A/N: Thanks for the feedback on the last chapter guys! Don't worry, Literati is coming, I swear!

Eight and a Half

By Imagine Backstory

Chapter Six – The Café Livre & Wost Case Scenarios

Rory

I kept my headphones in, listening to Lorelai's playlist as I wandered around Times Square. From Norah Jones to Bobby Darin, it was all on there. It put a bounce in my step as I strolled along the busy streets; summer in New York was packed, and today was no exception. Could it be that all eight million people living here were all in Times Square at the sametime? It sure felt like it. I bought myself a pretzel the size of my head and sat on the glowing red steps in the center of the square, careful to keep my legs tucked in so as not to flash anyone. I rarely wore a skirt, but today was one of those days I felt positively feminine.

Of course, I ended up in Colony Music, sifting through the endless shelves of vinyls and score books for all kinds of instruments; that is, every instrument imagineable. I felt truly content for the first time since Saturday, just wandering amongst the music and listening to Oletta Adams tell me all about being in a New York state of mind, all the while completely agreeing with her. Perhaps this was just the break I needed.

I wandered over to Wall Street and shamelessly window shopped, and stopped by FAO Schwarz to play on the famous gigantic keyboard. All the while, I just listened to my music and kept a stupid smile on my face, just enjoying being lost in the big city, all by myself for the first time in a long while.

At five o'clock I headed back to the hotel to shower and get ready to meet Jess. My shirt was sticking to my back and my hair was matted around my forehead and neck; hours of walking around New York City on a hot summer's day had me drenched in my own sweat.

I stood in the middle of the hotel room, one towel wrapped tightly around my bust, another one around my hair, and put my hands on my hips, deliberating what to wear. Not wanting to put too much thought into it, I pulled on a pair of jean shorts and a loose-fitting boho-style top, and completed the outfit with a pair of gladiator sandals. I made short work of my hair, blow-drying it and then sweeping it into a messy braid, grateful for the breeze on the back of my neck this provided me. I swiped on a bit of mascara and lip gloss, and then I was ready to go.

I still had an hour to kill before I had to meet Jess. I puttered around my room a bit, then sifted through my bags until I found my book. I curled up on the couch to read, but quickly found that the words were blurring on the page, and I gave up after I read the same sentence five times and still had no idea what I had just read.

Bored and anxious, I grabbed my cell and phoned Lorelai, hoping her incessant chatter would pass the time. "How can I possibly be bored and only on my fourth hour in New York City?" I asked, ignoring her loud greeting in which she once again referred to me as the something of her loins.

Lorelai giggled. "Rory, I want you to know that while I am generally extremely proud of you, you continue to make me face-palm at least once per day."

"You're funny," I snarled, pegging to kill whoever taught my mother what a face-palm was. "Seriously, what's wrong with me?"

"Well, do you have plans for tonight?" Lorelai asked. "Do you have any friends you could meet up with?"

Fearing I may wear a hole in the carpet where I was pacing, I sat back down on the couch, pulling my feet up under me. "I...have plans already for tonight," I murmured casually. "But it's not for another hour and I don't know what to do in the meantime."

"Oh, yeah? What plans?"

She knew. There was no pussyfooting around it now. "Um—"

"I reeeaaaaallllyyyy hope it doesn't start with a J and end with an Ess..." Lorelai pressed, her voice getting whinier by the minute.

"Well—"

"I knew it!"

"Mom, it's nothing. We're just catching up over some drinks—"

"Some drinksss-uh? As in, plural?" Lorelai asked incredulously. "Rory, everyone knows you can't handle your liquor."

"A drink," I spat, articulating the K, "and I can too hold my liquor! Did you see me at the opening ceremony?"

"Rory," Lorelai said, her voice suddenly serious, "what are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" But my voice was quiet.

"You know what I mean. I'm a little concerned about this Jess thing. First you're inviting him to your wedding, then you're drinking with him in New York—is there even a review, Rory? Or are you really just going to see him?"

I exploded, suddenly fed up. "Mom! I can handle myself, okay? And I sure as hell can handle Jess. Besides, I'm engaged, remember? Nothing is going to happen. It's just two people—two friends—grabbing a drink and catching up on the past eight and a half years in which we haven't seen each-other. Okay?"

"Yes, tell me more about this engagement," Lorelai snapped. I could hear the fight growing in her voice. "James called the house today. He had no idea you'd left town. Thank god I didn't let anything about New York slip."

"I didn't tell him because I didn't want to take any attention away from him and his family," I explained quickly.

Lorelai sighed exasperatedly. "You really think James is the kind of guy who would look at your good news that way? Are you sure your not telling him had nothing to do with the fact that you planned on seeing Jess while you were there?"

