Ain't that my old heart hanging out on your lines? - Saint Valentine, Gregory Alan Isakov

February 2017, Philadelphia

Week 21

"Do you want to know the likely sex?"

She knew the question would be likely to turn up. They did the reading, talking and came to a decision that made sense. She has an answer, and still, when the question comes she pauses, looks to him. They nod at each other. She turns back to the technician.

"Yes."

Afterwards they exit into the street and remain standing opposite each other, he has duty at the publishing house and he has got to fit lunch into this gap in his work day.

"Wow." She says.

"Yeah." He responds.

She locks eyes with him and they look at each other for a few beats. She tries to convey all the things she hasn't had time to think yet but knows they don't have time for that now either. He leans in and kisses her cheek.

"I know." He says. "But I gotta go, I'll see you later."

She nods and shoots him what she imagines is a pretty distracted smile. They both head off in different directions, but he calls back to her.

"Hey!"

She turns and instinctively catches the apple he tosses her. It's red, and shiny from lying in his pocket.

"Here's to knowing," he says. "Happy Valentine's Day."

She smiles, unbridled, at him, and he returns it before turning to walk away. Her smile lingers though. The weather is beautiful, sunny and cold, and she walks slowly. She eats her apple, and stops for coffee before walking to the park, just a few blocks away. The nausea from a few weeks back has faded and what little is left is easy to manage with regular meals and snacks. She picks up her phone and turns it on, usually she doesn't have to, but she's kept it off today to not let the constant buzzes from Lorelai's texts distract her. Now she's ready. So, she calls her mother.

"Oh my god!" Lorelai blurts as a greeting.

"Nope. Just your daughter." Rory responds.

"Do not give me lip today, child! What d'you find out? Is it the Admiral? Is it the chosen one? Is everything okay?" Her voice fades slightly at the last sentence.

"Everything is fine. They adjusted the arrival date slightly, the last of June rather than the beginning of July. It's healthy, everything is normal."

"Oh, bless you!"

The joy in her voice is contagious and Rory smiles again. It's real when you share it with someone, but not just anyone. They're silent for a moment, and she's sure her mother's smiling too on her end.

"Well?" Lorelai's voice in her ear again. "Did you find out?"

"Yeah." Rory says, feeling a bit hesitant. "It's likely a boy."

There's another a pause.

"Really?"

"Yup."

"And what's the error margin on these things?"

"Not big. But they can't be a hundred percent sure either."

While waiting for a reaction from her mother she sits down on a bench overlooking the river.

"Maybe you should've waited 'til the birth... Better to know for sure."

"Well, to be fair, knowing for sure isn't what it used to be." Rory mumbles. She knows where this is headed and should put a stop to it directly but is herself feeling a bit odd from this piece of information without really being able to explain why.

"A boy, huh?"

"Yup."

"Jess Junior."

Rory can picture what Lorelai's thinking.

"You don't know that! I'll be his mother after all." She protests.

"'Yup'! 'Nope'!" Lorelai echoes in guy-voice.

"I live with him!" Rory counters.

"And what do you think a kid- a boy- is gonna take after?"

"You're being absurd."

"Oh, god! I can picture it now; making grandma Lorelai cry with one-syllabic words 101-"

"Absurd as in ridiculous."

"Disorienting great-grandma Emily by randomly rearranging interior design-"

"Wrong boyfriend." Rory bites.

"-Fine! Freaking out said lady with a shiner in two easy steps!"

"Oh, boy."

"Driving uncle Luke into Anger Management therapy using no hands!

"Get it together woman."

"A man-child." Lorelai all but whines.

"Maybe he'll take after all the great traits he has!"

"I might need some help to remember what those are right now."

Rory all but growls into her phone from frustration. Takes a breath and picks another tactic.

"You're using up all the freak-out! There's none left for me, and some might argue that I'm more entitled to a freak-out if any!"

"Fine! Do you need to freak out?"

"No! But if I did it's too late now anyway, it's all drowned out by you acting your shoesize!"

"Oh, you're totally freaking out, under that organized exterior!"

"Well if I am I'm so lucky to have a stable, sane mother to lean on in this time of crisis!"

