Title: The Way it Should Have Been
Summary: AU, if Lorelai and Christopher had gotten married like their parents wanted. Told in the first person, through Lorelai's eyes.
Disclaimer: I own as many clothes as Lorelai, as many books as Rory and as many crappy cars as Jess. However, I do not own this show, any of its characters, settings, animals named after singers, etc.
AN: Sort of a "throw it up against a wall and see if it sticks fic." I've a vague idea of where it's going, key word being "vague."
Chapter One: It Turned Pink
"One tile, two tile, three tile, four," I mutter as I pace across my bathroom floor. It feels as though I've been standing here for hours, but it's only been ten minutes.
"Five more minutes," Christopher announces, peering down at his watch.
"Gee thanks, Father Time," I snap. I don't mean to lash out at him, but he's just sitting there like he doesn't have a care in the world and it's so easy to target him.
How did I let this happen? We were always so careful, I never let us be anything but. There was that time in Florida during winter break. We were a little tipsy, that I admit, but I swear to God we used a condom.
"I can't stand waiting!" I yell a little too loudly. I hope the maid doesn't come running in. If she tells Emily what she sees it'll surely get her fired.
"Maybe you're just getting fat," Christopher says hopefully.
Yeah, I wish. I know I'm pregnant, I can feel it. I'm exhausted all day long and then cannot sleep when night finally comes. There's something different about the way things smell and taste. I even ate an apple yesterday. What the hell is that?
"Let's hope," I respond.
Chris's watch beeps and I freeze in mid pace.
"I really, really don't want to look at that stick," I say. I would rather listen to my father expound on the greatness of Chuck Berry for four hours than look at that stick. I would rather sit in on a DAR meeting than look at that stick. I would rather go to Bitsy Haversham's Sweet Sixteen than look at that damn stick.
But I have no choice. I need to look and finally know for sure.
"Do you want me to do it?" Christopher asks.
"No, I have to do it myself." I approach it, close my eyes and silently pray that I'm not really pregnant.
I open one eye and take a look, too scared to meet it with both eyes open.
Pink.
Christopher is hovering over my shoulder. "What does that mean?" he asks.
"It's a girl?" I say. What does he think it means? He read the box as many times as I did.
I'm pregnant.
I, Lorelai Victoria Gilmore, daughter of Richard and Emily Gilmore, the supposedly Yale-bound pride of the family, am officially pregnant at the age of 15 and three quarters.
How the hell am I going to tell my parents? They're going to either drop dead of heart attacks or kill Christopher where he stands. Of all the bad things that my parents feared could happen- tattoos, shoplifting, drinking, Harvard- I doubt pregnancy even crossed their minds.
"Okay," Christopher says. "We are not going to panic. We're going to make a rational, thoughtful decision about this situation."
"I'm not getting rid of it," I immediately reply. That came out of nowhere. Do I actually want to keep this baby?
"Lorelai, we need to think about our futures," Chris whines. "Having a baby is going to ruin everything."
"If you really feel that way then maybe you should leave," I say. I open my bathroom door and gesture towards my windows. "Go! Now!"
I honestly don't know what to do. All I know is that I can't look at Christopher right now.
"Lorelai, come on!" he says from the balcony.
I ignore him and throw myself down on my bed, trying to process this mess as I hear Chris climb down the tree.
"What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?" I ask the ceiling. Damn it, things aren't supposed to be like this! I'm supposed to be taking my PSATs next weekend. I'm supposed to be sitting for that stupid portrait Emily wants. Instead I'm suddenly responsible for this little life that's inside me.
I don't know if I can handle this. How can I have a baby? I can't even drive.
But it's mine; it's a little boy or girl version of Christopher and me. How can I even think of having an abortion or giving it up for adoption? I don't think I could live with myself if I went that route. I'd constantly be wondering what if. Too many what ifs can kill you.
My door clicks open without a knock. It's just like Emily to enter uninvited.
"The nutritionist is waiting for you down stairs, Lorelai," she says in that cold voice of hers that makes me sick and nervous at the same time.
"I thought you were kidding when you said that," I respond. She'd been threatening to hire one since I couldn't zip up my dress, but I never thought she would actually do it.
"Just get up and come downstairs. Now." Mien Fuhrer hast spoken.
There's a bubbly woman with a blonde bob waiting for me downstairs. "Ah, there's the girl of the hour!" she exclaims in such a perky tone that I want nothing more than to slap the simpering smile off her face. "Your mom tells me you're getting a little chubby! Well, I'm sure I can help! I'm Genny, by the way!"
People who talk in exclamations really get on my nerves. Two hours later I have a guaranteed three week weight loss plan and a twitch in my right eye from hearing that woman exclaim over everything from the portrait I don't want to sit for to the nutritional benefits of carrot sticks.
Back in my bathroom, I stare at the pregnancy test. I keep waiting for it to turn a different color or give me some sort of an indication that it's wrong. But it's still pink. If anything the color looks brighter, more vibrant. Like it's mocking me.
I shove it into the cabinet under the bathroom sink and try to think of something else, but nothing, not even my Calculus homework or the new Bangles record can take my mind off of the baby.
"What am I going to do?" I ask again.
