Everything Old Is New Again

by Lula Bo

How do the same things happen every year in so many different ways? A year in the life of Lorelai, Luke, Rory, Emily, and Richard. Followup to Separation Anxiety.

7. February

AN: So, my badass beta is a sophisticated jetsetter this month, which means that she's not yet read the completed version of this and I'm flying without my regular safety net. I realize this isn't necessarily ASP's Marty, but we haven't been given much to go on, so consider him a hybrid ASP-Lula Bo creation. Also, I'm pretty sure I made up the major—it's a little too specific, but I sorta don't care. In all, I'm unsure about this one, so feedback would be (as always) greatly appreciated. Standard disclaimers apply.

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February

"I can't believe Lorelai took away your cell phone."

Rory looked up from her coffee cup and raised her eyebrows at Lane. "We're talking about Lorelai here."

"Oh, I can believe she'd do it," Lane said, "I just can't believe she actually did."

"You realize that makes no sense."

Lane topped off Rory's cup. "I was trying to be delicate," she said. "I meant I can't believe she had to take it away for the sake of your sanity."

Rory dropped her head to her hands. "I know!" she wailed. "I can't help it! It's been three days and I just keep waiting for him to call—Mom says that the theory of a watched pot applies to phones as well, so I'm not even allowed to know where it is for the rest of the day."

"He'll call you back," Lane said. "I've never seen you like this before."

She sighed. "I'm just so crazed right now. Mom is completely moony and Luke is all over the house taking measurements, and my grandmother is driving me insane with the party, and I'm waiting for my grades and the phone call from Marty…" She raked her hands through her hair. "The coffee probably isn't helping much, either—you have anything chocolate back there?"

Lane plated a brownie for her and began reassuringly to tease her about her GPA. Rory took the ribbing with a roll of her eyes when the bell over the door rang. She sat up and looked over her shoulder in curiosity; the lunch rush had petered out and the diner had been fairly quiet for the last half hour. She nearly choked on the brownie in her mouth when she saw them come in.

Dean looked the same, and Lindsay, leaning against him, was pale. Neither of them looked to the counter as they slid into chairs at the first available table. Rory quickly averted her eyes and looked back at Lane, who shrugged. Rory took a long swallow of coffee, suddenly cold and shaky.

"I am so hungover," Rory heard Lindsay whine.

"You put a lot of that stuff away last night," Dean laughed. "You were bombed."

"I know," she said. "But we never have people over. The next time Kyle buys for us, we should have everyone up."

Rory shook her head at Lane, her eyes closed. "Kill me," she mouthed.

Lane leaned over the counter. "He almost never comes in anymore, and he only does when Luke's not here" she whispered. She paused. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"I ran into him at Doose's the first week I was back from Yale," she replied, her voice low. "I was on my cell with Marty, so we didn't talk, but it was still weird. Like, weird-weird."

"So not just weird, then," Lane said.

Rory shoved the last of the brownie in her mouth and chugged her coffee. "I've taken enough abuse for today, thank you. And I have to get home and finish packing. And check the mail. And my messages. If I have any." She stood and shouldered her purse. "I'm beginning to think I need medication."

"Just now?" Lane asked.

To keep from having to walk directly past Dean and Lindsay, Rory walked to the opposite end of the counter and made her way across the back of the diner towards the window into Taylor's shop, where she pretended to peer in and consider the merchandise, and continued, staying close to the far wall until she reached the door. Lindsay sat with her back to Rory; Dean, his face buried in the menu, didn't look up.

It had been snowing on and off since that first snowstorm, flurries of light, fine snow that froze over between each new fall. Taylor was nearly run distracted trying to make sure every street, sidewalk, and driveway in town was sanded, salted, or deiced. Rory hugged herself as she followed the path home. Two days from now, she'd be back at Yale, where the walkways would be nowhere near this pristine. It was comforting, the feeling that leaving Stars Hollow for Yale wasn't leaving home for alien country, but leaving home for home elsewhere with its own set of quirks and traditions. Her class schedule was going to kill her, but it was going to be fun. And Marty had convinced her to take another class with Professor Flynn; he wouldn't be there with her, but…

Rory shook herself, repeating his name under her breath. Things with Marty were so far up in the air right now, she thought, she'd need a telescope to properly focus on them. She quickened her steps. Lorelai had taken her cell phone, but if Rory knew her mother, she was sure she'd find it in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator—it was the only place neither one of them ever really bothered to check.

The front door was locked. Rory frowned as she fumbled for her keys in her purse and unlocked the door. Luke was supposed to be there fixing the downstairs sink. Rory shrugged as she stepped inside; he must have come in the back way, though why, she couldn't imagine. She hung up her jacket and walked to the desk in the front hall, dropping her keys. She was about to pass through to the kitchen when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Rory turned, startled, as Lorelai sat up on the couch. Her hair was wild, the collar of her shirt askew. She looked at Rory with wide eyes and a broad, too-bright smile.

"Rory!" Lorelai cried. Her voice was unnaturally high. "Hey, babe! I thought you were at the diner!"

"I was," Rory replied. "I have some packing to do, so I came back. Why aren't you at work?"

Lorelai got to her feet quickly, smoothing her hair back. "I came home for lunch," she said, slightly breathless.

"Why would you come home for lunch?" Rory asked.

"Oh, you know," Lorelai replied. She shifted on her feet.

Rory stared at her a moment before realization dawned. She smiled smugly. "Luke's on the couch, too, isn't he? You're like teenagers, the both of you."

Lorelai lifted one shoulder in response and tugged at the hem of her shirt. "Things were really slow today at the inn," she whispered. She leaned down. "Say hi to Rory."

A hand appeared over the top of the couch. "Hi, Rory."

"Hi, Luke," she called. She lowered her chin. "He's got pants on, right?"

Lorelai rolled her eyes. "Please, honey. I've got pants on; he's got pants on."

"I'm still here!" he bellowed. "Could you please not say things like that to her? And could you please not ask questions like that? I have pants on, for Christ's sake! And a shirt! I'm not some sex-crazed jackass, you know, I can control myself. For crying out loud. The two of you are gonna drive me frickin' nuts one of these days," he growled, sitting up. He gave Lorelai a hard look, his hair mussed and his face flushed. She made loud kissing noises at him in reply.

"Sorry, Luke," Rory laughed. "I'm going to my room. As you were."

Luke pulled the flannel that hung over the end of the couch on over his tee shirt and ran his hands over his scalp. "Fat chance."

"Oh, would you stop?" Lorelai said, hitting his shoulder. "God. So she caught us making out, big deal. Get over it." He grunted. Lorelai smothered a smile, shaking her head, and sighed. "I should be getting back to work anyway." She retrieved Luke's hat from the coffee table and handed it to him. "Hey," she said. "Marty called."

Rory's jaw dropped. "He did?"

"I told him you'd be back this afternoon, so he said he'd call again."

"Did you talk to him?" Rory asked. "How did he sound? Was it weird? What did he say?"

Lorelai slipped her hand in Luke's and began to walk to the front door, pulling him behind her. "He said, 'hi, is Rory there?' and then when I said no, he said 'okay, could you tell her I'll call back, please?' It was a perfectly normal conversation," she said. "Although he did tell me his name three times."

Rory groaned and turned to her room. "I'm going to go suffocate myself, now," she said, waving at Lorelai and Luke over her shoulder.

"Have fun with that," Lorelai replied. "I'll be back early."

"I'll probably be dead by then," Rory called. "But it's nice to know."

She threw herself on her bed, spread-eagle on her stomach, her cheek pressed to the comforter. Though she'd been sleeping more than she did at school, she was still bone-tired—this was complicated by the fact that she was also listless and distracted during the day, incapable of focusing on anything. She'd been this way since New Year's, the day Luke and Lorelai got engaged the only respite she'd had from the jangling nervousness she was experiencing. It was better when Lorelai was around, when the clouds of free-floating anxiety Rory kept walking into dispersed; with Lorelai, Rory instead was able to live off the vicarious high she received from the happiness her mother seemed to radiate. It was difficult not to be happy simply by extension beside someone so unabashedly joyful—contentment seemed a fine perfume Lorelai left traces of wherever she was. But then there were moments like this, when worry pressed down with a weight that threatened to crush her.

She sat up with a sigh and looked around her room. There were things to do, she reminded herself. At the moment, moping was a far more attractive alternative to doing anything resembling productive activities. She reached above her head to the shelf where her journal rested.

Dear Mom,

So, I'm aware that it's ridiculous for me still to start this way when you're really only ever thirty seconds away by phone, but it makes more sense to me—I don't feel quite as silly, as if I'm talking to myself. This is just easier, somehow.

I know, too, that I'm being a drama queen in the worst way, but this thing with Marty, the way I messed up after I called you New Year's Eve—I can't stop thinking about it. I have not felt this stupid and confused and useless since the summer. And I know it's not so bad—nowhere near as awful as what I did with Dean.

And Dean? That's a whole other issue. Seeing him today—seeing him ever, really—was strange. I don't know if he saw me or if he's gotten that good at ignoring my very existence. I've heard he and Lindsay have been meeting regularly with the reverend at church but that doesn't mean he's told her, which still makes me uncomfortable. But what's odder than that is the way I feel when I see him now—rather, the way I don't feel when I see him. I always have this fleeting moment of panic and remorse, this automatic reaction, the way people with allergies sneeze whenever a cat walks into the room, even if the cat's not near them. But once that passes, there's not much else. When I see him now, I don't think of him as My Dean, not the way he is here and now in the present moment. I get a little "Steel Magnolias" nostalgic when I do think of My Dean of the Romantic Past, of my first boyfriend and first love, but that version of My Dean isn't a walking, breathing thing for me anymore.

I don't know whether to think that's sad or not.

Thinking about Dean is really the last thing I want or need to be doing right now, though. I can't rehash that whole experience on top of everything else, with my grades being late, with Marty. More specifically, with Marty and what we've been calling The Hideous Kissing Incident.

Mom, it wasn't hideous. It so wasn't hideous. Hideous is a very gross exaggeration. It was the absolute and total opposite of hideous. So much the opposite that I regret being drunk not only because it really cheapens the whole experience but also because I can't remember it the way I want to. There's no movie scene, all slow motion and soft lighting and dramatic music, to play in my head at night when I go to sleep—and stop looking at me like that, I know you do it, too—just this collage of sounds and touch and smells. Nothing solid, just incoherence. And I hate that.

It wasn't—at least, on Marty's end of the deal—a sloppy, fumbling, drunken thing. I don't think I've ever known him to be quite that unhesitant about anything. When I finally registered that he was kissing me and I was kissing him, he was already holding me up, holding me to him so, so tightly that I don't know whether or not I was even breathing, and he only kept pulling me closer. There aren't quite words for the way he—Mom, he kissed me like I belonged to him.

Rory dropped her pen. Her eyes tightly shut, she recalled the way his arm had been firmly around her waist, the way he cradled her head with his hand and tangled his fingers in her hair. He'd made her lightheaded, unsteady, heady. She'd had to take hold of him, to dig her nails into his shoulder and grasp the back of his shirt in her fist. She remembered how she had arched against him, lips parted and eyes closed. He obliterated the tuneless singing of "Auld Lang Syne" and the smell of beer and the close air of the dance floor. Alone in her room, Rory felt a rush of heat under her skin as she remembered the intensity with which he kissed her, pressing her so painfully close as he leaned into her, as he opened her mouth to him and made it his, the metallic taste of need on the back of her tongue. She opened her eyes and stared blankly at her journal.

And then… I don't know who pulled away first. He was looking at me when I opened my eyes—which, honestly, took me a while. I don't know that I've ever been quite that thoroughly overwhelmed. And I don't think the drinking is entirely to blame. That was a kiss, Mom. A full-body, oh-my-God, can't-think-and-don't-want-to, passionate-in-a-fiery-way (though I've never used the word passionate in a sentence in my life) kiss. You remember that scene in Pretty in Pink when Iona and Andie are talking about Blane and the way he kissed Andie, and she says "I felt it everywhere"? That. It was that kind of kiss.

But after, I just… I did everything badly. He looked at me and I just forgot how to breathe because as much as I wanted him to kiss me again, that was how much I needed to get away and think or not think and pass out and pretend it hadn't happened because now everything would be wrong between us because I would screw it up, somehow, and he wouldn't be around anymore. And he saw that, I know he did, saw it all over my stupid drunk face, and it hurt him, I know it did, because he stuttered and he went away and we spent the rest of the night not touching or talking or looking at each other. We all went back to the band's apartment and I said goodnight; right before I went to hide in Lane's room, Marty told me he was going to catch the Stars Hollow bus to the train station in Hartford and go home the next morning, which I knew, but he wanted me to walk him to the bus. I told him I would, and I went to bed.

I have to confess something, here. I have to get this out, even if it's only in this journal and I never tell you to your face, because I hate myself a little for this part, Mom.

I purposely overslept so I wouldn't have to walk him to the bus stop.

I'm horrible. I'm small and weak and disgusting and I should be expelled from the universe for that. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't face him, not that soon. Somewhere in the back of my unconscious brain, I knew it was time for him to go and I kept right on sleeping until I knew he'd be gone. I couldn't talk to him. I would have ruined it, the whole thing, our friendship, the kiss, any possibility of good coming out of it. And I really, really wanted him to kiss me again. So I stayed asleep because that would have just been too complicated and I had a hangover and because I suck that much.

The thing is, Mom, that what I'm really afraid of, more than anything, is not what will happen to me but that I'll hurt him. The idea of hurting him just kills me. He's got this amazing, good heart, and he's a goofball and he rambles about the most inane things and he spills food in his lap and he collects Simpson paraphernalia and the world just awes him, everything fascinates him as though he never got done being six years old when the world was still this incredibly bizarre and beautiful thing for him to figure out—I'm not saying he's perfect, because there are a hundred ways he can bug me and he's a little socially inept sometimes, but he's just such a good person, Mom. How often do you meet really good people? That's just what he is. He's an amazingly, truly good person. And if I ever did anything to hurt him, that would be—that would be one of the worst things I can imagine. Considering the fact that I've already done one of the worst things I can imagine, that's saying a lot. So I don't know what to do.

