Apparently, the atmosphere of a small town was like that of a sensory deprivation tank. Silent, exclusive. Wet only at inopportune moments.

Jess couldn't remember having slept less in his life. He was from New York, for God's sake. You got used to the noise of the city pretty quickly when it was all you knew. Stars Hollow was a vacuum. Stars Hollow, Connecticut, was an episode of The Twilight Zone. It was one slice of a really early Stephen King short story. The moment he first got off the bus and set foot on those holy white sidewalks, he knew it would be forever too quiet here. And he couldn't sleep when it was quiet. Even back home, he'd needed music to reach REM.

That was probably why he was late to school in the morning, and late to every class at school, and late getting back to the diner, and late getting a start on any kind of homework he'd been assigned.

Or maybe it wasn't a lack of sleep slowing him down. Maybe it was the fact that he just didn't care. Jess had been on autopilot ever since Liz had shipped him off with everything but a non-refundable stamp. Like a beat-up UPS package. Or a used washing machine. School was just another building he didn't want to be in, the diner was more grunt work he didn't like to be doing, and his uncle was simply company he had never asked for in the first place.

The second he'd come in from school, Luke had ordered him to hit the books. Jess had gone upstairs to 'get a pencil', because Luke clearly only kept pens in the restaurant, and killed about fifteen minutes pretending to look for one. Then he'd parked himself near the junk drawer so he could act like he'd just been rummaging, should Luke burst in. He was, in reality, stealing some time to continue rereading The Sun Also Rises.

Yes, eventually, he'd have to make another appearance downstairs so that Liz's brother didn't waste precious oxygen on yet another lecture about grades. Luke Danes was one good rant away from an ulcer, healthy diet or no healthy diet. As funny as that would be, Jess had no desire to cause it and deal with the backlash. Leave that to the gawky wet blanket, Kirk, on a particularly busy diner afternoon someday. All of the entertainment, none of the hassle.

When he did go back downstairs, stopping beside the end of the counter to not-really-read his open math textbook, a voice like a fire alarm rose over the general late-lunch crowd. It was directed right at him.

"Hey! Where'd he come from? What's up there?"

Jess' head jerked up. He briefly took in the speaker, a blonde with eyebrows like knives sitting at one of the stools. Then his gaze slid naturally to the brunette beside her. Improved view. Improved everything. The two girls were clad in the same outfit, had the same general Ludwig Bemelman vibe, but Rory wore it better. The sweater was softer or something. The plaid was brighter. It couldn't have been easy, making conformity in dull blue look approachable, but if anyone could pull it off—

The blonde would not be ignored. And she was talking to Luke. Like that. Maybe Kirk wouldn't get the chance to play reaper after all. "Is that where you keep the girls; you got yourself a little cathouse up there?"

Rory was looking both abashed and ready to crack up. Jess felt his own mouth curling. The idea of Luke Danes having anything to do with a cathouse—anything to do with girls, plural—was too much to let go of.

"Wow, I think she got you, Uncle Luke. You better give up now!"

Jess watched Luke's entire face twist up the way it did whenever he used the uncle title. Two shades of red, every time. The blonde already had the veins in Luke's neck showing. Whatever Rory's classmate was after, she was about to be disappointed.

"Do not add to this insanity," Luke growled, pointing at him with a whole hand.

The pointing never worked. It had taken them less than a week of co-existing to agree on that, and Luke still insisted on pointing. Jess, fighting a grin, came around the counter to tap the spot nearest Rory with the pencil. "An innocent boy like me should not be raised in an atmosphere like this!"

"Jess."

Jess' palms flew up. "I wanna be good, life's just not letting me!"

The blonde was a rigid blur, practically nonexistent. Rory was the main audience here. She met his eyes for a split second, not commenting or joining in the bit. She didn't have to. He saw some of the tension leaving her shoulders. She wasn't going to laugh at him, maybe out of respect for his burger-flipping relation, but she wanted to. He could see it.

Luke turned to the girls. "Rory, get her outta here."

"Okay, let's go." Rory took her friend by the sleeve and had to bodily drag her off the stool, marching for the door.

The other girl went on blaring the whole way out. "Why do you need me to leave? What have you got to hide?"

