Luke. A love child.
She had the perfect man. A man who understood her and accepted her the way she was. A man who took care of all her physical needs, from the food she ate and the coffee she drank to her body's sensual needs. And most of all, a man who took care of all her emotional needs, from the void her parents' lack of acceptance left in her life, to the security of being wholly loved. A man who didn't flinch when she fell apart.
She had the perfect job. Proprietor of her own inn, a young woman's dream come true in mid-life. Able to call the shots, to surround herself with the things she deemed most beautiful, and the people she most wanted to work with. Sought out, even, by others, by the Durham Groups of the world.
She had her perfect dream of a kid back, too. Not that the kid herself was perfect, but she was back on the path. Rory being back at Yale meant that Rory'd get the education she herself never was able to complete. They say you're not supposed to live your life vicariously through your children, but just maybe, this was what was happening, and it was OK.
And she had the perfect dress. She'd found it while shopping with Sookie. A dress that would rivet Luke's eyes to her (even though she knew deep down that she could appear in sweats and a ratty t-shirt, and he'd still be besotted). A dress that would make him forget his name and abandon all sense of time and space.
All the stars had aligned to converge on the perfect wedding.
Except, Luke had a love child.
Of course, it made sense that he'd have a past. She knew about Rachel, of course. And she knew about Butch Danes, the rumors about the bleachers, but she didn't know anything about the in-between. She was not one to throw stones (hello, kid at sixteen?) But he knew so much more about her in-between. He'd seen her toil at the Independence Inn, no time for any kind of life outside of work and mothering. He was there, painfully so, for Max. For Alex. And he'd met Jason.
What didn't make sense was that he'd spent all of November, December and until now keeping the news from her. And all that after forcing her to pinky-swear that they'd tell each other everything. That this thing between them would never work out if they weren't honest with each other. He'd sat there during Thanksgiving dinner, and opening gifts at Christmas, and toasting the New Year in front of their new fireplace, and countless nights in the soft comfort of their new bed…and not said a word.
What the hell was he thinking? Did he think about HER (his baby-momma) while he made love with her? Did he lie there afterwards, wondering just when he'd gotten her pregnant? On lazy Sunday mornings, as they snuggled together in bed against the cold, did he wonder what his kid was doing? Did he wish he were elsewhere? When he watched Rory revert to a little girl on Christmas morning as she greedily and giddily tore into her presents, was he wishing he were with another woman and her kid?
January came, and with it, the euphoria of getting Rory settled back into Yale. She'd borrowed some boxes from the diner, boxes that Luke had used to move some of his own things into their future home. When she was done moving Rory into that slum she was sharing with Paris and her boyfriend, she returned the box to the diner. Luke was busy serving some last, straggling customers, so while waiting for him, she decided to go upstairs and see if there were any items she could bring over to the house for him.
Unfortunately for Luke, it was while he was in the diner's kitchen that she slipped upstairs. She hadn't been up there alone in ages, it seemed. She was about to find out why.
She wondered how much stuff Luke still had left to bring over. She thought she'd empty out some of the kitchen drawers. She knew that Luke loved his utensils, his special cooking gizmos that were forever a mystery to her, and since he mostly now cooked in her kitchen, maybe he'd like to have his gizmos.
Opening the third drawer from the top, there it was. The report. Lying there, among the refrigerator manual and the stove manual and manuals from appliances of days gone by.
Open to the page with the heading: "Conclusion."
Sometimes you don't have to read a whole page to get the meaning of something. Sometimes, the important words just jump out right at you, begging for your attention. "99.975 level of confidence." And the date, early November. Months ago.
She doesn't remember much else about that moment's aftermath. There were tears and there was screaming and there was Luke framed in the doorway, with the most stricken look on his face that she'd ever seen on anyone.
He said he kept it from her because of Rory. Because they were happy and he didn't want to ruin it.
There was vomiting, and not just once. If only she could purge herself of the feeling that he was not the man she thought she knew.
Somehow, she was able to rush past him, down the stairs and out the diner.
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She spent the rest of the evening aimlessly driving around Hartford, cell turned off.
As it got later, she pondered the ridiculousness of her situation. Could she go back to her own house? But it was his house too. They'd transferred the deed to both their names. Should she go to Rory? No. Not Rory. She was just back at Yale, and Lorelai remembered how she'd dropped everything to be with her mother when Luke and she had first broken up in the spring.
Christopher. She checked the time on the car's clock. She could drive to Boston…
No.
And there was Paul Anka. And he needed to be fed. So, late, around one AM, she finally stepped into the house, the rap-tap of her heels echoing in the silence.
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"Lorelai."
He was in the living room, sitting ramrod straight in "his" chair, in an obvious attempt to keep things the way they were instead of the way they had become. She couldn't do this, pretend things were normal. So, she turned and walked away, heading towards the door. Maybe she could go to Sookie's...
But then he was behind her, so close...
She reached for the doorknob, pushed the door open. But his arms were longer; he reached around her and closed the door.
