The Learning Curve
At a quarter to eight on Monday morning, Lane filled the largest available to-go cup with coffee, stirred in a bit of cream and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, and threw a few muffins into a bag. She left the food on the table nearest the door, apologizing to the patron sitting there for momentarily disturbing him. She smoothed the front of her shirt and approached Luke in the kitchen.
"Luke? I have to go for a few minutes," she said, "if that's okay. I'll be really fast."
He looked up from the griddle, his brow furrowed. "What's up?" he asked.
Lane hesitated. She hung her head and averted her eyes as she spoke. "Female problems," she told him.
The color left Luke's face. Immediately, he busied himself with preparing a batch of eggs and hoarsely told Lane to take all the time she needed. She thanked him and left the diner quickly, retrieving the coffee and bag of muffins as she did. She crossed the street and went around the corner, where Lorelai was waiting, fanning herself.
"Holy mother of Henry Fonda, it is hot today," she said, by way of greeting. She accepted the proffered cup of coffee and took a swig before speaking again. "You, lovely Lane, are an angel. Thanks for this. Did it work?"
Lane grinned. "Perfectly. I felt kind of bad about it."
"Oh, honey, no need," Lorelai said. "Just don't abuse it. You've discovered a powerful new tool against men like Luke, which, quite frankly, you should have done a long time ago." She took another sip of coffee. "I really appreciate this, Lane, you have no idea."
Lane pulled up the hem of her shirt and removed two CD cases from the waistband of her jeans. "Okay, so here they are. I made Brian take me to his parents' house and we downloaded there—"
"Legally, or do I have to worry that Brian's computer will be subpoenaed and your cute Korean butt will be jailed for piracy?" Lorelai asked.
"Brian made me use the Wal-mart music downloading website. I feel—I feel dirty," Lane said, shuddering. "Wal-mart, Lorelai! Wal-Mart!"
Lorelai put her hand on Lane's shoulder. "It was for a good cause, Lane. The music gods will forgive you. You may have to suffer in some sort of purgatory, of course—some place where they only play music by former Mousketeers or other Disney teenyboppers."
Lane's eyes went wide at the thought. "An afterlife with a soundtrack by Hillary Duff? Don't even joke about it." She took a moment to compose herself. "So, I did what you asked—mostly good, old-school country: Johnny, Waylon, Willie, Merle, Hank—Hank, Sr., obviously—Patsy, Loretta. There's some George Jones, some Dwight Yoakam—who did a really cool cover of 'Suspicious Minds,' by the way—and newer stuff, too, nothing too Faith Hill-ish, just some Mary-Chapin Carpenter, Vince Gill, Pam Tillis, Big and Rich, Alison Krauss, that Sara Evans chick you asked for, and, as promised, a really, really good lame song."
Lorelai took the CDs and grinned, turning them over in her hands. Lane had printed a song list on the back of each case. "Lane, this is above and beyond the call," she said. "This is amazing. Oh, my God: 'The Gambler'? You're my hero."
"You gotta know when to hold 'em, Lorelai," Lane said.
She nodded sagely. "And know when to fold 'em," she agreed. "Good. This is very, very good." Lorelai pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to Lane. "I'm totally in your debt, Lane," she said.
Lane looked inside the envelope and her mouth fell open. "Lorelai, I can't—"
"You had to pay for all those songs, right?"
"Yeah, but they were, like, less than a dollar each. This is just too much," she said.
"Well," Lorelai said, peeking in the paper bag Lane brought, "consider it a really big tip for excellent delivery service. Is that a chocolate chip muffin?" she asked. "It's not bran, is it?"
"Not bran, no—are you sure, Lorelai?" Lane asked, holding the envelope away from her, unsure of whether to take it or hand it back.
Lorelai put her arm around Lane and walked her back towards the main street. "I'm positive. You can thank me in the liner notes of your first album," she said.
Impulsively, Lane threw her arms around Lorelai and gave her a hug. "Thanks, Lorelai."
"No, thank you, Lane," she said. "I have to go listen to these. Any suggestions with where to start?"
"After 'Tell Me Something Bad About Tulsa,' everything will sound genius," Lane said. "Trust me."
"I already love it," Lorelai said. "I have to get to work, hon. I'll see you later, okay? Thanks again, so much."
Lane began to walk back to the diner, but Lorelai called for her to stop.