I don't know.

And I really wish my grades would come already. And that Grandma would stop calling me to ask me about floral arrangements because it's not like she needs my help or listens to my advice anyway. She wants me to feel included, and it's nice, but I really don't need it to appreciate what she's doing. And also I wish that you would stop looking at me like I'm the cutest thing in the entire world whenever the subject of Marty comes up, like I'm a toddler learning to walk covered in daisies cooing and chasing a puppy. It really doesn't help.

I'm going to lose my mind. Or I've already lost it. I don't know. That's probably a symptom. If you gave me crazy genes, I'm going to take you down with me, you know.

Love,

Rory.

She snapped the book shut and secured it with the elastic band. With a baleful look around the room, she pushed herself off the bed and opened her wardrobe to begin packing. She turned on her stereo, cranking the volume to drown out the thoughts that were still needling at her. "Caroline's got crazy eyes that shine. Day's blowing through my mind like fallen leaves…"

The phone ringing made her jump. Rory picked up the phone from the desk and clutched the handset to her chest as she turned off her stereo.

"Hello?" Immediately, she cringed. She sounded all of twelve.

A pause followed, and she heard him take a breath. "Rory? Hey. It's Marty."

Rory spun on her heel and collapsed on the bed. "Hey," she said. "How are you?"

"Doing okay. You?"

"I'm fine—same as always," she said. Except that I want to die, that's new. "My mom got engaged."

She could almost hear the smile. "Oh, hey, that's awesome! When did that happen?"

"A few days ago," Rory said. That was the day that I called you and you didn't call me back and I've been living in agony since then feeling like a total clod and so I should probably be mad at you but since I'm the ass in this scenario I can't be, she added in thought. "I swear, she hasn't stopped smiling. And every woman in town has seen the ring at least three times. Luke says that the next person who pinches his cheek or tries to touch him at all is going to get backhanded across the room."

"That's unfortunate for your mom."

Rory laughed. "My mom's answer to that was that only naughty touching was allowed from hereon out, which of course made Luke uncomfortable and everyone laugh at him and he wouldn't make her coffee for the rest of the afternoon. Lucky for her she can pretty much do it for herself in her sleep, though."

"Good for them," Marty said. "They're happy."

"Happy is a bit of an understatement. There's so much sweetness around here I'm about to fall into a diabetic coma." She paused, smiling wistfully. "The day after she told my grandparents, she made me go to the diner with her, and it was—she was so proud, you know? The place was packed, and she sat at the center table, put her hand right up in the air, called for coffee, and kept waving her hand over her head until Kirk noticed the ring, and then everyone sorta went nuts. I thought Luke was going to have a coronary."

She heard him chuckle. "Your town is weird."

"It is," she told him, "but that's part of its charm."

"You should put that on a tee shirt."

"I'll make a motion at the next town meeting," she said. "But what about you? How've you been? We haven't—"

"I've been working for my dad," Marty said, cutting her off. "Picking up shifts, covering people away for the holiday. The tips are good."

"Good. So you're keeping busy?"

"Yeah. It's been wicked busy."

"Wicked," Rory echoed. "I'd like to see the bar, sometime."

"Sure," he said.

Rory stared at the ceiling. Silence during phone conversations wasn't unusual for them, but the extended, painful quiet they were currently experiencing was something new. She flipped over on her bed and kicked her feet angrily at the mattress. She closed her eyes tightly, willing him to speak, to break the silence and put her out of her misery, to say something about anything, even The Hideous Kissing Incident.

She spoke before she realized it.

"Marty?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner. I should have called you after you left Lane's that morning and made sure you got home okay."

Marty was silent a beat. "It's okay."

Rory bit her lip, waiting. After another moment of awkward silence, she decided he wasn't going to return the apology for the three days that lapsed since she'd called him. "No," she began, "it's—"

"Rory?"

She jerked her head up. Luke stood in the doorway, rubbing grease from his hands with a towel. She furrowed her brow at him.

"The mail truck just honked—I think your grades came."

She was on her feet in an instant. "God, I hope so," she breathed.

"What's going on?" Marty asked.

"Oh, there was this annoying, stupid mix-up with the Registrar—there was some mistaken hold put on my account, and the school wouldn't send my grades until it was lifted. Because of the holidays, it's taken forever. I couldn't even get them online," she said, making her way down the hall. "But hopefully they came today." She paused at the door and slid her feet into the first available pair of shoes—one of Lorelai's many pairs of black heels.

"I think you should steel yourself for the bad news," Marty deadpanned.

Rory huffed a sigh as she opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. "I know, I know," she said. "I'm not expecting any surprises, or anything, I just—"

The heels, she thought, as her feet shot out from under her, had not been the best idea. She unsuccessfully threw her arms out to brace herself, to catch hold of the railing seconds after her left foot slid forward; her right ankle twisted sharply as the sole skated over the ice and the heel caught the edge of a plank. She fell on her side. The phone flew from her hand as her temple connected to the porch step with a sickening thud. It wasn't until she landed on the front walk and rolled onto her back that she felt the stabbing pain in her elbow, and she knew that she had fallen on it in her tumble down the last two steps. She lay still a moment.

"Luke?" she called. She closed her eyes. If her head weren't already threatening to split down the center, she would have banged it against the snow in frustration. I really should have suffocated myself, she thought wearily. "Lu-uuuuuuuke?" Tentatively, she raised her head and tried to sit up. "Also not a good idea," she muttered. She took a deep breath. "LUKE!"

She relaxed a little when she heard him come to the porch. "Jesus!" he cried. "What the hell happened?"

"Well," she said, "I thought I would give meditating a try."

Luke knelt beside her. "You fell."

"I fell."

"Does your back hurt?" She shook her head as much as she dared. "Your neck?" Again, she indicated a negative. "Okay, I'm going to sit you up," he told her. "Easy, there. E-a-sy does it." He rested his hand solidly at the base of her neck and drew her up enough to slip his arm behind her back, helping her into a sitting position. He looked at her closely, studying her eyes. "You okay?"

She grunted. "I dropped the phone."

"What?"

"The phone. I dropped the phone."

Luke looked over his shoulder and saw the handset in the snow. He reached back with his free arm and picked it up. He put the phone to his ear. "Rory's gonna have to call you back." And with that, Luke hung up.

Rory's jaw slackened. "Luke!" she cried.

"Put your arms around my neck," he told her.

"I can't believe—"

Luke sighed. "Rory, I need to get you inside. You can yell at me in the house all you want. Put your arms around my neck so I can carry you in."

"I don't need to be carried," she said sullenly, looping her arms around him. He hooked his other arm beneath her knees and with a series of grunts, managed to get to his feet with her in his arms. Rory stared at him a few seconds, pouting, and let her head fall to his shoulder. "I can't believe you hung up on him. I've been waiting for him to call me for days!"

He fumbled with the front door. "He'll call again," he said.

Rory felt flushed, suddenly, as they entered the house and he walked towards the couch with her cradled against his chest. She wanted to howl with frustration and embarrassment. "You can't just take the phone from someone like that and hang up on the person she was talking to, especially with The Hideous Kissing Incident that happened that she needs to resolve with him!" she continued, her voice slightly hysterical. "I can't believe you did that. I just cannot believe you did that. You don't do things like that, I don't care if you are marrying my mother!"

Luke deposited her on the couch and bent over, putting his hands on his knees to get on eye level with Rory. She lightly touched the side of her head and grimaced. "Did you hit your head?" he asked.

"Not too bad," Rory said. She winced as Luke gently felt the spot above her ear that had received the brunt of the hit. She hissed as he lifted her hair away. She looked at him plaintively. "That hurt. And—"

"Rory. You hit your head," he told her. "You could have a concussion. He can wait. Did you black out at all?"

She sighed. "I don't think so."

"Are you dizzy?"

"Maybe a little," she conceded.

"Right," Luke said. "I'm taking you to the doctor." In response to Rory's protest, Luke laid his hand heavily on her shoulder. "If you have a concussion, you need to see a doctor. Why are you holding your arm like that?"

Rory didn't realize she'd been cradling her arm to her chest. She shook her head and immediately regretted doing so when a wave of dizziness smacked her in the face. "I bumped it," she said. "When I fell. Down the stairs. I fell down the stairs, Luke."

"I know you did, pal," he said. He rubbed her shoulder. "I'm going to get you some real shoes and take you to urgent care."

She let him carry her to the truck. She could feel the lump beginning to form on her temple; frowning only made the pain worse. As Luke pulled the truck out of the drive, she remembered.

"Can we stop and get the mail?"

The look he gave her was all the answer she needed, and she sat back with tears in her eyes. This day sucksshe thought.

Luke drove her to Hartford, and by the time they reached the hospital her head ached so much there were spots in her vision. She groaned with every jolt of the truck; Luke kept darting glances her way, muttering half-hearted platitudes and once patting her on the knee. Her elbow throbbed angrily as well. She protested very little when Luke made her wait for him to come to the other side of the truck, help her out, and walk her to the charge nurse. When they left two hours later, she leaned against Luke as she limped to the truck and pressed an ice bag to her forehead, her left arm hung up in a sling, and her right ankle bound in a swath of Ace bandage. They drove to the pharmacy for painkillers and then the Dragonfly, going in the kitchen door. Lorelai stood behind the counter with Sookie, drinking coffee. When she saw them come in, she paled and crossed the kitchen, her arms open.

"What happened?" she cried, closing Rory in a careful hug.

"It's my fault," Luke sighed.

Rory let Lorelai rock her and smooth her hair. "It's not his fault," she said. "I went out to check the mail and I slipped on some ice."

"There wouldn't have been ice on the porch if I had put enough salt down," Luke said.

Lorelai clucked her tongue. "Poor thing, you fell down the stairs?"

"I fell down the stairs," Rory said. "And it's not your fault, Luke. I was wearing the heels, it's totally my fault."

"Why were you wearing heels to check the mail?" Sookie asked.

"They were there," Rory replied.

"Are you okay? What's with the sling?" Lorelai asked. She led Rory to a stool and sat her down. Sookie placed a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies in front of her.

"She has a mild concussion," Luke supplied, "and she jarred her elbow pretty bad. Nothing to worry about; the sling is just for a few days."

"Oh, poor thing," Lorelai said, smoothing Rory's hair. "You sure don't know how to go halfway, do you, kid? When you fall down the stairs, you fall down the stairs."

In lieu of reply, Rory shrugged and shoved a cookie in her mouth, following it with a loud slurp of coffee. She knew when her mother heard the rest of the story, Rory would never hear the end of it, and she figured she could wait on that.

"Thanks for taking her in, Luke," Lorelai said. "But I wish you guys had called me. I should have been there."

Rory leaned into Lorelai the way she had when she was small and they'd been standing in line for something too long. "Luke took good care of me, Mom."

"I'm sure he did," Lorelai said softly. "You want him to take you back home so you can rest?"

"Please. My head is really mad at me right now."

"Heads don't tend to appreciate being slammed into porch stairs, no," Lorelai agreed. "I'll be home soon."

Rory and Luke were silent during the ride back to the house. Again, he helped her out of the truck and inside. She immediately went to her room and kicked off her shoes to climb onto the bed.

"Can I get you anything?"

Rory opened one eye. Luke leaned in her doorway, his hands in his pockets. "Tea?" she asked. "Only don't tell Mom."

"I won't," he said. "Hang on, okay?"

"And Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"The mail?"

Luke grinned. "Sure thing."

She was almost thankful for the headache, as it made thinking nearly impossible. She let herself drift between sleep and awake as Luke shuffled around the kitchen. She took slow, even breaths and waited for the ibuprofen to kick in. Luke came in and gingerly sat on the end of the bed as he handed her a cup of tea and dropped an envelope on her comforter. He held a mug of tea for himself in his other hand.

"Thanks, Luke. For the tea and the ride, before—I'm really sorry I yelled at you, too," she said. "The thing I said about Mom…"

"Already forgotten," Luke told her. "And you were right, too—that's not my place."

"Taking care of a Gilmore in the middle of a mini-meltdown despite her best efforts stop you? Since when is that not your place?"

He tipped his head, conceding. "You want to talk about it?"

She averted her eyes. "Talk about what?"

"The Hideous… you know… Incident."

Rory furrowed her brow and winced. "My head really hurts," she said.

Luke began to rise. "I'll let you rest, then."

"No, that's not—" Rory stopped. "I appreciate the offer, Luke—maybe later?"

He nodded. "Sure." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll be in the other room, if you need me."

"You're not going back to work? The dinner rush—"

"The doctor said you should have someone with you for the next few hours, and the crew at the diner has it pretty well covered. I'm good here."

Rory settled back on her pillows with her tea. "Thanks, Luke. Again."

"Anytime." He paused. "Rory?"

"Yeah?"

"It'll turn out all right."

She lowered her eyes. "How do you know?"

"I know."

"How do you know?"

He sighed. "He'd have to be an idiot to let that be the thing that messes it up. And so would you, quite frankly. I know for certain that you're not an idiot and I'm assuming since the kid goes to Yale, he's no Kirk, so… it'll turn out all right."

Rory smiled. "Thanks, Luke."

"Call me if you need anything."

She curled up in the proliferation of pillows her mother had made for the bed and stared at the ceiling. The tea had calmed her somewhat and with the ibuprofen was softening the sharp pain in her temple to a dull ache. The envelope stared her down a moment before she gave in and slit it open to read her grades. Closing her eyes, she sighed: not her best, but no surprises. She burrowed further among her pillows. She knew she should call Marty back and explain herself, but her limbs were heavy and her mind too cloudy for speech. She wondered if Luke had laced her tea with sleeping medication before she began to drift.

It was dark when she woke. Lorelai poked her head in, squinting against the dark.

"Rooory," she whispered.

"I'm awake," Rory said. "You can turn on the light. When did you get home?"

"Just," she replied. Lorelai flipped the light on and joined Rory on the bed, cuddled up beside her. She faced her daughter with a concerned smile. "So," she said, pushing a lock of hair off Rory's forehead, "tell me."

"Tell you…?"

"First, how are you feeling?"

