Notes: I've come to the realization that the hardest part of this entire story is not going to be characterization continuity, it's not going to be planning, it's not even going to be coming up with unique ideas. It's going to be writing Christopher in a favorable light. God, I forgot how much I hate him. I hope his part in this chapter came through as genuine enough without the very obvious fact that I despise his very being. I hope I learn to like his warped iteration during the span of this story more than I like his canon iteration. One can dream.
Droolia pointed out something important to me about this story last time: Another change to canon is that Lorelai is about ten years older than she was in the show. I think everyone agrees that if Lorelai was sixteen and Mitchum was thirty-five, that'd be beyond gross. The fact that Lorelai is older also plays into Rory's changed relationship with her maternal grandparents, as briefly inquired by CloudyDream.
I always yack too much before a chapter, so I'm just going to get right into this one, no fuss. I'm trying to get better at that.
Enjoy. :)
(Two – Logan)
November 23rd, 2003
His town never appeared quite as small as it did during the first snow of the season. The lot of them got very excited for Christmas – there were bright lights, inflatable snowmen and fake reindeer on every corner, and everything felt – peaceful, serene… tranquil, really. There was a certain joy Logan associated with the holiday season, and it had nothing to do with religion, cutting down pine trees or a jolly old imaginary fat-ass idolized by kids around the nation. No, it had more to do with the beaming smile on his father's face every time they'd go ice-fishing deep in the woods, sharing tuna melt sandwiches over a creaky, old dilapidated wood furnace. Or perhaps it was the twinkling of mirth in his father's hazel eyes as he gave the signal to jiggle the back door and break into Tom's for some stolen eggnog. His father dove headfirst into the Christmas Spirit, mischievous and childlike as ever, and ever since he was a kid, Logan had been dragged along for the ride.
Christmas reminded him of his father. It reminded him of his childhood, of relaxation – of nice, old-fashioned peace of mind.
He wasn't feeling any of that today.
Today, his mind was stuffed to the brim with thoughts of puzzles, enigmas and questions he really didn't want answered. If there was one thing Logan Hayden couldn't resist, it was a good puzzle. He'd been doing crossword puzzles with his father since he was five years old, had been a hell of a chess player all his life and was the best damn poker player Cheshire High School had ever seen. This girl… he didn't enjoy the fact that he was intrigued by her, for obvious reasons – it felt like a betrayal of the grandest measure. But, all the same… she was so interesting. He still wasn't quite convinced that her whole Renée routine wasn't just some elaborate ruse, knowing what he knew about her and what she was capable of, but at the same time, he felt paralyzed by her compassionate smile, the twinkle of laughter in her mesmerizing eyes and the way she made you feel like the only person in the world.
No, he scolded himself forcefully. Rory Huntzberger was a cold-hearted, selfish, Machiavellian mastermind, there was no doubt in his mind. She was just a really good actress. He wouldn't be the first to be lured in by her sweet, false promises and bitten by her sharp teeth; he knew that with a profound sense of sadness.
It didn't matter how interesting she was – it didn't matter that his skin burned with the desire to unravel her mysteries, none of that mattered. He knew who Rory Huntzberger really was, what she had done, and what she would do if he fell for her falsely sweet charms and deceptions. He nodded resolutely. Once this article was out, he'd go back to ignoring the issue of her existence – just like he'd promised six years ago.
"You've got an addiction, kid – you know your grandmother wants to send you to rehab, thinks energy drinks are pseudo-drugs that lead into harder shit."
Logan nearly jumped out of his skin; he hadn't even heard his father's footsteps climb down the stairs. He turned the page of his newspaper, giving his father an incredulous eyebrow raise and nothing else.
"Where do you want to go, man? There's so many options – Florida, California?" Chris' smirk was positively lethal, sharp with sarcastic delight; "We could go exotic, if you want. Barbados, Bora-Bora, Thailand…"
"Dad," Logan interrupted with an amused snort; "Seriously – you know Grandma, she's bat shit crazy. Give her a G&T and she'll stop yammering on about my drinking habits and start indulging in her own."
"I went to Thailand in high school," Chris mused thoughtfully, ignoring his son's interruption – "…goddamn gorgeous women, you sure you don't want to reconsider?"
Logan's lips pulled into a sardonic smile – "Oh, well… if Thailand is the only place on earth with beautiful women, I say sign me up."
