Disclaimer: Like we don't all know it's not mine…
AN: I'm aware that many are absolutely furious about how I've written Lorelai and/or Luke. Now on to Emily, The Witch-Queen of Hartford, and some much self-bashing by our man Luke...
BELATED AN: YES SUSAN BENNETT IS THE SWIM COACH. I noted this in the chapter-ending AN. It can be inferred from the fic itself, I thought, but apparently not. I'm not rewriting this thing at this point. I'm bloody sick of it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With a newly manicured nail, Emily Gilmore flicked lint from her navy blue skirt, and smoothed her hair unnecessarily. "Lorelai, how good of you to meet with me."
Her daughter sat stiff, hands tight around the strap of her purse. "Mom."
"I understand the fish here is quite good," said Emily brightly. "Perhaps with early asparagus."
"Sure."
Emily bit back a sharp word or ten. The restaurant was one of Hartford's finest, but her daughter looked as if she'd been dragged to witness an execution. "As I recall, you adore anything heavy and creamy, you should like the Hollandaise."
"Actually, Mom, I'm good with herbs and lemon."
"Oh?" trilled Emily, pleased to see that her daughter was showing the first signs of impending emotional display. The lines at the corners of her mouth, her eyes, had deepened. "Well, what a pleasant change."
"Mom. You and me, we don't do the chit-chat. I doubt I'll be here when the entrée shows up, so can we just get on with this whatever it is?"
Emily made a show of examining Lorelai's left hand when it reached for the goblet of ice water. "I see your status is unchanged."
Lorelai set down the goblet, daintily, and her lips whitened. "Mom, you can insult me without paying for supper."
"Well, this is business, not personal."
"Oh good," sighed her daughter, and studied the linen tablecloth.
"There are some things, regarding the property, that you need to attend, before I can continue divorce proceedings."
Lorelai's eyes flashed cobalt flame at Emily, startling her. "Oh, a dollhouse I could never play with? Dad told me. Sell it to someone who likes to look at toys instead of use them. Was there anything else? You threw out my old clothes, which was fine, because I took the ones I liked…"
"Ragged t-shirts and awful jeans!"
"Which fit me when I had baby weight and baby boobs," snapped Lorelai in a low enough voice that not even Emily could censure her. "And didn't need to be dry cleaned. And what is this about, Mom? What else of mine is in that house?"
Having expected hostility, Emily was still taken aback by Lorelai's aggression. "My, you're in a foul mood. Another affair gone wrong?"
"Contrary to what you think, Mother," said Lorelai in a bitter, but appropriately quiet voice, "I don't sleep with every man who winks at me!"
"Do not attack me, Lorelai, I am being kind by allowing you the chance to claim your…"
"I came because Dad and Rory asked me to, not because you did," her daughter snarled rudely, "so give me the list of what you think I might want."
Emily reached into her purse, and handed over the cream-colored paper, of the finest quality.
Lorelai drew out a pen, of neon green, and scanned the list. The waiter brought salads, took one look, and left without a word. Emily began on her mixed greens, drizzled with a vinaigrette, and began to wish that she had ordered filet mignon. There was little joy in food-shaming someone who was eating what she did. The last thing she anticipated was that Lorelai would choose the identical salad, let alone eat it. She did so tidily, as well, leaving Emily no opening for an obvious criticism.
Emily found one nonetheless.
"Must you do that while you eat? It's terribly rude."
Lorelai's pen ticked along the paper, without a pause. "I'm not eating yet, Mother. You do not seriously still have my vinyl of Syd and Nancy," replied Lorelai, raising her head to study Emily in a way that reminded Emily eerily of Trix. "You threw it in the trash over twenty years ago."
"It was unsuitable."
"Well, doesn't matter," said Lorelai with a shrug. Emily wished her child hadn't worn her work clothes. It made Lorelai seem so distant, so cold, so formal. It certainly met the dress code, and her standards, but there was no character to it.
Emily blinked. She set down her fork. That was Lorelai's game. She was going to out-Emily Emily. "That's why you're wearing such tasteful jewelry!"
