looks. It’s just an attitude. It’s all a perception. If anything, she’s far more superior than me, and if someone had told me that she had fallen hard for me, I wouldn’t have believed it either. I have to resist the urge to hit something, to grab onto her, shake her until she sees, and then pull her into my arms and not let go. I want her to know, but I also don’t want to force her. Because in a way, I know she’s not ready for it yet. Her breakup is still too fresh on her mind, in her heart. I can understand. I can wait. I only wish she would at least acknowledge that she knows, that she suspects, that she cares. Either that or I want her to just put me out of my misery once and for all. Except that I don’t mean that. I can learn to live with disappointment as long as there is still the possibility of a chance, or even a nibble. I just need something. Anything. To know that everything will be all right. To keep me going.

So is this it? Is this how it’s going to be? I was so frustrated with her. So exasperated with her. So incredibly annoyed. And yet . . . not. We spent the rest of our project meeting practically avoiding each other – eye contact, physical contact, even verbal contact. Rory, Paris, me. Paris ignored the both of us. It was a blatant slight, and I didn’t blame her. And I tried to stay as far from Rory as possible so I wouldn’t feel the urge to look at her, to say something to her, to apologize to her for having been so abrupt when she had really only been trying to help. Even if she had been so incredibly clueless. I don’t know what it is with her. I could give a girl a look and she’d know exactly what I was thinking and what I wanted. But Rory was oblivious, and I guess that was the point. She wasn’t like any of those other girls. And I didn’t want her to be.

I didn’t want to see if my sarcastic and exasperated remark had finally gotten through to her. I wanted to avoid seeing her refusal – or inability – to see how much she meant to me. I don’t know how else to let her know, short of actually telling her. But I wasn’t ready to make that ultimate sacrifice yet, to make myself so wholly vulnerable. Didn’t want to press her into something she obviously wasn’t ready for. Didn’t want her to agree to something she still couldn’t figure out for herself, couldn’t come to terms with by herself. I want her to recognize it, but I want her to want it as much as I do. I need her to need me as much as I need her. But who am I kidding? I’d take even her half-hearted attempts at this point. But in the long run, I know that it would only end badly for the both of us. So we ignored each other, pretending that there was no tension in the air. That Paris didn’t hate the both of us. That I wasn’t extremely fed up and exasperated by Rory. If she had figured it out and hadn’t acknowledged it – then it would mean she didn’t care – it would put a damper on our developing friendship. But if she still hasn’t . . .

She kept sneaking glances at me, her face decidedly confused. And maybe even annoyed. She was trying to figure out my strange behavior, not knowing that the catalyst had been her. How I agreed that I still wasn’t over Summer, yet trying to keep my sarcasm and frustration with her in check even though I know it slipped out. How, after opening up to her about Summer, I abruptly walked away from her, sighing, annoyed. Had seemingly shut her out, been upset with her for mentioning Summer again. So much progress thrown away. One step forward, two steps back, and all those other clichés. If she doesn’t know that she was the “somebody else” in my outburst, then she’s probably thinking that I’m some ruthless, inconsiderate ass who likes to jump from girl to girl, who can’t help but be a jerk. Even after opening up to her. If she thinks that, I don’t blame her, because that’s probably what I was like before this year. Before she showed up and I made her number one on my priority list. And I also don’t blame her for thinking that I was still pining for Summer. After all, we had our first civil conversation after Summer’s public dismissal of me. She might even think that this 180 turn in my character is due to Summer. But it’s not. Because it’s not really a complete about-face, more like a 90 degree turn. Maybe less. And my learning and changing isn’t Summer’s doing. It’s because of her. But how can I tell her that? She probably wouldn’t believe me, not totally anyway, because my past actions are still very fresh on her mind. Even though I’m trying to show her. Desperately trying to show her.

As soon as the meeting was over, Paris and her two friends left quickly. Well, Paris pretty much ran out of there as fast as she could. Louise seemed like she wanted to get the rest of the gossip, but left reluctantly in support of her friend. Rory had hesitated, had made eye contact. But I couldn’t tell if the furrowed brow and confused look on her face meant that either she still hadn’t figured it out and was going to apologize for pushing me onto Paris when I wasn’t ready, or that she had come to the right conclusions and was going to let me off gently. If that were the case, I’d rather have her kick and scream at me, call me names, do anything that wouldn’t make me want her more and make me hate her instead. Make me rip into her audacity for rejecting me. It would have made it simpler for me.

I decided I didn’t want to know. She didn’t know that her assigning my heartbreak to Summer pained me. Summer had been like a lot of girls I dated, and the relationship had been short. I was used to breakups like that, though I was the one who often initiated them. So my heart had long ago learned how to deal with them, how to mend, how to move on. Rory didn’t know that most of the pain came from her. Because of her. So taking the easy and cowardly way out, I muttered a quick goodbye and left. I could hardly meet her eye as I did so, afraid that I would just break down and ruin everything. I don’t know how she looked or reacted in my haste to leave. My back was already turned to her. But I had wanted to stay, to lag behind with her, talk to her some more, wait with her for her bus or even offer to drive her the half hour distance back to her house. Anything to spend more time with her. Alone. But instead, I left.

I think I know where this is all going. That she would rather be my friend than open her eyes to my true feelings for her. Because I think I’m attracted to her. Seriously attracted to her. Like I’ve been with no other girl. So yeah, I guess you can say that I’ve fallen so hard for her that I can’t tell which end my feet are supposed to be on, and where my head is. It’s never been this way around any other girl before. I honestly don’t know what I’m doing. If I’m even going about it the right way. I’ve never really had an experience like this before, and I’m almost positive that I’m doing it wrong. Going about it wrong. It’s like I’m on a crash course to doom and absolute dejection and rejection. But the prize is too good too give up. I don’t want to give up, not even as I desperately try to make sense of what I’m feeling. I want to take it slow, savor it. But I also want the pain to end, and have her in my arms. Ultimately, I think I can handle rejection. I just don’t know if I can handle it coming from her.