My computer crashed this weekend. I planned to write like crazy for Love Game and New York Night II, before cracking open the cover of my Art History book, but seeing the little green light on my laptop die and come back to life, inspired me to skip studying and post a chapt of a story that has been written for... well... forever, just as a hooray for the talented people at the computer shop who fixed my baby.

So, please don't be mad. Love Game will be next, followed by NSSL and NYN II. I promise. Summer is thisclose for me and I'll have two months to figure out how to juggle four stories! I'm planning to make this a multi-chap, but let me know if you think its better as a one-shot. Okay, here it goes again!

Hope you like this! Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own GG (I'm putting this in for the whole story) And, the song referred to is "You could be happy" by Snow Patrol.

Rory felt him release her from his clammy grip as he rolled away and a wave of relief washed over her sweaty body. He was asleep. Not that she expected him to stay awake for post-sex cuddling as that would not be fitting of their agreement.

She opened her eyes and waited a beat for them to adjust to the darkness of her hotel room before getting up, slipping on her sweats and grabbing her laptop bag. For a moment, she considered taking his hotel keycard from the back pocket of his khakis but she didn't. It wasn't as if she'd be able to get a lot of sleep. In her mind, hotel beds were strictly for two people – couples - and that was something she hadn't been a part of for the past seven months. No, she was alone.

In the great battle of all or nothing, she had taken a risk and lost. However, one could argue that he had done the same.

Instead, she would spend the rest of the night at the always-open hotel bar before returning to her room at four for an hour or so of restless sleep.

It wasn't how she imagined her life to be, but somewhere she figured she deserved it. She had a good three years of complete bliss – it was more than some people got in a lifetime... Rory sighed deeply and took one last look at the sleeping figure on the bed: Owen Mayfield, 26, NYU-graduate. And he had looks that made many teen girls scream and faint, with his Efronesque piercing baby-blues, Joe Jonas flat-ironed hair and Crawfordian abs. He was far from her type, but after her bought her a 'welcome-to-the-trail' drink on her first night, his proposal to be 'friends-with-benefits' seemed like a marvelous idea.

Owen really didn't have to do much to convince her. She was lonely; she missed her Mom, Stars Hallow and her grandparents. Though most of all she missed him, but that was something she wouldn't dare to admit. And Owen seemed nice enough. It was obvious his good looks were his ticket to life, Rory often wondered how he managed to get his degree and secure a job, but it really wasn't her concern. Her relationship with Owen wasn't based on deep conversation as she doubted his capability to hold a thought for more than five minutes and frankly, she did not have the energy to put in the effort. Owen brought her coffee and hugged her when she needed it. He wasn't one to pry, for which Rory was grateful. He was like her own slightly less horny and slightly more compassionate Kelso and that was nice to have.

It didn't stop her from feeling incredibly guilty though; as if she'd been cheating, but she couldn't be cheating. She messed with forever and this was her price to pay.

Rory took her place in one of the modern blue lounge chairs in the corner of the hotel lounge, ordered a coffee, opened her laptop and turned on her IPOD. She absentmindedly scrolled through the playlist, stopping every so often, listening to a few mesmerizing beats of the selected song, before losing interest and skipping through to the next tune.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the waiter walking towards her with a steaming cup of coffee. She undid one of her ear buds to thank him and noted the sound of rain on the roof, like she had for the last two nights.

"Sunshine State, my ass", Rory snorted, her words sounding hollow the near empty room, before taking a sip of her coffee. It was exceptionally bad coffee, and if being on the trail for the last seven months had taught her anything it was bad coffee. Not that she cared. Tonight, like many other nights since, she was restless. She hated sitting here, in a hotel lobby designed, yet failing to emulate the coziness of home, with her thoughts consumed by him.

Logan. Not Owen.

She flicked through another tune as she polished off her nasty coffee. Rory knew she should at least try to get some sleep since she didn't have anything else to do. She had submitted her piece to her editor hours ago, and had worked ahead on her next story. She read all of the gossip blogs, fashion tips and even Miss Manners. According to Miss Manners, declining a proposal and living like a nomad without telling the boyfriend-who-proposed and engaging in casual sex with pretty boys did not constitute as good manners, but who asked Miss Manners, anyway?

Rory emailed her Mom, and albeit reluctantly, her grandmother as well. She had resorted to her I-Pod and bad coffee. Anything to keep her mind off guilt and her thoughts away, far away from him.

You could be happy and I won't know

Her breath hitched, she wanted to push the next song button, but could not. She was mesmerized. Damn Lane for sending her different music all the time.

