Chapter Text
“How does it feel to be you? I do not envy you, dude.”
They were good. They were actually good.
Lane could feel the energy of an entertained crowd. She could see Brian shyly strumming to the side with a choir of screams in front of him. Zack’s darker dude-ier voice somehow blended so well with Gil’s glam rock screeching, as if they balanced each other out. Lane could feel the audience jump along to the beat she set. It might be the tiniest venue in Connecticut, but as Hep Alien jammed through their rendition of Rancid’s Time Bomb, Lane felt like a real rock star.
“Great gig! Awesome gig!” she squeaked at her bandmates as she jumped up from her seat behind the drum set. Gil grinned like he was coming home after a long journey. “You’re starting to wheeze on the beat, dude!” Zack declared with a big smile to Brian. “I’ve been practicing!” he responded, jumping in one place. Lane and Gil settled to the opposite side of the stage. “Man, I’m feeling it! We have hit the next level!” Gil told her as she lifted her head to look up at him. “We have, haven’t we!” she echoed with glee. Gil pointed past the stage: “You heard the crowd!”
Zack turned around to join in: “Dude, what was with the shirt raise?” Gil shook his head and explained the proper attire for playing like a rock god. Before she knew it they were talking about exchanging money, until a woman’s voice called out for Brian. He ran over to a table surrounded by his mom, his aunt Susan and some guy dressed like Zorro named Turner. She audibly noted it to Zack and Gil, but then Gil started climbing off-stage. “I gotta go find my wife,” he said on the way.
Lane had so much happiness buzzing inside of her, it was impossible to keep there. “I’m so jazzed right now! That was great!” she grinned and shook her hands. “We’ve never played that good.” Zack followed her as she climbed down and leaned against the plywood surface. “You’ve never played that good,” he smirked. “Really?” she asked, hoping it was a good thing about tonight and not a terrible thing about every other night. His nod hinted at the former.
It was weird to get a compliment from Zack. He just didn’t do that. Most of the time he’d just yell at Brian for not getting in synch with him, and on the rare occasion complimenting his bandmembers would involve some kind of insult either way. “You’ve never given me a compliment, ever.” It slipped out of her before she could think. Zack squinted: “Oh, what am I, your mother?”
For a split second, just a really short one, Lane felt a pang of pain. She felt the creaky floorboards she knew not to step on. She saw the shadows of stacked chairs from the 1860s. She smelled salad water. She tried to brush it off with a silent laugh and defending Gil’s wife when Zack commented on her. “We all should celebrate!” she waved her arms and stood up. “Stay out all night, hit the clubs and talk about our Rolling Stones cover!” Lane poked Zack’s chest with her drumsticks. “I’m thinking ‘Garden of Eden’ theme-” “Hi, Zack!” Lane and Zack flipped their heads up to two blonde girls with stiff hair and revealing alternative outfits. “Shannon,” Zack said, his voice softening in a way that didn’t feel soft. He exchanged unabashed compliments with the girls before he led them towards the bar.
And then she was alone. With nothing but abandoned equipment and Nada Surf in the background. She should be celebrating. Everyone else was, in their own ways. But looking at her three bandmates in each their corner of the venue, the idea of approaching any of them was like an intrusion. She felt left out. Disappointed. A little angry. Why shouldn’t she be doing her own thing? Why didn’t she have it?
The closest thing she could think of was Rory, but it was a Friday night, and Lane knew how her grandparents could get, if only from hearsay. Apparently things had been extra tense lately, and Lane didn’t want to steal Rory away for some little gig that was probably going to be nothing in a few months when they’d get bigger and bigger ones. But still. She missed Rory. She got bummed out over the image of Rory in the crowd, trying and failing to ‘woo’ louder than the rest and bumping her fist in the air.
