7. Her Cup Overflows
Rory stirred her cup of joe, seemingly mesmerized by the lights sparkling on the tennis bracelet clasped on her wrist. Feeling drained after parting with Logan, confronting Mitchum, and driving to Stars Hollow, she sought out Lorelai and her childhood home for relief. But relief wasn't to be had, for Lorelai wasn't home.
"Mom? Mom! I'm home for my wallow," she had called out, bearing grocery bags chock-full of eats that Luke and the U.S. Surgeon General would probably declare hazardous to anyone's health.
"Mom?" Rory left the bags in the kitchen then bounded up the stairs to Lorelai's bedroom, but stopped short at the doorway with some surprise. The room had a strange musty-stale-air feel to it, like no one had been in it for days. Stepping through to the bathroom, Rory found no clothes strewn about nor wet towels on the floor.
Walking downstairs, she called in sing-song, "Paul Anka, here boy…" but no hairball came running to her either. She must be at Luke's, Rory concluded. She must have spent the night there after Friday night dinner, and Babette must be sitting for Paul Anka in the meantime.
Luke seemed incredibly surprised to see her as she arrived at his diner, though. Wide-eyed and flustered, he said "Rory, uh…what a surprise! Uh…does Lorelai know you're here?"
"Nope she doesn't. I spoke to her this morning but I didn't mention I'd be coming over. She's not at home either so I figured she'd be here," Rory replied. Luke had dark circles under his eyes, she noted. And he was wringing the washcloth into a tight little ball. What's going on?
"Oh! You spoke with her this morning, good, good," Luke nodded, appearing relieved. "And, uh…she's fine?"
"Is everything alright, Luke? Yes she seemed…okay enough. It was me who wasn't, really," Rory hedged, looking hopefully at the coffee machine over Luke's shoulder.
Luke caught the look and reached for the pot. "Yes, yes of course…things are…well, the usual." He was glad to turn his back on Rory for a moment to collect himself, fiddling with the coffee machine's buttons for a few seconds. Seeing Rory brought him back unwillingly to the night before, to Lorelai's ultimatum which he still couldn't fully comprehend. And to his unfortunate response.
"So I gather Mom's not here either, huh?" Rory asked, warming her hands around her mug as Luke poured out coffee. "Where is she?" she asked.
"Uh…I don't know. It's been crazy here, Saturday crowd…" Luke answered lamely. "But I spoke to her last night," he threw out casually, as he ducked his head under the counter to rearrange mugs and plates.
"Well she didn't seem to have slept at home," Rory said plaintively.
This threw Luke off guard, and he jerked his head up from under the counter, hitting the edge with his nose. "Ow, damn!" he cursed, rubbing his nose. "What?"
"Oh, I should just call her!" Rory smacked her head. My head is missing today, she ruefully thought. As is my heart. She stepped outside to make her call, ever mindful of Luke's aversion to mobile phones in his diner.
Luke looked after her, lost in his own thoughts. He had thought about calling her himself, a hundred times since the night before, but he couldn't seem to press the "1" to speed-dial to Lorelai. With just a single press of a button, he could reach her and hear her voice. It seemed too…fast. Damn these cell phones! Automatic and abrupt and cold. It was better this way. She probably needs some time anyway. That, or I'm a low-life coward, he scowled.
Rory returned and Luke got busy again behind the counter. "She said she's at Grandma's, helping her with something" Rory shrugged, and slid back onto her seat. She hunkered down over her coffee, her hair falling around her like a shroud. With a final small smile to Luke, she then shut herself off from the chatter and clatter of her surroundings and stared into her coffee.
Luke heaved a sigh, and contemplated the weight of Rory's hair falling around her shoulders. He should be a mite thankful that she seemed too preoccupied to notice what was going on between him and Lorelai. Not that he knew what was going on himself. He motioned to Ceasar to take orders, jerking his head towards Kirk at the end of the counter who was coughing loudly to get his attention. He cleared his throat as he bent forward, placing his elbows beside Rory's and asked with uncharacteristic gentleness: "Everything okay with you?"
Rory replied quietly, without looking up, "Logan left this morning. To spend that year in London." That should be enough to explain everything.
Luke paused and tried to think of something to say. He ended up squeezing her arm instead, then going back to the bustle of the diner, retreiving plates from the kitchen and weaving in and around tables.
And Rory continued to stir her coffee.
The truth was that she was never one to wallow. Not with Dean nor with Jess. She was never one to serve up her heart on a platter, anxious but ready to be cut up or protected, hurt or loved. Except with Logan, who waltzed into her ordinary life, all arrogant and confident, a butt-faced miscreant.
To this day, she couldn't quite explain in plain ol' English why she loves…why her heart can ache this way just thinking about him. It sounded so lame to her own ears, hearing herself say it out loud to Jess when she saw him in Philadelphia. When she shook from head to toe with the intensity of it, her insides were bursting with it that she felt she had to cover her mouth or eyes for fear it spilling out. That was how it was when she heard from Colin about Logan's accident, her fist in her mouth, her tears flowing hard and fast all the way to New York where Logan lay black and blue on a hospital bed.