"Okay time-out."

"It's about time!"

They're quiet for a few moments.

"Are you okay?" Lorelai asks.

"I'm fine." She responds so curtly that there's awkward silence following it. She hears it herself and decides to take some more space. "I mean, it's a little weird. I thought for sure... But that's not even the real issue."

"Then what is?"

"I guess," she sighs, "that our experiences will be so different."

"Yeah, thank god for that!" Lorelai immediately responds.

"Hey!"

"No-" Lorelai stops and her sharp sigh is audible. "I mean, you're an adult, you're in a relationship that seems pretty... rigid, you have a backup-system! And listen, no one understands better than me why you'd feel like you do. You and I aren't exactly run-of-the-mill and that makes it complicated sometimes." She pauses. "But you still have to see that it's ultimately a good thing that it'll be different for you. You aren't alone in this. It's what I want for you. Because I'm your mother." Lorelai weighs the last words. "You're my daughter. You always were. We're best friends too, but even best friends gotta deal with differences and this is just ours. It's not supposed to be equal. That's just how it is. We- you- were fine! But there was always a bigger risk involved in the way we lived, and I am happy - you hear me? - happy, that my grandson won't grow-up with that."

"You should work on how you express that." Rory pouts.

"Rory-"

"You are so silly."

"You're silly." Lorelai mutters.

"Wow. Great comeback." Rory stares at the water and gets swept away. "Like you and him aren't connected in every way that matters."

"Me and who?"

"Jess. Like you aren't the same. But maybe it's just me projecting. Sun and moon."

"What are you on about?"

"I'm talking about that no matter which direction I go there's at least one of you. I'm talking about the fact that he keeps sending me back to you. You were always scared he'd do the opposite but whenever I've needed direction he's pointed me to you."

In her head something clicks. It's a boy, and he'll be perfect. She smiles. Her mother speaks again, much softer now.

"We are connected." She confirms. "We're part of that system of yours."

"Well, could you try toning down the snark then?"

"Okay."

After they hang up she remains sitting for a while. There's a stir in her belly. That's how the kicks feel at this stage, like the swish of small fish fins, of bubbles rising. She takes off her glove and reaches inside her coat placing her hand on her lower abdomen. It's still no more than a little bump, she tells herself she's been bigger after gluttonous weekends with her mom. Despite Lorelai's clear visions, it seems early to know this much about a creature as big as your hand. Seems early to jump to conclusions, but he is real, that's for sure. There's another kick. She pictures a little foot.

He's walking home from his stop, the lowly hanging sun turning everything a vague tone of orange. He's been utterly distracted all day which has led to the feeling of getting nothing done in combination with the incapability of assessing it in any real way. He wanted to stay with her after the hospital.

It's the strangest thing, finding out. It's not what he imagined. A boy. Not a Gilmore Girl. Someone who might grow up to be like- But what does it matter anyway? A girl might have been just as- and a boy could be just as big a part of the Gilmore clan as a girl. Could be just like Rory, or Lorelai, incessantly talking, dramatic, charming. He could be everything his father isn't. He just assumed it'd be a girl. He thinks about all the things he could have used a father for as a child. Thinks of all the versions he's sort of had, ranging between useless and destructive.

He unlocks their door and hears furniture being pushed around in the living room. He drops everything and heads straight there.

"Hey!"

Rory's in the middle of pushing a chair towards the wall, but stands up straight as he enters.

"What are you doing?" He says pointedly.

She gestures to the laundry bag on the floor.

"Just making room for the clotheshorse."

"Step away from the chair."

She smiles.

"I do this once a week."

"You used to do this once a week." He mutters.

"You're being a little soppy." She shakes her head and picks up the bag.

She's not wrong. He hasn't worried about this before, seemed invasive to protect her from mundane things she handles every day. But now he sees it- him. He knows what he looks like, or more like, he knows there's something to see. Just the memory of this morning makes his head reel. The verity of this whole thing makes him nervous. They're part of this huge project together; there's a to-do-list; they have a clear view of the goal, but without any real comprehension of it, he understands that much. He takes an audible breath and prepares to speak on the exhale. She stops and looks up, questioning. He holds his breath for an extra moment while keeping eye contact with her.

