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rubykatewritingUpdated my site. Old fic (for any ff.net fans) but I only got around to adding it today since html is a bitch and so monotonous. Anyway, here it is.
TITLE: To Forget These Hours
AUTHOR: rubykate
PAIRING: RoryLogan
RATING: R
SUMMARY: They were so young. They never once doubted such an idyllic existence would go on forever.
DISCLAIMER: All characters - save a couple of originals - are the creations of others. I am only borrowing them. No harm intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is dedicated to my wonderful beta and friend, Ms. Green Eve. Thank you for helping me with the French translations, as well as being the greatest editor a girl could ever hope for.
The title comes from the song Ne me Quitte Pas, specifically the cover by Nina Simone, from what I am pretty sure is a very poorly done translation. Oh well.
She takes a long sip of coffee. It is dreadful, thick and acidic on her tongue, but she’s afraid not to have something to hold onto. The temptation to call him only grows the longer she waits.
She stares out the large bank of windows, and notices a flurry of activity near the gate door. Turning, she watches as the flight attendants make sure the microphone is on and wander back behind the check-in desk. They’re ready for passengers. In a few more minutes she’ll be on board and hopefully by then the Xanax she filched from her grandmother’s medicine cabinet will have kicked in.
“Hopie will be at the airport to meet you,” Emily had promised, handing her into the car. It was amazing, really, what her grandmother had managed in less than twelve hours. Especially considering the implications.
The PA system squeaks. The pretty flight attendant, the perky one with blond hair and a clipped way about her, announces they are now boarding first class. Rory leans down and picks up her carry-on. It contains everything she will need to start her new life.
-
Her phone buzzes, interrupting her train of thought. “Rory, votre grand-mère est au téléphone," her assistant informs her.
Shaking her head, Rory presses the button unable (or unwilling?) to believe her ears. "Qui est au téléphone, Alice?"
"Votre grand-mère,” Alice says with a laugh. “Elle dit que c'est très important."
“D’accord. Je lui parlerai." Rory sighs. Conversations with her grandmother have become increasingly strained over the past several years and more infrequent. The few times Emily does call (holidays and on her birthday), she feels her shoulders wind ever tighter. She has a much greater appreciation of her mother’s patience all those years.
There are a series of clicks, then her grandmother’s voice. “Rory?”
She clears her throat and steals herself for whatever is to come. “Grandma?”
“Yes, dear.”
“What’s wrong?” Rory turns away from her computer. “How did you get my number at work?”
“Your mother gave it to me.” Emily clears her throat delicately, ignoring the tone accompanying the question. “Logan’s father died yesterday evening, Rory.”
Her mouth is suddenly dry. “Oh, God. I didn’t even know he was sick.”
“Cancer,” Emily expounds. “He was sick for about a year. The funeral is Friday morning.”
“Do you think I should come after everything?”
“I would like you to be there, as would your grandfather.”
The idea causes her stomach to lurch painfully. “Logan…”
“Don’t worry about him. You knew Mitchum for many years and Shira would appreciate your presence.”
Rory doubts that Shira Huntzberger ever took a shine to her, and Rory certainly didn’t help the situation by proving her right. Nonetheless, she is being called home. Rory starts flipping through her Rolodex for Solange’s number. “I’ll call my travel agent right now.”
“I’ll have a driver pick you up at the airport, so please be sure to call me with the information.”
“Okay.” Rory tries to imagine what her grandmother is doing right now. It is nearly six p.m. in Hartford. Perhaps preparing for dinner, or an evening out for some charity event or another. That could have been her life. It would have been her life. “Grandma.”
“Yes?”
For a full minute, she can’t say anything. So much has been left unsaid over the past several years, and a few tiny words seem worthless in the face of everything. “Thank you for calling me.”
There is a long silence. “I’ll see you soon, Rory.”
-
The café is bustling. It reminds her of Saturday mornings at Luke’s. Except, even as people flit in and out of the café, there is a sense of leisure, of enjoyment; people savor their small cups of strong coffee, spend long minutes over eggs and croissants, while they read the paper, or a book. She knew she was home the moment she glanced up one morning, and saw everyone else buried in some form of literature, with no sense of urgency. Weekends were not lost in a list of errands but filled with relaxation.
Céleste scoffs as she snaps her cell phone closed. “What is it my grandmother is buzzing on about? The father of your ex-fiancé – you’re going to his funeral? Whatever for?”
Rory groans. “My grandmother insists. She claims my grandfather wants me there as well, but I doubt it. He hasn’t spoken to me since I left. He doesn’t like surprises.” Warily, Rory covers her face, giving it a harsh scrub with both hands. “God, I can’t do this, Céleste! Go back there!”
Her cousin shakes her head in disapproval. “They would not ask you to come if they did not want you there. Trust me, my grandmother has told me quite a bit about Emily, though she loves her dearly.”
“I know why they want me there: to save face. This has nothing to do with me, or actually wanting me there. If so, they would have visited when I was actually in town, or call me more than four times a year.” Rory’s hands move jerkily as she talks. Frowning, she glances away, trying to avoid her cousin's searching gaze. Céleste has become very adept at reading her.
Her cousin sits back, thoughtful. “Rory, I am sorry. I assume since I see them all of once a year that I know them as well as you. Come now, this is supposed to be our nice, relaxing Sunday brunch. We are supposed to talk of silly things. Nothing important.”
“No, no. I am sorry,” Rory whispers. “I am just out of sorts. This will be my first trip home." She feels slightly queasy at the thought of it.
“True.”
They are silent as the waiter sets their orders before them. Céleste ignores him, but Rory offers a polite, "Merci," before his attention drifts to a departing couple. The smell of food draws Rory's eyes down to the plate before her. She has ordered her favorite late morning breakfast: Herb-baked eggs. Céleste cannot stand them; the eggs are too runny for her taste.
“Ça me dérange. Comment peux-tu manger cela?” derides Céleste, visibly shuddering.
Rory taps the gratin dish, making the eggs jiggle. “C'est délicieux,” she hums appreciatively.
“You are horrible. Now I’m not going to be able to eat. You have ruined my meal,” Céleste whines. Her lip juts out pitifully, which contrasts spectacularly with the obvious care Céleste has put into her appearance. She is the stereotypically gorgeous French woman. No matter that she is dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt. The jeans alone probably cost more than Rory’s entire wardrobe in high school.