"It wouldn't matter anyway, because James doesn't even know Jess exists," I cried, then I stopped.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Then, Lorelai exhaled slowly. "You never told him."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, damning myself internally for letting that slip. "James has a jealous streak, Mom. If I'd told him about Jess and our history he never would have been comforable with me seeing Jess again. It's so stupid because Jess and I weren't even talking, but...I couldn't stand the idea of not being able to talk to him if the opportunity arose..."

"Did you tell him about Dean?" Lorelai asked. "He was at the party."

"Yeah, he knows about Dean," I conceded weakly. "And Logan, for that matter. But not Jess. Never Jess."

Lorelai was silent for a bit longer. I could practically hear the gears wirring in her head. Then, finally, "Rory, you're a big girl. I know you're going to do whatever you want no matter what I say, but just for the record, I think you're making a huge mistake by seeing Jess tonight. That's all I'm going to say."

"Good," I snapped, "bye." And I hung up.

I angrily drummed my fingers against my book cover, and then had a wonderful idea. I still had forty minutes. Grabbing my purse and my sunglasses, I headed out the door.

I gaped at the brick exterior and then looked back at the map app on my phone. Sure enough, I was in the exact right place. But this was far from what I had expected. What I had expected was a classy, hole-in-the-wall office-type space with muted colours and a plain sign on the front.

What was actually here was a huge brick façade with parisian style patio furniture complete with brilliant yellow sun umbrellas. Wrought iron fencing closed off the outside dining area, and a sandwhich board was propped out on the sidewalk listing the mouth-watering food and drink specials being offered that evening. I could hear live music drifting through the outdoor speakers; a lone guitarist and vocalist, by the sounds of it. And the place was packed. All the tables outside were full and I could see the press of bodies through the windows, which were framed with lavender shutters.

Above the huge industrial-looking set of double doors was a sign which read Café Livre, with by Truncheon Books printed in smaller letters underneath it.

I couldn't believe my eyes. This was where Jess worked?

The place was too inviting not to go in, all my nerves aside. I put my phone away, pushed my sunglasses up onto my forehead, and pushed open the doors to Café Livre.

Inside, I saw that my theory was right; a young man was seated on a raised platform with a guitar in his lap, and he was accompanying himself on the guitar as he sang (I should live in salt for leaving you...behind). The chatter in the place was kept to a dull roar; but what amazed me was the seating arrangements. There were no tables for two or even for four—the dining area was lined with four long wooden tables which stretched the entire length of the space, with matching barstools attached. It was obvious that people had arrived in smaller groups but were now chatting freely with their neighbours, and each table was littered with jugs of beer in various stages of depletion. I caught sight of some of the food, as well, and instantly felt my stomach rumble; at the same moment, I realized that I hadn't eaten anything since that pretzel in Times Square.

Checking my watch, I realized I still had half an hour till I had to meet Jess, and the Stardust Diner was only a short cab ride away. My eyes swept the tables, immediately knowing I was too shy to sit at one of them alone and proceed to chat with strangers for the next half an hour. That's when I caught sight of the bar, kind of tucked into the corner by the stage. I made my way towards it, relieved to find that there was indeed seating available there and that there were a couple of loners already seated.

As I pulled myself up onto a seat, I finally allowed myself to sweep the place for any sign of Jess. Quickly realizing he wasn't there, I relaxed a little and swung my purse over the back of my chair.

A pretty girl with dark but vibrant red hair emerged from the swinging kitchen door and approached me with a friendly smile. "Hey there," she said brightly, "would you like a menu or are you just drinking?"

I took in the sight of her: hipster-style clothing, one ear covered in piercings as well as a gold ring through one nostril, and each arm a sleeve of intricate tattoos. I tried to picture Jess working the bar next to her, but just couldn't. "Menu, please," I replied, returning her smile. When she returned with a menu, I said, "This place is so cool. I've never been here before."

She got a little twinkle in her eyes, which I noticed were a rather stunning shade of green. "Thanks! It's been a long haul but I couldn't be happier with it."

Mulling over her words, my mouth fell open. "You're the manager?"

She smiled. "That's me."

"Wow," I breathed, genuinely impressed. She looked so young to be a manager; barely legal drinking age, even. "Well, I'm impressed. This place is great. I love the long tables."

She looked absolutely delighted. "Thanks, hon. I'll give you a minute to look over the menu?"

"Actually," I said before she could walk away, "I was wondering if you could tell me if Jess is here?"

She perked up a little. "No, sorry, he's gone home already. You know Jess?" Almost absently, she grabbed a glass from the sanitizer and wiped it with a dry cloth.

I deliberated my words, unsure if I wanted to reveal too much. After all, he didn't know that I had come here. Part of me didn't want him to know I had. "He's an old friend," I replied vaguely, turning my gaze briefly to the menu, though I couldn't concentrate on it.