"Touch your head a lot, today," she said. "Every once in a while, just put your hand to your forehead and give a pained sigh." She demonstrated. "It'll be fun."
Lane laughed and waved.
When Lorelai reached the Dragonfly, Winky and her companions were standing about on the front lawn, watching their luggage get loaded into a waiting shuttle-bus. They had remained as long as there were rooms to keep them, but a convention in Hartford that coincided with graduations and reunions in and around Stars Hollow had forced Lorelai to tell Winky she could no longer keep renewing their stay on a daily basis, as had happened. She had been grateful for the business and was sad to see the elderly woman go with no sure return date set. Their first tea had been followed by a luncheon and a walk and Lorelai had often seen Winky and one or another of her friends wandering Stars Hollow, always walking arm-in-arm, leaning against each other, occasionally wheezing. She waved a hello and went immediately to Winky's side.
"Oh, it's sad that you're leaving," Lorelai sighed. "You seem like a part of this town already."
"You and I will be in touch, girlie, don't you worry," Winky assured her. "We are grateful to you for taking us on this way, and for being so generous with your time and your patience."
"Please," Lorelai said. "You all just paid for the doors, which, if you knew the saga, you'd appreciate what a big deal that is." She nodded towards the bus, which the others were boarding slowly, chattering to each other. "Have a safe trip, Winky. I'll talk to you soon."
As she leaned down to give the elder woman a hug, Winky put her hands on Lorelai's shoulders and whispered in her ear. "You get yourself sorted out, my girl," she said. "You do that by the next time I see you."
Lorelai hugged her gingerly, afraid a genuine embrace would break her. "I have a feeling I'll still be sorting myself out when I'm your age," she said ruefully.
Winky made her way to the bus and waved her cane in Lorelai's direction. "Don't wait that long, Ms. Lorelai. You get it sorted out," she said. Just before the door slid shut behind her, she called, "you'll thank me!"
Lorelai shook her head, smiling to herself as she entered the inn. On seeing the look on Michel's face, her eyes immediately narrowed and she readied herself for combat.
"Now that the last remaining Civil War veterans have removed themselves," Michel began, "shall I have the sheets burned?"
"Play nice, Michel," Lorelai said. "Those veterans are your bread and butter."
"Don't remind me," he simpered.
They conferred for a moment over the reservation book. Lorelai left Michel to the phones and barred herself in her office to make her own calls, to return email, to fuss over the numbers in her books, and to listen to the CDs Lane made for her. She settled in her chair with a cup of coffee and kicked off her shoes, tucking her feet up under her. There were still places bruised and tender, but most of the cuts were so small they had closed and were now only scratches that would fade and altogether disappear eventually. She winced a little, still, when she hit something the wrong way—the toe-stubbing yesterday had been an uncomfortable affair—but was more disappointed that wearing sandals for the rest of the summer would only be a reminder of the incidents of The Town Meeting. As she went about her morning business, something that was becoming routine fairly quickly, she had to marvel at how quickly the inn had begun to run itself, how her staff had fallen into line, how easily everything had worked out, how the inconsistencies and annoyances of day-to-day operations where just that: bumps on an even path. If she shut her eyes, she could imagine herself back at the Independence, where things ran smoothly in spite of the small daily catastrophes that she had always been able to handle quickly and easily. She opened her eyes. She liked this reality much better: it was hers.
She had lunch with Sookie in the kitchen, both loath to venture outside into the heat. She told her friend about the dinner the night before and her plan for that evening.
"What do you think?" she asked, sipping an over-large cup of coffee.
"I think it's a great plan, sweetie," Sookie replied. "But I also think Luke's right: you've got to stop jumping to the worst possible conclusion."
Lorelai nodded, biting her lips. "I just—I know. I do," she said. She met Sookie's eyes. "Sometimes I feel like I'm sixteen again, you know?"
Sookie grinned as though she understood, but shook her head vigorously.
"You remember how when you were sixteen, everything was enormous and overwhelming and every emotion was the one that was going to kill you? Everything was absolute and the end of the world, all the time? And that was normal?" she asked.
"Ah, that sixteen," Sookie said. "That, I remember. Thank God it's over."
"I know!" Lorelai said. "I mean, back then, it wasn't—you didn't think about the enormity of things, because that was just how it really was. Now, it's just exhausting. Being a grown up is hard."