“You have the constitution of a Gilmore. Nothing can ruin your appetite.”
“Fine. So … besides being a world famous author, as well as the heir to one of the biggest publishing families, what else does your Logan have time for? Is he married with a house full of babies?”
Rory nearly chokes and her cousin smirks with satisfaction. “I hate you,” Rory vows.
Looking genuinely shocked, Céleste flutters delicately. “Was it something I said?” she questions innocently.
“Fuck, Céleste!”Rory pushes her breakfast away from her. “That never even occurred to me. God, what if he is? How am I supposed to act?”
“Ma cousine chéri!” Céleste clucks her tongue at her pathetic American cousin. “This you should know by now. First, you must look gorgeous. (I’ll lend you my black dress.) Secondly, you must act as if it is nothing. What time is your flight?”
She has to think. “Tonight at eight.”
“Come, come. We do not have much time!”
“Our food!” Rory protests as Céleste tosses several hundred francs on the table.
Céleste just waves her off, suddenly all business. “Nous n'avons pas le temps pour la nourriture.”
-
Rory feels a little like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. With Céleste’s black sheath dress and thick rope of pearls, all she needs is the thick black sunglasses. From the sunshine streaming through the windows, she is going to need some.
“Babe, are you ready?” Lorelai gives two quick raps before entering, then stops short just inside the door. “Oh, wow.”
Rory turns, hand going self-consciously to her throat. “Too much?”
“No, no. Well maybe a little, but you have to look good, even for a funeral. You have an ex to run into.”
Grinning, Rory takes another long look at herself in the mirror, only to glance at her mother’s reflection and find her watching her. “What?”
Lorelai shrugs. “It’s just weird. You’re so grown up.”
“Yes, turning thirty will do that to you,” Rory teases.
Her mother blanches. “Thirty? My baby is thirty years old?”
Rory loops an arm around her mother’s waist, and they stand side-by-side, pretty portraits in black. “I know,” she sighs.
Logan looks different. Not just older, but harder. He isn’t crying. During the entire service, he sits dutifully beside his mother, his face a mask of stony silence. Fuck off rolls off him in waves.
His mother weeps beautifully, her head down as the reverend murmurs the funeral rites. In spite of the circumstances, she is as elegant as Rory remembers. Cool blond hair and clean features; she is not so much beautiful as striking.
Honor is on her other side, heavily pregnant with what Rory assumes is baby number three. Josh is tending to the other two, but they are too young to understand. The boy squats down to pick at blades of grass, while his sister squirms on her father’s lap.
Rory used to know them. They used to fill up a part of her day-to-day life. She and Honor would talk about ridiculous things over long lunches and go for manicures and pedicures together. She and Josh would pair up at all Huntzberger family gatherings, keeping with the rule of safety in numbers. She can’t think about what she used to mean to Logan, or he to her. Even after all these years, the wounds she inflicted on him, as well as herself, are still too fresh.
The funeral party breaks up in pieces. There is the first wave, heavy with those ready to get on to the wake. The rest are reluctant stragglers, those that don’t want to leave the grieving family, but feel awkward overstaying their welcome. Her grandparents are somewhere in the middle. They have known the Huntzbergers since before she was born. She follows them, arm in arm with her mother, to the waiting limo. There is a long line of them curving along the dark thruway – always an easy way to gauge the importance of the deceased.
Behind the darkly tinted windows, it finally feels safe to look at him again. He is occupied by his mother and his straggling sister and brother-in-law. They would be a funny group if it weren’t for the circumstances. As if he can feel her, he glances her way with hooded eyes. Involuntarily, she sinks down in her seat.
-
He greets her with the civility required by the proceedings and his breeding. In spite of the terrible flurry of whispers. Even at a funeral, the blue bloods can’t help themselves. The two of them together again after everything? She can hear the immediate rise in conversation level, an excited hum, as she enters the main parlor.
Not her fault really, one woman says. Look who raised her!
Like mother, like daughter, if you ask me, replies her companion.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Gilmore,” he says, shaking her hand mechanically.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Logan,” she responds sincerely, but he only nods, his attention already drifting to the person behind her.
Her mother is already ahead of her. She leans in close. “Drink?”
“God, yes,” Rory grumbles, a headache furrowing its way through her forehead.
-
Rory strolls through the gardens, idly holding a glass of Chardonnay. She has become accustomed to wine over the years. Before she preferred liquor and champagne, remnants of her years in the Life and Death Brigade.
It is a beautiful day, sunny and only truly chilly in the shade. A breeze stirs softly, carrying with it the scent of about a dozen different types of flowers. Shira always embraced the native plants of Connecticut. There is New England Aster, Wild Red Columbine, Wild Ginger, Solomon’s plume, Trumpet Honeysuckle and more than Rory’s limited knowledge allows. The result gives the gardens an organized chaos. So utterly wild and beautiful.
It was here in this garden that Logan proposed on their third anniversary. Everything was lit up with a thousand tiny white lights under a sky heavy with stars. He was down on bended-knee and she thought her heart would fly right out of her chest. Staring down at him, she experienced one of those moments. She was happy, ecstatic. The man she loved was asking her to marry him. Yet she felt an overwhelming sadness, even as she practically screamed yes, and he slid an impossibly large diamond solitaire on her left ring finger. Part of her couldn’t help feeling that it would never be this good again. Then he made her laugh by assuring her that this was not a conflict diamond. “It’s certified by Kimberly herself,” he said earnestly, earning another laugh and a heartfelt kiss.
She smells the familiar burn of tobacco, and after a quick survey of the immediate surroundings, spies Shira tucked away in the arbor.
“Hey,” Rory greets her.
Shira looks up, her eyes dazed, faraway. “Rory, dear, oh,” and her lower lip begins to wobble. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop. She shakes quietly. Rory takes Shira’s hand, slipping in beside her once future mother-in-law. They never became close, not even when Rory decided to give up her career. Maybe Shira knew even then, that Rory would bolt. Maybe Rory gave it away in her eyes, just once.
“I’m sorry, Rory,” she whispers finally, “about everything.” They lean together.