Not a word had been said since he'd said her name. And even if she tried to say something, the tension in the room was so thick, it was as if a physical force was holding her mouth closed. Lorelai Gilmore, speechless.
She felt his fingers lightly touch her shoulder.
She froze, both in body and mind.
Should she remain still? It was really a moot point; a tsunami could have sent roiling waters through Stars Hollow at that moment and she'd still be rooted to her spot in the foyer, facing the door. A tornado could have railroaded through town, and she'd still be standing there.
His fingers settled into her shoulder. She was still unable to move.
Then she felt her coat being gently peeled from her body by that hand on her shoulder. She felt her right sleeve slide down her arm in slow motion, followed by a firm tug that ended with her facing him, her coat only adhering to her left arm.
The sleeves of his flannel were rolled up to the elbow. She stared at the bed of hairs that grew on his forearms. Keep your eyes closed, she thought, don't look at him.
She felt her left sleeve slide down her arm too, and then her coat was off.
She heard the crumple of fabric as he tossed the coat aside. Even as she processed this, she felt him grab her wrists.
"Lorelai. Please. Please take a minute and let me explain."
Ah, so his seduction had begun.
"Go away, Luke. You're hurting me."
Nothing.
"Luke. Stop it, Luke. Let go of me," she reiterated more firmly, finally looking into his eyes.
An ice age descended upon the house. She shivered, incapable of controlling the reflex. Her eyes fluttered back down to his forearms.
He let go of her left wrist, reaching his right hand towards her, saying her name like a benediction and touching her cheek.
She flinched.
He looked stricken. God, did she really think he'd hit her?
"Talk to me," he pleaded. He could scarcely get the simple request out, his voice breaking during the long drawn-out utterance of the word 'talk.'
She looked in his eyes again. They were pleading, sorrowful, sad, aware of their owner's monumental screw-up. His thumb stretched over to her lips and brushed lightly across them. Suddenly, she was afraid that she'd cave, that if he came any closer, she would snap.
The stillness and the cold returned for the next few seconds. When had things gotten this way between them? The warmth and the snap-crackle of the attraction between them replaced by the iciness her heart now felt?
He dropped her other wrist.
She doesn't consciously remember lifting her arms. She doesn't remember when the tears started again, or the sound of the beat in her head. She just remembers that she started beating against his chest, her fists pounding his sternum rhythmically. Sounds came from her; she wasn't sure if they were coherent or understandable to him. But she wanted to know: why. Why he said nothing, why he didn't trust her. Why he didn't love her enough…
For that was truly the heart of the problem.
All it took was one step of his to close the gap between them.
"I didn't want to tell you 'til I knew for sure," he said, even as her fists tried to beat while constrained between his chest and her breasts. "It's not what you think. I didn't cheat on you, I swear. She's twelve years old, for god's sake, Lorelai!"
She took in a long, full gulp of air. "I know. It's just that…I can't..."
"Can't, what, Lorelai?" he demanded.
Who the hell was he to ask her anything, she thought.
"You're gonna go be her dad, be with her, just like Christoph…"
"Don't compare me to him!" he retorted. And he placed his lips against her face, below her cheek, and bruisingly kissed his way to her mouth.
She tried to push him away. This was wrong. He couldn't just kiss her and make them all better.
He pulled his mouth away from her and let go. Slowly, she turned, and said, "I think it's best if you spend the night in your apartment. Good night, Luke. We'll talk tomorrow." She took her time saying this, making sure he understood every word.
"No."
"No?"
"No. We're engaged. I'm not going to run at the first sign of trouble."
"Trouble?" she shrilled back and started walking up the stairs. "You call another woman having your kid just 'trouble'? You call not telling me for months, MONTHS, Luke, trouble?"
She made it up those first six steps. On the landing, she turned.
Oh god, his face. She'd seen that Luke only a handful of times. The day she bought his father's boat, for one.
He stepped closer, placing both hands on her shoulders. "Please, Lorelai. We can sleep on it, talk tomorrow. I'll stay down here."
"I. Hate. You," she said.
In desperation, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. She bit his lower lip but that only spurred him on. "I love you Lorelai," he said, and continued, "I made a mistake. I need you." He kissed her again, hands skimming up and down her arms.
Twelve minutes later, Lorelai might tell herself that she made a very bad choice. That she was weak and under Luke's spell. Or, she might tell herself that she made a very good choice. That she was generous and loving and giving Luke what he so obviously needed to heal his soul with. But what she wouldn't be able to tell herself was who made the next move.
As his hands slid up her arms, she felt her knees weaken. Her back was up against the wall of the landing. She could feel Luke's lips on hers. The thing was, her mouth against his was as hard and angry as his against hers.
Lorelai felt his hands push her hard into the wall, and then one leg pushed her legs apart. Why wasn't she objecting? She was supposed to hate him, had just told him so. Why was she pushing his flannel off his shoulders and yanking his gray t-shirt over her head? When did her balled fists move on to grabbing huge fistfuls of flannel instead of beating his chest like a drum? Were those his jeans in a pile over there against the steps?
There were words.
"Need you."
"Love me."
"Stay with me."
"Don't go to her."