Lorelai's eyebrows went up slightly, and then down into a scowl. She wore small gold hoops, a thin gold chain with a tiny hoop-shaped pendant, and what Emily now guessed to be a third-hand discount Donna Karan suit, but it passed muster. At first glance, that was. Emily never stopped at first glance.
Smirking, Emily took the list Lorelai returned to her, and her face froze. Lorelai had declined every item on the list, including the dollhouse, the dolls, a few music recordings, and Rory's bronzed baby shoes.
She caught her breath. "But they're Rory's."
"No, they're mine," said Lorelai calmly. "I took Rory's ages ago. Christmas of… I think 1992? You bought Rory dolls to look at, Dad gave her books, and you were busy telling me how awful her dress was." A distant expression crossed her daughter's face. "I ran away, remember?"
"Of course, you always…"
"I went upstairs, and sat in my room, and wondered if I wanted anything out of it, besides, y'know, out of it," mused Lorelai in a tone that reminded Emily of Richard in a lecturing mood. "I was going to take my bronzed baby shoes. They were in the closet. When I saw them, I thought, hey! I can take Rory's, and put mine on the shelf in the nursery. Switcheroo. So, yes, you can keep those, I have Rory's."
Stunned, Emily slumped a little, but only a little. "What else?"
"That's all."
Part of Emily's heart cracked, seeped a terrible old pain. "You hated us so much you wouldn't even take something from our house."
"And if I did, you'd be upset," sighed Lorelai, and focused on her salad. Between bites, she commented, to Emily's dismay, "I'm tired, Mom, this whole back-and-forth yo-yo routine we have." She wiped her lips as delicately as any society matron could wish. "I don't care, Mom. No, that's not true. I care."
Emily smiled.
"But I can't hope anymore."
Emily frowned. She fell back on a tried-and-true defense. "What on earth are you babbling about?"
"And we've returned to our regular programming," her daughter said wearily. "Thank you for the thought and the salad, Mom."
"Wait."
Lorelai hesitated, her body language clearly shouting that she wanted to go, but her eyes indicating that she wished to stay. In the eyes, Emily saw a little girl who hated her white lace-trimmed socks and dress, and did not understand her mother's anger at the pink polka dots applied to the socks with magic marker. She saw, in that moment, the little girl who'd hoped her mother would laugh and think her clever, and buy her polka-dotted socks.
Emily held her breath. Her next words decided much. The question was, what decision did she want to make? If she softened, asked for company during her own meal, then courtesy would pull Lorelai into the chair again. If she scolded, then Lorelai would walk away, shoulders down, near tears. The third option, to ask for company and admit to loneliness, was immediately rejected. Vulnerability was not allowed. Word of it would get to Richard, and she would not give anyone the satisfaction.
She tried for a compromise, her words conciliatory and her tone brutal. "What about your entrée!"
The little girl in Lorelai's eyes slid into hiding. "Let me know what I owe you for it, I'll write a check. Good-night, Mom."
Face stinging as if she'd been slapped, Emily watched her daughter walk away. She knew Lorelai hadn't intended malice in that crisp write a check. She even believed it. She simply hadn't realized how arctic those words could sound.
She refused to eat alone. She stood, and the waiter rushed to her table. She passed him a hundred dollars, and said regally, "You may keep the change."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gilmore!"
Emily walked into the evening chill, her heels a solid comforting click-clack on the pavement. At least she could make someone happy. A pity, she thought, that it wasn't herself.
GG GG GG
Luke hated Valentine's Day. He hadn't liked the artificiality of it when he was young, and he despised its commercial banality as an adult.
Faced with the fact that he had to take Susan on some sort of date for Valentine's Day, Luke wanted to throw up for reasons utterly unrelated to crass profiteering by the greeting-card industry. Or, in fact, the sickly sweet array of aforesaid greeting cards in pink, red, silver, gold. He should be ranting about how girlfriends were easily brainwashed into thinking this day meant something more than another, but he could only twist his ball cap in his hands and try to breathe without punching something.
