After she leaves, I tiptoe to the room and peek in on her. The innocent slumber of youth, I think, and stare out at the dark night before I adjust the blinds in her room. The only illumination is from the streetlights shining outside her window. The night is clear, the moon new, and the street empty of vehicles.
Returning to the living room, I resume my usual lonely routine of an evening in front of the television. It's not yet midnight. I should be in bed, my usual, lonely bed. Maybe I should have taken advantage of the opportunity presented to me this evening: perhaps then, in the near future, I wouldn't have to be alone in my bed. Oh well, I think, at least I had dinner with real adults for a change.
But my bed is still empty.
Lying in bed alone is a futile act, I've found. It makes me think about my life and myself. Truth is, I don't like myself, because I think of all I have lost through my own doing. That's why I am so determined to make the current situation work out. Alone in bed, my thoughts take over: they always lead back to one person. Her. And like every other night, tonight I can't get it out of my head that she is with him. Even when chinks seem to have appeared in the façade.
From what I can see, she is his life.
She should be mine.
Over the years, I realize just how impossible a dream she has become to me. She's someone I can never have. Someone I once had. Someone I was never worthy of. And yet I persist in believing that one day I might become worthy of her again. Right now, I simply make do and just love her from afar.
Maybe one day, I'll have my moment.
I have to admit, most of it is my fault. I am not proud of the things I have done, and in many more cases, not done. But I have tried to atone, to offer restitution in many different ways.
I like to think that I am what she wanted. What she needed. What she still needs. I hope she will one day feel the same.
But the bitter truth remains: I love her, and she is with him.
The sharp knock on the door startles me out of the depth of my reverie.
I stretch and stand; it's not normal for my evening to be interrupted this way.
I glance at the clock as I make my way to the door. It's not quite midnight when I open it.
It's her. I greet her with a "Hey."
"Hey," she replies.
She looks like she's been crying.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Uh, I'm having a really bad night, and um...I just don't want to be alone. Okay?"
What else would I say but, "Yeah. Uh, come on in."
I'm concerned. Her face bears evidence of tears; she looks so different from the happy-go-lucky prankster she was earlier this evening, aiding and abetting my escape plans at dinner.
"Lor, is something wrong?" I ask after she enters; probing for answers but also feeling great relief that she came to my door, not his.
I am worried that something has happened to her. I know I should be more worried about our kid, but it's not in my nature to place the kid before her. Oh god.
"Rory? Is Rory OK?" My heart skips a beat; Rory apparently had a rough year and what with her boyfriend's medical emergency...
"Um...yes...no...I'm sorry, I should not have come."
Her voice sounds timid and her demeanor is uncharacteristically unsure. Not like my Lor at all, the Lor who taught me the way to say 'no' to the kid in the other room. I get even more worried. This isn't my usual Lor.
"Lor, it's okay. You can tell me. What happened?" I ask, reaching out to her, rubbing her arm.
Her eyes are downcast. I hear her breath hitch, and my heart momentarily leaps: maybe she and that diner guy broke off their engagement.
But the ring is still there on her hand. My eye rests on it; the ring I would get her would be so much bigger.
She's clearly in distress and I realize that this time, timing may actually be in my favor. I want to help her, I really do. I want to do the right thing.
"Lor?" I ask again. She's scaring me; she looks numb, dead, defeated. This woman does not look, act or sound like Lorelai Gilmore at all. I'm convinced that something terrible must have happened.
Still no answer.
"Richard? Emily? They're OK, right?"
"Yeah."
"Come on, let's sit."
I guide her to my couch.
She just sits there, silent. Her hands are folded in her lap, I notice, as I trail my gaze down from her bowed head, past her cleavage, to her hands. There's none of her usual confidence and strength and bravado.
I tentatively my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer to me. She offers no resistance, so I pull her even closer, until her head rests upon my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, "I shouldn't have come here."