"Okay," Rory said. "Stupid."

Lorelai's eyes were sympathetic. "Oh, babe," she sighed. "Accidents happen. Second, tell me what's going on with you and Marty."

"Nothing's going on with me and Marty."

"Rory."

"Mom."

She sighed. "I only ask because Luke mentioned you were on the phone with him when you fell and you seemed upset—"

Rory frowned. "He told you I seemed upset?"

"We-eell, he didn't say that in so many words—"

"How many words did he use, then?"

Lorelai rolled her eyes. "He said you were on the phone with Marty when you fell. That's it. Just that you fell when you were talking with Marty. From that, I inferred—"

"Stop inferring, then. I'm not upset."

"Rory—"

"I just—I can't let this be yet another item on the list of stupid mistakes Rory Gilmore's made with a boy." She took a breath. "And this is the first sort of boy thing, since Dean, and that's—it's important, for some reason."

Lorelai regarded her with a sad smile. "Well, it isn't sort of a boy thing—it's most definitely a boy thing. The fact that it's the first since Dean is a big deal simply because it is, because that itself was a big deal and you had to do a lot of work to get through that and figure it out. With the both of those together, sweets, it's understandable if you're upset or confused or scared. Starting over with someone new is always scary, and it's so much scarier when it's someone you really, really like. The fear factor—no cow testicle reference intended—"

"Mom, cows don't have testicles. They're girls."

"Fine, then no horse intestine reference intended—the fear factor just shoots through the roof when you get romantically involved with someone you've depended on as a friend—it's scary, babe, when you change that relationship; it's intimidating; it's overwhelming; but, Rory, hon, it's worth the anxiety, in the end." She leaned back against the pillows. "You know, if things had been different on the night of the test run, I think I probably would have done my best to avoid Luke, too, after he kissed me."

"You did," Rory said. "Remember? I had to talk you into the date twice."

Lorelai thought a moment. "I guess you're right. I didn't want to avoid him, but it was—it was scary. He was my best friend—present company excepted—and then he was kissing me, and it was just the most incredible… I mean, I felt that kiss everywhere, and who wants to avoid—"

"Mom," Rory groaned.

She held up her hands. "My point is that I know that it's easier not to deal with it. But you're just delaying the inevitable, babe. And wasting a whole lot of time, too." She pulled something from her pocket and handed it to Rory.

Rory snorted; the cell phone was cool in her hand. "You put it in the veggie drawer, didn't you?"

Lorelai shrugged. "He left a message on the house phone and said he'd try your cell instead, since he missed you here."

Rory dropped a kiss on her mother's cheek. "Thanks, Mom."

"Anything for you, sweets. Luke ran out to get some food, so dinner'll be a little while. Do you want anything?"

She wrinkled her nose. "My stomach's kinda oogy. In a bit."

Lorelai smoothed Rory's hair from her forehead once more. "Okay. I'll just be in the living room if you need me."

Rory waited until she heard the TV on in the other room before she flipped the cell open and dialed her voicemail box.

"You have six new messages," the automated voice told her. "First new message: Rory, it's me—I don't know what just happened or who that was but call me when you get this and let me know you're okay… It's Marty, by the way." She laughed.

"Second new message: Hey, it's Marty. Again. I know you might not have gotten the other message and I shouldn't leave you another one when you haven't called back because that's a little desperate, even for me, but I just wanted to make sure everything's all right. Which it probably is. Maybe you, like, fell off the bed. I fall off the bed all the time, so I know what that's like. Well, not all the time, I mean, just, I sometimes fall out of the bed, but it's usually when I'm asleep and I don't know I've done it until I wake up, except that one time freshman year when I—"

Rory closed her eyes as she listened, shaking her head. "Third new message: Got cut off and now I forget what I was saying anyway, which is probably a good thing. So. Call me. When you can. Okay. I'm gonna go, then. This is me, hanging up. Bye."

"Fourth new message: So, it's been awhile, and I'm starting to worry that you really did fall off the bed, or whatever, and that you fell off the bed because you were making evasive maneuvers to avoid an intruder, probably the guy who hung up, and that he had no choice but to put you in the back of his car because you saw him, and now you're all tied up in the trunk with him like Jennifer Lopez in that movie, and if that's the case, don't, you know, fall in love with the guy—I'm sure he's no George Clooney. If you haven't been kidnapped, call back."

She felt flushed, now, as the fifth message began to play. "So, I know, right, I'm insane and you now have legal grounds to keep me at least fifty feet from you at all times. But I wanted to say this, about the thing on New Year's Eve, because I feel like it has to get said—I'm not sorry, and it was amazing, and I'd like for it to happen again, if that's okay with you, and I understand if it's not or maybe it is but it's not okay yet and you want to wait, that's—that's bearable, too, and preferable to the more negative alternatives. And I know this is a conversation we should probably have in a situation where you can actually respond, but—" She sat up.

"But what?" she demanded. "But what?"

"Sixth new message: The thing is, Rory, is that we haven't talked in a few days, and that's been weird. And also uncomfortable. And that's sorta nice, that not talking to you is a bad thing, but I don't want us to be not talking because… because of the thing. Which I mentioned before. And I won't again. Unless you bring it up, which is technically you mentioning it, so it's still fair game. I really don't have any idea what I'm talking about anymore or what it is I was going to say except that I'm really worried you hit your head and now have amnesia and you'll end up an accountant in New York like Kermit the Frog in Muppets Take Manhattan, and boy is that a reference I wish I could take back." She heard him sigh. "Call me when you get your memory back, okay?"

Rory raised her hand and touched her fingers to the sore spot at her temple, exploring the bump. She chewed on her lower lip a moment before she hit the number five on her speed dial.

"Hello?"

"Hey," she smiled. "It's me."

Marty sighed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," she said. "Want to hear the precautionary tale as to why high heels are bad news?"

"You're okay?"

"I'm a little banged up," she admitted, "but I'll live." She paused. "I got your messages."

She heard him swallow. "Yeah?"

Rory took a breath. "I'm—the thing? I'm going to bring it up."

"You are?"

"Just—just so you know."

He was silent a moment. "Are you bringing it up now?"

"Sort of. A little."

"You're bringing it up a little?"

"Is it okay if I don't want to talk about it over the phone?"

"It's okay," he said slowly. "We'll talk about it not over the phone."

She laughed, sighing. "Good. And Marty?"

"Yeah?"

"I really am sorry."

"I know. Thanks." He cleared his throat slightly. "So. I'm not really into high heels, or anything, but I do love a good precautionary tale."

"Really? That's too bad, because I can get my hands on a pair of pink suede heels that would look so adorable on you," she teased.

Neither Luke nor her mother would let Rory drive herself back to school that weekend, and so she ended up, Sunday afternoon, in the passenger seat of her own car, Lorelai behind the wheel with Luke following behind them on the way to Yale. Both women were quiet, lost in thought. Rory stared out the window and watched the highway spin past as she scripted out the conversation she would have to have with Marty. She hadn't got much further than "hey," when Lorelai broke the silence.

"You're going to be my maid of honor, right?" she asked.

Rory smiled at her fondly. "Of course," she replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just wanted to ask," Lorelai said. "Say it out loud."

"Have you decided when it's going to be?"

She rolled her eyes. "Not yet. I don't even want to think about it until after this ridiculous party."

"It's not going to be ridiculous," Rory assured her.

"Luke is already in hives over it."

Rory giggled. "Grandpa wants to take him to the barber."

"Do me a favor. Don't tell him that."

"Soul of discretion, Mom," Rory said. "You're looking at her."

"Really? She bears startling resemblance to my pal Rory."

"What should I say to him?" she asked abruptly. "To Marty?"

Lorelai was quiet a moment before a grin slowly spread across her face. "Don't say anything," she said. "Just go in there and grab him and act like you're going to lay a big, fat one on him, and when he asks you what you're doing, say, 'Ending our friendship.'" She sighed. "It worked so well for Brendan Fraser with Moira Kelly."

"Mom, With Honors is the worst movie ever," Rory groaned. "Awful."

"Oh, come on! Walt Whitman? The homeless? Death? Joe Pesci? What's not to love?" Lorelai asked. "And, sorry, babe, but worst movie ever goes to—"

"Ah, how could I forget?" Rory laughed.

"From Justin to Kelly," they said in unison.

"Spring break will never be the same again," Rory said.

"Text messaging and love and group choreography," Lorelai sighed. "That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it!" She maneuvered the car into a parking space and cut the engine. She turned in her seat, regarding Rory a long moment. "Sweets, you just have to tell him what you want."

Rory nodded. "I know."

"Want to practice on me? I'll be Marty, you be Rory, tell me what you want."

"Because that's worked so well in the past."

Lorelai tossed Rory her keys. "Oh, try me." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling through her nose and pushing her hands away from her, palms out. She opened her eyes and assumed a slouched posture. "Hey, Rory," she said, her voice husky. "How's the head? Still perfect?"

"Mom," Rory whined.

Lorelai mimed looking around. "Whoa, is your mom here?"

"Mom!"

"I'm trying to help!"

She toyed with her keys. "I know, and I appreciate that, but I just—I guess I won't know what I'm going to say until I see him, that's all." She stopped. "And that smile on your face, by the way, is mildly infuriating. Luke's waiting and I keep getting these cryptic 'Men are beasts' emails from Paris, so I should probably check in with her to make sure she hasn't, you know, shaved her head and become a Buddhist monk."

The hallways of the dorm were crowded and noisy as Rory led Luke and Lorelai towards her door. She tucked her arm close to her chest as she walked, darting her eyes back and forth as she noticed who had come back and who had yet to arrive. Paris's door was still closed and her whiteboard blank. With a sigh, Rory unlocked her door. She stepped aside for her mother and Luke behind Lorelai, bearing the majority of Rory's luggage.

Lorelai wrinkled her nose. "Kid, your room has a distinctly unpleasant stench."

"I believe the use of the word stench implies the unpleasantness, Mom," Rory said. "It's not that bad."

"Woo, Gilmore," someone called from the hall, "you storing bodies in there?"

Luke pointed at the window. "I'll just open that."

Rory sat heavily at her desk and put her head in her hand. "I hate my life."

"Rory! You left a pizza under your bed!" Lorelai cried. "No wonder it smells like rancid cheese in here! There is rancid cheese in here!"

"Take it out from under the bed," Luke said.

"I'm not touching it," she replied.

Rory looked at them balefully. "I'll toss it, don't worry about it."

"I got it," Luke sighed. "Should probably take it to the dumpster out back, though, otherwise you'll stink up the hall. You need any help with your luggage, Rory?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm good. Thanks, Luke."

He tugged a lock of Lorelai's hair. "We should go."

"You go," she said. "I'll meet you at the truck in a few minutes. I need a minute here with the Smelly Cheese Girl."

"The nickname thing does get old, Mom."

"No such thing," Lorelai scoffed.

Rory rose and gave Luke an awkward, one armed hug. "See you Friday, Pops."

"See you Friday," he replied, ruffling her hair. "Have a good week."

Lorelai plopped on Rory's bed and tucked her feet up under her. "I just wanted to talk to you about a few things," she said. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, fluttering her hands nervously. "This first one is most likely none of my business—"

"Not the greatest opening line," Rory said.

"—so you should feel free to tell me so and not answer at all, and I'm honestly not sure it's even that important, but I'm absolutely positive that you've been thinking about it because that's what you do, so I thought—"

"Mom."

She sighed and leaned forward, her hands braced on her knees. "Does Marty know about Dean?"

Rory lowered her eyes. "He—he knows about the fact of Dean. Sort of."

"I'm going to need some elaboration on that one, babe."

"So, last semester, we were in that class together, remember? One week we had to do this roundtable discussion of a paper this girl wrote about losing her virginity, and it was awful. Marty and I were talking about it, and he said something about how his first time story was so clichéd it wasn't worth writing about—"

"In a car, huh?"

Rory rolled her eyes. "I don't even want to know," she said. "Anyway, he asked me about mine, and the whole thing sorta came out—the whole Dean-Jess-Dean-Jess-Dean debacle." She paused. "Most of it, anyway. I left out the married part." Off her mother's look, Rory took a breath. "I told him that when Dean and I were… together, he was involved with someone else and it was really bad and it messed me up—I thought the married part would have been overkill."

"How did he take it?"

She shrugged. "He—he was sympathetic." She ran her fingertips along the back of the chair. "In context, he said he understood." She looked levelly at Lorelai. "We didn't get too far into it. He knows it's something that will never, ever, ever happen again. I left it at that."

Lorelai nodded. "I think that's probably a good idea. I just—I know how you worry at things, so I was worried for you."

"Well, that, at the very least, is all good. So, that was the first thing—what's the second?"

Her mother paused and averted her eyes a moment. "The engagement party."

"Yeees?"

"How are you going to handle it if Jess is there?"

Rory felt her breath stop in her chest. "Mom," she began.

"Luke hasn't—he mentioned it, inviting Jess, and then he backpedaled and said it probably wouldn't be a good idea with my family—meaning Richard and Emily, I assume—and everyone from Stars Hollow, Jess not being their favorite person and vice versa, and he tried to make it seem like it wouldn't be a big deal, but…" She trailed off. "I hate to push this on you, sweets, but I think it would mean a lot to Luke if Jess were there. And Lord knows I'm not Jess's biggest fan, but he's Luke's family and it's Luke's party, too, whether or not he wants it. I just wanted to know how you feel about that." She bit her lip, waiting for Rory to answer.

Rory rose and sat beside her mother on the bed. "The last time I saw Jess, I ended up sitting in a packing box, crying. I'm not—I wouldn't go out of my way to see him again, or anything, but I think I could handle it if I had to. And he should be there, you're right. There are going to be so many people there that I won't even have to talk to him. And for Luke? With everything he's done for us, for me, I can deal with this for him. And at least he'll have someone there as miserable as he is to glower with."

Lorelai smoothed Rory's hair off her face. "You're such a good kid. How did you get to be such a good kid?"

"I have a good mom," she said.

Lorelai put her arms around Rory and gave her a hug as tightly as she dared, the arm in the sling between them. She pulled back at a knock on the door, which opened before Rory could give an invitation to come in.