"Smartass," Chris snickered under his breath.
"Better than being a dumbass," he chortled back.
"Y'know, I never talked to my father like that," Chris scolded playfully.
"Yeah, 'cause Grandpa's a dick."
Chris opened the refrigerator, took out a cold beer and sat down in the chair next to him. "Too true, my boy – too true."
After a heavy, long lapse in conversation, Chris snatched the paper from Logan's hands despite his vehement cries of protest and laid it down out of reach. "Alright, tell me what's on your mind."
Logan furrowed his brows. "Who says I've got anything on my mind? How d'you know it's not just a big empty void up there?"
"Well, you're not actually reading the paper, you're just glaring at the words – trust me, I can tell. Call it parental intuition. Secondly, you haven't touched your Red Bull in five minutes, and if that's not enough cause for concern, you're doing that weird Drew Barrymore side-mouth stroke thing. That's your tell – you're deep in concentration, and it's not about a newspaper article."
Ignoring Chris' inquisitive smile, Logan glared harshly as he realized his lips were in fact twitching. Giving up, he took a long swig of his Red Bull, sighed in pleasure as the beautiful liquid slid down effortlessly, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
"Alright, yeah, Dad, your spidey senses aren't defective. I've got something on my mind – but you're wrong, it is about a newspaper article. Well…" a dark grimace spread on his face – "It's also about a girl."
"And why is that unusual?" Chris teased slyly, "You've had a girl on your mind 24/7 ever since you fell in love with Ms. Abrams in the third grade."
"Man, she was hot; those tight sweaters and those legs, damn…" Logan whistled low, humorous – just a brief distraction from the woman who was really on his mind. "No, this time a girl isn't on my mind 'cause she's hot, she's on my mind 'cause I hate her."
Chris let out a bark of laughter. "You hate a girl? C'mon, Logan – girls are your favorite species. I didn't think you could hate a girl."
"Oh, believe me – I'm very capable of hating this one," he grumbled darkly.
"Alright, man – that's not enough to go on. I'm gonna need some more information about Public Enemy #1."
Logan practically spat out her name – "Rory Huntzberger."
Chris' lips pulled into a thin line, a crease of thought in his forehead. "Why does that name sound familiar? Rory…" he took a second before a flash of recognition passed his features. "Colin? Colin's… that Huntzberger?"
Logan nodded stoically.
"Well, shit," Chris swore in surprise; "That is enough information. Wait… what does this have to do with a newspaper article?"
Taking another sip of Red Bull, Logan answered dejectedly, "She's writing an article about 'Syntax' for the Daily News. Under a penname, of all goddamn things. I can't… I don't know why she's writing under a penname, and it's driving me insane." His eyes widened a bit, "Make sure you don't say that to anyone, though – fucking bitch got me to sign a confidentiality agreement. If she knew I broke it, her family's hoards of lawyers would tear us apart limb from limb."
"Wouldn't be the first time she helped her family tear someone apart limb from limb, would it?" Chris asked rhetorically.
Logan immediately bristled – "I don't want to talk about that, it's not my place. It's not yours either."
Chris put his arms up in surrender, taking a sip of his beer. "I won't say a thing. You know me; I wouldn't do that. But, uh…" he hesitated, his voice wavering with uncertainty; "Are you going to tell him about her writing the article?"
"Who?" Logan asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
"Colin, of course – who else would I mean?"
"Well, no, I don't think I will," Logan said resolutely, "It's not as if Colin goes to Yale – we all know who saw to that – and I'm not planning on being one of her fuck-toys anytime in this millennium, so once the article is out it'll blow over. I see no reason to upset him, I see no reason to even mention her name."
"Your call," Chris said, "But he's going to be more angry if he finds out from someone else that you kept it from him."
He snatched the newspaper back, roughly turning the page and opening it, but the words staring back at him were blurry. "She's so infuriating, that girl. I want to hate her, and trust me – I do. But at the same time I can't seem to figure her out – she plays a lot of dangerous mind-games, and everything you think you know about her turns itself on its axis every five seconds. I know what she did to Colin, and I'll never forget that, but her eyes, her voice, the way she looks at you – it all seems so authentic, genuine… intoxicating."
He paused, looking helpless and confused. "I guess that's why Colin trusted her to begin with, and why eventually it all fell to shit. Well, the same will never happen to me. Girl's a bloody siren, I know it."
