One of Those Nights

Setting: Girls in Bikinis, Boys Doin' the Twist

Summary: The third shot gives her courage. (And she doesn't mind in the least bit when Jess' Doublemint twin takes her by the hand.) Rory calls Jess in Girls in Bikinis... Lit.

A/N: summer's here and apparently, so is my muse. I say, enjoy it while it lasts.


He looks like him.

The height, the hair, the build, god, even his voice…She closes her eyes for half a second and lets Poolside Guy think that she is flustered solely because of his demigod capabilities. She's here, in Florida of all places—12,000 miles from home— to avoid moments exactly like this one.

"You sound distracted; did something cute just walk by?"

"Uh, what? No." Just something familiar, something she's trying not to think about.

"Hey," she says. Brilliant greeting, but she's focusing more on conversation than the fact that two minutes ago when the glare of the sun settled over him, she thinks he looks someone she could have loved once. Or trying to, anyway.

She dazzles him with the inquiry about the giant Q-tips (not really; he probably thinks she's an idiot). Rory sighs, bites her lip as he walks away. She doesn't remember it - dating, flirting with a stranger - being this hard before.


The first shot is bitter, harsher than she anticipated, and it hits her like a slap in the face. As Madeleine and Louise cheer her on, she sputters and chokes before she remembers that she's supposed to suck on the lime.

The second shot goes smoothly down her throat and when Poolside Guy pulls up a stool at the bar, she no longer feels like a complete idiot. (And she can almost keep her balance.)

He's smirking, his lips curved in a way that is all too recognizable. Somewhere behind her, Paris hints that maybe she should slow down. (If she felt more like herself tonight, she might have listened to her.) In reality, Rory just ignores her.

The third shot gives her courage. (And she doesn't mind in the least bit when Jess' Doublemint twin takes her by the hand.)

Poolside Guy smells like liquor and some distinct cologne that she can't name but has probably sung along with its commercials. He's not a terrible kisser—just more handsy than she would have liked. Jess, she can't help remembering, always knew the right place to put his hands.

"Damn it," she mutters when she pulls away from Poolside Guy. Why is it so hard to forget about him?

He's trying to do some fancy trick with the button of her jeans but she tells him to stop, that her friends will be wondering about where she is. Truthfully, she just isn't feeling so brave anymore.


"So, Rory, whatever happened to that boyfriend of yours?"

"Who, Jess?" She hates to admit that the alcohol eases the sting of saying his name out loud. (But, God, it really, really does.)

"No, the tall one…what was his name?"

"Dean."

"Ah, Dean. Gorgeous."

"Is he still madly in love with you?"

"Oh, no. He's fine. Married, can you believe it? We're friends. Good friends."

"Yeah?" They're baffled and intrigued by the idea of a friendship but no benefits with an ex. But she doesn't want to talk about Dean, not really. He's never been the issue.

"Yeah. Dean is a great friend…I mean, if he says he's going to call, he actually calls, you know?" She takes a sip of her cup, winces, and barrels on. "Not like Jess. Nope. He's too cool for that. Too above it all. He doesn't need to keep promises because of course that would mean he actually cares about someone other than himself—"

"And we're done." Madeleine promptly takes the cup from her hands and Rory frowns, feeling slighted and confused by the tears prickling her eyes. She wraps her arms around herself, refuses to look into their knowing gazes of pity.


She curls up in the sand to stop the world from spinning, lying flat on her back with her face turned toward the sky.

She doesn't remember digging out her cell phone but it's in her hands, somehow, and her eyes settle in on an unfamiliar number, one that's called her about five times. She's sure that it's him and if it isn't, well, the message can always be erased.

Drunken courage pushes her forward.

"I don't know why I'm calling you. I just—I'm on Spring Break with Paris and I know; doesn't sound like me, right? Anyway, so I think I can finally understand the magical wonders of alcohol and I can now truly appreciate sobriety. I think I'm a little drunk, can you tell? Anyway I just, I miss you and I hate that you just left and I really, miss you…and I'm going to go throw up now."

And that's exactly what she does, narrowly avoiding Paris' flip flops as she vomits into the sand dunes.

She wakes up to the uncomfortable feeling of sand crunching between her toes and when an errant hand runs through her hair, she very nearly cuts her finger on a broken seashell. Her hair smells like seaweed.

Rory lifts her head from her arm, rubs her thumb across the smudged numbers decorating her skin. There's a name scrawled beneath it, but she must have had the sense before she passed out to smear it, make it purposefully unreadable. Poolside Guy is how she chooses to fondly think of him from now on.

Besides, the less she remembers about what a fool she made of herself last night, the better.


At home, she recuperates from her very first hangover.

She's finishing up her third bowl of macaroni and cheese (and second dose of Advil) when she notices she has a new voice-mail.

At first, there is nothing but static and silence, and she's ready to attribute it to a prank caller or the wrong number. But, just as she's about to hang up, she hears it.

"…I miss you, too."