Story Title: Never Enough

Chapter Title: Ten Thousand Ways to Leave a Lover

Summary: Lit set in present time. Jess never made his season six appearance, but Rory found her way to his book anyhow. Crossover GG/VM.

Rory pressed the ignore button on her phone, the waves of guilt nipping at her feet. She told herself that she wasn't up to talking to anyone about anything. That she had taken this time away, away from all the realities that had come to form her everyday life in New Haven, this time for herself. But that rationalization didn't make the knowledge that keeping her whereabouts from her mother was only growing more difficult by the moment.

Her only source of true distraction was the television in the corner of her room. Reading was out of the question. There was only one book she wanted to read, and words on the pages of any other swirled together in an incoherent jumble of inferiority.

"Breaking news in the Neptune High bus crash," came the reporter's voice. It seemed all that ever made the airwaves in this town was late-breaking news stories. She smiled to herself, glad that if she were ever in true need of a job, she'd know where to come. Her smile faded, however, as the broadcaster continued on, a strangely familiar name falling off of her lips.

"Terrance Cook has been arrested, charged with causing the crash in efforts to keep his personal life out of the frenzied eye of the media. It seems Cook's main motive…," Rory turned down the volume as she watched the man's picture splash up in the upper right-hand corner of the screen as a reenactment of a bus of high schoolers careening off the sheer face of a cliff played over the rest of the flat panel. Keith Mars' suspicion of her possibly being involved with this person made her shudder; as did his grave concern for his own daughter's safety. As if Veronica was in actual danger. She nearly jumped out of her skin when a knock came to her hotel room door.

She chastised herself as she checked her watch; sure it was only the room service she had ordered. She realized she really wasn't hungry, but moved to answer the door anyhow.

She frowned as the small blonde smiled at her from the other side of the threshold. "Expecting someone else?"

"Oh, well," Rory shook her head. "Actually, I wasn't expecting anyone."

Veronica nodded. "I have an update, mind if I come in?"

Rory ushered her in politely. "Please," she said, realizing as she shut the door that Veronica's eyes were focused on the now silent, but still glowing television. "Oh, I was just, skimming through the channels."

"Can't imagine anything else was on," Veronica quipped tersely.

"No, not really," Rory bit her lip as she scurried to make the screen fade to black. "Did you, um, know any of those kids?"

"I was one of those kids," she said softly before turning away from the reflective dark monitor.

"But I thought it said," Rory frowned, hating to say the words, though it wasn't as if it weren't the gruesome truth. No survivors. Her holding it back didn't make it any less real for the community, or as was very apparent, Veronica.

"I was on the bus, at first. I got left behind when we made a pit stop at a gas station. Seems my bus buddy wasn't so keen on sharing her Moon Pie with me on the way back to school."

Rory shivered. "What a twist of luck."

"I hope so," she gritted her teeth. "Anyhow, I came to update you on your case."

Rory nodded, not wanting to push her on the gory details of the incident, though her journalistic nature was teeming with inquiries. "Would you like something to drink? I could crack open the mini-bar or room service should be up in a minute."

Veronica waved her hand. "I have to get back soon, for dinner. Dad's got this thing about quality time recently," she groaned.

"He's overprotective," Rory nodded knowingly.

"I think he just needs to get laid," Veronica half-smiled, half-grimaced.

"Oh," Rory flushed a bit.

"So, I got a call on my cell today, from what at first I thought was his agent. Most publishers deal directly with an author's agent—it's their best way of getting the best deal they can strike up."

"Right," Rory nodded, knowing plenty about the publishing world. It was a necessary evil that she'd begun to learn to deal with as she navigated her way through the first few writing jobs she'd had.

"But turns out, it was him."

"Jess?"

Veronica nodded. "He doesn't seem to have an agent—and he gave me an address to mail the deal to. He seemed put off by the whole notion, which is odd because most authors jump at the words 'increased circulation.'"

Rory smiled. "That's Jess. He, well, he can take more convincing at times. Especially when it comes to himself."

"The next step is up to you. The address could be his—or it could just be a box that he has mail delivered to. I plan on heading to it tomorrow—fake deal in hand, just in case, to check it out."

Rory nodded. "How is it up to me?"

"Well, I could also give you the address. You could prepare something written, to leave for him in case it's not his home address. But I'm still very willing to be your screening process. Our sleuthing offers maximum knowledge without you having to lift a finger."

Rory nodded as she thought about what Veronica was offering up as choices. Would he even open the door for her, if he saw her face on the other side of a peep hole? Would he open any letter that bore her handwriting on the outside, care at all what she could have to say to him at this point in time?