Finishing his Red Bull, he squashed the can down to a ring and threw it in the garbage. Walking towards the refrigerator, he took out another one and opened it immediately.
Chris was eerily quiet before he asked, "How many of those did you buy today?"
"Three twelve packs." At his father's incredulous look, he shrugged; "I like to stock up."
"Your grandmother may be right," Chris teased, mirth dancing in his eyes.
"I don't like to call it an addiction," Logan smirked in amusement; "I'd rather refer to it as a healthy, symbiotic relationship. I give it a home; it gives me nourishment and energy. It's a well-established system."
"You're just lucky I don't bribe Tom into refusing you service," Chris quipped lightly.
A cocky smirk twitched on Logan's lips. "I'd like to see you try, Dad. I'm Tom's best customer."
"I'm Tom's best friend," Chris fired back just as quickly.
Logan chuckled, smiling at his father, "That may be so, but friends aren't the ones that secure his business with cash-flow."
Chris gave a hearty laugh, and before he could reply, a loud, generic jingle filled the space between them and Logan dug his phone out of his messenger bag, holding it to his ear and motioning for his Dad to give him a minute. "What's up, Marty?" … "Really, this early?" … "I didn't think it'd come out for another week or so, most articles take longer than this." … "Right now?" … "Well, yeah, of course I want to see it." … "Mate, I know how important it is, it's my damn website." … "Alright, I'll be there in an hour."
He rose from his chair, slipped his jacket on with ease and apologized to his father. "I'm sorry, Dad – this is really important. Apparently the article came out early, I wasn't expecting it until next week. Marty and the guys really want to hash it out, so I've gotta—"
Chris waved him off with a smile. "Get out of here, kid. Your Dad's got a hot date tonight, anyway. Even your old man gets laid once in a while. Where do you think you got your dazzling charm?"
Logan smirked. "Don't jinx yourself, Dad – this woman may be way out of your league." He snickered, pulled his Dad into a one-armed hug and said, "Nah – you're a Hayden. Even if you're old, nobody's outta your league."
Chris guffawed, as if offended, but his lips pulled into a sincere smile – "Go give 'em hell, kid."
'Syntax, the innovative brainstorm by electric duo Logan Hayden and Marty Fell, is only the tip of the new wave known as digital journalism. Unencumbered by doubts, fears and insecurities, these two pioneers have built themselves a platform from which all online publications will be judged henceforth. Embodying a spirit rivaling the world's most esteemed entrepreneurs and a drive mirrored by the most successful businessmen while utilizing top-notch resources, connections and fluid, polished writing, this is not a project that the Yale Daily News can afford to ignore.'
'The chief architect behind this project, Logan Hayden, knows exactly the challenges, contention and turbulence his publication will face as it expands, but if anything, this only further ignites the fire and steely determination in his eyes.'
'It is clear that only time will tell where this ambitious endeavor will find itself in years to come, but with their magnetic brand of enthusiasm, there is no doubt in my mind that Syntax has been able to pull off what hoards of publications before it have been too timid to attempt—building a platform more accessible, enticing and kindred to the human spirit than we've ever seen before. I can't predict the future, but if you, like me, believe that stark, raw enthusiasm is the most important cornerstone of success, you'll put your mouth and your money into endorsing the future of journalism as it blooms right in front of our eyes.'
Logan's jaw was hanging loosely open, his eyes wide and stunned. "It's–"
Marty clapped him on the shoulder, broad-grinned and exuberant, "It's a fucking rave, man! A rave, can you honestly believe it?" Oblivious to the white pallor of Logan's face, Marty plowed on, too excited to notice anything but his own enthusiasm; "What Daily News Reporter would write a rave about a competing publication? She's going to get skinned alive by her editor for this, and I almost feel bad." His smile widened. "Actually, hell no I don't feel bad. Do you know what this is going to do for us? Do you have any idea—"
He broke off, finally sensing Logan's panic. "Logan, what's wrong?"
"I, uhm…" he trailed off, biting his lips in confusion. Why on earth would Huntzberger write something like this after the horrible way he'd treated her? He'd been dreading this article for a week, thinking it would be an absolute devastation to his life's work – a complete obliteration of his pride and joy. To be honest, he wouldn't even blame her if she had skinned him alive. He'd done everything to deserve it. For god's sake, he couldn't even be professional enough to shake her hand, despite his feelings. This was a disaster – she had to have an ulterior motive. This must be some underhanded ploy, just to fuck with him. There was no other explanation.