"I swear, I'm going to become a lesbian," Paris announced. "Hey, Lorelai."

"Hi, Paris." Lorelai rose. "I should go. The man's waiting." She shouldered her purse. "Paris, the second weekend in February, my parents are throwing an engagement party for me and Luke, and we'd love you to come."

Paris smiled tightly. "Thanks, Lorelai. I'll be there. Nice ring, by the way. You do know how diamonds are—"

"Call me later, hon," Lorelai said, stooping to kiss Rory's cheek. "Paris, hope the lesbian thing works out for you."

Paris threw herself on the bed. "I hate to be the dark cloud, here," she said, as Lorelai left, "but the chances of it working out for anyone are so slim in this day and age that I really can only wish them luck without actually believing that luck will do them any good."

"I take it things aren't going so well with Professor Fleming," Rory said.

Paris growled. "Don't say that name in my presence again. Do you know what he did?" she demanded, sitting up. "He took me to New York for New Year's Eve, took me to dinner and this very exclusive literati party and the Four Seasons and then dumped me as soon as we get back to New Haven the next day."

"Oh, Paris, I'm so sorry," Rory breathed. "Really."

"I may never trust a man again," she intoned. "Worms. Beasts. Monsters. If I didn't have so much to do in the next twenty years, I'd consider joining a convent."

"You're Jewish."

Paris stared at her a moment. "Don't mock my pain. I can take you out."

Rory choked on a laugh. "Oh, I know."

"Why does your room reek?"

"Let's just go sit in your room and you can continue to berate the entire male species there, okay?"

Paris led the way across the hall and went on at a clip for over an hour about the relative evils of romantic relationships before she realized Rory's arm was in a sling and saw the bluish bruise on her temple. She stopped, mid-pace and mid-rant.

"What the hell happened to you?" she demanded.

Rory turned her head. She was flat on her back on Paris's bed, staring at the ceiling, her arms resting on her stomach. "I fell down the front steps at home." She raised herself up on one elbow. "Hey, are you hungry? You wanna go grab some dinner?"

"No thanks. I have an ethics paper due for the first class on Thursday that I haven't started yet—I'm going to order something and do my research instead. Get Marty to go with you. He'll probably choke on his tongue in excitement."

"Paris."

She pointed at Rory. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"I'll talk to you later," Rory said flatly. "I'm going to leave my door open for a while and keep airing my room out—keep an eye on it for me, will you?"

Rory trudged down the hall towards the stairwell, her chin tucked to her chest. She was worn out already, tired. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head, trying to lift her mood. She found herself at Marty's door and knocked.

"Come in—but be forewarned, I'm half naked!"

Rory giggled. "Which half?"

He was in the process of pulling on a long sleeved tee shirt as Rory swung the door open and poked her head in. Marty grinned at her as he tugged the shirt down over his middle, striding across the room.

"Hey," he said, giving her a cautious hug.

She closed her eyes as she put her good arm around him. "So this is how you get all the girls, huh?" she asked. "Walking around half-naked like an Abercrombie greeter?"

"Well, I like to go with what works," he replied. He stepped back and studied her. "Nice bruise, there, Rocky."

Rory flushed and looked down. "Please. I wish it were a battle scar. At least then it wouldn't be so embarrassing."

The touch of his fingertips, gently and tentatively easing the hair from her forehead made her jump. She raised her eyes and watched Marty as he pushed the lock of hair behind her ear and just touched his thumb to the still swollen spot of black and blue just above her eye. Rory bit her lip, trying not to wince. He brushed his knuckles across her cheek as lowered his arm and slipped his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her fingertips were on fire, her insides tingling.

"Tell you what, you can say you were protecting me from a mugger," he said.

She thought her laugh sounded shaky. "Deal."

Marty dropped his hand and offered her a seat. She clambered up on the bed and arranged herself against his pillows, looking around. He'd rearranged the furniture, hung up the Three Stooges poster she'd given him for Christmas, put down a rug. She nodded in approval, pushing her cheek against his pillows.

"You have the softest sheets of anyone I know," she told him. "And that includes my grandparents. I love it."

"Don't let that get around. I've got a manly image to protect," he said. "So, what's up?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to get some food with me."

"Way ahead of you," he said. "I ordered in a little while ago. It should be here any minute."

Rory sat up. "That was very prescient of you."

He shrugged. "Usually, I figure if I know you're coming, I better be prepared with victuals." He paused. "And today I thought if I prepared myself with victuals your freaky sixth sense of food delivery would direct you here."

"I do not have a freaky food delivery sixth sense," she cried.

He rolled his eyes theatrically. "Rory. Please. You manage to show up every time I order food. You're like Shoeless Joe Jackson." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "If you order, she will come."

"It's from growing up with Lorelai Gilmore, I'm sure. I have a talent and I don't even know it," she sighed, kicking her shoes off. "I'm not going to complain, though—don't look a gift food horse in the mouth, I always say."

"Always?"

She curled into herself, reclining on his bed as they waited for the food. It was easy, she thought, to slip back into the banter, and comfortable. She felt less weighed down, less weary as he talked about his little brother's ineptitude with a mop and the hilarious spectacle it caused in his father's bar. She closed her eyes when the phone rang and he ran out to grab the food. She wanted to pull the blanket folded at the food of the bed up over her and sleep, to stay where no one would ask anything of her.

"I got pizza, I got fried mozzarella sticks, I got buffalo wings and soda and garlic bread and—on the off chance that Luke has converted you over the break—a salad."

She pushed herself off the bed and went to help him as he kicked the door open, taking what she could and placing it on his desk. "Blasphemy," she said. "He is teaching me to cook, but it'll take years of deprogramming to get me salad-willing."

They sat on the floor with paper plates balanced on their knees. Rory handed Marty a soda. "Can you open this for me?" she asked. She laughed as he made a production out of it, pushing his shirtsleeves over his elbows, flexing his biceps, and taking a deep breath as he popped the tab for her. "Marty? Do you ever get—do you ever get sick of yourself?"

He stopped, a slice of pizza in his hand and his mouth full. He looked at her with wide eyes. "You trying to tell me something, Rory?"

"No, of course not. I just—lately I'm just so—I get to the point where I get so tired of myself. Like, could I just shut up already, you know? Do you ever feel like that?"

"I guess so," he said. "I think when you get in a funk, that's just what happens. It's like, if you could get out of your own way, you could stop being in a funk, but you can't and it just gets worse."

"Exactly," she exclaimed. "That is exactly it. And that's how it's been since—" She bit her lips together. "You know."

Marty cleared his throat. "Yeah."

The silence in the room was overwhelming for a moment. Rory tried to gauge his reaction, to see if she could read his thoughts on his face. She put her plate down and hitched herself across the floor towards him until their knees were touching.

"Marty? I—I was awful."

He looked at her evenly, his eyes serious and dark. "You sorta were."

"And I am sorry."

"You said that, yeah."

Rory placed her hand on his knee and tapped her fingers against the seam on his jeans a moment. She then reached for his hand and looked at him apologetically. "Am I terrible? Am I the most awful person in the world?"

He toyed with her hand in both of his. "You're not the most awful person in the world. It shouldn't have happened that way, any of it. I can—it'll happen again when it happens, I guess."

"And you're okay with that?" she asked.

He released her hand and sat back. "No. But I'll wait."

"Marty—"

"I don't especially want to keep talking about this," he said. His voice was flat.

"Okay."

They were quiet. Rory stole a glance at him as he polished off the pizza, his eyes fixed on the floor. He was pale. Her stomach clenched and she felt the hot swell of anger in her throat; if she could have, she would have punched herself on his behalf. There were ways to fix this, she knew. But, she thought; but. The way out she chose was, she knew, the cowardly one.

"Hey," she said, "will you come to my mom's and Luke's engagement party with me next month?"

"Yeah?"

"Be my date?"

"Yeah," he said. "I can do that."

When they'd finished eating, they stretched out on the bed, side by side, kicking at each other for room. Rory felt the weight of all that remained unsaid heavy on her chest. But as Marty handed her a pillow and began to speak, he affected lightness, and so she followed his lead and tried to forget, or at the very least ignore, what she knew they were both thinking of. He told her about his spring schedule, and she laughed.

"I can't believe you're taking drama," Rory said. "Really."

"It fills a requirement and it's easy," he said.

"You know how many famous actors start that way, just taking it for a requirement? It would be so cool if that's what happened to you," she said. "And I can tell everyone I knew you when."

"Yeah, I'll thank you when I win my Oscar," he grunted.

Later, when they were talking about the wedding, something occurred to Rory. She sat up and looked down at Marty. "Oh, my God. After my mom and Luke get married, that will mean that I have dated my cousin." Marty began to laugh. "Before the fact, but still." She stared blankly before her as the bed shook with the force of Marty's guffaws. "I will have dated my cousin. I have to—I'm going to have to pull out three of my teeth and buy a trailer and put a car on blocks in my yard and start drinking moonshine."

Marty put his hand out and rubbed her back. "I'm going to buy you a housedress," he told her.

"Not funny."

He began to laugh again. "But it really is."

She fell asleep against his shoulder watching a movie. She woke in the wee sma's, needing to use the bathroom, and looked around her in confusion. It took her a moment to remember her surroundings and get her bearings. When she had, she slid off the bed, located her shoes, and pulled the covers over Marty, who slept on his back, hugging himself. She smiled and leaned over him. He shifted and rolled onto his side, and Rory couldn't help but put her hand out, comb back the thatch of unruly curls that fell across his forehead. She stooped and dropped a kiss on his cheek before she let herself out. Her own room was damp and clammy with cold when she stepped inside; she struggled to get the windows closed before she shivered out of her clothes, into her pajamas, and under the covers.

Classes began the following day; Rory's schedule was worst later in the week, on Wednesday. By the time she stepped into the classroom for her writing class with Professor Flynn that day, she had already had her first beginning Italian class and a poli sci lecture, missed lunch, and called her mother twice. She dropped into a chair towards the middle of the seminar table with a sigh. Flynn came into the room, her arms full of paper, her hair wild with pens stuck through the messy knot she wore on the crown of her head. She dropped everything she carried on the table and put her hands on her hips, surveying the students before her.

"I hope you're livelier than you look," she said at length.

Rory rolled her eyes and picked up her pen, ready to begin. The class went by too quickly as she scribbled notes and covered her syllabus with addendums and corrections. When Flynn dismissed them, Rory felt spent from the writing she'd done. She gathered her things and rose to go.

"Miss Gilmore."

Rory stopped short and turned. "Hi."

Flynn peered at her over her glasses. "Nice to see you again, too, Miss Gilmore." She began to gather up her papers again. "I wondered: what's your major, here?"

"Political science with a minor in English," Rory replied.

"And why is that?"

Rory furrowed her brow. "Yale doesn't have a journalism major," she said.

The professor's expression was bemused. "Right," she said. "And you want to be a journalist."

"That's been the plan," Rory said. "Why do you ask?"

She began to round the table for the door. "I'm teaching a seminar for seniors in the fall," she said. "It's only open to English majors with a concentration in creative nonfiction. If the enrollment is good, I might be able to teach it again. If the enrollment isn't good, then it's out."

"Well, I hope the enrollment's good," Rory said uncertainly, following Flynn out.

The older woman stopped abruptly and turned on her heel to face Rory. "I'm telling you this now, Miss Gilmore, so that you have an appropriate amount of time to declare yourself an English major with a concentration in creative nonfiction and get special permission from the department head to take the senior seminar."

Rory felt herself blush. "I'm sorry—"

Flynn rolled her eyes and sighed. "Miss Gilmore, you have talent. You could, potentially, have a great deal of talent. But you need work. You need to learn to take criticism, you need to learn the finer points of editing, and you need to learn a great many other things I don't have time to list. I think you would be an asset to this seminar and it would do you some good—a lot of good—to take this." She pushed her glasses up on her nose with the end of her pen. "Look, I'm not one to discourage you from heading in the direction of journalism—I was a history major as an undergraduate. Political science might be the way to go for you, and I'm not denying it wouldn't be helpful to have that under your belt if you wanted to work for Fox News—"

"God, no," Rory spat. "Geez."

"Rory," Flynn began again, "think about it. Creative nonfiction is a great concentration. You have time to declare. You could do a lot with it."

"I never thought about it before," she said.

"Think about it now." Flynn threw her scarf over her shoulder and made for the exit. "And Miss Gilmore," she called, "tell your friend Marty to get off his ass and into my office—his schedule is a mess."

Marty snorted when he heard this. "I rue the day I asked her to be my advisor," he said. "But she's right. I am in need of advising."

Rory looked over at him. He was folded into the armchair under her window, reading, as she stretched out on her bed and stared at her notes. "What do you think?"

"That a single European currency was probably a good idea, if only England could get on board," he replied. "About what?"

"The major switch," she said. "Creative nonfiction concentration in English."

His non-reaction, she thought, was telling—she could see him keeping his features carefully neutral. "I think whatever you do, you'll do great. I think you would love being a writing concentration major person thing."

"Do you like it? Being an English major?"

"Well, I am planning on being professionally useless," he said. "It seemed like a good way to go, the major. And yeah, I like it. I can never remember what to call it, but I like it. My life's goal: to be featured in the humor issue of The New Yorker. This is how I'm gonna get there."

"My grandfather will have a coronary," she sighed. "You think, really?"

"Rory," Marty said. "Do you want to do it?"

She sat up and ran her hands through her hair. "I don't know. I do know that I'm not as sure as I used to be about the whole Christiane Amanpour thing. There are a lot of ways to be a journalist."

"There are," he agreed.

"Huh."

The last week and a half of January felt rushed as Rory settled back into the grind of classes and study. The last Friday of the month, she collapsed on her bed after her writing class with a sigh. She reached for her cell phone and flipped it open.

"I'm dying."

"Well, I'll miss you, babe."

"Thanks, Mom. I don't really want to go to dinner tonight. Just the whole prospect of getting dressed—"

"Are you naked?"

"—getting dressed up," she amended, "and driving out there and back… I'm so tired," she sighed.

"I'm sorry, sweets. You want to come home with us afterwards?"