Sookie took Lorelai's cup from her and refilled it. "Yeah, but it's nicer, too, in a lot of ways." She pushed a plate of cookies towards Lorelai. "Split one with me?"
"Split one? Get your own, sister," Lorelai said, grabbing several for herself. "So, tell me what I'm going to need. And, Sookie," she said, lowering her head and looking at her friend mock-seriously, "keep it as simple as humanly possible. Like, kindergarten simple. Simpler than that. Davey-simple."
"Relax, Lorelai," Sookie said, reaching for a pad of paper and a spoon. "Okay, let's see," she began.
Lorelai took the spoon from her and placed a pen in her hand. "You might need this, hon," she said.
After putting in her nine hours at the Inn, Lorelai drove her Jeep to Doose's and purchased the necessary items. As she paid, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Luke's. Lane answered on the first ring and agreed to meet her out back.
"Do you think you have enough stuff here, Lorelai?" Lane asked, hauling a few bags out of the Jeep.
"Trust me, it's better this way," Lorelai said darkly. "I bought two of everything so I can't mess it up. So, where is he?"
"He's in the kitchen. Caesar set a stack of towels on fire. It was perfect timing," Lane said.
"Fire?"
Lane shrugged. "It was a pretty small fire when I left," she said. "How're the CDs?"
"Perfect, Lane, thank you," Lorelai said. They struggled up the stairs together and dumped everything just inside Luke's doorway. Lorelai sighed and kicked the bags towards the center of the apartment, telling Lane she knew what to do. When Lane had gone back downstairs, Lorelai put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room in front of her. "Okay, Lorelai," she said. "Easy as pie." Immediately, she giggled. "Pie."
She put her bags on the table and began unpacking things. "Dear Rory," she said. "Your mother is a whack job. Whitney Houston has more brain cells at her disposal at this point than Lorelai Gilmore. In fact, Courtney Love is currently in better shape than I am. That is how desperate the situation has become. And if you were here, you'd agree with me. You'd agree with me, and you'd sit at this table while I attempted to make a fool of myself, and you'd laugh and laugh and laugh. And I, quite possibly, would laugh as well, and then I'd cry. Because I, my darling daughter? Am pathetic."
And with that, she kicked off her shoes, grabbed the small cloth bag she'd packed, and wandered into the bathroom to change. She took off her work clothes and stood in front of the sink in her underwear and bra before her resolution gave way and she peeked into the medicine chest. The contents were unsurprising: antiperspirant, toothpaste, mouthwash, floss, athlete's foot cream—which caused Lorelai to wash her hands three times after she turned it over and discovered what it was—allergy eye drops. She was delighted to discover an ancient bottle of aftershave, which she assumed meant that Luke had seriously undertaken shaving at one point or another, and a fairly new bottle of moisturizer, half empty, which amused her. She closed the cabinet and finished changing into a thin tank top and a pair of cut-offs. Luke had no air conditioning in his apartment and as she pulled her hair into a high, loose knot, Lorelai could feel herself already becoming flushed and harried with the heat. She hummed to herself as she crossed the room again, picking things up and putting them down, inspecting Luke's possessions as she searched for the stereo, which she found by the door. She slid in the first of Lane's CDs and busied herself with the major task at hand.
The phone rang in the diner a moment later. Luke answered on the first ring. "Luke's… Luke's… Hello?"
"Yeah, hi. Can I speak to Lane, please?"
Luke hesitated. "Lorelai?"
She slapped her palm to her forehead. "Hey, you," she said.
"Everything okay?"
"Yep, yep, yep, everything's great," she chirped. "Just have a really quick question for Lane—nothing big, just a quick, quick question."
"Sure," he said slowly. "Hang on."
"Lorelai?" Lane asked. "What's going on?"
"How the hell do you turn this oven on?" Lorelai asked. "I mean, I'm usually pretty functional in the kitchen, but this oven is—it's like you need a match or something. I feel like I need kindling," Lorelai said.
"Maybe the pilot light's out," Lane said.
"That means nothing to me," Lorelai said. "Can you come up? Fake a cramp."
Five minutes later, the two of them stood side by side, peering into the oven in Luke's kitchen. Lorelai looked at Lane.
"What do you think?" she asked. "Turn on the gas, light a match, pray we don't die in a giant, fiery explosion?"
"Death by fireball is definitely not on my list of things to do before I turn twenty-five," Lane said. She handed Lorelai a match. "Just in case, though, Lorelai—" she began.
