Not replying to Tristan's text until morning worked; he replied with a blasé "We'll try again later," and she started her day by cooking an omelet. She had never cooked an omelet before – she was Lorelai's daughter after all – but she had pulled up a recipe on her laptop and was determined that she could be one of Those Women. She had gone on a fabulous date last night in a fabulous dress with a tall attractive man, and women who enjoyed such things either hired someone to cook for them (something she certainly did not have the money to do) or they cooked their own food; they did not live off of frozen pizza and cold cereal. So she was going to make a cheese omelet and sprinkle in some bacon bits. She could have run to the store to get real bacon, but she was a little scared to try too much cooking all at once, and the bacon bits that she had bought to sprinkle on frozen pizza during her first grocery trip would suffice. In her pajama shorts and an oversized Yale tee shirt, she started on the journey of following the omelet recipe. The recipe directed her to melt butter, and she tried to figure out how hot she was supposed to make the stove in order to melt butter in this skillet.

Meanwhile, Tolstoy lay on the kitchen floor snoring. He spent an inordinate amount of time laying around and snoring when he wasn't baying at passing cars or drooling; he was just her speed of dog, and she had already come to love him in the mere four days she had had him, just as she had come to love this little rental home in her mere five days of being here. She cracked the eggs into the pan where the butter had melted and watched about a third of the shell splatter in with the egg itself.

"Well, shit," she muttered. How did Rachel Ray do this so easily on her cooking show? She tried using her fingers to scoop out the shell, but it was slow and laborious. Finally, picking up a little spoon, Rory tried to pick pieces of shell out one at a time and drop them into the waiting trash can. She noticed her nails, still haphazardly half-painted, as she worked and wondered if Dean had simply not noticed them or if he was such a sweetheart that he chose to ignore them, simply assuming that they were a sign that something had gone wrong. Either one worked for her, she supposed. Suddenly her phone rang on the counter. "Tolstoy, answer that," she joked as she wiped egg goo off of her hands. She scooped it up and answered it without looking at the Caller ID.

"Hey Rory. It's Tristan. I'm on my way over to change the batteries in the smoke detectors and some other stuff. I'll be there in about ten minutes, so have clothes on," she heard his glib, quite awake voice and wondered how early he had been up enjoying his Outer Banks tradition. She ignored the flutter in her stomach at hearing his voice, and the odd current that buzzed under her skin as she thought of Tristan possibly thinking of her with clothes off.

"Already dressed and making an omelet, DuGrey," she replied snarkily, "Why exactly are you stooping to doing maintenance instead of sending someone who works for you?"

"Because the old curmudgeon who does maintenance in the off-season hates dogs, and I could not in good conscience send him to face Cujo without telling him the animal was there, and of course, Ed then refused to set foot on the property. Should have fired him, but the man's about a hundred and five and is the only maintenance guy I have who is still here in the off-season," Even as she was listening to his voice, she heard the sound of tires in the driveway. He had obviously grossly exaggerated the ten minutes ETA.

"You're pulling in the driveway already? What, were you actually hoping to catch me with clothes off?" She blushed and chuckled simultaneously. There was a lengthy pause that she assumed was disapproval of her suggestive comment, and finally, she opened her mouth to apologize. That's when he spoke,

"I'm not there yet. Who's out in your driveway?" He spoke slowly, seemingly a little concerned.

Rory cursed herself silently for making assumptions and walked to the window. There was Dean, unbuckling his seatbelt and straightening his shirt collar, presumably preparing to walk up the steps to her front door and surprise her. She was not positive she wanted to be surprised; they had, after all, only been on one date (this time around, at least), and it had ended just like a first date should. A morning surprise seemed a little presumptuous. But her feelings softened instantly when she saw him reach across the car and pick up a very large coffee cup. Any man who came bearing coffee was a good man. She felt a smile appearing on her face and was proud of herself for smiling at this positive development in her life. She was moving in a healthy direction now; no more of this aimlessness she had been somehow embracing these past few years.

"Rory Gilmore, who is in your driveway?" Tristan's voice caught her off-guard. She had totally forgotten she was still on the phone. Awkwardness returned immediately, and she flushed an undoubtedly very ridiculous shade of crimson.

