Chapter 19

Author's Note

Dear Readers,

I think I owe you all an explanation about my disappearing act. I wish I could say I was hit by a bus and was laying in a coma for 6 months as a result, that I had fallen overboard and washed ashore on this small, uninhabited barren knoll measuring 0.5 sq mi. Both Canada and Denmark are fighting about this rock in the middle of the sea, but boat visits are nonetheless rare and so I had to entertain myself with the football that had fallen overboard with me for half a year (very Cast Away)…or that I was beamed up by aliens one day walking back from the supermarket. They used me for all sorts of testing and as a result I still howl at the moon once in a while… But unfortunately that would not be the entire truth. There is no excuse for my lack of updates other than that I felt uninspired (a.k.a. writers block the size of Russia). Add school to that (which has been robbing practically every single minute of my time) and you have yes… exactly months and months of howling winds and no updates. Here is the aftermath of the eventful evening from the previous chapter. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you all for all for sticking by me and for the wonderful reviews that kept putting a smile on my face through all this time :) and please leave some more after this chapter.

Sincerely, Eva

Disclaimer: Don't own anything except what's mine!

Since it's been a while since I updated here a short 'previously on the Next Best Thing' ;):

- ….Paris Internship Program. She had sent them a letter 2 moths ago, seeing it not only as a great opportunity to get some experience and clean up her French, but also as a way to get her mind straight about Logan… 3 months without the boy could give her some perspective. But now, now she was afraid to open it and find a positive answer. She held her breath as her hand moved the cursor on the mail and she clicked it open. Her heart made a jump when the page appeared before her….. (Ch13)

- …Rory swallowed, willing her tears away. Although she knew that his mother died, how and why… He had never spoken about her in such an emotional way; never had started about her himself. This was the first time that he told her something out of the blue…. (Ch18)

-…"Logan. You remember your son? About yay high," she held her hand just above her head. "Blond, has your eyes in fact, but then warm, and your smile, yet sincere. If there is anyone that you owe an apology to, it's him," she spat… (Ch18)

Chapter 19

Macallan Neat and Tears on the Rocks

"Logan, wait!" she shouted, scurrying after him as fast as her high heels could carry her. He didn't wait nor did he intend to as he ran down the stairs two at a time.

"Please, stop," she pleaded, following him best as she could, "Can't we talk about this?"

Against her expectations he turned around.

"I think you've done enough talking for tonight," He spat. She had never seen him this angry.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered, still trying to grasp what it actually was she was apologizing for. What it was he was so mad about. He was independent and he didn't like to be helped or even worse pitied. But she couldn't just ignore him being unhappy for the simple reason that she loved him. And him baring his soul just mere hours ago only amplified that love and the worry. He didn't say anything, was simply standing at the bottom of the marble stairs, hiding everything in his dark eyes, except his anger.

"I'm sorry, Logan." She repeated her apology and waited for a response other than the livid scrutiny of his eyes.

"Take the driver," he then said curtly before turning around and walking into the night.

"Where are you going?" she shouted after him, but he didn't turn back and soon she couldn't distinguish him anymore amongst the dozens passersby. She wanted to go after him but her satin pumps were cemented into the marble of the stairs. He didn't want her after him. That much was clear. She ran her hands through her hair only then realizing that she was standing alone in the cold and near tears and a strange feeling of a déjà vu overflowed her. But he wouldn't come looking for her this time. She climbed the stairs again, sadly thanking the doorman for opening the heavy door for her and made her way through the hall stopping in the middle at seeing Mitchum watching her from across the room, before turning around and walking away towards the festivities. Rory continued her way to the wardrobe. The party was over. She hoped her relationship wasn't.

