February 27

"Hi Ace. Just wanted to check up on you. I hope you're well…" A pause. Throat clearing. "Uh, did you get the package I sent you? Anyway, take care of yourself. I miss you. Bye." Click. Rewind. I miss you.

-----

March 3

"Ace, you have an appointment with Dr. Thornton today at 3. Just reminding you, and not being able to get out of the office even for just an hour is no excuse. Don't forget to tell her about your stomach being insufferably itchy." How the hell…? "Lorelai told me," he continued, as if reading my thoughts. Then, the dratted click.

-----

March 7

"Rory, hey. It's me. Um. Guess that's all. Have a good day." Click. Rewind.

-----

March 13

"I read your article today, Ace, and I thought it was really good. You presented the implications of that environmental policy clearly enough, without being too controversial or safe." My chest literally feels like its puffing up with pride when he compliments me that way. "So…I guess you're about to go to bed, huh. Don't forget your vitamin. So, goodnight, then. Um…" More throat clearing. "Well. I miss you. God, I miss you Rory."

Rewind, over and over and over.

-----

March 18

Four weeks, 30 days, 726 hours, 43,583 minutes. Four phone conversations (which weren't, really) ranging from 22 seconds to 6 minutes (and only because his phone connection in London was bad. Four minutes of the 6 were static). Seven messages left on my answering machine, seven plus two more left by me on his.

This is how I've kept track of my life since Logan's been gone.

-----

March 20

You'd think New York city was small enough that your Dad and I couldn't help but run into each other. On the street, in the subway (which he doesn't actually take that often). In one of the dozen Starbucks dotting Manhattan (which I don't actually frequent anymore). But no, I haven't seen him since Valentines weekend at the hospital. I honestly wouldn't know how I would feel if I did. Happy? Sad? Ironically, not seeing him kept me sane, in suspended animation; I could pretend he was just on a long trip somewhere. That he was still mine.

I'm not the daughter of the self-professed Queen of de-Nial for nothing.

Which is why seeing him today (Friday, 4:36 pm) walking out of a building across the street from my spot by the window in a café on Broadway, was nothing short of overwhelming. My hand started shaking violently, that my decaf latte spilled onto my hand. The hot, searing pain from the liquid felt good; it numbed the shock and the dull aching that started to spread everywhere else.

He was wearing his olive green shirt with his gray suit, and he was loosening the knot of his tie (he's feeling hot). He squinted at his watch, scratched at the hair at the nape of his neck as he looked around. Oh God. He was waiting for someone.

Inexplicably–or predictably–my eyes started tearing up and I had the desperate need to weep. To crawl under the table with my latte and muffins and wallow then and there. But I couldn't tear my eyes away, heart, even as the tears started to fall. He was so beautiful, so there. How could I have been breathing the same air as he, all this time? How could my heart not have stopped beating? I needed so badly to just touch him. To remember how his cotton shirts would feel under my fingers, the soft of his hair that looked due for a cut. To remind myself that he was not just a disembodied voice floating through my machine, my apartment, my consciousness.

But he was waiting for someone. Would it be the blonde girl he was standing next to at the press release of the launch of HPG's latest magazine? Would it be the owner of the female voice I overheard in the background, during our all-too-brief phone conversation last week? I tortured myself.

He started pacing on the sidewalk as he punched numbers on his mobile. He was getting impatient. He spoke on the phone a few seconds, then looked behind him, a wide smile making his face look impish, boyish. I used to make him smile like that. I damned my irresistible urge to know, braced myself, and craned my neck to see who he was rewarding with that smile. It was…Finn. Finn! No wonder he looked like a little boy, this was Finn after all, his accomplice in all his boyhood shenanigans.

(Who is Finn? Words escape me now, heart. Perhaps you'll find out someday, as I suspect he'll be who he is 'til he's an old, dying man. Perhaps. So in the meantime, I do have a few words: Aussie. Charming in a perverted-but-harmless sex-crazed way. Silly. Loves redheads. Dances naked with his underwear on his head. Yes, in front of me. Get the picture?)

He and Logan hugged each other, slapping each other's…butts, smacking at each other's heads. Oh well. My tears forgotten, I couldn't wipe the silliest, widest smile off my face. My relief was palpable, but it wasn't just that. Logan was happy, and seeing him laugh I was…yes, it seems crazy, seeing as I was miserable a moment ago. I was happy. I don't think I've ever felt this giddy in four–no, eight weeks.

Inadvertently, my hand went up to give them both a small, unseen wave as they walked away. God bless Finn. I paid my bill and decided to walk home. The suspended animation had been broken, and this single, innocuous, one-sided encounter with Logan gave me sudden clarity. A sense of freedom. I felt like flying across the sidewalk.

