1) First and foremost I, as always, must thank my friend & beta, fulfilled. I can't tell you how amazing and wonderful she is. I'm ever so grateful for her having contacted me. More than I can ever say.
2) I want to apologize for the delay. Life & work got in the way and I just had no time for more than a month to work on this, then it ended up being such a large task, it took some time to get what I wanted on the page.
3) I want to take a moment to explain the title. It started out as a temporary title, as is suggested, but after watching Notting Hill again I realized that Richard Curtis's production company is called Working Title Productions, thus the title stayed. Maybe not the most creative title I've ever come up with, but I thought providential.
4) This was written for the roryficathon06 for cuppa joe, my prompt will be reposted at the end, so you can see if I did or didn't meet the request. I hope cuppa joe has enjoyed this, I've enjoyed writing it.
5) This didn't quite end up being what I had originally envisioned, but I'm very happy with it, I have to say. I'm not sure if it ends up being what readers expected, but this is first and foremost a character study of the Logan Huntzberger we first meet, and his struggle to not only admit, but also to act, on his feelings for Rory. To not service both sides of that equation would not accomplish what I wanted to do. But that's my reasoning, anything else, was gravy.
6) Thank you to Babette for the language help & translation.
7) Thank you so much for reading, and even more those that have left comments and reviews. I will get to answering them posthaste.
Day 11
She's waiting for you at the corner again this morning, wearing figure-hugging jeans again, this time with a pink and white floral print shirt topped with a bright blue band collar, holding the brown cardigan she'd found yesterday in her hand. She wears clothes in such an unassuming way, as if she doesn't know how beautiful or alluring she is.
"I bring you coffee and croissants as a peace offering," you call out with a smile as you approach her.
"Peace offering?" she asks, her head falling to the side to the side inquisitively, automatically extending her hand for the coffee that is the elixir of her being.
"I think you perhaps took my saying that we're becoming friends the wrong way yesterday," you begin.
"Really?" she asks after a moment and a long drink from the massive cup of coffee you'd given her. "I thought it was perfectly clear."
"Well, I don't," you reply with a shake of your head, even though she's right - it's clear to you. You'd like her to be more, but you're too scared that it will blow up in your face to try. "I don't want you to get the impression that all that's happened here is me trying to get into your pants. I've greatly enjoyed all of our conversations this last week and I'd like that to continue once we get back to Yale. I want you to feel like you can call me up to chat or go to dinner or for drinks at the pub together or with a group of friends."
"You just want to be clear that it's not an elaborate attempt to get me naked?" she returns.
"Yes," you nod with a smile.
"I think it was clear yesterday," she mutters.
"I wasn't sure," you say back, trying to see her face, but her hair has fallen forward, covering it.
"No, it was clear," she replies, pulling off a piece of the croissant, and popping it in her mouth. "This is really good."
"They looked really good - that's why I got them for you," you return.
"Do you want some?" she offers, holding out a piece she's torn off.
"Mmm, that is good," you mumble around the piece she shoves in your mouth. "I just wanted to make sure…"
"Logan," she cuts in. "Can we please drop this? This is our last day together, I head home tomorrow. I would like for it to be as pleasant as is possible. I understand - I don't really get it - but I understand. We're friends. No more. It's all right; I'm not going to break because the mighty Logan Huntzberger isn't hoping to make me his next conquest. Really. I'm fine."
"I just…" you begin again.
"Logan!" she cuts you off. You fall into a silence, not companionable like it has been between the two of you so far, but a bit uncomfortable. There's still a part of you that wants to tell her that you really want to let her cut in the line Steph swears exists to get to you. That you'd like her to be first. That she isn't going to get thrown out of the park for line jumping. But that requires admitting there's more here than you're willing to admit out loud, more power than you're willing to give to her.
"We're taking the Tube today; I think it'll be faster." You finally cut through the uneasy silence that has settled around you, your hand settling familiarly at the base of her spine, steering her into the Bayswater station.
"Oh, where are we going?" she asks, seeming eager to leave your awkward conversation in the past and get started on your last day together.
"Bayswater to Notting Hill Gate, where we pick up the Central Line, to Bond Street, where we'll get on the Jubilee Line and go to Southwark," you tell her, walking up to the ticket line to purchase passes.
"What's at Southwark?" she asks, a twinkle in her eye as she tries to pry your plans for the day out of you.
"You'll find out once we get there. I think you'll enjoy yourself," you smile back, handing her ticket to her, turning to the turnstiles so you can head for the escalators to the platforms below.
"You know, these were used as bomb shelters during the Blitz," she relays as you pass the massive iron doors to the platform.
"I knew that," you say back, smiling, hoping to coax her out of the melancholy that has descended upon the two of you since your awkward conversation the day before. "The air raid sirens would go off and everyone would head toward the underground bunkers to wait out the night, or part of the night."
"It seems like such a fretful way to live," she observes as you get to the platform.
"Yeah, it does," you agree. "But I guess you do what you have to."
"To survive," she nods quietly. "Oh, I think our train is here," she says eagerly, craning her neck and bouncing on her toes to see better as you hear a train coming down the tracks.
"I think you're right." You smile at her enthusiasm.
"So you're not going to tell me where we're going?" she asks as you settle into your seats.
"Patience is a virtue," you chuckle. "Besides, you seem like a person who likes a good surprise."
"I do like surprises," she laughs, "but that doesn't mean I'm not going to try to pry it out of you anyway! Come on, tell me something," she whines.
"Southwark is on the southern side of the Thames," you say after a moment, thinking about what you can tell her without giving much away.
"I had kinda figured that out already," she pouts, her bottom lip jutting out a bit, slapping your knee playfully.
"Hey, physical violence is not acceptable," you tease.
"If I actually thought I'd left a mark, I might be concerned," she shoots back.
"Okay, so south side of the Thames, that could be many things, but it does also limit it somewhat. There's the New Globe - oh, are we going to the summer Shakespeare Festival? I read that they're showing Twelfth Night and Henry V right now. Ohhhh, I love Viola and Duke Orsino. Cross-dressing, mistaken identity, crazy plot twists. Oh, I would love that!" she claps.
"This is our stop," you say as the train pulls into Notting Hill Station, butting into her ode to Shakespearean comedy of errors.
"Is it the Shakespeare festival? Please, you have to tell me," she begs, pulling on your jacket.
"Rory," you chuckle, "I'm not telling you, so stop begging. Now, come on, hurry!" you exclaim, grabbing her hand and pulling her with you down the stairs to the platform you're heading toward. "Our train's pulling into the station," you yell over your shoulder at the rush of wind coming through the tunnels.
