Jess turns right onto Essex off of Delancey, running past the F station, past the school, past Houston. He stops on the corner of A and 3rd, breathing hard, waiting for the light, Poly Styrene shrieking "Oh bondage, up yours!" through his earbuds. As soon as traffic slows he starts from the curb and narrowly misses colliding with a grubhub driver running the light. He continues up Avenue A, past Tompkins Square Park, and then swings right again, heading back down into Alphabet City. "It's the suede denim secret police, and they have come for your uncool niece" Jello Biafra screams as he slows down on 10th between C and D.

It feels so right and so wrong to be back in his old neighborhood. Everything is different, all the businesses, the neighborhood, the neighbors, but it's still New York. It still bestows the gifts of loneliness and privacy, or whatever it was E. B. White said. He can see his breath in the frosty mid-March air and feel the sweat freezing down his spine. He stops to buy a coffee with cream and sugar from the cart on the corner before heading up to the apartment.

He rounds the corner up the last flight of stairs and fumbles with his keys, feeling every day of the past thirty-eight years in his knees. He pushes the door open, surveying the empty two-bedroom. It's not big, but it's his, all his, and the kind of place he always dreamed of when he was growing up. Built in bookcases, his record collection, comfortable couch, all dark leather and polished walnut, posters in frames, everything in its place. He tosses his phone and keys on the table by the door and kicks off his sneakers.

He turns on the shower and waits for the water to warm up, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He frowns momentarily at his reflection. Dark hair that's getting too long, a couple days stubble, bags under his eyes, and the two lines between his eyebrows from the perpetual scowl that he accidentally allowed to become his default facial expression more than twenty years ago. Ugh. Do I dare to eat a peach? He rubs his eyes. He looks fine. Not that anyone's looking anyway. The hot water feels incredible, washing away the cold sweat and grime from his morning run. He hums The Kinks while he soaps up, mind absently working its way down his to do list. He briefly considers shaving but decides against it. Maybe he'll let the beard grow. Aren't middle aged writers supposed to have beards?

He throws on an old t-shirt, a pair of Levi's, some warm socks, and a sweatshirt. In the kitchen he grabs a yogurt and the coffee from earlier, now tepid in its Anthora cup. He swallows his pills with the cool coffee wincing as they scrape the back of his throat. He settles at his desk at exactly 8am, catching up on emails as he eats the black cherry yogurt. It's too sweet, but there's nothing else in the fridge and he's soon too engrossed in work to notice.

Five hours later he gets his head above water with the manuscript he's editing and takes a breath. His stomach growls, guess it's lunchtime. He throws on a jacket and a pair of Vans, grabbing his keys and phone from their home by the door. He pops his earbuds in as he jogs lightly down the three flights of stairs. He grabs a sandwich at the deli and walks the two blocks over to eat it in the park. It's too cold to eat out here, really, but he likes to get a little fresh air in the middle of the day. Wakes him up, gets his blood going again after sitting around all morning.

When he gets back home he dives back into the manuscript and it holds him hostage until after six. He jumps when his phone rings. It's Chris.

"Hey, what's good?"

"You on your way?"

Jess looks at the clock, "Shit, I totally forgot, coming right now."

"Man, Marla's your client, how could you forget?"

"You know me," Jess holds the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulls a dark button down and a pair of boots out of his closet, "Always too focused on what's in front of me to look at the calendar."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll see you when you get here."

"Be there in fifteen, sorry." Jess hops on one foot, trying to get his other boot on. He grabs his jacket and takes the stairs two at a time. He contemplates grabbing a cab but figures he's a fast walker and he needs the movement. Google says it's a 20 minute walk but he makes it in 12, slipping into the back of the bookstore before the reading begins. There's a good size crowd, which he's happy about because this is Marla's second book and it's a stunner. Her first book didn't make much of a splash, but he thinks this one's got real potential. He looks around to see if he recognizes any critics and fuck, is that Rory Gilmore? It is, and she is still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Somehow even more beautiful than she was at seventeen. Fuck, fuck, fuck, of all the fucking gin joints.

Okay, okay, deep breaths, you are not seventeen, you are not twenty-one, you are a grown ass man with a fucking Booker award get it together. He takes a deep breath and thinks about his feet, he can feel his wool socks against the slick inside of his boots. He feels his weight distributed across the ball and heel of his foot and the ground underneath his lug soles. He takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly. The bookstore owner is introducing Marla and her new book The Easy Faction.