That she could feel this way used to scare her. She often felt she had to be more guarded around him, more tentative, because the full onslaught might be too much for her or Logan to absorb. So she held back, much to Logan's frustration, she knew. And well…the truth is that if you felt this strongly about someone, you can't help but wonder if he feels as you do. Especially if that someone has had such a colorful history with women, and no history to speak of when it came to a regular relationship.
She finally took a sip of her coffee to warm up the draft that the memory of the bridesmaids inevitably brought about. Deep down, she had an inkling that Logan might have resumed the ways of his former life, after they had been "taking time" for a month. It wasn't that he "cheated" on her, she had belatedly realized. What hurt her most is what it seemed to say about how he felt about her, that maybe he didn't love her enough. That she was like Alexandra or Walker or…that Four-Nose-Jobs. And that cut her too deeply. Because she was never one to serve up her heart on a platter.
Rory felt a buzz in her pocket, and she half-jumped, spilling a bit of coffee. She flipped her mobile open and read the text message: Ace, I miss you already. And if you're wearing your blue sweater, I miss you more. Don't call me, I'll be calling you in a while L. Rory smiled wanly as she looked down at her turquoise blue V-neck and denim skirt. She knew it was silly, the feeling that hounded her all day that Logan was just around the corner. She couldn't help turning on her stool and looking around and behind her. Trust Logan to know that today I'd be wearing his favorite sweater of mine.
Maybe it was this about him that made her fall for him. That on any given day, he can predict what sort of outfit she would grab from her closet, whether she was in a college-girl or Mary Tyler Moore mode. Whether she would use her curling iron or not. Whether she's had her three cups, or just one. Whether she was about to say something serious or something stupid. Whether she wanted it painstakingly slow, or hard and fast. He could read her in a way no one else, not even her mother, can. He knew to step back when she seemed to need space, but challenged her when she was plagued with self-doubt.
Isn't this the point of being young? It's your choice, Ace. People can live a hundred years without really living for a minute. You climb up here with me, it's one less minute you haven't lived.
It certainly has felt that way, after having been with Logan for a year. She was still in one piece, all appendages intact, though her heart felt...used, if not a little bruised. But used in the alive-and-kicking-blood-pumping sense. Man alive, she was such a cliche.
In the last few weeks, though, they seemed to coast along more slowly, literally taking one step at a time, as Logan recovered from his accident. It was this interlude she cherished most. Without talking about it, she and Logan settled into a routine of spending most nights in, just reading or watching a movie. Sometimes Colin and Finn dropped by to make a mess, or Paris and Doyle, who managed to browbeat Logan into watching their beloved "penguin movie" (he fell asleep of course). Everyday, they managed to eat at least one meal together, exchanging stories of their day and sections of the newspaper like some old doddering couple. Which they're not–old and doddering, that is–but a couple, yes really.
"C'mon Logan, just one more set…pretty please!" Rory barked.
"That doesn't sound pretty-pleasish to me," Logan complained. "I'm kind of tired, Ace, pretty please?" he pleaded in turn.
"No you're not, lazybones. We've done only one set. Yesterday you did three," Rory reminded him, pulling him to his feet for his daily rehab routine. "Doctor's orders!"
"I thought this was the doctor you couldn't trust? The one with the degree from Johns Hopkins, remember?" Logan teased, but grudgingly got to his feet. "And I only did three because you promised me a lollipop afterwards if I was a good boy," he added with a wink.
Rory pinkened to the roots of her hair. "Huntzberger, this is hardly the time to be working blue," she huffed. "One, Dr. Schaeffer is from Harvard, which, according to Paris, tops Johns Hopkins. Two, you're doing so well Logan, stronger everyday. Soon you can jump off buildings again, if you're so stupidly inclined" she said. "And three, you did get your treat, so you know I keep my end of the bargain, as you should, mister."
"Ah well…I suppose a full-body massage, then," Logan sighed in mock reluctance, wincing as he began to flex and stretch his leg. "And by the way, you got the lollipop, not I," he smirked.
With that definitively blue comment, Rory unexpectedly let go of Logan's arm to swat his shoulder. He lost his balance and stumbled sideways, hitting his torso against a sidetable. He grunted at the shot of pain, and Rory caught him, immediately contrite. "Oaf! Me, not you. God, sorry Logan! Does it hurt terribly...oh, my bad my bad." She rubbed his side gently as her arms returned around his waist.
"No treats for you, missy," he muttered, still grimacing and hating that a bump like that could still hurt him. "Don't let go," Logan said.
"Now you know what sort of havoc I wrought in that nursing home during my community service," Rory joked, smiling into his eyes as they sat down to take a moment. "I needed a sentinel to shout 'Rory Gilmore, clumsy oaf' to warn people to get out of my way, lest they break a hipbone."
Feeling her laughing against him, Logan felt a sudden and inexplicable rush of warmth at being held by Rory. He held his hand to her cheek. "Don't let go of me, Rory," Logan said again. "Don't let me fall."
Maybe it was that about him that made her fall, finally. That despite–or because of–the Huntzberger name, Mitchum and Shira and the LDB, the American Express Black card, he was, well...just Logan after all. He needed her. Master-and-Commander he may claim to be (and of course she'll never admit that he is), but broken still, inside and out.
If only we had more time to just be, Rory thought, sad but tearless. More time together than apart. Time for her to tell him how she needed him to not let go of her, too. That she was no longer afraid. You jump, I jump.