Lorelai grabbed her hand and shook her head theatrically. "Don't, Lane. No goodbyes. Not for us, not today," she declared, and leaned in with the match. "And we have a go, Houston!"
Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang downstairs once more. Lane, standing behind the counter, dived for the receiver before Luke had a chance to turn around and answer himself.
"Luke's," Lane said, breathless. She turned and covered her mouth with her hand. "You have to flour it," she said. "No, like—yeah, yeah, right. Yeah. No—yep, okay, okay, nope, it's good. Okay. Okay." She hung up and flashed a bright smile at Luke. She pointed to the kitchen. "Kirk's order up?"
"It's up," Luke said, staring at her, bemused. "You got something you want to tell me?"
"Nope, nope, nope, nothing to tell, nothing at all," Lane said. "Nothing at all, everything's—"
"Fine, fine, fine?" Luke suggested.
Lane nodded mutely and turned to get Kirk's dinner. Luke shook his head, chuckling, and was just reaching back for the coffee pot when he heard a tremendous crash from upstairs. Lane stopped dead in her tracks and turned her face up, an expression of desperation and horror combined on her features. Luke looked at her.
"You know what's going on up there?" he asked.
"No," Lane said, though she nodded her head in the affirmative.
"It have anything to do with Lorelai?" he asked, and was given the same answer in return. "Right," he said, taking his order pad and slamming it on the countertop. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."
Luke opened the door to his apartment to find Lorelai struggling with a bag of baby spinach, her hands covered in flour, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. On the floor beside her was an overturned chair and on the kitchen table sat a cookie sheet with an unevenly shaped, unbaked pizza shell smothered in tomato sauce alongside a cutting board and several tomatoes. Luke stepped inside and shut the door just as the plastic bag in Lorelai's hands gave way—gave way too much—and the spinach inside exploded out, fluttering to the floor.
Lorelai sighed, her hands on her hips. Luke stared a moment, speechless. She looked at him and nodded knowingly. "It's okay," she said. "I bought another bag, just in case that happened."
He began to laugh then, laughed so hard he doubled over and had to sit to catch his breath. She stood, her arms crossed over her chest, a petulant smile on her face. After a moment, she gave in and began to laugh, too. He reached out to her and she shuffled to his side. He pulled her into his lap and buried his face in her shoulder, still shaking with laughter.
"Okay, it's not that funny," she said. "Seriously, Luke. It's not that funny."
He wiped his eyes with his thumb and took a deep breath. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Making a pizza," she said, as though this were perfectly normal, as well as obvious.
"You're making a pizza?" he repeated.
She nodded. "Yes." She pushed herself off his lap and dusted her hands on the seat of her pants. "I just—I wanted to do this."
"You made dough?"
"I bought dough," she said. "Still, I am assembling and baking it myself."
Luke shook his head again, smiling. He paused. "What are you listening to?"
Lorelai tipped her head to the side and listened a moment, squinting her eyes shut tightly as she tried to remember. "Oh. That's Merle. As in Haggard. 'Today, I Started Loving You Again.'"
"Merle Haggard," Luke repeated.
"Yes," she said. "Now, either sit down and have a beer and let me finish or go downstairs and come back when I'm done."
"You want help?" he asked, rising.
She put her hands on his shoulders and turned him to the stairs. "Go," she said.
He paused. "Just out of curiosity, how did the chair fall?"
"I was trying to get the spinach open," Lorelai said.
"Ah," Luke said. "And it's all clear to me now."
When he returned a short time later, Lorelai was once again leaning down to the oven, this time peering into the window. He hunched down beside her and asked what they were looking at.
"Is it done?" she asked. "I think it's done. Do you think it's done? I think it's done," she said, reaching for the oven mitts that rested beside the stove top. "Thank God, because I am starving."
He took the mitts from her and eased the pizza out of the oven, onto the cool burners on the stove. "We should let it sit," he said. "It's too hot to eat."
She groaned. "Better be worth it," she muttered. "Not even any meat on it."
"Come sit with me a minute," he said, and took her to the sofa. They sat, and he put his arm around her. "So. Is this your way of apologizing for last night?"
She stared at him a moment, wide-eyed. "No, it is not," she said. "I planned this yesterday, thank you very much. And I don't have anything to apologize for, buster," she said. "But really, neither do you." He was silent. "The yelling, with me and my dad? That's just—after all these years, my whole life, that's just instinct. That's all I can say in my defense. As for him—"
"He's your dad," Luke said quietly.