"I'd like you to check it out first—to be sure."

Veronica nodded and stood up. "Okay. I should have a definitive answer for you by tomorrow."

A knock came to the door again. "That should just be my food," Rory offered.

"I'll let them in on my way out," Veronica offered, but remained frozen once she opened the door. "Logan."

Rory froze at once as well; the very mention of the name made her blood run cold just from the lack of answers she had for her actions. Not that he didn't deserve them; the man that had asked her to marry him had every right to know that she was three thousand miles away from their home, employing services in effort to get in touch with a man that had done nothing but run from her or push her away for years.

"Logan?" she managed to find her voice.

"What are you doing here?" Veronica asked with such distaste and annoyance that Rory's certainty of being found out wavered.

"I saw you come in the building," came a very unfamiliar voice. "And I thought to myself, what ever could dear sweet Veronica be up to in the middle of the day in such a swank hotel?"

"They created restraining orders for situations like this," she narrowed her eyes.

"You doubt my true concern for your wellbeing? I came up here to tell you that you don't have to turn to this kind of life for money. I heard about the Stanford thing, and I can't let you earn the money this way," he began as he pushed his way into the living room area. His eyes fell on Rory and his smirk hardened on his face. "But if I can be of any service, you know, up your rates, I'm not doing anything for the next hour or so."

"And this would be?" Rory asked.

"A walking dead man," Veronica assured her. "Ignore him, I find it's the easiest way to get through a day."

"You really need to work on making your anger more seething. I can still see how much you want me—hell, I bet even this perfect stranger can tell that you wish she'd step into the bathroom so you could have just one, fleeting moment alone with me," he advised.

"Maybe I should leave you two alone," Rory offered.

"He's not staying," Veronica assured her. "Why are you here?"

"I. Live. Here," he said slowly. "Why are you here?"

"I'm … on business."

"So I was right. I love being omnipotent."

"That doesn't mean what you think it means," Veronica seethed.

"Now, see, there I believed it. So, what has Ronnie here promised to do for you?"

"That's confidential," Veronica sighed.

"Now, if we're really going to do this thing, we can't have secrets," he tsked, turning his attention back to Rory. "You an informant or an informee?"

"Excuse me?" Rory asked.

"Veronica here only works two ways. She either wants something from you or has something for you. Either way, she likes to get the job done and get out. Isn't that right?" he turned to Veronica.

"Careful, Logan. Rory here is a journalist," Veronica announced. "And you know how well your interactions with journalists tend to turn out. Do you really need another story on what a jackass you are to hit the newsstands near us?"

"A journalist, huh?" Logan stood up and glided toward Rory. "Pretty thing like you? Nah, you'll make someone a shiny, happy, trophy wife someday. Or, oh," he moved his attention to the giant diamond that graced her left hand. "She's a trophy wife in training. Veronica here looking over the hubby-to-be, making sure he isn't into anything really freaky that you can't drink away?"

"Not everyone drinks to assuage their circumstances," Veronica bit back. "And what Rory and I are discussing is our business, not yours."

"See, I knew she wasn't a journalist. She lacks the killer instinct," he smiled at them.

"Is there something you want to go on record with? Maybe your connection to what the Fitzpatricks' role in the bus crash was?"

Rory was helpless to do anything but listen to the rapid-fire blame game that seemed to be going on between the pair. She had more than an acute awareness that there was more history than a team of archeologists could unearth in a lifetime between the two.

"What does the phrase 'Acquitted of all charges,' mean to you?" he strummed his finger against his chin.

"What does the phrase, 'Robbing Paul to pay Peter' mean to you?" Veronica didn't miss a beat.

"Excuse me?"

"Hannah. You used her to save your ass. Is that what you did with me, too?"

Logan suddenly looked like he'd been socked in the stomach with a bag of bricks. His eyes moistened slightly, not to be taken necessarily as pain or sadness or anything concrete, but he bowed his head slightly to Rory, his eyes flickering from Veronica to her at the last moment. "At least use a photo that shows my good side," he instructed before turning to exit the room.

The girls were silent for a moment. Rory cleared her throat. "So, that was your version of Logan."

Veronica nodded slowly. "Ye-ee-ep," she drawled. "That's him."

"You two, uh," she hedged.

"Yeah. We did."

"Is he always so," Rory wrinkled her brow in thought.

"Oh, yeah."

"That's intense."

Veronica shrugged. "Things ended suddenly. His life was uprooting, and if I held on to him, I knew I'd get buried by the debris. He seems to have taken it personally."

Rory nodded. "You think he has something do to with the bus crash?"

