Chapter Text
Rory stumbled through her front door at roughly 5:32 pm, laden with a small library's worth of books, and—if she's being philosophical—the most important decision of her life thus far, as represented by her multiple 'pro/con' lists. Having spent the afternoon finishing her homework and dutifully ignoring her peers who swanned around decked out in the merch of their chosen college, she was ready to ditch her textbooks in favor of eating pizza in front of the TV, and waiting for Jess to come around after work.
After Rory had heaved her overflowing backpack into the entryway and toed off her saddle shoes, she relived the answering machine of its persistent blinking, and listened to her mom recount the convoluted course of events that would be keeping her at the inn for the conceivable future, "—now apparently I have to stay and deal with this whole mess, because Michel thinks it's above his paygrade, and something else about his fancy, Italian suits, I don't know, I stopped listening. Anyway, money for pizza is under the Rabbi, sorry I'm missing your one night off school, promise we'll do it again. Love you, hon."
Moving to the kitchen, Rory flipped through the stack of mail she had grabbed on her way in, pulling (yet another) letter from one of her back up schools free from a sandwich of identical catalogues. After retrieving a Pop-Tart and soda, she haphazardly tore the envelope open, skimming its contents before adding it to the small pile of acceptances accumulating on the kitchen counter. To the left of the stack, stuck to the fridge with various cartoon-themed magnets, were four very similar sheets of paper; her acceptances to Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and Northwestern.
Staring at the bright letterheads and small black print, Rory contemplated—as she had been constantly, since the day they arrived bundled in their mailbox—them as four possible doors, behind which four distinct futures unravelled. A few months ago, had Rory been asked what college she would be attending, she would have, without a moments hesitation, said Harvard. The college she had dreamed about from the beginning, with all its prestige and excellence, and robust financial aid program. But seventeen-and-a-half years later, Rory considers her family's history at Yale, Columbia's proximity to endless avenues of revered journalism, Northwestern's singular undergraduate journalism program. And of course, her home and her family.
(And, in a carefully contained box, Jess.)
The wall next to Rory's bed greets her with a sea of red and bold letter Hs. It warms her, as much as it causes the tampered anxiety in her stomach to rise, acidic in her throat, Rory turned her head sharply, moving forward instead towards her desk. As she shrugged off her cardigan, laying it carefully over her chair, Rory's gaze fell to a lone sheet of paper, positioned in the centre of the sparse surface. On the top of the letter, was a familiar red crest—presumably a follow up letter from Harvard, more information about financial aid, or something alike.
As she sat on the edge of her bed, Pop Tart in one hand, letter in the other, and read the first few words on the page, it became immediately apparent that she had made a gross assumption, one that was startlingly incorrect, as unlike all the other letters collected in the kitchen, it did not begin with, Dear Ms. Lorelai Gilmore, but instead:
Dear Mr. Jesse Mariano.
All Rory could hear was static and all she could see was pinpricks of white clouding her vision. Distantly, she realised that the Pop Tart she had just taken a bite of had fallen to the floor, presumably due to the fact that her jaw hung open. After a minute, or ten, Rory wasn't sure, her vision cleared enough to make out the following lines of text, which read:
I am delighted to inform you that the Committee on Admissions has admitted you to the Harvard College class of 2007.
Rory's eyes flicked back and forth between Jesse Mariano and admitted and class of 2007, and thought vaguely that maybe she has developed tinnitus, because now all she could hear was a very loud, uninterrupted ringing.
Still in a daze, and gripping the paper hard enough to cause a tear, Rory swung through her doorway and into the living room, grabbing the phone and dialing a number she knew like muscle memory.
After four, excruciating, rings she heard the click of the handset being lifted and, more subdued, the noises of the diner. Through the receiver came Jess' voice, tinny and muffled, like he was holding it between his cheek and his shoulder. "Luke's di–"
Rory cut him off, voice fast and incandescent, “Are you joking? If this is a joke it isn’t funny. At all. Jess I swear if this is a joke I will kill you. I’m serious.”
He responded with a shockingly amused laugh, “Hey, slo—”
“Why’re you laughing?" Rory exclaimed, all but demanded, "Don’t laugh this isn’t funny!”
In return Rory heard silence, still faint sounds of voices and metal hitting pans, before a dull thud, like the closing of a door. When Jess responded his voice was clear, “Rory.”
Rory frowned, breathed out a muttered, “Yeah?”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
Rory could imagine his expression right then, serious and sometimes imploring, like the most important thing to him is that she believe him and understand him. And she does on both counts; Jess is the smartest and most dedicated person she has ever known, but he is also the most adamant that college is not for him, no matter what she, Luke or even Chilton's guidance counsellor say otherwise. Thus, whilst it is a given that Harvard would want to have Jess at their institution, Rory struggles to reconcile the Jess she got to know on a late night ice cream run with the Jess who willingly, himself, made the choice to apply to, not just any college, but Harvard.
“Rory?”
After a moment, Rory shook her head and responded, “Sorry. Just trying to remember how to to form a thought." For good measure she tacked on, petulant, "And also trying not to go over there and kill you.”
“I thought you were only gonna kill me if it was a joke.” Rory could hear his grin through his voice.
She scoffed, “You aren’t funny?”
After a moments silence, Jess asked, quiet and hesitant, “So?”
“So, what?”
“So… What do you think?”
Rory thought he was amazing, that he had the courage to do this, that evidently he was worried enough about the outcome to keep it from her. She thought that he would excel in college, that she would give a lot to see him in an environment of people who understand him like she does, who can push him intellectually and let him challenge them back. She thought of his mom and how, late at night, under the cover of darkness and creeping tiredness, Jess had confessed all the ways in which Liz had made him feel inadequate, about how he was punished by his elementary school teachers for learning ahead of his peers. How the Jess that had arrived in Stars Hollow, ruffled and angry at the world, had been taught that school was not a place to where he could be challenged or recognised for his intellect. So, Rory though that in many ways, applying to Harvard was one of the bravest things Jess could do, not only because of the uncertainty, but because he had put his trust in Rory and everyone else who had said, I believe in you.
Rory also knew that it would be unwise to try and share all these thoughts over the phone, so instead she said, “Can you come over now?”
“Uh–now?" Jess was silent for a breath, and Rory waited, "Yeah, of course.”
“It’s not busy in the diner?”
Immediately, “Nope. I’m on my w—”
“Jess.” Rory reprimanded, though it came out more as a laugh than anything else.
“Fine." In the background Rory heard shuffling, and renewed, the sounds of the diner. "Luke! I’m heading over to Rory’s, that alright?”
Almost as loud as Jess' voice, she heard Luke, gruff and annoyed, “Jess, are you serious? Now?”
A hand covered the transmitter, but Rory could still make out the tones of their voices, a brief and laconic argument, ending in a Just do whatever you want, Jess, what do I care? from Luke.
A moment later, clear and urgent, Jess muttered, “Okay gotta go, see you in ten," and hung up before Rory could respond.