"I've got somewhere I need to be right now," he said, grabbing his bag and running his sweaty, nervous fingers through his damp hair.
"What?" Marty asked incredulously. "What the hell, man? Kelsey finally sent in selections for the new logo design, and Gavin's got a problem with one of our biggest advertisers, and—"
Logan smiled, trying to fight back the burning feeling of utter anxious nausea; "I trust you with all of it, Marty, I really do. This is your baby as much as it is mine. Right now, I really have somewhere to be. Sorry, man."
He bolted out of Marty's dorm as fast as humanly possible, and found himself marching in a direction he'd never gone before – Branford. Only the richest at Yale could secure a place in Branford College, and he'd never even been in the vicinity before, but right now, that steely determination she'd written about in her article was practically shooting lasers at everyone he passed. When he reached the door signaling the occupants of L.H. and P.G., he gave two sharp, concise knocks and waited with his stance as rigid as it had ever been.
"Where the hell do you get off writing all that shit?"
Apparently, he'd caught her very off-guard, because she didn't immediately come back with a sharp retort, but stared at him, stunned. Finally finding her voice, she said pointedly, "If I remember correctly, I painted your magazine in quite a favorable light. I've received a lot of backlash from pissed off people, but never from someone I raved about."
"But why?" He asked heatedly, not dropping the subject.
"Why did I write you a rave when you treated me like a disease?" She asked, eyebrow raised.
His lips twitched into a sardonic smile—"Gee, you sure catch on quick," he mimicked her prior words back at her.
A light, seemingly genuine smile appeared across her face—"Get inside."
"Ooh, changed your tune already?"
She closed the door behind him, trying to bite down the laugh that threatened to burst forth, and rounded on him again. "Alright, what are you blabbering about – and speak in full sentences this time, please."
Logan inhaled slowly, uncertainty clear in every mannerism he displayed. "You took time and consideration to write a rave about my magazine, when you could've easily destroyed it without any real effort. And I gave you every reason to publicly shame it. I berated you, your friends, your family, your lifestyle – every insult I could've possibly thrown at you, I did. I treated you like you were the goddamn filth on my shoes and you wrote me a rave? That doesn't make any sense, Huntzberger, so I'm asking you again, why?"
Her flippant response made his fists clench in anger—"You can call me Rory."
"I'll call you whatever I damn well please," he said hotly, still looking for an answer. "Stop evading me. What are you up to?"
Sighing, she sat down on the couch and paused the television he hadn't even realized was playing. "I told you when I interviewed you, I'm an unbiased journalist. Believe whatever you want about my character, but I'm just asking you to believe that much about me as a writer. I don't write biased bullshit to cater to an agenda that's not about giving people the truth. I have a lot of respect for this business, and I write exactly what I see exactly how I see it. I wrote what I saw, and I wrote what I felt. No underhanded ploys or devious plots, it really is that simple."
The raw, gritty truth in her voice came as a shock, but she seemed to be shocking him left and right lately. It was only during this brief pause that he looked at the room more closely—looked at her, more specifically. She was wearing a ripped, ratty old Yale t-shirt and blue sweatpants rolled up to her knees, her hair in a messy, haphazard bun and her face was completely devoid of anything but clear, pale skin. She looked absolutely nothing like Rory Huntzberger, all polished and dolled up twenty-four seven, and it made him even more nauseous to realize that she actually looked really fucking adorable.
Adorable? Huntzberger? Do those two words even exist on the same planet?
It was only once he calmed down and took a deep breath that he noticed the array of food on her coffee table. "What is all this?"
"Oh, uh…" she stammered, and he could've sworn he saw her blush – what the actual fuck? "These are my refreshments for the evening."
"It's a Friday night," he stated plainly.
"Thanks, Hayden, but I'm familiar with the way a weekly calendar works," she quipped with a smirk.
He rolled his eyes. "It's a Friday night – doesn't Rory Huntzberger prowl New Haven for boy-toys to add to her entourage on Friday nights?"
"Only the Friday nights I can't make up excuses for," she muttered low under her breath.
"What was that?"
