New Note: I continue to have a real fondness for this story. It's sad, but it really is a good type of sad that leads you back to happy. Give this one a try, even if angst isn't usually your thing! Thanks, DFC.
Author's Note: I've been sitting on this story for awhile now. It's set 6 months after 'Partings' and it's sad. We're talking a 5-handkerchief rating here, folks. Sometimes sad can be good, you know. Sometimes you have to go through sad to get to happy again. This story came from listening to Brandi Carlile's "What Can I Say?" about a thousand times, and once the story was in my head the only way to exorcise it was to write it down. Even though this may not be in my usual style, you know how much I love Lorelai and Luke and that I'll get them through to a hopefully happier ending. (And just to be clear, there's no France and no Christopher.)
What Can I Say?
By Brandi Carlile
Look to the clock on the wall,
Hands hardly moving at all.
Can't stand the state that I'm in
Sometimes it feels like the walls closing in.
Oh, Lord, what can I say?
I'm so sad since you went away.
Time, time ticking on me,
Alone is the last place I wanted to be.
Lord, what can I say?
Oh, Lord, what can I say?
The night was falling apart on her.
Lorelai rushed into the house in a panic, throwing down her purse and yanking off her coat, gloves, scarf, and hat, letting them stay where they fell on the floor. She scurried into the living room where all of the paraphernalia involved in her year-long project rested on a card table by the couch. She had to finish it tonight. She had to execute it tonight.
She quickly glanced at the clock, confirming it was nearly ten. Her plan had been to spend the entire evening massaging the final details, but stupid Tobin and his stupid bout of food poisoning had thrown off her carefully crafted schedule. She'd had to stay at the Dragonfly until Mollie could run her son to her mother's house and come back to work Tobin's shift.
Grabbing the back of the folding chair for support, she looked down at the odds and ends scattered everywhere, trying to get her mind to settle down and catalog the steps that needed yet to be taken.
Fortunately, the book itself was complete. She let her hand rest on the cover for a moment, letting a glow of pride wash over her. She had no illusions that she was in any way a crafty person, especially when a Bedazzler wasn't being used, but this had turned out better than she'd even hoped. She was incredibly pleased. She hoped he would be, too.
As for the words inside, well, she'd done her best. Spoken words she was intimate with, they soothed her soul and she loved making them dance and do her bidding. But writing them down, that had never been her thing. She thought about them too much, changing her mind and scratching them out, always too worried about how they looked on the page, mindful that without her voice and face giving them direction they fell short of the meaning she wished them to convey. Written words had always been Rory's forte, but Rory had been avoiding her mother's sadness as much as possible, and Lorelai wouldn't have asked for her help with this, in any case.
So…the book was done. She had everything she needed to wrap it up and deliver it. The only thing left was the letter. The hardest part. The part where she would attempt to use those written-down words to explain why.
She sighed. Time was running out. She had to get this done.
Clearing a spot on the cluttered table, she sat down, leaning under it to retrieve a plastic bag from an office supply store. She pulled out a box of ivory stationery, plain and serious. There was no Garfield, no Hello Kitty, not even a smiley face. Sliding her thumb under the plastic lid, she popped the tape keeping it together and removed a sheet. From the bottom of the bag she took out a new pen bought especially for this crucial writing assignment. It wrote in solid blue ink, which she hoped would help to cement the seriousness of the message.
He'd know, right? When he saw there was no glitter, no purple ink, nothing scented, he'd understand, right?
The blank piece of paper staring up at her terrified her. Her brain ran screaming away from the task at hand. Every thought, every reason she'd had for doing this vanished. She could feel her heart pounding. The clock ticked loudly as her panic returned and despair pushed her out of the chair, fleeing to the kitchen.
She flicked on the light and started to pace, rubbing her arms with her hands as if she was freezing. Paul Anka eyed her warily, tucking his tail even further under his body to avoid her feet from where he laid close to the back door. He was used to his mistress acting this way now. He understood, on a doggy-level at least, that he was no longer the most neurotic being in their house. He looked up, startled, as Lorelai growled in frustration. Was she trying to talk to him?