She missed Dave too. She would tell Zack and Brian that it was okay to keep in touch with him, that they just grew apart and she didn’t care anymore. But while they would go back to playing on an old Sega Genesis, she would silently curse the state of California for taking away her dream boy… and subsequently curse herself for cursing her dream boy’s dream.
But there was that damn salad water too. Hidden compartments. Bible verses and Jesus camps. Listening to all the secret conversations going on in the labyrinth of antiques from her favorite step on the stairs. She missed her childhood bedroom. She missed the kitchen. She missed her-
“Come on Debbie Peterson!” Lane stopped halfway on her way back to her drums. She flipped her head around to follow the voice. Across the room, three couples behind Zack’s threesome, stood a blonde girl in a black turtleneck and jeans and a shaggy haired guy in a leather jacket and Bikini Kill t-shirt. “Paris?” she audibly realized and squinted. “Jess?” her eyes widened. Without thinking, Lane stepped down again and moved over to them, feeling a swell of fuzziness and warmth all of a sudden. “What are you doing here?” she asked them.
Jess stepped forward and smirked. “Well, I heard through the grapevine that some cool up-and-coming band was playing, some genuine garage-rockers.” Paris followed with wide eyes. “That’s me, I was the grapevine.” Lane smiled. “You came all this way? Don’t you have stuff to do, papers and jobs and… I don’t know paying phone bills?” “Got the weekend off,” Jess replied casually. “Me too, I’m ahead of schedule actually,” Paris added, practically vibrating next to him. Lane furrowed her brows. “Are you okay?” she asked her. Jess was the one who responded: “It’s her first concert since the Bangles. She got really excited about going to an alternative gig, and I may have said something about mosh pits, so now…” “Paris wants to mosh?” “I want to mosh,” Paris admitted.
Lane’s eyes doubled in size. “What? It’s completely natural,” Paris tried to brush it off, crossing her arms as if to hold herself back from attacking the crowd. “Every society has had some violent tradition to release inhibitions and calm the masses. The Colosseum, funeral games, Call of Duty! Physical catharsis is a necessary part of society.” Lane and Jess chuckled at her explanation. “Whatever,” Paris mumbled and crossed her arms in defeat.
“So did you like it?” Lane asked the two, her body replenishing it’s adrenalin storage. Jess nodded towards something behind her: “You mean Alain Delon over there? Doesn’t look like he has enough charisma.” Lane stomped her foot on instinct: “Us! The band! Did we sound good?” Paris began to grimace, and Lane felt her heart drop to her stomach as she turned her head, waiting for the worst. “See I’m not sure if the double vocals were a stroke of genius or an audio nightmare,” Paris began. “I mean the clashing of 2000s douche-vocals with KISS-level screeching sounded more like a vocal fight than a conscious choice – and if you ask me who the lead vocalist should be, Gene Simmons is the superior choice.”
Lane’s shoulders hunched ever so slowly as the blonde continued. “I will hand it to glasses for playing on beat, but he was so visibly concentrated on not screwing up that it ruined the stage performance. And closing with Time Bomb? Please tell me that wasn’t your decision.” “I was thinking Song 2, but Brian thought it was more of an opener,” Lane muttered, sinking into herself. Paris’ eyes doubled in size: “Now that would have been a closer! Imagine Simmons’ rendition of that chorus.”
Lane inhaled. “And what about me?” she asked. “Oh. You were perfect,” Paris said as if it was an afterthought. “What? Really?” “Yeah, you kept the beat consistent but dared to push the line here and there. Granted, a lot of the rhythms where simple, but you managed to master the balance between freshening up the obvious without completely falling off into experimentation.” Lane took in the words, her stance straightening. She turned to Jess: “So I was good?” Jess nodded. “You were.”
