The Night The World Refused To End
He'd been nice. Really, very nice. That was one thing about it that had caught her off-guard--people weren't usually that nice to her. They didn't treat her like something special. Delicate.
She'd been so caught off-guard, in fact, that she didn't realize what was happening until his fingers were dipping down under the elastic of her underwear, until he asked "is this okay?" and she pushed away the weight of responsibility, of years of thinking of how smart she'd be about sex, and said "yes."
He'd even called her beautiful, which made her blush and cringe a little--that was new, too. She wasn't beautiful. She was plain, even in make-up; she was a Career Girl. She didn't want to be beautiful: she wanted to be smart.
But there it was. Apparently, Jamie thought she was beautiful. Apparently, he loved her, he'd said that too, afterwards, and she had smiled and hid behind her hair. She wasn't sure what to do with that.
She wasn't sure what to do with any of it, even after she asked Rory, who looked slightly sickened and confused by the whole thing. Rory wouldn't do something like that, just jump into bed with someone just because they said some nice things. People said nice things to Rory all the time, and she was still a virgin, still chaste. There were a lot of things Paris hadn't believed in before she met Rory, that she knew now were true.
Which explained it, of course. Paris, it seemed, was beautiful, and loved, but not enough to get into Harvard, never enough, even if she'd been working for it her entire life. Maybe it had been the sex--but maybe not, and anyway it wasn't likely that that was ever happening again. Especially if Jamie watched the broadcast. Which of course he had, he was considerate, he loved her.
Rory had seen it too, and her mother. Everyone had seen it. But Rory didn't laugh, or explain to her very calmly what she should have done instead, but hugged her, and let her cry, and promised to come and sleep over, after she'd gotten her stuff.
She looked vaguely guilty when she showed up, something Paris didn't figure out until later. She didn't goggle over the house, which was nice.
There was that word again. But it fit: Rory was nice too, sweet, even. Almost saccharine at times. "Hey, how're you feeling?" was the first thing she said.
"Dandy."
"Right. Look. I brought over some movies," she offered, swinging her backpack down in front of her.
"Sounds good. French mineral water?" Paris asked, wondering if she remembered.
"Just plain tap water would be fine for the likes of me," Rory grinned, wrinkling her nose. It was really kind of...cute, when she did that. Disney Princess cute. God, Paris was making herself sick.
"Get it yourself, then. Kitchen's in there," she said, gesturing, "I'm going to get the DVD player set up. It can take hours to find the right combination of remotes."
"Sure, okay," Rory said easily, and found Paris in the living room a few minutes later, squinting at the movie covers.
"Monty Python and the Holy Grail? What have you been smoking, Gilmore?"
"I thought it might make you laugh."
Paris snorted. "I'm sorry, but the Monty Python oeuvre has never been my idea of high humor."
"You're no fun." Rory put the movie back in the bag; Paris picked up the next one.
"A League of Their Own? Surely you jest."
"I thought it might be...inspirational."
"Yes, because it's always been my aspiration to play professional baseball in a thigh length skirt."
Rory scowled. Cutely. "Fine, then, you pick one."
It was difficult; at times of crisis in her life there was often very little entertainment that didn't seem completely infantile. People kept laughing, crying, sighing over things that happened in movies when Paris's heart was breaking. It didn't seem fair.
Oh, geez. She was crying again. This was getting seriously undignified.
"Or not," Rory murmured, looking concerned. She scootched over the rug and leaned back against the couch, putting her arm around Paris again. Paris wondered if this was going to be a regular thing, now, or if she'd have to break down in front of thousands of people for it to happen.
"I'm fine," Paris protested, snuggling irritably closer. "It's not that big a deal, I'm over it, really."
"Paris. No, this shouldn't be a big deal, but if it is, if you're still upset, that's okay," Rory said gently. "Have you talked to Jamie yet?"
"No. I'm afraid he'll hate me," she lied.
"He won't hate you." I don't hate you, her eyes, said, I like you, people like you, you aren't a horrible person.
"If you say so," Paris said, relieved as always to have Rory deal with her relationship crises.
"Um," Rory said, sometime later, and Paris abruptly stopped pretending not to smell her hair and paid attention. "There's something I need to tell you."
"Shoot."
"You're not going to like it."
"Well, that'll be a new and fascinating experience for me."
"IgotintoHarvard," Rory blurted.
Paris couldn't even breathe, for a long time: Rory's arm was warm but she felt very, very cold. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"You should probably go home," said Paris. Rory was going to Harvard. She shouldn't get used to this kind of treatment, shouldn't get used to having a best friend.
"No," Rory said unexpectedly. "You're upset, what kind of friend would I be if I left you like this?"
The kind who was going to Harvard. The kind who was going to leave Paris without any Disney in her life, whatsoever, just when she'd started to get used to it. The kind who didn't sleep with boys, ever.
"You can't," she said, her own voice surprising her with its volume, "you can't go there. It's not your kind of school, Gilmore--"
"You gave me this speech a month after we met--"
"--no one there will understand a word you say, you know. You talk like a lunatic."
"People usually learn to interpret it after awhile."
"You can't go," Paris said again, desperately, and Rory exploded.
"Why not, Paris, I've worked just as hard as you, I've done every stupid thing I was supposed to do to get into a good school, and I'm smart, and I want to go there, and you're not stopping me!"
Rory could throw tantrums with the best of them (the best of them, of course, being Paris).
"I kind of got used to the idea of being there with you," she muttered. "I thought we would make fun of frat boys together." She wanted to say a lot more, but hey, the world had seen enough of Paris's Inner Turmoil for one night.
"Oh," Rory said, the heat fading from her eyes and cheeks. "Hey. We'll still be friends, Paris, and this way maybe we can still be on opposing debate teams." Rory kissed her cheek affectionately. "Cheer up. It's not the end of the world."
"Well. I'll kick your ass. In the debate," Paris said, flustered.
"I know you will," Rory said, smiling, being way too nice to her as always.