It could have been the low light, but I swear I saw her smile falter a little, and I noticed her body tense slightly. She stared at me, her eyes darting up and down to take me in. Finally, though, "I see," was all she said.

Anxious for this awkward moment to be over, I quickly scanned the menu and then handed it back to her. "I think I'll just grab some yam fries for now. With the salt and pepper dip, please."

She smiled through closed lips, took my menu, and walked away briskly. I frowned, feeling a sudden chill even in the sweltering heat of the packed summer bar. That was weird.

Jess

Rory was late.

I didn't know why I was surprised; Gilmores were known for their tardiness. But each second she left me alone in this godforsaken place was worth a snarky remark at her expense, and as it was already she was looking at a long night of infuriating commentary from me.

Finally, she arrived, out of breath and pink in the face. She tossed her purse and then herself into the booth opposite me, sighing heavily. "Sorry I'm late," she breathed, taking her sunglasses off her forehead and running a hand over to smooth her bangs back. "Traffic sucked. I ran most of the way here."

"Traffic always sucks here," I replied nonchalantly, picking up my menu.

The waiter approached to fill Rory's water glass, which she quickly downed, sweetly asking for a refil. I felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth as I watched her; the pink in her face was spreading in lines down her neck and over her collarbone, dipping down beyond the limited view that her shirt gave me. Her mascara was slightly smudged in the corner of one eye, but I was hardly going to tell her. Overall, she looked as Rory as ever. Rory in summertime. My favourite Rory, I realized in the moment. In the summer, Rory was always slightly pink, her eyes always just that much more vibrant and shiny, her small chest swelling slightly in the heat.

I shook my head, already annoyed with myself and everything else as a song broke out somewhere behind me (GOOD MORNING, BALTIMORE!). I could feel Rory's knowing look on me as the waiter left us to peruse, but I kept my eyes firmly trained on the menu (though I could not tell you a single thing that was actually on it). Finally, she said, her eyes sparkling, "You hate it here, don't you?"

"With a passion fierier than Mel Gibson's Christ," I growled.

She raised her eyebrows. "Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

"Bail."

I peered up at her from under my lashes, and I couldn't help but return her slightly evil-looking grin.

We pushed through the crowds of Times Square, searching for somewhere suitable to eat. I felt Rory's hand clamp down onto my forearm so as to not get separated from me, and I all but dragged her through, throwing over my shoulder that This was not Stars Hollow, Gilmore, you gotta push, for Christssakes.

Finally, we settled on a hot dog stand and sat at a table in the middle of the Square to eat. To her credit, she devoured hers almost as fast as I did mine. Licking ketchup off her thumb, she looked up at me thoughtfully. "You belong here, you know," she said quietly.

"Oh yeah?" I popped the last bit of my hot dog into my mouth, savouring the salty goodness of New York specialty on my tongue.

"Yeah," she confirmed, bobbing her head. She sat on her hands and leaned forward, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears. "You belong where there's activity and excitement and art. I mean it, Jess."

I wiped my mouth on a napkin and sat back, folding my hands across my abdomen. "I know you do."

We stayed silent like that for a moment, her scrunched up and leaning towards me, me slouching in my chair with my knees spread wide. Finally, realizing she wasn't going to break the ice, I sat up and leaned forward, linking my fingers together on the table between us. "So. You said you had some in-person news to tell me?"

Her eyebrows shot up and I smirked, knowing she had likely forgotten all about it. "I nearly forgot!" Check. "I'm here to review an Off-Broadway show." Her eyes lit up as she spoke.

I scratched my nose, trying not to let my surprise show. "Uh...review?"

She blushed softly and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah. I work for the New Haven Register...I'm an arts columnist. I mostly review live performances." She bit her lip, dropping her gaze. "I guess you wouldn't have known that."

I jerked one shoulder up. "Nope."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Well, aren't you just up for a good conversation tonight?" she asked coyly.

I returned the eye roll and leaned back in my seat, tilting the chair back so it balanced on its hind legs. "This is kinda weird," I explained.

She nodded, then stood, slinging her purse over her shoulder. She stood at my side expectantly, but I remained seated. "What are you doing?" I grunted.

"We need booze," she replied simply.

I couldn't argue with her on that one.

We strolled down the street in silence, me with my hands buried in the pockets of my shorts, her fiddling with the strap of her purse. I couldn't help but notice how incredibly pasty her bare legs looked next to my olive-toned shins. I could practically see the blue of her veins running their course beneath her skin. Still, it looked as soft as I remembered it, and was still covered in a fragile dusting of freckles. Out of nowhere, a lyric came to me. Though she's my summer girl, her skin is white as snow / Her eyes are like ice, perhaps she belongs in the cold.

I shook my head to clear the creative thoughts. "Where are we going?" I asked, realizing quickly that we were just wandering.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I was following you. This is your city."

I scoffed. "Hardly mine."