Her mouth fell open. "He is? My God, I'm just shocked. And here I am, writing letters to Richard Simmons—Daddy, why don't you love me? Daddy, why do you ignore me? Daddy, what's with the restraining order?"
"Come on, Lorelai. He's trying."
She shook her head. "It's not for the right reasons, Luke. It's not for me. It's not because he really wants it for himself, either. It's—it's for my mom. That's not good enough."
"Does it really matter?" he asked.
"It should," Lorelai said.
"You only get one chance with your parents, Lorelai," Luke said.
She looked at him, startled, her eyes wide. "He said something like that to me once, too." She covered his knee with her hand and squeezed. "I'm sorry, I know it probably sucks for me to complain about this stuff to you." He only shrugged. "He said to me, just a while ago, that at the end of your life everything is dust but family. He said he wanted to make an effort to change." She sighed. "Maybe that's what he thought he was doing last night, I don't know—it just—it just seemed like—like more of the same."
"More of the same what?"
"Just, you know, how it was growing up. Being stifled," she said. "You know, sometimes, since Rory started at Chilton, it seemed like—like we were all growing together, you know? And other times, it's like I'm still sixteen and they're still the same Richard and Emily they've always been and we just—we don't even speak the same language." They were silent a moment. "Can we eat, yet?"
He served them both at the table and was good enough not to hesitate before he cut into the pizza with a fork and tried it. He nodded approvingly. "It's pretty good," he said.
Lorelai raised her fork with great trepidation and took a tentative taste. "Pretty good?" she said, "it's damned fan-fucking-tastic, is what it is! I am a culinary genius."
He laughed. "Is that 'The Gambler?'" he asked, after a moment.
"There'll be time enough for counting, Luke, when the dealing's done," she replied, giggling. "I had Lane make up this CD for me—I've had that 'Suds in the Bucket' song in my head forever, driving me insane. I figure, if you're going to listen to country, listen to country that doesn't make you want to leap in front of the first moving vehicle you can find."
"A good policy," he agreed. "And you're listening to country music because…?"
Lorelai shrugged, and the song changed. Luke's face brightened. "I know this one. I like her. Sara Evans, right?" he asked.
She made a face. "Unfortunately. I have to say, I don't get why you like this chick. Annoying."
"I like the songs she sings. And she's, you know," he said.
"She's what?"
"You know," he said again.
"She's, what, cute?" Lorelai asked, narrowing her eyes. "I've been suffering 'Suds in the Bucket' because you think she's a hottie?"
Luke grinned and took a large bite of pizza. "This is good," he said again.
"You're a piece of something, all right, Luke Danes," Lorelai said.
Later, they sat companionably side-by-side on the sofa, drinking beer, listening to the CDs. Lorelai held the cold bottle to her cheek, her eyes closed, trying not to think about how uncomfortable sitting on a leather sofa in oppressive humidity really was. She swung her feet up onto Luke's lap and smiled sleepily at him. He squeezed her ankle.
"About yesterday," he began.
She wiggled her toes. "Doesn't matter," she said. "You're allowed to have an opinion."
"That's very generous of you."
"There's just—with my dad? You know, there's a—there's always more," she said. She tipped her head to one side, her expression thoughtful. "You're never just fighting about what you're fighting about. You have to understand that."
He nodded knowingly. "Families are—families are families," Luke said. "I get it."
Lorelai lifted her head to look at him. "Speaking of—what's up with Jess?"
"Jess is… doing his thing," Luke said slowly.
"Good."
"He's trying," he added.
"Good," she said again. She studied him a moment. "Hey, Luke?"
"Yeah?"
"What was your mom like?"
The question didn't seem to surprise him. For a long moment, he said nothing. He sipped his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took a deep breath. "She was—she was a lot like Rory, actually. Quiet, smart. But she was little, built like Liz. She was real frail," he said. He passed his hand over his face. "I always remember her, sitting in her chair, after dinner, just watching us—me, my dad, Liz. That's how I remember her, watching the family."
"How old were you when she passed?" Lorelai asked quietly.
"Eleven," he said. "She'd been in and out of the hospital as long as I can remember, since Liz was born—I guess there were, I don't know, complications during the birth. I don't remember, and my dad never told me. She was always… delicate. But when she died—" he stopped.