"Oh my gosh! I'm totally winded!" she exclaims, her chest heaving up and down as she tries to catch her breath. The flush in her cheeks completely appealing, making her more beautiful than ever. The 'O' her mouth forms as she rapidly breathes in-and-out makes you want to capture her lips to give her a better reason to be out of breath.
"Maybe I'll force you to start coming with me on my morning run when we get back to school," you suggest instead. "You're woefully out of shape."
"Gilmores do not exercise," she grumps after a moment, her chest still heaving.
"Well, that's good to know," you laugh, wondering for the zillionth time since you've met exactly how her metabolism works. It's a modern miracle and should be studied by scientists. "Now, come on, we're to the Bond Street station now," you say, jumping up.
"We're not running," she whines, getting up to follow you off the train. "If we miss the train there will always be another in a few minutes."
"That doesn't sound like someone very eager to get where we're going," you tweak her, bumping into her side for emphasis.
"I might be more eager if I actually knew where we're going and what we're doing," she pouts prettily.
"You'll know as soon as we get there; plus, this is our last Tube exchange. It will be a while to get to Southwark from here," you reply.
"That's good, I could use a rest," she smiles, her shoulder brushing against your arm as you stand next to one another on the platform. Just that small touch sends little shockwaves through your system. Once again – just how many times have you thought this since you met her? Too many to count – you want to throw caution to the wind and find out what kissing her soft lips would be like. You know it will be wonderful – there's no way it could be anything else.
"Hey, come on, train's here," she says, knocking your arm with her shoulder and pulling you out of your thoughts.
"Oh, I didn't even notice," you chuckle, putting a hand to the small of her back, guiding her onto the train. "Let's find a seat."
"I will say, I'll be forever grateful if we're heading to the Shakespeare Festival. Even more than Twelfth Night, I love Henry V. Prince Hal becomes a man, "Once more into the breach, dear friends…" before the siege of Harfleur. Or before the Battle of Agincourt, the St. Crispin's Day speech," Rory began, "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day." you end together, turning to smile at one another.
"You like Prince Hal as well?" she asks eagerly.
"There've been times in my life I have felt a very close affinity to Hal, I even have my own Falstaff in Finn - I only hope that one day I'll grow up to be as great of a man as he did," you reply wistfully, thinking of your father and all his expectations of who and what he wants you to become, and your own rebellion against his plans for your life. "But, no, we're not going to the New Globe, though if I have to sit through a play, Henry V would be near the top of my list of ones to sit through."
"You don't like the theatre?" she questions sharply.
"Not really," you admit a bit sheepishly. "I prefer the Kenneth Brannagh version of Henry V - I can pause it, pop popcorn, get a sandwich, take a bathroom break, get a drink, or take a nap and pick it back up right where I left off when I'm ready," you laugh.
"You really are a most curious creature, Huntzberger," she laughs back. "You can afford to go to any play, opera, ballet, or musical you want, and yet you choose not to. My mom and I can't really afford to go very often, but she always made an effort to take me when she could. I love the theatre."
"What's the last thing you saw? Or what was your favorite?" you ask, anxious for any insights into who Rory Gilmore really is.
"Well, the first musical I remember my mom taking me to see in New York was Contact. The dancing was amazing. I don't think she could really afford to take me to the city to see things like that before then."
She's brought up her mother's lack of money a couple of times, but it seems strange to you that she's close enough to Emily to speak of her fondly and travel with her through Europe. Why Emily would neglect that part of Rory's education, you don't understand, especially since you're quite sure that Emily and Richard have always been great supporters of the arts.
"You hadn't been to see live theatre until then?" you ask, wanting to clarify.
"No, she'd taken me to some things in Hartford, and a bit of summer stock, but that's the first time we went to New York to see anything - a big musical, at least. She got tickets from a client to see Tom Stoppard's The Invention of Love about a year before that and took me. She didn't really like it, but I absolutely loved it."
"I love Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead," you reply, trying to not sound like quite the theatre hater you really are. "It's too funny - even I can't help but stay engaged. And I actually rather liked After Magritte, which my mother dragged me to a few years ago. It was so odd I think it kept me interested. If you get a chance you should see it."
"Isn't it supposed to be surrealist theatre?" she questions.
"Supposedly," you nod. "I guess to feel like you've stepped into the apple from one of Magritte's paintings."
"I'll have to keep my eye out for a production of it," she smiles. "We also went to see Copehagen by Michael Frayn a few years ago and Proof, which I read is being turned into a movie with Gwyneth Paltrow and Anthony Hopkins. I loved both of them, but Mom was more into stuff like Hairspray, and she can't wait for Spamalot to open. Me, I thought it was fascinating that anyone would write an entire play about the development of quantum theory..." she enthuses.
"Much as Bohr's concepts of photons, wave and particle fascinate me, we're here," you say, scooting her off your seat, following her to the metal tubes that house the escalators to the surface. You really do hate to stop her, her zest almost making you wish you actually like the theatre - it might be fun to take her someday. Unfortunately, for you, it is one of those formative experiences that was wrapped up in obligation and doing the right thing - your mother in particular had expected you to know about the theatre and be a cultured individual. She's been dragging you to productions from the time you were six or seven years old, certainly before you could have been expected to sit still for a three-or-hour production, and from there developed your loathing for live theatre, although you've always enjoyed reading many a fine play. Perhaps what you need are fresh eyes, someone to give you a new perspective. You never knew if things might be…
"Oh my God, Logan, have you seen this station? It's amazing!" Rory's enthusiastic pulling on your arm alerts you to the fact that you've entered the light infused cathedral-like concourse. "Look at the ceiling - it's glass! It's amazing."
"You've never been to any of the Jubilee Line stations?" you enquire.
"No, I haven't. I've only been to London once before, with Mom last summer, and we didn't go into any of these stations," she replies, her face upturned, twirling, looking at the shifting light as it bounces off the blue glass of the station roof, high above her head. "This is amazing."
"This is actually the least elaborate of the Jubilee Line stations," you explain. "Well, the new ones that were opened for the queen's Golden Jubilee in 2003. They're beautiful - I wish we had more time; we could go see more of them. Alas, we don't."
"So you must have something pretty great planned for today," she pokes your side.
"I think so," you reply evasively.
"Ugh, you could just tell me, you know," she grouses.
"And what would be the fun of that?" you ask, pivoting to head out the entry to the station.
