Summary: Set after Gilmore Girls seasons. Extremely AU.
Disclaimer: I don't own. Period.
--
Lace and taffeta slips through your fingers and you're wondering if this nauseous feeling in your stomach will subside.
You've already seen the beautiful room decorated with tulle, orchids, lilies, white, rose petals, blah blah blah. It's the typical wedding you wouldn't have ever minded attending, but you didn't figure you'd be the bride.
There are organs playing in the background; a light, subtle music that his mother insisted on having played, but you're wondering why you ever agreed to it.
It was supposed to be short, simple, sweet. To the point. No more than twenty-five guests.
You know it's frilly, over-the-top, and not anything close to what you wanted. 150 guests. You don't even know half of them.
Paris enters the room with a light smile on her face, but you know she's only faking. She never approved of Logan either, on top of fifty other people in your life, but she never said anything. Paris is the one friend you have left at this point, considering you're fighting with the rest of them.
This isn't right, you tell yourself as Paris summons you to walk down the aisle.
Your mother is supposed to be here.
Lane is supposed to be here.
Richard isn't supposed to be giving you away.
And, oh yeah, you don't even want to marry Logan.
Rory Gilmore, you never thought you could resort to materialism, but, by God, you did so. No one could ever sway you into a marriage, holy matrimony which you didn't even want. It wasn't even Logan's idea, proposing, getting down on one knee.
He would have waited five more years if his mother hadn't suddenly pressured him into it.
And what suddenly sparked his mother's sudden liking to the Gilmore? It was only the fact that Emily Gilmore held her white trash heritage over her head, so you aren't feeling too loved at this point.
You wonder who the person is you're staring at in the mirror. Complete with an over-the-top hairdo and far too much blush, looking more like a doll than an actual human being. Since when did you start wearing so much makeup?
You never needed any when you lived in Star's Hollow, nor when you were just living at your dorm at Yale.
But ever since you got serious with Logan, you needed to maintain this image, to keep this certain idea that you were his girl, his prize. And didn't all of his girls wear tons of makeup before? So you could only follow suit; it was all you knew how to do.
Now you're wishing you didn't follow, you didn't become one of his girls.
And now you know what it's like to get cold feet.
You wonder if this is really what you want, and - oh, SHOCK - this isn't the first time you've wondered so.
Do you really love Logan? Or do you just love the idea of being with him? Did you really like the set-up of your wedding? Or did you only want to please the people planning it? Do you really like the person you've become now? Or is it just easier to play along than go against the grain?
No, you realize, this isn't getting cold feet. This is what you should have done two years ago.
--
The organs were so loud in the background, but you didn't even hear them when you left.
Paris just stood in the doorway as you ran by, smiling softly as she was silently urging you on. You always knew she wanted this for you, but she just didn't know how to tell you. It wasn't in her nature to be that sort of friend.
You wish you could have stayed and seen the look on Logan's face when Paris delivered the note. It wasn't some thought out verse of lame apologies, but more like a simple sentence, concise, to the point.
It's not like he wouldn't forget you by next week, anyway. Hasn't he already got eighty girls memorized on speed-dial? You don't even want to know what he did during his bachelor party.
Or who he did.
But it's over now, this stupid façade you've been living in, this so-called part of life you've been playing a part in.
You want to go back to being Star's Hollow Rory, your mother's Rory, your Rory.
But most of all, you miss being his.
Back when all you cared for were books and keeping up your studies, when people loved you for being you and nothing else was required. When you hadn't cast the one person in your life, who meant the most, to the side. Back when you were innocent Rory, and no one could say anything else.
You were sweet, pure, and, most of all, true. Not some freakish Barbie doll as just another product of the Emily-Logan combo.
But what you mainly remember is belonging to him. Not Logan. Not Dean.
It was always him, no matter how hard you tried, in the past, to deny it and move on. You were always his, and always wanted to be his.
Jess Mariano was the boy who took your heart, and it's taken you this many moons to finally want it back.
--
"Where did you learn to run like that?"
You scoff, not missing a single beat. "You know, I have actually thought about this moment. A lot. What would Jess say to me I ever saw him again? I mean, he just took off, no note, no call, nothing, how could he explain that?"
You're pausing, hitting the hysterics button. "And then a year goes by. No word, nothing, so he couldn't possibly have a good excuse for that, right? I have imagined hundreds of different scenarios with a hundred different great last parting lines, and I have to tell you that I am actually very curious to see which way this is going to go."
"Could we sit down?"
"No." You retort, missing the civility factor. "You wanted to talk, so talk. What do you have to say to me?"
He pauses, waits, catches a breath.
"I love you."
And he leaves as you pick your chin back up off the ground. You're stomach's never been in so many knots, and your feet seem to be super-glued down.