"It was sudden?" she supplied.
He nodded. "Pneumonia. She was fine, and then she wasn't."
"Oh, God. Luke, I'm—I'm so sorry," Lorelai said. "I just—I didn't know," she said. "I never asked."
"It's okay," he said, making a dismissive gesture with his hands.
"I guess, I don't know, that we've known each other so long, but I never met your parents, or anything—I guess sometimes I forget you had them," she said. "It's monumentally self-absorbed and insensitive, but I guess… I guess that's why I never thought to—"
"Lorelai, it's okay," he said again. "It was all a long time ago."
"We don't have to talk about it," she said.
"Okay."
"I mean, we've got plenty of time for those things, right?"
"Right."
"And it's not like—"
Luke sighed. "What do you want to know?"
Lorelai turned sideways, curled up into the back of the sofa, and looked up at him. "What was her favorite color?"
He brushed the hair off her forehead, his eyes sad. "Blue."
"Her favorite song?"
He squinched his face, trying to remember. "I don't—she used to sing 'Keep On the Sunny Side of Life' when we were kids."
Lorelai grinned. "Country music," she said. "That's nice."
"Anything else?"
She studied his face a moment. "Her name."
"Kate."
"Kate," she echoed, tipping her head to one side. "I like it." She closed her eyes. "Mmm. I like this song," she murmured. "Dwight. It's good. It's sad."
Luke put his beer aside and rose, extending a hand to Lorelai. "Would you?" he asked.
"I would," she replied, grasping his hand.
He slipped his arm about her waist and drew her close, taking her hand in his free one. She rested her other hand on his shoulder and fit herself easily against his side and they stepped to the music slowly, his cheek against her forehead. Take a guess at where I stand; pick a number, one to two. Take a look at the back of your hand. Just like you know it, you know me, too. Luke kept Lorelai's hand over his heart, closed his eyes as he held her to him. She rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder, breathed him in. You think you left without any place left to go, like you need one of those kisses, long and slow. First glance is not what it seems, but there's some that things I just know, like you take two sugars with a splash of cream. You take a guess at where I stand and pick a number, one to two. Take a look at the back of your hand. Just like you know it, you know me, too.
Lorelai cleared her throat. "See? Dating—not so painful, right?"
"Doesn't suck," he admitted.
Lorelai raised one hand and lifted her hair off her neck. "It's too hot—I'm staying here," she said. "Not walking home."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure," she said.
"How does this fit in with—"
"Are you going to ask me that every time I want to do something with you?" she said with a sigh. "Luke—I'm not trying to be difficult—" He laughed. "—or confusing, I swear. I just—I wanted to do something nice. Nice and normal." He laughed again. "Don't," she pouted. "I'm trying."
"Thank you," Luke said. "I'm just trying to keep in step, here," he said.
"I want to stay. It's not too—let's just say there are a lot of ways to go slowly," she said, smirking.
He couldn't help smiling. "Noted."
A slow smile spread across Lorelai's face. "So. Tell me: what are your intentions towards me, Mr. Danes? I feel I cannot proceed without being properly and fully informed. Do they pave the road to hell?"
Luke worked his jaw a moment, clearly uncomfortable. He paused, looked over his shoulder. "What the hell is this music?"
Lorelai jumped back and clapped her hands. "It's George Strait! It's 'Tell Me Something Bad About Tulsa!' It is, and I kid you not, the best and greatest lame song, quite possibly, ever." She adopted a serious pose and a solemn expression. She spoke slowly and deliberately. "Tell me something bad about Tulsa, Luke, how those old oil wells smell in the wind. Tell me something bad about Tulsa, so I won't have to go back believing I belong there again." She grinned. "Seriously, you couldn't have chosen a more amusing genre of music. I've got enough fodder for a lifetime with this stuff."
He smothered a smile, shaking his head. He took of his hat and flannel shirt, tossing them aside, and sat on the end of the bed. "Ah, geez. There's a reason some things should stay private." He glanced around. "It's fucking hot," he said.
Lorelai sat on his lap, straddling him, her hands on his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist. "Eh," she said. "It's not so bad." She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him, holding him tightly.
Luke leaned back, pulling Lorelai down with him, rolling them both over and pinning her beneath him. He returned and deepened the kiss, reaching up and releasing the band that tied up Lorelai's hair, tangling his hand in her hair. She shifted beneath him, tilting her head back into the kiss and pressing her hips up slightly against him, and clasped her hands behind his neck. She broke the kiss, breathless.
