He closed the door to the house with a satisfying bang, threw his keys onto the foyer desk, and turned to make his way up the stairs.
"Damn mutt!" he swore, after discovering the furry lump at the base of the stairs and awkwardly tripping over it. "Always in the way...acts like he's a real person...always first place with her..."
The furry "mutt" in question wisely rolled out of the way and took comfort in taking up residence on the welcome mat, soothing his hurt body and feelings by taking oral solace in chewing on a corner of the mat.
The one who'd injured his feelings and body was no longer in evidence, except for the sound of stomping as he made his way up the stairs.
Having reached the top landing, he staggered his way down the hall to the bedroom, or was it boudoir.
"Boudoir," he said aloud, then giggled. "Boudoir, boudoir boudoir." Such a nice French word. French things had done him good, he mused.
Entering the bedroom, he immediately thought of why he was here in the first place. 'Clean shirt, gotta find a clean shirt, this one's all smelly.'
A couple of days on a drinking binge in smoky bars will do that to a metrosexual's hoodie.
He quickly stripped off his clothing, remembering to be sure to take time out for an appreciative glance at himself in the mirror.
'What to wear, what to wear?' he thought.
He flung open the closet door, which was still mostly hers and not very much his. But who cared now, right? So he thrust his hand in among the hangers and roughly pushed her clothes off to the side along the hanging rod. Satisfied, he turned his attention to his side, and rearranged the hangers, making sure his shirts had plenty of breathing room between them.
'What to wear, what to wear?' his brain repeated. Crisp snow white, pale blue, all hung in precise order according to the ultraviolet color spectrum. He made his way all the way to the left. Pink. Ah yes. He did look good in a pink shirt.
He had just yanked the shirt off the hanger, slipped into it, carefully arranging his chest hair, when he saw it.
For the entire time of their marriage, it had been there. Taunting him, bothering him, reminding him.
Why the hell did she still have it? Why didn't she get rid of it when, you know...things hadn't worked out with that diner guy, and she finally came to her senses and realized who the real for-always guy was.
As he pulled on a carefully pressed pair of pants, he continued to stare at it. Of course, all he could see was a bit of froth coming out from underneath all the piles she had on her side. But nevertheless, there it was.
His mind flashed back to that rainy day in Giverny. The bride wore black, he remembered, and a tight smile on her face. Maybe they should have waited a day and gone and bought something from some designer. Damn, of course that was it! He had the money, he could have done that--gotten any designer to do a quick dress fitting.
Water under the bridge.
But there it was. Tormenting him, taunting, the very essence of 'I am for someone else.'
But what the heck. He might as well take a look. She was busy with some problem she'd been calling him about. Come to think of it, he might as well just turn off his damn cell and not have to even think of her trying to call him.
Voraciously, he reached deep into her side of the closet and pulled it out.
It was a vision! His hands ran over the material, fingering the adornments on the bodice. He held it up: oh yes, she would look gorgeous in it.
Maybe she was saving it for Rory to wear. But wait...he'd be able to buy Rory whatever she'd want.
There was something stuffed into the bodice. A balled up piece of netting fell out as he shook it free. Oh, it was a veil! 'Lorelai in a veil, now that would be interesting,' he thought, remembering her bedraggled wet hair in the church in Giverny.
He unfurled the veil, and then it fell out, with a clink and a clang, bouncing onto the floor. The late afternoon sun coming in through the window glinted off of it, as he curiously reached down to retrieve it.
No, she didn't. No.
This could be nothing else but her engagement ring.
The one thing that diner guy gave her that he hadn't.
Weren't women supposed to give back their engagement rings if they broke things off? Lord knows that he made sure that Sherrie returned the rings he gave her when they divorced.
And it was a really beautiful ring, he had to concede. Obviously, Lorelai had picked it out herself. Diner guy, well, could never have picked out such a tastefully designed piece of jewelry.
He took the ring over to Lorelai's dresser and opened it, intending to put it there for safekeeping. As he rooted around the junk in her top drawer, he pushed aside a stack of papers and...Well, a guy's got a right to see what his wife's been up to, no?
He pulled out the papers. At least ten of what looked to be drafts? Drafts of that damn love letter she'd written for him.
"To the court," one began. "In reference to Mr. Lucas Danes and his daughter, Miss April Nardini," began a second, with the "Mr." and "Miss" crossed out. "To the Judge, Hartford County Family Court." And then as he finished rifling through the papers, it seemed she'd finally settled on "To whom it may concern."
The last page was a list. Pro/Cons for Luke. And at least half the entries on the pro side began with "Rory". The con side, sheesh, had she even bothered with that? Just one entry: "Kept me from being involved so that he could learn to be a father on his own."
He took another look at the Pro side. Several mentions of "Own father not there."
Infuriated, he turned his attention to the dress. A man had a right to not have wedding wear intended for his rival in his home!
He fingered the skirt. The material would do nicely as a polishing cloth for the flat screen TV, he thought. It was high time, besides, that he showed her who was who in this house.
Sighing a satisfied sigh punctuated by a burp, he crumpled the paper and threw the entire wad into the bathroom wastebasket. The veil quickly followed. He dragged the dress into the bathroom and rummaged about for his nose-hair scissors, which he kept hidden underneath a stack of washcloths on his side.
It took some effort, but with a quick stab and a jerk, he was able to slice into the hem of the dress. He then grabbed each side of the cut and tore all the way up to the bodice. The sound as the top layer of material tore was grating yet satisfying. Now the dress would be put to good use.
"What's that sound?" he asked aloud, hearing a commotion and the lumbering of that damn mutt.
He stumbled out of the bathroom, the dress voluminous in his arms.
Diner guy. The diner guy was in his house, looking straight at him.
"What the hell?" both men simultaneously exclaimed.
Christopher continued holding the dress in all its frothy confection in front of him as he drunkenly slurred, "This is my house. Get the hell out of my house!"
Luke shuffled, then stood his ground. "Lorelai asked me to come here to pick up some things for her and Rory." He squinted at Christopher. "Is that a...wedding gown?" he quietly asked, backing away from the door.
"How'd ya get in here," Christopher asked, then began speculating, "Oh of course, she probably gave you a key, right? You been sneaking in here while I'm at work? You been coming here all along, right? No wonder she won't redo our vowels..."
'What's he talking about? A spelling bee?' Luke thought, still backing away.
"Listen buddy, I'm leaving now," Luke continued. "Maybe you ought to take a nap, sleep it off, or...anyhow, I think I'll send Jackson over for Lorelai and Rory's stuff..."
"You give her this," Christopher shouted, throwing the dress at Luke, and missing him by a few feet.
Luke sadly realized that it was the dress Lorelai intended to wear at their wedding, the one that never was. He reached out, ready to deck Christopher for destroying something that Lorelai so obviously loved, that she would keep it...but Christopher had passed out in the hall.
As Luke later told Jackson, he might be in for quite a sight...