"Logan, where are you going?" she calls after you, running to catch up.
"I'm heading out to the street to get a taxi and start our activity for the day," you return with smirk.
"Why can't you just act like a normal person?" she gripes.
"Normal is highly overrated," you laugh back, ushering her into the backseat of the taxi, then leaning toward the window to tell the driver where to head.
"That's not fair, she accuses. "You deliberately kept me in the dark as to our destination."
"As I told you earlier, patience is a virtue," you laugh.
"Also highly overrated," she throws back at you.
"Touché," you reply though your laughter. "It won't be long; it's not that far, just a mile or two."
"We could have walked," she giggles.
"True, but after the virtual heart attack you had when I pulled you through the Notting Hill station, and the gasping 'Gilmores don't exercise,' I figured it was safer to just let someone else do the work!" you rib.
"You really do enjoy getting a laugh at my expense, don't you," she huffs, folding her arms over her chest and turning toward the opposite window.
"You're going to miss where we're heading," you entice her to turn back around. "But, yes, it's fun to get a rise out of you."
"You're not in a very nice mood today," she shoots off, turning to look out your window, very pointedly past your person.
"Just feeling a little feisty," you laugh.
"Oh my God, are we going to the Tate?" she asks when the smoke stack comes into view, her voice trilling upward.
"So I take it you approve?" you ask, nodding to confirm her question, happy she seems pleased with your plans.
"I wanted to go last year, but we didn't have time, too much to do," she rushes excitedly, bouncing on the seat. "Mom wanted to go down to Kings Road and see the punk rockers. I keep bugging Grandma, but she only wants to go to the National Gallery, or the Victoria and Albert - all fine, but I really wanted to come here. I'm so excited. They're supposed to have some of Henry Moore's finest works, and David Hockney, Rothko, Hopper, they're all supposed to be here," she rushes out in one breath, hopping out of the back of the taxi to rush around to your side. "Come on, Logan," she pulls on your hand to drag you toward the entrance. You have to stand your ground long enough to pay the driver, then you let her drag you up the esplanade toward the entrance.
"I believe that all of what you say is true," you marvel at her infectious zeal - it's been so long since you've been anything but jaded and cynical, but this time with Rory Gilmore has given you a somewhat fresh perspective on life, new eyes to see the world through. Hopefully it might last. "However, we're here today to see the Chagall exhibit. I've already reserved tickets for us; this is supposed to be one of the best and most comprehensive showings of his work that's ever been put together in one place. Certainly the best since he died. I read that MoMA is trying to get it as well, so if we don't see everything there is to see today, maybe we can go back in a few months."
"That would be nice, since I don't think seeing a Chagall once will be enough," she muses. "I love that line from Notting Hill: 'It feels like how being in love should be, floating through a dark blue sky.' It's poetic, I think."
"That a flying or floating goat is the ultimate expression of love?" you chuckle, holding open the door to the museum for her.
"Yes, somehow it's a lovely and poetic thought. I think it's wonderful," she smiles.
"Seriously, a floating goat?" you scoff. "One of the symbols of female oppression, as in how many goats are you worth? That's the ultimate expression of romantic love?"
"When you put it like that," she replies sheepishly, "you make it seem a little silly, and with the female oppression already. But really I meant it that love should feel whimsical and comforting, like the blanket of a dark blue sky…" she trails off.
"That I think I can accept," you chuckle, loving to get under her skin and have her react.
"You do give me something to think about, re the goat thing. Women shouldn't be treated as chattel; we're people, not possessions," she replies, looking upward. "Oh, wow, this building is amazing. I read that it's a converted power station that went offline years ago," she says rapidly, changing the subject, practically skipping in her eagerness.
"Yeah, I think I read that somewhere," you deadpan.
"You're teasing me," she accuses.
"Maybe just a little," you smirk. "Come on, I'm sure there's some sort of a guidebook that will tell you all about he history of the power plant. And we have to get our tickets; otherwise we can't go to the exhibit."
She stands near you while you wait in line to pick up the tickets you've reserved, mouth agape, staring up at the expansive hall that makes up the main concourse of the museum. "Here you go," you say, handing her a pamphlet about the museum building that you got from the ticket seller.
"Oh, thanks," she replies, opening up the leaflet. "It says the Bankside Power Station was commissioned in 1947 after a power shortage, the architect was Sir Giles Gilbert Scott. It started generating power in 1952 but wasn't completed till 1963. It closed in 1981. It's two hundred eighteen yards long and the central chimney is one hundred eight yards high. It has an oil fired generator, which rising fuel prices at the beginning of the eighties made uneconomical to continue using," she enthuses.
"Come on, I think it will be easier to walk up the concourses, rather than try to get on an elevator," you say, putting an arm to her back to guide her through the heavy traffic on the sweeping walkways. "The exhibit is on the fourth floor - do you think you can make it?" you tease.
"Oh, you're such the comedian," she mutters.
"I'm not the one that brought up the fact that, and I quote, 'Gilmores don't exercise,'" you laugh.
"I'm never going to live that down, am I?" she grumbles.
"Probably not," you chortle, grabbing her elbow. "Now come on, let's head up to the fourth floor."
"Marc Chagall was born Moshie Segal in eighteen eighty-seven in Vitebsk, Belarus, the first of nine children," she pointedly changes the subject, opening up the exhibit book. "He began to study painting in 1906 under a local artist - it says famed here, but I'm going to assume that means famous in the area, since I've never heard of him or her. Yehuda Pen – do you recognize the name?"
"Never heard it," you reply, guiding her around the turn to the second floor.
"He moves to St. Petersburg shortly thereafter, in 1907," she continues, barely looking up. "He studied under Nikolai Roerich there, getting exposed to a wider variety of styles and schools of thought. Then from 1908 to 1910, he studied under Leon Bakst at Zvyagintseva School."
"I don't think I've ever heard of the first guy, but the second I'm pretty sure my family owns something by," you say, not telling her that a couple of the paintings in the exhibit are actually on loan from your family. "You know, you couldn't live in St. Petersburg without a permit at that time if you were Jewish."
"Okay, I totally didn't know that." She looks at you strangely, a befuddled look on her face. "Where did you learn that? Russian history class?" she asks.
"Yeah, I'm kinda fascinated by both the Russian and Chinese transition to communism," you reply.