Smiling sadly, Rory tells her, “Don’t apologize. It’s all for the best. I’m happy.”
Shira doesn’t say anything.
“You know,” Rory admits softly, “I had to leave work after Grandmother called me with the news.”
“Really?”
“Mitchum was always good to me, even when he was breaking my heart.”
Shira laughs, and it is a rough sound, full of longing. “Yes, he did have that way about him.”
-
When he answers the door and sees her, he nearly shuts it in her face. “What?” he bites out.
“I wanted to see you.”
He opens the door wider and waves a hand along his length, as if to say, “Tada!” She almost laughs, because it’s the first she’s seen of his old sense of humor. “That good for you?”
“Logan,” she pleads, and he relents slightly.
“Well?”
“Can I at least come in? I’ve been out all day. I’m parched.”
“Fine.” He leaves her at the door, disappearing into the darkened apartment. Stepping inside, Rory fights the urge to shudder. Takeout containers are strewn everywhere, and there is more than a handful of empty liquor bottles, everything from the cheapest tequila to highest end whiskey. She practically tiptoes through the mess, glad she went with the closed-toe high-heels. It was warm enough, she could have gotten away with the strappy wedges.
“You want something to drink?” he calls, making her jump, and she follows his voice to the right.
“Yeah.” She finds herself in a tiny alcove off the kitchen, where someone could put a nice table for two. A breakfast nook, but he has it piled high with books. A few copies of his debut novel sit atop the nearest stack.
“I read your book,” she informs him, hopeful to end the painful silence.
“Really? You and about a million other people.” He opens the fridge, bends over to peruse the contents. “It’s hard living up to that kind of success, especially with a first novel.”
Glancing around, she notices the piles of paper littering a desk in the space she assumes was meant for the dining room. There are pages of typed print, words written in the margins in angry red, whole sections slashed through. Her curiosity is peaked. “Are you working on your second book?”
“You could say that.” He comes out with a bottle of water and a beer. “I’ve got a beer and I’ve got water.”
“Water, please.”
“Good. I’ll have the beer.”
“You know, that’s great – about your second novel. I can’t wait to read it.” A headache is starting behind her eyes; her hands shake as she twists open the bottle. “I loved your first book, by the way.”
He smiles and it’s not meant in mirth. “Really? I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“It was great, Logan. Everyone in the office loved it too.”
“She was you, Rory. Jane? That was you.”
“I figured.”
“And you still liked it?”
“I love books. You know that.”
“God, you really are dumb sometimes. Didn’t you feel how much I despised my own character?” The way he smiles, it is cruel, and she can tell he is enjoying every minute of it. “My editor made me tone it down, actually. God, you really are dumb sometimes.”
She closes her eyes, trying to remain calm. “Logan, please stop. I want to apologize –“
“Guess what? I don’t give a shit. Apologizing, asking for forgiveness – that isn’t for me. That’s for your peace of mind.”
“Dammit, Logan, I know. But I need you to hear me out.”
“There’s no way in hell, Rory. Keep dreaming.”
“You don’t think I know how badly I screwed up?”
“Do you?” He shrugs, disbelieving. “You just disappeared. A vague note telling me – no shit – that you were leaving.”
“I know.”
“Fuck you, Rory. No, you don’t know. You were the girl for me. The only girl I could ever see myself with.” He sets down his beer and scrubs his face with both hands and groans with frustration. “I was having such a great life until you showed up.”
Tears sting her eyes. “I wasn’t having a great life. Then you came and it was like I was just waking up.” She takes his hand in both of hers. “I love you, Logan.”
He jerks away from her. “Get out.” When she doesn’t immediately respond, he grabs her by the arm and marches her to the door. “I don’t love you. I stopped the day you chose to run.”
Slapping both hands against the door, she twists her body, landing hard against it. For a moment, she is breathless, her back ringing with pain in several places, mostly her shoulder blades. But he can’t get to the deadbolt. That’s the most important thing.
“Rory,” he warns.
“I’m not going anywhere, Logan,” she replies in the same tone.
“Why not? You could give lessons.”
“Not today. Not anymore.”
His face is an inch from hers and his breath smells like an entire liquor cabinet. “I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
He lets out an angry bark of laughter. “Mighty full of yourself.”
“You wouldn’t be so angry right now if it was truly over between us.”
“No, Rory, it’s called hatred. I have a deep hatred for you. Therefore, I want you and your lying ass out of my apartment.”
“Be a dick, Logan. I’m not leaving.”
“Fine. I’ll call the cops.”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms, leaning nonchalantly against the door.
“You think I’m bluffing?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
He picks up the telephone and dials information, holding the receiver in his dialing hand. “Yes, I need the number for the police. No, it’s a non-emergency. Uh-huh. Actually, could you just connect me? Yes. You, too. Thank you.”
Rory starts to panic. “Logan –"
He holds up his finger. “Yes, officer, there is a woman in my house who refuses to leave. Could you send a patrol car over?”
“Sonofabitch.” Rory grabs her purse and sweater. “I’m going, Logan. Happy?”
“You know what, Sergeant Daniels, it appears I won’t need that patrol car after all.” The phone gives out a protesting chime when he drops the receiver into the cradle.
“You really are a child, you know that?” She jabs her purse at the door. “Now, please unlock this so I can leave.”
He moves around her. “Gladly.”
He stinks, badly; she can only guess it’s been a few days since he showered. “Logan…” she whispers, trying one last time. She wants to tell him everything. That it wasn’t up to her. That she would have married him, given up any chance at a career, and never regretted it. She loved him enough to be happy just being his wife and the mother of his children. “I...” She touches his hand. He stops at the second-to-last deadbolt.
His shoulders sag, and he lets his head fall forward, his forehead connecting with the door with a harsh thud. “Please, Rory. I need you to go.”
She looks away and nods, her voice trapped under everything she can’t tell him.
-
“Rory? I’m in the lobby.”
“What? Logan?” She nearly drops the phone. “You’re here?”
“Yeah. Would you come down?”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” She dashes around her room, rummaging through her luggage for something to wear. It’s been a much longer visit than she planned, and most of her clothes are dirty. Finally, she finds a semi-clean t-shirt to go with her old cropped pants. Pulling it over her head, she glances in the mirror and discovers the reason for its semi-clean state – a tear just below her left breast. She groans and starts another frantic search for something to put over it and finds an old corduroy blazer.
