A/N: Okay. I left a few things out. All episodes through The Real Paul Anka have been accounted for, including Rory kissing Jess and telling him that she loves Logan. This also means that—in case it comes up later—Lorelai and Luke are still together. On another note, thank you SO much for the reviews. I like hearing what everybody thinks of my story, and I'm trying to update as regularly as possible, although I might not be able to update for a week or so after today. Also, this chapter might seem a little different than the others, but just stick with me. I didn't get much sleep last night, and the coffee maker is broken. Anyway, enjoy and keep the wonderful reviews coming!

Disclaimer: I once had a dream that I won the lottery and bought a house in the sky. Well, it was more of a castle, actually. It had hundreds of rooms, a tennis court, a movie theater, a bowling alley, and a swimming pool filled with ginger ale. And, as all good castles should, it came with elite ownership to Gilmore Girls and all of its characters. Unfortunately, until I can prove that this castle really exists, I own only the computer which I use to write my stories on. Sad, isn't it?

Rory sank down on the couch as soon as she reached the house. She slung her arm over her eyes as she attempted to catch her breath. Why had she run up there anyway? Everyone knows that Gilmores don't run. At least…

When did you learn to run like that?

She sighed. Why did Jess keep popping into her head? She got up, walked into the kitchen, and started pacing. It was the book, right? That had to be it. And the title. That punk sure is good at making everything sound nostalgic. She picked it up again, resting her porcelain fingers over the words. Only Lovely Things. Only Lovely Things. Only—

"Argghhh!!" she said suddenly, throwing the book onto the floor. "Get outta my mind, Mariano!" She picked it up again, almost sorry she had thrown it down in the first place. She had this feeling that if she let it go, even for a second, something bad would happen.

"Oh, god," she moaned, massaging her temples. There was only one way she could think of to get rid of this feeling in her gut. She went into the bedroom, her eyes throwing daggers at whoever dared to get in her way. When she got inside though, she stopped; her face softening. No, she thought, shaking her head. Too much Logan. She walked back out into the living room and curled up in one of the big leather chairs that were definitely NOT her style.

"Oh, well," she said, sighing. It'll have to do. Then she placed the book in her lap, and began to read.

As each new page turned in her fingers, she found herself getting more and more engulfed in the story. Every sentence dripped with emotion; every action played as a movie in her head. When she was done, she read it again. And again. She would have read it a fourth time if she hadn't looked at the clock and realized it was getting late.

In a semi-concious, post-reading state, she got up and tried to calm herself down.

"Wow," she whispered, putting her hands on the side of her head and spinning in circles. "Wow, wow, wow. Wow."

It was his story. An auto-biography of sorts; although she doubted that anyone who didn't already know him would realize that it was such. He didn't use any real names, or towns, but she knew that it was his. She could tell from the way he described things and places and people. She knew where he was in each sentence, how he was feeling and what was going through his mind. She could see him as a sarcastic kid—a pessimistic teenager. And she could see herself.

Sure, she noticed the other characters more quickly. She smiled when she saw the way he fondly described the grumpy, plaid-wearing, problem-fixing uncle of his, who became more of a father figure to him than anyone else. She saw the eccentric townies, his flaky but lovable mother, and his it-might-take-some-time-but-I'm-trying dad.

She even saw her mother, an annoying, quirky woman who the author of the story never fully understood. But it was only when she read about herself that Rory began to cry.

"That's not called a trick, that's called a felony," she heard herself say, gripping the words from her memory.

I just wanted to put some notes in the margins for you.

She saw them meet, she saw them flirt. She read words that she hadn't realized he remembered. But he did. Remember. He remembered everything.

You know we're supposed to be together.

She cried. No, she wailed, when she read—THREE TIMES—how she had rejected him. How she had let him walk away. And how she had run, just like him.