Disclaimer: I do not own the Gilmore Girls or any of its characters, nor do I have any connection or affiliation with the actors and actresses, producers, show-runners or the CW. Because let's face it – if I did, Gilmore Girls would still be on, Rory would've married Logan, and I wouldn't be writing this fanfic.

Rating: PG for now, for language.

Major Relationships: Rory & Logan, with Luke & Lorelai from time to time.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay – I started back at school, so I had to get in the swing of things. Thanks for the support and wonderful reviews. I hope you continue to enjoy these installments. 

If I Never See You Again

By Heather Nicole

Chapter 9

It was nearly noon in California when Logan finally decided to drag himself out of bed.

He'd spent the past day and a half agonizing over Lane's call, and had yet to make any sort of decision on what to do about it. It was Monday now – the day Rory would be arriving in Iowa for her new job – and for Logan, it was just another day where her void was even more obvious than the day before.

He'd laid in bed awake since 8 a.m., flipping channels on a tiny TV without many channels. It was miserable. The room was plain white – he hadn't bothered to even consider painting yet. Painting would mean he was staying. He wasn't convinced he was yet. He'd attempted to put sheets on his bed – then he realized that it was the same bedding he and Rory had slept in together, and it suddenly made him feel panicky. So he laid there on a mattress pad, with one pillow and a throw blanket, his bedding in a pile in the corner not far from the pitiful TV stacked on top of a crate. He hadn't gotten a flat screen installed anywhere in the house yet – that would also mean he had decided to stay.

'This is pathetic,' he thought inwardly. 'I am pathetic.'

He thought that over and over again until finally, at noon, he decided he may has well get up and be pathetic somewhere else in the house.

So he decided to go be pathetic in the shower. And the shower was where he became truly pathetic. Here in the shower, it was the only time he would allow himself to even contemplate the concept of crying. He was a man. A virile, Huntzberger man, born the heir to a fortune and the direct descendent of men before him known to be some of the very best playboys the world had ever seen. A Huntzberger man did not cry over a woman – there were always more women.

In his heart, Logan knew that for him there were no other women and returning to that life he lived before Rory was almost unimaginable. He actually found it distasteful, tacky, even revolting. Rory had worked his way into his heart and changed his entire outlook on life. And so now, not only didn't he want to return to his previous existence because it disgusted him, he had become a one-woman kind of man, so faithful and so much in love that the very concept of finding another girl made him feel ill. So here in his shower, Huntzberger or not, he could feel true remorse. Here in his shower, Logan felt safe to let his eyes well up and let a tear run down his face. because he could just as safely convince himself that shampoo had gotten in his eye and that's what had made his eyes water involuntarily.

'Maybe it would be better if I started work,' Logan thought to himself.

But unfortunately, work wouldn't start 'til next Monday – a whole week from today. That meant seven more Rory-less days in the pathetic, undecorated house he'd bought for her. Would he be able to make it that long without some sort of distraction.

He emerged from his shower a long half hour later only to remember he'd yet to unpack any towels. All that was in his bathroom was a bottle of shampoo, a bar of soap, some hand soap, a roll of paper towel, a toothbrush and a travel size toothpaste. It wasn't even furnished and stocked as nicely as a cheap motel bathroom. He'd taken one shower a couple of days ago … he couldn't remember when. The days ran together. That day he'd had enough sense to dig a towel out of a box. Today, he'd have to clamor from the master bathroom, to the master bedroom, soaking wet, dripping on his wood floor into a room where he had yet to put up any curtains or blinds. At least there was a good distance between his house and the neighbors house … and a few trees.

And so he hurried to their room – his room, really. In this house, everything echoed – the cathedral ceilings, the wood floors, the openness of the structure itself – you could hear everything. Every footstep echoed, reminding him how alone he was. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the way Rory's high pitched voice would carry through the house, and that even the soft pitter patter of her feet would not go unnoticed.

He found a box of linens, and dug for a towel. He gave his hair a quick towel dry. As he did, he could've sworn he'd heard the sound of something on his front porch. Quick footsteps, maybe? Someone jogging up the front porch stairs? In heels?

'Maybe the newspaper,' Logan thought to himself. But it was awfully late for a newspaper to arrive – it was approaching 1 p.m. 'Probably a squirrel,' he decided.

Logan wrapped the towel around his waist and began to shuffle boxes in search of clothing. The first pair of destroyed, ratty jeans that he pulled out of the box and an old light blue pocket tee shirt would do. After all, who was he trying to impress? Since his arrival, his only visitors had been the mailman, the paper carrier, and apparently, a very loud squirrel.

And then he heard the noise again.

