10. Wanderlust

He had taken a year off from Yale to "sail around the world", Doyle had told her, not without a hint of derision in his voice.

Now she understood why.

Logan was sitting towards the bow of their small boat—certainly not the Huntzberger yacht he was notorious for running adrift—more like a dinghy, a wood and bamboo contraption outfitted with a crank-and-pull motor so headsplittingly loud, but apparently seaworthy enough. He was in a faded t-shirt and denims cut-off above the knees, revealing forearms and legs that have been burnished to tan by weeks in the sun. His hair mussed naturally by the wind, he squinted and pointed towards a white strip of beach they were approaching at the horizon, chatting easily with their Thai boatman. He looked golden. And happy.

They called him "King of the Sloths", Colin and Finn did, because of his supposed penchant for idle pursuits. As they talked of their jaunts in Europe or some other exotic locale, she had imagined Logan lying in a hammock, dozing under coconut trees on an island in Fiji with a bottle of tequila in his hand, native women in grass skirts and coconut bras fawning over him (this part she imagined with great distaste). But that vision evaporated rapidly in the 100 degree heat and humidity of Vietnam and Thailand, where they had trekked, snorkeled, camped, spelunked, dove, haggled, walked, kayaked, shopped, island-hopped, hiked, swam, biked, (and had she mentioned spelunked?), for the last 4 weeks. His energy and curiosity were boundless and so infectious, she felt like she was transported to a travel show with Globetrekker Ian Wright. Frommer and her own well-researched notes were useless, amateur.

"You ready, Ace?" he asked her, holding her hand. They were sitting on a wooden plank, their legs dangling in the water, floating—in what seemed to Rory—the middle of the Pacific. It was the jump-off point for one of 20 popular dive spots in the Similan Islands north of Phuket, Thailand.

Staring at the deep blue of the water, Rory said, "Um, why don't I just watch you from up here? The…uh…water is so clear…look! I see a school of Nemos!" She clutched Logan's arm excitedly, pointing to a stream of orange flitting below their feet.

"We'd see them better if we were down there instead of up here. Heck, we might even see Bruce, now wouldn't that be a treat?"

"This is hardly the time to be cracking jokes about sharks, Logan," Rory whined. "As it is I can't keep 'dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum' out of my head," she said, chanting the Jaws theme. "I don't think I can go through with this after all... I'm sorry for being a wimp, but I'm feeling kind of sick."

"The reason you're feeling sick is because we've been sitting here on a bobbing plank for the last 10 minutes. Motion sickness, Ace. You'll feel better when we've gone down. Now trust me, I won't let anything happen to you." He rubbed her knuckles, which had turned white from squeezing his hand. "And reef shark…" Logan shrugged, "ignore them. They're beautiful, and won't bite you unless you bite them first."

"Why am I doing this again?" Rory asked, the mention of sharks giving her an acid reflux.

"Because over 70 of the earth is under water. It would be a nice change of scenery to see how that part of the world lives, don't you think?" Logan teased. "Rory, it is so… amazing down there. I have no words," he added seriously. "You just have to see for yourself. But if you're really not ready, then we won't go in. We can just snorkel closer to the beach, okay? People take months-long diving courses, and you've only had a two-hour one."

"And you've never had any," Rory pointed out.

"Yeah, but that's just me. And Sir Richard Branson, my idol," he quipped, referring to the wildly successful--or wild and successful--CEO of the Virgin group of companies.

He was aching to just dive in, she saw, watching him look at the water. How much worse can it be than jumping off a seven-story scaffold? All in keeping with the "one less minute you haven't lived" theme. If she was going to die, then there's no better place than in Phuket, on a dive spot whimsically named Christmas Point, surrounded by sea turtles, and holding Logan's hand. She pulled down her goggles and readied her breathing apparatus. Logan squeezed her hand in reassurance, and they went under.

He was right, of course. Basking in the soft glow of the sun 50 feet under water; looking into crevices of live corals and seeing schools of blue, silver, orange, red, yellow fish ranging in size from the length of her finger to half of her body…was other-worldly. (Finding Nemo, despite being her hands-down favorite animated movie, didn't hold a candle to the real thing, she had argued to her mother.) She had never felt so small and sheltered, so insignificant a member of the planet, as she did looking up at a manta ray gliding gracefully above her. Turning beside her, Logan charaded dramatically with his hands for her not to cry, or she'll lose her breath and drown. She pinched his arm menacingly under water, but then hugged him long and hard when they finally came up, in sheer gratefulness and wonder.