"I've got to do this! I've got to do this!" She leaned against the sink, rubbing her forehead wearily. "Oh, Lord," she sighed, defeated, "how can I do this?"
She stared out the window for some minutes before her hand finally moved to open a cabinet.
Tequila. Her old pal.
She rummaged through another shelf and found a glass. Quickly she poured a shot and tossed it down, gasping as it burned through her. She pressed a hand over her heart, as the heat even managed to soothe the raw spot there.
Fortified, she returned to the card table, resolutely uncapping the pen and turning the paper to begin writing.
'Dear Luke,' she wrote, without letting herself think, but the two words stared up at her and it was suddenly all too much, too painful, and tears rained down her face and sobs tore out of her chest, painfully reigniting the raw spot there that never left her. For the first time since that week in May she let herself fly apart. She let her head fall to the table and she cried. She cried for the love she'd lost and her own stupidity. She cried for the way she'd hurt him. She cried because in the end he hadn't loved her after all. She cried because she knew now that this was never going to get easier. He was always going to be in her heart, like a splinter you couldn't reach, and it was never going to heal. It was always going to hurt.
Finally the tears stopped, and breath painfully wheezed back into Lorelai's lungs. She sat up, scrubbing at her wet face with one hand and massaging her burning windpipe with the other. It hurt to breathe, but she needed the air, so she ignored the pain and gulped the oxygen down in small increments, her shoulders still shaking occasionally from the leftover sobs trying to come out.
She'd cried all over the fine piece of stationery, she saw with disgust. She crumpled it in her fist, throwing it down on the floor as she stood and headed back to the kitchen.
Lorelai marched to the counter. This had to get done. She was running out of time. There was no time for theatrics.
Mechanically she poured another drink, tossing it down. The burning sensation this time was nearly unbearable on her tear-roughened throat. For good measure she poured a little more, grasping the counter as she forced it down. She held onto the solid surface for some minutes, staring outside at the blackness, her mind for some reason remembering Rory's sixteenth birthday party and how she'd stood in this same spot, watching the bag boy give her precious girl that bracelet.
And Luke brought ice, she remembered. Emily said he looked at me like a Porterhouse steak.
That's fitting, she thought, snorting a bitter little laugh. Luke might occasionally crave red meat, but he'd never actually allow some into his home.
OK, so the tequila was doing its job. She felt lighter. It was like she was starting to float up above the sadness. It was still there, inside her chest, but she felt like she could manage it now. She felt stronger.
This time, she didn't hesitate. A new piece of proper ivory paper was arranged on the table. The pen was scooped up from where it had fallen to the floor during her meltdown. Her shoulders were set, her lips determined. Ink rolled from the pen, and words started to fill the space.
'To my Luke,' she wrote, and nodded. That's exactly what she wanted to say.
It was time.
Lorelai stood in the entry, putting back on her coat. She wound the scarf about her neck and pulled the pink knitted cap over her curls. As she tugged on her gloves, she looked at the plain brown paper shopping bag at her feet.
Inside was the carefully wrapped box containing the book. And inside the book, tucked between the last page and the cover, was the letter.
In the end, she hadn't really let herself think about what she was writing. She'd just opened her heart and let the words out that resided there. She hoped they were good enough.
She checked the clock again. It was a little past two. She needed to go.
She picked up the handles on the bag and opened the door, grimacing as the sharp November air seared her throat and chest. She put down the bag for a moment, rewinding her scarf so it was over her mouth and nose, giving herself a little bit of protection against the icy air.
Her spirits picked up as she started for the center of town. This was familiar, like her normal Wednesday nights. The leftover glow from the tequila didn't hurt, either. She was anxious to get to her destination and complete her task, but just as anxious to feel like a part of her town again.
During the day, she avoided the main street and all of its inhabitants as much as possible without looking like she was deliberately avoiding them. It was a fine line, and she worked it diligently, her face composed, her body held lightly, poised to say a brief word or two to those who acknowledged her. She never lingered, she never looked too far to the left or right. She no longer fit there, the way she always had.