As she listened to the song, it was as if she relived every part of her relationship with Logan. The flirty, no-strings encounters and finally committing. The relaxed Gilmore Pool House days, London, the disastrous "Meet the Huntzberger Dinner", introducing Logan to Stars Hallow, and finally the proposal.

The proposal. She had not been ready. He said it was all or nothing, time for the next step. In that, moment 'no' seemed like the only reasonable – sane - answer. She had not even secured a job, but seven months ago, ultimate freedom was more appealing than the thought of forever. She needed to have an option, her options.

Rory wanted to be her own person, first, without the added title of wife of Logan Huntzberger. So, she returned the ring, gently turned him down and he walked away.

Away from her, away from the relationship and away from the possibility of trying to figure things out – make it work - without being engaged. She never contacted him, and when she got the Obama campaign job she accepted, after all, she had wanted options.

But now, sitting in the hotel lounge, with Snow Patrols' melancholy song blasting in her ears, she felt an overwhelming urge to be close to Logan. She knew she wasn't over him – Owen didn't change that – her feelings for Logan ran so much deeper.

Without thinking clearly, she pressed replay once again, flipped open her laptop and opened her Outlook.

Her fingers expertly glided over the touch pad as she clicked on the 'New Mail' icon. In the "TO" box she typed the first letter of his name, L, and his email address appeared. She swallowed – he was still the first on her list. She immediately started typing with certain urgency, as if she needed to get this out or else she might explode.

Don't think. Just do.

To: Logan Huntzberger

From: Rory Gilmore

Subject: I'm sorry

Logan,

I don't know where to start. I am so sorry. I wish… so many things but right now, but most of all - I wish you were here. I am sitting here in a neon-lit hotel lounge in Florida, drinking cold coffee at three in the morning…. Am I pathetic or what?

I guess now is as good a time as ever to let you know I got a job. Surprise! I am blogging about the Obama trail for Politico. Are you proud of me? I always imagine you'd be so proud of me, but I suppose you imagined me wearing your grandmother's ring on my finger, too.

I… I wish so much that I knew what I wanted sooner…..Logan, I am not proud of the way I handled things.

I was wrong. I made the wrong choice. I wanted the world, but I didn't realize that I already had everything I needed. Yes, I wanted options and yes, I wanted to travel, but now that I have that – all I want is you. I want the forever you imagined for us, the forever that that ring represented. Do you think we'll ever get back to that?

We have to, Logan. We just... I laugh, but not the way I laughed when I was with you. I enjoy coffee, but no one could set a pot like you. I talk to Lane and my Mom and the people on the trail, but no one can have a conversation, that bounces from politics to Tina Fey and from the Barefoot Contessa to the economy, like us.

I miss your smile, your hand on the small of my back, to hear your laugh. God, Logan, how could I be so stupid? Why couldn't I say yes months ago, when you stood before me, holding that beautiful ring wanting to share your future with me….why?

By now, tears were streaming down her cheeks and she lifted her fingers from the keyboard. Obviously, she knew why she had said no. She just had anticipated that he would understand and they would wait until she was ready; wait until the doubt in her mind subsided.

She looked at the bold print on her laptop screen. It was true. It was so clear that she was not over him. It was a relief to finally admit that to herself after months of pretending. Rory blinked and focused her gaze on her ring finger. She wanted to be with him. He was the One.

Rory ran a hand through her messy hair, scrolled to the top her email, and reread it. After reading the final, cringe-worthy sentence, she was disgusted. Her rambling was too desperate, too clingy. Too Merideth Grey circa seson two, overall, it was just very unattractive.

If she wanted him to take her back, she would have to play it cool. She did not even know if he was still interested in her. Sure, he proposed but that didn't mean he was now pining for her, living like a monk waiting for her return. It would make it a hell of a lot easier for her, but at the same time, Rory was not holding her breath.

She changed over the last two months; God only knew how much he had changed. Maybe he would angrily delete her electronic correspondence and never contact her again. Ignoring the doubt that filled her mind, Rory pressed the backspace key hard, until all of her sappy note disappeared. Then, she opened a new screen and typed his initial in the 'To' box. She did not know how he would respond – if at all – but, she figured she didn't have much to lose any way.

Rory pressed the repeat button on her music player once again, drawing inspiration from the Snow Patrol tune, and sighed heavily before typing a simple sentence in her e-mail box.

To: Logan Huntzberger

From: Rory Gilmore

Subject: Question

Are you happy?