"That was…"

"Tuna," Logan replied, referring to the hefty, rotund fish staring lazily at Rory right before they surfaced.

"I thought they were small, like…the canned…" Rory shivered. "How stupid is that? And that's it. I'll never eat sushi again, not after having communed with tuna like this." She felt overwhelmed.

"I knew you'd like it, Ace," was all he murmured in her wet embrace, happy to have her experience it with him.

And so it went. Whether trekking up the scenic mountainside of Muong Hill, riding a bicycle in the crowded streets of Saigon, or eating a prawn in her soup, Logan prodded Rory to go further, be bolder. Asia, Rory thought, has definitely been all about exploring unchartered territory. She's already crammed 4 journals with notes and mementos to show for it, mailed out a dozen postcards to Stars Hollow, and they still have 2 weeks to go.

But travelling through Asia with Logan, has also been about exploring the uncharted territory that is Logan.

She watched him now behind her sunglasses, as their boat approached the beach; a picnic lunch, nap, kayaking around limestone caves, and more napping were the order of the day. He was laughing at some joke their boatman had cracked. She had to smile herself. How can he even understand his broken English, let alone 'get' the punch line? She had witnessed Logan charm the upper-crustdom of Connecticut and New York. He cut an impressive figure in his Brooks Brothers button-downs and khakis. He can converse easily with his father's colleagues, and more than hold his own with the Parises, Doyles, Juliets, and Colins of Yale. Love or hate his confidence-cum-cockiness, people were drawn to him.

It was even more extraordinary to see him outside of that world, out of his comfort zone…or was that world, in fact, not his comfort zone, but 180 degrees away from where he'd rather be?

He had talked just as easily about the rainy weather with the toothless street vendor selling fried bananas, and cooed appreciatively at the 1 year-old baby at the hip of the young lady selling batik shirts at the Night Market. Ah, yes, still charming enough to get Rory an extra helping of banana, and a blue-green flowered batik shirt for Luke (which he'll probably only wear when he's dead and can't see himself), for several baht cheaper without her having to bat an eyelash. He gamely took photographs for and with the battallion of Muong tribe village children, who swarmed around him like he was some movie star.

He was the same Logan, but different. Like Asia having the same sea and sky as North America, but different. He began walking without a cane days after their arrival (claiming the healing powers of the green tea he was chugging like water), and had managed to piggy-back Rory through a torturous trek when an unknown insect bit her toe and it swelled painfully. He laughed easier, drank less. He seemed… carefree but without airs, more genuine with people. Rory could not sense the "staged" show of interest or cad-act that Logan sometimes put on when interacting with his elders or peers in the States—with even Colin and Finn.

Once, she couldn't resist ribbing him about the wardrobe he had packed, watching him throw on a t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops after their shower.

"You'll lose your 5-million Ralph Lauren contract, you know, not to mention your 10 frequent-shopper discount at Saks. And Carson Pressley…sad, but he would just leave you at the wayside for another man."

He looked at her, lying in bed all rosy and freckled from the sun, wearing just a tank top, cut-offs, and slippers. "I'd say we're a pretty matched set, Ace."

"But these are my clothes. Those aren't yours, Logan, I've never seen them before. Oh God, you wouldn't happen to have flannel stashed away in your luggage or closet at home, would you?" she mocked him, widening her eyes.

"Flannel in this heat? Nah," he replied. "You've never seen this stuff?" he asked, pointing to his faded jeans. "I've had them forever. They've been stored in a box labeled 'For secret trip to Asia' under the bed. Together with your pajamas."

"Is that what they're calling those lacy teenie scraps of cloth that Finn packed for me? Pajamas?" Rory drawled. "Anyway, I'm not complaining."

"Neither am I," Logan murmured suggestively, flopping on the bed beside her and pulling her to his side.