"Um… some guy I went on a date with last night…"

"A date? Well, la-dee-da, you move fast. Who is it? I know everybody local around here," he replied, sounding more amused than anything else. Rory felt a surge of annoyance. Shouldn't he be jealous? Hadn't they gone on a date just the other night? Hadn't they bathed Tolstoy together two days ago, laughing and splashing? Hadn't they effing had sparks? And what about that still unmentioned meeting overseas, still shrouded in angst and emotion and mystery? Sure she had been the one who had denied the possibility of them developing anything, but he should still sound jealous or at least disappointed. Hearing the knock on the door, she tried to reach into her internal peace and contentment she had had with Dean last night, to reclaim that easy relaxation.

"It's not a local. See you when you get here to do some maintenance… buddy," she tacked on the platonic term of endearment with more venom than necessary and hung up the phone. She smoothed her hair and walked to the door to open it. Dean's smile made her smile back and release her annoyance at Tristan.

"Good morning. I brought you coffee and two donuts. Is that enough to get me in the door?" He said, holding up a paper bag and the coffee cup she had seen through the window. She grinned.

"You could have gotten in the door without bearing gifts. Now, however, I'm just worried you're Greek, and I should beware," she replied. He looked puzzled, and she waved a hand to free him from trying to figure out the allusion. "Don't worry about it. Come on in."

They walked into the house, and Tolstoy, delightful watchdog that he was, did not stir at all from his faithful sleeping spot on the floor. Rory smiled affectionately at the pup and then guided Dean towards the couch. She took a seat there, and he knowingly took a seat in the armchair rather than crowding her by sitting down beside her.

"Thank you for bringing breakfast. I have a failed start to an omelet over there that demonstrates that I am not quite ready to fend for myself yet," she joked.

"Well, I'm happy to be a provider," he replied with a smile that somewhat belied his own joking.

"I'm happy to have that! Hey Dean, I want to warn you about something…" She glanced down at the time on her phone. Tristan would be here any minute.

"That sounds bad…"

"No, it's not bad. It's just… interesting… ironic… probably some other 'I' words I just can't think of right now."

"Then shoot."

"Tristan's on his way over. You, uh, remember Tristan?" Her voice was like a crab scuttling sideways across the beach rather than directly approaching its target. Dean looked genuinely confused.

"No… Who's that?"

Now there was a sign she had a problem if ever there was one. Here she was, having blown this whole history with Tristan into some distortedly large part of her high school years, and yet her high school boyfriend did not even remember him. Clearly she was not normal. "Oh, he was this guy at Chilton. You and him disagreed a couple times over some stuff. Blonde guy? Kinda rich?" She tried to sound really casual, even as her treacherous brain thought, Gorgeous? Intriguing? Still giving me butterflies and making me think in questions at 29 years old? She needed a lobotomy.

"Oh yeah. That jerk-off. I'd forgotten his name. Man, he was a piece of work." Dean spoke and then stopped, and Rory stopped, too, waiting for the man to loop his brain back around to the original piece of news. "Oh wait, you said he's on his way over? You two stayed friends? What's he doing in the Outer Banks?"

She blushed crimson and then hated herself even more. There had been no blushing last night, no discomfort. Tristan was ruining everything. "It's a really long, drawn-out, and probably really boring story. But by chance, he's the owner and manager of this property I'm renting. He's coming by to do a little repair work."

Awkward silence descended, and she knew he wanted to ask a lot more questions but that her halting tone had prevented him from doing so. So, they were still sitting pretty quietly, her chewing on the edges of a donut, him sipping coffee, when Tristan opened the door, kicking his heels against the doorframe to knock dirt off of his boots before he entered. Rory's breath stalled in her lungs. Tristan was in an Army sweatshirt and ripped up, stained, ratty jeans. He should have looked like a bum. He actually looked gorgeous. His face went from neutral to hard in about three seconds though when he saw Dean; there was obviously nothing forgotten by this man about their shared history.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Tristan said, eyes stony. Dean looked confused, his jaw tightened a little too, and his eyes displayed a level of shock that Rory could not understand, but he tried to sound neutral and casual.

"Looking for another chance with Rory."

"Aren't we all?" Tristan replied with so much sarcasm that the words seemed to fly through the air and pierce her skin like arrows. She felt a surge of guilt and then anger at Tristan for making her feel guilty. They were just friends, damn it. Dean seemed oblivious to the fact that Tristan's sarcasm was directed at her, not him, though, and he tensed further.

"I wasn't joking."