Glancing at the clock, she curses. It’s been too long. He’ll leave, she’s sure of it, so she bolts for the bank of elevators down the hall from her room. There is not a long wait, but she dances from foot to foot, panicked. The operator glances nervously her way as she steps on and requests the lobby. When she gets a look at her blurry gold reflection in the elevator doors, she realizes why. If only she had enough time to go back upstairs; she looks positively ridiculous. A gentle bell announces they have reached their destination, and he waves her off with a flourish. His gloves are spotlessly white. Standing in the lobby, she looks around. It’s too late to indulge her vanity now.
He’s by the bank of telephones, drinking a cup of coffee. His head is turned towards the entrance, so he doesn’t see her coming. Is it possible that she still loves him? Enough to make all of this worth it? Her heart is already sore; she’s not sure how much more she can take.
“Hey.”
He turns, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He doesn’t take them off. “Hello.”
She falters, gazing at herself. “What’s up?”
“Huh.” He grins suddenly and it’s more old-Logan. Her heart speeds up. “I was just at the attorney’s office – the reading of the will. Nothing too surprising.” He motions dismissively, clearing his throat. “But my father always did have a warped sense of humor. He left you one of his newspapers. Seems, even after everything, he still had a soft spot for you.”
“What?” Her face feels hot. “He left me a newspaper?” Shame fills her as she recalls the night Logan’s family informed her that she was not welcome to join. The way they saw it, she would never be good enough for their precious heir, no matter how many times she bent over backwards to meet their ever-changing expectations. Or the small matter of Logan being in love with her. Mitchum, in an incongruously cheerful manner, had told her to name her price.
She walked out on their “family meeting” and was on a plane the very next day. Being noble wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
“I know.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t possibly...” She covers her mouth, breathless, then the wheels start turning in her brain. So what if this is her payoff for leaving, Mitchum’s final fuck you from beyond the grave? Considering, she cocks her head. “What does owning a paper actually entail?”
“You run the show, sweetheart. You control every little bit of it. Just depends on how much control you want.”
“Wow.” She chews her lower lip. “Which paper is it?”
“It’s a small one he just acquired in Paris. He thought it fitting, since you were living there.” He pauses, eyeing her with an odd expression on his face. “I think that’s the sole reason, actually.”
“Oh my God.” She shakes her head, disbelieving, wishing she could see his eyes more than anything. “My paper? The one I work for? He bought it?”
His smile is breath robbing. He is old Logan, enjoying every minute that finds her completely off-kilter. “One in the same.”
“Oh my God.”
-
They do shots. By the third, she is starting to go fuzzy, but she doesn’t stop. The more alcohol in her system, the braver she’ll feel, or stupider. She’s still not sure which. There is no telling what will happen when she (finally) enlightens Logan about his family’s involvement in her runaway bride tactics. It is selfish on her part, but she can’t leave with everything still unsettled. “I wish I could go back,” she admits and some of the sting is taken away by the loud, thumping music.
He stares at the table, and she fears he didn’t hear her. “Not possible,” he says at last.
“That’s what wishes are for, dumbass,” she argues, slurring her words ever so slightly. “They are something totally illogical.”
Another thing liquor is good for, she realizes. Smoothes over the awkward pauses, and tonight their conversations have been full of awkward pauses.
“Would you have changed your name?”
She leans closer to him. “What?”
“To Huntzberger?”
Her mind goes immediately to the rock, as her mother called it affectionately. There used to be days when she would stare at it and feel a fizzle of happiness up her spine. “I was planning to.”
“Lorelai Leigh Huntzberger then?”
“Yep.“ She crosses her legs as he signals the bartender. “Who would have thought it?”
“Well, it’s not going to happen now,” Logan says casually and hands the bartender his credit card to cover their tab.
It hurts more than it should. The truth of the situation has always been there in the background, silently mocking her. He won’t believe her, and on the off chance he does, he’ll hate her that much more for ruining any good memory he has about his father. Basically she’s fucked. “Nope,” she manages, blinking back tears.
Logan checks his watch. “I should be going. It’s getting late and I promised Mother I would come for an early breakfast tomorrow.”
“Oh, of course.” Rory slides carefully off the barstool, trying to keep the swaying to a minimum. Her first step ruins the illusion, as she nearly falls on her face. Logan’s arm slips around her middle, and he smells so nice, even after being in this smoky bar for over an hour.
“Hey, there,” he murmurs, his mouth close to her ear. “Let me walk you home?”
She can only nod.
-
She has forgotten how beautiful he looks by candlelight. It wasn’t so long ago she became accustomed to such fine dining on a regular basis. Logan would work late with his father, and then whisk her away for a nine o’clock reservation. (By the time she left, she was on a first name basis with every Maître d’ in Hartford.) Even when he was trying to put the latest issue to bed, he would never fail to come home to her. They were so young. They never once doubted such an idyllic existence would go on forever.
“Do you ever think you could love me again, Logan?” Cringing inwardly, she regrets the words the moment they leave her mouth. They were having such a good dinner.
His eyes are bright as they meet hers. “I can’t go back, Rory.”
She nods, glancing down. “I thought so.”
“I –"
“I’m leaving, Logan,” she informs him. “Going home.”
“Back to Paris?”
“It’s home now,” she says with a slight shrug. She stands, collecting her clutch from the table. “I would like to leave knowing we’re at least friends again.”
He moves close, his hands warm against her back. The hug is more than perfunctory, holding in it the lightning of long-buried almosts. A brief connection to something they can no longer be. “Of course,” he murmurs, again so close she feels his lips move against her ear.
“Then be sure to look me up the next time you’re there, okay?” she requests shakily and she can’t hide the tears sitting heavily at the corners of her eyes. Pretenses. All of it bullshit, and they both know it.
His expression is guarded. “I will,” he lies.
“Goodbye, Logan.”
“Goodbye, Rory.”
-
The airport is different. This time is different. She is not the one doing the leaving. She is the abandoned. She has traded the man she loves for a newspaper, and she tries not to think what that makes her.
