Chapter Twenty-One

Rory was lost

Logan was driving and she supposed that had something to do with her current disorientation. She had never been very good with directions, even when she was behind the wheel—part of her obsession with maps, and the resulting mocking from her mother, was rooted in this shameful truth. She was always getting turned around and pointed in the wrong direction. Once, after and argument with her mom, she tried to run away from home. They were still living at the Independence Inn, and she had not quite figured out how to get to town. Her mother found her two hours later crying beside the duck pond. She had though that she was crying because of their fight. She was wrong. Rory had been crying because she did not know hot to leave. She knew where she wanted to go (Andrew's Bookstore), but she did not know how to get there. She had made it as far as the duck pond before she had realized this sobering fact. It was a terrible thing to know where you wanted to go, but not how to get there. She had felt powerless, as though she were at the mercy of forces beyond her control. She hated that feeling, hated feeling completely helpless.

Planning and maps had become her shield and armor against that paralyzing fear. Through reason and calculation, she would conquer her fear. She became determined toknow the way to her destination always, and never allow herself to become distracted from her goal. Her mother had feared that Dean would lead her astray, just as she herself had been beguiled by Christopher. But, despite his occasional outburst, Dean had been supportive of Rory's ambitions, and never made a real dent in her drive. No, she had been the one to try to sabotage the finely oiled machine that comprised her Plan. She had tried to give up Chilton so she could be near Dean, back when he was simply the 'man with the tanis root.' Her mother would not let her, and Dean would not let her give up. Neither would Jess, much to her mother's chagrin. Luke's nephew was passionate and tortured, an alluring mystery dragging her into velvet darkness. It threatened to debase her in its intensity, and consume her mind and soul. That danger had thrilled her, but it never touched her. He never got beneath the armor of her Plan.

No one could find that chink in her resolve. Not until a much older and more mature Dean had found her weak and vulnerable, beaten down by the pressures and intensity of the rigors of an Ivy League education and a shattering family life, without the support and counsel of her mother.

Rory mentally shook her head. No, that was unfair; she would not allow herself to fall into a partisan argument in her defense. Dean was no more the villain of her story than Jess had been when he had asked her to run away with him. Both men had tempted her, tested her, in her weakness. She had braved one, but not the other. She had wanted to sleep with Dean as much as he had wanted to sleep with her. Both of them had been hurting, plagued by the pitfalls of burgeoning adulthood, and confronted with the security and solace of youthful follies. That night, on her bed, on the eve of her mother's realization of everything she had hoped and striven for, she had allowed herself to momentarily stray from her dream.

She was the one behind the steering wheel. She was the one who lost the map.

Except, now, Logan was driving, and she did not need a map. She did not need to plan; he had lain out everything. This should have bothered her, but the air of chaos and adventure that pervaded their every encounter captivated and excited her with its promise of danger that would upset her ordered and planned existence. In a way that confounded her, Rory craved that danger and exhilaration with reckless fervor, daring it to undo her, knowing that it would. She knew he would lead her through the forest, with only breadcrumbs to mark their trail.

Trees, their trunks shrouded in the inky clutches of the night, hugged tight to the rough gravel of the narrow lane. Their vague shapes loomed in the stark fluorescent beams of Logan's Spider before being ripped back into the obscurity of the night's caress. Rory felt an odd anger towards the trees, an unreasoning fury that flared as briefly as the trees' lives in the light. Why didn't they fight to stay in the light more? Why did they only stay briefly in the light? They should have fought. They should struggle and rail and gnash their teeth and contend against the inexorable power of the darkness. Instead, they succumbed. The trees slunk meekly into the umber folds of the night, disappearing into nothingness once more. She despised that they relinquished control, that they placed themselves beholden to another.

They should be behind the wheel.

A small derisive snort escaped from her as she stared out her window at the helpless trees. "You okay?" She jumped in her seat, and smiled reassuringly. It was a smile that she did not feel herself. Right then, Rory was not sure of anything.

She was lost.

She sighed again and looked down to her lap. The soft sea green baby-doll dress with pale blue highlights clung to her figure elegantly in feathery folds and pleats of spun sea foam. Tiny beading and brocade, reminiscent of pearl and coral, speckled her dress like sun sparkling on the waves. The light bluish-green of the ocean complemented her own azure eyes.

Much of what Rory wore lately seemed to complement her eyes.

Logan liked her eyes. He said they were what drew him to her when he first saw her; they were brilliant and looked like tiny pools of soft blue fire. He said that he could lose himself in her eyes. She thought that was sweet, cliché, but sweet. She found it ironic that different attributes fascinated different boys in her life. Dean liked her concentration; Tristan… she had no idea why Tristan liked her, probably because she did not put up with his attitude; Jess cherished her intelligence and fire; Marty liked her sense of humor and kindness; and Logan, Logan liked her eyes.

Then again, everyone liked her eyes. Paris said as much when she wrote her "Ten Thousand Reasons Why Rory Gilmore is Perfect" list—her eyes occupied number five, right below her waif-like nature and just above her silken brown hair. Initially, Paris had intended the list to be an insult; a slam against her rival meant to trivialize and demean the girl's assets and ruin her self-esteem. It had sharply stung her in the beginning, but she came to find an odd sort of solace in the slight: her bitterest rival had found ten thousand reasons for why people would like her and want to be with her. And, while she thought some of those reasons were a bit mundane (why would anyone care about her earlobes?) she still thought the list impressive. Paris had found ten thousand reasons to hate (i.e. be jealous of) her. In a weird and very twisted way, it was somewhat comforting and complimentary.

That list brought her no comfort now.

"Rory, my parents are going to love you." Logan covered her hands with his on her lap, and gave them a soft squeeze. "You're beautiful, funny, smart," he flashed her a grin. "You're perfect. You know it. I know it. They'll know it the moment they see you."

Rory hung her head with a small whimper. "I hope so."

The car sped on into the night towards the Huntzberger mansion as the trees futilely flailed at the car.