Rory wriggled into a more comfortable position on the bed as she thought about it. "No, thanks. I have a ton of work to do—I switched my schedule around a little, and I had to play catch up for a few classes. I can't afford to fall behind again."

"Well, tell you what—Luke and I will take one for the team and beg out for you," Lorelai said.

"Are you sure? This means that the only topic of discussion all night will be the party and the wedding."

She sighed dramatically. "For you, babe, what wouldn't I do? But you'll owe me." She yelped. "God! Luke, I'm on the phone, enough with the pinching!"

"I so don't want to know," Rory said. "Thanks, Mom. I just need to catch up on my rest a little."

"You do that, then. I'll call you after dinner, okay?"

"Talk to you then. Love you."

"Love you, too, babe."

"And love to Luke."

"You're just full of love tonight."

"That's what happens when I get tired," Rory said.

"Don't advertise that. Or if you do, just make sure to say your rates are excellent."

"Bye, Mom," she said pointedly.

The clock sat on the windowsill over her bed; she reached over her head and twisted simultaneously to check the time. Three-thirty, she saw. She set the alarm back on the sill and rolled off the bed. The hall was quiet as she stepped out and knocked on Paris's door.

"Go away!"

"Paris? You want to do something tonight?"

Rory stepped back in surprise as the door was wrenched violently open. "What part of 'go away' is so foreign to you?" Paris demanded, her face red and her eyes bloodshot.

"Are you okay?"

Her friend rubbed her eyes and sighed. "I'm fine, okay? I'm absolutely fine. And no, I don't want to do something later. I have a deadline and reading and nine hundred other things I should be doing besides standing here talking to you."

Rory crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. "Fine."

"Fine."

"I'll talk to you later, then."

"Whatever," Paris said, slamming the door.

Rory continued down the hall to the stairs. Since her breakup with the professor, Paris had been reclusive and even more sharp than usual. Rory knew Paris would come around eventually and things would go back to normal, or as normal as they could get with Paris. At the moment, however, Rory wasn't sure she was up for dealing with a more-hostile-than-usual Paris by herself. She hadn't slept well the night before; she was moody and pouty and she had a knot between her shoulders she couldn't quite reach to rub loose. She only wanted to slouch on Marty's bed and flip through a magazine while he played video games and relax for a while. She knocked on his door and waited.

Marty opened the door a crack and poked his head out, grinned when he saw Rory. "Hey!"

"Hey," she smiled. "I'm skipping out on Friday night dinner, and I thought I could maybe enlist your help in Operation De-Bitter Paris."

"Is that a viable operation?"

"She needs to get back to healthy Paris levels. Right now, she's at record high levels of bitterness. Ivana Trump bitterness."

"That's some powerful bitterness."

"So what do you think?"

He hesitated. "Will she threaten to castrate me again?"

Rory snorted in laughter. "Probably, but she's working out the pain, Marty. It's part of a process." She leaned closer. "Hey. Even if she doesn't want to come, you want to go do something? Catch a movie, or whatever?"

Marty nodded. "Yeah. I'm—right now isn't so good, but—"

"Okay," she said lightly. "I wanted to take a nap anyway. Come down around six?"

"Six it is," he said.

She was halfway down the stairs before she remembered the book she'd left in his room the day before. She turned, bounded her way back up the hall, and paused at the events bulletin board when she caught sight of an ad for a poetry reading; she rolled her eyes, seeing it dated four months ago.

The door was still slightly ajar and so Rory didn't bother knocking before she pushed it open and let herself in, calling out. Immediately, she stopped short, unable to breathe. She felt heat surge beneath her skin as she flushed to the tips of her fingers and her mouth dropped open. Not entirely sure what she was doing, she pointed and stuttered.

"What the hell?"

Rory didn't know the girl sitting on Marty's lap, her mouth so close to his Rory couldn't see space between them. She looked over at Rory, nonplussed, but didn't move to rise. Marty dropped his hands from where they rested at the girl's sides. The girl still gripped the collar of Marty's tee shirt in her hands as Rory's words hung on the air.

Everyone began to move at once: Rory retreated to the door, stepping backwards, as Marty grasped the girl's wrists in his hands and pushed her away from him and she struggled to rise. The tears came hot and fast, before Rory had time to think, and the words quickly followed.

"You said—you said you'd wait," she cried, her voice choked and unsteady and pleading. "You said you'd wait," she repeated. "And I trusted you, I believed you, I thought—I thought that I would be okay with you, that I could trust myself with you. This was going to be different. This wasn't going to be confusing, it wasn't going to be—it wasn't going to be hard." Her lip trembled and she brushed at her cheeks with the backs of her hands, hardly conscious of her movements as she spoke. "I trusted you," she said again, "and now look at you!"

Her eyes filled rapidly as she spoke, the tears spilling over unnoticed as she carried on. "You're all Colin Farrell with the girls all over you! I told you things and you met my grandparents and you read my papers and then! And then! You kissed me! You kissed me, you did, you kissed me and it was amazing and then you didn't call me for days! Days! I fell down the stairs and broke my elbow and my head and—and I just—I can't believe this!" Rory covered her face with her hands. "I can't believe this," she said softly. "You said you'd wait. And now—and now I'm confused. Again."

Marty rose. His companion recoiled as she looked Rory up and down, her expression at once horrified, offended, and dismissive. Marty's own face was red, his brows drawn together and his mouth set in a hard line.

"Who are you to yell at me?" he demanded. "I kissed you? I didn't call you? You're confused? Jesus Christ, Rory—don't talk to me about confusing! I've been waiting on you since September! I've been patient—I've been more than patient, I've been respectful! I've sat next to you on your bed and my bed, in the dark, and I've never—"

He paused, took a breath. "I know guys have messed with you before and I didn't want to be one of those guys, so I've waited for you to be ready, I've waited for you to let me know when it's okay, and I'm still waiting. Yeah, I kissed you—I got drunk, I didn't think about it, and I kissed you and yeah, it was amazing. But I knew the second it was over that you were going to freak out about it, and guess what? You did. So I waited for you to call me, and you made me wait a hell of a long time and that's why I didn't call you back, I wanted to make you wait for once. But then you went and fell and I couldn't stay away… But you still wouldn't talk to me—"

"You were the one who said you didn't want to talk about it!" she cried.

"Oh, and you pushed so hard for that conversation," he retorted.

"Hey," she said angrily, "don't—"

"No, you don't, Rory! Don't put this on me—this has always, always been your call. You've been in control of this since minute one, and I've just been playing catch up. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? How fucking confusing you are?"

Rory bit her lip, hard, and hugged herself. She turned her head. The door was still open and she could hear people whispering, giggling in the hall. The girl who had been in his lap stepped forward and brushed past him.

"We'll finish later, Marty," she said. She looked at Rory. "We were working on a drama assignment. A scene. I'm not trying to get on your boyfriend."

The words were out before she knew she'd spoken.

"He's not my boyfriend."

Rory covered her mouth with her hand. She felt her eyes well up again as the girl left and closed the door behind her. Rory turned her back to Marty and tried to catch her breath. He was silent; she could feel his stare on her back, just at the place where her muscles were tied up in painful ropes of tension.

His voice was both harsh and weary as he spoke. "I don't know what you want from me, Rory. I don't. I've been doing my damnedest to figure it out, but I'm still lost. Every time—you're always keeping me at arm's length. I've stayed around because I keep hoping maybe you'll let me in. And yes, I know how sad and pathetic that sounds," he said, losing his intensity. She turned around to find him watching her fixedly. He shrugged. "I know it. But screw you, Rory, if you're going to come in here and accuse me of being confusing. I know what I want and you know what I want, but what I don't know is what you want. So what do you want, Rory?"

She drew a shaky breath. "My Don Quixote," she said. She didn't meet his eye.

Marty crossed to the desk and picked up a heavy volume. He extended his arm and held it out to her. He shook it. "Take it."

Rory reached out and took the book with one hand, immediately crossing her arms over it and clutching it to her chest. "I thought—"

"I know what you thought," Marty said.

"Marty…"

"What?" he asked. The gentle, pleading tone made Rory's throat tighten.

"I have to go," she said.

Rory yanked the door open and jogged down the stairs to her room, slamming her own door shut behind her with such force she knocked the whiteboard off her wall. She threw herself on the bed and indulged in stormy tears until she had cried herself into a stupor. When she could think to form words, she called out for a truckload of Chinese food, changed into her most comfortable pair of pajamas, and returned to her bed. When her mother called her after dinner in Hartford, Rory didn't answer her cell. Instead, she pulled from her bookshelf the boxed set of My So-Called Life DVDs that Luke had given her for Christmas and began to watch.

On the following Thursday afternoon, Paris stood in the center of Rory's room and declared herself finished with wallowing and unable to stand looking at Claire Danes another minute. She'd paused on her way out of Rory's room to give her friend a sympathetic look and a "get over it, will you?" Rory threw an egg roll at her.

She was restless now, as she tucked her feet up under her and dug her spoon viciously into the carton of Ben and Jerry's Half Baked she held. With a sigh, she took a final bite and crawled off the bed towards her mini fridge. The contents were rather dismal, even for her. Four cans of Diet Coke and one slice of three day old pizza, the Ben and Jerry's in the small freezer, and a lone apple on the bottom shelf. She kicked the door shut with a sigh.

She hugged herself as she ambled across the room to her window. Her stupidity this last week felt lodged in the back of her throat, as though it were medication she'd taken without enough water to wash it down. She was on her sixth day of self-imposed exile. She felt bloated and nauseous with shame and too much takeout. The weather, she thought, wasn't helping—it had been raining steadily since the confrontation with Marty. Not helping, she thought, but fitting.

Her cell phone was ringing somewhere, and she dragged herself towards the sound of the tone. She located it under her pillows and rolled her eyes at the caller ID, not bothering a greeting when she answered.

"How's my little Howard Hughes?"

"Mom."

"Emily Dickinson?"

"Mom!"

"Salinger?"

"Stop it."

Lorelai chuckled. "Sorry, babe. How have you been spending your solitary hours?" she asked with affected seriousness.

Rory flopped back to the pillows. "I'm considering petitioning the Dean's Office to let me home school myself until the end of the semester, when I can transfer to an overseas school and change my name."

"Well, as long as you're not planning on doing anything drastic."

"Oh, of course not," Rory said. She sighed. "I do realize I'm being a little… dramatic."

"I wouldn't say that, hon," Lorelai replied.

"You wouldn't?"

"I'd say you're being completely dramatic and also ridiculous," she said.

Rory sniffed. "So?"

"Babe, you've got to talk to him."

"I don't want to talk to him."

"Yes, you do. You're just afraid."

"So?" she said again.

Lorelai sighed. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, babe. So you embarrassed yourself a little—"

"A little? Did you not hear the story I told you? That's not a little embarrassing—it's like Ashlee Simpson with the lip synching on SNL. Worse than that—it's Ben Affleck's entire career since the whole J. Lo thing!" Rory cried. She put her hand to her forehead. "I'm never going to be able to look at him again, Mom."

"Rory, you can't hide forever. You're just—"

"Delaying the inevitable, I know." She twirled her hair around her finger. "I'll call you later, Mom. I need a shower."

"Talk to him, babe."

She tried to scrub herself clean of the embarrassment in the shower, stood under the hot water until she was pink and raw and aching. When she realized it wasn't helping, she turned off the tap and wrapped herself tightly in her towel, rushing back to her room without pausing to look in the mirror. She changed into a pair of fresh pjs before climbing back in bed and pulling the covers over her head. Neither tears nor sleep were forthcoming, and so she threw back the comforter and stared balefully around her. She cursed to herself as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Once more, Rory rose and went to the window. She leaned on the sill. Her forehead against the glass, she peered out against the gathering dark, shivering. As she stared at the velvety darkness of the courtyard, she sunk herself once more in mortification and self-pity. She wondered what time it was; it got dark so early, now, she thought. The thought occurred to her it was better that way: no one would see what an awful person she was in the dark. If Lorelai could hear you now, she thought, cringing.

"Maybe Paris is right," she said aloud. "Get over it already." Her voice sounded thin to her own ears and she sighed. She should keep feeling awful; she was awful. She banged her forehead on the glass as she had the same thought she'd had so many times throughout the week: she didn't deserve to feel better. "Drama queen," she muttered.

A knock at her door startled her, and she turned, smoothing the skin under her eyes with the tips of her fingers as she went to answer.

She lifted her chin in surprise. "Luke," she said. "Hey. And wow, did I not expect to see you on the other side of this door." She stepped aside to let him in. "What are you doing here?"

Luke passed into the room and held up two large takeout bags with the diner logo on the front. "Your mom's working late at the inn tonight," he said, "and she told me you've been eating take out for a week. The diner wasn't especially busy, so I thought I'd bring you some real food. It's all wrapped in a few layers of tin foil, so it's still hot. Mostly," he added.

Rory gave him a weak smile. "Oh, Luke, you didn't have to do that," she said, clearing a space on the desk. He put the bags down and she peered inside. "Luke, I'm never going to be able to eat all this. Is that a whole pie?"

He nodded. "Yep."

Rory turned to him, a questioning look on her face. "Are you going to stay and have dinner with me?"

"Nope," he said. He rocked forward on his heels and raised his eyebrows as he spoke. "That's for you and whoever you choose to share it with."

"She told you," Rory said sullenly.

"She told me."

She sighed and perched on the bed. "It's so humiliating. I overreacted so badly—they need to invent a new word for overreaction, that's how bad this was."

Luke sat beside her. "Well, you did learn from the best."

Rory snorted. "I won't tell Mom you said that."

"Good idea."

They were silent a moment.

"Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever get mad she made you wait so long?"

Luke rubbed his eyes. "You two are really hung up on that," he said. "I don't, no. Not now."

"Why did you wait?"

He looked at Rory, appraising her. "I guess because I would have rather had her in my life, didn't matter how, than stop waiting and not have her in it at all." He rose. "I should get going, close up the diner." He gestured towards the food. "There's a lot of good stuff there. Don't let it go to waste."

Impulsively, Rory wrapped her arms around Luke's middle and rested her head against his shoulder. "Thanks, Pops."