This time she busies her hands with a gin and tonic.
Still she cries.
-
End
TITLE: To Forget These Hours
AUTHOR: rubykate
PAIRING: RoryLogan
RATING: R
SUMMARY: They were so young. They never once doubted such an idyllic existence would go on forever.
DISCLAIMER: All characters - save a couple of originals - are the creations of others. I am only borrowing them. No harm intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is dedicated to my wonderful beta and friend, Ms. Green Eve. Thank you for helping me with the French translations, as well as being the greatest editor a girl could ever hope for.
The title comes from the song Ne me Quitte Pas, specifically the cover by Nina Simone, from what I am pretty sure is a very poorly done translation. Oh well.
She takes a long sip of coffee. It is dreadful, thick and acidic on her tongue, but she’s afraid not to have something to hold onto. The temptation to call him only grows the longer she waits.
She stares out the large bank of windows, and notices a flurry of activity near the gate door. Turning, she watches as the flight attendants make sure the microphone is on and wander back behind the check-in desk. They’re ready for passengers. In a few more minutes she’ll be on board and hopefully by then the Xanax she filched from her grandmother’s medicine cabinet will have kicked in.
“Hopie will be at the airport to meet you,” Emily had promised, handing her into the car. It was amazing, really, what her grandmother had managed in less than twelve hours. Especially considering the implications.
The PA system squeaks. The pretty flight attendant, the perky one with blond hair and a clipped way about her, announces they are now boarding first class. Rory leans down and picks up her carry-on. It contains everything she will need to start her new life.
-
Her phone buzzes, interrupting her train of thought. “Rory, votre grand-mère est au téléphone," her assistant informs her.
Shaking her head, Rory presses the button unable (or unwilling?) to believe her ears. "Qui est au téléphone, Alice?"
"Votre grand-mère,” Alice says with a laugh. “Elle dit que c'est très important."
“D’accord. Je lui parlerai." Rory sighs. Conversations with her grandmother have become increasingly strained over the past several years and more infrequent. The few times Emily does call (holidays and on her birthday), she feels her shoulders wind ever tighter. She has a much greater appreciation of her mother’s patience all those years.
There are a series of clicks, then her grandmother’s voice. “Rory?”
She clears her throat and steals herself for whatever is to come. “Grandma?”
“Yes, dear.”
“What’s wrong?” Rory turns away from her computer. “How did you get my number at work?”
“Your mother gave it to me.” Emily clears her throat delicately, ignoring the tone accompanying the question. “Logan’s father died yesterday evening, Rory.”
Her mouth is suddenly dry. “Oh, God. I didn’t even know he was sick.”
“Cancer,” Emily expounds. “He was sick for about a year. The funeral is Friday morning.”
“Do you think I should come after everything?”
“I would like you to be there, as would your grandfather.”
The idea causes her stomach to lurch painfully. “Logan…”
“Don’t worry about him. You knew Mitchum for many years and Shira would appreciate your presence.”
Rory doubts that Shira Huntzberger ever took a shine to her, and Rory certainly didn’t help the situation by proving her right. Nonetheless, she is being called home. Rory starts flipping through her Rolodex for Solange’s number. “I’ll call my travel agent right now.”
“I’ll have a driver pick you up at the airport, so please be sure to call me with the information.”
“Okay.” Rory tries to imagine what her grandmother is doing right now. It is nearly six p.m. in Hartford. Perhaps preparing for dinner, or an evening out for some charity event or another. That could have been her life. It would have been her life. “Grandma.”
“Yes?”
For a full minute, she can’t say anything. So much has been left unsaid over the past several years, and a few tiny words seem worthless in the face of everything. “Thank you for calling me.”
There is a long silence. “I’ll see you soon, Rory.”
-
The café is bustling. It reminds her of Saturday mornings at Luke’s. Except, even as people flit in and out of the café, there is a sense of leisure, of enjoyment; people savor their small cups of strong coffee, spend long minutes over eggs and croissants, while they read the paper, or a book. She knew she was home the moment she glanced up one morning, and saw everyone else buried in some form of literature, with no sense of urgency. Weekends were not lost in a list of errands but filled with relaxation.
Céleste scoffs as she snaps her cell phone closed. “What is it my grandmother is buzzing on about? The father of your ex-fiancé – you’re going to his funeral? Whatever for?”
Rory groans. “My grandmother insists. She claims my grandfather wants me there as well, but I doubt it. He hasn’t spoken to me since I left. He doesn’t like surprises.” Warily, Rory covers her face, giving it a harsh scrub with both hands. “God, I can’t do this, Céleste! Go back there!”
Her cousin shakes her head in disapproval. “They would not ask you to come if they did not want you there. Trust me, my grandmother has told me quite a bit about Emily, though she loves her dearly.”
“I know why they want me there: to save face. This has nothing to do with me, or actually wanting me there. If so, they would have visited when I was actually in town, or call me more than four times a year.” Rory’s hands move jerkily as she talks. Frowning, she glances away, trying to avoid her cousin's searching gaze. Céleste has become very adept at reading her.
Her cousin sits back, thoughtful. “Rory, I am sorry. I assume since I see them all of once a year that I know them as well as you. Come now, this is supposed to be our nice, relaxing Sunday brunch. We are supposed to talk of silly things. Nothing important.”
“No, no. I am sorry,” Rory whispers. “I am just out of sorts. This will be my first trip home." She feels slightly queasy at the thought of it.
“True.”
They are silent as the waiter sets their orders before them. Céleste ignores him, but Rory offers a polite, "Merci," before his attention drifts to a departing couple. The smell of food draws Rory's eyes down to the plate before her. She has ordered her favorite late morning breakfast: Herb-baked eggs. Céleste cannot stand them; the eggs are too runny for her taste.
“Ça me dérange. Comment peux-tu manger cela?” derides Céleste, visibly shuddering.
Rory taps the gratin dish, making the eggs jiggle. “C'est délicieux,” she hums appreciatively.
“You are horrible. Now I’m not going to be able to eat. You have ruined my meal,” Céleste whines. Her lip juts out pitifully, which contrasts spectacularly with the obvious care Céleste has put into her appearance. She is the stereotypically gorgeous French woman. No matter that she is dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt. The jeans alone probably cost more than Rory’s entire wardrobe in high school.