She missed it, that sense of ease, the way Stars Hollow had always felt like her own magic kingdom, taking her in and bathing her with benign acceptance and amusement.
Now there was harsh judgment and thinly-veiled sympathy, and she merely skirted through the streets, trying to salvage as much dignity as she could, trying not to let anyone see how damaged she was.
But at night, this was her time. The gossips and whispers and ex-lovers were asleep, and she could take her time, looking at the signs in Doose's windows at her leisure, sizing up the repair to the church steeple, admiring the new paint color on Miss Patty's studio. She could pretend she still belonged here, that this was still her town.
Tonight, however, strolling through town square was not her goal. Tonight her sights were set on the green Chevy pickup truck parked in the alley behind the diner.
Lorelai's shoes crunched on the gravel, and she endeavored to walk more cautiously. She stepped up onto the running board by the driver's side, grasping the back of the cab and leaning over far enough to pull back the tarp covering the truck's bed. She smiled smugly behind the scarf, seeing his gear already in place there. She knew it would be. She knew that he had his duffel bag and the cooler placed by the door upstairs, too, ready to go.
She swung the bag up over the side, folding over the top and nestling it between his tackle box and Bert, where she hoped it would ride safely but unnoticed until he reached the cabin. She tucked the tarp back over everything and prepared to back down.
Her foot slipped off the running board and she landed hard against the truck, her face pressed against the window. It was a small slip and she wasn't hurt, but the shock of it made her breathe hard. She let her gloved hand caress the truck door for a moment while her eyes raked over the interior. What she wouldn't give to be able to sit inside it for awhile, breathing in his presence, resting her head back on the seat for a moment. What a pleasure it would be to go through the glove box. What a joy to reset the buttons on the radio.
Lorelai had closed her eyes while she contemplated those wishes. To be honest, this wasn't the first time she'd molested his truck. On the nights she was feeling especially brave, she came back here and leaned against it. Some nights she even sat on the steps of the diner, letting her mind drift among all of her strong memories of the countless times she'd crossed the threshold, never dreaming that one day she'd be bereft of his coffee.
And of him, her heart echoed.
Pained, she opened her eyes and saw that her hot breath was fogging up the window.
A sudden playful impulse hit her from out of the tequila bottle, and she quickly drew 'LG + LD' in the haze, looping a heart around the letters, grinning at the result.
Now that her covert mission was over, and her year-long task was completed, her body started to relax. The nervous energy that had buoyed her up and kept her focused was oozing out of her, leaving her drained and exhausted. The tequila was making her drowsy, and the thought of having to walk back to her house was too daunting to consider.
Dragging herself out of the alley, she looked across the street at the gazebo, and tiredly decided that she could afford to sit there until some energy returned. She used the strength in her arms to pull herself up the railing, her legs stumbling on the steps. Gratefully she lowered herself down on the bench. She scrunched down until her head was resting on the back, and let her eyes go out of focus concentrating on the faint light coming from the clock on the stove in his kitchen.
The alarm nagged him out of sleep an hour earlier than normal. He slapped it off, forcing himself up, sitting tiredly on the edge of the bed for moment, rubbing his face in an effort to feel alert.
He hung his arms out over his knees, sighing, looking around the silent, dark apartment. He observed his stuff for the trip sitting by the door, his clothes already chosen for the day and laid over the chair.
Well, he thought. Might as well do it, then.
Luke was grateful, mostly, that he was a man with routines. He was grateful that he had a role in this town and that the town demanded that he play it. Those demands made it easier to get through each day, to do what needed to be done. He had a routine and a schedule, and as long as he didn't deviate from them, he could function.
Today those schedules and routines required him to go out of town and that's what he would do. It didn't really matter to him. The sadness would be there when he got there, just like it was here. The only difference would be that here he could keep his mind somewhat occupied with Kirk's weird culinary choices and Taylor's insane harpings on town protocol. There the sadness would hit him full force, with only the bare expanse of lake and sky in front of him.
