Other Girls of Gilmore Girls: The Lindsay Lister Story

Chapter 22

View Along: S4 E18 Tick Tick Boom

I was determined, and I tried again in the morning. Dean responded, holding me tight, but it was quiet, quick, and he apologized after. "For what?" I asked. "Everything," he replied, and he got up to get ready for work.

It was so close to being right, but yet it wasn't. I didn't get out of bed to make Dean breakfast. I could hear him start a pot of coffee, and when I heard the front door shut, I went out and poured myself a cup. I sat all morning and watched talk shows. My mom called, but I didn't answer. I would need to find something to do.

I went to the computer and instead of townhouses, I tried looking up college programs I might be interested in. All the websites had bold colors, smiling faces, and every academic program sounded stupid. I looked at people carrying stacks of textbooks or sitting in classrooms, and I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to write a blog post either. I looked at my last post, and after a series of people who loved the content, there was a string of comments wondering what was taking me so long to post again. Someone asked if everything was ok. They wanted to know what was going on. They wanted to see what I was cooking. They liked how I explained the steps like someone who was learning along the way.

||||     You're the best! I think I'm getting it! ||||

At least one of us was. I left the computer and went back to the couch.

My mom called again to ask about taking lunch up to the Dragonfly. I told her they weren't going to be around at the lunch hour because of how close the project was to being done. They were getting close, that part was true, but they would be there at lunch. I didn't feel like going up today. I wanted to be able to bounce in and smile. Feed with love. If I went to the Dragonfly today, I'd have to drag myself in. I'd be feeding them under a black cloud.

What feeds love? I tried to picture holidays at my grandma's house. The sprawling, open rooms leading people from one area to the next and back again. Cut glass bowls full of nuts and pickles and olives. But it was regular Sundays when she would make something like stew. One pot of everything you needed, served over homemade drop biscuits. That was real love. One pot, one bowl. I scribbled that on the corner of a magazine page, ripped it, and put it in my pocket. I was going to figure this out, but I was doing it alone. There were people out there who wanted my voice, my recipes, and me. I had to give it to them in one pot, in one bowl.

I grabbed my purse and headed to Doose's. I was going to get ingredients to make something in just one pot. Not stew, that was for winter, but I'd see what there was and follow it into the pot. As I walked to the store, I started to draft the sentences of the blog post in my head.

At the market, as soon as I walked in, I could hear Rory's voice. She was an aisle or two away from me; I was still by the back door. I knew it was her immediately, so my stomach dropped when I heard her say "Dean."

Dean. She was talking about my Dean.

My face flushed, and I stepped as close to the shelves as I could to try to hear over or through them. I stayed still so I would be silent. "He dropped out of college," I could make out. Rory's companion replied, "You're kidding!"

"Says he needs money. It's such a waste. Dean is so smart. He can do so much more."

Rory was an idiot who didn't know us, didn't know Dean, and didn't know what we were doing. Had she been by his side as he worked so hard to provide? Was she there when he juggled school and work and worrying about bills? She didn't know shit about how much Dean could do. He was doing so much. I wanted to round the corner and yell at her, but then I heard Rory say she is mad at me. Mad at me?

"She's so selfish," Rory hissed. Disgusted. I froze. Dean was my husband, and he was responsible for providing for us. He had never complained about that. Ever. I remembered the day he brought up "normal" 19-year-old things, but he couldn't even define what those were. And he never complained about working to support us. If anything, he fought to work more.

Through my rage, I was also a bit afraid. I didn't know why I was feeling fear. Through the wave of heat rising in me again, I heard Rory mention the townhouse. She said that he didn't even seem that excited about it. My ears turned red. Just then, Rory's voice got louder: "It's just Lindsay," she spat out with disgust. "Why doesn't she get a job? What does she do all day?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Rory rounded the corner and was face to face with me. I stared at her despite all the fear inside me. I had to stare to let her know she was nothing to me. Then I walked right out of the store. Everything smelled like rotting eggs.