"Uh—" she seemed to be gathering her usual confidence back, perturbed that this guy was taking her so far out of her element. It felt weird to not be in control of a social interaction, it just wasn't how her world worked. "Why is this any of your business, Hayden?"
"It's not, I was just curious." He glanced over at the T.V. and recognized the screen-shot, a jolt of electricity running through his bones. "The Goonies?" He asked, a shy smile on his lips.
"A classic," she affirmed, smiling back.
"I'm uhm… I'm sorry," he apologized quickly, though what he was apologizing for, he wasn't sure. Was he apologizing for yelling at her; for assuming things about her life; or for treating her like shit for reasons that weren't entirely his own? It was probably all of the above, but she didn't need to know that. "For intruding on your night," he clarified.
"It's alright, I don't mind company," she said. As he began to head for the door, her voice floated across to him, more shy and timid than he'd ever expect from her… "Do you want to stay?"
He turned back, as if he didn't believe his own ears. "What?"
She gestured to the wide array of food around her, smirk still firmly in place, but it was one that made his heart leap. It wasn't sarcastic, sharp or cutting. It was… kind of sweet. "I have enough pizza, Chinese and junk food to feed a village, and you love this movie. It would be awfully rude of me not to offer."
"How do you know I love this movie?" He asked tentatively.
"Oh, please," she waved him off in amusement. "If you want to mask your emotions a little better, you'd better hide those eyes, 'cause they express your every thought and then some."
Extremely torn, he was looking from her mesmerizing blue eyes back to the door as if he wanted to run – but, surprisingly, he found that he really didn't. He was tired of running from her, he just wanted to sit down and enjoy himself. And there was no better way to enjoy oneself than eating Chinese food and watching the Goonies – even if it was with Rory Huntzberger.
He hesitantly sat down and picked up a carton of Chinese food, scooping some of it into his mouth, and he looked at her, a beaming smile on her face that seemed almost painfully authentic. The movie played on in the background quietly as they stole hidden glances at each other every few minutes.
"Can I ask you a question?" He said suddenly, finding his mouth moving before he had given it permission.
"I don't guarantee I'll answer, but sure," she joked lightly.
"Why do you write under a penname? You clearly love it, and you're a Huntzberger. Between your talent and your last name, you could be the Editor of any major newspaper in the country before you turned twenty-five."
A surprised expression formed quickly followed by a sort of resigned grimace—"I've written under a penname my entire life. I've never written a damn thing as Rory Huntzberger, and that's the way it'll stay." She sucked in a breath, seeming to wonder if she should continue. "The thing is, I don't want to work at a major daily, I want to be a foreign correspondent. I don't want the Huntzberger Media Empire, not a single damn part of it. Why do you think I only write about foreign affairs? I want to report the truth about the world, the stories from the vantage point of the people that are actually suffering through them, not from the point of an elitist American blue-blood just traipsing around the world on holiday…"
Logan was looking at her as if he'd never seen her before.
"I want to be more than that," she declared emphatically, biting into a slice of pizza, "And I can't do that under my father's thumb. I can't write anything my father knows about. He can't think I actually give a shit or he'd never let me out of the grips of my family's legacy, so I – Rory Huntzberger – don't write anything at all."
"That's–" Logan started, words failing him.
"Way too heavy to be coming out of Rory Huntzberger's mouth?" She asked with a sarcastic smile.
"Well, yeah," he laughed along with her.
"Hmm," she pondered with a inquisitive expression on her face before she shook her head and turned back to the movie; "Pass me an eggroll, Hayden."
Mhm, damn… her hair smelled so good. Mostly vanilla, with just a hint of spice he couldn't attribute to anything in particular. It was so soft too, smooth and enticing, and he found it a perfectly acceptable choice to stay in bed with this girl all day, classes and the magazine be damned. Who did he go home with last night anyway? Everything was a little fuzzy, even his eyesight.
"Hayden?" A soft voice whispered, and he stirred a little further out of his delirium. Oh, apparently Huntzberger woke up.
Wait… Huntzberger?!
"Holy fuck," he shouted, ripping himself violently from his position with his back lying flat against Rory Huntzberger's couch with the aforementioned girl's head buried into the crook of his neck.
"Woah, Logan—slow down," she said hurriedly, scared by his fierce reaction.
"I can't—" he was hyperventilating, he was sure of it. "I can't believe this."
