Chapter Four
Rory awoke to the delicious smell of pancakes and bacon. And coffee. Delicious, wonderful, glorious, coffee. This was odd because her mother never cooked, and she did not have a stove in her dorm room. She scrunched her eyes closed and breathed deep the masculine scent that underlined the food, accenting and enhancing the mouth-watering aroma. The room smelled of wood; close, dusty, sunbathed wood; as she imagined an old tool shed or attic would. Tools. She smelled tools next, the sharp metallic tang contrasting nicely with the homey aura of worked pine and oak. Another breath and her journalist's mind began filling in blanks, painting a picture that her eyes did not yet see. The room was made of dark well-oiled hardwood planks that gave a sense of dependability and presence. Hammer and nails, maybe a toolbox, would be stacked neatly in a corner. She grinned and murmured "Bert" before continuing with her description. She smelled vegetables and fruit, tea, and fresh laundry as s she turned over and buried her face in the scratchy fabric of her thick sheets and pillowcase. Flannel. She smelled flannel.
She flipped over on to her back and smiled, despite the early morning hour. Rory opened on eye and then the other, like a child anticipating a surprise. A smile danced across her face as she took in the room around her. Luke's apartment—her Father's apartment, she cheerfully corrected herself—surrounded her with its gruff and stern walls. The worn and scuffed oak floorboards of the bedroom reflected and magnified the wan light peaking through the narrow slit in the curtains. The pine wall panels glowed golden with the dawn's first light and transformed the dull gray of the predawn twilight into cheery and warm dawn.
She breathed in deeply again, relishing the combination of scents that filled the apartment. It was a scent of warmth and affection, safety and comfort. Nothing could hurt her there. There were no possessive boyfriends, or self-involved snobs, or inconsiderate goons, or deadbeat dads at Luke's. There was only Luke. Comfortable, dependable, safe Luke. She wished she could stay there forever, and forget about the world outside his four walls. However, she knew she had to face the world. She put on her clothes from yesterday, grimacing at the combined filth from the previous day and the memories from the ill-fated meeting with Christopher.
The tray beside her bed beckoned her with its tantalizing fare, and she attacked it with abandon. Luke's food was perfect as always. The pancakes and bacon and other coronary-inducing delicacies filled her mouth with their goodness. Ironic that she would crave something so bad for her.
"It's what we do." Luke's voice was gruff and quiet from around the corner in the kitchen.
She blushed as she carried her plate with her cup of juice (equal parts grape, apple, orange, and cranberry—her "power juice") balanced precariously between her bacon and eggs. "You heard me." She set her plate on the table with a minimum of spillage. Although, much to Luke's obvious consternation, she popped a juice-laden sausage link into her mouth as she talked.
Actually, she would not have noticed if her entire glass had spilled into her plate. Or cared. It was a trait she and her mother shared: if you've spilled it, clean it up, or make do. Usually, "make do" was the method of choice.
Luke shrugged at her question. "It's quiet, and sound travels." He looked at his own plate, clearly embarrassed by the situation.
"At three hundred and forty-three meters per second, no less." Rory chose to ignore his embarrassment. For once, she put her needs above anyone else's. Besides, they had agreed that he would be her father, and talking to their daughters is what fathers do.
"Is that so?"
"Yup."
"No kidding. Hunh." He grinned at his half of grapefruit. "That the kind of stuff they're teaching you up at that fancy college of yours?"
"Along with obscure authors and pointless trivia." Rory quipped around her mouthful of syrupy pancake. She set her fork down and crossed her hands on the table before her. All quipping aside, it was time to be serious. "What'd you mean?"
"About what?" Luke sipped his tea, unfazed by the rapid mood shift.
" 'It's what we do'. What'd you mean by that?"
"Oh, that." He found himself staring at the wall, his shoes, his plate, anything to avoid meeting the girl's eyes. Serious conversation, any conversation for that matter, was never something at which he excelled. He avoided most conversations, actually. He always thought that when your mouth was open, your brain stops. Now was certainly the case. "We, y'know, people. We want things, lots of things, usually things we shouldn't want or can't have."
"Like vamp nail polish or Alanis Morisette?" Okay, so maybe she could be a little flippant with their discussion. It was too early and too odd to be so weighty.
"I was thinking more like grease or candy or some kind of death car that looks cool but you know is only going to roll over as soon as you get to a tight turn and even though it's got all-wheel drive and brand-new tires it's only going to spin out on anything but ideal condition and probably roll over because the damned thing is so top-heavy that it has the stability of a … I don't know something really big and unstable." He looked up from his plate and saw Rory's saucer-sized eyes. "And now I've scared you."
