Sunday Evening

Lorelai and Rory spent the rest of the afternoon sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch, making a sizeable dent in the food Lorelai brought from town. They watched old episodes of Absolutely Fabulous and MST3K-ed their way through every one, as they had done with everything they'd ever seen, from Billy Jack to The Donna Reed Show; this time, they spoke in purposely appalling British accents. Lorelai wanted to see more Bubble and Rory wanted to see Patsy dance.

At quarter to five, Lorelai pulled herself off the couch to change the DVD. Rory watched her mother navigate around the coffee table and mounds of food, smiling in amusement. "Hey, Mom? Don't you have a date in, like, an hour?" she asked.

Lorelai looked at her daughter, her eyes wide in affected innocence. "Who, me?"

"Yes, Lucy, you," Rory said. "You are not planning on canceling at the last minute. You can't do that. Why would you do that?"

Lorelai took a handful of jelly beans from a bowl on the table and began sorting them by color and size. "Because I don't want to leave you alone," she said.

"No way are you using me as an excuse for standing Luke up just because you're scared."

Lorelai's jaw dropped. "I am not scared."

"You're Jamie Lee Curtis. You're that girl in the beginning of The Ring! You're—"

"You can stop now." She put the jelly beans back in the bowl and crossed her arms over her chest. "He kissed me, you know."

"No!"

"And then I kissed him and there was this whole kissing thing before Kirk decided to Will Ferrell his way down the stairs," Lorelai said. "And then I went back to the inn and spent the next forty-five minutes crying on his shoulder." Off Rory's look, she said, "I didn't tell him why, and he's so good he didn't ask. Since then he's just been checking up on me. He hasn't brought up the whole kissing saga, either."

"What was it like?" Rory asked.

Lorelai crossed back to the couch and burrowed back under the covers beside Rory, pulling them over her head. "It was," she said, muffled, "amazing."

"Oh, Mom."

"And because it was amazing, it was also incredibly weird." She emerged from the covers, her expression thoughtful. "Actually, what was incredibly weird was how not incredibly weird it felt to be kissing him. The kissing part was just… I don't know, really comfortable and natural and good, and that's what was so bizarre about the whole thing. Shouldn't it have been weird?"

Rory shrugged. "Not necessarily. If it felt normal to be kissing Luke, maybe that just means you're supposed to be kissing Luke."

Lorelai mimed frantically searching the room, leaning over the back of the couch, peering towards the kitchen, searching under the covers, pushing Rory from side to side.

"What are you doing, freakshow?" Rory asked.

"I'm looking for my daughter, the naysayer," Lorelai said.

"Very funny," Rory said. "The whole idea is a little strange for me, because he's Luke, but seeing as you're all atwitter like someone in a Rogers and Hammerstein show, I think this whole dating Luke thing might not be so bad. Haven't seen you like this since Max."

"Thank you for bringing that up, Tacitus."

"Tacitus?"

"Roman historian, Yalie."

"I know who Tacitus is, it just seems like a really extreme reference," Rory said.

Lorelai sighed. "You're really okay with this?"

"I'm really okay with this," Rory said, and put her arms around her mother. "Thank you for wallowing with me for a while—I haven't had thoughts about how terrible I feel about what I did running on loop since you got back. I think I can make do without you for a few hours."

"Help me get ready?"

"Absolutely."

That had her showered and coifed and made up by quarter to six, at which time they were both standing in front of her closet, their hands on their hips.

"This is problematic," Rory said. "Dinner, but we don't know where."

"Movie, but we don't know what else," Lorelai said. "Black pants or dark jeans?"

"Dark jeans. And I think you should wear the blue sweater."

"The blue sweater?"

"The one that ties around like a ballet sweater—it makes your eyes pop."

"Sweetie, when my eyes pop, they look like this," Lorelai said, and bugged her eyes out. She sighed. "You think?"

"I think. Put the white lace cami underneath and you're good to go. And wear the strappy blue sandals."

Lorelai kissed her daughter's cheek. "You're so much better than all those cheerleaders on the Style channel, and Clinton and Stacey have nothing on you," she said.

"You watch too much TV," Rory said, turning for the door.

Her mother gasped. "No such thing!"

Luke was polite enough to offer an extra ten minutes before he pulled up the drive and knocked on the front door. Lorelai was upstairs, struggling to get into the strappy blue sandals, so Rory answered the door. Luke had seen both Lorelais in various kinds of attire over the years, but he was unprepared to see Rory in her pajamas, her hair back in a messy, falling-down ponytail, her face bare of make up. She seemed indescribably tired and young and too pale. Luke thought the generalized heartache and fractured soul were written clearly on her face. But she smiled at him and ushered him into the house, saying, "Herself will be down in a sec."

"So, Rory," Luke said, jamming his hands in his pockets, his chin to his chest, "how are you?"

She settled herself on the couch and looked at him. For a moment, the entire situation seemed utterly ridiculous. Here was this man, this good, caring man who she'd known for years and years, checking up on her sad and somehow broken self, unable to look her in the eye. Additionally, he was here to pick her mother up on a date: her mother, who was primping upstairs like a sixteen year old waiting for her prom date, both pleased with herself and ready to puke from nervousness at the same time. And here was Rory, former virgin and all-around good girl, watching the whole thing. She contemplated for a moment how Luke would respond if she told him how she really was and why, and it seemed strangely funny.

Luke noted the whisper of a smile on her face just before she spoke. "I guess I'm okay," she said.

"Good."

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

The silence was just getting awkward when Lorelai thundered down the stairs, shouting, "these shoes had better be worth the pain, Rory, or I hold you personally responsible." She stopped short on the landing. "Oh, Luke," she said, blushing to her hair. "I didn't realize you were here," she continued, narrowing her eyes at Rory.

"Sorry," he said. "Go change your shoes."

"But they're part of the ensemble. If I change the shoes, I've got to change the whole outfit, and really, all of my other shoes are equally insensible and it would be quite pointless and you'd just have to continue standing here waiting—"

"So you're ready," he said, interrupting her.

"Ready." She looked at him. He was wearing a black collared sweater that fell so nicely on his shoulders and his chest, dark slacks, and it seemed as though he'd shaved this morning, as his stubble was less than usual. The fluttering aspect of the mild heart attacks intensified and lowered to tickle her ribcage. She had to remember how to swallow, now, too. This was increasingly complicated.

"You look nice," she said.

For Luke, suddenly the carpet was fascinating. Rory grinned from her place on the couch. "Thanks," he said. "You ah, you look good. You look good, too." Silence hung on the air for another moment before he looked up. "So we should go."

"We should," Lorelai agreed, and descending the remainder of the stairs. She kissed Rory and told her to call the cell if she needed her.

"I won't," Rory whispered. As Luke and her mother left the house, she called, "have fun!"

Sunday Evening will continue...