Disclaimers, et. al. in chapter 1.

-May 8, 2004-

Luke was yelling at me. Really yelling. I had never seen him like this. He had yelled at me before, of course; we had a history of yelling. But not like this. He was jealous and frustrated and hurt. That was new.

He was going on and on about Jason and flowers and books and being on track. I had to stop him. I wanted him to stop yelling and hear that I was trying to tell him that there was no more Jason and the flowers were great and that I was on track.

Then he mentioned the moment after the wedding and I got him to stop talking. By agreeing with him.

I had discovered the secret of the universe. Agree with Luke and he would stop ranting and listen.

Still, when he lurched forward, I was surprised. I hadn't expected it, really. Even after everything else, I never believed Luke would act so decisively with me. I stepped back more out of reflex than anything else.

He told me to stand still and I did. I wish I could say that the world moved when he kissed me, that I heard angels singing our names and that I knew I loved him and would be with him forever. None of that happened. Kissing Luke was unexpected and strange and quiet and calm and the whole experience made my knees a little weak. I was the first to break the kiss - it seemed that he would have been happy to go on forever. I needed to breathe and figure out what I was going to do next.

I needed to know if my jumbled feelings were because it was Luke and it was weird or because it was Luke and it was good. He jumped back a little when I went for him, so I stole his line and he stood still and my knees wobbled and his arms around me were the only thing that kept me upright.

Kissing Luke was serene - and that startled me. This was completely uncharted territory. Experience had taught me that kisses were either really good or really bad. They were either saliva and teeth and tongues in the wrong place or they were heat and music and electricity and fire. They were never serene.

I backed away again, but he didn't let go of me, his eyes never left my face as he pulled me closer. And I wanted it - wanted him. My arms went up to encircle his neck. This kiss would be different. I knew it. It wouldn't be soothing and tranquil - it would be something else. Something not so scary.

When the screaming started I had a wild moment in which I thought that it was me - or him.

-After "One"-

"Lorelai," he growled. We were standing toe-to-toe and I could see myself in his enormous eyes.

I could feel the tension arcing off him, the effort he was making to keep from touching me. I could see how he was holding himself back; to, despite his earlier protestations, give me one last out.

"Lorelai," he said again, his voice cracking.

"Present," I said, a little more calmly then I felt. I watched my acquiescence ripple across his face. We lunged at each other and met in the middle, fusing instantly, joined at lips, chests, fingers, groins. I clung to him, not trusting my legs to keep me upright. He was unable to support us both; we tumbled, and I ended beneath his weight and looking up into his eyes, blue and clear and full of wonder… a look possibly even more arousing than the heat and hunger it had replaced.

"You're really here," he said, amazement altering his voice.

I pulled him back down to my lips. I was done talking. My fingers knotted in his hair and I tried to heave myself up at him, to rip through clothes and skin and bone to meld with him.

He pulled himself back and I got another look at his eyes.

The heat was back.

-Summer 2003-

I lied to my daughter. Convinced her that every gift and souvenir and tzotchke and bauble that we found wasn't good enough for Luke. I was good and convincing and she believed me so completely that she forgot to ask anymore.

In Spain, I talked her out of a matador costume. I pointed out quite rationally that Spain was too soon - we were sure to find something better later on.

We left the costume in Madrid.

In Paris it was an Eiffel Tower light. "He'd NEVER use it," I said. "He would mock it and roll his eyes at it."

"He'd use it if we gave it to him," she replied.

"But he'd hate it, hon. Every time he'd look at it, he'd resent us for bringing it back for him and making him plug it in and use it."

know, that Eiffel Tower light is still waiting for someone to buy it.

England was easy. She wanted to get jam. I pointed out that jam was pedestrian and boring and he was a chef, for God's sake. Giving him jam would be like bringing coals to Newcastle. Rory had rolled her eyes and said that it was obvious I had been in England too long and "hey how about this Big Ben clock?"

I convinced her to wait and we left England jam-less and clock-less.

We waited through Irish china and a Scottish kilt and German beer and a miniature Roman Forum.

Our trip through Europe became marked as much by the items we left there as by the sights we saw.

I lied to my daughter because I had the sick feeling that any gift we bought would not be for Just-Luke but for Luke-and-Nicole. I did not want him to dress as a matador for Nicole, feed her English jam, eat breakfast with her off Irish china, give her a German beer, choose a place for the Forum with her, or hold her in the glow of an Eiffel Tower light.

It didn't matter that he could do all those things without my permission; I refused to bring a gift to him that she would get to enjoy, too. I knew that he was happy with her and that I should be happy for him, but I wasn't. So, I traipsed through Europe with a pit in my stomach - rejecting every gift Rory chose, and we returned without a gift for Just-Luke or Luke-and-Nicole.

I knew that it was petty and stupid and I didn't care.