Eight years is a long time.
In those eight years, Rory started her first job, received multiple promotions, left her first job, started a new job at CNN, attended her mother's wedding to Luke, received multiple promotions, left CNN, and started working for The New York Times.
It's there, sitting at her new cubicle, surrounded by stacks of file folders and three computer monitors, that she sees the voicemail from Lorelai.
"Hey, kid, it's your grandfather. His heart…" Lorelai's voice breaks. "Get home as soon as you can, okay? We're at the hospital now."
The phone slips from her hand and clatters to the formica surface of her desk, nearly knocking over her tumbler of quickly cooling coffee and sending three pens skittering across the floor. She runs to her editor's office, blurting out that she has to go and her articles aren't finished but he's dying and she leaves before her editor finishes with her polite platitudes and words of empty comfort.
Three hours is a long time.
After a frantic cab ride and racing through her apartment to change out of her blazer and into something more comfortable and packing for an unknown number of days, she navigates her car through the West Village and towards the river, desperate to get the drive to Hartford over with as soon as possible and grateful, at least, that it isn't rush hour.
The radio is too loud, is playing the wrong music, playing music that is too happy, or the voice announcing traffic and weather is too abrasive, so eventually she turns it off, so there is nothing but the sound of her car on the road and her own thoughts to keep her company as she races homeward.
Thirty years is not enough time.
That's what she realizes as she leaves the hospital room in the circle of her mother's arms. Especially since sixteen of those years were lived in virtual estrangement and the last eight were a whirlwind of "see you at Christmas!" and "I'll call soon, I promise".
Luke is waiting in the hallway, pacing back and forth. Lorelai's arms leave Rory's shoulders and she collapses into him, leaving Rory adrift and alone in the brightly lit, sterile hallway.
Four days later, she is an exhausted shell of herself. Dark shadows ring the underside of her eyes from sleepless nights filled with filing articles for work, writing the eulogy, and keeping her grandmother company in the den at all hours of the day and night.
The caterers are staggering the departure of garnishless trays from the kitchen, and everyone seems to be circulating well, their muted, respectful voices swirling over the piped-in music, so she grabs a bottle of scotch and a glass and slips out the patio door, headed for the pool and some peace and quiet.
After slipping off her shoes and easing her aching feet into the water, she pours herself a healthy measure of the scotch and tosses it back, wincing slightly as it burns its way down her throat.
"Wow, Ace," came softly from the other end of the pool. "I see you've gotten over your aversion to good scotch. Although you're really supposed to sip rather than gulp."
Eight years is definitely not a long enough time when it comes to Logan Huntzberger.
He still looks good in a suit is just about all she can think as he walks towards her, hands shoved in his pockets as if not to spook her or to physically prevent himself from reaching out to her.
"I came out here to be alone," she retorts pointedly, refilling her glass and bolting it down in one swallow.
"I just came out here to check on you," he replies gently, folding himself into a seated position next to her, plucking the glass from her hands, and pouring himself a finger of the amber liquid before she could protest. "It looks like you haven't slept in a week."
"Thanks, Logan. There's nothing quite like hearing how hellish you look, especially from an ex."
They both wince at her tone and her words, but, after a beat, he soldiers on.
"Your eulogy was excellent, by the way. Richard was the best of men. You really captured him without being maudlin or sanctifying him."
"I really, really don't want to talk about Grandpa at the moment and I would like my glass back now," she grits out, reaching towards him but not looking at him, focusing instead on the ripples in the pool water created by her dangling legs.
"We don't have to talk about Richard," he agrees, handing her the glass, "but you're not drinking alone at his wake, either."
They sit there for awhile, passing the scotch back and forth, in silence that isn't exactly comfortable but isn't uncomfortable, either.
"Mom and Grandma have both kind of gone off the deep end," she finally ventures. "Yesterday they were fighting over whether Mom's dress was black enough. Grandma thought it was navy. Then they fought over the menu Sookie put together and whether is was suitably dignified for the passing of Richard Gilmore. Then Grandma said he'd never gotten over Mom having me at sixteen anyway, so her food and clothing choices were irrelevant in the grand scheme of things."
"And you're caught in the middle," he summarizes.
"I'm always caught in the middle with them. This is nothing new," she dismisses.
He tentatively reaches out, resting a hand on her back. When she doesn't flinch away or rebuff him, he slowly rubs it up and down against the silk of her dress.
"You're allowed to grieve, too, Rory. They're not the only ones in mourning. You loved him just as much."
She's not sure if it's the alcohol or his touch wreaking havoc on her system, but suddenly there are tears rolling down her cheeks unchecked, and she can feel the breakdown coming.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" she sobs. "You don't have to do this. I haven't seen you in eight years, for crying out loud."
He pulls her closer so her head is resting on his shoulder, and rubs slow circles on her back. "What can I say, Ace? I'm a one-man bucking-up brigade," he teases lightly, proffering a handkerchief with his other hand.
She laughs at that and takes a shuddering breath, regaining self-possession. "The bucking-up always seems to take place in and around the pool house, doesn't it? There isn't a naked Finn lurking, is there? Because I am not sure my stomach can handle that right now…too much liquor and too little food."
She dabs at her eyes and pulls her legs out of the pool. "I should probably get back," she says regretfully, getting to her feet. "But thank you for being a…friend…when I needed it, Logan. Truly."
He holds her elbows firmly as she climbs unsteadily into her shoes, letting his hands trail lightly down her arms before shoving them back in his pockets.
"It was good to see you." He looks as if he's about to say more, but Luke rounds the corner and lets Rory know her mother has been looking for her. He eyes Rory and Logan and the space (or lack thereof) between them warily, but leaves after delivering the message.
"I've been missed," she murmurs.
"Yes," he replies simply, and she doesn't know if he means just by her mother or if there are other things implied in that word. Before she can parse it, or her feelings about it further, he continues, "I really am sorry about Richard. Oh, and congrats on The Times. I saw the byline the other day and did a double take, but I'm not surprised."
He hands her the bottle and the glass, squeezes her hand, presses a kiss to her cheek, and walks away, leaving her stunned next to the pool.
Oh yeah, eight years was definitely not enough time when it comes to Logan Huntzberger.