Lane clapped her cheeks and shook her head. “Ah! I’m getting all flustered – I haven’t even asked if I can get you anything! The venue pays us in dust-bunnies and they try to make up for it with free booze, so drinks are on me!” she asked and pushed them closer to the bar. “I’m the designated driver so no thanks,” Jess explained. “How responsible,” Lane put her hands on her hips. “I’ve avoided alcohol ever since that first gig in senior year too. I almost got myself kicked out of the house and disowned half a year early.” “Well, I don’t want to get drunk on my own, so water it is,” Paris muttered bitterly. “Why not a fizzy drink? A virgin piña colada? Live a little, Paris!” Lane insisted. Paris smiled shyly and eyed the counter. “Okay, why not.”
-
Two Pepsi Colas, one virgin piña colada and a jug of water later, the trio was thoroughly entangled around a table across from Bryan’s family. “Oh my god Jess, you need to move out of there!” Lane declared, throwing a fist at the surface. “Why?” he asked, brows twisted down. “Because it’s almost been a year and you don’t know who you’re living with or even how many roommates there are! What if you’re living with a serial killer, oh- what if you’re living with a zodiac killer!” “I don’t think I live with anybody old enough to be the zodiac killer.” “You don’t know that,” Paris argued, wagging her finger and swinging from side to side. “Cosmetic surgery has made revolutionary advancements over the past few years, or he might have gotten hold of the real technological equivalent of… that.. that thing they did in Face/Off, I don’t know.”
“Paris, you know ‘virgin’ means non-alcoholic, right?” Lane asked, a little worried about the loud girl’s exaggerated mannerisms and loss of vocabulary. Paris shot a fist up to the sky: “I’m drunk on the placebo effect and loud music, let me have this!” Jess shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve gotten shitfaced on worse,” he admitted.
Lane was about to ask if there was a story behind that sentence when she noticed Jess freeze up. She saw that he was staring at something behind her, a complete deer in the head-lights, and turned around to see what it could be. At first she didn’t find anything out of the ordinary, but then she saw shoulder length brown hair and Sabrina the Teenage Witch-clothing. The lob turned around, revealing a stranger’s face, and Lane could hear Jess’ body loosening in relief. She turned around.
“You don’t have to worry, she’s not coming.” She tried to sound comforting. Really, but the disappointment slipped through anyway. So she decided to cover it up. “Anyone got the munchies? I know Paris needs something to soak up the salt and pineapple juice.” Paris, who’d been swaying in an oddly contemplative manner sprung back to life: “Yes. Food. Glorious food. We’re anxious to try it.” Jess cocked an eyebrow. “It’s been a while since Al’s, what is he making now?” “He’s experimenting with fusion again. Latvian and Senegalese,” Lane said. Jess grinned: “Sounds like a nightmare.”
“Well, Weston’s closed by now, as is Taylor’s Soda Shoppe.”
“Good riddance for that.”
“And the closest Pizza Hut is in Hartford.”
“Dominoes hasn’t gotten here yet either?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, Stars Hollow, the last great bastion against commercialization.”
“There’s always Luke’s- oh.”
The trio slowly bowed their heads in shamed realization. “Oh,” Paris echoed, since even she knew why they couldn’t go there. For several reasons. “Oh,” Jess echoed too. It sounded like a joke, but too real to be one at the same time. Jess and Luke were still not on speaking terms. Not since last time Lane had asked Jess about it. Apparently things got really rough during winter in a lot of ways. Jess had gotten his car back, but his bridge with Luke had not been rebuilt. Going in there after months of nothing would be awkward to say the least.
And Rory could be there. If she were to be anywhere but at her grandparents or the Crap Shack tonight, it would be Luke’s.
Lifting his head and lightly shaking his shoulders, Jess said: “There’s nothing like shitty gas station pretzels after the sun’s gone down.” Lane and Paris looked at each other, weighing the option. “My bowels have gotten increasingly good at handling junk food,” Paris mumbled. Lane bounced on her feet and plastered on a smile: “Then let’s go!”