"Relax," she soothed him, "We didn't sleep together. We just fell asleep, it's no big deal. Shit happens. My roommate didn't even see us, she's gone for the whole weekend. No harm done."
"No harm done?" He repeated, aghast in horror. No, he mentally protested, a lot of harm done. Mountains upon mountains of harm done. "I can't… not with you," he spat coldly.
Her eyes burned so fiercely he thought a crater was going to spread across his chest until there was nothing left of him but a few scraps of ash. "Okay, that is enough! I realize you hate me for some strange reason, and I demand to know why. For god's sake, I realize I'm not the nicest person ever nor do I have a sparkling reputation, but you hate me – you don't even know me."
He laughed darkly – "Oh, I know you. I know exactly who you are."
"What the hell does that mean?" She asked angrily, her blue eyes shining with indignation and a whole lot of hurt that he was choosing to ignore.
He shook his head vehemently. "I have to get out of here," he said resolutely and dashed out her door so quickly he left his book-bag lying forgotten in her room. By the time he got across the quad and back to his own dorm, he was out of breath, panicked and wide-eyed. The jovial figure smiling from his armchair stood up and pulled him into a hug he wasn't prepared for. The breath was nearly knocked out of him as he tried to wrap his brain around this deadly, deadly situation. "Colin? What the hell are you doing here, man?"
Colin's wide, joyful grin usually made Logan satisfied that his best friend was happy, but now, with the events of last night, it just made him want to vomit. "Dad's mistress, the maid, you remember me telling you all about that, right? Well, the old bat died last week, and Mom and I got a hell of a lot of cash. I'm transferring to Yale, mate. No more UNH, effective immediately."
Oh, dear god. "I need to sit down."
"Are you okay?" Colin asked skeptically. "You look like you're about to faint, man."
"I need to tell you something, and you're not going to like it." His voice was barely functioning, cracking on every syllable he let out. "I uh – I spent the night with a girl last night."
Colin stared blankly, a sly smile forming on his lips. "Is that supposed to be a big revelation or something, man, 'cause I hate to tell you, but I can tell. Your clothes are all mussed up, and you smell like girl's shampoo."
"Not just any girl," he muttered darkly. "Look, before I say this, just know that I didn't mean to betray you. I really didn't. I didn't seek her out, she's writing an article about 'Syntax' and I was only there to yell at her but she—she twisted it all around. This girl is a goddamn mythical creature or something, honestly—a spider, and the whole world is her web, just entangling people in it and poisoning them with her sweet candy venom until they don't even know they're worm food until she's bitten you."
Colin feared for his best friend's sanity at this point. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Logan finally stopped his frantic rant, looked his best friend in the eye and said, scared and ashamed, "Colin, I fell asleep watching movies with Rory Huntzberger last night."
Colin's face dropped immediately, and Logan tried to say more, but a barrage of buried memories drowned out any sound from Colin's surroundings—
"Ror, this is serious," he told the fifteen year old girl sitting on the headboard of his bed, inspecting him with a sad, sympathetic smile. "My Dad could go to jail, we could lose everything we've ever had."
"Colin, c'mon… I know how serious this is. I would never do anything that would jeopardize your life, I love you."
Taking a deep breath, Colin grabbed Rory's arm and pulled her down to the bed as she placed her head on his shoulder. "My Dad's not a bad man, Rory. He may not love my mother, and he may cheat around a lot, but he loves me and this… he did what was right. I know bribing witnesses is a federal crime, but they were—"
"They were covering up for a murderer, and this is the only way to put the bastard away for good. Colin, I know. Don't underestimate me; I know what's going on. You of all people should know I'm not as selfish or as air-headed as I pretend to be. I'm never going to betray you, Colin—god, that'd be like betraying Honor, or…" her voice broke a little on this last assertion, "Or my Mom. I'd never do it."
"I know, Ror. I know."
She tilted her head up to look at him, confused. "Then why are you so worried?"
"I—" he hesitated, "Your family stands to gain a lot if my father goes to jail, Rory, I know you know that."
She shot straight up and angrily stood off the bed. "Are you serious? How could you think that low of me?"
"I don't…"
"Sure seems like you do," she snapped back.
His voice was soft, frightened. "I'm sorry, I just… Rory, this could ruin our lives. I do trust you, you know that—I'm just so scared."