"Let me get that." He goes with and reaches for the bag.

"It's not heavy." She sing-songs with an amused smile.

"Sure it is," he says, mimicking weight as he grabs it from her. "Just let me take care of you, stubborn woman."

She smiles broadly but remains silent. He's just about to explain himself when she slings her arms around his neck, holding him close. He lets go of the bag and wraps his arms around her waist. They remain like that for a minute, then she lifts her head, sniffing in the air.

"What is that?"

"What is what?"

She lets go of him.

"That smell."

She follows her nose into the hallway and he follows her. She stops and turns, smiling, as she points to the bags.

"You brought Indian!"

He shrugs.

"I considered flowers."

"You hate Indian food!"

"I do not hate Indian food, I just have limited preferences in its cuisine."

She tilts her head.

"You only eat the Naan."

"No, I don't, I sometimes eat-"

She interrupts of course, enjoying this way too much.

"Won't we have to burn the place down to get rid of the smell after?"

"It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

"For me. You old softie." She bats her eyelashes at him.

"Want me to get something else?" He threatens.

"You are the most romantic man on the face of the planet!"

He laughs.

"Your low bar is making me look bad."

"I could yell at you for a bit, if you like?"

"Nah, I'll make it work."

"Fodder for your devil-may-care persona."

"Yup."

She sets the table while he hangs the laundry.

She wolves down the food while he, slightly embarrassed, nibbles the bread, occasionally dipping it in Daal.

"So, what'd Lorelai say?"

There's a pause as she obviously translates her mother's words to something acceptable.

"So, so much."

He smirks.

"Did you call Liz?" She asks, not without hesitation.

"Not yet. But I texted Doula, she might've passed it on."

Rory nods, no dissatisfaction apparent.

"So. A boy." She goes after a few forkfuls of Pulao. "Got any name preferences?"

"Not really. I wasn't prepared for this contingency." He admits.

She looks at him for a second.

"Well, what did you have in mind for a girl?"

He opens his mouth before realizing that he really has nothing for that option either. She puts down her cutlery.

"I've been name-dropping for weeks and you haven't even prepared alternatives of your own to prevent our kid being named Kharma or something like that?"

"Don't you think I know when you're kidding?" He says.

Her eyes narrow.

"Do you now?"

Dammit.

"See," she continues, "I was thinking that Valentine might be appropriate from this momentous day when we found out that he was a he. If you ask me there aren't enough men named Valentine walking around out there. What the world needs now is love, after all."

He shakes his head, smiles dismissively, but she's on a roll now.

"Or maybe Allen from the first book we shared."

He stops smiling, because even if he does appreciate the very real reference he does not want any child of his being named Allen, for a myriad of reasons.

"See?" Rory goes cruelly. "You can't tell the difference, can you? Oh! What do you think of a combination? Allentine! To the book and the day!" She raises her glass of water, her mouth twitching. He breathes again.

"Fine! I promise I'll give it serious thought starting now."

"Good, and don't take too long, you don't want me involving my mother in this, do you?"

"No, miss Gilmore."

They smile at each other across the table. She frowns.

"What did we do last year?"

"This particular day?"

"Yeah."

He presses his lips together and taps his chin.

"I think we might've been in New York."

"For that Expo-thing?" She squints at him. "You think or you know?"

"I know." He answers, somewhat reluctantly.

"I'm sorry." She says. "This is not your festivity it seems."

"How so?" He's genuinely perplexed.

"Well, this year you're stuck in a condemned apartment with a living room full of laundry and a girlfriend taking names, and last year you were working and spent the evening viced in between your ex and me and ended up cross examined in freezing temperatures."

"Wow. And people call me a pessimist." He grabs her hand. "I remember playing footsie and getting groped by you in a pub with excellent music-"

"I didn't- You were just as-"

"And I remember you saying you loved me."

She drops her protest and looks at him with those eyes. He goes on.

"Pretty romantic if you ask me. And this year, I found out interesting things about this mystery person who seems to hold some importance to my future, and I'm just, sitting here, considering that."