The old clunker drives by, and you can't help but trail with your killer blue eyes, screaming silently "I love you, I love you, I love you."
--
You're flying down the highway, now, and it's nearly five in the evening. You know he's still in the same place you last left him, torn and broken, beaten and shattered.
You used that boy inside and out, only to get back at the one you couldn't handle. Bet you never thought you would be the type to use someone just to get back at another person. Or even have an affair with a married man.
You also weren't expecting to become another "Daughter of the American Revolution" or kick your own mother, best friend, flesh and blood, to the curb.
There were many things that went wrong after he left you, and they haven't quite gone back to normal yet.
--
"No!"
"Look, you know we're supposed to be together." He's heated in this conversation, and you just want to sit back, think, make a pro-con list like you're so used to. "I knew it from the first time I saw you two years ago, and you know it, too. I know you do."
"No, no, no, no, no!"
You're both yelling at this point, trying to overcome each other's voices, to get inside each other's head. It's impossible when he's yelling for black and you're retreating to white. There is no gray area this time.
"Don't say 'no' just to make me stop talking or make me go away. Only say 'no' if you really don't want to be with me."
"No!"
He pauses, biting his lower lip as you've seen too many a time. God, you've never seen him look so hurt before, so angry, so defeated. It's the instant effect you get when pouring a bucket of water on a flaming fire. Sizzle and all.
After he leaves, you're sitting on a box with your head in your hands, wondering why you just can't tell this boy the truth.
And even if you know you really aren't ready for this, to leave it all behind, you know that any fortune teller with half a brain would say that all signs point to "yes."
--
75... 85... 95... You don't realize quite how fast you're actually driving.
Logan was always a madman behind the wheel, and managed to get by without a ticket. It's easy to have them all excused when his dad's such a powerful businessman. You never liked him much, either.
The green sign ahead reads PHILADELPHIA in large lettering, and your heart skips a few beats. It could have been the fact that you are even closer to him, or the fact that you're approaching on a police car. You're back down to 65 before you can even say "Star's Hollow."
You can't stop thinking of the stupid memories which just fit every single cliché in your head at the moment. Back before Yale, when you'd give into his desires and just watch Kate Hudson commit suicide continually on cold afternoons. You'd dodge cars while playing tonsil hockey, begging him to come to redundant town functions. You would sit and stew on your couch while his call never came, but as soon as he shows, you're butter again.
And what pisses you off even more, is the fact that you know he was right all along.
You were ready.
He did know you.
You wanted to leave Yale, Star's Hollow, your life.
You wanted to be with him.
--
"You look happier than when I saw you last."
"I am."
"So… you fixed everything?"
"Yeah." And you only hope he sees it as more convincing than you really sound. "Everything's fixed."
"I'm glad you're here." He replies huskily, and you can't help but reciprocate his feelings.
And suddenly he's leaning in for the long-awaited, tender kiss you know you wanted. Fire meets Ice at the top of it all, while he's exhilarated in the idea of you being back again, being his. All you can do is freeze against the passion, Logan's name ringing in your ears annoyingly.
You just want to crawl into his arms, accept his soft touch against your arm, kiss him more passionately than you have with Logan this past year.
Logan, Logan, Logan.
Oh yeah, you're still with him.
And when you break away, then comes the big explanation, and the fallout. You've never seen his eyes this dark, his face so angry, his hands so… verbal. You just want to crawl into his bed and forget this hasn't even happened, but it has, and he's nailing you point blank in the face for it.
Even though he seems cooled off after it all, and you're walking out the door with a civil farewell from him, you can't help but feel like you've just committed a crime.
--
You know exactly what number his apartment is as you're skipping steps to the third floor, considering his past letter confirmed it.
He was only checking in, innocently, friendly, even after all you'd done to him.
Number 310... 312... 313... 314.
314. Perfect number for all the heart beats you've skipped on the way over here.
It takes several sets of knocking before you hear any sort of movement inside. You're hearts beating faster now, pounding, in fact. You could probably hear it loud and clear if you just opened your lips the tiniest bit.
"Rory-- what?"
He's confused, rubbing his eyes sleepily, and you couldn't possibly be wondering why. You're standing in your wedding dress, fitted bodice with far too much lace, hair strewn and dangling into your face. The mascara has long ago worn out its "waterproof" factor and you know it's dripping down into your cheeks.
But he's never looked at you with this much fascination, as well as adoration.
Before you even realize it, he's holding you in his arms, rocking you as if you're a child. The tears are spewing out now, and you can't help but sob helplessly into your chest. You have so much to say, so much to take account for. So many apologies, so many kisses. So many lies to be forgiven.
But all he can do is kiss your hair full of products, stroke your cheek covered with foundation and mascara, and whisper into your ear that it's all okay.
It's okay, It's okay, It's okay.
And for the first time in such a long time, you believe him.