"Yet you were still funny. Funny old world. Anyway, I'll only by here a few minutes. Y'all get back to whatever you were doing before I barged in," Tristan's pulse ticked unpleasantly fast in his neck, but his voice returned to fairly neutral. Rory felt the strangest urge to smile at hearing the once totally upper-crust DuGrey man use the term "y'all," but it faded quickly as she watched Tristan tap his leg, calling Tolstoy to follow him, and head into the bedroom, taking her dog with him. It made her feel like she was some sort of traitor, which was ridiculous.

"Wow," Dean murmured. Rory nodded.

"I know. That wasn't like him, though. He's actually been really nice since I've been here."

"What?" Dean frowned. "No, I wasn't talking about his attitude."

Rory felt confused for a few seconds, and then she realized what had floored Dean: the arm Tristan no longer had. She remembered the shock and shameful revulsion she had first felt when she had discovered the missing arm in that makeshift overseas hospital and felt a surge of sympathy for Dean. There was something incredibly difficult about seeing someone familiar so altered; every time you looked away, your brain reverted to the saved data, the old image, and you had to face surprise all over again when you looked back. She was just now getting past it herself.

"He lose it in a Porsche accident?" Dean muttered, half-jokingly. Rory felt a sudden, intense flare of anger.

"No. He lost it in Afghanistan fighting for his country," Her voice was suddenly as hard and nasty as Tristan's had been when he walked in. Dean immediately looked ashamed and apologized in a mumble, but it did nothing to soften the fierce protective knot that had formed in her stomach. With the same ferocity that she had attacked her mother when she had slighted Tristan, she now attacked Dean. "You wouldn't be able to understand that because you were busy being stateside cheating on your wife and such. Oh and marrying one woman while in love with another one. That was another stunning move you've made in your adult life. So good thinking on knocking an American hero. Really smacks of your integrity and maturity."

She knew she should be ashamed of herself, but instead, she was still just angry when Dean, shocked expression ablaze, had stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him and spinning gravel in the driveway. Hugging her knees to her chest, she tried to use her mental strength to force the corners of her mouth out of an angry scowl. Tristan walked out of the bathroom and looked around, Tolstoy tagging along happily on his heels.

"Who slammed the door?"

"Don't be an idiot. Who do you think slammed it?"

"What kind of asshole slams doors in a house that's not his?" Tristan wiped his hand on his jeans and then surveyed her serious expression, adding a frown to his own handsome features. "Need me to go kill him?"

"No. This one was my fault. I was mean."

"Oh God forbid, Rory should be mean." His now-familiar sarcasm made her smile instead of frown this time. "What the hell prompted you to be mean to him?""

"He made a snide comment about your arm," Perhaps Rory should have shielded Dean from having his lone idiotic verbal mistake known, but she was still too angry to do so. The expected anger did not flash across Tristan's face though. Instead, his expression became guarded, and he said nothing. Rory had seen this expression before, almost nineteen months before in Afghanistan: it was shame. Tristan was still battling the same shame that he was somehow "less than" because of the missing arm. She hugged her knees tighter to her chest. The fierce protectiveness bubbled again, still at a boil from earlier. It felt as if she would do anything if she could stop him from feeling ashamed.

"So you told him off," Tristan finally said.

"Nastily," she confirmed.

"How nastily?" He walked over and dropped himself onto the couch beside her. She could not help drawing the momentary comparison between him and Dean: Dean, who had chosen the armchair, and Tristan, who had chosen the couch at her side.

"Told him he was nothing but an adulterer who married his first wife while he was still in love with me."

"Damn," he whistled. "You're a black widow these days."

"He shouldn't have said anything bad about you," The words sounded dumb and slightly petulant. Tristan scooted a little closer to her and extended his arm.

"Come here." His voice was such a clear and unimposing command that she obeyed, releasing her knees and sliding over. He wrapped her close, the gesture strangely natural. Ignoring her suddenly thudding heart, she tried to think of her date last night with Dean. Peace, relaxation, contentment, that's the ticket. Today was just a blip. This second chance with Dean is going to be great, she tried to tell herself, but it was hard to hear her conscious thoughts over her quickened pulse.

"You are not my protector. I appreciate it, but you can't keep pushing people away because they say one nasty thing about me. You wanna push your nosey, reverse-snob mother away? Fine. You wanna kick that fuddy-duddy Dean to the curb? Great. But don't do it because they said one little thing about me. I can take care of myself," he told her quietly, speaking down, lips almost touching her hair as he spoke. Her stomach stirred, and she wondered how this position could feel so sensible and how it could be such a mix of platonic, almost sibling-like ease and yet stomach-flipping, heart-pounding butterflies. "Plenty of people are going to have something to say and plenty more to think about me only having half the right number of arms."

