"She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries."

— Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin


Hamburg, Germany

2015

Rory settled into her leather seat and opened her laptop. While she waited for the MacBook to pick up the wifi signal, she plucked a French fry from the plate in front of her, dipping it in curry sauce before she ate it. The bar at the Hotel Atlantic Kempinski in Hamburg had a full menu, but after a long dinner with her grandparents at one of the city's finest restaurants, Rory's stomach was still growling and she just wanted fries.

Her grandparents had turned in early, but she wanted to do some research for her story. And if she could do it while drinking a martini and people-watching, why not?

Plus, she figured, if she wasn't alone in her room staring at the ceiling, it would be easier to distract herself from her thoughts.

Back when she was fresh out of college, traveling with the Obama campaign and spending a lot of nights in hotel bars drinking coffee, she used to enjoy making up stories about the people she saw. Names, reasons for traveling, backstories: That guy was definitely a Steve, and his wife was a Linda, they lived in Arizona, and they weren't going to leave Nashville without matching pairs of red cowboy boots. Those women were sisters —Suzanne, Carla, and Patty — and they were in Las Vegas because Carla had just been left at the alter, and they wanted to make the trip to see Cher in residency at Caesars because they did believe in life after love. Those two were software salesmen names Barry and Ken, and they were on a work trip in Chicago, had just closed their biggest deal ever, and would be waking up the next day with drunkenly-chosen and ill-advised tattoos of their company's logo.

But now she just looked at all the people — the couples canoodling without a care in the world, the business travelers kicking up their feet after a long day of productive work — and felt sorry for herself. She had no one to canoodle with. She was canoodle-less. And she'd been kicking her feet up a lot lately, but not because of a satisfying day of work.

Before she turned to her research she checked her email. A message from her mom, nothing important, just a brief note that included yet another pun about Hamburg and hamburgers. An email from a guy she'd been seeing when she was in Brooklyn. He probably wanted to schedule a date for when she was back in town. She didn't open the email. Not a single message about work; other than the story she was currently working on, the freelance well was dry. She clicked away from her email and started her research.

Some of the Big Moments in life are expected —milestones you can see coming a mile away. Graduations, birthdays, weddings. You mark the calendar and mentally prepare yourself. Others sneak up on you, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking up your life.

Rory was finishing her fries and trying to flag down the bartender to get a cup of coffee. He was at the other end of the bar, and on his way back in Rory's direction he stopped to take someone else's order first. "Macallan, neat," the other customer said.

Her stomach dropped and she turned her head. It was a voice from another life. A voice she hadn't heard in years but would know anywhere. It couldn't be, she thought, but their eyes landed on each other, and it was.

Logan Huntzberger.

Rory's body reacted before her mind could put together a coherent thought. Her face grew hot and she heard a rushing sound in her ears. Did she look as flustered as she felt? He didn't look flustered at all. A lazy smile grew on his face as he maneuvered his way toward her through the dwindling crowd.

He reached her. "I may have had a few drinks at dinner, but not enough to hallucinate this," he said.

Rory's mind was spinning and she couldn't put together anything witty, so she took the straightforward approach. "Logan! Wow. It's great to see you. This is such a surprise." She slid clumsily from her barstool to give him a stiff hug and a kiss on the cheek. His cologne smelled expensive, like leather and amber, and his hand felt warm on her shoulder.

"You look great, Rory," he said, picking up the drink the bartender had just placed in front of him.

"You too! You look great," she repeated, smoothing her red dress.

He just looked at her, like they were sharing an inside joke she didn't quite remember, and she met his gaze. When she could bear it no more she sipped her martini, grateful that she hadn't yet traded it for a cup of coffee. Logan glanced at her computer.

"I must say, you look extremely industrious with your laptop at the bar at 11pm, but please tell me you can spare some time for a drink with me. Surely your Google search for…" he squinted, reading her screen, "the best kebab in Hamburg… can wait."

"It's for a story I'm writing," she explained quickly, "about street food."

"Street food?" He raised his eyebrow. "A woman of the people."

"It's not what you're thinking. I'm going for an Anthony Bourdain, Parts Unknown vibe," she said defensively. "And besides, good street food is the best."

"I'm sure you'll be eating noodles in Hanoi with the president in no time," he teased. He lifted his drink and gestured at an empty table. "So. Shall we?"


An hour later they were nursing their second round of drinks and Rory was starting to feel like she'd found her footing. In some ways he was like a stranger. He carried himself more calmly, less like he was trying to prove something. He'd ditched the clean shave for a bit of stubble. He was pulling off the fitted suit very nicely. He was giving her the polite, arms-length stories of his life, and she was doing the same. But at the same time, he still got her jokes. And she could still read his face, she realized. He was looking at her like he was truly glad to see her.

"So what came first, the story or the trip with your grandparents?" Logan asked.

"My grandparents are doing a big trip around Germany and Austria. They invited me to meet them here for a few days, mostly to go to the symphony with them before they move on to Berlin — it's Mahler's fifth symphony, and Grandma and Grandpa love Mahler. I've been working on this story on and off and I figured, when in Hamburg…"

"Eat a kebab. Naturally."

