Page 63 of Pity Play

“Maybe not, but my feelings were real. I wanted you to see me as a big girl, and I don’t appreciate you making fun of me now.”

“Oh Lorelai.” He reaches up and takes one of my hands. “I’m not making fun. It was really sweet.”

I put my spoon down. I’ve totally lost my appetite. “Well, this is a terrible ending to what has so far been a very nice evening.”

“Why is this a terrible ending?” he wants to know.

“You’re laughing at me,” I point out.

“I was in the eighth grade, Lorelai. It was funny.”

“While that may be, you are no longer in the eighth grade, and I find this to be a very embarrassing topic of conversation.”

“There has been no other girl, or woman for that matter, who has ever gone to the lengths you did to get my attention,” he tells me. “It was very sweet.”

“More like mortifying,” I tell him.

“I may not have been very nice at the time, but I can tell you that as an adult I’m honored to have once meant so much to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously. You may have been a late bloomer but look at you now. You’re gorgeous! To think you once thought so highly of me is a real boost to my ego.”

“Right.” I roll my eyes so hard I feel the strain. “At least you’re safe from me now,” I tell him.

“Because you’re no longer interested in me that way?”Why did he have to ask that?

I’m not going to come right out and tell him that’s the reason because it’s clearly not. I’m interested all right. “Because you’ve made it clear that you are never going to live in Elk Lake again so there’s no point in pursuing the idea of us as a couple.” My ice cream is going to turn to soup.

“What if I did live here?”

Why is he toying with me?“Are you?”

He shakes his head. “Probably not.”

“So, there you have it. Let’s move on, shall we?” I’m so agitated right now I could smack him with my spoon. Repeatedly.

“What do you want to talk about now?” he asks.

“I suppose I could tell you how I got a D in Geometry, unless of course you’d rather here about the time I broke my leg running from a cricket.”Why not air all my dirty laundry?

Luke stands up and reaches out to take my hand. “How about if we go to the juke box and pick out a couple more songs to dance to. You, know”—he winks—“to add authenticity to the prom story you’re going to tell your daughter someday.”

I really do want to dance with Luke, but I’m overflowing with embarrassment for being such an awkward weirdo of a little girl who pined for him so relentlessly. Why couldn’t I have been older? The fact that he remembers such humiliating things about me is beyond mortifying.

“I think I’ve danced enough,” I tell him. “I should probably get going. I’ve got a big day tomorrow buying appliances.”

“Lorelai.” He says my name so tenderly I feel emotion prickle behind my eyes.

I pick up my ice cream and carry it across the room to the garbage before coming back to collect my coat.

“I’m sorry,” Luke says. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

I don’t have any idea how to respond to that. I wish I could have played it cool, but there are simply too many versions of me taking up space in my current twenty-eight-year-old body. And every one has spent way too long being hopelessly in love with Luke Phillips.

I offer a pathetic attempt at a smile. “Looks like I did a pretty good job of embarrassing myself,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t matter now. You’ve got your life, and I’ve got mine, and it’s clear we’re going in opposite directions.”

Luke reaches out to take my hand, but I won’t let him. Instead, I say, “Thank you for a mostly nice night.” Then I turn and walk out of the ice cream parlor.

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