"I'm not talking about my pajamas, or the lack thereof," Rory sternly looked into his eyes. "I was talking about your clothes." She fingered the fraying collar of his Yale t-shirt. "I like this look on you, Logan," she smiled at him appreciatively, her hand caressing the hint of stubble on his face. "But whatever would Shira say?... Oh, Logan, that's hardly appropriate for company, dear, especially not for the Fallon girl" she said, channeling Shira.

Logan shrugged, settling back and kicking off his flip-flops. "I don't care what others think. No one knows me here, Ace."

No one knows me here. As far away from the United States and his family that he could ever be, he didn't need to be anyone but himself. And that's why he travelled, took off to sea. Why he needed to leave.

----------------------------------------------------

"Penny for your thoughts?...on second thought, make that a bucket of scallops and mussels for your thoughts," Logan shouted over the wind, shaking Rory from her reverie.

Despite her newfound love for sealife, shellfish was Rory's latest food fetish. There have been many new ones in the course of their trip, her initial complaints about missing the burgers and coffee at Luke's extinguished after discovering such culinary delights as spring rolls, spicy stews, and Vietnamese chicory-flavored coffee sweetened with condensed milk. (Lorelai, understandably, shuddered and ranted at her disloyalty, as Rory sang the praises of the strong and sweet stuff.) Rory was nothing if not an adventurous eater, something Logan was thankful for or she would have shrivelled of starvation. This was one among many reasons why he's never brought a girl with him in his travels. But Rory was a class unto herself.

"I was…nothing. Enjoying the view. It's breathtaking," she replied.

"I'd say. You've been staring at me for the last 15 minutes. The wind has been screaming through the holes at the back of my head."

"You're beautiful," she blurted out. "…aaand I can't believe I just said that. Must be the landscape. Very Swept Away—the Italian, not the Madonna version" she said, making light of her remark.

"Uh-huh, thanks. You're beautiful too." Logan moved carefully from the bow to sit beside Rory on the bamboo poles fitted along the sides of the boat as seats. He drops a kiss on her bare, slightly sunburned shoulder. "What's bringing on this bout of sentimentality?"

"Oh, I don't know…" Rory rubbed her stomach and looked away, feeling the remnants of sand scratching her skin. There was always sand. Between their toes and the pages of their books. Tucked in their navels. Scattered on their bed, their sheets smelling like sun and seawater and Hawaiian Tropic sunblock lotion.

"Maybe the heat. Maybe the idea that in a couple of weeks, we'll be back in the 'real world'…" She sighs. "I'm sorry for bringing that up, let's not talk about that," she smiled slightly and leaned her head against him. She fought back inexplicable tears. Damn, she loved the smell of their sheets.

Logan thought of something to say, but their boat had slowed and was now being pulled to shore by their guide. Logan kissed Rory's hair then jumped off the boat to the thigh-deep water, helping the boatman secure it on the beach. He helped Rory disembark, then watched her survey the island, no doubt choosing just the right rock or patch of sand, with just the right incline, with just the right view.

They've talked about the "real world". Every now and then, in between walking and eating, sleep and waking. They've never before had so much time to talk.

"It's called 'reverse psychology' you know," Rory told him, as he rubbed chamomile lotion on the mosquito bites on her calves. "If you want someone to do something, then convince him to do the opposite."

"If that means playing mind games and messing with my brain, then that's Mitchum for you," Logan replied. "I still can't accept that he has nothing but good intentions up his sleeve." He was referring to Mitchum's suggestion that he take a job with Robert Stansfeld at Morning Cup Media.

"When we spoke, he was pretty confident that you'll return to the fold eventually, the proverbial Prodigal Son. Like it didn't matter what you did in the meantime. He said you were like him, more than you realize." She paused, then couldn't help asking, "Are you?"

Logan absent-mindedly started to rub the sole of Rory's foot, his hands on auto-pilot. "I don't know. I'm not even sure I know myself, let alone my father. I guess I admire him, I admire his work…but—but I don't like him, Ace."

It was perhaps the first time he had voiced that feeling, and he unconsciously pressed harder than usual on Rory's heel. She winced at the pain, unbidden, in her foot. And the pain in Logan's voice.

He cleared his throat. "Anyway…I've been thinking a lot about it and I've figured my decisions don't have to have anything to do with him. It used to be that whenever I did what he wanted, I was being his lapdog…"

"And whenever you didn't do what he wanted, you were rebelling against him," Rory continued.