He held her tightly with one arm, cradled her head with one hand. "Anytime, Rory." His voice was choked and throaty. He patted her back. "It'll work out."

She gave him a final squeeze before she stepped back and daintily kissed his cheek. "If you're wrong, I'm coming after you."

"I consider myself warned."

"Luke?"

Luke stopped in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"What should I say?"

He was silent a moment. "That you're sorry," he said. "And after that, I guess whatever you need to."

"Thanks for the food. Love to Mom, okay? And drive safe, the roads are probably a mess," Rory said.

"See you at dinner tomorrow. Get some sleep tonight," he said and closed the door behind him.

Rory stared at the carrier bags on her desk, her eyes fixed blankly on the logo. She then moved quickly, not wanting to give herself enough time to think. She took one bag in each hand and opened her door, heading down the hall and up the stairs before it had closed behind her, before she had time to change her mind.

She took a breath and knocked.

"Yeah, hang on a sec!"

Rory bounced on her toes, keeping her eyes locked on a point above Marty's door. Her heart was already going at a painfully fast rate when the door swung open, and seeing Marty—and much of Marty's exposed midsection—caused her throat to tighten and her chest swell. He was again in the process of pulling on a tee shirt, his head stuck in the neck hole and a thatch of damp brown hair peeking from the top until he yanked the shirt down over his chest and emerged, red-faced and smiling ruefully. Rory felt her own cheeks flush with heat. She was ashamed to find her legs were slightly shaky. His expression fell when he saw his visitor. Rory lowered her eyes.

Marty waited, silent.

Rory raised the bags and swallowed hard. "Dinner?" she asked. "I don't know if you've eaten…"

"I haven't eaten," he said shortly.

She wet her lips. "My—Luke brought me a ton of food. You want?"

He regarded her a beat before he opened the door wider and turned back inside. "What did he bring?" he asked.

"Burgers, fries, onion rings, chicken fingers, pie, brownies," Rory listed as she began to lift containers from the bags and set them on the desk. She hoped he wouldn't see the slight tremor in her hands. "Pretty much the works. Ten to one he snuck a turkey burger in there, though." She looked up. "You don't have to eat it. I'm just saying that's probably what he did."

They filled their plates and went to sit together on the bed. The TV was on behind her, and Rory turned to see what was playing.

"The O.C.?" she asked. "But it's not on this week." She stopped. "Why do I know that?"

"It's not," Marty said, slightly sheepish. "I… I have it on tape."

He offered Rory a can of soda and opened one for himself. They ate in silence until the food on their plates was gone.

Marty cleared his throat. "So."

"So," Rory said. She raised her chin and looked Marty in the eye. "I am really, really sorry."

"Okay," he said slowly. "Go on."

"First of all," she began, "I was ridiculous, and I'm embarrassed for myself—I know I probably embarrassed you, too, and I'm sorry for that. And secondly…"

"Secondly?"

"Secondly, I had no right to say those things." Her gaze faltered under his intense stare, one she couldn't read. "It's not an excuse to say that I was tired and cranky, which I was, and it's not fair to blame that girl for draping herself all over you—" She stopped and bit her lip. "I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Everything you said was true and I needed to hear it."

"Agreed."

She looked at him again. "I've been really unfair to you. I'm just—I'm really sorry, Marty. Really. And again."

"Okay," he said again. "I mean, it's not okay, but I know you're sorry. I'm sorry, too—not for what I said, or anything, because I was right, but I'm sorry it happened at all."

Rory set her plate aside and drew her knees to her chest. For a moment, she played with the hems of her pajama pants. "I really hope I didn't ruin this."

He dragged a French fry through his ketchup. He raised his head, at length. "Nothing's ruined." He leaned forward. "Trust me, Rory. It ought to be easy—I'm really not that complicated."

Her smile was sad. "I trust you," she softly told him. "I have no idea why I reacted that way, I really don't."

"I do," Marty said smugly.

Rory raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"You were totally jealous," he said, grinning. "You thought the hottie was after my bod, and you were jealous."

"Hottie? You think that girl's a hottie?"

He waved a French fry at her. "And there you go again, with the jealousy. I can't help being a stud, Rory."

"I am not jealous," she replied and punctuated her remark by tossing a fry at him.

"You can deny it all you want," he said archly, "but your actions betray you."

"I'm not responding to this."

"You are," Marty shot back. "Saying you're not going to respond is a response."

Rory opened her mouth to speak and thought better of it. Instead, she scooted across the bed to fit herself against his side and wrap her arms around him. She slung her legs over his lap, rested her head on his shoulder, her forehead against his cheek, and closed her eyes. After a moment, Marty returned the embrace, gathering her in his arms and drawing her closer.

"That's better," he said. "I like my women silent."

Rory laughed, her eyes still closed. "You're in for a disappointment, getting involved with a Gilmore." She tightened her hold on him. "I hope you're prepared."

"Call me Boy Scout, then."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and grazed her lips against the edge of jaw. "Sure thing, Boy Scout," she whispered. She sat up, slipped her arms around his neck and looked him in the eye a long moment. "I don't—I don't know how to do this. I've never been very good at it, and it seems like I just keep getting worse. I tend to freak out, which is obvious by now, I know. I freak out, and then I mess up, and that makes it worse, and the cycle just keeps going, and—"

Marty shifted, awkwardly pulling Rory onto his lap. "Shit happens."

"Eloquent, Marty."

"My dad owns a bar. I therefore know with absolute certainty that shit happens." He shrugged. "I don't know anything else, Rory. I don't. It's not like I've done this a whole lot, either. So I'm—I'm right there with you. Scared and clueless and stupid—"

"Did you just call me stupid?" she demanded.

"You are," he said. "We both are. As far as I'm concerned, putting yourself out there for someone else knowing that that person could just rip your guts out is moronic."

He spoke so matter-of-factly, looked her straight in the eye as he did, that she knew this was an elemental truth of some sort for him, that he'd been handed his guts by someone he trusted before; as she brushed the hair off his forehead again, averting her eyes and biting her lip, she prayed it hadn't been her.

His hands were at the small of her back, and he tapped his fingers against her spine as he continued. The pressure of his palms, the faint touch of his fingertips, were so reassuring they made her eyes smart. Rory found herself suddenly aware of the lack of space between them—she shivered at the realization that she was sitting in his lap and a thin layer of cotton only separated his hands and her skin. She became suddenly conscious that her breathing was slightly labored, that there were pinpricks of fire in her joints. She struggled to concentrate on his words beyond the even and low tone of his voice.

"But if you don't put yourself out there," he was saying, "and give that person at least the opportunity to rip your guts out, you're going to be miserable anyway, so you might as well give it a try as not under the theory that if the other person doesn't rip your guts out, you could be happy or you could make someone else happy in spite of the danger inherent to the whole situation—" He stopped. "I just think not doing something because it might go badly is a stupid reason not to do it. And not doing it is just as likely to make you miserable as anything else. Which is basically what I just said, I know, but I'm repeating myself because you're looking at me with that 'I'm totally confused and about to laugh my ass off' expression on your face so as much as I think I'm making sense I'm obviously not."

Rory smiled, lifting her right hand and running her fingertips up from Marty's collar to the edge of his jaw, down to his chin. She laid her palm flat against his cheek as she leaned forward and rested her forehead to his. "I get it. The Lloyd Dobler theory of romance."

She heard his breath hitch. "Come again?" he said.

"'I want to get hurt,'" she said. "Lloyd Dobler, Say Anything…, that first scene in Corey's room—"

He blinked; she felt his eyelashes brush her cheeks and her breathing came all the more shortly. "Yeah," he said. "That." Shifting her once more in his lap, he took a deep breath. "I'm just saying I'm—"

"Willing to risk it?"

"Yeah."

Rory lifted her head and looked him in the eye. "Good. So am I."

The words were enough, somehow: she believed it when she said it, knew he believed it, too. As her eyes fluttered shut and Marty closed his mouth over hers, Rory held her breath. She felt her abdomen tighten as he kissed her, and she knew that unlike the first, heated kiss that was only a hazy impression of sensations, this time, this kiss would remain clear in her memory. The solid warmth of his chest as he held her crushingly close; his hands so sure as he tugged at the hem of her tee shirt and laid his palm flat against the small of her back; his mouth both soft and firm at once, insistent and hot against hers; the thrum of his pulse in his throat beneath her palm; the muted sounds of people passing in the hall and the television still on just behind them; his particular taste and scent—this was the way it should have been, she thought, the way it should stay, the recollection imprinted, written into her skin. She slid her hands up once more, cupping his face between them. He tipped his head to the side, pushing against her, kissing her even more deeply.

She broke from him, eyes wide and startled, when she heard his head hit the wall. Marty grunted and opened his own eyes. He stared a moment before he seemed aware again, before he could think to move and pull her back to him.

"Marty," she protested, mumbling against him. "Your head."

In one swift, fluid movement, he had her on her back, one hand on her hip and an arm beneath her neck. He kicked the remains of their impromptu picnic to the floor. "Don't care," he said. Rory closed her eyes as he kissed her, clinging to him, cradling his head gently with one hand.

God, she thought, when was the last time she'd just let someone hold her like this, just kissing and touching and breathing that wasn't somehow fraught with something else? The ache she felt as he dug his fingers into her hip that made her curve her body up to his was absent any sort of apprehension; the tremors in her hands and the tightness in her chest were more pleasant than fearful. She groaned in protest each time he pulled away, whether to breathe or trace kisses along her collarbone—the former was necessary and the latter was nice but altogether it was time not spent kissing him and there had been too much of that already.

She moved to help him out of his shirt, pushed him to sit up and guided the tee over his stomach and chest. He stopped her, asking if this was okay, was she sure, and she smiled in response and sat up as well, tugging his shirt off and casting it aside before she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. She kissed him sitting up, running her hands along the smooth skin of his shoulders, dragging her nails along his spine; she pulled him back to the pillows and kissed him lying down; she kissed him till her lips were stung and swollen and numb. He pulled back and studied her, scanning her features. His eyes were bright.

"What?" she asked.

He touched the back of his hand to her cheek. "Nothing."

"Marty."

He smiled and kissed her just beneath her eye. "This is just nice, is all."

Rory closed her eyes again. "Mm," she breathed. "Agreed." She rolled on her side and pulled his arm around her waist. He settled onto the pillows, slipping his other arm beneath her head and holding her to his chest, his chin on her hair. "Marty? Exactly how many episodes of The O.C. do you have on tape?"

"Oh, a few," he said, clearing his throat.

"You have the DVDs, don't you?" she laughed, angling to look back at him.

"So?"

She kissed the hand that rested on her shoulder. "You're just—there's no one like you, do you know that?"

"I get that a lot. Mostly from my mom." He sat up. "Hey, was there dessert in those bags?"

The evening passed quickly and she stayed tucked under his arm, talking, watching TV, kissing, not talking. She tried to remember if it had ever been this easy before. It should have been this way, she thought, just on the edge of sleep, after the first time. The thought sobered her, remembering the way the night had ended: Dean taking off, the fight with her mother, the crying and the long hours spent alone feeling wretched and small and hateful. The memory still burned in her throat like bile. Tonight, as sweet and simple as it was, wouldn't displace those few hours in May. It shouldn't, she thought. Even so, she felt as though she was starting over, if only a little bit. She burrowed further under Marty's covers and closer to him. He shifted, resting his cheek against the crown of her head.

"Hey, Rory," he whispered.

"Hey, Boy Scout."

"If I fall asleep, will you leave?" he asked, the "again" implied in the uncertain quality in his voice.

"Only if you make me."

Rory began to doze again, lulled by Marty's breathing and the pressure of his hand flat against her stomach as he absently rubbed the cotton of her top with his thumb. She smiled, her eyes closed, when he laughed at something on TV; she felt the rumble in his chest at her back and sighed. She whispered good night and let herself fall asleep.

When she woke, Marty was still sleeping, snoring slightly. Rory checked the clock on his nightstand and groaned. She rolled over, put a hand to his cheek, and said his name softly. He grunted.

"Marty," she said again. "Hey, wake up."

He scowled as he opened his eyes.

"Good morning, sunshine," she giggled. "I'm sorry to wake you up—"

"Not sorry enough not to do it," he grumbled.

With a roll of her eyes, Rory sat up and swept her hair back. "I have to go to class," she told him. "And then I have to go to class, and then I have to go to class again, and then I have to go to dinner."

Marty flopped onto his back and sighed. He scratched his head, looking up at her, squinting with one eye against the light that reflect off the wall behind her. "Hartford," he said.

"Hartford."

He placed his hand on the small of her back and scratched lightly at her tee shirt. "Will I see you later? After class and class and class and dinner?"

"We could go to a movie," she suggested, laying back and cuddling close to him.

"Or we could stay in and do more of what we did last night," he replied.

Rory buried her face in his shoulder. "You're such a boy."

"Stud, Rory. I'm a stud."

She sat up again. "Right. I have to go do my daily ablutions and gird up my loins for the fray." She looked at him. "Thanks."

"For?"

"Last night. Forgiving and forgetting and—"

"Who said anything about forgetting?" he teased, propping himself on his elbows. She narrowed her eyes at him and he laughed. "We're good."

"Good," she said. She leaned forward and kissed him a long moment. "I have never wanted to go to class less in my life."

"Wish I could get that on tape," he said, kissing her again.

"I'll call you later."

"Have fun with the ablutioning and the girding and everything."

As Rory shouldered her bag later that day after class with Professor Flynn, she cursed herself for having a schedule that meant she had to be aware and present until the very last moment of the week. Slowly she made her way up to the head of the table.

"Professor Flynn?"

Flynn looked up from the stack of papers she was attempting to organize. She regarded Rory warily as she jammed a pen into her bun and picked up her papers. "Timidity, Miss Gilmore, never got anyone anywhere."

She stood up straighter. "I've decided to change my major," she began, deciding to skip the prelude and the apology for her timidity that immediately came to mind. "I have my old advisor's signature, and I need the signature of someone in the department I'm declaring as well."

"And you want my signature."

"I do," she said firmly. "I hoped you could take me on as one of your advisees."

