Lover's Rock
Part IV
The morning of his sister's wedding he takes a garment bag and his best shoes to Rory's apartment. It's a Friday, which he thinks is a bit weird for a wedding. Honor wanted two days to sleep off the hangover.
Clyde is there when he arrives, eating strawberry Pop Tarts and watching TV.
"We're out of soy milk," Clyde tells Logan when he lets himself in. There's a sketch pad on the sofa. Clyde is a part-time artist who sells his work on the internet. The other part works at a record store.
"And?"
"Rory went to get some."
"And why are you here?" Logan mutters, only half to himself.
"I wanted to show Rory some concept art for Hep Alien's new album." Clyde says, frowning. "What's your problem, man?"
Logan shrugs, tossing his bag on to a chair and pouring himself a glass of juice. Kaddish is on the table and he picks it up, flipping through the poem. Each page is stained black with ink.
He drops it, draining his glass and turning on the spot and tripping over something on the floor, nearly smacking face-first in to the fridge and a magnet of Henry VIII. "Shit," he snaps, and kicks the thing on the ground. Rory's Birkin bag skids across the floor.
His throat tightens and the back of his neck starts to itch and he stares like it's a snake spilling out of the bag and not a mess of computer chords. That goddamn bag that she wore three times and he never saw again. He thought she got it, that Honor explained or her grandmother or she Googled it for Christ's sake, but there it is with a fucking water stain. He wants to throw up. He hurls Ginsberg's marked-up book across the room.
"Shit, Logan!" Clyde says, standing.
"Shut up, Clyde," he growls.
Then, the door opens. "You boys forget the locks?" Rory asks, kicking off her shoes and fastening the deadbolt. She's not wearing any makeup; his hands start to shake.
"Yeah," Logan rasps.
"Someday, we're going to get robbed."
She puts the soy milk away and kisses his cheek, making for the sofa before stilling. She picks up her book, reverently smoothing the pages. The whole time, Clyde glares at him.
At the wedding when the priest is talking about love and commitment and loyalty he looks for her, her deep blue dress and the star-patterned jewelry she got from Luke's sister. He doesn't find her.
While Honor and Josh are taking pictures he races through every coatroom and ladies room and staff stairway; he strong-arms a waiter in to finding out if she left in a cab. He almost cries when he finds her sitting in a dark dressing room that reeks of hairspray and champagne.
"You cheated on me," she says hollowly. "Hell, you didn't just cheat on me, you really cheated on me."
He thinks his heart stops. "We were broken up."
"You said that was something you told Honor to get her off your back, Logan, we weren't broken up!"
"We were. I didn't cheat on you."
"Stop lying to me!"
She rises, pacing and rubbing at her face and he wants to touch her. Her dress ripples violently around her legs and he wants to see it calm.
"Come on Rory, we can fix this," he says, surprisingly firm. "So what if I slept with those girls when we were broken up, I love you! We're good together. We can be good together."
She scoffs. "When were we good, Logan? When I wasn't going to school? When I wasn't talking to my mom? Because that wasn't good for me!"
"Rory."
"I thought things felt weird after we got back together, but I thought we'd be okay. We'd work through it. We'd adjust. But maybe we can't."
"Rory, no."
"Not that it matters anymore."
Heat rockets through him and for a second he can't see. He can't feel his hands. "Why? Because I don't get along with your mom or your town? Because I don't shop at the Salvation Army? Because I'm not Clyde?"
"Jesus, Logan."
"How do I know you're not cheating on me, huh? How do I know you're not sleeping with Clyde or Jess?"
"I'm not cheating on you!"
"Then what is it? Because I love you, Rory. I love you."
She laughs. It's low and wet, but through the dim light he can see that her eyes are bright. Revelatory. Sure. "I believe you. I'm just not the girl you fell in love with anymore."
He wants to hold her and beg her and argue until he's turned blue, because it can't end this way. He can write in a thousand books for her. He can explain about the Birkin bag. Instead, he watches her pick up her coat. Because he knows, as he did this morning and last week and last month, that's he's lost her.