Disclaimer: The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me; they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either. I will use some other quotes and descriptions from it in this story.

Author's Note: This chapter was tough for me to write because I struggled with the idea of a T/R meeting. If any parts seem choppy or not in character, I apologize.

Shout outs: To Katie for she inspiring and encouraging me to continue with this fic. And my lovely Jamie who yelled at me. And, Christine, who almost died this past week. Okay, not really, but I'm glad you're still around. And, of course, Ashley, the Wilmington- Know-It All. You all rock!

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Rory awoke unusually early. Anxious to get started, she opened the window and stepped forward into the light. The North Carolina sun glowed pink in the early morning haze, casting long golden prisms through the window. Rory whole-heartedly wished she could spend more time basking in the sun, but there was something to be done.  Leaving the window open, so the sunlight would keep streaming in and warming the room, she headed to the bathroom.

                Humming to herself, she started a shower. When the warm water beads massaged her neck, working out the crooks, she thought about how easy the trip had been. A few days ago, she was with Paris searching for Michael, and persuading herself to do this. Once she arrived home, she asked Elise to pick up her mail, and Jamie to feed Cleo. Jamie had just moved into the apartment complex a little less than two weeks ago, and immediately fell in love with Cleo. She, too, had two cats of her own so Rory trusted her, and knew for sure Cleo would be well taken care of.

                The next morning Rory had headed off to the library to do some research on scuba diving. It seemed reasonable enough. Her years as a journalist taught her to always be prepared, and never take anything for granted. She needed some back ground information on her subject, who in this case was Michael and his love for scuba diving. That day, she left the library with a familiar grasp on scuba diving, feeling that a conversation could be sparked with the new knowledge she held.

                The plan she had in mind was simple. Rory would drive to Island Driving and browse around the store, hoping to catch a glimpse of Michael. If he turned out to be an eighty year old man or an eighteen year old kid, she would turn around and go back to Boston. But if her intuition was right, she would try to say something to Michael, which is where the library research came in. If they spoke about scuba-diving, she would learn more about him without revealing herself too much, at first.

                But what, she asked, would happen after that? She didn't want to tell Michael the reason for her sojourn—that would sound ridiculous. Hi. I read the letters you wrote to Christine, and knowing how much you loved her, I thought you'd be the guy or me. No, that was crazy, but the other option wasn't looking any better—Hi. I'm from the Boston Times and I found the letter to Christine. Could we do a story on you? Neither of those seemed right, nor did any other of the ideas that swirled in the mimesis of her mind.

But Rory Gilmore had not come this far to turn back know, despite the fact that she hadn't the slightest inkling of what to say. Besides, as Paris had reiterated multiple times, she had nothing to lose; if things didn't work out, she would go home.

Now came the moment of dread—choosing what she would wear. Because her mind had been wandering off and making the worst case scenarios of her future encounter with Michael, she had no time to care for her appearance. Remembering that she really hadn't been thinking when she packed, or rather thinking too much, she hoped she had something adequate to wear. Then a buried thought came to her: she never did pack her suitcase; Lorelai did. Great, she thought to herself as she rummaged through the bag.

A crimson dress—too elegant; seemed like Lorelai was hoping there would be a romantic candle-lit dinner. The perfect little black dress—a little to perfect, Rory thought. After digging a bit deeper, she found something suitable—an aqua colored top paired with a pair of some jeans. It was strange; she didn't remember any of these items being in her closet. A flash of pink caught her eye, and she carefully extracted the article of clothing, if it even qualified as one—lingerie! Good grief. It's not like she would be having hot-passionate-monkey-sex with Michael any time soon, after all, she wasn't a Lolita. Groaning, she made a mental note to lecture Lorelai about not buying her clothes or fiddling with her closet, and when she would be done bursting Lorelai's ear drums, she would quietly thank her for the outfit she chose to wear that day.

After applying lotion on her arms and legs, she dressed in the selected outfit. She wanted to look casual, and she did. She definitely did not want to be noticed right off the bat. After all, not knowing what to expect, she needed an opportunity to evaluate the situation at hand.

But what failed to slip into Rory Gilmore's mind was that she could just never blend in; she was born to stand out, at least, for one certain individual.

When she had convinced herself that it was time to leave, she found the phone book, thumbed through it, and hastily wrote down the address of Island Driving. Two deep breaths and a small pep talk later, she had locked her door and was walking down the hall. Again she remembered Paris and repeated her motto.

*              *              *

Her first stop was at a local store, where she purchased a map of Wilmington. The sale-clerk, who was just too perky, it seemed they all were, had given her directions, and she found her way easily, despite the fact Wilmington was larger than she imagined.

Island Driving was located near the marina. Once she had made her way into town, she traffic became less congested. Turning right on the road she needed, she slowed down searching for the shop.

It was an old wood building, faded from the salty air and sea breezes. The hand-painted sign hung on two rusty metal chains, and the windows had the dusty look of a thousand rain storms.

