Chapter Text
Chapter One
“You should go.” Over a cup of candy cane coffee she’s just sipped, Lorelai’s eyes are even and sure even if she isn’t the biggest fan of how things have played out.
Rolling the stick of her ginger lollipop between her thumb and forefinger, Rory worries with the inside of her cheek. “I should?”
He will be there. There will be a sea of people she can get lost in at the holiday Yale event, but still.
Logan will attend.
Her heart aches with this knowledge.
“You should, hun. It will be your chance to tell him.”
“I do have a dress.” Rory found it on sale in her favorite boutique. The ruching on the side skims over her curves without calling too much attention to her newly emerging baby bump.
“And the phone has not been your friend.”
Rory has tried and failed to call him more times than she can count since the extra pink line appeared on the pregnancy test. Her thumb has been playing will she-won’t she with his contact information in her phone for hours now, and it’s exhausted. Between the nausea and the taste aversions, she’s exhausted, too. And the ginger lollipop is gross.
Holding said lollipop far away, she laments, “I look horrible.” She’s paler than normal and has dark circles under her eyes. Weren’t the dark circles supposed to make an appearance after the baby is born?
“You couldn’t look horrible if you tried. But if it will make you feel better, I’ll curl your hair for you and help you with your makeup.” Lorelai is good at countering. As good if not better than Logan.
Rory makes a face at her. “You’re just saying that because you’re my mom.”
Lorelai pulls another coffee mug from the cabinet and pours a half cup of coffee. “You, my dear, are objectively gorgeous, and he will be captivated so much by how the slinky black dress complements your fair skin and how the curls frame your angelic face that he will be unable to be upset by the news.” She holds out said half-cup to her daughter. “Coffee to wash away the ginger?”
Rory frowns. “I shouldn’t.”
Lorelai shakes the mug a little, making the minty scent waft up to Rory’s nose. “The doctor aka Paris Gellar said a cup a day is a-okay. And you haven’t had any today.”
Rory lifts a reluctant hand and trades the awful lollipop for the cup, which is warm against her palm. “Okay.” She looks into the rich dark color and sighs.
“Okay to the coffee or okay to going to the Yale Christmas gala?”
“It is for charity.” Rory does like that the money for the tickets goes to Planned Parenthood this year.
“Supporting a good cause and coming clean. Two Christmas miracles.”
Rory takes a sip of the coffee, letting the drink calm her senses. It will be a miracle if Logan even cares that she’s there after the way they ended things in New Hampshire.
* * *
“Rory!”
Rory grabs her tiny purse with only a lipstick, her driver’s license, peppermints, and a credit card inside. Her stomach is always settled in the evenings. No need for ginger anything. Thankfully. Taking a deep breath, she swings her legs out of the car, her heels hitting the concrete. “Paris. Were you waiting for me?”
Paris doesn’t reply to her query and gives her the onceover. “Perfect. He’ll never know unless you tell him in that dress.”
Rory’s hand flutters to her stomach.
Paris crosses her arms over her own little blue dress. “Now, if you do that, he’ll definitely guess. It’s practically screaming, ‘I’m pregnant!’”
“Paris!” Rory moves her hand to her arm instead. “Better?”
“Better.”
Rory shivers in the cold and tugs on her coat. “Maybe I’ll just wear this all night.”
Paris shakes her head. “No. Definitely not. That’s even worse. It says, ‘You’ll never guess what I’m hiding!’ You’re checking the coat.”
Squinting at the stream of brightly-lit headlights heralding all the vehicles pulling into the parking lot, Rory says, “Maybe we won’t even run into him.”
“You’re going to be at the Yale Daily News alum table. I think the odds are slim that we won’t.” At Rory’s stricken look, Paris amends her statement. “Don’t worry. Doyle and I will be there with you.”
Doyle arrives then, wearing a tux. Pocketing his keys, he nods at Rory. “Nice to see you.”
Paris tucks her hand in the crook of his arm, and Rory suddenly has a longing to touch Logan again. She hates that she misses him so much. How had they both left the inn with so much left unsaid?
She swallows her sadness and addresses Paris’s paramour. “Nice to see you, too, Doyle.”
“Did you get the spot?” Paris asks him without the abruptness she had when they were getting a divorce. Rory can tell her friend is really trying.
Doyle dons a smug expression. “I had to wait fifteen minutes, but Bentley caved.”
Paris hugs his arm. “Good for you.”
Rory tries to remember if she knew someone with that name. “Who’s Bentley?”