"Hey, you made it just in time," Chris whispers, squeezing Jess' arm.

Jess feels like he jumps three feet in the air, startled at Chris' touch, "oh, hey."

Chris gives him an appraising look. "You good, Mariano?"

Jess swallows hard, trying once more to compose himself. I'm Frank at the Sands."'Course. Just nervous for Marla, first reading for her new book and all."

"Mmhmm, sure."

"Man shut up," he whispers forcefully. Marla takes the mic and Jess breathes a sigh of relief that he had something to focus on.

She reads a chapter from the second part of the book and it's beautifully written and engaging. She's really got something special with this one, it's gonna be big.

After the reading he's chatting with Marla and some of the folks from Truncheon NYC when he feels someone's hand on his arm, he turns and there she is–

Thought of you as my mountaintop

Thought of you as my peak

Thought of you as everything

I've had but couldn't keep

I've had but couldn't keep

"Rory," he says in as level a voice as he can manage.

"Jess, it's good to see you!" Her voice is soft and her eyes steady cobalt pools.

"You too. It's been a long time." He swallows the lump in his throat. Marla, Chris, Haley, this is Rory Gilmore."

"Hi," Rory shook hands all around. "Lovely reading, I thought Winter Plenty was great, but The Easy Faction is so gripping and it just plunges you into the world. It's going to be big."

"Oh, you've read it already?" Marla said with a surprised smile.

Rory smiles, a little apologetically, "I got an ARC, Times Book Review."

Marla gapes, Jess laughs, "Sorry, I should have mentioned that Rory's with The Times."

"I'm just here as a fan, though," Rory adds. "Phil Stroud's writing the review."

"We'll, now that I know you're a fan I wish you were writing it," says Marla. "We're heading over to The Library, want to join us for a drink?"

"Oh wow, I'd love to, thanks," Rory says.

As they walk down Houston towards the bar, Jess lags behind the rest, watching Marla and Rory chatter, their heads together and Chris, Haley, and Ben laughing at some dumb joke. How does his high school girlfriend still have this weird vice grip on his heart? He knew she was in NYC and he keeps up with her articles, but being aware of her in the abstract and having her appear right in front of him are two very different things. He needs a beer, stat.

They pile into one of the low, rounded booths in the back of the bar. The Library is one of the last great punk dives on the Lower East Side and one of Jess' favorite spots. Just being here puts him instantly more at ease. Talking Heads are on the jukebox and Psycho projected on the back wall. Rory seems to fit in with his crew immediately, seamlessly.

"So, I'm stopped on the corner of Flatbush and Fulton," Marla is saying, "and this guy is standing next to me and just saying, 'it's a perfect day, not too hot, not too cold,' over and over again, and I realize he's talking to me, but what am I supposed to do with that? Honestly it was scarier than if he came up to me yelling a bunch of nasty stuff 'cuz at least I know how to react in that situation."

Rory giggles, god, her laugh, it does things to him, "You should have just told Miss Rhode Island that all he needs is a light sweater."

"Yeah, and then he would have probably stabbed me," Marla said.

"Or maybe you would have fallen in love, honestly that interaction has soulmate written all over it; " Rory jokes.

"No way, my soulmate would know I hate talking to randos."

"But everyone's a rando until you get to know them, " Rory says with mock solemnity.,

Haley brings a round of Brooklyn Lagers and they toast Marla and The Easy Faction and Truncheon and daylight savings for bringing longer days and just about anything else they can think of as the night wears on. Chris is the first to leave, begging off with excuses of having to drive to Philly for a meeting first thing in the morning. Jess thinks he should go too, he doesn't want to risk being the last one here with Rory alone, but he's got that thick, floaty feeling of an evening with a few beers and good company and he's enjoying himself too much to leave.

"So," Haley says, "how do you two know each other?" gesturing to Jess and Rory. " The Times?"

Jess' collar is suddenly too tight. Is it hot in here? He never should have hired Haley.

"We knew each other in high school," Rory says. "In Connecticut."

"Jess, I thought you were from New York " Marla says, taking a gulp of her IPA.

"I am, but I lived in Stars Hollow for a couple of years when I was a teenager."

"God, I can't imagine you as a teenager," Haley says.

"He was pretty much exactly what you would think, leather jacket, nose in a book, all hard angles and tough guy sneers, secretly a big ol' softie," Rory says with obvious amusement.

