October, 2009

The parking lot is full of beat up Oldsmobiles, passed down from their father or older brother, not worth more than 500 bucks on resale. The small town reminds her of Stars Hollow with the noticeable difference being the large Walmart that sits across the highway and the strip mall lined with fast food chains. Taylor has managed to keep those out thus far.

The kids are hanging out, some inside the air conditioned restaurants, some on the hoods of their cars, some sitting on the curb. Lorelai clutches the paper bag with her leftover lunch, even though she knows popcorn chicken is inedible when cold.

She is only a few miles away, would take the local minor roads to get there. Now that she was off the I-95, she rips the suction cups on her radar off the windshield and packs it tightly into the glove compartment. She thanks it profusely for getting her through all those states so quickly.

Initially she heads over to his business, assuming that would be the most likely place he'd be found in the middle of the day, on a Tuesday no less. An older man sits at the front desk and tells her he is home, that he doesn't come in on Tuesdays. Business is most brisk on the weekend, so he takes Tuesdays off and sometimes half of Monday, to run his errands and take care of the too-large house he lived in.

She is ashamed that she doesn't know his address, but the old man – Floyd, he tells her his name is – takes a long look at her and she thinks he might recognize her face. From a picture, likely. Maybe the one he still keeps in his wallet. So Floyd takes a green sheet with their pricing guide on one side and draws a crude map to Luke's house on the other side.

It is remarkably accurate, and as she nears the house she recognizes it from the pictures she saw a month ago. She is still about a mile away, but can see the shingles down at the bottom of the gentle sloping hill. There is also a lone jogger up ahead, in black shorts and a flimsy white t-shirt sticking to his back.

She knows that back, and as she drives past him, he keeps looking straight ahead, doesn't notice her, or notices the car but not the contents thereof.

Her hands are clammy as she pulls into his driveway, gravel crunching underneath her car's tires. She sees his pick-up ahead, the new model in a shiny ebony color, and parks right next to it.

Her laptop carrying case and purse sit on the passenger seat and she slings them over her shoulder, because she feels naked just standing there. The bags would at least give her a sense of purpose, establish a certain pretense.

Tall, dry grasses rise by the side of the road and she sees Luke's head bobbing over them, quickly approaching her. He can't see her yet, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Crunch, the gravel goes.

When he turns into the driveway, he notices the additional car first, and her second. Then she discovers it's really possible to stop dead in your tracks.

He stands some 20 feet away from her, wipes his sweaty forehead with the inside of his arm, and then runs the palm of his hand over it as well. She offers him a tiny smile, and hangs her head, trying to figure out what would be a proper greeting in this case.

"I didn't want to wait until November." She finally musters, pushing the words out of her mouth forcibly, one at a time. He just looks back at her, still amazed she's even there.

"So…." She hedges.

He releases his hands from the tight fists he's formed and walks over towards her. She is edgy standing so close to him, where she can smell his skin and see the blue in his eyes and identify the way he is looking at her, and remembers that same look from years ago.

His arm reaches over and he takes the shoulder strap of her bags in his hand, then brings them over to his own shoulder. His other hand takes one of her hands and pries her fingers open until her car key drops into his hand. The keychain is childish, with a tiny figure of Mr. Potatohead hanging on the ring. He thanks the keyless remote entry and pops open her trunk. She just watches him as he unloads the rest of her bags and picks them up, his biceps ripping.

She's caught off guard when he tosses the keys back to her.

"Luke?"

He passes by her, all her luggage in tow, then turns back sharply and kisses her hello. She cups his face in one of her hands.

"Come on in."

September, 2009

"Jesus Christ!" She exclaims, startled out of her mind when she rounds the corner and stops dead in her tracks before knocking head first into his chest.

"Or Luke." He replies in return. Her cheeks burn for an instant, remembering this inside joke they had, and the context in which it occurred and she wants to slap herself for having this reaction. Not having seen him for this long, and the first thing she was thinking of was hands clutching cool sheets, his body rising above hers rhythmically, hot lips burning her skin, his breath and moans at her ear, glistening skin and that ancient warmth spreading through her body.

"It's good to see you, Lorelai." He says, clearly less dazzled in her presence than she is in his. Or is she being spiteful?

"Likewise." She finally manages to reply.

"It has been a while, hasn't it?"

"You kept your promise, didn't you?" She turns his words around, but the hurt is lost in translation, and gentleness takes over.

"Let it never be said Luke Danes isn't a man of his word." She adds.

