Return

"You're not okay, Rory."

I shift on the couch, hitting the button on the remote to mute the TV. "What makes you think that?"

"I just know--I've known you for too long. You can't hide anything from me, you know." There's a smile in Lane's voice. "Sixteen years, baby. We've got a lot behind us."

"Did you just call me 'baby'?" I smile despite myself, and even I can hear it tinge my tone with a hint of warmth.

"I should know better than to try nicknames, shouldn't I?"

"Yes, you really should."

"And you should know better than to be evasive with me." We fall silent, and I know that Lane's giving me the chance to speak, but I can't bring myself to say anything. What is there to say? So much, too much, everything, nothing. It's too late for all the words that could have fixed anything. "How are you really doing?" Lane finally asks, pushing the subject slightly.

"Fine, Lane, I promise." Or it will be. I will be, but until then, there's nothing more I can say. "How's married life? How was the honeymoon? You've got to tell me about everything." I still can't quite wrap my head around the fact that she's married, and if I let myself get over-the-top incredulous about this, maybe my mind will just stop spinning, trying to comprehend the fact that my Lane Kim is no longer my Lane Kim—she's my Lane van Gerbig, and that name still sounds unfamiliar in my mouth and head, still feels like I'm talking about a distant acquaintance instead of my best friend since childhood.

"Later."

"Fine."

"Don't sigh at me like that. How's Logan?"

This is easier to answer—at least his progress has a definitive answer, unlike mine. If that can even be called progress. "Better. Walking," I say, getting up from the couch and pacing around the room. I lower my voice as I walk past the bed, watching Logan sleep, and I feel like I imagine a mother must feel, watching a child sleep and listening to make sure everything's normal.

"He got up on his own the other day—got around the apartment without any help. I think that was self-defense, though. He didn't want Doyle to have to help him to the bathroom any more than he absolutely had to. If that's not motivation to heal, I don't know what is." This, I can get enthusiastic about. I can distill it down to a few words by now; can convey all the highs and lows and successes and failures in a few adjectives and verbs. People get it. I don't have to try and put words to something abstract—I can just tell them the facts, and let those speak for themselves.

"That's great!" I love that her joy at hearing my words is real—that she's not forcing it for my sake. That she can get past the fact that even I don't really know how I feel and hear the facts—that Logan is up, that he's walking.

"Yeah, it is." I feel my own voice soften, the buoyant lift of the memory of Logan's first steps on his own draining slightly, my own exhaustion creeping in. I'm still not sleeping well—still not completely sure how to deal with this new reality in my house, in our relationship. Highs are shorter, and I sink quicker, overwhelmed.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic," she says, her voice turning just the slightest bit wary. Concerned—and now I can feel her concern shift fully from him to me.

"No—it's great." I circle into the kitchen and open the fridge, pulling out a can of soda and taking it into the living room as I talk. A smile crosses my face, even though she can't see it. "He's up, mostly around the apartment, and to go to his physical therapy appointments. That's about it. Nothing too strenuous, but he's up."

"What about his classes?" Lane asks pragmatically. "Isn't he supposed to graduate? Will he still be able to do that?"

Ah, the million-dollar—almost literally—question. It's amazing what kinds of strings real money can pull. A donation from Daddy and the administration is willing to do almost anything to extend deadlines, to make sure he doesn't fall behind. And for once, I can't even take the opposite side. I want him to do this as much as his family does, although my reasons may be a little different—I want him to succeed, to prove to himself that he has what it takes to do whatever he wants to.

"He had a pretty light semester anyway—he'd already taken all but one of his requisite courses, so these were mostly electives to fill the last few credits—and he worked it out with his professors to have someone tape the lectures for him. Most of them post the class notes and outlines online anyway, so he's keeping up with those, doing the textbook readings, and managing to stay on top of things. When he can stay awake, at least."

"That's not often?"

"No, he's like a baby—he sleeps for probably fourteen out of every twenty-four hours," and I still can't get used to it, I don't add. I don't tell her that it sometimes makes me uncomfortable to be in the apartment while he's sleeping, because I'm still scared that he won't wake up, even though I know he will, even though I know that the sleep is good, is healing. Even now, I check on him far too often, sometimes just sitting at the foot of the bed and watching him sleep. "I think he's getting restless, though."