Veronica looked around the room. Rory noticed the blue-green light that seemed to always be pouring in through the windows of this town, as if the sun were shining through stain glass, or they were just under a neon sign for some half-rate bar. It bathed everything and everyone in an ethereal haze, giving much of her time spent in this town a dream-like quality. As if she could wake up and be in her bed, cold from the lack of Logan's presence. He'd still be gone on business, but she'd not have committed these trespasses of trust. When she Googled Jess' name over a mug of coffee, she would find no link for the review of his book in the San Diego-based paper.

Sadness fell over her, and with the sound of Veronica's voice she thought maybe the emotion had taken over the room. "Finding answers isn't always all it's cracked up to be."

Maybe she was right; but it didn't make her own desire to find what she had come for less imperative.

"I should get going."

Rory nodded, watching her as if suddenly everything was underwater. Slowly they both moved to the door, as if stronger in numbers against the ghosts that seemed so able to float toward them. "I'll give you a call once I know what the address is."

"Thank you. For everything," Rory said with sincerity.

"Just doing my job."

Rory nodded as she walked down the hall. She closed her door and moved to pick up her cell phone. It was full of unreturned phone calls and un-listened to voice mails. Concerned voices, one after another, those people in her life that she could always count on, that care where she is and that she's happy. That will be there if she stumbles, or if she soars. But could anyone catch her if she fell from this height?

She dialed the numbers carefully, opting for a cognizance that doesn't come with using speed dial. Speed dial was too immediate. It gave her no time to rehearse opening lines. It gave her no time to chicken out and end the call before it began.

"Rory? Finally! I thought you'd actually decided to go through with that eloping plan you and Logan keep threatening everyone with. Not that I could blame you for wanting to evade the world of place cards and thank you notes that will cost more than our first car, but I will kill you if you get married and I'm not there."

"I'm definitely not married."

"Good. So, what are you up to?"

She knew something was up. The talk of eloping and the carefree, I-don't-care-but-please-tell-me-anyway tone of her voice was more than enough of a give away.

"Dad called you?"

"He might have called."

"You two are hopeless."

"Hey, he knows the rules. I birthed you, therefore I get to know your whereabouts. For ever and ever."

"And ever and ever?" she mocked.

"Clearly you need a copy of the Gilmore Handbook."

"Does your mother know where you are?"

"Unfortunately—she's called five times about color swatches and alternatives to sunflowers, which she claims aren't bridal, by the way. But I have spared her the details on your vacancy of the state. She'd have a private investigator on your tail faster than you could blink, making sure you weren't nullifying her wedding plans."

Rory winced. "It was a last-minute decision."

"So, are you staying somewhere fabulous?"

"It's not bad. I'm just waiting around for room service now."

"Isn't Logan there?"

"He was—he just left."

It wasn't a lie. It was a misrepresentation of the facts that her mother believed to be true. Whether or not she wanted lying to get easier was more troubling to her at this point.

"You really like hanging out in hotel rooms alone? You should have stayed in town, or better yet, come home. We need to start looking for my dress for your wedding."

"We have ages," she assured her.

"We don't have ages—you really do need to start getting things done."

She had been putting things off, but she thought she'd been hiding the fact quite well. Letting Emily handle it made the most sense—it mended some still fragile fences between them, and it took all the time she'd have to face the approaching moment of becoming Logan's wife away.

"I know. And as soon as classes are over, I'll have plenty of time to do everything."

"It's good for you guys to get away, probably," Lorelai soothed.

"Yeah," she echoed hollowly.

"Rory," Lorelai breathed. "You'd tell me, if something were wrong, right?"

"Like what?" she felt her own breath catch in her throat.

"I don't know. If you were having doubts, or trouble deciding on a cake, or, just, anything."

Could she tell her mother? Even if she could, would Lorelai be supportive and open-minded enough to tell her what she was doing this very moment was right?

"I'm fine," she managed.

"Okay. Say hi to Logan for me."

"I will," she promised, promising herself at the same time to make good on the tidings. It was the least she could do.

She sank down onto the couch, staring straight up at the blue-green ray of light coming down and striking the floor just beyond the coffee table. A displaced sense of calm slackened her muscles, and her thoughts turned to one of her most reread novels—The Great Gatsby. It was as if she'd found her very own green light. She thought of how Jay Gatsby had the promise of perfection, calling out to him as long as he could see the green light that bridged the distance from him to the woman he loved. It didn't matter what had separated them, or what continued to keep them apart, there was still a connection.

