Rory Gilmore was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. She figured she could think of some more adverbs to describe how exhausted she was if only she weren't so exhausted. What she really wanted to do was put on a pair of comfy pajamas and curl up under the covers in her bed in Stars Hollow, covers that wouldn't smell like industrial-strength motel detergent, and sleep for the next eleven days. She didn't want to see or talk to anybody: not her mother, not her friends, nobody. She wanted to hibernate.
Yet here she was at the Gilmores' annual Christmas party.
When her grandmother had called her on the campaign trail to announce that, rather than the usual two weeks before Christmas, they had decided to hold the party on December 22 when she would be back in Connecticut, Rory had tried to sound enthused. Or at least she had tried to hide her disappointment in not being able to avoid the event this year. She wasn't in much of a holiday mood.
"That's really nice of you, Grandma," Rory had said from the bus, somewhere in Texas (or was it Oklahoma?). "But I don't want you to go to any trouble to change the date for me."
"Don't be silly. It's no trouble at all," Emily replied. "We want to celebrate the holidays with our only granddaughter in attendance. And I'm sure all the ladies from the DAR will love to hear about your campaign adventures."
"But you usually don't include them for your Christmas party. Isn't it just a few of your close friends?"
"Not this year. We've decided to go all out with a big celebration to welcome you home! We've seen so little of you since you left."
"Grandma, I don't need a welcome home celebration. It's just a job. You do realize I'm not the one running for president, right? I'm just reporting on the campaign."
Emily sighed. "Of course I realize that. Honestly, Rory, you sound just like Lorelai..."
In the end, there was no getting out of it. Rory's flight had landed in Hartford at two that afternoon. She went home to Stars Hollow for a shower, put on the new midnight blue dress Lorelai had picked out for her (life on the campaign bus didn't leave much time to shop for Emily Gilmore-approved attire), and headed back to Hartford for the party.
She had spent the last hour and thirteen minutes, not that she was counting or anything, explaining life on the campaign trail to some of her grandparents' guests. No, she hasn't spoken to the senator in person, although she did interview him last year when he visited Yale. No, she hasn't met Mrs. Obama, but she expects to get some time with her next month. Yes, it is quite hectic going from campaign stop to campaign stop. When Lucy Faxton-Field, with a rather pointed expression on her face, asked if she'd met any eligible young men, Rory had sidestepped the question and excused herself to the bathroom. She knew what Lucy had really wanted to ask, and she wasn't ready for it. She didn't want to answer any questions about him.
After she left the powder room, Rory found herself seeking solace in Richard's study. Books were good. Books didn't ask questions she didn't want to answer. Questions she couldn't answer. The door to the study was open and the lights were on, so she figured it wasn't explicitly off-limits to guests. That would be Rory's argument should Emily catch her hiding in here.
She sat down in the leather armchair near the bookshelves, telling herself she just needed a break. Then, she'd plaster the fake smile on her face and pretend to be holly-jolly until ten o'clock rolled around. She'd promised her mother she'd stay until then. ("If I have to be tortured for three hours, so do you. Need I remind you of the many hours of labor I endured?") The clock on the wall read 8:25. Rory sighed, wondering if anyone will notice if she stayed in the study until something like 9:45.
The truth was, Rory didn't feel like pretending to be holly-jolly and actually being holly-jolly was out of the question. As good as it was to see her family and friends after nearly seven months on the road, she had been dreading the holidays. She couldn't think about Christmas this year without thinking of Christmas last year. She hadn't realized it at the time, but those two weeks in Europe alone with Logan, free from the distractions of their family and friends, school, and the newspapers, both Yale and Huntzberger-owned, had been the best two weeks of her life. She was truly happy. They were truly happy. They had weathered the long-distance thing and gotten past her insecurity about Bobbi, the fight over Rory's article about the launch party, and the whole Marty debacle. They were solid, together and in love. But that was before. Before Rory's uncertainty about her post-college life had kicked in. Before her parents' hasty marriage had flamed out. Before Logan's business disaster and his break from his father's company. Before the out-of-the-blue marriage proposal.
Before everything got so royally screwed up.
Rory quickly wiped a lone tear from her cheek. She couldn't start crying now, not here. Crying at her grandparent's Christmas party was a violation of the rules. Crying over Logan was permitted only in the shower or, on the rare night when she didn't have to share her motel room with a roommate, in bed late at night. Although she'd become friendly with some of the other reporters, she wasn't close enough to anyone to share the sad saga of Rory and Logan. That meant the tears remained hidden.
"Shit," Rory whispered as another tear escaped. She picked up her glass and swallowed the watered down remains of her cocktail. If she weren't driving, she might think about getting drunk. Maybe that would make her feel better. Or at least make her feel nothing at all.
As soon as he arrived at the Gilmore house, Logan realized he may have made a huge mistake. Once his father had suggested he accompany Shira and him that evening, Logan's desire to see Rory had become overwhelming. It wasn't that he hadn't thought about seeing her before Mitchum mentioned the party. He thought about that every day, imagining any number of scenarios where they might be reunited. It's just that they were fantasies. Deep down, he knew Rory wasn't going to appear on his doorstep, and he wouldn't bump into her at the dry cleaners around the corner from his office or find himself seated beside her in first class on one of his business trips. The Gilmore Christmas party was a real opportunity to make contact with the one person whom he hadn't been able to push out of his mind since he moved to California.
Now that he was here, a terrible thought occurred to him. What if Rory hadn't come alone? Just because he had found it impossible to move on, that the idea of being with someone new was inconceivable to him, didn't mean that Rory hadn't. She was beautiful, intelligent, witty, sweet—everything that any man in his right mind could want. He certainly had. He still did. Logan didn't think he could bear seeing her on another man's arm.
For a second, he considered slipping back out the front door. Surely his parents' driver would take him home before returning to wait for Mitchum and Shira. He could get out before anyone, particularly any Gilmores, noticed his presence. He turned to ask for his overcoat from the coat-check girl, but a voice in his head stopped him.
"Mate," Finn had said on his last visit to California in late September. "Pull yourself together. Either call her or go out and find some random blonde and get back to being Logan Huntzberger. But do something. I don't think I can take another minute of mopey Logan."
Logan had been angered by Finn's comments at the time, but maybe he was right. Logan needed to do something. If Rory had moved on, he needed to know. He grabbed a scotch from the bartender and a couple of hors d'oeuvres from a passing tray as he scanned the crowd for the familiar brunette. He didn't see her, but he spotted Lorelai and a bored Luke in the corner of the living room. Logan ducked into the hallway before making eye contact. While Lorelai likely could solve the mystery of Rory's location, she was the last person he wanted to talk to. He could only imagine what she'd have to say to him.
A glance through the back windows showed a darkened pool house, so Logan headed to the other logical place where Rory might be. When he found her sitting (alone, thankfully) in Richard's study, his first glimpse of her in almost seven months, Logan felt as if his heart stopped. She was so beautiful. The chair was angled away from the door, allowing him to study her unseen unless she turned her head toward the doorway. He might have stayed there all night, just drowning in the sight of her as he desperately tried to think of an opening line, if he hadn't noticed her brush her cheek, as if she were wiping away a tear. He never could stand to see her cry.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
"You know, Ace, you've really messed up on the concept of a sub-party here."
Rory's head whipped toward the door. For a second, she thought she was imagining things, that she'd drunk more than she'd realized, or that she had finally, completely, lost it. The men in the white coats would be arriving momentarily.
"You need more than one person for a sub-party," Logan said. "And, from the looks of your glass, significantly more alcohol."