Why would she go anywhere with Robert?
He knew that she had seen him on State Street with What's-her-name (Eliza? Monica? He couldn't quite remember), but that was quite different from seeing her here, clutching HIS arm like it was the perfect bag to match her ensemble. But her ensemble was completely a different complaint. He knew that the blazer was from her old Chilton uniform and the wig was from a Halloween Cher costume, but somehow, together they gave her a different flair -- the straight locks subtratcted some of the innocence her usual nimbus of soft curls lent. It was enough to make his eyes darken suspiciously. Suddenly, his train of thought was interrupted by Whitney, shrilly in his ear.
"Logan, Logan, what are you staring at?"
Oh God, what had he been thinking when he asked her to Finn's party? Whitney was one of those sorts -- the kind that needed to know his every thought, every moment of every day. She had never learned the beauty of silence, and at this rate, probably never would. He glanced at his watch, which read nearly 8:30. Great, only five more hours of Whitney before he could decently leave without offending.
Delibrately ignoring her question, he offered, "I'll get you a drink?"
"Sure," she simpered, 'accidentally' letting her hand drag across his thigh as she stood up. He shuddered, which she took as shiver, smiling coyly.
He walked to the bartender and got their drinks, tossing his back before even reaching the table.
Conviniently, she chosen a table that gave him a good view of Rory -- and Robert, damn him. The night passed slowly. Whitney chattered, he drank. She complained, he drank. She flirted with other boys, he drank. Finally, she tossed a crumpled napkin down onto the table.
"I'm going to the ladies' room, Logan," she announced huffily.
"All right," he said, knowing that the infamous "ladies' room" was code for 'You're boring me and I'm going to find someone else.' She sighed, exasperated that he refused to react, and turned abruptly on her heel, storming off.
He paid no attention, because across the room, Robert had stood up and pulled Rory onto the dancefloor. He nearly stood up as well, determined to cut in, when he remembered that Rory had brushed him off once already that night. He sobered, knowing that one ego crushing defeat was one too many for him during one party.
Instead, he sagged against the wall, with the music thundering in his ears. Or maybe that was just the blood rushing to his head.
You see her
You can't touch her
He continued to stare as Robert pulled her by the hands close to his body. He wrapped his arms around her and clearly rocked his hips against hers.
You hear her
You can't hold her
Those should be his hands at the small of her back, he knew, those should be his hips. He knew, better than Robert, and better than everyone else at Yale (or so he hoped), how smooth the skin was where her shoulder met her neck and how sensitive the area was around her belly button, but there was Robert, hands where his hands should not be.
You want her
You can't have her
He had kissed her more than once that night already, and saw how her eyes flitted up and down his body when he introduced her to Whitney The Mistake. Why, then, why did she insist on dancing so closely with Robert?
You want to
But she won't let you
Was this punishment? For Elizabeth-Monica-whatever-her-name was? He never realized that no-strings was so trying. After all, he was the Reigning Emperor, the Constant Victor, the King of No Strings. Why did it have to be this girl, this Rory? She needed someone stable and someone wonderful and someone who could give her everything she wanted. She was needy, more needy than he could provide for.
She's not so special
So look what you've done boy
As he pulled her even closer, he realized the full extent of his dislike-bording-on-hate of Robert. Whether she responded to his advances, he did not see. He would rather cloes his eyes and hide, than watch that boy sink to the floor with her in his arms.
Now you wish she'd never
Come back again
Instead, he bribed the bartender to give him an entire bottle of.. something.. and found himself a seat outside. He was angry at himself and at her.
Now I'm nailed above you
Gushing from my side
He was Logan Huntzberger, who neither got hung up on one girl, nor sulked at a party in honor for a friend. But here he was, accomplishing both. The bench he found was cool underneath his skin and the drink was burning down his throat. He could spend some time like this, because the alcohol had the same effect as her kisses.
It's with your sins
That you have killed me
He blamed it on her mouth, all this jealousy. That very first time, if she hadn't opened it to defend Marty, he would have never remembered her. Then, at Ascher's funeral (what a joke), she had something quippy to say. The more he let her open her mouth, the more he realized how quirky she was, how damnably perfect she was.
Thinking of your sins I die
Thinking how you'd let them touch you
And that night he had crawled through her window coincided with the first morning he fell asleep next to a girl and did not want to get up. He would have prefered watching her chest rise and fall but instead, he rose and made her a pot of coffee, leaving a note on the counter top as to his whereabouts.
How you'd never realize
That I'm ripped and hang forsaken
Soon, the bottle was finished, and he was dizzy, then sleepy, then asleep.
Knowing never will I rise