She paused, chewing her lip. "Why don't we go to your place?"

I couldn't control my eyes widening, my eyebrows shooting up, and the shocked look I gave her. Hell, I nearly stopped in my tracks. Realizing her mistake, she fumbled over her words, a blush spreading fast over her porcelain skin. "I meant—your work place. Truncheon!" she blurted, panic making her body tense up next to me.

I only barely relaxed, but at least managed to get my expression under control. "I don't think that's a good idea," I mumbled.

Still in recovery, Rory breathed, "Why not?"

"I just spent the last ten hours there, Ror. I don't really want to spend all night there, too." Good excuse. Believable.

I wondered, briefly, why I didn't just tell Rory about Nora. It wasn't as if she was just a passing moment in my life—she was for real. For keeps, if I had it my way. If we were here to catch up, Rory deserved to know. But something inside of me—and I desperately wanted to flatten whatever it was—dug its heels in, preventing my brain from linking those thoughts to my mouth.

Rory was talking. "I'd love to spend so much time there. It's a really nice place."

Brain. Function. Process. What did she just say?

For the second time that night, I turned to her, shocked. "You went?"

Also for the second time, she blushed. "Uh, yeah. Earlier this evening. Was hoping I'd catch you leaving," she added, as if that made up for the fact that she fucking went to the Café. Which likely meant she had seen Nora—or heaven forbid, talked to Nora.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

Focus.

She was still talking, rambling over her own thoughts. "I'm sorry, I know you probably wanted to show me yourself but I was just so curious. It's really an amazing place, Jess, it's incredible. I wish I'd seen the publishing house—I didn't even know you had a whole restaurant in there! And the food was delicious—"

I was only half listening. I was turning over best and worst case scenarios in my head. Best case scenario: Nora didn't see Rory at all. Isabel served Rory. Maybe even Dimitri did. Yeah, that would be best. Meh case scenario: Nora did see Rory, but didn't talk to her. Worst case scenario: Nora served Rory, and talked to her. Absolute fucking nightmare worst case scenario: Nora talked to Rory and found out who Rory was. Or vice versa—

Did Rory know?

Watching Rory ramble, I doubted it. Plus, if Nora had figured it out, I doubted she would have said anything to Rory. But if Nora knew, I was fucked later tonight when I got home. I was already bracing myself for a Nora-nova explosion. I'd only seen it a few times over the span of our relationship, but it was definitely not pretty, and so not what I was in the mood for tonight. It was already a fucking weird-ass night, I was with Rory Gilmore in Times Square for crying out loud.

"Rory," I suddenly snapped, cutting her off mid-sentence. "We're not going to Truncheon, okay?"

She clamped down on her lip immediately and looked away, once again fiddling with the strap of her purse.

And just like that, I was the asshole.

I sighed and raked a hand through my hair. Taking Rory's elbow, I steered her to the side of the sidewalk, leaving room for people to get by us. "Look," I began, keeping my voice low and calm, "I'll take you back to your hotel. This really isn't—we shouldn't be—" I paused, scrubbing my hand across my jaw. "I can't do this," I said finally. I didn't know where the words had come from, but there they were.

She got that pouty, pleading look on her face that I hated. I could never deny her anything when she looked at me like that. "Jess, please," she said softly, folding her arms across her torso. "You don't need to tell me about your life or anything if you don't want to. And I won't tell you about mine, if you don't want to hear it. But please, can we just...I want to...I need a friend, okay?" She let this burst forth, and I knew right away this was what she had been meaning to say all along. "I'm having a shitty time right now and I just need to talk to someone who doesn't know me. Someone subjective, someone who will just listen and not judge and just be there. So, please, can we please get some alcohol so I can spill my guts? Because I really need to spill my guts, Jess."

I was stunned. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard Rory speak so much about a personal matter. Absently, instinctly, I reached out and gently brushed the back of my forefinger across her cheek, sweeping a lock of hair behind her ear. "But I do know you, Rory," I said softly, looking directly into her eyes.

She got a strange look in her eyes, one that rattled me to the very core, but then it was gone with a couple of blinks of her eye. She stepped out of my touch and pushed her hands into the pockets of her shorts. In the slowly fading evening light, the crown of her hair shone red. "It's for the Times," she mumbled to her feet.

I blinked, taken aback. "What is?"

"My article," she said. "My review. It's for the New York Times."

I let my breath go in one long, smooth exhalation, staring down at Rory with a strange burning sensation in my gut. Then, slinging an arm over her shoulder, I steered her back into the flow of people, letting the current take us towards just the place I knew we needed to go.

"Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly.

"To get booze," I replied, grinning down at her. "We're celebrating, Gilmore."

A/N: Thanks for reviewing, guys! And I promise, next chapter is alllllllllll Jess and Rory. Review for the glimpse of what's to come? ;)