"I just want to do things because I want to, because it's what I want for myself, not to please him or spite him," Logan continued with a frown on his brow. "If I end up working in our newspapers, I don't want it to be because I'm doing it for him. And if I don't end up there, I don't want it to be just because I hate him, either."

"You can't keep him from thinking what he wants to think though, Logan. Whatever you do, he'll probably take as his comeuppance or to his satisfaction."

"I'd rather not give him any satisfaction. But he can think whatever he wants. As long as I'm doing what I want…" Logan paused, as if uncertain. "I guess that sounds…pretty selfish, huh?"

"Selfish. You think you're the one being selfish? You've…been… brainwashed..." Rory sputtered, as Logan pressed into her foot, hard.

Logan laughed wryly. "I'm 24, Rory. That's twenty-four years of being told that the only thing I can be is a newspaper man, and the only thing I can do is to take over the family business one day. I used to want to be a…fireman, or an astronaut, you know?"

"Figures. Ladders…jumping off the deep end of things and all that."

Logan ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his eyes. "When I was a kid, it was always like I should feel guilty for wanting those things. Then eventually I stopped wanting, stopped feeling, stopped thinking about it. Now here I am, all grown up and not knowing exactly what I want. And still feeling kinda guilty after all. Damn."

He finally looked down at Rory's foot, noticing the tinge of bluish-green appearing on top of the arch. "Did I do that?"

"I didn't want to interrupt you, but now I can finally say, 'Ow!' Remind me not to place any appendages near you when you're talking about Mitchum. I do want to have everything in place when I see my mother again, or its off with your head," Rory grumbled in exaggerated pain as Logan kissed the spot he had bruised on her foot.

"So, hey," she said softly, when the frown dissipated from Logan's face. "When did you become so wise?"

"Must be the Buddha amulet," Logan teased, patting the back pocket of his pants where he placed one of the many charms Rory couldn't help buying at the half-dozen Wats—Buddhist temples—they've visited. "Could be wiser still."

"Well, your ass is as good a place as any to start getting enlightened," Rory said

----------------------------------------------------

"So, I have a surprise for you," Logan announced, when the remains of their lunch had been packed away.

"Ooh, an announced surprise. New strategy I see. Okay, I've braced myself now. Colin or Finn dropping by from a coconut tree?" she said dryly. From her lying position, Rory rose up on her elbows, her nap postponed for the moment.

Logan was momentarily distracted at the sight of Rory in her shorts and bikini top, mussed and sleepy from the wind and their meal, the blue of the sea and sky deep in her eyes.

"What?"

"You've got sand in your hair."

"Hm, must mean we're at the beach, Sherlock."

Logan handed her a newspaper. The New York Times.

"Okaay…so you want me to swat the sand off my hair with a newspaper?" Rory asked.

As Logan pointedly looked at the paper and remained mute, Rory obligingly flipped through the pages. "Has the Third World War erupted? Have they sent out a search party for us? Are there new pictures of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt…?" Rory's voice died down as her eyes found what Logan meant for her to find.

Quiet ensued for a full 11 minutes, the waves lapping against the shore the only sound. His mind played back to his 10 year-old self, submitting his homework to his dad for inspection, his stomach in knots awaiting the inevitable frown and criticism.

"Logan. Oh my God," she whispered under her breath. "Oh my God. Logan. Logan Huntzberger." Rory rose to her feet flailing the newspaper in the air. "You have an opinion piece in The New York Times," she informed him needlessly, breathlessly.

"Really, Ace? Guess I must have written it."

"Entitled, 'Notes from the edge of the (flat) world: A Connecticut Yankee in Buddha's court'. By Logan Huntzberger."

"Hm. Sounds boring," he snorted.

"You're on the same spread as Maureen Dowd. And Thomas Friedman."

"Strange bedfellows."

She knelt beside him on the sand. "And Logan, it's incredible. Insightful…thought-provoking…I would never have guessed you were thinking of the socio-politics of globalization, Third World labor and Asian culture while eating fishballs with Lee-Lai, our tuktuk driver."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the blonde boy does have a brain!" The knots in his stomach began to untangle. "And you are biased. Apart from the fact that you adore me, many of those ideas came from talking with you, Ace."