A year ago, on Martha's Vineyard, he'd as good as told Lorelai to go to hell, don't look back, and good riddance. That awful necklace. The rant about lobster. And now, this year, he was dating Susan Bennett, for no better reason than…
The same reason you didn't let go of Rachel, and you dated Nicole, and why do we keep going through this, you idiot!
His inner Other-Luke was mouthy. Loud. Insistent. Harsh. Mostly, Luke knew, because he'd slammed the door on it. The last notes to Lorelai, the way she'd looked at the diner when she'd had that hot chocolate, somehow became tangled into the whole April thing. She's come around, been near April, so he had to show he was invested in April's life. Learning to swim seemed smart. A good bonding activity. Dating her coach, on the other hand…
There is no other hand, jackass. She flirted, you got flattered, you wanted to prove you're okay without Lorelai! To hell with Lorelai, right? She didn't crawl to you every day after the hot chocolate! What is wrong with you? Do you ever notice how often you do things to show that Lorelai isn't important to you? And then you wonder why she thinks we don't care!
Luke growled at his annoying inner voice. There's no we. We're one person!
Yeah, and we keep ending up in wonderfully bland, undemanding, all-your-comfort-zone…
Luke grabbed a large red card with a white flower on it. The verse was disgustingly poetic.
Nice job. Tell her you have nothing new to say, write her a note to call you, then start dating Susan. Before you stop writing notes to Lorelai. Head so far up your backside you can lick your appendix.
Luke seethed at the inner Other-Luke that sounded like Jess and Liz combined these days.
He grabbed a pink card with a puppy on it. He recoiled. "Wuf you!" was not a message he wanted to send. To anyone, ever.
He saw a small white card, greenery framing a rose that had a heart in its center. It seemed benign.
The verse inside read, "The thorn is part of the beauty of the rose."
He slapped that one back into the wall of cards he faced.
Roses shouldn't have thorns!
Oh? Other-Luke sniped from inside him. Why not? Admit it. That notebook killed you. Us. Me. Crap.
Susan was easy to be around, and discreet about their sexual encounters, so much so that April and Anna Nardini had no idea any occurred. Given the ongoing custody arrangements, that took special talent, as Anna sought anything she could to discredit him. Of course, he was dating someone his daughter already knew and liked and trusted. Or was that Anna knew and liked and trusted?
Luke found a cartoon card. A beagle simply wishing a happy Valentine's Day, no sentiment attached. He raced through the checkout lane at the store. Haunted by the notebook, and his own notes, and how incredibly stupid he'd been.
Geez. I never learn!
Truth tasted somewhat more bitter than this glib inner assessment. He learned. He chose to fail the exam.
Making yourself like someone for being not-Lorelai just proves you're not over her.
The last page of that notebook popped up in nightmares. Lorelai abruptly shutting down, turning away, meant one thing. In earlier times, it told him she was a flake. Now, Luke knew it meant she'd found out about Susan, exactly in mid-sentence, and felt foolish.
I'm a class-A jerk, his inner Other-Luke provided too helpfully.
One line in particular leapt out in his head. Early in the notebook, Lorelai had written, I thought once Luke Danes was in your life, it was forever.
Reality check, sighed Luke. He talked that game. He didn't play it. He could. Had tried, particularly with Lorelai, renovating the house and so on. Yet…
Yet he found himself at the Dragonfly Inn. He had no idea how. He simply kept going back to it as Lorelai had once gone to his diner.
Michel blocked him from entering the lobby, cold, lean, derisive. "Oh, good, more scribbles. I will take them, please," said the Frenchman, and extended a hand.
He'd not sent a note since the shiny notebook arrived in the mail. He'd read it in one night, heart lightening, face beaming, until he fell asleep with it in his lap. Then he'd finished it during the late-morning lull, alone in his apartment. The notes! She understood! They could be okay! But he'd started dating Susan before Christmas, and the notebook showed up in January, and Lorelai knew he was dating someone. A terrible darkness bloomed in him that day, and hadn't left him.
