Chapter Twelve
"I don't deserve you." The words shot through the air like a chime: soft, musical (Lorelai's voice could be nothing but), and deafening in their cacophony. The world hung still as though in a great balance, stunned by a profundity too great to realize in the mere accounting of seconds or exchange of words. Any motion: a faucet dripping, the breeze stirring the branches of a tree bereft of leaves, a clock ticking in exorable measure the world's descent into darkness, would upset the balance and tip the scale of words and deeds. The world waited in frozen anticipation. Cars stood still, birds were thumbtacked to clouds, the moon and stars shuttered themselves against the power that loomed over this moment. All of existence paused to await the outcome.
Only the lone taper standing between the two lovers sitting in the darkened kitchen dared defy the natural hush with is willful brilliance. It threw its light with unruly glee, oblivious to the truth its light revealed. The light fell on Lorelai, igniting soft twinkling diamonds on her cheeks. The light fell on Luke. It burned him, seared his flesh and eyes, and defended him with its clarion silence. I don't deserve you. Words that echoed his own tortured his ears. Had he made her think this? Had he somehow caused her to think so little of herself that he thought that he, the guy who did not matter, was too good for her? He must have. It was his fault. It was all his fault. He hurt her. Somewhere between his sister's wedding and that fateful conversation at Doosey's Market, he had managed to hurt her so grievously that she could not recover. He had broken her.
The scale trembled.
The book was wrong. No one who could do that to Lorelai deserved love. Guys like him did not deserve love. Guys like him retreated into their caves and growled at people. They did not love, could not love. They only hurt people. Jess was right: he only made things worse. He had made her stop dancing. Luke shook his head and cursed himself a thousand times over. He was beneath her, and here she was telling him that she did not deserve him. Like, he was some great prize, something more precious than gold or silver. Lorelai was the treasure, the crystal idol atop the pedestal to be worshipped by base creatures such as him.
The scale shook harder.
Luke should not be there, sitting at her table in nothing but his boxers. He should be gone, back in his prison, watching her from behind his counter, rather than watching the way his shirt moved with each breath she took. People like him did not get to be with people like her. Hell, there were no people like her, just Lorelai. She was like the stars in the sky: mysterious, shimmering, always in motion. He remembered, once, hearing that the light from the stars takes millions of years to get to Earth. By the time we see the light, the stars are already gone. We see them as they were, never as they are. Lorelai was much the same way to him. He could never keep up with her; never move as fast or smoothly. Every glimpse he had was a snapshot, a picture taken from the telescope of his diner. Even then, though, he did not truly see her, just an after image of her presence; like the light of a star.
He loved her, and he had ruined her, taken away her spirit. He had made her stop dancing. He did not deserve her, did not deserve to be in the same room as her. Unworthy as he was, he still loved her. He meant to tell her these things. He had meant to tell her he would leave and that she would be fine because he would never hurt her again. What came out however, was a strangled "I love you."
The scale shattered. The world began again. Birds flapped; the moon and stars shone down on the pair; life continued. The candle still burned.