A/N: Those lucky, lucky Palladinos own everything, boo hoo!

Yesterday

"Who called you yesterday?" said Rory, only half listening to Paris. She had been melting down more and more often recently, not dealing well with the paper, and it was driving Rory crazy.

"Tristan." Paris replied. "Tristan DuGrey. Did you know he goes here?" Her voice began to rise, and she shook her head. "He goes here—and he never called me. Not once. Not a 'Hey Paris, how you doing? Let's talk over old times.' Not a 'We were best friends for our entire childhoods, so I thought I'd tell you I survived military school'. Nothing! That—that—ingrate!" The word seemed to set Paris off, and she began to stomp around the room, waving her arms and pretending to look for something.

"Ingrate seems a little strong, Paris."

"We were best friends. I mean, ok, he broke my butterfly jar," Rory smiled, thinking of Tristan's version of the story, "and we never could seem to get it together once we hit middle school and his charisma kicked in, but there was a time when we spent every day together. And he couldn't even be bothered to call, text, IM! Where is that book! Dammit!"

"Paris? Did you ever contact him?" Rory prodded, remembering that Tristan had said Paris hadn't written.

"Well. No. It was his job, he's the one who got sent away! The one who abandoned us in mid-project! He owed me!" Paris ranted, moving around the room faster and faster. "Forget the stupid book! Who cares. Who cares about any of it."

"Paris!" Rory grabbed her shoulders, holding her still. "You care! And you have every right to. He was a big part of your life for years, and you deserve to know he's alive. But think about this from his perspective. He got yanked out of school and sent away to his own personal idea of hell, and he never heard from anyone. Not the girl he liked, not his former best friend, not anyone. Why would he write to you if you never wrote to him?"

"I—" Paris looked shocked. "I never thought of it like that. I guess—I thought he would know why I didn't write."

"Maybe," Rory said slowly, backing away from Paris, "he thought you didn't write because you didn't want to hear from him. Because you hated him. Because you didn't even care enough to hate him."

Paris nodded slowly, thinking. She smiled. "Yes. Maybe he did. Maybe I should have—wait. Why are you taking his side?" Paris began to get angry, her voice growing louder and louder. She advanced on Rory. "You hated Tristan. Or you said you did. Were you lying all along? How do you know that no one wrote to him! You've been secretly in touch with him, haven't you? That's why he wanted to know about you and Logan, the only reason he called is because you went sniffing around him and he needed to make sure you were available. You always wanted him, I knew it!" Rory was shocked to hear that Tristan had asked about her and Logan, but she had more urgent things to deal with.

"Paris! Focus!" Rory grabbed her shoulders again, only narrowly controlling the urge to shake her by them. "You love Doyle. You are happy with Doyle! You don't even know Tristan anymore, and you probably wouldn't like him much if you did." This might or might not be true, what with the whole 'new Tristan' thing, but she wasn't going to waffle. Paris seemed to be calming down a little, so Rory took the chance to hammer her point home. "I never dated Tristan in high school—but more importantly, high school is over! You and I have been friends for more than four years now, and in that time I have never betrayed you. You need to accept that."

Paris looked shocked. She tilted her head to the side, considering. This was a revelation to her. High school was over. She was at college. She might not be at Harvard as she had always planned, but Yale was a pretty amazing place, and she was here. She had a boyfriend who loved her, a best friend who had known her for years, and she was feared and respected across a large swath of the campus. Tristan had been such a big part of her life, both real and fantasy, for so long that it was almost painful to realize that she didn't actually need him. Didn't even want him. He was actually—irrelevant to her. "'Surplus to requirements', as they say." She muttered, barely realizing it was out loud.

"Yes. He is. Are you recovered? Do I need to get the Krav Maga Padding out?" Rory watched her warily.

"No." Paris replied weakly. "No!" she repeated louder. "I'm ok. I'm sorry. I just—he was—well. It's Tristan." She smiled apologetically.

"I know, Paris. I know." Rory nodded, because she did understand Paris' feelings about Tristan. She took a deep breath—better to get it over with quickly. "That's why I wasn't sure how to tell you this. Tristan's my TA. For Arabic. That's probably why he called, because he knew I would tell you he's here." She smiled hopefully at Paris, unsure of her reaction.

A quick intake of breath was Paris' only initial reaction, coupled with a controlled stillness. "Paris?" Rory asked after a few seconds. "Paris, are you ok? Are you going to kill me now? Should I start running? Because I have to tell you, I was just as shocked as you are when I realized it." Paris blinked.

"When did you realize it?" she asked coldly.

