Rory was sitting in the office of her advisor, Professor Julien Moore, who was trying to convince her to go to some seminar on the impact of postmodernism in the 21st century psyche, a stretch from Rory's own focus on 20th century political fiction.

"It'll be a good networking opportunity," said Julien, handing Rory the flyer. "I know it's not directly relevant to your area, but you're getting closer to graduating, and especially early in your career you'll find that you have to branch out of your comfort zone a bit if you're gonna get a job."

Rory only had a few months left before her planned dissertation submission date, and the prospect of finally getting a real job after all of that was becoming ever more real. So, later that night she but on her best young-professional outfit that was still practical for a January evening in Massachusetts, and took the T into Boston. The city was fairly quiet, a lot of people put off of leaving their homes by the seemingly endless snow and the fact that they'd emptied out their bank accounts before midday on January 1st. It brought out one of Rory's favourite parts of the city – the fact that it still seemed like a small town at times. She stopped in at a coffee shop by the Common for a triple espresso to get her through the evening, and walked up Boylston to the Central Library.

Rory grabbed a napkin full of canapés on her way to her seat, avoiding the champagne at least until she'd finished her coffee. She took out her notebook, not entirely clear on what she was going to take notes on, but having something to do with her hands made her feel less awkward about being on her own. She'd never been good at networking, generally taking a while to come out of her shell and not being too keen on tooting her own horn, but if she was going to stand a chance of getting a job in the nepotistic world of academia, it seemed that this was her only option.

The event was a panel-discussion style, with the panel including academics, publishers, and authors. In typical fashion, the academics had protracted debates on what counts as postmodernism, the publishers talked about consumer trends, and the authors went on semi-comprehensible tangents. Rory scribbled some notes that she hoped would help her say something vaguely interesting and intelligent when she was talking to some of the other attendees, circling some of the main points from each panellist as the event wound down into the Q&A section. This distracted her until she was abruptly refocused by a voice emanating from the front of the room.

"Just because the public seems to be moving away from postmodernism, does that really mean publishers should be giving up on it? Don't we have a responsibility to support authors regardless of genre, through repackaging, rethinking, exposing audiences to what they think they don't want?"

That voice. Rory's stomach dropped as the panel discussed the overly moralistic nature of small publishers.

It had been well over a year. Work was so hectic in her final year that she hadn't made it home for Luke's birthday, thanksgiving, or Christmas. This was the last thing she expected this evening. Suddenly, any thoughts about jobs and networking had gone completely out the window. She had to talk to him, she knew that much – there was too great a risk that he had already seen her, and he'd know now that she'll have noticed him from hearing the question. She'd seen him so many times in the last 5 years at birthdays and anniversaries and the occasional firelight festival, but always in the context of family gatherings – never in the wild, and never on her own.

As soon as the event was over, she powerwalked over to the champagne, turned to the wall, and downed a glass as subtly as she could manage. Something to take the edge off. And the triple espresso had amplified the edge considerably.

"Canapés make you thirsty?"

Not as subtly as she'd hoped. Rory took a breath, and turned around.

"Hey, Jess."

"Hey yourself."

He looked good. Not just attractive – he always looked attractive – but confident. He was in his element here, and it showed. There was a spark in his eyes that typically wasn't there when he was trying to make small talk with his cousin or half-sister back in Star's Hollow. He was wearing a red flannel shirt (increasingly taking after his uncle as he got older) and tan chinos. He'd grown his hair out a bit since she last saw him, though she suspected it was more to do with neglecting haircuts in favour of working than any conscious style decision. Usually she prepared herself before she saw him, but now that she was caught off guard, there was no denying the lingering feelings.

"It's been a while, Gilmore. I think the last time I saw you was your mom's birthday"

"Yeah, uh, it's been really crazy at school lately, I haven't been home much. Um, how have you been? I'm surprised to see you here."

"Yeah well we're thinking of opening another Truncheon office out here. I'm staying here for a bit to scout out locations, meet some people."

"Oh wow that's – " Rory was interrupted by one of the panellists coming over to shake Jess's hand. She reached for another glass of champagne while his back was turned. Too much edge. She saw someone that she recognised from conferences as a member of the English faculty at Boston College. She knew she should talk to him, but couldn't drag herself away from the spot where she had a perfect view of the back of Jess's head. She made a mental note to email Mr. Boston College tomorrow.

"Listen," Jess said, turning around. "I've been doing this meet and greet crap for three days in a row and I can't take much more of the fake smiling and friendly demeanour. Do you wanna get out of here and get a drink?"

Rory felt like a deer in the headlights. For the last god knows how many years, she had prepared for every time she knew she was going to see Jess so that she wouldn't end up crying herself to sleep. All of her years of overanalysing, pro-con lists, thinking through every possibility that could arise from a scenario, all of that had trained her perfectly for never allowing herself to be vulnerable around Jess again. Except for now.

"Sure." The word came out of her mouth before she had even processed it. Fuck that champagne.