That hurt a little, but then again it's not like it's a lie.

"So you went to school together?"

Rory clears her throat and frowns into her now empty glass. "Well, not exactly"

"No way, you two dated?"

"How did you get there from "not exactly,"" Jess demands.

"Please," Haley scoffs, "women know these things."

"Yeah, we dated. " Rory admits. "It was a long time ago."

"Oh wow, I bet he was cute."

"Very, " Rory laughs, "We bonded over books."

"He broke your heart!!!" Marla exclaims with conviction.

Jess knows his face is bright red. It's taking every ounce of maturity he has not to get up and leave right now.

"No, no," Rory says a little weakly. "It was bad timing on both sides. Neither of us was ready for something serious."

Nice save, Gilmore, Jess shoots her a grateful glance but she pointedly looks away.

"So," Rory continues, changing the subject, "Did you see that article about the guy that found

the amazing library hidden away in an abandoned mansion?"

"Ugh yes, the dream! Just imagine. What would you do if you found something like that?" Marla says wistfully.

Jess stays a bit longer, but he doesn't think he can take much more. She's too close, just one person over in the booth, drinking a Tecate tall boy, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

He clears his throat. "I'm going to head out, got work to do."

"Aww, so soon Mr. Editor?" Marla whines.

"'Fraid so. Rory, good to see you again."

"You too, Jess." She smiles. God she is going to be the end of him.

"See you at work tomorrow?" Haley asks.

"Sure thing." Jess cashes out and walks slowly home. It's past midnight, past his usual bedtime and he's feeling warm and boozy and more than a little mad at himself for somehow still being hung up on this girl twenty years later. He feels eighteen again, chest tight, wound up like a spring, ready to burst. He takes a deep breath of the cool, damp, mid-march air and feels the breeze on his face. Everything's fine.

When the morning comes she's the first thing on his mind as he laces his sneakers for his run. It's 7:30 already, a late start for him, but he's feeling the physical effects of last night's beers and the emotional hangover from seeing her again.

Maybe he'll take a long run this morning, then head to the office. He needs the distraction, doesn't want to be alone in the apartment all day today. He takes a different route today, turning right out of the building, running until he hits the East River and then running along the water. It's cold, maybe forty degrees, but it feels good. He speeds up, trying to purge the tension in his chest, to burn it out.

After his daily shower, pills, yogurt routine, he walks over to the Truncheon bookstore near the Flatiron. It's a slow morning, business doesn't usually pick up until lunchtime. He says hi to Haley and Kayla, and heads straight to the back stairs and up to the offices. Nick, their admin is there, but that's it. Chris is in Philly and Ellen isn't in for the day yet. She claims the afternoon hours are better for her because writers never want to meet in the morning, but he thinks it's probably just because she likes to sleep in.

He settles in at his desk, checks his email, fires off a few responses, clicks around looking at the profit/loss spreadsheet for February. He sends a couple of queries, but he's just faking it at this point. He feels too unsettled and jumpy to work in his quiet office, it's no better than at home.

He goes back downstairs to the bookstore. Haley's in the back unpacking a pallet she just received.

"Want some help?" He asks.

"Sure!"

They work for almost an hour, him unpacking boxes of hardcovers, sorting them onto v carts and putting overstock away while Haley puts the quantities in the inventory system and checks them against the invoice. Haley happily chats about the store, the annoying customer they had yesterday, last night's reading, next week's open house at the bookstore. This was what he needed: something to occupy his hands and his brain. Repetition. Distraction. He lets her voice wash over him, half listening, moving automatically.

When he returns to his office he feels fresh and ready to dive back into the manuscript he's editing. It's one of his oldest clients, and one who always takes rounds of back and forth to get the work ready to publish. The prose is dense and he buries himself in its thick underbrush. Notating insights, story issues, character inconsistencies, grammar and writing issues, he feels sure of himself here, certain he's making the right calls, competent to guide this manuscript and its author through the editing and publishing process. The afternoon flies and when he finally looks up the sun is setting.

He walks home, taking his time, savoring the city, enjoying the walk in the misty, almost spring rain. When he gets home, the radiator is hissing softly and rivulets are running down his kitchen window. Jess puts Darklands on the turntable and pours himself a bourbon over ice. He leans heavily on the counter for a moment, pinching his brow, then pulls himself upright and starts dinner.