Taking a last look in the mirror, making sure she hadn't developed any scarring marks on her face in the last hour, she stepped out, and felt sixteen again. It was weird. She paused before opening the door, feeling as if it were some threshold between great forces and dramatic music should be playing in the background. Finally, she took the step inside, doing her best to make it appear she was there for ordinary reasons.

She browsed through the store, walking amongst the aisles, stopping once in a while to pick up something, examining it and then replacing it on its rack. Her eyes darted from side to side, glancing furtively at every male, wondering, Are you Michael? Most, however, were customers.

She worked her way to the back, where a wall was devoted to Wilmington happenings. Laminated news paper cut outs, articles, and pictures were tacked up on the bulletin board. After a cursory glance, she was about to leave when a picture reeled her back in. She had found the answer to her first question about her mystery man.

She knew what Michael looked liked, from the side, at least.

It was a black and white picture, showing him helping a student strap on her oxygen tank. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw he was not old, probably in his late twenties. Light hair that reached right above his shoulders. Dear God, she silently prayed, please say that he's chopped off the mullet. Her disappointment was gone when her gaze traveled to his lithe form—he was lean and she could see his well defined muscles. Because the picture was grainy, and black and white, she couldn't make the shape of his face out. Oh well, two out of three isn't so bad. Now all she had to do was look for a blonde man.

She read the article carefully, noting important facts. She read about his boat the Happenstance and how he and Christine had restored it.

Christine.

 That was when she came to an abrupt stop, and looked at the article's date:  July 2, 2004. The article didn't mention that Christine had died, and since the previous three letters were written after she died, ranging from 2006 to 2007, which was the current year, Christine must have died somewhere between August 2004 to 2005.  

"Can I help you?"

Rory turned instinctively to the voice behind her. A young man was smiling pleasantly at her, and she was glad that she had seen a picture of Michael, even if it was a bad one. This person obviously wasn't he.

Rory shook her head. "No…I was just reading the articles."

He whistled softly. "She something, isn't she?"

Rory opened her mouth, about to make a biting remark that she didn't appreciate him hitting on her, especially when she was wearing her "blend in outfit", when she realized he could be talking about something else.  She narrowed her eyes. "Who?"

"The Happenstance." The man simply responded to her relief. "Michael—the guy who owns this shop rebuilt her. She's a great boat, now that she's done."

Rory wanted to request for the man to stop referring to the boat as "she," because it could give people the wrong ideas, but stopped herself, knowing he would probably be annoyed. She opted for the other option, asking the location of Michael. "Is he here?"

"Who?" It was his turn to be puzzled.

"Michael."

"No, he's at the docks. He won't be in till later this morning."

"Oh…"

"Can I help you find something? The shop is kind of cramped, but I assure you, we have everything in here relating with diving."

She declined politely. "No thanks. I was just browsing."

"Okay, but if I can help you find something, let me know."

"I will," she said, and the young man headed towards the counter. Then a thought cam to her, he could help her find something. Before she could stop, she heard herself ask: "You said Michael was at the docks?"

He turned around again, but kept walking backwards. "Yeah—a few blocks down the road. Do you know where the marina is?"

"I passed it on the way here."

"If you'd like, you can leave a message for him. But like I said, he should be here in an hour or so."

"No, it's not that important." She spent the next three minutes looking around the store some more, and debating whether she should go to the marina. Walking out the door, she waved goodbye to the young man.

Instead of heading towards the car, she started her walk to the marina.

*              *              *

                After reaching the marina, she looked around hoping to spot the Happenstance. Because the vast majority of other boats were white, and the Happenstance was natural wood, she found it easily, and climbed up the appropriate ramp.

                Even though Rory felt rather queasy, the articles she had read in the shop supplied her with a couple of ideas to talk about. Once she would meet him, she would simply say that after reading the fascinating articles on the Happenstance, she just had to come down and get a look at the boat. It would sound credible, and if all went well, she could parlay that into a longer conversation. She would then have an idea of what he was like. After that…well, that's all she had so far.

                The boat looked deserted. She didn't see anyone on board or on the docks. Instead of just going back to the hotel, she took a moment to admire the boat. It was stunning—rich and textured, unlike the boats surrounded it. Now she could see why the paper had done a story on it. She traced the frame of the wood, wondering how long it took to restore the boat.

                As she paced back and forth, studying the boat from different angles, a man stood on a ramp a few feet away from her, studying her.

                He watched as she bent down to pick up something she had dropped. "Can I help you with something?" he asked, smiling at her, but didn't approach her, not wanting her to feel trapped.

                Which was exactly how she felt when their eyes met. Blue on blue.