"And defending yourself." She adds lightly.

"And defending myself."

They smile at each other.

"Of course," he adds, "I am low maintenance."

Her eyes gleam and she stands up and grabs matches off of the kitchen fan, lighting the candle in the bougeoir at the table. She turns on That's Amore from her evergreen-playlist, that she keeps mainly to pool the music her grandfather loved. She likes to sort her music, not surprisingly, by the people in her life. She takes a seat in his lap while singing along theatrically. He winces and smiles at the same time and she starts fiddling with his hair seemingly absent minded, her singing fading. There a surge through him at the weight and warmth of her, her touch and just her. His hand travel from her thigh to her stomach. She puts her face close to his. Speaks lowly so close that he feels the vibration from her voice in the air between them.

"It's been pretty busy in there today."

"What's it feel like?" He asks, at once needing to know.

"Like I'm nervous." She lifts her shirt placing his hand against her skin. "You probably won't feel it now though."

"I might have other reasons for being nervous myself." He mumbles. "And for touching you." He spots her smiling before she kisses him. He's gotten used to their new careful way around each other. She's been tired, nauseous, and maybe worried. He sure has been. Is. They didn't plan this, and she has issues with the unexpected. There are more risks when the woman is over thirty. She might have been worrying about stuff too. He knows that of course but hasn't thought explicitly about it in a while. But the way she kisses him reminds him that it can be different, and he's urgently aware that another place than a kitchen chair might be appropriate for rediscovering that, right-fucking-now.

"Hold on." He mumbles between their lips, takes tighter hold of her and lifts her from the chair as he stands up.

"Na-uh" She mumbles back and keeps kissing him. He smiles and sidles them through the hallway to the bedroom. She has a few extra pounds, that he probably wouldn't even had been aware of if they hadn't been expecting them, looking for them even. He drops her a few inches above the mattress, and she bounces as she lands, a shaky laugh pushed from her lungs at the impact. He buries his face at her neck kissing it, hand slipping under her shirt. She naturally starts talking.

"So, we've already established that you're low-maintenance."

He shakes his head in silent laughter and paces his breath. Her timing is so bad it's funny.

"Yes?" He manages.

"What's the worst Valentine's Day you've ever had?"

He turns over on his side and leans his head in his hand.

"Between the two mentioned I'd have to say last year, too many people."

"No, I mean all of them."

"I haven't had any other." He fiddles with her hair.

"What d'you mean no other?" She gets on her side too, facing him. "What about Night?"

"We went out of our way to ignore it, like true members of our generation."

She stares at him for a while with an expression he actually has trouble deciphering.

"Tell me about the two of you."

He shoots his head closer and stares at her.

"Why?"

"Because I'm curious." Now she's the one playing with his hair. "She's the only one you ever mention, even if you've dated other people."

He turns over on his back.

"That was not dating. That was deliberately hooking up with people to show everyone how well-adjusted I was."

"Well then, what was different about her?"

"Is this really the day for that conversation?"

"Of course it is!" She places her head on his shoulder and drags her index finger from his forehead down his face. Speaks in an exaggerated tone, like she's reciting poetry. "This is the day of hearts, broken, healed and whole, past and present, when we revel in the year's new birth and the stirring in the earth, and spring is coming, not because we can see it, but because we know, from experience, you follow?"

"Barely." He sighs with a smile. "Why do you wanna know?"

"Because I wanna know about you. Now, could you stop being so difficult and talk to me?"

"Okay." He pushes his arm under her and reels her closer. "Truncheon was putting out their book and we hung out a lot together." He hesitates, it's not that it was all bad, but that everything besides work back then seems like a compromise from where he's standing now. He tries to be kind to himself, he didn't really have a choice at the time, but it's hard when he knows that even that is a truth with modification. "We had a lot in common, got on well. We were both partying and hooking up with other people pretty frequently. We got tired of it the same time; presto, hardly some great romance."

"Then why-" She starts, but he interrupts, eager to get it over with.

"Because she was my friend, and I may not have been in love with her but I loved her. And because it was the first time I- Not everybody has your experience, you know."

