AN: I'm writing this from my sickbed, which has keep me inside even though we just had the first snow of the season. At least something got finished. I really appreciated all the feedback I got for the last chapter, and I would appreciate your comments on this one as well. Read and review.

Romantic Fallacy

"How much longer are you sticking around?" Luke asked, wiping a glass clean with a fresh rag. "Thought you had to be in Boston by the weekend."

"Got pushed back," Jess explained. "I've got some other stuff to do while I'm here besides work. I should be heading out Monday morning."

"I saw you driving around in Hartford the other day. Your car is easy to spot."

"Really? I've seen a couple other people with it around town, two different types of people, actually. One half of them are old, rich, white men, and the other half are young, rich, black men. For some reason, I don't fit into either category."

"Can't imagine why," Luke commented. "You know, most people with that—" he pointed out the window of the diner "—are snobs or drug dealers."

"I could be labeled as either."

The distrustful look from his uncle made Jess smile into his coffee cup. The bell above the door to the diner rang, and the expression on Luke's face took on the appearance of a contorted muscle. "Eh," he said tonelessly. "What do you want?"

Logan approached the counter while Jess silently drank the rest of his coffee. "Sorry to bother you, but is Lorelai around?"

"No," he deadpanned. It's ten in the morning, she's where most Americans without trust funds are right now: work."

"I tried calling her at the Inn but that French putz wouldn't put me through."

"Michelle is like an oyster, he filters out junk."

"I was wondering if she'd heard from Rory."

"Not likely," Luke picked up a broom and started sweeping over Logan's shoes. "Excuse me," he bristled.

Tossing some bills on the counter, Jess stood from his barstool. "What do you need to ask her?" Jess asked. "We're supposed to meet up today."

"I just need to talk to her."

"Call her."

Logan's face wore a pained expression. "She won't return my calls."

Jess cocked an eyebrow, moving towards the door. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why."

Following him, Logan tolerated the jibe in lieu of information. "I drove a Benz when I was a junior in high school," he chided once they'd reached the sidewalk. The way he stood, he wanted Jess to see his Porsche parked across the street.

"Yeah, but I didn't buy mine with daddy's plastic. Girls like a self-made man, Huntz. You could be one of us."

"Why wont Rory talk to me?" Logan approached the dark haired Sicilian, water flecked and steely in his gaze. "You better not be fucking around with my girlfriend."

He ignored the comment and crossed his arms. "If you've got something you want her to hear then tell me. Otherwise I'm gonna half to run you over with my rims. Don't make my insurance rate go up." Jess nudged the interworkings of the tire with his boot.

"Just tell her to check her voicemail," he said, controlled and almost forcefully relaxed. "It was good to see you," Logan conceited. He turned on his heel and crossed the street while Jess lit up a cigarette.

--

Paris straightened her Anne Taylor sweater and strode through the lobby of the Holtshoucher Club. Rory had invited her to her DAR luncheon so they could "catch up on some things." Her semester at Yale had just started, and Paris was hoping to catch her friend up on how big of a mistake she was making. The dinning hall had artfully decorated windows and flower arrangements that Rory had most likely put together herself, crisp white orchids and lilies in sleek gold vases. Her mailed invitation had been printed on mint colored paper, so Paris had gone for a conservative, tope sundress with green flowers and plant matter blossoming across the fabric. Her cardigan matched one of the livelier hues on her dress, and, unintentionally, the emerald carpet in the day room. With her light brown hair in an artful twist, she blended in with the scenery perfectly. She made more of a statement with her personality than anything else; Paris believed that outrageous clothes would make her less serious and more comical.

When she reached the threshold to the softly glowing day room a member of the staff escorted her to a grouping of rattan chairs on the day porch. "Paris," Rory greeted, walking towards her friend in a gold ensemble that made her shimmer when she walked. "I'm so glad you came."

"Thanks for inviting me," she said, looking at the densely populated porch, gazebo, and garden. There were more people than Paris had been expecting.

"You're welcome." Lowering her voice, Rory said, "I am actually happy you came. There's not really anyone for me to talk to here that's under the age of thirty-five."

"Yeah, except for Mike Campbell over there."

"What?"

Rory turned and saw Logan flanked by one of the Holtshoucher Club escorts.

"Why is he here?" Rory stage whispered to Paris. "I didn't invite him."

"There's free booze," Paris deadpanned. "You don't need another reason."

"Can I talk to you for a second?" Logan approached. Rory set down her tumbler of lemonade and rum on a crystal coaster. "About what?"

"Please, Ace. Just ten minutes of your time. I promise."

"I'm hosting an event," Rory gestured towards the groups of prominent Hartford residents strutting on the putting green or exchanging gossip in the nearby cabañas. "I can't just leave. Besides," she lowered her voice, "this isn't the place to talk about anything private. You know that."

Logan grabbed her wrist in a claiming way, tugging but not harming. "We'll go in the other room. C'mon." He wrapped his hand around hers to make it look like they had their fingers cupped, a member of the staff opened the glass door to the clubhouse for them. He walked down the hall, past a couple of private offices and a parlor, into a mostly unused meeting room. Rory closed the door behind her and crossed her arms as if she were cold.

"Why haven't you returned my calls?" Logan asked, hands in his kaki pockets. "I've been trying to get up with you to apologize for the other night for days."

"I've been busy."

"Do you know how I found you? Your assistant. At least she had the common courtesy to tell me where you were going to be today."

"I'm only hosting this event for another half-hour. I'm supposed to meet up with a friend at two."

"Are you meeting Jess? Don't lie." Coolly, he threw her own words back at her. Rory was momentarily frozen by the chill.

"Yes," she answered, a polite, almost lazy smile on her face. Her dress was the brightest thing in the room. "He won't be in town for much longer and I wanted to say goodbye."

"I don't like it when you're around him."

She patted her dewy hairline with a Kleenex; for once, she hoped that the lines of her lingerie would show through the thin fabric of her dress. "I'm not doing anything wrong by seeing an old friend. I've missed being able to talk to someone besides professors about books and art. Not all of us consider proof labeling great literature."

A bead of sweat dripped down his neck. Rory watched as the collar of his Ralph Lauren rugby shirt slowly absorbed the moisture.

An invisible line settled between them. Logan shifted under its weight. "We'll talk about this later."

Her back was straight despite the heat and the overbearing pressure of humidity. "It was nice seeing you, Logan," she said, her peach colored mouth an artful gash across her cheeks.

He breezed past her, sending the air in the room flying, awakening the residual elements that she'd stored since high school. Bye bye, sweetheart. We'll chat later. Outside, the wind chimes roared and the sun struck through the glass window, warming the hollow of her throat. Rory shivered and looked at the grandfather clock that had just begun to chime: two notes, vibrant and unmistakable like the pair of golden eyes watching her from the doorway.