                For a moment all she could do was stare at him. She managed to break free from his eyes, only to be awed by his body, as her gaze traveled up it. That picture had not done him any justice. He was sweating in the morning heat, his shirt which was soaked in a couple of places, clung onto to him, defining his stomach. The torn sleeves of his shirt revealed the tight muscles in his arms and forearms. She silently thanked him for cutting that hideous mullet he had sported in that picture. He was broad shouldered and tall, about six feet, she estimated. He had a rugged look to him, making him appear as someone who spent most, if not all, of his time near the ocean. But there was a strange sense of familiarity that surrounded him, though; she couldn't place her finger on it.

                Remembering her plan, Rory motioned towards the Happenstance. "I was admiring your boat. It's lovely." She hoped that he wouldn't comment on the fact that she was admiring him, as well.

                 "Thank you," he replied politely.

                His steady gaze exposed the reality of the situation—finding the message, her growing curiosity, the research, and finally this face-to-face meeting. Overwhelmed, she steadied herself against the side of the boat, and caught herself fighting for control. She never expected this to happen so quickly. She found herself drowning in a moment of pure terror.

                He stepped forward. "You okay?"

                Willing herself to relax, she answered, "Yeah. I got a little dizzy there."

                "Sure?"

                She ran a hand through her hair, embarrassed. "I'm fine now. Really."

                "Good," he said and then paused to see if she was telling the truth. "How did you know this was my boat?"

                "I saw your picture in the article at the shop, and the boat's too. I wanted to find out more about it, so I came here. The guy in the store told me I'd find you here," she explained.

                "He said I was here?"

                She was silent as she remembered the exact words, "Yes, he said you'd be at the docks. I just assumed you'd be here."

                He nodded. "I was at the boat we use for diving." He stared at Rory, feeling some strange familiarity. He could never forget eyes like those.

                They made some more small talk, before Rory launched him into an interrogation. Querying about topics such as, the wood of the boat, the restoration process, the interior, and using the boat to spy on the Germans in World War Two.

                They came to a stand still. "Well, I've probably taken up enough of your time."

                "No problem," he said. "It's not every day that a beautiful woman appears on my boat. Besides, I love to talk about sailing—it's the only thing that makes sense in my life now." Damn. He cursed himself silently for letting too much slip out.

                A blush crept up Rory's cheek, as she chose to ignore his last comment. "Well, I would love to talk about sailing some more. It seems like fun."

                It came as a shock to him. "You've never been?"

                She laughed at the expression on his face. "You look like I just told you that I'm an assistant crack whore." He was silent. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not!" she assured.

                He chuckled. "No, I'm just surprised at the fact that someone so interested in sailing hasn't actually gone."

                She shrugged. "Well, I've always wanted to," she lied. "I've just never had the time."

                "Looks like I just found myself a sailing mate for tonight. That is, if you're interested in going."

                Why he said that, he wasn't exactly sure. Maybe he desired a female companion, if only for a short period. Or maybe it was the way her blue eyes lit up when she talked. Or maybe it had to do with the way he had caught her looking at him earlier. For whatever reason, he was glad that he asked, and was hoping she would accept.

                Rory, too, was a little taken back. In the end, however, she accepted. After all, it was the reason for her coming to Wilmington. "I'll just have to take you up on that. What time?"

                "How about seven? The sun begins to drop then, it's the ideal time to go out."

                He was a romantic, she noted. "Seven sounds great."

                "Then I'll see you here tonight," he told her.

                "On the boat."

                "Yes," he confirmed, "on the boat."

                "Okay then. I'll see you later."

                She turned around to leave, her hair blowing in the breeze, when he realized what he had forgotten. Just as he was about to call her, she turned back around, instinctively, and walked towards him again.

                They both opened their mouths at the same time and began speaking, only to realize that sounded all jumbled up.

                "You go first," Rory offered.

                "No, it's okay. You go first."

                She bit her cheek. "No, I told you to go first, first. Therefore, you are going first."

                Before he could stop, the words came out of his mouth: "This might sound a bit odd," he paced himself, "but throughout our whole conversation, I've had this nagging feeling that we've met before."

"Funny," her voice trailed off, "that's what I was going to say…"

"Are you in law?" he asked, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Journalism."

"Live in Wilmington?"

"Boston."

"Princeton?"

"Yale," she answered without missing a beat.

Their interrogation stopped briefly. He studied her face with great scrutiny, hoping to find any recollection of memory.

His eyes narrowed, like he had just triggered something in his mind. "Connecticut."

"Yes."

His voice quivered; the bitter word was spat out urgently. "Chilton."

Rory stood there paralyzed, her eyes glued to his face. It couldn't be, her mind yelled! His name rolled around in her head.

DuGrey.

Michael DuGrey.

 It taunted her for not figuring it out sooner.

DuGrey.

A flash of blue.

A Chilton blazer.

A profile leaning against the lockers.

A smirk.

"Oh my God," she finally managed to whisper hoarsely.

Time dissolved from his features, leaving him sixteen again.

"Tristan."

His throat went dry. "Rory."

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To be Continued…

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