He shrugs slightly, meeting her eyes for a moment before he looks away and runs his hand through his hair. It's thinner now, but a lot shorter as well, she notices, and he doesn't quite resemble a distinguished gentleman, but a post-Police era Sting. Slight tan, short hair, easy smile.

He's okay in his skin.

"It was for the best. You're looking well."

She regards this as a compliment, because she knows she's not in her most flattering suit today, but it's only been 4 years and although time's chasing after her now, she's still outpacing it by a healthy margin.

"Thank you. You look good too."

"Vacation does that, right?" He laughs shortly.

"Florida?" She guesses.

It's probably a stupid, silly guess. He's not retirement age, for God's sake, she tells herself. Why should he go down to spend time in a minimum security prison and eat the early bird special at 3 PM on the dot, day by day, only to go nap before his game of bocce? He was no snowbird. She'd thought he lost his mind when he sold the diner, but this was a true stretch she couldn't bring herself to believe.

"Here."

"What?"

"My vacation, it's why I'm here."

She shakes her head in confusion.

"You were thinking about my tan?" He guesses.

"I was."

"That's from home."

"Home?"

He simply nods, and she waits patiently for him to elaborate, but he instead glances over her shoulder and his face lights up in recognition.

Lorelai follows his gaze and sees Babette rushing across the street, her arms outstretched, ready to welcome a hero back from the war, where he fought valiantly, lost a limb, but kept his heart and that's what really matters. She imagines him in a uniform, except his khaki top is off and he's wearing only the tight, thin white t-shirt, incredibly happy to be home and see his family. There is no hesitance in his step, but it's slower, heavier with old memories and new expectations in this world that used to be his, but is just a guest house for the weekend. Veterans' letdown, she heard it called once. He crosses the road to greet Babette, not because he wants a hug that's too tight and a lot of tears with it, but because he knows it's coming and he's resigned himself to accepting it.

How many times did she see him cross over the town square? It's a familiar scene, and she feels lightheaded and sick to her stomach all of a sudden, acid and bile combining but not neutralizing as they should, as her chemistry teacher instructed. They swirl deep in her throat, threatening to spill over. She bends at the waist a little, rests the palms of her hands high on her thighs and tries to steady herself. She's not breathless; the air is just not flowing right down into her lungs.

A strand of hair slips down into her face, obstructing her view a little.

God, he still looks so good.

Late September, 2009

Her house is warm, slightly humid from the late summer heat lingering in the air. She's got a pair of eggshell colored panties on and a cream camisole she's pulled back over her glistening skin when she got up to follow him out of bed.

He tells her to go back upstairs, not to watch him leaving, because he can't stand to look at her face breaking again. Especially since they've found something between each other again and he tells her he'll be back at Thanksgiving.

"Take some time, we'll think about things. That's good, thinking?"

She just nods because she can't find the words. They're lost in the ball in her throat and in the bed where they lay when she cried so hard after making love to him.

So she stands at the bottom of her stairs now, curling her toes tightly against the ground, praying for the strength not to run after him, out on the road in her state of undress.

He bends over and puts on his shoes, nice brown nubuck leather with long yellow checkered laces. Her hand grips the banister and she watches him lace up one boot, then the other, looping the laces through the buckles.

Like a camel through the eye of a needle, she thinks.

"I don't want you to go!" She blurts out, then repeats it more calmly.

"I don't want you to go."

"I'll be back. It's not goodbye."

"I don't care." She sniffles.

"I've already stayed an extra week. I have to go back to my business. I wish I didn't. It's just a few weeks, I promise." He tells her sweetly.

She crosses her arms, suddenly feeling very cold.

"I hate this."

"What?"

"The sadness, the weakness, me like this?"

He stands up and reaches her in three steps, taking her in his arms. She willfully surrenders, wrapping her hands tightly around his neck, breathing in his scent, and theirs mingling.

"I don't know, Luke, I don't know anything." She sobs in his neck.

"I know." He says plainly.

He knows what it's like for her. He knows because when he walked into this house today, he was on fire from head to toe, yearning for her, wanting to share everything he has with her. He knows because when he hugged her earlier, she returned it like they'd been together this whole time. He knows because he doesn't even remember anymore having left her.

"I miss my Dad." She cries and he whispers soothingly in her ear.

"I know."

"So much."

"You're a good daughter."

"I wanted to be."

"You are." He kisses the top of her head and his hands massage her back.

"Wait for me?" He asks her reverently.