He walked through the city in brisk steps ignoring the freezing cold and the fact that he wasn't wearing a coat. He had no idea where he was going. And truthfully everything was fine, if only it was away from the Waldorf, away from Mitchum and away from Rory. He plucked at his bowtie violently in the false hope it would make the suffocating feeling disappear. He craved a drink, the burning sensation of 20 year old golden scotch. Although at this point, he would down a bottle of cheap vodka from the bottom shelf of a shady liquor store in a blink, not caring about the terrible taste or the guaranteed hangover the next day. Everything that would take away this sickening feeling in his stomach away was okay, even if it would replace the sickening feeling with another one. But at this point he would rather puke his guts out than think about what he had witnessed. Sam's he read the neon letters on the building before him and stopped. This was as good a place as any to get hammered. He entered the crowded pub, and headed straight for the bar.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked as he sat down.

"What kind of scotch do you have?" he returned the question.

"Four Roses, Jim Beam, Jack Daniel's."

"Any actual scotch?" he emphasized. The bartender shook his head and he sighed.

"Double Jim's then."

"On the rocks?"

"Neat." The glass had barely touched the counter when he tossed it back and motioned for another.

Rory's heels clicked on the wooden floor as she paced through the hotel room. Where was he? She had tried calling his cell phone against better judgment. He didn't pick up and she didn't expect he would, but she had to do something. She was worried. She wanted to look for him, but didn't know where to start. She didn't even know if he would come back… Was she just supposed to go back to New Haven? She rubbed her face and sat down on the bed, with a wince removing the pumps off her feet. Her heels were red and close to bleeding, her soles were sore. As pretty as the shoes were…they were at least that much uncomfortable. She sighed rubbing her sore feet her eyes settling on Logan's overnight bag. The layers of silk whispered around her feet as she got up and lifted the leather bag off the floor. She pulled out a faded Yale t-shirt and buried her nose in it, taking in his distinct sent. It was then that the tears came. She let out a loud sob muffling it with her hand in an effort to stop, but the damage was done and an avalanche of tears poured over her cheeks and drenched the worn cotton fabric. How was it possible that an evening that had started out so promising had ended up as a total disaster? She lay down, pulling her knees up and hugged the t-shirt tighter as a restless sleep soon got the best of her.

One could know one had a hangover when there was evidence of a headache, nausea, intestinal upset, aching muscles and joints, and deadly fatigue. If there was one thing Logan Huntzberger was certain about, it was that he definitely had a hangover. Even blinking seemed to send a splitting pain through his brain, if indeed he still had one. With utter concentration he managed to maneuver his finger to press the elevator button and leaned his forehead against the cool wall. It pinged much louder than he remembered. The door of the suite wasn't locked and he was met by darkness. At least it worked somewhat soothingly on his splitting headache. As he neared the bedroom he heard the running water in the shower saw the mangled sheets on one side of the bed, his t-shirt laying in a heap near the pillow. He rubbed his tired eyes and decided to get himself a few painkillers. He rummaged through his bag but couldn't find anything that even resembled little white pills of salvation. With a groan he looked around the bedroom and located Rory's purse. He emptied it on the bed and dug through all the items piling out. It ranged from panty's to tampons. There was a very good reason why guys did not go through girl's purses, but he, he was desperate. He finally located the familiar white box and carried it to the mini bar, taking out a bottle of water. He had barely swallowed the pills when Rory appeared out of the bathroom dressed in jeans and a hello kitty top. Her wet hair clung to her face. He could still see traces of mascara on her cheeks.

"Hey…" she said softly, "I—"

"Frank is waiting," he said in a cold and hung-over voice before grabbing his bag and heading out the door.

Rory blinked, unable to move for a moment. He had looked like hell and she could clearly see he had been drinking and even more clearly was the anger written all over him. But he had come back. That was good, wasn't it? She gathered her things, gave the hotel room a once over before making her way downstairs.

"Are you coming to bed?" she asked quietly, standing in the doorway. At first he didn't react. Same way as he had been ignoring her all day. The car ride to New Haven was so silent she had almost started clawing the windows. Nothing had changed when they stepped through the door of the apartment. It was as if she was air to him. No matter how hard she tried, or how often she apologized. She had called her mother letting her tears fall in the bathroom and had taken comfort in her words, telling her that he needed time. But each time he gave her the cold shoulder it just made it that much harder to believe and she had been walking around on the brink of tears all day now.

