This chapter was somewhat difficult for me to write because it's a filler. As it turns out, I don't do so hot with the transitions. I kept having to shorten it because I was getting ahead of myself. But then I'm getting ahead of myself… read on.
It's already been ten minutes since "lights out" but I'm about as restless as Robert Downey Jr. gone cold turkey. I've experimented with no less than a myriad of different sleeping positions but they all seem to lead back to the very same conclusion: couches suck.
Nicole cooties or not, I should've taken the bed.
"Gah!" I wail, smothering my cry into a blessedly stuffed pillow.
Silly me. I presumed that passing out after a sordid sequence of emotional mini-dramas and alcoholic beverages would come naturally to a woman my age. But suddenly I feel far from mature. This feeling… this pesky, frisky, dare I say, discontented feeling is essentially young in and of itself. Young and stubborn.
After tossing and turning for the umpteenth time, I decide enough is enough. If I set out for the Dragonfly tomorrow with droopy eyes and haggard hair, well, that would only lend credence to Gran's wayward assumption that I'm a washout in the making. (Not to mention I won't have the energy to deal with Michel deriding me as the second coming of Broom Hilda.)
Besides, it's better to down a glass of milk and some sleeping pills than to lie here miserable all night, pining for Luke.
Pining for Luke?
Man, oh, man. Where's Rory when I need her?
I slink off and around the couch peevishly, reasoning that Snoring Beauty won't notice the slight rustle as I do so. And even if he does, tough luck! He took a bite out of my beauty sleep so he deserves no more, no less.
But as I'm tiptoeing towards the kitchen, something purely preordained kicks in. I am inordinately struck with the invariable craving for a donut—or as I like to call it, the sweet siren of glazed goodness.
And that obviously leads to mental musing on as to whether or not I should go downstairs and partake of the glazed goodness. Indulge myself.
You know, so long as I'm up.
Oof, but I better not. The night crawler that is Kirk might catch a glimpse and then I'd never hear the end of it from Luke.
…
Or what about Bootsy? And Babette? What about any of the other meddlesome townsfolk Kirk is likely to prattle too? How would it look—my ransacking the diner in the dead of the night, wearing nothing but Luke's boxers and flannel?
Oh, but I know how it would look to them. Nearly nineteen years in Stars' Hollow has taught me a thing or two about grapevines and provincial wildfire. Especially where Luke and I are concerned. These people are completely predisposed to jumping to conclusions. Juicy ones. The juiciest being that we were sharing a night of steamy illicit sex and that I went downstairs to refuel.
Or is that solely what I'm thinking?
Envisioning…
Elaborating…
God, I need sleep.
Heaving a regretful sigh, I open up the refrigerator door and am appalled and aghast when in place of milk I come face to face with a carton of Soy Dream. Soy Dream?! When did I step into a John Grisham novel?
That does it. I'm getting my donut.
Frothing at the mouth and just a granola bar away from seeing red, I shove the offensively healthy container to the very back of the fridge. And then I curse when the force of it rattles Luke's grade AA organic eggs. What, is the entire universe against me tonight? Can't I ever catch a brake?
Glimpsing behind my back fretfully, I'm on pins, needles and tenterhooks as I await the rhythmic rumbling of the Soyman's slumber.
… "Zzz."
Phew. That was a close one.
"Idiot," I whisper, wishing I could put a stop to all the unwonted idiosyncrasies. Why oh why do I insist on flailing around in each and every move I make? It's as though I've been summoning up a storm of strange and there has been little headroom between the clouds.
You can say that again.
You sense it too, right? It's like I can't focus. I'm all over the place.
Totally. One minute you're sniffling and sniveling—
Bawling and blubbering—
And the next you want to jump Luke's bones. Although for me it was sort of a toss up between him and the beer.
So why not have your cake and eat it too?
Hehe. Didn't I tell ya?
Yeah, you did. We're nothing if not consistent. So what do I do now?
Huh-hoooh, now you want my advice? Is that it?
Please?
I'm sorry, Lorelai, but I'm afraid you're just a few fries shy of happy meal.
Uh huh. A very horny happy meal.
…
God, we need sleep.
I mean, I need sleep. I mean… I suppose I'll have to make do with water.
Closing the refrigerator door with every intention of hunting down some Tylenol PM, I turn in the direction of the bathroom. But then I feel a certain something, paper-thin and ably angular, skid across my toes. I look down and low and behold, there lies a mysterious envelope.
Huh. That's funny. Almost as if it came out of thin air.
Maybe it was in the fridge and I accidentally knocked it out. But why would Luke be storing mysterious envelopes alongside his mysterious food? Wait, I think I just answered my own question.
Go on. Open it, you know you want to.
Don't even think about it! You should respect the man's privacy.
Please, he's down for the punch. It's not like he's going to find out.
But—oh, yeah. I never thought of it that way.
And I'm unfolding the flap…
Oh. My. God.