She turned her face up abruptly and glared at him. "Well, they aren't going to say it around me."

"You're sweet, Mary, but really, it's not necessary. I'm a big boy," He looked down into her eyes and smiled at her glare. She was all too aware of how close their faces were, and her breath caught in her lungs.

"You don't deserve to be slighted, DuGrey," she meant to say it lightly, easily, but the words escaped in a breathy whisper. He shook his head, and she didn't know whether he did so to tell her she was wrong or simply to tell her to be quiet. The air crackled in the air around them, sparks danced in their eyes, and Rory felt her heart lurch. His mouth seemed to be getting closer; she could feel his breath like a caress against her skin, and she licked her lips, her tongue nearly touching his lips as she did so, so close were their mouths to one another. Her pulse spiked yet again, and where his arm rested around her seemed to be on fire.

She was so turned on, she felt she would die if he did not kiss her.

And that was when the door opened and Dean walked back in.

X

Rory should have been grateful that Dean's quick forgiveness and reappearance had kept her from compromising her plan for a normal, stable, content romantic experience. After all, around Tristan, she was a bundle of nerves and fluttering and messiness. Yet she could not shake the feeling of their mouths so close together, and it would likely bother her in her dreams for nights to come. Tonight, however, she was going to try to avoid it. Through Hannah and Mary Malone, those two sweet, quirky young ladies she had foolishly been jealous of at the bonfire, she had found herself invited to a "Girls' Night" with a bunch of locals. First, it had been a phone call from Mary Malone where the young woman had basically demanded that Rory join them for drinks at a local hangout because they wanted the dish on her and the "dreamboat" who was staying at the nearby hotel, i.e. Dean. Rory had refused hesitantly but finally gave in when Hannah called and repeated the demand in the exact same words. So now Rory was wearing a pair of dark wash jeans, a glittery white camisole, and a soft red cardigan sweater and riding in a car with the two women nearly a decade her junior while hoping that Tolstoy would not get too lonely without her this evening.

"First, you get Tristan, a highly eligible bachelor, might I add, and then you are followed into a town by an absolute hottie. What is your secret?" Mary Malone was driving, only half paying attention to the road and scaring Rory half to death with her reckless vehicle management. Mary Malone and Hannah were both playing the young woman's game of dressing for their desire to attract men and look flashy rather than for the weather, and Rory felt cold just looking at their mini-skirts and halter tops.

"I have no idea. If I knew my secret, I'd have capitalized on it and gotten married by now. Committing to taking on Tolstoy is the most commitment I've had in years," Rory admitted with an easy grin. It was a piece of cake to like these silly but genuine girls, so she was having no trouble conversing with them pretty openly.

"He is a cutie," Hannah replied easily, not seeming to think it was weird to compare men and dogs on an attractiveness scale. "But not as cute as Ethan. I'm totally gonna marry this one, MM, and leave you all alone."

"Ethan's a bum who waits tables with us. He's even more aimless than Hannah and me, so there's not a chance they'll get married," Mary Malone said in an aside to Rory, earning her a slap from her friend.

"So not true. Ethan's a MEDICAL student who is waiting tables on this semester off and helping his mom manage the general store one town over. He's great. She's just jealous."

"He's a bum. In spite of being a medical student."

"How much of a bum can a medical student be?" Rory interjected as they pulled into the parking lot, and both girls laughed as if she had said something terribly funny and then dragged her inside. The bar was a bedraggled honky tonk, but it became clear to Rory immediately that it was the hot spot in the area. At the bar, a couple of women waved to Mary Malone and Hannah, and Rory was surprised to recognize one of them. It was Shannon from the animal shelter, a woman who was not only vaguely familiar but also close to her age. Hallelujah. Shannon smiled at her as she slid onto a nearby bar stool.

"Hi. Rory right? How's the hound dog?" Shannon looked pretty and understated, and Rory noticed a thin gold band on her hand that spoke of someone else also thinking she was pretty.

"He's great. Amazing actually. His name is Tolstoy," Rory replied, smiling.

"Are you joking?" Her voice was flat, dry, but friendly, and Rory knew in an instant that this woman would be able to bust out dry quips that would make people laugh out loud.

"Nope. His name really is Tolstoy."

"What a mouthful for a good ol' boy hound dog," Shannon chuckled. "Glad you got him. So how exactly did you get roped in with Hannah and MM?"