Suddenly the idea of being Daisy Buchanan of the twenty-first century ebbed into her brain. She'd thought of herself until this point as seeking after something; seeking what path in life was truly meant to be hers. But if she was truly honest with herself, and that was the hardest part, the elements were all there. There was a boy that she had, in so many ways, promised herself to. He'd never come back for her at the right times, and she'd created a very posh, comfortable life with a man that cherished her. While she was sure she loved Logan, who was nothing akin to Tom Buchanan's cruelty and disregard for his wife's feelings, she'd always known that her unspoken promises were the same as unfinished business with Jess.

Jess had found his way to her in the past, and when she sent him away—too full of pride and anger to admit her pain—he created their very own green light. His beautiful work of art. His side of their story, written down lest they forget. She has prayed for that lapse of memory.

Now it was her turn to let her know she saw his signal; she was just as unable to let go of their past as the man that wrote her into such an idealized version of herself that, had she not been there in their intimate moments, she wouldn't have even recognized herself.

She closed her eyes and basked in the light of her past.

XXXX

Veronica knocked on the door, in all actuality surprised that the man had given up his own address to a stranger he seemed not to trust. For someone who liked his privacy and was in all effects unreachable, this was one of her easiest cases of 'missing person' to crack.

"You sellin' something?"

He needed to shave—probably a good two days worth of growth covered his chin and jaw. He is attire was not that of a native Southern Californian. Rory had been right about the modern James Dean attire.

"That depends," she put her foot in the door as he moved to swing it shut. "I'd like to sell more copies of your book," she clarified.

"You read it?" he checked.

"I did. It was brilliant."

"Really?" he still wasn't buying it. "What was your favorite part?"

She held the portfolio case she'd brought along tighter to her body. "Can we maybe sit down?"

"Maybe. Go on."

She wanted to roll her eyes, but held steadfast. "The main character's obsession with the girl."

"I'm sorry, did you say obsession?"

"I did."

"He wasn't obsessed."

"I suppose not—I guess consumed is a better word."

"He walked away."

"Because he loved her," she shrugged, maintaining eye contact.

"Which house did you say you were with?" he inquired.

"Ah, well, it's a new publisher," she clicked her tongue.

"How about you tell me why you're really here?" he sighed. He looked weary—as if he'd skipped a couple of night's sleep for whatever reason.

"I just came to gauge your interest—you sounded rather unenthused about the notion on the phone."

"Who sent you?"

"I--," she began, but he held up his hand.

"I'm tired. If any of my family, outside of my uncle, is trying to contact me, forget it. Tell them I died, I'm in prison, whatever."

"It's not your family," she promised.

He looked at her as if he knew every last detail of her ending up on his doorstep for a moment. She could see the depths of his eyes. "But you're some sort of private investigator?"

She nodded reluctantly.

"Tell me, how much do you charge to keep people hidden?"

She shook her head, "That's not really what we do."

He drew one hand over his face, feeling the stubble under the pads of his fingers. "You really read my book?"

She smiled. "I did."

"You have it on you?"

She nodded and pulled out the thin volume. She had no intention of passing it from her hands to his, but in an instant, it was in his hands, and he opened the front cover. The dedication page was a hook in and of itself. There were no names listed; only a single phrase.

Because you never said goodbye.

"You know what this means?"

She shook her head. "No."

He nodded, relief seemingly washing over him. "Tell whoever it is," he began, but stopped dead in his tracks. She realized immediately that he was staring not at his own words, but at the scribbling that Rory had made in the margins. Some were single words, some were entire essays on her interpretation—some seemed to be memories. Veronica had not been able to quell her curiosity enough to skip over what, in some ways, seemed to be the unwritten text of the book. "Tell her goodbye."

Veronica frowned. "I think she might want to tell you that herself."

He smiled faintly, as if he was remembering a time when he meant all that the expression conveyed. "You know how the Eskimos have no one word for snow—they have like, ten thousand?"

She nodded. "There are so many different varieties."

"They need that many, because one word, it won't cover it. Nothing could express the range, or encapsulate all that they experience in one single word."

"I'm not following."

"Goodbye is like that for us. Separation, in whatever form, was never sufficient. It's defined as a taking of leave, and no matter the circumstances, when we parted ways, never were we able to leave the other behind."

"Does that mean you don't want to see her?"

"It means that she doesn't need to say goodbye. So what else is left to say?"

Veronica was still in a daze from his words, his soft-spoken apathy so full of colored emotion, moments after he'd shut the door without a proper conclusion. She was back in her car and stuck in rush-hour traffic before she realized she'd left Rory's copy of what was most likely now an out-of-print book with the anti-social author.