"No." He then returned curtly, never lifting his eyes from the TV.

Rory bit her lip, willing the tears that now were so dangerously close to falling away and turned around, making her way in to the bedroom. She crawled into the bed, cold and empty without him and rolled herself to a little ball under the down covers to warm up. She felt miserable and could no longer hold back her tears, letting them silently glide down her cheeks. She hated him yelling but she hated him being like this even more.

Despite his love for 'Scarface' Logan watched Tony Montana single-handedly taking on Sosa's men with little enthusiasm. The sinking feeling in his stomach grew. Was he overreacting? His heart picked up pace when he thought back at her words. What do you know about Logan? The answer was nothing. And he preferred it that way. He hated that he loved writing, that he was capable of it. The same way that he at this point hated that he loved Rory. That he just couldn't leave, rebuild his walls and live his life the way he did before her. He hated the way he couldn't and didn't want to imagine it. The way he had to restrain himself from looking at her, because one look into those cerulean eyes made him forget what it was he was mad about. And he was mad. It was not her place to tell his father off. If there was one person whose place it was, it was his and no ones but his. And he was nowhere near ready to take a stand. He wasn't sure if he was strong enough to ever do so, but that didn't mean that she had the right to butt in. He swirled the golden scotch in his glass before taking a sip and letting the smooth liquid caress the roof of his mouth as the credits of the movie started rolling over the screen. With a sigh he turned off the TV. His eyes drifted to the closed door of the bedroom and he contemplated going in, yet decided against it, walking to the window and looking out over the lit campus. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass and sighed, before padding to the room and pushing open the door. He leaned against the doorframe and watched the figure in bed. She lay curled up on her side quiet and still. It looked unnatural somehow, the covers so tight around her. He knew she wasn't sleeping. In silence he undid his pants and shirt, and lay down next to her. For a while he just lay on his back staring at the ceiling, contemplating on how long he could and would give her the silent treatment. He turned his head and fixed his eyes on her back when he heard her take a shaky breath. She was trying not to cry and that broke his heart.

"Hey," he spoke softly, the silence amplifying his voice to something it was not, "Look at me."

He waited till she had switched sides, nothing else audible than the rustling of sheets. He saw tears glistering in the streetlight falling through the blinds.

"I'm sorry for getting this worked up," he said wiping her cheeks, "Yet, you shouldn't have done it."

"And I'm sorry for it," she replied quietly.

"Well you're sorry and I'm sorry. Done." He smirked dimly.

"It wasn't out of pity or anything…"

"Rory –" He sighed, not willing to go into this any further.

"He was just being such a knob, that before I knew it I started yelling at him for no apparent reason," she continued, "I just don't like him."

"Well that makes two of us."

"You don't like me either…" she added meekly.

"Can we just consider this subject closed?" He rubbed his face.

She sighed as he installed himself more comfortably, his eyelids becoming heavy.

"Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we okay?"

"Sure," he replied closing his eyes.

He felt her staring at him and he knew that she wouldn't seize before he gave her a satisfying answer. He wasn't in the mood to lie. At this point he wasn't okay. He still felt angry, and he wanted to just forget. Thus instead of voicing it he simply pulled her close, her head coming to a rest against his shoulder. He opened his eyes at the feather light touch of her fingers on his chest, soft kisses on his collarbone and neck.

"Rory, don't … just sleep. I'm tired," he protested.

And mad, Rory thought seizing her ministrations with a sigh. She wondered how long he was to remain so. How safe the safety his embrace offered really was. Maybe her mother was right and he needed time. Yet, that didn't take away the fact that she hated not being liked. She hated him being mad at her. And him turning her down was just a mere confirmation that he was. She wasn't leaning towards hot make up sex. All she wanted was a response and not the kind she just had gotten. Her hands felt restless. Uncertain of what his reaction would be she slid one over to lay on his warm stomach and when his hand came up as well, she was sure he was going to push hers away. However, it came at rest on top of hers and she snuggled against him closing her eyes.