"You mean arguing with me."

"Yeah, we should argue more often. It might land me a permanent op-ed column."

"Could I give you a congratulatory kiss now? Or should I bow and grovel at your feet?"

"Kiss now. Worship later."

Rory came to him and kissed him hard, fervently. She knew how much it meant, Logan writing of his own volition, no fathers or editors at his back, even if he appeared flippant about it. Logan tried to stifle a groan as their kiss deepened, and Rory became keenly aware that Logan was shirtless. And hot. Either their bodies have absorbed the sun, or they were emitting their own heat.

"You know, a certain scene from Swept Away does come to mind at the moment," Logan murmured against Rory's neck.

"And risk getting sand in places where the sun don't shine? I...don't…know, Logan…" She bit her lip as Logan started nuzzling down to her barely clad breasts.

Logan stopped abruptly and looked at Rory with a wicked smirk. "Okay, but will there be more where that came from if I show you another surprise?" He casually left her sitting on the sand and got more papers from his backpack.

"Not exactly on Oprah's list of 'Top Ten Summer Reads' but…" He drops The Washington Post, The Daily Telegraph, and six pages printed out from a blogsite for in front of Rory. Then he walks out to the water and dove in where the waves came up to his waist.

An hour later, Logan began nudging Rory with his foot, dripping water on her as he towelled off. "So…?"

Rory opened one eye to look up at him. "I'm not talking to you. I'm proud of you, I'm happy for you, and I love you. But I'm not talking to you."

"Aw, c'mon Ace. I know you're just dying to ask me…"

Rory sat up. "When on earth did you find the time to write those pieces? Three articles in four weeks, plus three blog entries? That's crazy! Have you been bitten by some exotic bug? Is there something truly miraculous in the green tea? And why did you never tell me?"

"So much for worship."

"Well?"

"You sleep like the dead, Ace," Logan shrugged and ducked, just in time to miss Rory's slipper whizzing past his head. "And you know I don't. Sleep as much. So…I found myself working on your laptop while you had your siesta and your solid 8 hours. Second," he continued, "I didn't tell you until now because I didn't want to preempt or jinx anything. I was writing mainly for the heck of it, you know…it wasn't until a few days ago that I found out that those things got published myself."

Rory then recalled how she and Logan had sneaked into the lobby of a 5-star hotel a few days ago to steal a copy of the International Herald Tribune and USA Today—on Rory's insistence, at that (as editor of Yale Daily News, she felt responsible for knowing what was going on the world). She had no idea he had gotten hold of any other newspapers. Heck, he probably charmed the bellboy. Rory had to smile.

"Poor Doyle."

"Doyle?"

"He's probably tossing and turning in his sleep, agonizing over the injustice of it all. Here we are, gallivanting around Asia, oh, and look, in between island hopping and riding elephants, Logan Huntzberger just gets this overwhelming urge to write something! Good thing the Times, the Post, and the Telegraph picked them up!"

"I told you it was the Buddha amulet," Logan chuckled.

"So what's come over you?"

Logan began plucking fine, white sand from his forearms. "I don't know. How to explain…all this. I guess I'm just happy to be here." He stared out to sea with a smile of sheer contentment. "Happy to be with you. Happy to write…" He shook his head at the irony. "…and to know that some people think I can write. At least I know I won't starve and fall back on your inheritance and the good graces of Lorelai."

Rory rolled her eyes. He's been living off his trust fund since the day he was supposed to leave but didn't leave for London. It was a sizeable trust fund of course, but she appreciated what Logan was trying to do in principle. Not asking Mitchum for anything more except what he was already entitled to as a son.

"God, this has been a good day." Rory crawled to Logan on her hands and knees, and settled back against his chest. Her arms pleasantly achy from kayaking, their bodies sticky with sunblock and sweat. Tomorrow they were flying to Beijing. Two weeks. Then back to the real world.

"And I need a new moniker. 'Cause I think I'm calling you 'Ace' from now on."

------------------------------------------------

A/N: Thanks everyone who has read and reviewed my fic! This was an especially challenging chapter for me to write—so I would appreciate your thoughts on it  There's just a few more chapters left over to tie up loose ends, and I hope you all hang on for that. Later!