"Interesting, so you want to make sure no one ever wants to take away your ability to eat cake?" she laughs, needling you with a grin, quickly burying her face back in the brochure. Her laugh is lovely. "It says here that he traveled back and forth to his home village regularly, and met his future wife there, Bella Rosenfeld. He moved to Paris around 1910 and settled in the Montparnasse district and became friends with Guillaume Apollnaire, not sure if I'm pronouncing that correctly, Robert Delaunay, and Fernand Léger. Oh, I know who Léger is; he's a cubist painter. Come to think of it, that painting of Chagall's I see quite often of a cow and a green-faced man kinda reminds me of Léger," she laughs. "Anyway, he went back to Russia to marry Bella in 1914, and in 1916, while still in Russia since World War I had erupted, they had a daughter, Ida.
"He became an active participant in the Russian Revolution in 1917, and become the Commissar of Art in the Soviet Ministry of Culture for his native region and he founded an art school there," she briskly read off. "He didn't fare well under the Soviets…"
"Jews generally didn't," you interject, steering her around some other museum goers directly in her path. Most supported the Revolution thinking things would be better than under the Tsars, but they really just used the Russian Jewry as an arm of the Revolution and then turned on them once Lenin gained power. We're here," you state, trying to get her to look up.
"Oh, that's him," she says, looking at a painting called, Self-Portrait with Brushes. "It's dated 1909, which is not long after he began painting. He had a lot of natural talent that got nurtured very quickly."
"The hat rather reminds me of Rembrandt," you reply.
"The entire painting rather reminds me of Rembrandt," she smiles back toward you. "I'm a little cold."
"That's what I told you to bring a cardigan for," you say, pointing to the sweater she has tied around her waist.
"I forgot all about it," she laughs. "Here, hold these, pretty please," she hands you her pamphlets and the exhibit book you've given her. "Much better," she smiles, taking back her things.
"This one reminds me of a cross between Gauguin and Toulouse-Lautrec," you observe, turning to the next painting, titledThe Model, waiting for the mother and daughter looking at it to move on.
"I don't think I ever would have thought of that, but you're right. It totally does," she agrees; looking at the raw subject matter, bold colors and rather free-formed style. "So you're also an art buff?"
"No," you shake your head with a wry chuckle. "Being a patron of the arts doesn't just mean theatre; it means art museums as well. I've been to many openings and private showings at MoMA, the Guggenheim, The Met, the Frick, the Whitney, and who knows where else. That's not to mention having already taken my one semester of humanities that is required for all Elis that plan on graduating. Don't tell anyone, but I don't actually sleep through all my classes," you smirk.
"I never would have thought that about you," she laughs, reminding you she doesn't really know the Logan that everyone at Yale knows - she's met a side of you that few people except your sister even know exists. "I'm sure that Grandma would have loved to have taken me to a lot of those museums when I was little, but I didn't really grow up around them ," she smiles. That's one thing you keep meaning to ask her about - why there seems to have been almost no contact, especially since they seem to be rather close now. You figure it's something you'll learn in time; for now, there are other things about Rory Gilmore you want to know more.
"If he weren't Jewish I would think this was supposed to be a Virgin Mary, instead of a bride," she laughs, moving on to the next painting, Bride with Fan.
"Maybe he still wanted to give off that impression," you comment with a nod.
"Perhaps. This is only a few years after he began painting, 1911, and you can already really see his distinct style emerging," she observes.
"I agree," you nod. "I'm not sure if this makes any sense, but while the colors aren't really what I would call classic Chagall, the shape of her face, the way the woman, or bride, is painted and represented is very familiar."
"No, I totally get what you're saying," she agrees. "And then you get ones like these," she grins back at you, turning to the next two paintings, waiting for a woman with maroon hair to move along. "It's like he's trying to imitate Léger's style - I didn't know he did cubism, at all."
"But the green faces, those are very familiar," you say. She's right;the next two paintings, Half Past Three (The Poet) and The Soldier Drinks, are very reminiscent of Léger's work. "When did you say he first went to Paris?"
"Oh, hold on," she fumbles with the book she's been holding and occasionally reading out of. "1910, so a year before these paintings were done."
"I guess that makes sense, then," you respond. "Oh, sorry," you exclaim, when someone bumps into you from behind.
"Sorry, verontschuldig mij," the man rushes out, steadying himself.
"Geen probleem, niets aan de hand," you reply.
"You know German?" she questions.
"No – well, I do, but that was Dutch," you answer.
"I never would have guessed; that's so cool," she grins. "Oh, look at this one, it has the Russian folk dancers in the foreground," she points, drawing your attention back to the exhibit. "That's another familiar theme beginning to emerge."
"True, I always think of the folk dancers or floating people when I think of Chagall, but till now we haven't seen any, have we?" you reply.
"I don't think so," she confirms, looking back over the paintings you've already seen. "I think this is the first one. So Russian folk dancers first appear in 1911 or 1912…good to know," she grins as if she just discovered the double helix.
"1911," you nod with a chuckle. The two of you walk and chat about the various paintings in front of you for the next couple of hours. If there is one thing you've really come to appreciate about her quickly it's her ability to make you see things with new eyes. It's not that you ever hated going to art museums, but like so many other things, your love of books and language, for instance, it's a sharply double-edged sword. On the one hand, you love to write, craft a narrative and the like, but on the other, that love comes with so much baggage that it's difficult to separate the two. Something you've learned this week is that seeing them through the big blue eyes of Rory Gilmore makes it all new again. It is a perspective you like, and you hope it won't go away.
"…Logan!" she exclaims, tugging on your jacket. You get the feeling she's been trying to get your attention for a bit.
"Yes, ma'am," you reply snapping to attention.
"Look, isn't that just beautiful?" she asks, her voice soft with awe, holding onto your arm, resting her head against your shoulder. It feels natural and eerily right, making you a bit uncomfortable. You look up at what she's trying to focus your attention on to see a couple, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand placed softly on his chest, his head resting on hers, both their eyes closed. It is a lovely scene; you have to agree with her, the bouquet of flowers above their heads adding to the tranquility and bliss of the painting.
"It is beautiful," you agree softly.
"That's what I think love should feel like," she says quietly. "Like you belong, a place of rest, safety and happiness, not pain."
You try to see her face, but your shoulder obscures it. The catch in her voice makes you think maybe she's not just speaking in euphemism but from experience - except how much experience can a person have in the world of love and loss at the tender age of nineteen? Not much, you would imagine. She's alluded to a boyfriend in the past tense, though, maybe that's what she's talking about.
"Can we stay here for a minute?" she asks softly after a moment.
"Yeah," you agree, smiling to yourself. "We can stay as long as you like."