"Friday! The first day of class, obviously. I just walked in and sat down, and he was writing on the board, and then he turned around and poof! There he was! And he laughed at me for saying 'pie', and we talked a little but I was late for the staff meeting and then I went home for the weekend. I spent all weekend thinking of how to tell you. Obviously, that was unnecessary."

"'Pie'?" Paris questioned.

"Well. In the exercise. I was supposed to say I was happy or something, and I couldn't remember the word, and apparently I said I was a pie…" Rory trailed off. "Are we ok about this?"

There was a pause, and then Paris smiled. "I guess so." She shook her head. "In fact, yes! Tristan didn't call me and I feel good about it. I feel free. I feel ready to take on the world. Heck, I feel like I should set you two up, so you can be as happy as Doyle and I. I feel—"

"Whoa, Paris." Rory interjected. "You should set who where now? Tristan and I are just friends. No set-upping needed. In fact, set-ups should be the farthest thing from your mind. What a crazy idea, me and Tristan as a couple. He just wanted to say hi to you." Rory might or might not have some ideas along those lines herself, she hadn't made up her mind, but she certainly had no intention of letting Paris get involved. She would probably arrange for a long series of couples rock-climbing or martial arts lessons!

"Oh, Rory," Paris smiled condescendingly, "Tristan didn't call here after two and a half years to suddenly make up with me. He could barely pretend he was interested in how I'm doing for fifteen minutes before he asked about you. You're the only reason he contacted me. I can accept that. I have Doyle, I don't need Tristan anymore."

"Um, ok." Rory looked dubiously at Paris. "I'm glad you feel that way, but—wait, he asked about me? He asked about Logan? What specifically did you talk about?" Rory was a little disturbed. Why would Tristan call Paris to ask about her? He could just ask her himself. Unless he wanted to know something she wouldn't have told him, in which case… "Paris?"

"I…I don't know if I should tell you." Paris looked uncertain.

"Paris!" Rory said, exasperated. "He asked you about me! I think I deserve to know what he wanted to know! How bad could it be, anyway?"

"O—K." Paris said hesitantly. "Just don't get mad at me. He said hi, that he'd heard I was here, and how was I doing. So I told him. And then he said he'd heard I was living with you, and he asked how that happened. So I told him. And then, he asked how you were doing. So I—told him." She looked at Rory almost nervously.

"Not hearing a lot to be upset about here Paris, what else did you 'tell him'?" Rory demanded.

"Well, I might have mentioned that … that you had been dating Logan. And that you'd stolen a yacht. And that you'd dropped out. And that Logan's family didn't think you were good enough, and that his father tried to break you up. And…" She looked apologetic. "I told him too much, didn't I? I just couldn't stop—him suddenly calling out of the blue, I wanted to tell him everything that happened while we weren't talking. I—I guess I'm sorry."

"Oh, Paris!" Rory groaned. "Oh man! Oh crap! Now what is he going to think?"

"Why do you care what he thinks?" Paris asked knowingly. "You're just friends, right?"

"Yeah! Yeah." Rory answered evasively. Now was probably not the time to tell Paris she was meeting Tristan for dinner. "But he's going to be grading me, and I don't want him thinking I'm a crazy person. Or a thief! And—he's going to think I dated Logan because the two of them were so similar! Oh, crap." She flopped onto the couch.

"Huh." Said Paris, obviously thinking. "I never noticed before, but—did you date Logan because he's so similar to Tristan?"

"No!" Rory replied indignantly. "Of course not! I didn't even think about them being similar until…well, until Logan and I broke up, actually. You know how it is, when a relationship ends you think about all the qualities that mattered in all the men in your life who could have been important. Of course Tristan wasn't," She looked nervously at Paris before continuing, "but I did realize how similar they were."

Paris smiled at her. "Yes. They are. Maybe you should think about that. I have to meet Doyle." She grabbed her coat and walked toward the door as Rory stared at her, troubled.

"Paris—" she started.

"It's OK Rory. You're right. I let Tristan go out of my life, I can't be angry that he stayed out. And I can't be upset about his interests if I'm really happy with Doyle, which I am. But if I were you, I would wonder why he called to ask about me." She closed the door, leaving Rory confused and upset.

Paris had a point. Tristan had no reason to call, so why had he? They were meeting for dinner today, he could ask her anything he really needed to know. There was the possibility that once he realized she was going to see Paris, he decided to call her to say hi, but—that seemed a little unlikely, even for the new Tristan. He obviously felt a little bitter over her refusal to write, why would he try to protect her feelings at this point? He must have called about her. What could he want to know that much? She would have to find out tonight. Her expression grew firm. Tristan had better have a good explanation for this.