What the hell was I thinking? How does dating Susan fix anything? Why did I think it could help with the custody case? Oh, right. Making excuses.
By his smirk, Michel knew the time for those little notes was over. "Oh, a card with a silly puppy," crooned Michel. "How…" His face quirked into contempt. "Tacky."
"Look, Michel…" he began sternly.
"No, you look. You arrive, she cries, and I have to do more work. It is not acceptable."
The inn door had closed on his face. He blinked, wondering when Michel did that.
Okay, call Susan, tell her all about it. If everything with Susan is kosher, call her, tell her all about it! (That time, his inner Luke-self sounded entirely like a sardonic Jess. Luke himself would never use the word kosher. He didn't think, anyway.)
Luke groaned, head hanging. Even he was taunting him. Deservedly, to boot. And he still had to take Susan on a date or...
Or what? She dumps you? Yeah, that'd suck, getting dumped... Lucky guy.
Luke physically flinched from his own inner-Luke. He knew what he'd do to someone who hurt Lorelai, in his imagination, at least. He would have gleefully tied Christopher into the bed of his truck, face-down, on a bed of sharp stones, and taken him on a hell-ride over the worst roads in New England, making sure to hit every single bump and pothole... But he couldn't exactly do that to himself. Who would drive?
Crap. How do I get out of this?
His inner other-Luke promptly replied, Man up. Stop hiding. You might not get Lorelai back, but maybe we can look in a mirror and shave every day like normal guys do. Seriously, this stubble look itches, and it isn't down to anything but...
Luke's cell phone made a noise, saving him from himself. He started, frowning. He'd gotten back to his truck, with no idea how, beyond his footprints in a fresh fall of snow. The caller ID indicated it was Susan. His mind went to the worst possible scenario. He gabbled as greeting, "Is April okay? What happened?"
There was a very odd pause, and then a chilly, "April is fine as far as I know. I thought I'd surprise you at your apartment for Valentine's Day."
He flushed uncomfortably. "Oh geez, Susan, look…"
"And there's this novel written to you by some woman named Lorelai that you never mentioned. And if I'm reading this right, she was supposed to marry you last summer!"
Anger erupted easily given an external target at last. "What the hell're you doing, reading that? It's not yours!"
"Cesar said you'd be back by one. I was waiting. I got bored. It was under your pillow!"
Luke glanced down at the Valentine's Day card in his hand, of a goofy cartoon beagle.
"I recognize this tree," he said.
"What?!" yelped Susan.
"I said," repeated Luke more strongly, "I recognize this tree. Get out of my apartment. Leave that notebook alone. You're not important enough to me to know about Lorelai."
It was, of all the break-up lines he'd never-quite-uttered, by far the most decisive. He had yelled once at Lorelai about Rachel's stupid jacket. It had seemed like an omen that any chance with Lorelai was as doomed as his relationship with Rachel had been. He needed to tell Lorelai that someday.
He needed to explain Susan, too. He felt sick to his stomach.
"Wow," said Susan thickly. "I knew you weren't going for commitment, but…"
"Leave April out of it, no hard feelings," interrupted Luke, studying the card that would just about do if he was buying it for a child. "This thing, you, me…"
"Yeah, it's over, I caught that, don't worry."
"I'll stay out of swim class," concluded Luke.
"Good idea. Good-bye."
She hung up before he could reciprocate.
He drove home. He cautiously entered the diner apartment. It seemed intact. The notebook, too. He pulled open a certain drawer, removed the box of condoms, and looked at the label. Quantity: 12. Actual contents, after dating his kid's swim coach for a couple of months: 9.
"Well," he said to himself, "at least this time I didn't need a self-help book."
GG GG GG
AN: Yes, I know, how awful. But consider that he dated her on the show (yes, the swim coach's name was Susan Bennett, total pain in the neck to discover), and obviously he was writing notes to Lorelai even so, which pretty much sums up the Ls, really.
Bronzing baby shoes for memento purposes is/was a thing. Don't ask me why.