"And what experience is that?" She lifts her head slightly.

"Exclusively being with people you care about."

"Excuse me?" She gets on her elbows, frowning. "Is that what you think my entire experience has been?"

"Am I wrong?"

"Yes!" She pauses. "Or, it's just... complicated. It wasn't always like that."

"No?"

"No. I don't think we're that different actually."

He tilts his head.

"You know my what my main feeling about that stuff was? Let down. In the beginning it felt... pure. Like an adventure, like destiny, and then I figured out that timing is really difficult, and if you're not lucky then it screws everything up, and love, like a force, can actually break a person down, and that... just made me really sad." She leans back on him, her hands and chin on his chest. "So, when I left college, I just didn't look for it anymore." She pinches her lips together. "Anything I'd pick would have to go perfectly with my choices rather than feelings. Anything that made me feel remotely good would do."

He feels bad. Strokes her cheek.

"And then I met you again and it didn't feel remotely good. Just different. Awkward, and achy." She locks eyes with him. "And then really, really good. Nonsensical, right?"

"Maybe not." He sighs. "Does it matter?"

"It matters that you have this idea of me as being this person who only ever 'made love' 'cause I'm not. I was in relationships to hide, not because I was so into the guy." She shakes her head. "Paris was right about me. I've done stupid things, just to do something, and I'm betting you can relate. And you started out with people you didn't care about; my curve went the other way. So, I'd say that you at least got better while I got worse."

"Hey." He pushes them over until she's on her back and kisses her briefly on her temple, cheek and finally mouth. "If it's a matter of where you start, then where were you gonna go, huh?"

She takes a deep breath and contemplates it. Smiles.

"And now we're meeting in the middle."

"Something like that."

"Sometimes I wish I'd been strong enough to just choose being on my own."

"Being alone isn't all that hard. Tending only to yourself, or not, it's completely up to you. Not having anything, anyone, you get used to it. It's a safe habit 'cause you have so little to lose. Being around people might be harder. And it's a longer way to fall."

"Like I fell."

"I didn't mean you, but... Listen, why do you think I was in such a foul mood 'round Stars Hollow? Because being around people you care about demands that you interact with them in a real way, and that, I did not know how to do."

They fall quiet. He sticks his hand under her shirt again, stroking the side of her body, and he bends his back, sliding down to kiss her belly. She sighs, a little content note in her breath. He glances up and she's watching him.

"Speaking of real; This ultra-sound... It made it really... real."

"Yup." He looks at her skin.

"He's actually coming."

"Yup." He drags his fingers over it, watching it prickle.

"This is it. Not a drill."

"I'm aware." He looks back up at her with a reassuring smile.

"You're not worried about the end of freedom? The days of driving off in your car is over." She says overly casual, like a joke. He shrugs.

"Not sure I'd call that freedom." He starts, pauses. "I don't know. Everywhere I go there I am. I always need to work, so life is basically the same everywhere I've been. It loses its appeal kinda quickly."

"There's something to be said for going, though." She diverts her gaze to the ceiling. "Being on your way. Just, that moment. Like your body doesn't matter, like you're weightless, flying."

"Yeah." No denying that. He pictures all those moments, after a while they merge. It's night, day, dawn and dusk. It's raining, the sun blinds him. He's angry, panicking, restless, broken-hearted, free, and on rare occasions, excited. And somehow the feeling of going makes it manageable. You're doing, even if it's stupid, or just to do something full stop. It's better than throwing fists or harsh words or directly hurting yourself. But it's just treating the symptom. The body does matter, is matter. It has pull, weight and will fuck you up if you don't acknowledge it.

He sees her again and it's the opposite feeling. He's unaware of the past and the future but tethered to this instant. This room smelling mostly like sleep, blissfully just a hint of the damn take-away. It's night, skies clear outside the window. Her head on her pillow, hair spread across it. Rosy cheeks and dark eyes now aimed at him half-veiled by lashes, her hands under his t-shirt at the neck, nails lightly scratching his skin. And he's calm, his heartbeat strong and steady. The only sign of restlessness is the buzzing urge to get her naked, but that seems doable.