“You have the constitution of a Gilmore. Nothing can ruin your appetite.”
“Fine. So … besides being a world famous author, as well as the heir to one of the biggest publishing families, what else does your Logan have time for? Is he married with a house full of babies?”
Rory nearly chokes and her cousin smirks with satisfaction. “I hate you,” Rory vows.
Looking genuinely shocked, Céleste flutters delicately. “Was it something I said?” she questions innocently.
“Fuck, Céleste!”Rory pushes her breakfast away from her. “That never even occurred to me. God, what if he is? How am I supposed to act?”
“Ma cousine chéri!” Céleste clucks her tongue at her pathetic American cousin. “This you should know by now. First, you must look gorgeous. (I’ll lend you my black dress.) Secondly, you must act as if it is nothing. What time is your flight?”
She has to think. “Tonight at eight.”
“Come, come. We do not have much time!”
“Our food!” Rory protests as Céleste tosses several hundred francs on the table.
Céleste just waves her off, suddenly all business. “Nous n'avons pas le temps pour la nourriture.”
-
Rory feels a little like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. With Céleste’s black sheath dress and thick rope of pearls, all she needs is the thick black sunglasses. From the sunshine streaming through the windows, she is going to need some.
“Babe, are you ready?” Lorelai gives two quick raps before entering, then stops short just inside the door. “Oh, wow.”
Rory turns, hand going self-consciously to her throat. “Too much?”
“No, no. Well maybe a little, but you have to look good, even for a funeral. You have an ex to run into.”
Grinning, Rory takes another long look at herself in the mirror, only to glance at her mother’s reflection and find her watching her. “What?”
Lorelai shrugs. “It’s just weird. You’re so grown up.”
“Yes, turning thirty will do that to you,” Rory teases.
Her mother blanches. “Thirty? My baby is thirty years old?”
Rory loops an arm around her mother’s waist, and they stand side-by-side, pretty portraits in black. “I know,” she sighs.
Logan looks different. Not just older, but harder. He isn’t crying. During the entire service, he sits dutifully beside his mother, his face a mask of stony silence. Fuck off rolls off him in waves.
His mother weeps beautifully, her head down as the reverend murmurs the funeral rites. In spite of the circumstances, she is as elegant as Rory remembers. Cool blond hair and clean features; she is not so much beautiful as striking.
Honor is on her other side, heavily pregnant with what Rory assumes is baby number three. Josh is tending to the other two, but they are too young to understand. The boy squats down to pick at blades of grass, while his sister squirms on her father’s lap.
Rory used to know them. They used to fill up a part of her day-to-day life. She and Honor would talk about ridiculous things over long lunches and go for manicures and pedicures together. She and Josh would pair up at all Huntzberger family gatherings, keeping with the rule of safety in numbers. She can’t think about what she used to mean to Logan, or he to her. Even after all these years, the wounds she inflicted on him, as well as herself, are still too fresh.
The funeral party breaks up in pieces. There is the first wave, heavy with those ready to get on to the wake. The rest are reluctant stragglers, those that don’t want to leave the grieving family, but feel awkward overstaying their welcome. Her grandparents are somewhere in the middle. They have known the Huntzbergers since before she was born. She follows them, arm in arm with her mother, to the waiting limo. There is a long line of them curving along the dark thruway – always an easy way to gauge the importance of the deceased.
Behind the darkly tinted windows, it finally feels safe to look at him again. He is occupied by his mother and his straggling sister and brother-in-law. They would be a funny group if it weren’t for the circumstances. As if he can feel her, he glances her way with hooded eyes. Involuntarily, she sinks down in her seat.
-
He greets her with the civility required by the proceedings and his breeding. In spite of the terrible flurry of whispers. Even at a funeral, the blue bloods can’t help themselves. The two of them together again after everything? She can hear the immediate rise in conversation level, an excited hum, as she enters the main parlor.
Not her fault really, one woman says. Look who raised her!
Like mother, like daughter, if you ask me, replies her companion.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Gilmore,” he says, shaking her hand mechanically.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Logan,” she responds sincerely, but he only nods, his attention already drifting to the person behind her.
Her mother is already ahead of her. She leans in close. “Drink?”
“God, yes,” Rory grumbles, a headache furrowing its way through her forehead.
-
Rory strolls through the gardens, idly holding a glass of Chardonnay. She has become accustomed to wine over the years. Before she preferred liquor and champagne, remnants of her years in the Life and Death Brigade.
It is a beautiful day, sunny and only truly chilly in the shade. A breeze stirs softly, carrying with it the scent of about a dozen different types of flowers. Shira always embraced the native plants of Connecticut. There is New England Aster, Wild Red Columbine, Wild Ginger, Solomon’s plume, Trumpet Honeysuckle and more than Rory’s limited knowledge allows. The result gives the gardens an organized chaos. So utterly wild and beautiful.
It was here in this garden that Logan proposed on their third anniversary. Everything was lit up with a thousand tiny white lights under a sky heavy with stars. He was down on bended-knee and she thought her heart would fly right out of her chest. Staring down at him, she experienced one of those moments. She was happy, ecstatic. The man she loved was asking her to marry him. Yet she felt an overwhelming sadness, even as she practically screamed yes, and he slid an impossibly large diamond solitaire on her left ring finger. Part of her couldn’t help feeling that it would never be this good again. Then he made her laugh by assuring her that this was not a conflict diamond. “It’s certified by Kimberly herself,” he said earnestly, earning another laugh and a heartfelt kiss.
She smells the familiar burn of tobacco, and after a quick survey of the immediate surroundings, spies Shira tucked away in the arbor.
“Hey,” Rory greets her.
Shira looks up, her eyes dazed, faraway. “Rory, dear, oh,” and her lower lip begins to wobble. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop. She shakes quietly. Rory takes Shira’s hand, slipping in beside her once future mother-in-law. They never became close, not even when Rory decided to give up her career. Maybe Shira knew even then, that Rory would bolt. Maybe Rory gave it away in her eyes, just once.
“I’m sorry, Rory,” she whispers finally, “about everything.” They lean together.
Smiling sadly, Rory tells her, “Don’t apologize. It’s all for the best. I’m happy.”
