Too late.
That's the thought that's been stuck in his mind for days.
The play was supposed to fix things. It was supposed to force them to spend time together and work things out. But it didn't happen that way; she didn't show up and he spent a week explaining the function of a hammer to an eight-year-old. So he got mad and yelled at her.
Too late.
For one brief moment, he was sure they still had a chance, but then there were the kids and screaming and running and Kirk saying something about needing a potty break. And then the moment was lost. Too late.
He's starting to lose hope that the diner bell will ever ring like it used to and he'll see her standing there, wanting to talk. He's seen her walking to Weston's nearly every morning, deliberately casting her gaze away from the diner when she spots him through the window. She's not going to be the one to cave this time; it's his move. He said he wanted space and she's giving him that. He wonders why she had to start listening to him now.
He serves his customers, and he cooks their food, and with each passing day the dark thoughts become stronger. It is too late, he thinks, as he slams down a plate of runny eggs. Tough luck Bucko; he sneers to himself, as he throws another patron out the door. It's just too late. She's decided that what they had wasn't worth fighting for and it's his fault.
And then one night, the bell finally rings. He glances up quickly; feeling his heart beat strangely, and then looks away in disappointment. It's not Lorelai or even her alter ego Mimi at the door. No, it's only the one person he'd rather not see: Lorelai's mother. For once he's relieved by Kirk's presence, knowing that Emily won't be quite as awful if there are witnesses. And even as he thinks that, he braces himself, waiting for another volley of her thinly veiled insults. He's not entirely surprised as she primly looks down her nose at him and his business, but what she has to say floors him. Apparently, he's won.
Won? This wasn't a contest. This was his life, and Lorelai's life. Who the hell was this woman? Didn't she get that this wasn't her game to play? He lets her say what she's come to say and studiously avoids looking at her as he wipes down the counter, refills the coffeepot, and works through the rest of his nightly chores. It's only when he hears her heels click across the floor and the door slam shut, that he looks up and spots the greasy face print Kirk has left behind. She's right, he thinks, he is going to have to clean that. The thought is fleeting as he turns the deadbolt and flicks off the lights. His steps are slow and steady as he heads upstairs. He's not going to let her get to him, not this time.
He turns on the TV, unable to stand the dark, oppressive silence of his apartment. He sits down, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his hair. He had to hand it to them, those Gilmore women were sure a piece of work, all crazy and selfish and strangely compelling. Emily's words have already formed a loop in his mind, replacing the tired 'too late' phrase. What exactly has he won? He doesn't have Lorelai. He doesn't have a wealth of friends or family. Hell, if he keeps this up, he won't have any customers either.
But what if she was right? Maybe he was trying to 'win' Lorelai. Hadn't he always held Lorelai up as some kind of prize? If he waited long enough and was patient enough, wouldn't he finally win the girl? Wasn't that what dating was, a competition? But what if, in the end, the girl wasn't perfect, what then?
This. This is what happens.
Crushing the ball cap in his hands, he looks around the room, suddenly desperate for a distraction. He spots an old black and white movie playing on the TV screen, the one with Cary Grant and the Empire State Building. What was it? Love Affair? An Affair to Forget? An Affair to Remember? Once upon a time, he'd lost a bet and his payment involved enduring one of Lorelai's movie marathons. It ended up being a triple-header of the same movie played out in different movie eras. The thirties, the fifties, the nineties, and in each the message was the same. Guy meets girl. Guy likes girl. Guy and girl decide to try a relationship but end up clobbered by fate and their own stubborn insecurities.
Dammit. She's in his head again, like one of those songs that sticks in your brain and never lets go.
He doesn't want to let go.
He slips his cap back on and leaves the television blaring to an empty room. He's tired of thinking. It's time to act. He was right the first time: Actions do speak for themselves.
He doesn't hesitate as he crosses her front porch and knocks on the door. He doesn't hesitate after she opens the door. It can't be too late. It isn't too late, and that's what he attempts to tell her with his kiss. He only hopes she's listening.
The television flickers on beside him and he smiles appreciatively before removing the remote from her hands. "No. Not tonight."
"But Luke…"
He silences her by slowly placing one finger over her mouth.
"But you have deliveries…"
He leans in and presses his lips against hers, drawing her closer, breathing in her scent. He shakes his head. "To hell with deliveries." And he drives his point home by unplugging his alarm clock.
Her eyes shine and she giggles against his neck. She steals the remote back, and with a flourish presses the off button. Her fingers dance across his chest and then move lower as she whispers in his ear, "To hell with everything!"
The remote clatters to the floor and then amidst the rustle of sheets and hushed laughter, the picture fades to black.
Fin