Flynn drew a great breath and took the paper that Rory held out to her. "I suppose I must suffer the consequence of converting you to the dark art of writing." She scrawled her signature at the bottom of the page and passed it to Rory. "Did your former advisor protest?"

"No, not exactly," Rory said. She paused. "He didn't remember me."

Flynn pulled on her coat and strode towards the door. "I don't expect to be so lucky. Until next week, Miss Gilmore."

Rory left straight from campus for Hartford. The truck was already in the drive, Lorelai and Luke just climbing out as Rory arrived. She grinned at her mother as she picked her way up the walk towards the door.

"Oh, smiling is good," Lorelai said, by way of greeting.

"You have no idea," Rory told her.

Luke rubbed his eyes. "Ah, geez."

Lorelai put a hand to her cheek as though to shield her mouth from Luke. "Mushy talking makes him uncomfortable," she said.

Rory giggled as Luke jabbed at the doorbell. They were ushered inside and sent to the living room where they took their drinks. Emily stood by the drink cart, martini pitcher in hand. A few moments later, Richard wandered in, newspaper in hand. He looked up, seeming surprised to find them all seated and sipping their drinks.

"Is it really Friday?" he asked.

Lorelai smirked. "Actually, Dad, this is a mirage. We're not really sitting here, and that's not a real newspaper you're holding. I know how lifelike it seems, but don't let it fool you. It's too dangerous. Now, I tell you this for your own good, so—"

Richard looked at his wife in bewilderment. "What on earth is she going on about?"

"Nothing, Richard. It's just one of her 'jokes,'" Emily sighed, rolling her eyes. "Of course it's Friday. You know it's Friday."

He looked down at his paper. "But this is Thursday's paper," he said.

"Dear God, maybe this is a mirage!" Lorelai cried.

"So, Grandma," Rory said, "how are the plans for the party coming?"

Lorelai hissed and glared at her in mock horror. "Traitor!"

Emily crossed her legs and smoothed her dress over her lap with a particularly peeved expression. "Your mother is being impossible."

Luke snorted.

"I am not!" Lorelai said, indignant.

"Oh, you are, too," Emily retorted. "She won't even let me buy you both dresses!"

"Which reminds me," Lorelai said. "Hon, do you think you can come back with us after dinner so we can do a fitting at Lorelai's House of Couture?"

"Can't," Rory said. "I have a date."

A half-second of silence followed before everyone began to speak at once. Rory's cheeks flushed pink and she sipped her soda.

"A date! With whom?"

"Well, that's quite something, isn't it?"

"Huh."

"That's my girl! Remember what I've always told you—"

Emily rose to refresh her drink. "Lorelai, I beg you not to continue. I've no doubt you'll say something vulgar."

Lorelai shrugged and slumped against Luke's shoulder. "She's actually right."

"I'm going out with Marty," Rory said. "We're just going to the movies. It's not a big deal."

Her mother grinned at her. "You're blushing. It's a huge deal."

"Can we please not talk about this?" Rory pleaded. "Please?"

"All right, then," Richard said. "Suppose we sit down to dinner and you tell us how your school work is going."

Her nerves began to get the better of her as they crossed the hall to the dining room and sat down, served themselves and poured drinks, and began to eat. She held her fork and jabbed at the chicken on her plate, watching liquid ooze from the puncture marks, arrested by the sight, her voice caught in her throat.

"So, Rory," Richard said gaily. "How is everything at Yale? Your classes are going well, I take it?"

Her head snapped up and she blinked. "Very well, Grandpa, thanks."

"And you are enjoying your studies this semester?"

"I am, yes," she replied. She picked up her knife and began to slice into her chicken. "I actually just changed my major," she said, hoping to sound nonchalant.

"From what to what?" Lorelai asked.

"Mom!"

Lorelai took a sip of wine, chastened. "Sorry. From political science," she said slowly, "to…?"

She bit her lip before she spoke again. "English. With a concentration in creative non-fiction."

"Oh, hon, that sounds great," Lorelai said. "I like the sound of that, it's very official. What made you choose that? And pass the salt, would you?"

Richard was very still and very silent. Rory darted a glance at him as she picked up the salt shaker and handed it across the table. "I have this professor who's really sort of scary but her classes are just amazing and… I think—" She stopped and looked at her lap, drew a deep breath. "I've been thinking a little about what I want to do when I'm done at Yale and it's—it's not as clear as it used to be, I guess."

"What do you mean it's not as clear as it used to be?" Richard asked.

Rory looked at him. "I still want to do all the same sorts of things, Grandpa, I do. I want to travel and see important things and tell people about them. I just don't know if I want to do it in the same way." She paused. "I don't know, honestly, if I'm cut out to be something like a foreign war correspondent or an embedded journalist or something like that. I don't know if I want to be cut out for something like that."

"Rory, honey, you know that's not true," Lorelai said. "Of course you're cut out for it. You're cut out for everything. You're a walking paper doll."

"And what would you do instead?" Richard asked, his voice grave.

"I don't know—I just know I want to write more than just the news, I want to write about the world. I like writing for the paper," she said, "I do. But this kind of writing that I've been doing, it's so much more challenging and it makes me see things differently. It makes me see myself differently. And I'm good at it, Grandpa—or at least, I could be."

Once again, the family was silent. Lorelai gave her a sympathetic smile. "I think it sounds fantastic, Rory. And I think no matter what you do, you'll amaze us all."

"Being a professional writer, Rory, is not an occupation one just walks up to," Richard said.

"I know, Grandpa."

"It's very difficult to make any sort of living as a writer."

"At first," she said. "And also it's very difficult to make any sort of living in journalism, at first. It's hard to get hired and get promoted… It's not that much different, Grandpa, what I want to do, and I have to do a lot of the same things to get there, but I'm starting from a different angle, now."

"I think it sounds fine, Rory," Emily said. "You're young, after all, and you have every right to change your mind."

"Amen," Lorelai shouted.

"What are you writing about now?" Luke asked.

"Right now? An essay for class about Stars Hollow, sort of. It's hard to explain."

Richard sighed heavily. "Well, my dear," he said, "you seem to know very well what you're about. It all sounds a little… frivolous… I suppose, to me, which I must tell you will worry me a bit, but you have always had sound judgment about your studies before. I must applaud you for taking a chance."

"You must?" Lorelai snorted. "Ow," she whined, looking at Luke, who glared.

"I promise I'll keep you posted, Grandpa," Rory said. "I was invited to join a senior seminar in the fall by this scary professor. I'm going to be the only junior in it, she said."

"Well, Rory, that's wonderful," Emily said. "Shall we have our dessert, now?"

As her mother walked her back to the car after dinner, Rory marveled at how well her grandfather had taken the news. "I mean, you can do practically anything with an English major after you graduate, except maybe go to med school, but poli sci just seemed more solid, somehow. More concrete. I thought he'd hear 'English major' and think I was going to turn into an unemployed hippie the minute I got my degree."

"Your grandfather," Lorelai said, "is working on this whole new thing. Even if he can't approve of your choices—my choices, our choices, whatever—he's trying to accept them as yours or mine or ours. That's what he told me. It kills him, a little bit, because it's hard for him not to want to tell you what to do, but he's trying. And the effort is practically visible—little beads of sweat on his forehead and everything. I swear, one of these days he's going to go all Peter Finch in Network and scream that he's mad as hell and he's not gonna take it anymore!" She shrugged. "Until then, he'll keep trying."

Rory stopped with her hand on the car door handle. "What do you think?"

Lorelai put her arm around her daughter. "I think you should do what you want to do and what you think is best. But when you write essays about growing up, I would appreciate it if you made it absolutely and utterly clear what a hot mama I was, am, and ever shall be."

"You don't want me to portray you as wise and witty?"

"Wise and witty, of course, but only after you establish the hot part."

"Good night, Mom," Rory laughed.

Her grandmother, Rory thought, was nothing short of frightening when in the midst of her party planning. The next week was a flurry of phone calls between classes and surprise visits on campus, choruses of "what do you think of this" and "what do you think of that" and "will you promise me that Luke won't wear flannel?" and "your mother must be kept from the champagne after ten o'clock." How Rory became the designated representative of the Stars Hollow Gilmore-Danes family contingent, she didn't know. Nor did she understand why her grandmother insisted on asking questions that she either already knew the answer to (of course Luke won't wear flannel to the fancy dress party, Grandma) or that she had already made up her mind about (of course I think Mom will like the salmon mousse puffs, Grandma). She took to turning off her cell phone and hiding in Marty's room until Wednesday, when Emily called Marty's room and asked for her there. On her way back to Stars Hollow Friday afternoon, Rory retrieved her ringing cell from the passenger seat of her car, holding her breath in trepidation. Another phone call from Emily would mark the seventh for the day, an all-time record high.

"Hello?"

"Please tell me you're almost home."

"I'm almost home, Mom."

"Are you lying, or are you really almost home?"

"I'm really almost home," Rory said. "Fifteen minutes."

Lorelai sighed. "Good. I need a little face time with the only sane person I know before this whole catastrophe gets underway."

Rory would have closed her eyes and banged her skull against the headrest if she weren't driving and talking on the phone at the same time. Lorelai's forebodings of doom had been almost as great in number as Emily's concerns over the plans for the party. Her mother, however, had refrained from calling Marty's room, though not from leaving multiple messages an hour on Rory's voicemail.

"I'm not talking to you anymore," Rory told her. "It's going to be fine."

"It's not going to be fine!" she shrieked, not for the first time. "You don't mix groups like this! You can't have all of my parents' old friends—meaning old money Hartford golf-playing geezers—and all of my friends—meaning the entire township of Stars Hollow—in the same room without the building that houses it spontaneously combusting, which will happen right after Gabriel comes in with the trump and the sinners and saved are all separated into folks for the bride and folks for the groom, left side or right side!"

Rory sighed. "Mom, I have to get off the phone now, okay? I'm driving. And," she said, in her best conciliatory tone, "while I'm sure that Grandma has done her best to get together an amazing guest list, I doubt she has the requisite pull to get Jesus to come for the sinners and the saved. She's good, but she's not that good."

"That's what she wants you to think!"

"I'm hanging up on you now," Rory said. She snapped the phone shut. "This party is going to kill me," she said to herself.

Though it took pouring a can of Diet Coke laced with rum down her mother's throat, Rory got both herself and Lorelai dressed, made up, coiffed, and waiting in the living room for Luke by six. They were expected at the hotel in Hartford at six-thirty, as Emily had called three times to remind them. Rory knew by the end of the night the pins in her hair would feel embedded firmly into her skull, but at the very least the dress was not uncomfortable. Her mother had outdone herself with this one, a simple strapless dress of a burgundy material that seemed to shimmer in the light. Lorelai's, Rory thought, for being even simpler than her own was much more elegant, a sheath of midnight blue. As they had zipped each other up, Rory observed that the dresses were fitted rather tellingly.

"Hey, you aren't going to have that figure forever, honey," Lorelai had responded. "Might as well flaunt it while you got it."

The two Lorelais sat together on the couch, Rory slumped against her mother. Lorelai put an arm around her and fingered a lock of hair off Rory's forehead.

"Do you wanna know a secret?"

"Do you promise not to tell?" Rory said.

Lorelai giggled. "No, I'm serious. And I guess it's not really a secret so much as a nugget of information that few people are privy to."

"I can see how that could be misconstrued as a secret," Rory said. "Tell."

Lorelai took a breath. "Your grandfather invited your dad to the party tonight."

"What?"

"He's not coming, or anything, but he was invited."

Rory bit her lip and furrowed her brow. "Why would Grandpa do that? I mean, holy awkward situation, Batman. So inappropriate." She paused. "And how do you know? Did Grandpa tell you, or have you talked to Dad?"

"Grandpa told me, but your dad did send me a very nice card. It made Luke grunt." Lorelai smoothed Rory's hair with her hand. "I think Grandpa just thought that, you know, Christopher's your dad and he's technically an old friend, and… I don't know. But Chris is very graciously not coming, which I think is good, because the whole thing is already enough to give Luke cardiac arrest. And I haven't seen him in so long—I think since Gigi was born—that it's just better this way. Otherwise, it's just all too The Way We Were."

"Are you Hubble or Katie?"

She made the duh face. "Hubble."

"Really?"

"Before, I was Katie," Lorelai said. "Now, I'm Hubble."

"You're very versatile," Rory replied.

"I know. When will you go down and see him again?"

She shrugged. "I don't know when I'll get the chance. Spring break, for a weekend, maybe. When I went after Christmas, it was… weird. Awkward. Like we didn't know quite what to do with each other."

"It'll get easier," Lorelai told her. "You'll find a rhythm."

"Oh, I know. It's still good he's not coming." She paused. "Have I told you how glad I am that you're marrying Luke?"

"Tell me again."

"I heartily approve," she laughed. "I can't think of anything better."

Lorelai smiled and twisted the ring on her finger. "Me neither, babe."

Rory sat up. "I forgot my purse. Be right back."

As she hunted around her room for the purse she wanted, Rory heard the front door open and her mother shout an appreciative phrase at Luke. She found what she was looking for and threw in the few articles she always kept with her before she turned on her heel and made her way back down the hall. She paused in the arch at the end of the hall, bit her lip as she hung back.

Luke held Lorelai, his arms tight around her as he pressed his palms against her shoulder blade and the small of her back. His cheek against her hair, he sighed with his eyes closed, muttering. Lorelai hugged him in an equally fierce embrace. She gripped the back of his suit jacket, leaning up into him, tipped forward off the heels of her shoes. She soothed him, speaking low in his ear.

"I'm fucking tired," he was saying.

"I know."

"I don't want to go to this party."

"I know," she said again.

"I've been on my feet all day. I've been on my feet all day serving people, people who have done nothing while I've served them but shove food in their mouths and then proceed to talk—with the food still in their mouths, I might add—about this party that I don't want to go to."

"Well, they have very bad manners if they're talking with their mouths full," Lorelai said. "And it's a disgusting visual."

"I don't want to go to this party."

"Luke," she sighed, "my life, future husband of mine—"

"So you're going to sweet talk me now?"

