She has found the perfect path from the dining room to the office to the foyer - her nightly pacing ritual. It is late and she should go home, get some rest, but it is getting harder and harder to walk in that door lately.
Home is where Luke used to be but he hasn't been there for 6 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days. But who's counting? Not since he broke the back door. Not since she told him she understood him when he said it was too much. Not since she told him she wasn't that kind of girl, you know, the kind that cries and begs her boyfriend to stay.
It was awkward at first, bumping into him, but unavoidable. She remembers the first time she decided to brave the diner for a cup of coffee. It was a Monday. The door bell chimed as she entered and voices hushed. She walked up to the counter, a huge smile on her face, and ordered a coffee and a danish, to go please. She remembers his face that first time, shock and then a grateful kind of respect. After that it became a Monday morning ritual, almost a challenge to show the town that they could coexist even though they didn't coexist anymore. And even after 6 months, 2 weeks and 3 days, every Monday, it was a little easier to get up.
Home is where Rory used to be, but she hasn't been there for 3 months, 1 week, and 4 days. But who's counting? Not since she dropped out of Yale and she moved into the pool house. Not since she told her she could not come back to Stars Hallow and just do nothing.
It's not just that Rory is not living at home, because she really hasn't lived there for a while. But she is not visiting, her books are not on her shelves, her voice is not waiting for her on the answering machine when she gets home late.
She has never been this alone.
She almost feels like she is not grown up enough to be this alone.
She has lost weight. The dress she is wearing extenuates her slimness. She would like to describe herself as delicate, but she knows that it would not be accurate. She is more brittle than breakable. She feels brittle, like a piece of herself falls away every day and soon there will be little left that she can recognize. And she almost wishes she could break, like a piece of fragile glass, and be done with it, instead of losing herself bit by painful bit.
Sitting in her office, closing her eyes for just a minute, she drifts off to sleep. This is the only place she feels safe anymore, that she feels in control, of which she is proud.
"Excuse me, Ms. Gilmore," the night supervisor says as he shakes her awake.
"Maybe you should get going home, get some sleep," he says kindly.
"Of course. Thanks," she says, gathering her things, walking blindly to the Jeep.
She notices the time when she turns the key in the ignition, 10:30 p.m. She had been asleep in her chair for an hour. Feeling groggy and disoriented, she starts the drive home. But before she's aware of what she is doing, she is pulling up in front of the diner and jumping out of her Jeep.
When the door bell chimes, she comes out of her stupor, realizing her mistake.
"We're closed," he says without glancing up.
And she stands frozen just inside the door, remembering every other time he said those words and didn't mean them.
Looking up at her, he says them again, with a weariness, a tenderness even, remembering too.
"Sorry," she says backing out the door.
The house is totally dark when she gets home. She hates the feeling of dread and fear she gets just walking up the porch steps. It is like the house is haunted with moments she can never quite get back, a constant reminder of what she has lost.
The routine here is the same too. Toss the coat, take a quick glance at the answering machine, that doesn't answer back, trudge up the stairs to peel off the layers of work.
Donning a robe, she slips back down to the dark rooms. Taking down a glass she pours a neat shot of Jose Cuervo. Sitting on the couch in the dark, she downs the drink that hopefully will help her sleep.
The knock is faint, just a tapping, really. She has heard this knock before, the tentative steps taken by an uncertain man. She has not heard it in a long time. Probably 5 months, 1 week, and 2 days, but whose counting?
She remembers sitting in this same spot as she listened to his half-hearted attempt to take the first step. But she knows the drill, count to ten, he will be gone. Because the half-hearted never stay very long, this she knows well.
She pours another shot and begins the counting in her head, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. And she knows he is gone, because he has always been gone before when she has finally gone to the door and this time won't be any different. She downs the second shot and starts for the stairs, but she turns, realizing she has forgotten part of the game.
She startles him when she quickly pulls the door open and he startles her, just by being there. She stands aside as he enters, quietly closing the door, leaning her forehead against the cold wood for just a moment. Her stomach feels hot and her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol. She resigns herself to whatever fate has to offer when she turns to face him.
Touching just his fingers, she leads him up the stairs.
They have not spoken, but what is there to say, really? Her compulsive act of unconscious need has triggered his. They look at each other and know that having gotten this far, they are too weak to stop what will happen next. And they are not willing to stop it. They will just try not to damage each other too much in the process.
"This doesn't change anything," he says, but she lays her fingers over his mouth to halt his faltering words.
"I know," she answers, letting him off the hook.
She unties the robe and lets it drift to the floor. She stands naked in front of him for just a moment, then walks around the bed to lie down. He sits on the edge, his back to her, indecision in his posture and she is not sure if she wants him to stay or go. When his first boot hits the floor an overwhelming feeling of fear claws its way up from her belly and for a moment, she almost tells him to leave. But an overwhelming need, a sudden rush of emotions keep her silent. When the second boot hits the floor resignation takes over, quelling the fear, extinguishing the hope that leaps into her heart for just a moment
Everything seems slightly fuzzy around the edges and she is thankful for the alcoholic haze. Lips meet in rough abandon. There is little tenderness, for their need is a desperate thing, but none is wanted. Pleasure comes in waves, physical feelings so intense they block out any need to think, to feel. Beads of sweat form on her brow as the pace increases, hard, fast, deep. Her breathing sounds loud in the quiet room, panting in response to his movements. She moans in pleasure, grasping for release, but it stays just out of reach, an elusive thing. She keens as he shouts out his, reveling in the shudders that temporarily wrack his body, finally releasing her.
Her head is swirling from the combination of exhaustion, alcohol and heaving breaths. And as she thinks to herself, I've been well and truly fucked she feels another piece of herself falling away. She welcomes the oblivion of sleep, as she closes her eyes. . .
She awakes with a start, disoriented, heart pounding. She refuses to open her eyes, feeling him next to her, feeling vulnerable and exposed. She does not expect this, she thought he would be gone. She can feel his fingers gently tracing her brow, brushing the hair off her face, rubbing his thumb roughly across her lips. And he kisses her tenderly, just a slight brush, again and again until he has her trembling, clutching him, asking for more.
"I've missed you, I've missed you so much," she whispers, wrapped up in the feeling of missed opportunities, broken dreams, broken hearts.
He stiffens above her and she knows she has broken some rule, some limit he has put on this night. Her words hang in the air, breaking the intentional silence. She can not stop the wave of hurt and anger and shame that washes over her. Tears prick the back of her eyes, but she refuses to cry. She pushes at his chest, struggling in his embrace, but he holds fast to her.
"Shhhhh," he whispers.
"Don't," he says, soothing and seducing.
"Don't fight me." But she can not fight herself, never mind him.
So she puts herself into his hands, unable to deny him.
And everything is slower this time, sweeter, tender. Sad, like goodbye. And it does not matter to her anymore if she shows her feelings of love for this man, because she has no where to hide anymore. And for a moment, just a moment, he does not hide from her either. And the goodbye just becomes all the more sweet.
He does not stay and she bites her lip to keep from crying out her need for him to not walk out the door. As he turns his back to her and slowly dresses, the tears fall silently from the corners of her eyes, wetting her hair and soaking the pillow.
The sound of the door closing echoes loud within the dark house, muffling the sound of a choked sob.
It is late when she wakes, the day gray and dark with the smell of a late summer storm. The previous night seems almost like a dream, as she goes about her morning routine, shower, dress, blow dry her hair. Reaching in the medicine cabinet, she fingers the pillbox, remembering how she forgot to refill them last month. She drops the empty container in the trash. Fate cannot be that cruel.
To be continued