"It's just that I haven't seen you rant like that in a while. I missed it." It was true. Somehow, seeing Luke froth at the mouth about a topic was comforting. It was familiar, which was something that she desperately needed in her life. One thing struck her, though, throughout his entire monologue—Lorelai. He was describing Lorelai. "She does too." He looked up at her, and now it was his turn to look like a deer in the headlights.
"Misses my rants?" Thinly masked hope rang loud in his voice.
"Misses your everything." Dirty! Rory stifled the grin that naturally came at the double-entendre. Now was not the time to indulge in potty humor.
"She ended it."
"You suggested it."
"Yeah well, she made it official." It came out as a hoarse whisper, a tortured, agonized wail ripped from a tattered soul.
"She cried." Luke got up and threw his plate roughly in the sink with a savage growl. Rory followed and pressed her advantage. "She still cries. All the time. Every night, even. You were so good together. You were happy!"
"No we weren't! We weren't good." He leaned against the sink and his arms shook with profound restraint. "Your grandparents saw that. That's why they tried to break us up. They saw that Lorelai and I weren't good together, and that Christopher was good enough for her and I…wasn't." he gave up and collapsed into his chair.
"She left Max for you." Rory studied him with a calm she did not feel. It hurt her to cause pain to someone she loved and respected. Nevertheless, it needed to be done. He needed to realize how important he really was. "You weren't Max. Or, Max wasn't you. Either way she wanted you. And Max wasn't you."
"Great, another thing I ruined."
"Ruined? You fixed it! You fixed her—us, really." She could not believe what Luke was saying. She could not believe that he hated himself that much. "You fixed our house, took care of us when we were sad or sick, gave me a dad when my own couldn't be bothered, and showed my mother what a decent guy was like. When she was with you, she was happy. You made her happy. Not Max, not Jason, and not Christopher. You. And she's miserable without you."
Luke said nothing. He stared straight ahead at the grandfather clock his dad had built for his mother. It was clear he did not know how to process this revelation: Lorelai was not happy. This went far beyond a fight and a breakup. Lorelai never cried. Each time she had cried the emotions were about someone else, or she was ashamed of herself. She had never cried because she was hurting. Now, he had made her do it every night. "What should I do?"
"Do what you always do," Rory smiled fondly at her father. "Fix it."
"How?"
"Do what you always do, talk to her, and then make her talk."
"What do you mean? She always talks. She never stops! When the bomb finally drops, and everything in the world is destroyed, there will be two things left:"
"Cher and cockroaches?"
"Three things, then." Luke continued without pause, and Rory marveled at how a conversation could bounce between them. They were connected. "And her yammering mouth will be one of them. There won't even be a body attached to it, just her head yapping away with sound magically coming out of it." He sighed and grabbed his hat off his head, holding it in a vice-like grip in both hands. "Actually, that's probably not true. Her body's so full of preservatives that she'll last forever, no matter what happens. She's like a Twinkie."
"Oooo Twinkies!" Rory clapped her hands in delight at witnessing another Luke rant. "And, while that's probably very true, she never talks about important stuff. She never talks about her problems. At least, not to me or Sookie." Unfortunately, the time for levity had ended. "She tells you, though." Rory tried to hide the jealousy that burned in her heart. She loved Luke, but it chafed that her mother had someone else to confide in. "She only tells you."
"Rory…" Luke leaned over and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"It's good, though. Really." Rory smiled up at the man she though of as her father. "You get her to open up. She confides in you and no one else." She laughed bitterly at her own possessiveness. "She thinks she needs to be brave for my sake and that she can't break down in front of me or anyone. That's not healthy. Maybe she needed to do that while I was growing up. But I'm grown now and she's still trying to be strong."
"She's the strongest woman I know." Luke sounded almost wistful as he stared out the window towards the town square.
"You make her strong."
"I don't..." Rory silenced his argument as she put her arms around him in a fond embrace.
"Just go and make her strong, Luke." She released him and walked to the door. It was time for her to go and Luke needed to open the diner. "Thanks for everything," a shy smile graced her lips, "Dad."
"Anytime, Kid, anytime." He leaned back in his chair resting his hands behind his capped head as his girl, his daughter, walked out of his apartment and into the sunlight beyond his prison. He felt a grin, small but strong, form as he looked about his ancient home and for once entropy did not return.