-
Two minutes before closing, the trio managed to force their way into an Exxon. They – mostly Paris – demanded sustenance and hospitality, and got stale pretzels, a bag full of snacks and soda cans, and bench space outside. “Wait!” Paris yelled with arms raised when Lane and Jess were about to tear into the large plate of pretzels between them. “What?” Lane asked. “We’re now about to experience a fundamental tradition of young adulthood.” “Bold of you to assume me and Lane haven’t had after hours junk food before,” Jess muttered, head still hovering over the plate. Paris dropped her arms and stared furiously at him. A staring contest ensued until Jess finally rolled his eyes and said: “Go on.”
“Graduation was our initiation into official adulthood but this…” Paris slowly grabbed a pretzel and held it up dramatically. “This is our initiation into the early twenties.” She paused for effect. “From this night onwards until we’re rotting at office desk jobs at 28 – for me it’ll be a United Nations ambassador desk, for you, Lane, a Rolling Stones desk, and it’ll be a 7-Eleven counter for you Jess – we will be professional creatures of the night, navigating dimly lit streets, soaking up alcohol with salty foods, and stealing traffic cones for whatever reason.” Paris motioned at her audience to grab pretzels, which they did, mimicking her grip. “Eat your heart out Francie Jarvis, I’m a cool kid now,” Paris declared with vindication. Then she grinned and raised her pretzel: “Cheers!”
For a while they ate in silence, breaking it only to mutter “Dr Pepper” and “Twinkie” and “napkin”. And it did feel kind of ritualistic. Sitting alone in the middle of nowhere in the pith black night, it felt like they’d found their own little light in the great void. Ugh, how emo, Lane thought to herself. And then, Oh that could be a good song lyric!
“Are you and Rory fighting?” Jess said out of nowhere. Lane nearly choked on a 3 Musketeers. Paris’s reaction was a scary confused face. “Not last time I checked! What makes you think that?” Lane asked. Jess shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just weird is all.”
“What is?”
“Her not showing up to your gig.”
“It’s Friday.”
“She’s always back from Hartford by 9, she could’ve caught the last song or planned to catch up with you after the gig.” Lane narrowed her eyes, focusing on any reaction that could come out of Jess: “Are you worried about Rory?”
Jess swallowed and leaned back. “Here comes the Spanish inquisition.” “No Spaniards, I’m just confused,” Lane assured him. “But they might show up if you stick to your verbal constipation,” Paris chimed in. Jess looked between the girls and exhaled nervously. “…I don’t want you two to get in trouble with Rory because you’re hanging out with me.”
The eye contact between Paris and Lane was instant. And what they saw in each other’s eyes was a mirror: guilt. “We still haven’t forgiven you for what you did to her,” Paris declared without looking away from Lane. “I’m not expecting it,” Jess replied. “We’re going to tell her soon,” Lane said. “It’s going to hurt her, but we’re going to tell her. It’s just…” She could sense Jess lean forward cautiously. She broke her stare with Paris and turned to him. “I think she’s going through a lot right now. More than usual.”
She watched Jess furrow his brows. He clearly wanted to ask about it, but his tongue remained tied. It wasn’t news to Lane. She’d heard Rory complain about it all the way back in junior year when she’d tried to get Jess off her brain and Dean back in it. Three years had passed, and after everything that had changed, this thing about Jess hadn’t. Maybe that was the problem. But she couldn’t really blame him now. So she helped him instead.
“Her grandparents have been fighting a lot lately, instead of just with Lorelai,” Lane began, watching her friends’ ears twitch. “And apparently Lorelai’s boyfriend is in a fight with her grandpa, so Rory’s afraid of picking sides. And Lindsay’s told Dean to stop talking to her.” “Fucking beanstalk, I don’t blame her,” Jess mumbled. “Jess,” Lane said in a pointed tone that reminded her a little too much of her own mother. Jess let out a choked “sorry”.