"Not too much longer; I don't want to hog it," she sighs. "I just don't want to part with it quite yet.
The two of you eventually leave Lovers with Flowers, strolling arm-in-arm through the exhibit, commenting on floating lovers, laughing cows, dancing Russians, religious imagery, and the like. "I made us reservations at the restaurant upstairs," you say after a bit, checking your watch.
"Oh, food - I could use that," she says excitedly. If you've learned anything, it's that she's never one to turn down a meal.
"Okay, let's go find a lift; it's supposed to be on level seven," you suggest, turning to find someone to ask. You make your way to the top level, giving your name to confirm the reservation you'd made.
"Oh, look! The Millennium Bridge and St. Paul's," she enthuses walking up to your table by the wall of windows over looking the Thames. "I was so excited when we got here I didn't even notice them."
"I did wonder, since they seem like the type of thing you would get excited about," you laugh, following her gaze to the suspension footbridge and cathedral dome beyond.
"I'm going to ignore the fact that you're making fun of me, and beg you to consider crossing the bridge after we're done here. Pretty please?" she singsongs.
"I'm not sure…"
"Please," she whines, "pretty please," she continues, batting her eyelashes beguilingly.
"I was planning on doing that after we finish here," you smirk after a moment of letting her twist. "I made earlyish dinner reservations for seven-thirty at a restaurant on the north side of the river. I thought we could walk across the bridge, then maybe spend a few hours at Covent Garden looking around - it's not too far away - then head back to eat dinner."
"Oh, that sounds perfect," she claps. Her childlike enthusiasm is at least half of her appeal, you have to admit - you're so used to girls being just as worldly and cynical as you are. She isn't just a breath of fresh air, but a whirlwind or hurricane. "Thank you so much, Logan. I love the murals on the walls as well; they're so bright, vibrant and fanciful. My mother would love them. I'll have to look and see if I can get a print or something before we leave," she grins, picking up her menu to study.
"The menu says they're by a Brazilian artist, named, Beatriz Milhazes," you tell her, seeing a notation at the bottom of your menu.
"Well, I love them, they make me want to go dance a samba," she gushes. "Not that I can dance a samba, but you get the picture. They make me wish I could!"
Her ebullience makes you chuckle - she's such a dichotomy. Full of childlike enthusiasm and joy on the one hand, but on the other there's this persistent veil of sadness that creeps up around her, a wistfulness, like when she spoke about the couple in the painting. You know she yearns for something, just like you do, but the way she spoke makes you wonder, not for the first time, if she's experienced the pitfalls of love while craving the sense of home and belonging writers claim it brings.
"Okay, what do you want to order?" you ask after you've both perused the menu for a few minutes.
"I think I want this Suffolk chicken breast with grilled veggies and salsa verde," she says after a moment, setting down her menu. "What about you?"
"I'm going with the char-grilled tuna with potatoes, olives and beans," you return.
"There's a soft boiled egg with that as well," she laughs.
"Yeah, well, I'm probably not bothering with that, but the rest of it sounds good," you chuckle. "I'm going to get us a bread basket," you suggest, causing her to nod in agreement, "I was thinking either the Dorset crab with samphire, lemon and olive oil or the Monte Enebro goat's cheese and Tropea red onion tart, but they both sound really good. How about we get both?"
"Oh, those do sound good," she agrees as your waiter comes back to take your orders.
"Have you ever been in love?" you ask after he leaves. It's a question you've wanted to ask her - maybe it's the reason for the sadness you always sense in her, see in her eyes. Which, along with her innocence, remains the reason you still look, but barely touch. It is an off-putting combination. You might not have the guts to give whatever is growing between the two of you a try, but that doesn't mean you don't want to know her, know everything about her.
"Yes…I guess you can call it that," she says, fiddling with her fork and looking at her lap.
"I mean if I didn't love him, then how am I ever supposed to justify what I did?" she asks after a moment. You know you're not supposed to answer, since you have no idea what she's talking about. "If I didn't love him, then what excuse do I have?" she whimpers softly, a catch in her voice. "How am I supposed to live with myself?" she finishes in a whisper.
"Rory," you begin, reaching over to take her hand in yours. "I don't know what it is, but you can't have done anything that horrible."
"Oh really," she replies, determinedly wiping away the bit of moisture that has escaped her eyes. "I don't think you know me quite as well as you think you do."
"Maybe not," you agree softly. "But I know you wouldn't hurt anyone intentionally."
"Tell that to Lindsay," she breathes. The waiter sets down the bread basket you ordered, Rory reaches in to get a piece, but instead of eating it, starts ripping it into tiny pieces. "Do you want to know why I'm here? Why I've been shuttled off to Europe for the summer with my grandmother? It isn't because I was planning on doing a grand tour, seeing the sights in style, as every proper young lady should. I'm here because I did something that I can't take back, that I can't pretend didn't happen," she rambles, folding and unfolding her napkin, as if trying to bring order to the situation, her hands in constant nervous motion. "You see, my mother came home just after I had lost my virginity to my ex boyfriend."
"Okay, maybe a bit awkward, but not the end of the world – you are nineteen, and you've finished your freshman year in college," you reply.
"He's married," she breathes.
"Oh," is all you can say in return; she has left you speechless. You never expected this. Not from her, your beautiful, innocent Rory. But it also explains a great deal; why she seems so sad. She also carrying around a massive load of regret.
"Why didn't you lose your virginity to someone at Yale? I know a ton of guys who would have been happy to accommodate you," you ask softly.
"Freshman year didn't go so well," she replies, trying to pull a small smile. "I tried to date a couple of guys, and they turned out to be disasters. I'm not the most social person in the world, and school was much more difficult than I thought it would be, so I ended up retreating into myself. I went home a lot. I think I thought home was safe, so Dean was safe as well, stupidly forgetting that he's now someone else's husband, not just my first boyfriend. And now I can't take it back. I'll have always lost my virginity to someone else's husband," she finishes, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, causing her to begin blinking rapidly, trying to hold them back.
Your waiter sets down your starters, prompting you to try to get Rory to eat. Perhaps it will distract her, given how much she loves to eat. "Try the crab," you suggest after taking a bite, "it's really good. And the tart looks wonderful."
"I'm not really hungry anymore," she mumbles.
"Rory," you prompt, reaching over to take her plate, spooning some of the crab onto it for her and serving a slice of the tart. "You need to eat."