Which, of course, I couldn't, seeing as I now befit the expression "heavy with child". Passers-by smiled at me benevolently, not bothering to hide the glance they would throw at you. In elevators, strangers would actually be so bold as to touch my stomach (perhaps not realizing that the protruding tummy is, hello, still actually part of my body) as they murmured warm wishes and polite questions (when is it due? is it a boy or a girl?). It used to freak me out–the way everything about being pregnant freaked me out–but now, it's okay. More than okay, in fact. After the appointed period of bed rest, I shook off the secrecy surrounding your existence like my size 4 clothes, and bore you proud, heart. After nearly losing you, I needed you to be found and discovered.

And discover you they did. Lane with shrieks of excitement. Paris with shrieks of "why-the-hell-didn't-you-tell-me-don't-you-know-I'm-a-doctor!". Emily with characteristic disapproval (a baby should have a father!), but already planning a massive baby shower. Sharon with much hugging and fussing but incessant pumping for more information (I still haven't told her who the father is). My editor, Edgar, with subdued surprise and disappointment, but in the end, well-wishes and a few practical adjustments to my assignments. Work has been good. I still feel useful and challenged, despite the change in my schedule, timeframe, my gameplan. As Lorelai had said, my life goes on.

And part of my life is Logan. When we're ready to move on, we'll find each other, he had said. As I walked home this afternoon, I knew that it was time that I do.

-----

April 4 (Week 21)

I wore a simple deep blue–almost black–floor-length sheath. The color seemed to make my eyes bluer, my neck and shoulders like alabaster. It molded to my body like second skin, hiding nothing. Not the slenderness of my arms nor the swell of my breasts. Not the curve of my waist, nor the protrusion of my belly. The dress was designed with a subtle slit in the middle, so that a hint of skin from my gently rounded abdomen peeked through. We were beautiful that night, heart; woman, all Woman. (Well, pregnant Woman anyhow.) It effectively disguised the fact that I was an utter wreck inside.

If the dress elicited a gasp from my own mother, I had high hopes that it would elicit more than that from Logan. "You make me want to be pregnant again, if I could look as breathtaking as that," she said, fussing over my hair, which I had tied back to a sleek, low ponytail.

"Guess I have good genes," I quipped.

"That you do, my dear, that you do." She looked at my reflection in the mirror, noticing perhaps that I was chewing my lip to near bleeding, while sitting stiffly with my arms folded across my chest. "You nervous?"

"Huh. I'm only going to a formal Huntzberger function, at the Huntzberger mansion, without an invitation. The entire population of blue-bloods in the East Coast will probably be in attendance, as will every major media company in America. There's the necessary posse of press and photographers, and heck, I'm sure Paris Hilton and Lindsay Logan will grace the occasion. So what do you think Mom? Of course I'm nervous!"

"Okay, okay! No need to get all surly. Don't forget, Logan will also be there. Your Logan. Forget the posse and the meanies, just keep your eyes on the prize, sweetie. And hey, I just made a rhyme."

"I don't think this is such a good idea after all. Maybe I could just call him, set an appointment? Yes, I think that's what I'll do." I stood up and reached behind me to unzip my dress. "And this dress, it's too much…"

"Nuh-uh. No more running, Rory. Sit. SIT!" I obediently sat.

"Now, you thought of doing this for a reason. Do you seriously want to go through your Pro-Con list again? By placing yourself smack dab in the middle of Huntz country, you are sending Logan a clear message. That you're willing to be there, in his world, and to hell with what anybody else thinks or says. You're telling him you want to be part of his life. You and your baby together. There is no better way than you showing up there in all your glory, Rory. And man, I'm on a roll with these rhymes!"

"But I could just as well call him and tell him those things when we're alone, in private. There's no need to make a public spectacle."

"You've been dealing with each other in privacy and secrecy for years, Rory! Besides, where's the drama or the fun in that? We Gilmores are known for being dramatic."

"You mean you're known for being dramatic, for shocking people." I retorted, rolling my eyes. "I, on the other hand, am known for doing things by the book."

"Which is why doing something so out of the ordinary-Rory, something like this, is more likely to send Logan straightaway into your arms tonight. I could even time the impact, if you like, count the minutes from your entrance 'til you've accomplished your mission. Or 'til you're up in his bedroom in that mausoleum, for that matter."

"Aw, that's just crude, Mom. So…" I hesitated to voice out the heart of my concern. "It's one thing to let him know that I want to be back in his life. But do you think he'll want me back? What if things have changed in the last 6 weeks? What if he feels differently about me now–you know, just the mother-to-be of his child."