"Tell me," she said. "I want to know."
"My intention," he said, placing a kiss just behind her ear, on her neck, on the curve of her shoulder, "is to stick around."
She lifted her head and looked at him. "That's it? That's all you can muster?" she asked, scrunching her nose. "That's lame, Luke. I was hoping for something a little more, you know—"
"That's not all I can muster," he said.
Lorelai dissolved in giggles, wrapping her arms around him again. "Dirty, Luke," she said. "Campy and dirty."
"Well, it is a twin bed," he said.
She burst out laughing. "Who are you and what have you done with Luke?" she gasped. "The innuendo, it is killing me!"
Luke collapsed against her, burying his face in her neck as she shook with laughter. After a moment, he lifted his head. "Lorelai, would you please, please, shut up?"
She kissed him softly. "Because you said please." She held her hand to his face and studied him a long moment. "You know what song I like?"
He shook his head mutely.
"Alison Krauss. 'Let Me Touch You for a While.'"
He tried to keep his face composed. "That's very… suggestive," he said.
Lorelai smirked. "I know," she said. She hooked her leg over his hip and rolled them both onto their sides, and then Luke onto his back. She sat up, straddling him once more, her hands on the flat of his chest. "I know a way to make you smile. Just let me whisper things you've never heard before," she said, "just let me touch you, babe. Just let me touch you for a while." She paused, looking up, her expression puzzled. "I think that's how it goes."
Luke propped himself up on his elbows. "Hey," he said. "Thanks."
Lorelai looked at him. "For what?"
"Coming here."
She smiled. "I like being here," she said. "It's—it's new." She leaned forward and kissed him teasingly, shifting her weight slightly as she did. Immediately, his hands found their way to the base of her spine, hitching her shirt up over her middle. They fell back together, heedless now of the heat.
It was different than before, though not less passionate or intense. Lorelai still ached, slightly, overwhelmed by how much she could feel, how much he could make her feel and how much she could make him feel; but this time they made love less fraught, less desperate. There was a certainty without apprehension or tentativeness. As she moved above him, she was what she had always been when she was with him—playful, vocal, demanding, sweet—and he responded in kind, both tender and fierce. The intensity was different now, as though something between them had shifted. She knew he meant what he said, he wasn't going anywhere, and he wouldn't let her go either. It frightened her, but it was a welcome fear. She was almost ready for it. When she cried out, she was both joyful and triumphant. She tumbled to him, curled against his side, spent.
"Oh, that was nice," she murmured.
Luke put his arm around her and sighed. "Yeah," he said. He kissed the top of her head. "I told him I didn't know what my intentions were," he said, "but I'm—I'm here. And I'm staying."
Lorelai rested her chin on his shoulder and met his eyes. "Lucky me." She smiled and dropped a kiss on his chest, cuddling closer to him. "Luke?"
He shook his head. "Don't tell me you're hungry again." She was silent. "Geez, Lorelai."
"There's leftover pizza!" she said. "It's all of three feet away!" She pushed herself off the bed and looked over her shoulder at him, her hair falling around her face. "I'll be right back." She returned with a plate stacked high with the remaining slices and wiggled into bed beside him, her mouth already full. "So, tell me what the moisturizer in the bathroom's for."
He averted his eyes. "Nothing. It's not mine."
"Yes, it is," Lorelai said. "Do you have eczema or something gross like that?"
He wiped a spot of sauce off her chin. "No."
"Are you worried about your delicate complexion?" she asked, and began to laugh when she saw the look on his face. "Well, who would have thought it of Luke Danes, having a feminine side? Don't worry. Secret's safe with me." She reached for another slice and her face was suddenly serious. "You were right, you know."
"About?"
"There's a lot I don't know about you," she said, simply.
"We've got time," he told her, but his voice was thick with feeling.
She kissed his cheek. "And I intend to make the most of it." She smiled. "Being a grown up doesn't always suck."
Luke looked at her levelly. "Your train of thought repeatedly jumps the tracks."
"My train of thought is a hover craft," she said. "Capable of hurtling from one spot to another. It's really quite impressive."
Luke put the plate on the floor beside the bed and put his arms around Lorelai, shushing her. They sat together, she pillowed against his chest, just listening to the still-playing CD, quiet a long time.