Disoriented, she reaches for the phone but the bedside table is empty. Realizing she is at Luke's and that Luke's phone is halfway across the room she stumbles out of bed. Who keeps their phone this far from the bed anyway she grumbles to herself, grabbing the receiver.
"Hello," she says sleepily, looking at the kitchen clock strike seven.
"Is Luke there?" she hears a female voice ask.
Looking over at Luke, still dead to the world, she hesitates for a minute before replying.
"He can't come to the phone right now. Would you like to leave a message?" she answers, a little coldly.
Hearing a sigh from the other end of the phone, the hesitancy in answering, she prompts her.
"Anna?"
"Yes. April is on her way over. I got up to a note saying she had to talk to him before school. I'm not sure how long ago she left, but she'll probably be there any minute."
"Oh. . . okay. Thanks."
"Lorelai?"
"Yes," she says softly.
"I'm glad you're there."
"Thanks. I better get Luke up."
"Okay. . .and Good Luck."
Racing around the bedroom, dressing as quickly as possible, she stops to shake Luke a couple of times, but he just answers with a groan.
"Luke, you have to wake up, April is on her way over."
"What?" he says, sitting up, looking disheveled and sleepy.
At the sudden knock on the door, they both jump.
"We are so busted," she says, meeting his now frozen expression.
Watching Luke hastily pull on his jeans from the night before, she adjusts her own clothes before answering the door.
"Good morning," Lorelai says a little sheepishly, feeling unexpectedly guilty being caught in Luke's apartment.
"Good morning," April says hesitantly, "is my... is Luke here?"
"Yes. Of course. Come in," Lorelai answers her, ushering her in the door.
Lorelai can't help but smile at the picture Luke makes. Barefoot, rumpled, wrinkled and incredibly hung over, he makes his way to the kitchen table, mumbling a i good morning /i on his way, before dropping into a chair and burying his face in his hands.
Surprisingly, this spurs April to action, dropping her coat and backpack on the couch, she goes to the kitchen and grabs a glass out of the cabinet, searching the refrigerator for orange juice, and declaring success on finding some.
"Aspirin?" she asks Lorelai, who is still staring dumbfounded at the child's practicality in such a tension filled circumstance.
"Right, sure," she answers, finding some in the drawer near the silverware, handing them to her, and dropping down at the kitchen table, joining Luke.
"My mother swears this always works for a hangover," April says matter-of-factly.
"Your mother have a lot of rough nights?" Luke answers her gruffly, finally entering into the conversation.
"No. But once a year she goes out with her high school girlfriends, and they always end up playing this game of whoever did this or that - has to take a shot. She usually does really well until they get to the i whoever got lucky with Butch /I part she says, then apparently she must have been really lucky cause she always wins that one.
"Jeeze," Luke groans, again burying his face in his hands.
"Oh. . . . Oh," April squeaks, realizing the meaning of the Butch part after all these years.
April and Lorelai both glance at Luke and then at each other, mirrored smiles appear on their faces, before they both start to giggle at Luke's discomfort. Lorelai watches Luke slowly glance from one to the other realizing that the two women in his life have bonded over something as simple as the mocking of one Butch Danes. He shakes his head before he too lets out a small self-conscious chuckle.
The tension broken, April slides down in a seat at the table, looking suddenly serious and intent on her purpose.
"I'm sorry," she says to Luke.
"You don't have anything to be sorry about," he answers her, squeezing her hand, unconsciously showing her that everything is okay.
"I thought that my mom. . . well she doesn't really date. . . and I never really told her about the whole science fair project until after. . . I thought that maybe. . . she was waiting for you. . . you know, to call her. . . come back and find her. . . something. But she wasn't. . . she isn't. . . she set me straight about that last night," she says, looking apologetically at Luke.
"It's okay."
"She told me that even though I thought that I could just put two and two together, it's not as simple as that with love, that there is no perfect formula, and it's never predictable. I guess she always knew where to find you, but you weren't . . . the one."
"I know."
"And she wasn't the one for you either," she says, glancing at Lorelai.
"No. She wasn't. Are you okay with that?"
"Yes," she says brightly. "So, you're not mad at me?"
"No. I'm not mad at you."
"I think we had our first fight," April says with a slight smile.
"Looks like we did," Luke grins back at her.
"But we're okay now," she nods.
"Yes. We are." he agrees, patting her hand.
"Good. I guess I should be getting to school. I'm going to be late."
"Hey, why don't you go down and get some breakfast, and I'll drive you to school. Your dad can bring your bike to you later with the truck."