“She had to drop a class at Yale,” Paris added. Lane closed her mouth and turned to her, Jess not following far behind. “She took five classes at the start of the semester instead of four. It’s supposed to be a Gilmore tradition, but the workload got too big and a professor told her to drop his subject.” Jess leaned back and exhaled. “How did she take it?” Paris shrugged, almost sadly: “She acts fine around me, there’s no crying for Argentina. But…” Paris looked at Lane again. “Do you feel like she’s pulling away too?”
Lane was surprised by the question, and even more by how fast she answered. “Actually, yeah,” she mumbled, brows furrowing. “We still talk and gossip and meet up and stuff. But it’s like every time we start talking about Yale assignments or boys she just- brushes things off. Changes the subject.” Paris nodded along. “That sounds about right. And I don’t suppose Romeo’s little stunt over Christmas did a lot of help either,” she nodded towards Jess, who began sinking into his seat. “Don’t worry, you won’t be getting any more of that,” he mumbled bitterly.
“How are we supposed to believe that?” Paris scoffed. “I got the message: she doesn’t want me around.” “Did she tell you that?” Lane asked, raising an eyebrow. “She doesn’t have to. She never got back in touch with me after that Say Anything fiasco.” Oh my god. Lane swallowed the urge to groan. “Did you tell her to call you?” Jess frowned and crossed his arms: “It was implied.” Paris actually groaned, while Lane dropped her head on the table. “Stupid, theatrical hopelessly romantic Byronesque little shit!” Paris declared with waving arms. “Does she even have your cellphone number?!” Lane pleaded as she sat up again to stare at Jess.
His face went white. His eyes started twitching and he nodded his head jarringly until he finally said: “Well, when you put it like that!” Lane and Paris groaned simultaneously.
“Just, whatever you do…” Lane put up a hand trying to calm herself down. “If you have to talk to her again don’t be stupid about it.” “Like run away at the sight of her for an entire day before chasing her across the square and then blurting out a love confession only to immediately run away with your tail tucked between your legs,” Paris added. Jess raised his hands in frustrated surrender: “Jesus, tell me something I don’t know!”
They calmed down; Paris grabbing a handful of Cheetos in frustration, Lane taking a sip of her Sprite, and Jess ever so slowly relaxing his shoulders. “Do you think I could help?” He asked in a small voice. Lane thought about it and sighed: “I don’t know… to be honest I don’t think I know much of anything anymore.” “Me too,” Jess echoed with a somber voice. “Me three,” Paris said, equally gloomy.
The urge to spill her guts out overcame Lane. It wasn’t the first time it had ever hit her, but usually she’d find some way to circumvent it. She’d disguise her fears as abstract questions or run back to her secret room within a room and blast Nico into her headphones. But it was late and she had no headphones with her, and she could never go back to that little room again. She’d probably taken everything down by now anyway. So she gave in to the urge.
“I thought growing up meant you’d be more confident,” she started, sensing Paris and Jess’ heads turn to her without looking back at them. “I know it’s stupid, but I thought that I would turn 18 and get a jolt of self-esteem, almost like a superpower. I’d get the guts to move out on my own and just- know what to do. Get a part time job that paid the rent and still gave me time to work with the band, and immediately get discovered by a mega-manager. But I wouldn’t be stupid enough to take a crappy deal without creative control of my songs or lose my band in a fight over who the front man is. I’d keep a tight ship and stay smaller but respected, like Delta 5 or Nada Surf.”
Lane’s voice began to tremble, her breath starting to hurt. “But instead I’m struggling to make rent at a shoebox five minutes away from my childhood home. And my band is sonically inconsistent and almost combusted when the love of my life went to the other side of the country for a fricking engineering degree that is great, it really is and I’m so proud for him and I knew that long distance wouldn’t last but damn it, it hurt so much to lose him.” She was fully weeping now, at a gas station table at eleven in the night without her best friend. “And I want to be there for Rory so so much, like she was there for me this winter, but I still haven’t put myself back together, so when Bryan goes to his family and Gil to his wife and Zach to his groupies I just sit there behind the drum set missing my best friend and my ex-boyfriend and my mom.”