"We didn't rope her in! She was delighted to join us," Hannah defended. "Now I'm glad you two know each other already because you bonded over fleabags, but lemme introduce Rory around. Rory, this is Danielle, and Sarah, and Shannon, of course, and this is Vivian."

Danielle was short, fat, and in her mid-twenties with ringlet curls dyed too red and a big, warm smile that made Rory like her immediately. Sarah looked to be over thirty, and she was drawn and quiet-looking; Rory could not even begin to see how she could be connected to the effervescent duo that had dragged her here. Finally, she turned her eyes to Vivian and could not help but feel humbled. Vivian made Hannah and MM look a little plain by being just as beautiful but several years older and several hundred thousand wealthier if her designer clothing was an indicator. Vivian smiled, but the expression did not reach her eyes. In fact, she looked at Rory as if she were some sort of dangerous foreign bug that must be exterminated quickly. Rory first wondered if it had something to do with Tristan, but then she noticed that Vivian wore the two tell-tale signs of marriage on her left hand, both of which looked staggeringly expensive.

"Everyone, this is Rory, Tristan's Rory," Mary Malone waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "She's come to drink and make merry with us this evening as we celebrate being women. In fact, I'm going to go ask them to put on 'Man, I Feel Like a Woman' right this second. Someone order some shots while I'm gone." She floated off, hips wiggling artfully under her skirt as she strolled.

"One of these days, these girls are going to get married off and there will be no one to drag us out for things like this," Shannon said with a laugh, and the other women chorused their agreement. With the exception of Vivian, they circled the wagons around Rory to make her feel included and welcome, and after a few shots and nearly an hour of conversation, they were all on the dance floor. The frivolity (and the fun, familiar fuzziness of having just a little too much to drink) reminded Rory of how much she missed Mari and her mother; they were the party girls in her life, and they would have loved to be on an outing like this. But with one pregnant and one finally settling down, it was up to Rory to enjoy this while she could.

As a few of them regrouped at the bar for another drink and a chance to catch their breath, Hannah started a new conversation, even sillier than any of the ones they had already been having.

"So, you're on a desert island, and you can have any one of the dreamy men in your life with you. Which one would you choose? Danielle first," Hannah asked, taking her eyes away from the dance floor where Sarah and Mary Malone were still dancing to instead look at the women closer to her.

"Hmmm… Can I say George Clooney?" Danielle asked, grinning, weight slumped over just a little sideways in that sloppy, lazy way that a woman who is buzzing has.

"Is he in your life?"

"He's in my fantasy life!" Danielle whooped, and they all laughed raucously, leaning on one another and enjoying the joke a little too long. Rory recognized that they were making slight fools of themselves, but she was enjoying it too much to care.

"Okay, okay. Accepted. You, Shan." Hannah prompted when the laughter died down. Shannon blushed bright red and mumbled something. "What, Shan?"

"Mark," Shannon said a little louder, and the women responded with a mix of playful boos and squeals at the sweetness of the woman choosing her very own husband of ten years.

"Well after THAT ridiculously adorable note, Rory, who would you choose?"

"C'mon, you know she's going to choose, Triiiiiiistaaaaaan. He's a total babe, and she can't even think about him without getting all… squirmy," Danielle teased, saying the word squirmy with such a clear double meaning that Rory did, in fact, squirm. She thought about the choice, and even a little drunk, she knew what decision she needed to make publically because it was the same one she needed to make privately.

"Dean. I'm going with Dean. Sweet to the core and loves me already," Rory's tongue fumbled on the words a little, slurring them, "'sides, Tristan and I are just friends."

"YEAH RIGHT," the women all exploded, laughing and leaning on each other for support all over again. Except for Vivian who looked right at Rory with eyes flashing dangerously, narrowing them as if to try to determine if the other woman was telling the truth.

Rory wondered what on earth the rich bitch's problem was and took another shot, just so she wouldn't have to waste any more energy thinking about it.

The hangover tomorrow morning was going to be death, but right now, it felt worth it. She rose to her feet again and danced her way back out onto the floor.

AN: This is much faster than my usual update! I must be feeling inspired for this particular story. I'm really enjoying your reviews and seeing what you like and dislike, so keep 'em coming! Getting those story alert emails is great, but it doesn't provide me any concrete feedback, which is what helps the story get better. Hope you're enjoying it as much as when you started reading it! Thanks, y'all!