"Sure. That sounds great."
Lorelai doesn't miss the slight widening of April's eyes at the words I your dad. /I For the first time she realizes how much this child has had to adjust to in the last couple of months. She can almost feel sorry for Anna. She's sure the questions she had to answer last night were not easy ones, for this child has the kind of curious mind that would want to understand every detail.
"Come on, Caesar makes really good blueberry pancakes," Lorelai says, leading her out the door.
"Lorelai, I'll see you later," Luke promises.
She wasn't nervous an hour ago when Luke called to say he was going to bring April's bike back and clear the air with Anna and then he'd be over. But since then she's been flitting from one activity to another, unable to distract herself from her wayward thoughts. After finally coaxing him off the couch last night and into bed, it was only moments before he was out for the count. Lying there, watching him sleep, feeling the heat radiating off his body, was both a pleasure and a torture. So many things were left unsaid, although it was a start of sorts, and hopefully a beginning. He sounded so sure on the phone, calling to let her know he was coming, that he had a purpose, that they needed to talk.
She has never felt less like talking in her life. All she can think about is touching him, seeing his eyes and expression change when she is pleasing him. All she can think about is loving him. Her heart feels like it's going to beat out of her chest, nerves jangled with adrenaline, a mixture of fear and desire making her jumpy and shaky all at once.
When the knock comes she has to stop and just breathe for a minute, telling herself to calm down, to take it slow, to let him talk, to let him set the pace.
But when the door closes and she is standing so close to him, her resolve to be cool is forgotten, and she finds herself reaching for him, unable to stop herself. Running her hand along his cheek, meeting his lips, she is reminded of the first time she kissed him so long ago on the Dragonfly's steps. When his hands grasp her hips, she sways into his embrace, a soft moan escaping the back of her throat.
"I wasn't going to do this," she groans, unable to release him.
"I'm not complaining," he answers, capturing her lips for another deep kiss, his moan now mixing with hers as their need grows.
Stepping back, she reaches down to take his hand, leading him up the stairs.
As they enter the bedroom, the soft light from the hall, casts shadows on the dark room. And suddenly she can feel the weight of the last time they were here, crushing her chest, filling her eyes with tears.
"Lorelai, we should talk," he says, feeling her sudden tension.
"Later," she says, kissing him softly,.
"Never," she whispers, tugging at his shirt,.
"It doesn't matter," she cries, suddenly overcome by the emotions overcrowding her mind.
"Luke, make me forget that I cried myself to sleep the last time you left here," she says, meeting his gaze, unable to stop herself from trembling in front of him, from voicing her need for him to understand, to heal.
"God, Lorelai, I. . . ."
"Just love me," she whispers, "I need. . ."
"You," he answers simply, for her, with her.
Inpatient hands tear at clothing, both needing to feel skin and heat. Pushing her back on the bed, he races over her with his hands and mouth, control lost in the searing need to both love and possess. Soft cries of pleasure turn to shuddering sobs as he brings her up again and again.
"Luke, please. . ." she moans, needing him inside her.
And when he fills her, they both moan, whispering needs and words too long unspoken. And when they start to move, each matching the rhythm of the other, they know they have banished at least some of the ghosts of the past.
Luke?" she asks, wondering if he's fallen asleep.
"Now you want to talk?"
"Yes. I'll talk. You listen. Okay?"
"Sure."
Plumping the pillows up behind them, she leans against his chest as he brings his arms around her, tucking the covers around them.
"Give me your hand," she says.
"This is you," she explains, holding up his hand. "And this is me," she says, taking her smaller, paler hand and holding it flat against this palm. "And this is us together," she says, folding her fingers between his and squeezing his hand lightly, waiting for him to close his fingers against her hand.
"Okay, go on."
"And when things get dishonest, or jealous, or angry, or confused or complicated, all we have to do is just hold on a little tighter," she says, tightening her grip, "and everything will be okay. It's when we let go of each other that things get screwed up, you know what I mean?"
"Yes," he answers, taking their joined hands to his lips and planting a soft kiss on her knuckles, squeezing her hand gently.
"It's all really very simple. Sometimes I'll have to hold on a little tighter because you need me, and sometimes you'll have to hold on a little tighter because I need you."
"As long as we don't let go," he reassures her.
"Yes. As long as we don't ever let go again."
"Because Luke," she says with conviction, "when we hold on like this, we're. . . unbreakable."
"Unbreakable," he repeats thoughtfully, ". . . yeah. . . I like that."
"Yeah. . . me too."
THE END