I scan the check's entries over and over, blinking inanely with the fear that I'm in a soy dream. Because there it is: $30,000.00 from Luke Danes to Lorelai Gilmore. The answer to my prayers, the passport to Sookie's stove, the foundation of my future. $30,000.00, without the dinner, without the charts, without the bullshit, without even so much as the question.
There.
Right there.
Staring at those seven meaningful digits, I know that I want him. And I mean want him.
It's lewd. It's obscene. But I can't help the surge of heat that sparks and grows within the pit of my stomach, tearing me up inside. The waves of sexual tension that have been radiating off my body throughout the evening have culminated into desire so wanton, it would put Miss Patty to shame.
Luke loves me.
What I felt before in his arms, during his speech… that was not a fluke. That was the universe giving me a much needed kick in the ass because Luke is it. He's the one. He's always been the one. And I've simply been too caught up in my own warbled world of the doomed distractions and red herrings to see it.
But I see it now. And I love him too.
Hell, I can't explain it but at this moment I want Luke more than I have ever wanted any other man. Period. Which is not to say that I can even remember anyone or anything else…
All I see is Luke.
Very slowly, as if in a trance, I slide the check back into the envelope and tuck the flap back into its triangular slot. I set it down on the table and forge ahead. One foot, good. Two, better. Am I going to fall before I make it to his bed? Quite possibly. Am I tipsier than a sailor the night before scheduled leave? I wouldn't rule that out either.
But my body is humming a mantra: I am in love with Luke, I am going to make love to Luke, I am in love with Luke…
I make my way over to the foot of the bed and observe him lying flat on his back with his right arm strewn across the pillow. His breathing is sound and steady but I'm willing to wager he's not REM-ing just yet. So I come closer, closer still, and reach for his hand. His loving hand. I bend down and bring it towards my face, reveling in rough texture as I press a warm kiss into the center of his palm.
Luke twitches. I let it drop.
What do I do if he wakes up?
Am I having second thoughts? Somewhere in the back of my mind I know I should be. I'm drunk and emotional and, duh, maybe trying to sleep with your friend when you're drunk and emotional isn't the brightest idea this side of Einstein. There are other reasons too. If only I could summon them back to me and stop thinking about Luke's torso, which is looking remarkably sexy stretched out across the boxcar mattress and decade old comforter.
But extenuating circumstances are hazy and notwithstanding as I watch Luke open those pretty blue eyes of his.
His lids slide shut momentarily before they open again, wider this time, and Luke is hurrying to rise up.
"Lorelai!" he rasps, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. "What the hell are you doing standing there? You damn near gave me a heart attack!"
Waiting for you to wake up so I could ravish you, what else?
"I can't sleep."
"How the hell can that be? You said you were exhausted."
"Yeah, I know but that was before Little Orphan Antsy decided to pay me a visit. And then I wanted milk. And then... and then I found the check," I swallow, scuffing my bare foot against the ground.
Luke straightens and sighs, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, umm, I meant to give that to you tomorrow morning over breakfast."
"You didn't have to do it, Luke. Especially not after that whole self-sufficiency cheer you made up for me. Rah-rah-sisboom-bah, Lorelai can do it, yah."
"I don't remember saying that."
"Hey, it's your word against mine."
"Right." He cocks his head at me. "Was there anything else or did you just want to say thank you or something?"
"Why did you do it?" I blurt out, itching for him to fess up.
"Ah, jeez, isn't it a little late for this?" Luke drops his head back on his pillow and scoots back under the covers.
"No, Luke, seriously, I need to know."
"We'll talk in the morning."
"But I need to know."
"And we'll talk in the morning."
"I need to know now."
"You really don't let up, do you?" Luke grumbles, opening his eyes and regarding me drowsily. "I thought it was, I mean, I think it is, a sound investment."
"And it's not because… you don't feel sorry for me?" I prompt, fearful he'll say yes.
"No, I don't. I think I made it pretty clear you're capable of taking care of yourself."
"Did the fact that I'm your friend factor into this at all?"
"Probably, yeah, but not so much that--"
"I mean, how do you feel about me?"
"Lorelai!" Luke reaches out behind him and grabs the alarm clock. He turns to thrust it in the air and wave it around in front of me, as if it were a crucifix warding off evil spirits. "Do you see where the little hand and the big hand are resting? Resting! Which is more than I can say for you and me. Especially me.
"It is a quarter to one in the morning, crazy lady, and I am not up for twenty questions at a quarter to one in the morning. And furthermore, after the night we had, one would think that you would be as burned out as I am but I've obviously underestimated you, haven't I?
"Forgotten all about the fact that there's caffeine running through your veins and I guess that's partly my fault for playing dealer and contributing to your mindless addiction but I run a diner you're my best customer and I need the business. Business, Lorelai! I have got to be up in less than five hours to run my business, understand?"
"I understand," I murmur, having processed maybe five percent of what he just said. "Can I just say one more thing?"
"God, what now?"
"I think I'm in love with you."
A.N. Okay, I know this was pretty bad but I had a major case of writer's block and self-editing overload. Hopefully the next chapter will be a big improvement.