Softening immediately, she wrapped her arms around his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek—"Colin, it's going to be fine. I wouldn't betray you for anyone, I promise. I'll take care of my father, leave that to me. I swear to you, on my life, on my honor, on my mother's memory, your father is not going anywhere."
"Colin?" Logan asked again, tentative, confused and afraid he'd broken a valuable friendship for one night of manufactured peace. "Colin, please… tell me you don't hate me."
There were crowds outside of his home, gathering like locusts swarming, preparing for attack. Bright, flashing police lights were everywhere, and he rushed outside frantically, still in his pajamas, frightened so much he was stunned he wasn't tripping over his feet. "Stop! Stop it, what are you doing?!"
His father's voice was so sore he could've sworn that the man had been crying. His father never cried. "Go back inside, Colin. Be with your mother. It's over, it's just… over."
"How? How is it just over? How did this happen?"
A dark, booming voice caused his attention to divert to his left. Mitchum Huntzberger stood, tall and imposing, and with a laugh, declared, "You should be more careful about the people you trust, son. My daughter is a Huntzberger, what did you honestly expect? Selfless integrity? Please, give me a break."
Colin's voice shook with emotion. "No, she wouldn't do that…"
Mitchum's smile was ominous. "She caught the whole thing on tape – everything you said. Quite ingenious, really."
The unmistakable flick of a tape recorder – the same purple one emblazoned with 70s sitcom character stickers that Rory used to take notes in class – played ominously over all the noises and sounds of chaos. All Colin could hear was Rory's voice.
—"Colin, it's going to be fine. I wouldn't betray you for anyone, I promise. I'll take care of my father, leave that to me. I swear to you, on my life, on my honor, on my mother's memory, your father is not going anywhere." —
His legs gave way now, and he fell to the concrete. "No. No. Please, don't…" The officer pushed him away, stuffed his father down into the cop car and left a fifteen-year-old boy on his knees, crying, without a hope in the world of understanding the magnitude of what had just happened.
Colin's mouth turned in a slight smile, and he asked, "You said something about her writing a piece for the Daily News about 'Syntax'."
"Uh, yes…" Logan answered slowly, startled that this was his first question.
"Under a penname, I gather?" Colin asked, amused.
At this point, he didn't care if he broke her confidentiality agreement. Let her lawyers make a meal out of him. If his best friend asked a question, he was going to give him the damn truth. "Yep. Renée Holloway."
Colin chuckled, "Another R.H. I always told her that was risky, but she said she liked living on the edge. What a damn liar, she couldn't live on the edge if her house was situated on the side of a cliff." His voice was soft, his smile wistful, and Logan stared at him incredulously. "She's a planner, through and through, wouldn't know how to live for the moment if her life depended on it. I always loved that about her—and those damn pro/con lists, it was fucking adorable."
Adorable. Logan swallowed back the guilt and bile in the back of his throat.
"Why don't you hate her?"
Colin grimaced harshly. "Oh, I hate her," he said assuredly, "She ruined my life, with no regret for anyone. I don't hate anyone, but her… yeah, I hate her. But…" he sighed, unsure of how to articulate what he was feeling. "She was my first, from the playpen. My first friend, my first kiss, first crush, first time… it doesn't matter how badly it ends, you never forget how that person made you feel. You never forget how important they were to you."
The pregnant pause was thick and tangible in the space between them.
"Do you hate me?"
Colin looked up, his expression confused. "Hell no, why would I hate you? Man, I'd be the world's biggest hypocrite if I got mad at you for falling for Rory Huntzberger's mind-games." He paused, before adding, "Let's not harp on it."
After a long sigh, Colin put on his best attempt at a smile and asked, "You want to come back to see my room? Help me set up my record player?"
Logan looked so relieved he actually slumped down a little in his seat. "Yeah, man… of course."
Notes: Was anyone expecting that revelation at the end? :D
Important Note: I want to make this very clear: This is not a triangle. The only Cory in this entire story is platonic, save for maybe some flashbacks if I feel like it. Rory and Colin's past romance is exactly that-in the past. This storyline of Colin & Rory serves more as a character development tool for Rory and as an agent to help develop Rory and Logan's tricky, complicated burgeoning relationship.
I really hope you enjoyed, 'cause man, it's been a long time since I've had this much fun writing a story. :D
Thank you for reading, and please leave a review if you enjoyed, have comments, suggestions or constructive criticism. :)