"—it's one night. I know you don't want to do this, but—"

"So remind me why I'm doing it?" he asked.

She pulled back and rested her chin against his. She batted her lashes at him. "Because you love me."

"I do, huh?"

"You do."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Fine. Because I love you."

"How very sweet of you to say so," Lorelai said. She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Rory cleared her throat to alert them both to her presence.

Luke pulled back abruptly and loosened his hold on Lorelai. "Hey, Rory."

"Hey."

Lorelai looked over at her. "Your timing sucks, kid."

"You riding in with us?" Luke asked, disentangling himself from Lorelai.

"I am," Rory replied. "Are we ready?"

Lorelai stepped back. "I think we are. And I must say, we look fabulous. Look at Luke," she commanded. "Don't my man clean up good?"

Luke wore a navy blue suit, the white oxford beneath crisp and open at the collar. He had negotiated with Emily over the tie. That, Rory thought, had been an interesting Friday night dinner. She grinned in approval.

"Very rakish," she replied.

Emily met them in the lobby of the hotel the moment they arrived. Lorelai muttered that she should carry nips in her purse for moments like this. Emily appeared not to hear as she led them to the ballroom where the party would be held. The party had been planned at first for the Hartford mansion, and then a small function hall, and, as the guest list slowly grew and Emily's party planning instinct took her in its grasp, finally the hotel ballroom. She had a string ensemble, a wait staff circulating, decorations, a bar, pictures of Luke and Lorelai…

"Dear Lord, Mom!" Lorelai cried. "Are we getting married here tonight?"

Rory swallowed a laugh when she caught the look on Luke's face. He was pale. She reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him away from her mother and grandmother. While she had personally experienced the more evil aspects of alcohol, she was slowly discovering that its more stultifying effects could be useful in certain situations. And this, she thought, was absolutely one of those.

"Come on, Pops, you're gonna buy me a drink," she said. "I'm underage, you know."

He leaned down to speak in her ear as they walked. "Did you know it was gonna be this—"

"Enormous?" she supplied. "No." She patted his arm. "Don't worry, it'll go by quickly."

"Really?"

They stopped and Rory leaned against the bar. "If you drink enough."

She stood at the end of the line as they welcomed guests—Richard first, Emily, Lorelai, and Luke all before her. Nearly all of Stars Hollow had been invited, and nearly every single arrival from the town had a comment or two for the nature of the shindig. The other half of the crowd—Old Money Hartford, as Lorelai termed it—were long-standing family friends and the like (very few business associates, by general and silent consent). As much as Emily and Richard had relaxed in the past months, Lorelai had observed to her daughter, the fact that the wayward Gilmore progeny was finally being made an honest woman was too great a temptation for showing off to the doubting Thomases and judgmental Emily Posts to resist. Rory shifted on her high heels, smiling tightly as people filed past with their gifts and cards. She sighed in relief when she saw Lane enter, followed closely by Paris and Marty.

"My people!" she grinned. "Thank God." Paris and Lane went to deposit their gifts; Marty hung back. Rory slipped her hand in his and tugged. "Hi," she said. She tipped her face up to his and kissed his cheek. "I have to hang here a while longer."

He shrugged. "It's all good. I'll grab a drink and go let Paris use me as a verbal punching bag for a while. It seems therapeutic."

"That's very kind of you," she said solemnly.

"Come find me." He bent lower. "I like the dress."

Liz and TJ were among the last to come in. Liz hugged her brother fiercely, slapping his back with both hands. "My big brother!" she cried. "Taking the plunge. I'm so happy for you both." Luke rolled his eyes as she pointed at Lorelai. "What did I tell you? Most of your life. I knew it then. I knew it! I was just waiting for you to figure it out."

"Indeed, Liz, you are very wise," Lorelai said. "I defer to your superior bridal knowledge."

"What the hell is she talking about?" Luke asked.

"Girl stuff," Liz replied. "Welcome to the family, Lorelai. You gonna change your name?"

"I sure am."

Luke looked at her. "You are?"

"Yeah," she said. "Why not?"

"I just didn't think—I mean, you've been Lorelai Gilmore a pretty long time—"

"Gee, thanks, Luke."

"I just meant that I understand if you don't want to change your name."

"But I do want to change my name," she said.

"But you don't have to."

Lorelai rubbed his arm. "I know that. But I'm going to."

"You don't have to do it for me. I'm fine if you want to stay Lorelai Gilmore, really, I—"

She took Luke's hand in both of hers. "It's okay," she said. She regarded him solemnly. "Luke, there is another."

Rory snorted. "You've been saving that one, haven't you?"

Lorelai bounced on her toes. "Oh, forever."

Luke shook his head, his eyes closed. "There are too many women in my life," he groaned.

Liz chuckled as she continued into the room, stopping in front of Rory. Rory was caught off guard when Liz pulled her into a hug and said it was nice to finally meet her, finally. Liz held her at arm's length and studied her, nodding her head. At length, she shrugged, a happy grin on her face.

"It's really, really good to meet you," she said again.

Her body seemed to know when he came in before Rory realized it in thought. The air changed, shifted. She stood up straighter, wrapped her arms around herself, and turned her chin against her shoulder. Jess stood in the door, his hands jammed in his pockets, his expression cautiously bored. He waited a beat, rocking back on his heels, and was joined by a petite, olive-skinned brunette in a black cocktail dress. She slapped the back of his head with the tips of her fingers as she came to stand beside him, grinning as she did. She grabbed his hand and forced him out of the doorway. Rory took him in—he looked the same, despite the fact that he'd condescended to wear khakis and a rumpled blue button-down. She suspected more than just Luke's influence at work on that account. He ducked his head as Richard and Emily greeted him. Lorelai's smile was tight, but kind, as Jess stepped over to Luke and shook hands.

"This is Ashley," he said.

Rory watched her mother shake Ashley's hand. She felt slightly numb, was aware that she was holding her breath. Jess hazarded a glance her way. He didn't smile; his face remained neutral and calm.

"Hey," she said.

He nodded. "Hey."

Ashley darted a glance between them. Rory swallowed and put out her hand. "I'm Rory."

"Nice to meet you," Ashley said.

They wandered toward the bar. Lorelai reached her hand behind Luke and took Rory's, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Rory looked at her and mouthed that she was okay. Lorelai nodded.

"Le's git this party started," she drawled.

Rory was unsure how a party like this was really supposed to go. The first hour seemed comprised of Emily and Richard making the rounds between the various knots of people that had gathered on the dance floor and Lorelai dragging Luke in a similar pattern. Rory had a feeling her grandmother had drafted a whole course of action for the evening as though this were the Norman conquest of England and she needed a plan of battle. Rory sat at a table not far from the bar, watching people come and go, chatting with Lane and Paris and Marty.

"Excellent nosh," Marty said. "Too bad it's not exactly a Hungry Man dinner."

Rory closed her eyes. "Please tell me you do not eat Hungry Man dinners."

"It was a metaphor," he replied, causing Paris to snort. He nodded towards the bar behind Rory. "That the future cousin?"

She turned and sighed. Jess leaned over the bar and spoke to the bartender; Ashley stood beside him, holding his one hand in the both of hers, leaning into him with her chin on his shoulder. He smiled back at her. Rory crossed her legs and sipped her champagne. "Yep."

A few hours later, the party was in full swing. Miss Patty and Babette had commandeered the piano for Morey and terrified the string ensemble into silence. Gypsy was throwing Andrew (and anyone else she could wrangle) around the dance floor with great gusto, surrounded by couples much more tamely taking advantage of the music. Rory found herself caught by her grandfather and, not knowing quite how to say no, allowed herself to be paraded around as the Yale-going, Gilmore legacy. As she plastered a smile on her face and bobbed her head, listening to the inane conversation passing between her grandfather and a former golfing partner, she saw her mother similarly trapped in conversation with a drunken and reeling Kirk. She managed not to giggle as Lorelai handed off her empty champagne flute to a passing waiter and took a fresh one. Her grandfather began to extricate himself from the conversation and Rory called herself back, made the obligatory nice-to-meet-you-goodbye, as she saw Luke step up behind Lorelai and put an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.

Her mother's "Thank God!" was audible even at a distance and over the noise of the crowd and the music.

Richard put a hand on Rory's shoulder. "That's what marriage is all about," he said, and she laughed.

Not long after, Rory stood to the side and again watched the crowd. Her mother had pulled Luke onto the dance floor; they turned in a slow, lazy dance, whispering to each other. Rory's throat swelled and she felt tears at the ready. Lorelai's eyes shone as Luke leaned forward and spoke in her ear. She tipped her head back, laughing, and he tightened his arms around her, erasing any space between them. She pressed her cheek to his and closed her eyes. Rory bit her lip. A sudden weight across her shoulders made her jump. Marty smiled down at her, his arm around her.

"You okay?"

She nodded. "I'm just—look how happy she is. My whole life, she was pretty much alone. Even when she was with someone, he wasn't really there, you know, wasn't really part of it. And now—now she's not alone anymore."

"Alone. Bad."

"Friend. Good," Rory giggled. "But I'm serious. She's so happy," she said, her eyes filling. "And they're so good for each other. Ever since I was small, all she wanted was for me to be happy, for me to get the things I wanted. I never would have thought—" She stopped and took a breath. "It didn't turn out how I thought it would. But this, when I see her like this, it just makes so much sense, and it seems like all that stuff—this is how it's supposed to be." She looked up at him with a watery smile. "I'm just really, really, really glad for her."

He kissed the top of her head. "Dance with me?"

"Absolutely."

The party thinned as the night continued. Rory sat at one of the tables, her head on Lorelai's shoulder, yawning as they discussed the number of gifts waiting to be opened and the corresponding number of thank you cards that needed to be written. Marty dropped into a chair beside her, and she sat up, looking around. The only people still there were the Gilmores, Luke, Jess and Ashley, and Marty.

"Where'd everyone go?" she asked.

"It's almost one, Rory," he replied. "People went home."

"Oh." She rubbed her eyes. "They're smart."

Lorelai patted her head. "My baby's not a night owl."

Luke approached got down into a squat in front of Lorelai. "We may have a problem."

"What's that?"

"I drove us in."

"You did."

"And I'm not fully functional to drive us back," he continued. "And neither are you, and neither is Rory, and I'm assuming Marty has his own car—"

"I do."

Luke sighed. "You know, we have a room."

Lorelai sat up. "We do?"

"Yeah. Your parents too. They booked it just in case. We could stay."

She looked at him dubiously. "You hate places like this. You say the sheets smell like chlorine and the comforters are made out of plywood."

"Better to sleep on chlorine sheets than end up smeared across I84."

She put out her hands to him and they rose. "Can't argue with that. Are there two beds?"

"We can probably get a cot," he said.

Rory looked up at them. "What, for me?"

"If you don't want to stay, Jess and Ashley are headed back to Stars Hollow," Luke said. "They're gonna stay at the diner."

Rory couldn't help pulling a face.

"I can take her home," Marty offered. "I'm okay to drive, really."

"It's up to you, kid," Lorelai said.

She looked at Marty. "Let's go."

She kissed her mother and Luke good night and followed Marty to the car. They were quiet as they drove, listening to the radio. She had spent a handful of hours in a room with Jess, not speaking to him, and it hadn't been painful or horrible—awkward, she conceded, but not quite the carnage she'd feared. She suspected he'd been warned to be on his best behavior more than once by more than one person; he responded to Gypsy's multiple disparaging remarks with a lifted eyebrow and slightly clenched jaw.

Rory glanced over at Marty. Miss Patty had nearly pinched his cheek off his face when Rory had introduced him as her boyfriend. He'd crimsoned, stuttered, and tried to hide behind Rory (a feat, she teased him, impossible, given the disparity of their heights). It led to a brief, heated interlude in the coat-check room; when he'd asked why, she'd only smiled, shrugged, and launched herself at him again.

He followed her in when they got to the house. "So, which shoes were the culprits of the fall?"

"I'm not deigning to answer that question," Rory said, kicking off her heels and adding them to the tangle of shoes by the door. "Are you hungry?"

"Starved. The tasty nosh was not so filling," he said, following her down the hall. "That your room?"

"That my room," she replied. "What do you feel like, jalapeno poppers or pizza bites? Or do you want to go really crazy and have them both?"

"I'm all for the crazy."

Rory microwaved the snacks and joined him in her room, tucking her feet up under her as she sat on the bed with the platter of food. Marty stood beside the bed, his hands on his hips, as he studied the pictures on her wall. He pointed.

"Where's that?"

She squinted. "Oh. That's me and Grandma on the Rialto Bridge in Venice, from the trip we took over the summer. My mom actually redid the whole room while we were away, put up all the pictures and everything."

Marty stood still, studying another frame intently. "Did she put up this one, too?"

"No," she said. "She left a few frames for me. I put that one up."

"That's us."

She smiled. "That is us."

"When did you put it up?"

"After my birthday, when we had the pictures developed."

He looked at her a long moment before joining her on the bed, stretching out on his back with his hands folded behind his head. She blushed under his gaze and toyed with one of the pizza bites. They fell silent again, listening to the hum of the quiet together, the slight shifting and settling of the house and the tick of the furnace. Rory tried not to stare at Marty as he helped himself to the food on the plate and continued to look around the room at the pictures. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him he was the first boy to be in her room—other, obviously, than Luke, who didn't count in any case—since the May before, but that would require greater explanation. The moment as it was now was perfect—easy, simple—and tainting it with the memory of that night, she thought, was pointless.

"I like this room," he said. "And damn, woman, eat all the food, why don't you?"

Rory laughed and set the plate aside. "Sorry." She lay down beside him, her head in the hollow of his shoulder. "I love this room."

He put his arm around her, cupping her bare shoulder with his hand and tracing gentle circles with the tips of his fingers. It made her shiver, and he held her closer.

"I should go. It's late."

She nestled beside him, whispered kisses along his jaw. "Stay."

"But what about—"

She placed her hand on his chest, felt his warmth beneath her palm. "Just stay with me. Please."

He kissed her forehead. "I'll stay."

And they fell asleep there in their party clothes, among the piles of pillows the color of sunshine and cream, arms around each other.