They settled into a silence that was more comfortable than she would've expected. She felt his knee against hers under the table, and she could've moved, but she didn't. They were smiling at each other and she wasn't sure why. Probably something to do with their knees. Who knew you could say so much with your knees? she thought. But wait, what do I want my knee to be saying? She shifted away.

"I should probably go to bed," she said. "We're getting an early start at the Kunsthalle tomorrow."

Logan scanned her face, tilting his head. A beat passed. "Sure. Sounds like you have a busy day. Museum, symphony. You should get some rest." He swirled what was left of his drink, looking down at it like he was reading tea leaves. He looked back up at her. "Or."

"Or?"

"We're in a great European city, it's a beautiful night. We're still young, young enough, anyway. We have nowhere else to be, it's only midnight. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"Out there," he gestured toward the exit. "Anywhere. When in Hamburg, eat a kebab, right? Let's go find the best kebab in Hamburg."

Her heartbeat quickened. She had a choice: the certain thing, bed at a reasonable hour, in the place the world expected her to be, where she would wake up the next morning feeling nostalgic but intact. The same person she was today, a mildly successful but underperforming freelance journalist with terrible health insurance, in Hamburg for Mahler and the Kunsthalle. Or. The thing that felt like the past but wasn't, because she knew how the past had ended, and she didn't know how this would.

"Let's go." She stood. "Let's do it."


Later, the lake glowed like a black pearl in the moonlight, and the lights of the buildings along its shores twinkled warmly. Rory and Logan sipped beers as they meandered, the Kempinski just coming back into view in the distance.

"I think we're now the leading authorities on the kebabs of Hamburg," Logan said, clinking his beer against hers.

"I've got more than enough material to finish my story now."

"And then what?"

Rory exhaled. "Back to Brooklyn, I guess. On to the next thing."

"It must've been quite an adjustment when you left the Boston Journal and started freelancing."

She was silent, preferring to focus on the church spire in the distance and the warmth of Logan's arm next to hers.

"Why'd you leave the Journal, anyway? It seemed like a good fit for you."

She didn't answer. "Why'd you go back to working for your father?" she asked instead.

He sipped his beer. "Honestly? The startup failed. And I can't blame the recession. We screwed up and I kept throwing more money at it and in the end it bled me dry. So I had to make it completely on my own, from nothing, or crawl back home. I tried the first option. It wasn't working. I'm not cut out for instant ramen and public transit. So I went back to the family business. I've been in London seven years now and I love it. I do. I work for Mitchum, and he's still a dick, but I have my own projects and I love my work. Striking out on my own, I'm glad I tried it. It gave me enough perspective to appreciate the opportunities I've been given."

It was a mature, honest answer, but it made her sad anyway. Rory looked out toward the lake, her eyes unfocused. In her head she was seeing pictures of the past. "We're really not so young anymore, huh?" she said.

He gave her a concerned look. "Rory, I'm happy to make some calls if you want a full-time gig again. I know freelancing can be tough. It's a hustle."

"No, I don't — that's not what I want. I don't need you to do that." She fiddled with her bracelet.

"Your work is solid. That Slate piece was excellent."

She narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. "I always wondered who left the comment on that story saying, 'Rory Gilmore has a brain made of mashed potatoes.' Mystery solved."

He laughed. "Oh, yeah, definitely me. The Internet is a cruel place."

"So you've been keeping tabs on me, Huntzberger?" She elbowed him gently.

"I can't say I hang your stories on the refrigerator, but of course I read them. I always have." He wasn't embarrassed about it. She'd Googled him a few times over the years, but that wasn't something she wanted to share with him. He was a Huntzberger, so he was very Google-able. It was easy to find stories about his family, his work. Photos from social events. Even the occasional personal tidbit.

"You know, I always wondered if we'd ever run into each other," she confessed.

"So did I. I have to say — I thought maybe it would happen at a Yale event. Or a charity thing in Hartford. I did not expect to walk into a hotel in Germany and see Rory Gilmore sitting at the bar," he said. "But I'm glad I did."

"So am I," she agreed.

They were approaching the hotel. Logan rested his hand on the small of her back. She was hyperaware of the hand, of the exact placement of each finger, of the level of pressure and what it might say about his intentions. She thought of her empty room, of the possibility that the next thing she would do with her life was go to sleep in preparation for a day at the museum with her grandparents. Of the other possibility.

She stopped and turned to face him. "So," she said.

"So," he replied. "I guess we should call it a night."

"I guess we should," she conceded, but neither of them moved. Seconds passed. "Or," she added softly. Her voice wavered.

His eyes crinkled and his mouth turned up at the corner. "Or?"

"Or," she confirmed. She reached out, just to bridge the gap, touching his arm gently. She was four thousand miles from home; what was another six inches? She felt a million different things she couldn't make sense of, like she was holding a bundle of threads that were jumbled together and her hands were shaking too much to separate them from each other. And then he grew serious and pulled her close to kiss her, and all she felt was his mouth on hers, his stubble on her cheek, his fingertips on her hip, and the breeze coming off the black pearl lake.