"Fine," she grouses. "But only because you're making me," she agrees with a wan smile, picking up her fork, stabbing at a piece of the crab. "It is good," she admits after chewing and swallowing.
"Try the tart, it's very good," you encourage.
"So…Dean, did you say his name was?" you ask, wanting to know what happened, why she seems so ripped apart inside.
"They got together after we broke up, senior year of high school," she begins. "By the end of the year they were engaged. They got married the following fall."
"Can I ask why he got married so young?" you enquire.
"I don't really know. He told me it was because he loved her and they didn't want to wait, but I don't really think that was it. Lots of people fall in and out of love when they're young, but it doesn't cause them to decide to get married," she rushes out, ending by popping a bite of the tart in her mouth. "This is really good," she smiles after she swallows.
"It really is," you nod.
"They had problems almost as soon as they got married," she continues, "and by the time we slept together he said he never really loved her, that he's always loved me. I really wanted to believe that. I think I needed to - I needed someone to love me and not leave me, someone I thought I could count on, rely on, depend on," she trails off with a frown. "Not someone who leaves with no explanation, then shows back up just to say he loves you, then leaves again. And then to top it off, shows up, tells you that you belong together, that he knows you better than anyone else, and now he's ready, so let's go. Maybe I wasn't ready anymore? Did he ever think of that? That maybe him leaving with no explanation hurt like hell, that even if he does love me or even if I ever loved him, how am I ever supposed to trust him? Does he really think that declaring he loves me and gets me, and now he's really ready is going to make all of it better? Make me suddenly able to trust him, to know that I can depend on him?" she rambles, taking small bites every so often. "I needed someone I could depend on, whose love I really believed in, who I knew would be there for me, not leave…" she trails off.
You have no idea what she's segued into talking about, or more precisely who. But you don't think she's still talking about Dean anymore. Or maybe she is, but it's jumbled up in stuff about someone else as well. But you can see and feel pain emanating from her; it's palpable. Whoever she's talking about hurt her deeply.
"Have you ever done it?" she asks after a moment, looking up, her huge blue eyes cloudy with pain.
"What?" you reply, confused. She'd covered a lot of territory.
"Slept with someone else's…well, wife?" she says, worrying her bottom lip.
"No," you say after a moment. "But that might be because I don't know anyone that's married or really engaged as of yet, not my age or any of my sister's friends. Not yet, anyway. Give me time and unfortunately I probably will manage to do all of the above. I've slept with several people in serious relationships," you confess.
"You don't care?" she queries, her brow furrowed.
"I'm not the one that's pledged my fidelity to anyone, I'm a free agent," you begin.
"That's a very convenient way of looking at it," she returns, pulling on her lip. "You manage to absolve yourself of all moral obligations, putting the entire burden on the other person."
"Aren't they the one that's supposed to be committed to someone? I'm not," you reason. Maybe your morals are questionable, but you've never seen why you should have to bother honoring other people's commitments that they themselves have no desire to honor. Easy sex is easy sex, though you know that what she's going through is different.
"Yeah, but…" she trails off as your waiter comes back to serve your main courses.
"Oh, my chicken is really good," she says, after taking a bite.
"So's my tuna," you return. "You wanna try it?"
"Oh, yeah, that would be nice," she eagerly agrees, cutting off a piece of her chicken and a bit of the vegetables and a small amount of the salsa verde, putting them on her bread plate and handing them to you. You do the same with your dish, handing your bread plate over to her.
"Yours is good," you say after trying her chicken.
"So's yours," she nods.
"But shouldn't you honor their vows and commitments as well?" she enquires, circling back around to what you were talking about before beginning your main courses.
"In theory, I suppose that would be best," you reply after a moment. "But I'm not the one that's pledged loyalty to anyone. I didn't make any vows or sign any legally binding documents tying me to that person, like Dean and…" you trail off trying to remember the name of the wife.
"Lindsay," she provides.
"Yes, like Dean and Lindsay," you nod. "Were you the one that pledged to forsake all others for her? Were you the one that vowed to love her till death you do part? Were you the one that said through sickness and health, good times and bad, etc., etc.?" You circle through the air with your fork.
"No," she shakes her head. "But that doesn't mean I shouldn't have respected the fact that Dean had said all those things to her," she replies.
"Maybe, but you can't respect that which someone else already doesn't," you return.
"That very conveniently absolves me of any culpability," she mumbles.
"Well, I try not to live my life collecting guilt for things," you say, sending both of you into silence for a few minutes as you mull over what's been said, each enjoying your lunches. "The person you couldn't trust anymore?" you begin again after a bit. "Who is he?"
She looks nervous all of the sudden, maybe not having really realized she vocalized some of what she'd been thinking about.
"His name is Jess; he was my second boyfriend," she says quietly. "We had everything in common, from a love of books to the same taste in music - he's incredibly intelligent. You might like him -I mean, he likes Hemingway," she giggles, which is nice to hear.
"Obviously a mortal sin," you grin back.
"Obviously," she laughs.
"So what happened?" you question.
"He was really emotionally screwed up, and even though I tried to make him see that I wanted to help, I don't think he knew how to open up emotionally to anyone. Eventually he dropped out of school when they were going to keep him back for missing too much and left," she finishes, eyes turning down.
"Maybe I'm missing something, but didn't you say he's smart?" you ask, noticing the discrepancy in what she's saying.
"He is," she nods. "He just didn't have any use for the structure of school, or he didn't think he did. Like I said, he's really emotionally screwed up, and I'm not even sure if he could make sense of the choices he made. But I was the only person that he really liked even, so I thought since we got each other, maybe he would change, or maybe he could be what I needed him to be."
"Did you love him?" you probe, though you don't see how she can't. Nothing short of love would cause the sort of pain you see in her eyes.
"Yeah, I did, and part of me still does. But I'll never trust him enough to take a chance on it again. I think that's what took me so long to take the chance to be with him to begin with - I knew how it was going to end before it ever began and was trying to keep myself from going through that," she confesses, tears coming into her eyes. "I was with Dean, the first time, for almost a year after I became interested in Jess. And I stayed with Dean, because he was safe; I knew he wouldn't hurt me. Maybe he didn't get me like Jess, but he wasn't going to hurt me like Jess did either. And I think I always knew that."
"So, Dean, did he know?" you inquire. It seemed like an odd situation.
"Yeah, he knew, I think he just thought - or hoped - it was a passing fancy, that I would get over it," she replies. "But I never did."