And then he stopped.
"God Lorelai, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"
This is the Luke she knows and loves. The Luke who is decent and good, who'd never hurt her. She knew that in this moment, she could simply smooth the skirt of her dress, walk upstairs, and forget all this until morning.
Not a choice. She will always love this man, always give of herself to him.
A voice she did not recognize eked out: "Luke. Just love me. Make me forget everything that's happened."
"No Lorelai. I don't deserve…" He tried to turn towards his jeans, obviously to go back downstairs, but this time, she was the one who grabbed a wrist.
"No. Here."
"Here?"
"Here. Now."
Luke looked at her, rationalized that maybe he could sooth the pain, assuage the ache, make right what he'd done wrong, by giving her what she asked him for. In her eyes, there was a brightness, a wildness, he'd never seen before.
He hurriedly shoved her skirt up around her waist and his thumbs grasped the elastic of her panties.
A passerby might have heard the sound of fabric tearing.
He looked at her one more time. If her eyes say no, I'll stop, he thought.
They said yes.
He eased her backwards, kissing her indiscriminately. If he'd pushed her any further, she'd make a dent in the wall.
She gave as good as she got, making sure he eased himself in, inch by inch by inch by inch by…
Usually, when he first enters her, they pause for a moment and relish the wonder of being them. This time, however, once he was all the way in, he was all in, not being sweet or gentle. His hands surrounded her hips, keeping her up against the wall to keep her from sliding to the floor.
"Lorelai," he begged.
Together, they moved, bucking their hips, rocking back and forth. Luke kept her from hitting the wall too hard as they slammed into each other.
Was it good? In the light of day, in the annals of Great Moments in the Sex Life of Luke and Lorelai, probably not. But as a prelude to understanding, it was so very good. It was just what they needed. Him, knowing she could still stand the sight and touch of him. Her, knowing that he still claimed her, wanted her.
She was going to come soon. An astute observer of all things Lorelai, he could tell. She had increased their pace, her head was thrown back and she was whispering his name as if in prayer.
And then he called out her name.
Lorelai slumped down the wall, to the floor, in his arms, exhausted emotionally and physically, yet sated, her heart strangely unburdened. She gasped as he slid out of her, and smiled as he stroked her hair and forehead and blotted the sweat from her forehead. She looked up at him silently as he continued his ministrations, kissing her repeatedly, stroking her hair.
Luke and Lorelai stayed that way, entwined on the landing, for a long time. Neither one wanted to move. Moving would mean having to talk. Lorelai tightened her hold on Luke.
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It was one of those bright, icily sunny winter mornings. The sun shone into her windows, her beautiful new windows, deceptively implying warmth by its brilliance. Lorelai stretched, smiled and then decided she was dangerously close to reenacting the 'morning-after-Rhett-Butler-carries-Scarlett-up-the-stairs' scene from 'Gone with the Wind.'
She had no idea how she got upstairs and into bed after she and Luke had, well, christened the landing. She reached over to his side of the bed, and saw that he had indeed slept there. Maybe he was at the diner…or downstairs…
Slipping into her robe, she went to the bathroom, wincing as the odd bruise here and there reminded her of the previous night's activities. Then she padded on downstairs, where the familiar sight of Luke cooking greeted her.
"I'm sorry…" both started to say.
"You first," Luke said.
"I'm sorry I reacted the way I did," Lorelai replied, continuing over to where Luke stood, wrapping herself and her arms around him. "I know it's not something you did to hurt me."
"I meant to tell you as soon as I knew, but then you came flying into the diner, so happy about Rory…and I just…"
"Oh Luke," Lorelai responded, unfurling herself from around Luke and moving over to the table.
"Shh…wait 'til you have some of this," Luke said as he placed their breakfast plates at the table and poured her coffee.
After a few forkfuls, Lorelai put down her fork and touched Luke's hand.
"Thanksgiving must have been really hard for you," she noted.
"Uhh…" Luke shifted uncomfortably. "I told Liz."
"Oh. Well, I'm glad you did.' Lorelai took another sip of coffee. "Tell me about your little girl," she added, smiling. "You're gonna be such a great dad."
"Well, that's the problem," Luke began, as the sun continued to shine through the windows. "Her mother doesn't want me to have anything…"
"Oh Luke," Lorelai said with great empathy. "Christmas must have been…"
"She acts like I'm a deadbeat."
"Nonsense, Luke. I'll help you," Lorelai said, squeezing his hand. "We'll get a lawyer if we have to. We're a family, and your girl--"
"April, her name is April."
"April is part of our family."
Luke brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it.
"Lorelai, about the wedding. I don't know that I should…"
"You don't want to set a wedding date until things are right with April," Lorelai stated.
"Are you OK with that?"
"Honestly? No. I want to marry you right now. But yes, I'll be OK with it. When we get married, I want only one thought on your mind, mister!"
"More coffee?" Luke asked.
"Does 'Nightline' suck now that Ted Koppel's hair is no longer there for the mocking?"
Luke chuckled, refilling her cup.
"Tell me about April, Luke…"