“The car some rich asshole was driving,” Doyle explains. “No idea who it was.”
“Doyle duked it out with the guy and snagged us a spot close to the door because my feet are going to kill me later in these heels. He didn’t want me to limp all the way to the car.”
Rory’s smile overrides her anxiety. “Oh.”
Watching her friends, she can’t imagine why they ever wanted to get a divorce. They are so relaxed with each other – loving even. She knows their easy rapport might be for show for this event, but it feels real to her. Maybe that was the trick. Fake it til you make it is a thing, right?
She squares her shoulders. “Let’s go in.”
“Atta girl, Gilmore,” Doyle says like she’s written a stellar front page-worthy article for the paper.
* * *
The ballroom is dark but lit from above with thousands of tiny twinkling lights that remind Rory of stars and a rooftop dinner Logan surprised her with what feels like a hundred years ago. Filmy white curtains add a magical aura to their surroundings. A giant Christmas tree takes up one corner decorated in blue and white with numerous packages beneath. Christmas music from a string quartet swirls around them as they make their way through the crowd of Yale alumni dressed in deep Yale blue and white.
Rory doesn’t see a soul she recognizes, and she definitely doesn’t see a trace of Logan.
She isn’t sure whether she wants to rip the Band-aid off now or later. As she follows Paris and Doyle to their table, all Rory knows is that she feels lost here in this place she left behind so long ago.
The tables are large and round with several chairs all around. Giant white floral displays sprawl across the middle. Tiny silver Christmas ornaments are tucked in among the green leaves. The plates are formally dressed with the many utensils and white napkins shaped like swans.
“Here,” Paris says, breaking Rory’s reverie.
No one else is there except a few acquaintances Rory remembers. They rise to hug her, and she returns the affection like they are lifelines. Then, she sits in the chair next to Paris, tucking her purse behind her.
Doyle ambles off to the cash bar with a promise to bring back a vodka tonic for Paris and a virgin fruity something for Rory.
People are buzzing around them, chatting about things Rory can’t hear or comprehend. Paris studies the menu and texts her kids’ babysitter about the bathtime bubble bath she forgot to leave out.
Bill finds the seat next to her, and she discovers that he is happy to chat about his job in Cherry Hill, and she tells him about her book. He’s even cordial with Paris who hasn’t forgotten his delight at her ousting as editor. She merely lifts an eyebrow at his attempt to make small talk.
Minutes tick by, and then, someone announces that dinner is about to be served. As she places her napkin in her lap and a waiter places a steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus in front of her, Rory considers that Logan isn’t showing up. A strange mixture of relief and sadness takes up residence in her chest.
Then, Paris elbows her.
Startled, Rory looks at her friend and then follows her gaze to see. . . Logan. Her heart skips despite her best efforts to deny that she still feels such a powerful pull toward him. He’s wearing a tux she doesn’t remember seeing in his closet in London. His eyes find hers, but the room is too dark for her to read him the way she always has.
The eye contact is broken before she can comprehend what she feels from him because he is pulling out the chair next to him for another woman.
Odette.
She’s beautiful with dark brown hair, fair skin, and a white dress that makes Rory’s dress look like it belongs in the bargain bin at Goodwill. The French heiress is ethereal in a way Rory from small town Stars Hollow could never imagine being.
Heart sinking, Rory hides behind the floral arrangement, grateful for the wide swath of flowers and greenery. Her cheeks are on fire, and her fingernails are digging into her palms. She contemplates the consequences of fleeing now.
Paris’s hand is suddenly touching Rory’s arm with just enough pressure to help her reorient in space and time, and she blinks and breathes. Her knife and fork find their way into her hands, and she cuts the steak into tiny bites.
Somehow, she manages to make small talk with Bill without throwing up or crying, and he goes along with it even though she knows he knows she’s a mess. She manages to eat a few bites of her steak, all of her mashed potatoes, and none of the asparagus. The mocktail Doyle got her is a bit too lime-y for her taste, so she sips water to quell the emerging nausea.
Rory can’t look at Logan, and she definitely can’t look at Odette.
She hears chatter all around her, but her brain blurs it out, so she can only make out Logan’s laugh and a French accent skimming over the edges of Yale Daily News stories and gossip.
An auction follows the meal with bright lights and an animated auctioneer who reminds Rory of Taylor. Rich alumni bid extravagant amounts of money on vacations and experiences. At one point, someone brings in a puppy. Poor trembling pup is held up for the bidders, and surprisingly, people bid. The winner is a young woman who goes up and accepts the dog like she won an expensive bottle of wine or a Birkin.