The words echoed out into the night. Lane caught her breath and tried to halt her sobbing. She knew she had made things awkward. She knew that Paris and Jess weren’t good at immediate damage control. It wasn’t their fault. They hadn’t been taught how to put a hand on her back and pat it. But she just hadn’t been able to hold herself back.
“Everything you’ve done so far is really brave,” Paris said, eerily calm. Lane looked up at her, vision blurred by the water in her eyes. She continued: “You pursued music when you knew the risk of getting caught. And when your mother confronted you about it you stuck to your values and followed your heart. Meek people don’t do that.” Lane was thrown back by Paris’ description of her. She hadn’t thought of herself as brave in a long time. “But it still hurts,” Jess suddenly added. Lane turned to him, confused.
“Having to choose between your mom and yourself. You did the right thing. The grown-up thing, believe it or not. But it still hurts.” Lane thought that might be the most she’d ever heard Jess say about something so personal. But his words were steady, not like he’d read the right book about how to handle being cut off, but like he knew it from experience. Like he’d known it for years, long enough to have made peace with it by now. Lane swallowed hard: “It really does.”
“Well, this got sad,” she giggled half-heartedly, trying to relieve some tension. Jess scoffed and Paris chuckled, wiping her cheek, and it was then that Lane realized Paris had shed a tear too. “Maybe we should call it a night before someone starts sobbing on opera rooftops,” Jess offered. Paris sniffled and groaned: “Of course you of all people would make a Phantom reference.” “It does contain a lot of music of the night,” Lane offered. They all giggled at that. It was a little stupid, but somehow stupidity was what they needed.
“So I drop you off first and then I take Paris to the Ivy League fortress, right?” Jess asked. Lane opened her mouth to confirm, but another urge grew in her. It was one she should ignore; one she could hold off until she was alone and safe to sneak around unnoticed. But something in her knew that if she could ask anyone about it, it would be the two doofuses in front of her. “Can I ask you a favor?”
-
Jess parked the car on Elm Street, two houses down from her home. What used to be her home. Lane needed to start thinking about that shoebox she shared with Bryan and Zach, but old habits die hard. And she was too tired and emotionally distraught to scold herself over it tonight. “Do you want us to wait here?” Paris asked, sitting next to Lane in the backseat. “No, it’s already so late, I couldn’t keep you.” “I’ve got nothing waiting for me tomorrow but a box of macaroni and a glue gun,” Paris insisted. “And I’ve driven home with a lot less sleep and a lot worse weather,” Jess assured. “How bad?” Lane asked. “Margaret Hamilton tried to race me on her broom.”
Lane thought through the offer. She needed to make that journey alone. And she didn’t know how long she would spend in there. What if she got caught? What if she fell asleep in there? But at the same time… “Are you sure?” Lane asked Jess, looking at him through the rearview mirror. He turned around in his seat and stared right at her. “Positive. Us prodigal kids have to stick together.” She gave him a soft, almost inaudible “Thank you.” She gave Paris’ hand a squeeze. And then she stepped out.
Walking through the little white picket fence, Lane clutched herself. The house felt so big and scary and painful, yet completely mundane at the same time. It was just a house. A collection of cut wood hammered together to keep the heat in. Glass windows to get a view of the outside. Rooms that gave you the opportunity to stay well fed and well rested. But with each step she took, her heart ached a little more. All the love she had once felt in this place came rushing back all at the same time. She wanted to cry. She probably would. And she was going to feel so completely lonely.
But she hadn’t been lonely earlier tonight. And she wasn’t going to go on alone.
“And you've got nothing I like but got something I love
You got the charm and the skills to rise above
You know how to be loved
And you're as clean as a broke-dick dog
And I don't wanna be like you
But I'm still rooting for you
I would hate to be like you
But I'm still rooting for you”