Dean sounded like a really insecure guy, to be able to put up with knowing she wanted to be with someone else even while she stayed with him. Maybe it was safety or fear, but you can't imagine wanting to be with someone that didn't want to fully be with you, too. It didn't seem worth it, even for someone as special as Rory. "You want to get dessert?" you ask, changing the subject.
"Oh, yes, there was some sort of blueberry and chocolate tart that sounded wonderful, and a chocolate truffle torte that I think it said came with white chocolate ice cream that sounded absolutely sinful, and also this Seville orange and butter pecan bread pudding that sounded scrumptious. Do you think we can get a menu and see what all they have?" she asks hopefully.
"I'm sure that can be arranged," you grin at her giddiness, signaling your waiter to come back and asking for dessert menus. "You can even get more than one if you like."
"I never turn down extra dessert," she grins back.
"I never doubted that for a second," you laugh, glad to see a smile back on her face after the heavy and painful conversation you've had during lunch.
You wander through the rest of the Tate for a while before heading out the front of the power station; Rory's excitement over walking across the Millennium Bridge is palpable.
"I remember when they first opened it they had to close it for structural problems because it shook," she tells you, dragging you behind her as she walks quickly across the esplanade. "Come on, keep up," she urges over her shoulder, almost skipping to get to the bridge.
"Isn't this cool?" she enthuses once you're to the center. "Isn't the view amazing? Look at St. Paul's and the power station itself…" You spend the next couple of hours watching the passing traffic and doing a bit of shopping in Covent Garden, mostly at bookstalls. Both of you finding many things you want, Rory complaining about the lack of space in her luggage, you volunteering to ship whatever she wants to purchase with your own, promising to deliver them to her dorm yourself once both of you are back at school.
You check your watch after a while, realizing that if you don't hurry you won't make the reservation you have at 7:30. "Come on," you prompt, carrying her books in your arms. "Let's get a taxi," you suggest.
"Okay," she nods. "It's going to be harder to take the Tube back tonight."
"We'll just get another taxi," you reply, climbing in behind her. "River Café," you relay, sitting back, happily putting down your burden. She's gotten a lot of books, and you haven't done badly yourself.
"I feel a little underdressed," she says looking around at the fashionably dressed crowd.
"Don't worry about it; they won't refuse to serve us," you say, knowing your money is never turned down, following the hostess out to the table you reserved on the balcony overlooking the Thames.
"It really is beautiful here," she smiles after settling in her chair, "watching the boats go by as you eat."
"Not too many anymore, though," you observe, looking out at the almost empty river.
"No, they put a stop to much of it back in the Thatcher administration, I think," she replies. "It caused too much pollution."
"I think you're right," you nod.
"Ohhh, they have something here called a Chocolate Nemesis - I must try that!" she giggles, looking the menu up and down.
"Do you know what you want?" you ask after a minute. "I thought we could have the prosciutto with melon for our antipasti course. I would suggest some grilled vegetables, but somehow I think I'd be shot down," you chuckle.
"You already are learning my tastes," she grins over her menu. "Good boy. Actually I was going to ask how you wanted to order."
"What do you mean?" you question, not really knowing what she's talking about.
"There's antipasti, and pasta and…"
"Oh, just order what you want, I'm going to get a bit of pasta and a main course as well," you reply.
"Are you ready to place your order?" your waiter asks, coming back to the table.
"I think we'll take some bottled still water and a bottle of the Piemonte Rosabella with our first two courses, then a bottle of the Piemonte Barolo to go with our main courses, unless the lady orders something that doesn't go with that," you tell her. "Rory, what do you want?"
"I'll have the Tagliatelle con Funghi and the lamb," she says, handing her menu to the waiter, turning to look pointedly at you.
"I'll have the Taglierini con Gamberetti e Zucchini and the monk fish," you relay quickly, her look making you uneasy, "and we're going to have the Prosciutto de Parma e Charentais melon for our antipasti, and the wine selection will be fine."
"Why don't you do relationships?" she asks, after the waiter leaves. You hadn't expected anything like that when she had been giving you a curious look. But then you suppose it's only appropriate; you've asked about her relationship history.
"The way I look at it, liking someone isn't enough to commit to them. You yourself have to be ready for that commitment as well," you explain after thinking about what to say for a few moments. "It's not just about being sexually faithful. You have to be able to be ready to open yourself up, be there for that person, and be faithful emotionally as well as physically. Know that even though you're going to hurt her, it's inevitable, you're going to do your damndest not to. And until I'm ready for that, I'm not going to commit myself to anyone. When I do it's going to be because I'm ready for all of that, or I want to try to be all of that to that person. But not before." You don't tell her that getting to know her this past week has made you think about all of this more than you have in a very long time, maybe ever, or that she's the first girl you've met who makes you think that maybe you really are ready to at least try. But knowing how hurt she's been in the past has thrown up more caution signs in the road. You don't want to just be another guy to add to the pain in her beautiful blue eyes. If you can't be the guy that makes them smile then you don't want to chance it.
"But how do you know if you've never tried?" she questions. "I mean you're twenty-one…"
"Twenty-two," you interject.
"Twenty-two," she corrects herself. "You're twenty-two and have never gotten into an actual relationship, right?" she waits for your nod of affirmation before continuing. "How do you know they're not for you? How did you know at sixteen that you didn't want a girlfriend - you wanted a temporary playmate and paramour?"
"I grew up watching my parents' loveless marriage, and the constant rotation of my best friend's stepmother-of-the-moment, and the horrible marriages of everyone else around me. I decided early on that wasn't for me. I didn't want to be like them," you say, staring straight into her eyes, hoping she understands all of what you're trying to say, what you're trying to tell her. "I don't want to be in a relationship that's just going to cause someone else - and me, for that matter - pain, just for the convention of being in a relationship. If I can't be someone she can count on, then I shouldn't be making commitments I can't or won't keep. If I can't have what my sister and Josh have found…" you trail off when the waiter comes back with your antipasti course and first bottle of wine.
You both sample the wine and nod your approval, allowing her to pour you both glasses.
"Maybe I'm an idiot or a romantic fool, but I do believe that there's someone out there that's going to make me want to change my life," you continue, once you're alone again. "That's going to make me think that committing myself to one person is the most wonderful and freeing experience I can ever have. But until I meet her, until the pain to benefit ratio is overwhelming, or I just don't want her to walk out the door badly enough that I just can't let it happen, I'm going to continue to live my life the way I do. It hurts less people. I won't make promises I can't keep. Everyone involved knows where they stand."