Doyle and Logan get into a little bidding war for a vacation at a pricey Colorado resort – the newly rich screenwriter going toe-to-toe with the newspaper billionaire. Logan gives in with a gracious smile at Doyle, and Rory dutifully looks away even though she’s sure she feels Logan’s eyes on her.
She hates that she cares. God, she’s so stupid. How could she have ever thought he’d give up the dynastic plan for her? How can she tell him about the pregnancy now? Her fingers itch with the urge to text her mom that all is lost and to ask if she can possibly come get her. There is no way Rory can even think about driving back to Stars Hollow now. She doesn’t even think she can stand. In fact, maybe she’ll be glued to this chair forever until the clean-up crew comes and hauls her out.
The lights dim again, and the string quartet begins to play, the notes taking shape into a Christmas song her grandfather loved. Rory can’t remember the name of the song, but she knows Frank Sinatra sang it and that it’s a waltz.
Sentiment is swept away and her stomach drops as Odette rises from her chair with a grace Rory never had and offers Logan her hand. Logan slips his hand into hers, and they are off, joining the other couples floating around the dance floor.
Tears blur Rory’s vision, and she hugs her elbows, willing no one to see how overwhelmed she feels.
And then?
A hand gently touches her shoulder, and she freezes, blinks away her sadness, and gazes up to find a very familiar Australian gazing at her with kind eyes and a lopsided smile.
“Rory,” he says with a little bow, “will you do me the honor of joining me in my endeavor to dance at this godforsaken gala?”
Rory emits a watery laugh. “Finn, what are you doing here? And you know I can’t dance. Not very well.”
“I’m willing to risk it. Come on. Don’t leave me hanging, mother.” Finn doesn’t know how close he is to the truth.
Doyle interrupts with a little too much volume, “Mother? Why is he calling her that? Does he – ?”
Paris cuts him off with a nudge and a hard edge in her voice. “It’s called a nickname, Doyle.”
Rory can’t help but find her grin even though her heart is breaking. “Alright. I’ll join you but be prepared for a broken foot.”
“I can handle the pain. It’s what I have one and ones for after.”
Finn might not be a gentleman with most women, but he’s a gentleman with Rory. He guides her onto the dance floor, and before she realizes what’s happening, they are gliding along perfectly in time with the music.
As they move with easy repetitive motion, Finn asks, “How are you this fine evening?”
“Oh, you know. I’m here.” She’s keeping up the brave face – a brave face she held onto at the inn when she told them all goodbye.
“Here. Here is good. But you are not.” He sweeps her past another couple. “Good, that is.”
She gives him a half-smile. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“It did feel rather like a real goodbye.” His tone is softly chiding. “And that’s unfair. You may not be with Logan, but it doesn’t mean we stop caring.”
Rory feels guilt squeeze her ribs. “Oh.”
“We need you, Rory Gilmore.” He takes her by the hand and spins her, somehow fluently moving her back into the waltz.
She blinks in confusion. “I-I don’t know.”
“Hmmm. You waltzed into our life, love, and we cannot let you leave. Colin is drowning in aches and pains, and I – I am at a loss without your steady reminder to eat something after I’m completely munted. Robert is just Robert, but he misses you.”
She shakes her head, reminding herself to stay steady in the motion. “I can’t because of – ” She catches a glimpse of Logan and Odette in the corner of her eye and flinches.
“Ohhh,” Finn breathes and leans toward her. “All is not what it seems.”
He sounds so certain that he knows about the pregnancy. Her body reacts viscerally as if all the stress of everything is now asserting itself through nausea and the intense urge to vomit.
Finn catches her as she stumbles, and when she manages to find her feet again, she hurries off the dance floor, tumbles out of the ballroom into the bright light of the foyer, and somehow remembers the direction of the women’s restroom.
Shoving open the door with a bang, she rushes into a stall. Her knees find the cold, hard tiles, and she holds onto the toilet seat as what little she ingested exits all at once, her body heaving with the exertion. Someone holds back her hair until she is done and then she sinks onto the floor with tears streaming down her face.
Oh, god. What has she done?
“You okay?” Finn asks, squatting down beside her. He gathers up a giant wad of toilet paper and hands it to her.
She takes the tissue and fumbles with it. “I am. I-I’m so so sorry. I’m not sick. Not like with a stomach bug. Don’t worry.”
Finn is quiet for a long moment and then asks in a sober way that Rory doesn’t associate with him, “How far along are you?”
Rory stares down at her hands and tells him the truth.