I looked at my tummy forlornly. So far it's really just been you and me, kid. Will he want to be part of our lives, still?

Lorelai knelt before me and grasped my knees. "Please Rory. Put me out of my misery already. Your boyfriend calls me nearly every single day. A couple of times before 8 in the morning, because he was apparently at the other side of the globe! And it would have been nice to talk about the weather or politics or George Clooney or whether its wrong for Ian to have a latte every now and then, but no, all he wants to talk about is you, how you are, are you eating well, are you sick, are you going for your check-ups, has your foot size changed because he wanted to buy you comfortable sneakers, and on and on and on!" Lorelai finished to catch her breath. "So hon, please do not ask me if I think his feelings have changed in the last 6 weeks."

-----

"May I have your name, madam?"

"Uh…er, Elizabeth Woodhouse," I blurted nervously, getting my Austen characters all mixed up. "or Emma Bennet, if you will."

"Excuse me?" The doorman looked confused.

It was the moment of truth, after all. "Ms. Gilmore."

"Ah…yes." He tapped approvingly on his clipboard. "Emily Gilmore? Please come in."

I drifted into the foyer, automatically glancing up at the all-too-familiar ceiling, painted with adorable cherubs but ending up imposing, intimidating. Somehow, I can't picture Logan–or you–running down those marble floors as a child. That place needs a serious splash of watercolor and muddy footprints.

I hung around the palm fronds, shadowed the waiters bearing drinks and salmon puffs (flicking the garnish off their trays), trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. But failing miserably. By the looks of things, it seemed like these people have never before been with a pregnant woman in their midst. Among the bedecked and bejewelled, salon-coiffed and spa-thin women, you and I are strange specimens. I didn't know what to do with myself. I wished I had brought along a book.

And then I saw him. As ever, in the middle of a small crowd. Still golden, and apparently, eligible. Someone cracked a joke, he laughed, and my heart turned to putty. Do I go to him? I couldn't, even if I wanted to, I was stuck, all the opening lines I had rehearsed down the drain. The doorman would have had to carry me over his shoulder and dump me in front of your Dad. So I decided to send him telepathic messages. I'm not kidding, heart. If you've been with someone for four years, you get a sense of where that person is and what he's thinking, even if you aren't in near proximity to each other. At least that was how it was with me and Logan. Before. It turned out to be an experiment of sorts.

Look at me. Here, I'm standing between the waiter who looks like a gelled boy band member and the potted palm that looks fake but is actually real. No no no no, don't look at me, don't look at me, don't look at me, look over there! There at the blonde lush staring at you! No, damn it. Me! Look at me! (Okay, fine. Color me confused.)

Logan, I'm here. I mean, we.

And he looked. Right at me. He stared for a few moments, then looked away, downing his scotch and handing it distractedly to a passing guest (did he think he was hallucinating?). Then he looked at me again, and I lifted my hand in a small, pathetic wave. I couldn't read his face, but his eyes narrowed, became dark, as he walked slowly but purposively towards me. Was he happy? He wasn't smiling. Angry? Not scowling either.

Automatically, my hands reached across the narrowing space between us to meet his. And the feel of his fingers closing tightly around mine was such a reprieve from all the sadness and loneliness and guilt and fear and craziness of the last few months, that the tears were falling by the time he touched his forehead to mine.

"Rory?"

"Logan…hi."

"You're here."

"Yes I am."

"Why?"

"Because…I…" How to say it? I'm ready now, let's go? "I…I saw you last week on Broadway when you met Finn, and--and how's Finn by the way? Is he still based in Paris? And I was in the coffee shop across the street–yes, I'm drinking coffee again, but just decaf, no need to get all bent out of shape, pregnant women are allowed two cups of caffeine a day you know, and anyway, it just struck me then that…that…well, not just then, I always knew that you…you and I…"

"Rory," he interrupted, wiping my tears with his thumb. "Why are you here?"

"I–I wanted to kiss you." True, but…huh?

"Here? Now?" he murmured under his breath, our mouths already so close our breaths were touching.

"Yes. Please?"

And so I did, as he cupped my face and pulled me to him. Tentatively at first, reminiscent of our first kiss five years ago. Full of wonder and expectation, our lips sweetly exploring the other's, our tongues playing hesitantly as if we were, as yet, afraid of where our emotions could take us. Then we kissed knowingly, as Logan's arm wrapped around my waist and mine laced around his neck. We deepened the kiss, slanting our lips across and delving hungrily, impatiently, knowing exactly what each felt for the other and where that would take us.