Shira doesn’t say anything.
“You know,” Rory admits softly, “I had to leave work after Grandmother called me with the news.”
“Really?”
“Mitchum was always good to me, even when he was breaking my heart.”
Shira laughs, and it is a rough sound, full of longing. “Yes, he did have that way about him.”
-
When he answers the door and sees her, he nearly shuts it in her face. “What?” he bites out.
“I wanted to see you.”
He opens the door wider and waves a hand along his length, as if to say, “Tada!” She almost laughs, because it’s the first she’s seen of his old sense of humor. “That good for you?”
“Logan,” she pleads, and he relents slightly.
“Well?”
“Can I at least come in? I’ve been out all day. I’m parched.”
“Fine.” He leaves her at the door, disappearing into the darkened apartment. Stepping inside, Rory fights the urge to shudder. Takeout containers are strewn everywhere, and there is more than a handful of empty liquor bottles, everything from the cheapest tequila to highest end whiskey. She practically tiptoes through the mess, glad she went with the closed-toe high-heels. It was warm enough, she could have gotten away with the strappy wedges.
“You want something to drink?” he calls, making her jump, and she follows his voice to the right.
“Yeah.” She finds herself in a tiny alcove off the kitchen, where someone could put a nice table for two. A breakfast nook, but he has it piled high with books. A few copies of his debut novel sit atop the nearest stack.
“I read your book,” she informs him, hopeful to end the painful silence.
“Really? You and about a million other people.” He opens the fridge, bends over to peruse the contents. “It’s hard living up to that kind of success, especially with a first novel.”
Glancing around, she notices the piles of paper littering a desk in the space she assumes was meant for the dining room. There are pages of typed print, words written in the margins in angry red, whole sections slashed through. Her curiosity is peaked. “Are you working on your second book?”
“You could say that.” He comes out with a bottle of water and a beer. “I’ve got a beer and I’ve got water.”
“Water, please.”
“Good. I’ll have the beer.”
“You know, that’s great – about your second novel. I can’t wait to read it.” A headache is starting behind her eyes; her hands shake as she twists open the bottle. “I loved your first book, by the way.”
He smiles and it’s not meant in mirth. “Really? I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“It was great, Logan. Everyone in the office loved it too.”
“She was you, Rory. Jane? That was you.”
“I figured.”
“And you still liked it?”
“I love books. You know that.”
“God, you really are dumb sometimes. Didn’t you feel how much I despised my own character?” The way he smiles, it is cruel, and she can tell he is enjoying every minute of it. “My editor made me tone it down, actually. God, you really are dumb sometimes.”
She closes her eyes, trying to remain calm. “Logan, please stop. I want to apologize –“
“Guess what? I don’t give a shit. Apologizing, asking for forgiveness – that isn’t for me. That’s for your peace of mind.”
“Dammit, Logan, I know. But I need you to hear me out.”
“There’s no way in hell, Rory. Keep dreaming.”
“You don’t think I know how badly I screwed up?”
“Do you?” He shrugs, disbelieving. “You just disappeared. A vague note telling me – no shit – that you were leaving.”
“I know.”
“Fuck you, Rory. No, you don’t know. You were the girl for me. The only girl I could ever see myself with.” He sets down his beer and scrubs his face with both hands and groans with frustration. “I was having such a great life until you showed up.”
Tears sting her eyes. “I wasn’t having a great life. Then you came and it was like I was just waking up.” She takes his hand in both of hers. “I love you, Logan.”
He jerks away from her. “Get out.” When she doesn’t immediately respond, he grabs her by the arm and marches her to the door. “I don’t love you. I stopped the day you chose to run.”
Slapping both hands against the door, she twists her body, landing hard against it. For a moment, she is breathless, her back ringing with pain in several places, mostly her shoulder blades. But he can’t get to the deadbolt. That’s the most important thing.
“Rory,” he warns.
“I’m not going anywhere, Logan,” she replies in the same tone.
“Why not? You could give lessons.”
“Not today. Not anymore.”
His face is an inch from hers and his breath smells like an entire liquor cabinet. “I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
He lets out an angry bark of laughter. “Mighty full of yourself.”
“You wouldn’t be so angry right now if it was truly over between us.”
“No, Rory, it’s called hatred. I have a deep hatred for you. Therefore, I want you and your lying ass out of my apartment.”
“Be a dick, Logan. I’m not leaving.”
“Fine. I’ll call the cops.”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms, leaning nonchalantly against the door.
“You think I’m bluffing?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
He picks up the telephone and dials information, holding the receiver in his dialing hand. “Yes, I need the number for the police. No, it’s a non-emergency. Uh-huh. Actually, could you just connect me? Yes. You, too. Thank you.”
Rory starts to panic. “Logan –"
He holds up his finger. “Yes, officer, there is a woman in my house who refuses to leave. Could you send a patrol car over?”
“Sonofabitch.” Rory grabs her purse and sweater. “I’m going, Logan. Happy?”
“You know what, Sergeant Daniels, it appears I won’t need that patrol car after all.” The phone gives out a protesting chime when he drops the receiver into the cradle.
“You really are a child, you know that?” She jabs her purse at the door. “Now, please unlock this so I can leave.”
He moves around her. “Gladly.”
He stinks, badly; she can only guess it’s been a few days since he showered. “Logan…” she whispers, trying one last time. She wants to tell him everything. That it wasn’t up to her. That she would have married him, given up any chance at a career, and never regretted it. She loved him enough to be happy just being his wife and the mother of his children. “I...” She touches his hand. He stops at the second-to-last deadbolt.
His shoulders sag, and he lets his head fall forward, his forehead connecting with the door with a harsh thud. “Please, Rory. I need you to go.”
She looks away and nods, her voice trapped under everything she can’t tell him.
-
“Rory? I’m in the lobby.”
“What? Logan?” She nearly drops the phone. “You’re here?”
“Yeah. Would you come down?”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” She dashes around her room, rummaging through her luggage for something to wear. It’s been a much longer visit than she planned, and most of her clothes are dirty. Finally, she finds a semi-clean t-shirt to go with her old cropped pants. Pulling it over her head, she glances in the mirror and discovers the reason for its semi-clean state – a tear just below her left breast. She groans and starts another frantic search for something to put over it and finds an old corduroy blazer.
