TROUVAILLE ... l.danes (REWRITE)

chapter forty-six; the present

MAYBE THIS SUMMER

two-thousand-and-three

NEXT SUMMER, she'll be more organized.

Really, she will. She'll force Luke to go on holiday with her, maybe a cruise, maybe somewhere in Europe. Somewhere far away, where it's just them, lying side by side in the sun, or trailing through historical ruins, or shopping – scratch that, Luke hates shopping. Next summer, she'll do something.

This summer, however, has been quiet. Sublime. She opens the bookstore four and a half days – Friday she wakes up late and opens just after lunch – a week, sits behind the desk, enjoying the aircon. When Olive closes the bakery for the day, she comes over and they sit behind the counter like they used to, painting each other's nails, doing magazine quizzes, picking a random book and finding a funny passage to read out. Sometimes she does readings for the children of Stars Hollow to give their parents some free time, sitting on the bean bag chairs in the corner of the room, trying to do funny voices to keep them entertained, letting them take turns picking the books.

She sips decaf coffee and winces.

"Stop making that face."

She sticks her tongue out at Luke and takes another sip. Yet again, she winces. It just doesn't taste the same. She can tell. But, she needs the one semblance of sameness in the life she's gotten used to. It's taken a tumble. She needs to get back on track.

"I hate it."

"Drink tea."

"No."

Luke leans over the counter to wipe the crease between her brows, his thumb pushing softly against the wrinkle there. She can't stop herself from smiling and it annoys her. She's meant to be fake arguing with him, and he's out here making her smile instead. She rolls her eyes.

"Stop it."

"No. Drink your decaf."

He has to shuffle away to take a lunch order. She watches him as he goes, the plaid shirt sticking to his muscled arms. Where did he get them from? Uncle Bill was always skinny and lanky, to the point where she was always worried that he'd go right through his hand with a hammer. Luke doesn't work out. He just hauls massive boxes of supplies from the truck to the storage cupboard. Over and over. Is that what does it? All that hauling of supplies. Big boxes she could barely fit her arms around. Luke doesn't let her carry anything heavy anymore. When she gets deliveries for the bookstore, he insists on doing it himself and then, when he thinks she can't hear him, will mutter "this would be easier if Jess was here."

This summer, Luke has been a constant at her side.

When she's not in the bookstore, she's in the diner. Sitting at the counter. Drinking coffee – decaf now, ugh – and trying to get as many free donuts as she can possibly fit in her purse without him noticing. She usually shares them with Rory and Lorelai at night. When he's not in the diner, he's in the bookstore. Sitting behind the desk, massaging her shoulders, trying to find a book that might actually interest him but most don't. Instead, she usually reads and he listens, unable to tear his gaze away from the way her lips move as she talks.

She falls asleep beside him and wakes up in his arms. Without even realizing it, she has basically moved into his apartment. Most of her clothes hang out of his wardrobe, blocking him from reaching any of the multitude of plaid shirts he used to have on hand. Her shoes trip him up, and he grumbles as he does so, telling her she has to move them or he'll throw them out. She never does and he never has to hear to get rid of them. Their new situation, however, has allowed for the loveliest mornings. Shelley stretching, arms over her head, duvet falling away from soft skin and looks over to watch Luke cooking breakfast. They'll eat in bed, legs curled around each other, and then shower together, his fingers combing shampoo through her hair, her hands massaging soap into his sharp shoulders.