"But you did," I respond. I want to understand what's going on, why she's here. She hasn't come to me in years, come to think about it.
"Chris…" she begins again, still whispering.
"Shh, Lor," I soothe, "I want to help. Tell me what's wrong."
Finally, she looks up at me. "At least you want to help me."
"Lor, you're scaring me. What happened? When I left Richard and Emily's…"
Her eyes tear up. As she looks at me, I can tell that she's been crying for quite some time. She lets out a resigned sigh. "I tried to understand, I really did. For so long. I tried to be everything that he needed me to be. About his kid. But I can't do it anymore. He won't marry me," she says, the pain written all over her face.
She cries; loud wracking sobs soak my shirt.
"Maybe I'm a terrible person. I should be happy for him. April's a wonderful kid. I am happy for him, I am," she says with such intensity, that it sounds like she's trying to convince herself.
I nod, and don't say anything, just squeeze her shoulder to let her know she is free to continue.
"I'm happy that he has April. But now he doesn't need me, he doesn't want me. He doesn't want to marry me."
She snorts in embarrassment, and I find some Kleenex for her to use to relieve the pressure in her nose. She blows her nose and I don't know whether to hate him for treating her like this or to be thrilled that he's apparently opened the door for me, so to speak.
Immediately, I am ashamed of myself. She's showing me her vulnerable side and my heart aches as I watch her cloak herself in an air of strength.
"I shouldn't have come here. Sorry, Chris, I should go home."
I won't let her go. I can't let her go. Not now, not this time. After all we've been through, do I not deserve her? I would never make her feel bad like he has; I'd marry her in a heartbeat.
"Wait!" I hold her to me, so she can't get up. "Wait, Lor. He really won't marry you?"
She shakes her head up and down.
"Stay. Stay and rest," I suggest. "Let me help you, let me be strong."
I can see I've hit a nerve, a good one.
"You've had to be strong for so many people, for so long, Lor. Let me be strong for you right now."
I lean down and turn her chin and face to me. "You came to me tonight, Lor. That means something. I know I can't make all the hurt go away."
Her eyes are looking straight into mine.
"Let me be strong for you. I know I can't make everything better. But you know that you can trust me."
"Trust. Oh that's a good one," she says with a sarcasm that is more her style.
"You know I do."
"But he doesn't."
I feel her body relax against me, then she looks up at me.
"Why doesn't he trust me? What's wrong with me, Chris?"
"Nothing," I soothe as I stroke her hair.
"I thought I knew him. I thought he loved me…"
I think that timing is finally working for me.
"Why doesn't anyone ever really love me, for me?" she wails anew.
"I love you, Lor, you know I always have, I always will."
"Hold me?" she asks, and I happily oblige. She doesn't shrink back when I tentatively press my lips into her hair. I press tiny kisses over her head, the type I use on my little girl.
I hear giggling.
"GG," I let Lor know. I rise and go to her room, and check on her.
She must be dreaming good kid dreams. Lor will do such an amazing job raising her, I think.
I tiptoe back out into the living room, and notice just how fatigued Lor must be.
"Why don't you stay?" I suggest. "Clear your mind, get a good night's sleep."
She doesn't object as I take her hand.
"The bedroom's here…bathroom's over there. I think there's some clean towels…"
I look around the room and hastily smooth the bedspread.
"T-shirts are over there, and you can wear my robe…" I let her know as I leave to turn the lights off in the living room.
When I return, she's still close to catatonic, and is standing at the window, staring out into the darkness.
I gently steer her towards the bed, then return to adjust the blinds. I hear the sound of a backfiring vehicle. I peek and see an old pickup truck pull up to the curb across the street, behind Lorelai's jeep.
Must be a teenager, I think, shaking my head and remembering my own wild teen vehicular adventures.
I turn to see that she has slipped off her clothing. I pick the pieces up and then slip into bed.
I hear soft crying.
"Hold me," she whispers.
My time has come.