And Logan found himself curious.

As he dressed himself, he toyed with the idea of looking out on the front yard to see if anyone was there. But by the time he'd gotten himself dressed, he was sure whomever or whatever it was would be gone.

He moved into the second floor living area, adjacent to the master bedroom. A beautiful, spacious area. Nice, private – a great place for storing insane amounts of books, movies and music. He'd envisioned it as their private home theatre and library. There wasn't much in the room. Several boxes of personal belongings, but again, no furniture. The only furniture he'd bothered to buy as soon as he arrived was a bed. On top of one stack of boxes was, however, an IKEA Catalog that had arrived yesterday.

'Might as well look,' he thought to himself. The boxes were stacked against the railing next to the stairs, which overlooked the foyer and his favorite part of the house – a set of gigantic window panes that looked straight out to the lawn.

As he reached for the catalog, he almost didn't notice her. It wasn't until he'd already started thumbing through the catalog that he actually understood what he'd saw. His pulse began racing as he contemplated, without looking, what he swore he'd just seen.

A woman.

About five foot seven.

Her back to him, with long brown hair in a pony tail.

Carrying a black leather messenger back.

On a cell phone.

'It can't be,' he thought to himself.

But yet he swore he'd seen it.

And so, unable to control the impulse, he slowly looked up from the catalog, preparing himself to be disappointed and to have only imagine the figure.

But he hadn't.

He stood and watched the girl, her back still to him. He watched her head move in conversation, her right hand holding the phone to her hear, her left hand moving along with her in conversation as though the person on the other line was right there. He stood in awe.

He questioned whether or not it was Rory. He questioned whether or not he was crazy.

But even in all his depression over the recent days, he'd never actually seen her physical form as real as he saw it right now. He'd only imagined her when he closed his eyes or saw her in his dreams. It had to be her … even from this angle, everything about her was uncanny. Her posture, her physique, and her mannerisms all screamed Rory Gilmore.

So he put down the catalog, And very slowly he made his way down the stairs.

He looked out the windows on either side of the double front doors – she was still there.

He watched her hang up the phone and slip it into her bag.

She briefly turned her head in the direction of the house and Logan ducked his head away from the window.

It was definitely her. Pale skin, piercing blue eyes, soft pink lips.

'But why am I hiding?' he asked himself. Of course the better question he later arrived on was 'Why is she here? Why hasn't she knocked on the door? What is she doing standing on the sidewalk in front of my house?'

But he was able to answer all that himself almost simultaneously with very little thought.

She was being Rory. She was nervous. She probably wasn't entirely sure what she was doing there either. She was formulating a plan, a speech, something eloquent to say. She was convincing herself that she could do this. She was making a conscientious effort to talk slowly. And he was hiding because he knew that if she hadn't knocked yet, she wasn't ready to see him. He knew what she needed, even if she didn't know that he knew she was there to be mindful of her needs.

And he was right.

He looked out the window to find that Rory had turned back to face the street.

He slid down, back against the door to process this for a moment.

He had two options. He could wait here for her to knock on the door. But he could waste an entire day hoping Rory wouldn't see him in the window and panic in giving her time. There was a good chance that he'd wake up to find her asleep on the lawn. However, there was just as good a chance that Rory, being the big scaredy cat she could sometimes be, would leave.

And if she was going to leave, shouldn't he just let her? Let he be and do as she pleased without forcing anything on her that she wasn't ready for.

But then again – this was Rory. And Rory, as he'd come to know her, often needed encouraging, even to do the things she most wanted to do. It didn't mean she didn't really want those things.

Which brought him to his second option – he could open the door and call out to her and end her misery and hopefully, hopefully, hopefully … they could straighten some things out.

Logan didn't need a pro-con list to know that the risk of rejection was worth opening the door, given how far Rory had come and that she had done this herself. He knew what she was giving up to be standing on the sidewalk in front of the home he'd picked for them. What kind of man would he be to the woman he wanted to love for the rest of his life is he wasn't able to put aside his fears, be a man, and ease her worry.

So he stood up, and slowly, he opened the door, hoping it wouldn't creak and startle her – it didn't.

He stepped out onto the porch, not bothering to close the door behind him.

He intended to say something.

But suddenly, he couldn't.

He found himself paralyzed by the very fact that she was in such close proximity, closer than she'd been in weeks … though it felt like years. And even though she stood 20 feet from him, he swore he could smell the familiar sent of her shampoo and her light perfume mixing. He started to talk, but his mouth was dry.

And so, as he attempted to compose himself, he decided to simply lean against the front of the house, near the door, and watch her, happy that she was there for him to be in awe of, and happy to wait until she turned around again.