"It's probably the longest Logan has ever been in one place for that long ever since he could walk and wasn't confined to a crib," Lane says, laughter creeping into her voice. "He doesn't strike me as the 'sit still and be quiet' type." I giggle, thankful that Lane is lightening the mood.

"Most of the time," I agree. "Not always, but he does need to break it up a bit."

"It's still so weird," Lane muses, almost under her breath.

"What is?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"You and him."

I'm not sure how to react to that—I thought that Lane likes Logan better than she did—or better than she had liked the idea of Logan before she actually met him. We've done a few double dates, and she seems to appreciate his sense of humor and his crazy anecdotes, and they can get into some fierce, friendly debates when they get together.

I sit up a little straighter, even my posture putting me on the defensive, and my silence must clue her in, because she hastens to add, "Oh, I don't think you're bad for each other. It's just still a little strange that your boyfriend is so out there and always doing stuff, and you're more of a homebody."

Again, not sure how to take that. "Well, it's not like we're constantly out partying—it's not even like Logan's always out partying. He likes to hang out at home and watch movies or read a book as much as I do, and I like to go out, just not every night. Which is good, because neither does he."

"Yeah, I guess," she concedes, and I exhale, a little bit surprised at the vehemence with which I've just defended our lifestyle—and not just that, but us . Our life together, and once again, I'm amazed that Lane and I are building our lives separately, orbiting around the men in our lives and building our own support systems that include people other than each other. Logan and I have "a lifestyle," our own habits, just like she and Zach do, and they're not always the same anymore. She's still talking, though, and I shake myself out of my reverie and tune back in. "And it seems to be good for both of you, from what I see. I think he's good for you," she finishes, ending her sentence with a slight, lilting sigh that escapes her throat in a gentle hum.

I stop, frozen by Lane's words. Good for each other. Is that enough to remind me every day when I don't know how to move forward from here? Can the simple fact that I choose him be enough? Can I let it be enough?

"Rory?" Her voice breaks into my silence.

"Yeah." I tuck my feet up under me, letting the transition of my body move my mind into a new space. "Still here."

"You okay?"

I nod, and I feel a tightening behind my eyes and in the back of my throat. "Yeah, I'm fine," I say, almost believing it for the first time since the night of Honor's wedding. For the first time in weeks, everything that's been hanging over Logan and me doesn't feel like it's going to suffocate me, doesn't feel like a fog pressing in closer and thicker, blurring my vision.

"When are you going to be in Stars Hollow?" she asks, and I can hear her running water in the background.

"I'm not sure," I hedge. "It's kind of hard to get away right now. Soon, though. As soon as I can."

"We need to hang out!" Lane exclaims. "I can't believe we haven't even seen each other since I got back from my honeymoon. I mean… that's just wrong. We should never, ever go that long again."

"I concur," I grin, laughing a little bit at Lane's enthusiasm. "Mom and I need a day together, too, so when I'm in the Hollow, I'll call you."

"Okay," she agrees, and we slip into the comfortable familiarity of the years between us. From my perch on the couch, I can see Logan stir, shifting slightly in his sleep and turning so he's facing me. A slight grimace crosses his face as he settles into a new position, and a wave of protectiveness and love washes over me, so strong that it's almost tangible, so vivid it almost feels like it's soaking through my clothes, through my skin, to the bone.

"I've got to go, Lane," I say suddenly, trying not to be abrupt. "I'll talk to you later, though."

"Okay. Good night."

I flip the phone shut and toss it on the couch, padding barefoot to the bed, where I perch myself on the edge of my side, running my fingers over Logan's face and through his hair.

"I love you," I whisper, swinging my feet up onto the bed and lying beside him, edging closer and closer, a fraction of an inch at a time, until the side of my body is flush with his, touching at shoulders, hips, and toes, still so aware—too aware—of his fragility and vulnerability, but suddenly, inexplicably, unable to be more than a fraction of an inch away from him.

"I need you," I admit, speaking quietly into his ear, and he shifts in response, turning towards my voice, and a sigh escapes his lips in his sleep. I smile, close my eyes, and let my mind rest, feeling at peace for the first time in weeks.