He got dressed mechanically, his brain chiding himself on how lucky he was when he only had a dark day to contend with.
"Just to prove that things always can get worse," he muttered, sitting down to put on his shoes.
Soon he was ready to go, having drunk his protein shake and packed the refrigerated food into the cooler. He pulled a sweatshirt on over his flannel, then zipped his old green coat over that. He put the still-strange black hat on his head, stuck his hands in his gloves, picked up his gear and left the apartment.
He made sure the back door to the diner was securely locked before striding to his truck and stowing his supplies under the tarp by the tailgate. He quickly got into the truck, starting it up and letting it idle for a few minutes. It was only early November, but it felt like winter today, the way he could see his breath in the cab. He rubbed his hands together, waiting for the ancient truck to warm up.
He put the truck in gear and slowly rolled out of the alley. It was still pitch black, and all of the streetlights and the ever-present twinkle lights coiled around the gazebo were shining against the darkness. As was his habit, Luke scanned the downtown area for anything amiss. He might gripe and rant against the silly town festivities and the crazy residents, but it was still his town and he was fiercely, if secretively, protective of it. So it was that he spotted what looked like a bag of something thrown on the bench of the gazebo.
He craned his neck to see better as his truck rumbled down the street in front of it. Had some of the high school kids pranked the town by leaving garbage there? Man, Taylor would have a cow!
A bad feeling started to cross his chest as he saw what he thought could be a foot sticking out. A homeless person? Did Stars Hollow have homeless people? Man, Taylor would have two cows!
He glanced down the road, then turned to gaze at the gazebo one more time, trying to allay his fears before he left town. That's when he caught just the tiniest hint of pink and his breath caught in his chest.
Go on, he told himself. Don't stop. He forced his eyes straight ahead. He kept a grip on the steering wheel. He made his foot step down on the gas pedal, but in the end it didn't matter. He had to see; he had to check. He drove around the square and came to a stop in front of the walkway leading to the gazebo.
Leaving the truck running, he slowly got out and made his way to the steps.
He recognized the cowboy boot sticking out. He breathed in sharply before putting himself on autopilot.
The twinkle lights merrily lit up the bizarre scene. Lorelai was huddled into a frozen lump, her gloved hands folded under her arms, her autumn-colored scarf wrapped around her mouth, her ridiculous pink hat pulled over her curls.
Luke could see her shivering, even in her sleep.
"Lorelai," he said, roughly, the shape of her name hurting his throat as it came out. "Lorelai!" he tried again, this time louder. He prayed he wouldn't have to touch her.
Her eyes opened just a little and she raised her head slightly. Her scarf slipped from her face and she smiled a hint of a smile. "Luke," she murmured, her voice cracked and raspy.
Luke cleared his throat against the emotions clogging it and clenched his hands against his sides. "You need to go home," he told her in a harsh tone. "You've got to be freezing," he then added, gentler. "You can't stay here. Go home."
Still mostly asleep, she raised her head further and smiled her beautiful smile. "Oh, Luke," she said, wheezing the words out, "don't make me wake up yet. I'm having the nicest dream." She reached out and rubbed his arm before lying back down and drifting back off again.
He blinked down at her, breathing rapidly. Abruptly he turned and headed for the truck, not looking back. He climbed inside and sat hunched over the steering wheel, trying to get himself under control. He knew what he should do. He knew. And Luke Danes always did the right thing. He should take her home. Make sure she was safe and warm. Maybe make her coffee.
Tears were prickling his eyes and the back of his throat. He put the truck in gear and slowly pulled away down the street, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He was no longer brave enough or strong enough to do the right thing.
It had been a long, long 90 miles to get to the cabin his family had owned when he was a boy. His brain had screamed at him every mile to turn around, to go back and take care of Lorelai. But he couldn't do it. He just couldn't.