"I love you," she said softly.

"Mhm…"

That was not the reply she was going for and again she fought the tears. It seemed like hours before sleep overtook her also, while she lay there close to him and yet so far away. She listened to his slow breathing indicating he was asleep and wondered how long he was going to be like this; how many nights like this there would be.

"Thank you," he said encompassed in the New York Times when Rory placed a mug of coffee in front of him on the kitchen counter. She sat down in front of him and started nibbling on her pop tart, looking at him.

"Do you want a section?" he asked never lifting his eyes off the paper. She nodded quietly and he handed her the national section.

"Thanks." Another silence fell and Rory sighed. It was not that they had never had silences between them; it was that those silences never made them act like strangers. She tried to focus on the article on the page, but she just couldn't and ended up just staring at him.

"Are you trying to make a hole in my head?" he asked taking a sip.

"No… it just… Can't we just go back to how it was?"

He put the paper down.

"What?"

"I hate this."

"Breakfast?" he raised his eyebrows.

"No! This." She pointed at him and at herself, "You and me. Like this."

"Having breakfast?"

She gave him a look and heaved a deep sigh. He was obviously playing stupid and it didn't suit him. But here she was, in a position that made it hard if not impossible to tell him so.

"I'm going to do my French assignment," she then said and picked up her mug, making her way to the study. With a sigh she plopped down in the leather deckchair and for a while she just twirled on it from side to side, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular, and her mind deep in thoughts. Then finally awakening out of her trance she opened her book and with a deep sigh started reading, her mind just didn't seem to register or the foreign babble and she started leafing through it holding her other hand against the soft aeration that evolved from the pages. She almost didn't notice the single double folded sheet that slipped out and drifted on the floor. She reached for it and opened it.

Dear Miss. Gilmore,

The Organization of the University of Yale Paris Internship Program is hereby inclined to inform you, that you have been accepted to the program of 2006/2007. Further information will reach you by mail within the following weeks. In case questions arise, you can contact the secretariat during office hours.

Kind Regards, E. Stampton, chairwoman of the Organization of the University of Yale Paris Internship Program

The internship. She had completely forgotten about this. So many new things had wormed their way into her life, that this had completely disappeared to the background. The word Paris seemed to jump off the paper and brand itself on her retina, enticing and luring.

"I'm off."

Rory blinked a few times and looked up only to see Logan in the doorway, his leather jacket was unzipped, a scarf was loosely hanging around his neck.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Colin's."

"Oh…ok. Have fun." She looked down at her book again not wanting to watch him walk away, giving her a cold shoulder again. Although him actually saying where it was he was going was a actually progress.

"I'll be back before dinner. Take-out?"

She met his eyes again almost as surprised if it had been Henry the armor suddenly bursting out into song.

"Sure. What are you in the mood for?"

"Chinese?"

"Sounds good." She smiled.

"Good. See you then."

"Bye." She stared at the empty doorway long after he was gone. Then her eyes drifted to the paper in her hands again. With a sigh she folded it and put it back in her book. It was time to do some homework.

She had just finished packing her book bag and was putting on her shoes when a persistent knock on the door echoed through the apartment. Rory straightened up, brushing a wisp of hair out of her face. She wondered who it was.

"Coming!" she hollered, pulling on her second boot and scurrying to the door. She had barely opened it when her smile and her posture froze.

"Mr Huntzberger," She uttered astonishment dancing on her features as she tightly clutched the doorknob.

TBC

AN: I am honestly not too pleased with this chapter. But this chapter has been the blocking factor. I HAD to get it out of the way in order to move on. Please review. Oh yeah…and sorry for the cliffy lol but I cross my heart I'll update soon.