Glancing at the clock, she curses. It’s been too long. He’ll leave, she’s sure of it, so she bolts for the bank of elevators down the hall from her room. There is not a long wait, but she dances from foot to foot, panicked. The operator glances nervously her way as she steps on and requests the lobby. When she gets a look at her blurry gold reflection in the elevator doors, she realizes why. If only she had enough time to go back upstairs; she looks positively ridiculous. A gentle bell announces they have reached their destination, and he waves her off with a flourish. His gloves are spotlessly white. Standing in the lobby, she looks around. It’s too late to indulge her vanity now.
He’s by the bank of telephones, drinking a cup of coffee. His head is turned towards the entrance, so he doesn’t see her coming. Is it possible that she still loves him? Enough to make all of this worth it? Her heart is already sore; she’s not sure how much more she can take.
“Hey.”
He turns, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. He doesn’t take them off. “Hello.”
She falters, gazing at herself. “What’s up?”
“Huh.” He grins suddenly and it’s more old-Logan. Her heart speeds up. “I was just at the attorney’s office – the reading of the will. Nothing too surprising.” He motions dismissively, clearing his throat. “But my father always did have a warped sense of humor. He left you one of his newspapers. Seems, even after everything, he still had a soft spot for you.”
“What?” Her face feels hot. “He left me a newspaper?” Shame fills her as she recalls the night Logan’s family informed her that she was not welcome to join. The way they saw it, she would never be good enough for their precious heir, no matter how many times she bent over backwards to meet their ever-changing expectations. Or the small matter of Logan being in love with her. Mitchum, in an incongruously cheerful manner, had told her to name her price.
She walked out on their “family meeting” and was on a plane the very next day. Being noble wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
“I know.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t possibly...” She covers her mouth, breathless, then the wheels start turning in her brain. So what if this is her payoff for leaving, Mitchum’s final fuck you from beyond the grave? Considering, she cocks her head. “What does owning a paper actually entail?”
“You run the show, sweetheart. You control every little bit of it. Just depends on how much control you want.”
“Wow.” She chews her lower lip. “Which paper is it?”
“It’s a small one he just acquired in Paris. He thought it fitting, since you were living there.” He pauses, eyeing her with an odd expression on his face. “I think that’s the sole reason, actually.”
“Oh my God.” She shakes her head, disbelieving, wishing she could see his eyes more than anything. “My paper? The one I work for? He bought it?”
His smile is breath robbing. He is old Logan, enjoying every minute that finds her completely off-kilter. “One in the same.”
“Oh my God.”
-
They do shots. By the third, she is starting to go fuzzy, but she doesn’t stop. The more alcohol in her system, the braver she’ll feel, or stupider. She’s still not sure which. There is no telling what will happen when she (finally) enlightens Logan about his family’s involvement in her runaway bride tactics. It is selfish on her part, but she can’t leave with everything still unsettled. “I wish I could go back,” she admits and some of the sting is taken away by the loud, thumping music.
He stares at the table, and she fears he didn’t hear her. “Not possible,” he says at last.
“That’s what wishes are for, dumbass,” she argues, slurring her words ever so slightly. “They are something totally illogical.”
Another thing liquor is good for, she realizes. Smoothes over the awkward pauses, and tonight their conversations have been full of awkward pauses.
“Would you have changed your name?”
She leans closer to him. “What?”
“To Huntzberger?”
Her mind goes immediately to the rock, as her mother called it affectionately. There used to be days when she would stare at it and feel a fizzle of happiness up her spine. “I was planning to.”
“Lorelai Leigh Huntzberger then?”
“Yep.“ She crosses her legs as he signals the bartender. “Who would have thought it?”
“Well, it’s not going to happen now,” Logan says casually and hands the bartender his credit card to cover their tab.
It hurts more than it should. The truth of the situation has always been there in the background, silently mocking her. He won’t believe her, and on the off chance he does, he’ll hate her that much more for ruining any good memory he has about his father. Basically she’s fucked. “Nope,” she manages, blinking back tears.
Logan checks his watch. “I should be going. It’s getting late and I promised Mother I would come for an early breakfast tomorrow.”
“Oh, of course.” Rory slides carefully off the barstool, trying to keep the swaying to a minimum. Her first step ruins the illusion, as she nearly falls on her face. Logan’s arm slips around her middle, and he smells so nice, even after being in this smoky bar for over an hour.
“Hey, there,” he murmurs, his mouth close to her ear. “Let me walk you home?”
She can only nod.
-
She has forgotten how beautiful he looks by candlelight. It wasn’t so long ago she became accustomed to such fine dining on a regular basis. Logan would work late with his father, and then whisk her away for a nine o’clock reservation. (By the time she left, she was on a first name basis with every Maître d’ in Hartford.) Even when he was trying to put the latest issue to bed, he would never fail to come home to her. They were so young. They never once doubted such an idyllic existence would go on forever.
“Do you ever think you could love me again, Logan?” Cringing inwardly, she regrets the words the moment they leave her mouth. They were having such a good dinner.
His eyes are bright as they meet hers. “I can’t go back, Rory.”
She nods, glancing down. “I thought so.”
“I –"
“I’m leaving, Logan,” she informs him. “Going home.”
“Back to Paris?”
“It’s home now,” she says with a slight shrug. She stands, collecting her clutch from the table. “I would like to leave knowing we’re at least friends again.”
He moves close, his hands warm against her back. The hug is more than perfunctory, holding in it the lightning of long-buried almosts. A brief connection to something they can no longer be. “Of course,” he murmurs, again so close she feels his lips move against her ear.
“Then be sure to look me up the next time you’re there, okay?” she requests shakily and she can’t hide the tears sitting heavily at the corners of her eyes. Pretenses. All of it bullshit, and they both know it.
His expression is guarded. “I will,” he lies.
“Goodbye, Logan.”
“Goodbye, Rory.”
-
The airport is different. This time is different. She is not the one doing the leaving. She is the abandoned. She has traded the man she loves for a newspaper, and she tries not to think what that makes her.
This time she busies her hands with a gin and tonic.
Still she cries.
-
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Date: 2009-05-30 05:10 am (UTC)