We probably left no doubt in the spectators' minds about who we were to each other. (Nor about how you were made.)

But he pulled back abruptly, startled. "What…was that?"

"Well, it would hardly seem appropriate for me to be kicking you while doing what we were doing. Maybe it doesn't like being all squished."

"God, sorry, was I hurting him? Her?"

"Nah. She just wants you to say hi to her, too."

"Her?" His hand rested on the hint of bare skin in my midsection, and I nearly gasped at the heat, the sensation.

"Either that or the young 'un is a bit shy about his privates being photographed via ultrasound. Which is unlikely if he takes at all after you…" I pressed myself ever so slightly against him, gratified that I was having the same effect on him as he was on me. I know, shameful.

"Ace," he groaned. "Not here," he said, quoting my line and grabbing my hand, decisively striding across the hall, unmindful of the surreptitious looks and whispers being darted at our backs. He brought me out to the garden, the spring of cool air whipping lightly at our clothes. It was a beautiful night, and I thanked the stars for bringing Logan and I together.

"Here I wouldn't feel so weird, hitting on a pregnant woman. Even if that woman is incredibly hot. Rory, you're so beautiful. I missed you," he said, as we kissed again in the isolated gazebo by the pool.

"I missed you too." It was too long. Six weeks. Whoever said that pregnant women turn into sex-crazed maniacs in their second trimester wasn't lying nor merely placating us. Logan's hands were cupping my breasts, running his fingers across the thin material of my dress; my hands were busying themselves in the spaces between the buttons of his shirt, on the hardness in his pants. Just relishing being able to touch each other again. But when he started to lift my dress, I pulled away and walked to the other side of the gazebo, catching my breath.

"Wait, Logan. We need to talk. I had a plan, coming here."

"This seems like a pretty good plan to me."

"Logan."

"Kidding." He ran his hand through his hair, gave me his smirk. "You know, things don't always have to happen according to plan, Ace," he said more seriously.

"I know. That's been the running theme of my life these past 6 months. And I'm trying, Logan. To accept things as they come, especially those I have no real control over. Like this," I pointed to my stomach. "Like who I happen to love," I added softly. "I've been attending meetings of the Pro-Con Lists Anonymous, you know."

"Those lists can be addictive. I found myself making one just this morning, when I debated whether or not I should call you for the second time this week. Addictive, but I'd say not a whole lot of help."

"You did call me."

"Yeah. But I always wonder whether I should."

"I'm always happy when you do. Logan...I planned--I need to tell you that everything you said back then at the hospital…you were right. You're always right about me. I was afraid of taking the proverbial leap of faith with you, because…because you're a Huntzberger, and it complicated things for me. You know how important my career, my dreams are to me, and I work hard for them. I worried about what people would think, and Mitchum…" I faltered and looked away. He knew how I felt about his father anyway.

"They're probably still going to think whatever they want to think, Ace. Some people at least, but not all."

"I know. But I realize it's not important, really. Because after you left me at the hospital…"

"I'm so sorry, Rory. I felt sorry everyday."

"No, you were right to go, to expect more from me, from us. And this is so cliché-ish, but I guess I didn't realize what I had til it was gone–you and our baby, both. I almost lost you two, and nothing, nothing in my career, my life, is ever worth that. Fes–the rest of the world in need of foreign correspondents–will always be there, never beyond my reach. But right now there's you, and heart…"

"Heart?"

"Oh, yeah…nothing." I felt a little embarrased about our tete-a-tetes, heart. "It's just silly."

"You have a silly heart?"

"That, too. Hey Logan?…"

I walked towards him across the gazebo, to where he was sitting. And for a moment, I was undecided. Does one stand? Kneel? Not in my condition. I ended up sitting on his lap, my hands prim on his shoulders.

"Are you…do you–do you think you could hold that silly heart in your safekeeping? For a long, long time. Like, you know, forever?"

"Uh…Yes…? But what exactly am I saying yes to, Rory?" His eyes were quizzical but smiling. "You know you don't even need to ask me that; I'll love you for a long, long time. Or are you just not making sense to me because of our lovely and distracting physical arrangement here?" He nuzzled my neck.

"Logan…stop. I've never done this before, okay?"

"God, I hope not."

"You know what I'm talking about?"

"Yes. You're trying to ask me to marry you."

I stood up indignantly. The nerve! "Well, thanks for giving me a hard time, if you've known all along, you could've just…"

"So just ask me, Rory," he said simply.

I took a breath and sat on his lap again. "Okay, Logan Huntzberger. Marry me?"

"Yes."