"But how do you know you're not hurting them?" she challenges you. "This is really good," she says, swallowing a bite of her prosciutto-wrapped melon. "Maybe they just tell you what you want to hear? They want to see if they can be the one that finally tames you, gets you to change your ways? Have you ever thought of that?"
She causes you to wryly chuckle, because you have thought of that, especially in regard to her. It's part of the reason you threw out the 'friends' thing to her yesterday, because you can't afford to send her mixed signals - you're too mixed up about her as it is.
"It is good," you agree, reaching out to get another slice. "But it's because I stick to dating girls that have the same life philosophy as myself," you reply after a moment. "I make it a point to stay away from girls that I think might be looking for something more than just a moment.
"You're never going to meet this girl of yours, the one that's going to make you give up everything and change your life, if you never open yourself up to girls who are deeper than a thimble or who might want more from you," she reasons. "Do you think your sister just stumbled upon this great relationship she has with her boyfriend?"
"Maybe she's just going to fall out of the sky one day," you laugh, and then think to yourself, or maybe you'll just see her out a window one afternoon.
"I think you're incredibly emotionally cautious and cut off," she says bluntly.
"Maybe," you agree, knowing it's one of the great ironies of your life. You're a thrill seeker and adrenalin junkie, but you're totally cautious when it comes to matters of the heart and emotions. "But I'm not hurting anyone."
"But you're also not opening yourself up to anything, either," she replies, a hint of accusation in her voice. "I might never be able to trust Jess again, no matter if he ever truly matures or not, and there might have been a lot of crap as well. But for a while there, he made me feel something like I've never felt before. He made my heart race and my palms sweat, and made every thought fly out of my mind just by kissing me…"
"Then why go back to Dean at all?" you butt in.
"Because he was safer than Jess, and that was what I was looking for when it happened," she explains. "Like I said, freshman year was strange. I wanted to feel safe and loved again. Jess was exhilaration and pain, and it's a combination I'm never going to willingly put myself through ever again. But I still wouldn't trade it. There were a couple of months there, before things started going sideways, when it was wonderful. He got me. We had everything in common - books, music, movies, even food - and then there was the passion we both had for each other," you see a wistfulness come over her.
"Why didn't you lose your virginity to him?" you interrupt, then wait for her answer as the waiter comes back to clear your first course and deliver your pasta course.
"I wasn't ready," she replies. "He wanted to, but I just wasn't ready yet. And then he left and now it's never going to happen. I'll never emotionally trust him again, but I still wouldn't trade what happened. And that's what you're missing out on by never opening yourself up to someone," she finishes bluntly.
"I've felt passion," you shoot back.
"Have you ever had your heart beat faster just because you saw another person? Feel like you can't wait to get up in the morning just because you can't wait to see them? Have your palms sweat just because you think about that person?" she questions sharply.
"No," you admit, but then confess to yourself that she's already made you feel the middle one, at least. You don't want to go to sleep at night either for the same reason. You don't want her to leave tomorrow, but you also don't want her to stay. For your own peace of mind you need her to leave. You need for something other than her to fill up your thoughts and senses.
"Then you haven't really lived," she says matter-of-factly, "and you're not going to know how to open yourself up to that girl when she does fall out of the sky for you."
Her words cut like a knife. You know they're right, because you already have no idea what to do with this beautiful brown-haired, blue-eyed creature who walked into your life, and makes you think about things you've never really thought about, yet you still can't do a damn thing about any of them. You know she's perfect for you, from the love of books and language you have in common to the way you can't wait to see her from the moment you open your eyes each morning. But even with all that, you know you're not ready to take that leap of faith and jump into the unknown, to fly without a net.
I don't understand what's happening to me. Talking about Jess today reminded me just how futile it is to try to be someone you think is right or what someone else needs instead of just doing what's right for yourself. Even if being with Jess was what was right at that time, taking so long to take the chance screwed up so many things as well.
All the loneliness and displacement of last year led me to be someone I barely recognize, someone I hate looking at in the mirror because she's not who I'm supposed to be. I'm supposed to be the good girl, not the other woman.
And, yet, here I sit, fascinated by a beautiful boy with laughing brown eyes who tells me point-blank he can't be and won't even consider being what I want or might need him to be. I can't be the only one that gets a jolt when his fingers lace through mine. I can't be the only one that feels the rightness when his hand rests at the base of my spine. This can't all be one-sided. Can it?
But if it isn't one-sided, what does that mean? That even if he feels the same things I do…what? I'm not enough to make him consider trying? Because something is too much to ask, the only other option is nothing? There's no place in between that can be a happy medium?
With Dean I always felt safe. With Jess I always knew he wanted me, could feel his eyes following me all though Stars Hollow. With Logan I'm not even sure of that. One minute it feels like we're heading somewhere, the next it feels like a brick wall is being erected in our path.
With Dean and Jess at least I knew what I was getting, both times. One was safe, even if he wasn't right anymore. One was exhilarating chaos. With Logan it's the questions and unknown that is so maddening. I just don't know. And while I feel like I know him better as a person now, I don't feel like I know anything anymore.
I want what I saw in that painting today: someone who makes me feel at peace, someone who's home for me. But I also know that I want what I told Lane before the whole thing with Dean happened - I want someone that makes my heart race, too. I don't think it's wrong to want all of that. I don't think it's impossible to think all of that can come from one person. Grandma used to have that with Grandpa, and I know somehow they'll find that again. They're just being stubborn. Sookie gets that from Jackson, they love to bicker with each other enthusiastically. It's so energetic and fiery, but still familiar and loving, as well. I know it exists, and it's what I want.
Not that I thought I found all of that this week. I think I thought that I'd maybe found someone who had the possibility, at least, for it to maybe happen one day. But I'm not sure. I'm less sure today than I was two days ago. It felt so right standing there, with my head on his shoulder. It fits right there so well, like it was made to go there, and yet who he is…his words say something else.
Maybe I should just ignore the words, and only look at the actions. Those tell me he wants what I want. To try. The possibility of maybe. The excitement of what if. And yet…there are his words. They say the exact opposite, and that puts things back at square one.
It seems like even though I know him, Logan, better now, the hope and attraction I felt just a few days ago seem futile and pointless. He's not going to budge. I'm obviously not someone that's going to make him think about budging. I'm not the girl he's waiting on to fall out of the sky. I'm just the girl from the garden that distracted him for a week, made nice conversation with him and became his friend. He won't let me be anything else.
I gained a friend here, but I feel like I lost a lot as well.
TBC
The painting they discuss can be seen, here.