That didn't mean he wasn't worried sick, though. He'd contemplated calling half of the town, asking different residents to go check on her, trying to anticipate what each would make of his request. He'd finally settled on Lane, knowing that her love of Rory's mother and her innate good sense would keep her quiet. The decision was made for him, however, when he scrambled out of his truck in front of the cabin and found that his cell phone had no reception.
He cursed loudly in the faint morning light, slamming his hand flat against the truck door.
Well. He looked at his watch, then up at the sky. Someone would have found her by now, anyway. His bread guy, if no one else. Or Herb Petersen, who jogged through the square every single morning.
He tried not to think of what sort of frozen lump they might have found there. He'd call later, from the grocery story down the road by the marina. If something was wrong, they'd tell him then.
Luke took off the hat he still wasn't comfortable with and rubbed his head before slapping it back on. He looked over at the cabin.
He still thought of it as a cabin, anyway, although the people who'd bought it from them had enlarged it to the point that it was truly a house. The front still looked the same to him, even with a new blue door.
Slowly Luke made his way around the building, checking windows and the foundation, nodding, pleased at the upkeep. He saw that the stone grill his father had fashioned was still being used out back. The new owners had added a little storage building and apparently had tried their hand at gardening this year. He skirted the little plot with tangled, dead tomato vines as he continued his reconnaissance.
Once he was back at the front porch he climbed the steps to sit on the swing, looking out over the gray waters of the lake. The colors from the rising sun were just now starting to glow against the far edge.
He'd loved this place. As a boy, he'd thought this was heaven. He was even willing to share it with his pesky little sister. After his mother died this was the one place where he could find peace. Back in Stars Hollow he could see all of the places where his mother had suffered. Where she'd died. But here, every memory of her was happy. He missed her, sure, but it felt like he was closer to her up here. Like she was whispering to him to be happy while he was up here.
And then, his dad…It had hurt, when he and his dad decided to sell this place. But his dad was sick, really sick, and the doctor had kindly but bluntly let Luke know that this was it. At the time, Luke couldn't imagine coming up to the cabin without his dad. He couldn't foresee that a time would come that the memories would be soothing, not painful. And they really needed the money.
So they sold the place to a nice young couple. He did something incomprehensible with computers and they had money to spend. Money that they sent to Liz, so she could take care of Jess; money that paid off hospital bills; money that had eventually paid for diner renovations.
The place had such a hold on him, though. He couldn't shake it. Eventually, on one of the anniversaries of his dad's death, he drove back up here. It was a mild, beautiful fall, and to his surprise, the new owners were still at the cabin, enjoying one last weekend before winter. They remembered him and were proud to show him the upgrades they'd made, pleased to introduce him to their toddler son. That had brought tears to his eyes, and he'd gruffly told them about his dad, about how he'd built much of the cabin himself, about how hard it was to lose him.
From that visit had launched an arrangement where Luke was welcome to come to the cabin during this week every year, free to use anything of theirs that he wanted. He quickly countered that he would act as their handyman, fixing anything that needed it while he was here. Usually there wasn't much, but it made him feel useful and less like a mooch. Sometimes they left him a note with instructions, or pictures showing their kids with fishing poles.
He wondered why he'd never brought Lorelai up here, but quickly squashed the thought down. He'd bring April sometime, and tell her about the grandfather she'd never know.
But not the stepmother she'd never have.
He forced himself up, heading down the stone steps to the pier. The old rowboat was beached on the shore, and he decided to find the oars and go out on the lake before he went into the house. He didn't feel like fishing. And he didn't feel like he deserved to be warm inside the house.
Lorelai had spent enough nights sleeping in the square that she had developed some sort of internal alarm clock, and right on cue, she woke up before the delivery truck rumbled to the diner's back door or Herb Petersen laced up his jogging shoes. She knew she was cold, maybe colder than she'd ever been, but she felt good. She smiled groggily while she tried to stumble down the gazebo's steps. Maybe she'd had a nice dream.
Holding her breath, she peeked down the alley and saw that his truck was gone. Smiling contentedly at his predictability, she slowly ambled home on her numbed feet, so pleased that she'd pulled it off.