Jess twiddled his fingers, smirking at her. The blonde saw the smirk, inhaled, and was interrupted as Rory gave a last yank, reaching with her other hand for the doorknob.

"Paris, let's go!"

Paris turned one more time to glower at Luke, and then at Jess, before she left. It was like two brown, rusty bullets being fired at them. It was hilarious.

Luke heaved a sigh and, as soon as they were gone, turned on his nephew. "Was that absolutely necessary?"

"Just improving your street cred any way I can."

"My street cred is fine. I like my street cred the way it is." Luke shoved Jess toward his textbook with one massive hand on his shoulder. "Do some homework."

"Gonna be hard to concentrate with all the promiscuity around here."

"Gonna be a lot harder when I confiscate your book and stick you with mop duty for the rest of the night."

"That's it, bury the shame."

As Luke went back to whatever it was Luke did while Caesar did most of the cooking, Jess flipped the page of his math book with one hand, eyes out the window. Outside, near one of the lampposts, Rory was clearly talking Paris down. Her ponytail kept whipping back and forth as she gestured, meeting the preppy scary chick at her level. Paris was gesturing in much sharper movements. She never seemed to come up for air. Now Rory was rolling her eyes, tilting her head. Big, round gaze flicking toward her own reflection in the diner's windows, then back to her classmates. Blue, blue. She was probably bored out of her skull.

A jingle sounded and a mostly-orange blur came charging into Luke's. A distracted half-glance told Jess who it was.

Lane slung her backpack down onto the counter near the cash register. Something red, white and papery was sticking out of its open maw. That was all Jess saw before turning back to the view of the street, but he could hear her just fine from behind the math.

"Hey, Lane. What'll you have?" Luke sounded considerably more relaxed. Blood pressure lowered.

"I need the biggest cup of caffeinated tea you can brew and steep in under six minutes," Lane heaved. "Preferably anything that doesn't taste like a flower."

"Comin' up."

Rory was talking now; Paris was somewhat still. Whatever she was saying, there was a lot less of the hands. No, that was semi-true. She had begun using them to re-tie her ponytail instead. Was her hair shorter today? Now Paris was nodding. Maybe. She was still a vague loud blob in his peripherals. Much less interesting to observe.

"Jess."

Jess turned, slower than was necessary. Lane was saying his name. She said it in a weird thud, like she'd been saying it a lot or something, and he hadn't heard till now. She didn't seem annoyed, but it was hard to really tell, especially with the lack of energy he was putting into the analysis. The mannerisms of the satirical Korean seated in front of him in every English Literature class wasn't exactly at the top of his list to memorize. But she was one of the only people in this Peaksville with any kind of taste. And one of the only people he didn't mind interacting with on a quasi-daily basis.

Lane was giving him a look like he'd drooled on his shirt. Why was she talking to him?

"What?"

"I was just gonna ask you why you're reading that upside-down."

Jess glanced down at the textbook and obligingly, showily turned it around so it was facing the right way. He hadn't noticed and didn't respond. Actually, he'd stopped listening.

"Then I realized you're not reading it, so."

She was a gnat. Somewhere to his right. A glasses-wearing gnat with an acceptable Aerosmith T-shirt on under her jacket. Outside, the prep pair appeared to be debating which street to terrorize next.

"What are you looking at?" Lane had, at some point in the last two seconds, slid off her bar stool and was across the pastry dome in front of him. She'd dragged her eyesore of a backpack down the length of the counter with her. Her tone was lightly amused and not-so-lightly bored.

She followed his gaze faster than he could move it to something less biodegradable, less identifiable. Like the nearest table. Or his stupid math book. Rory had her back to the windows now; she and Paris were waiting for a car to pass at a snail's pace before crossing the street.

Lane's hair swished around to hit her in the nose as her head whipped back and forth between Jess and the window. "That's…Rory." She paused to squint at him. "Who's that other girl?"

"Jessica Fletcher."

"Who?"

"Luke's new best friend."

"I've never seen her before. She must go to Chilton. I mean—that would explain the uniforms."

"Whatever." Jess pinned his eyeballs to the math book without seeing a word.

"Wait. Rory."

Jess' gaze bounced up to Lane, confused, only to discover she was looking back at him with way too much open. She was like a pufferfish. Had he grown an extra head or something? Squinting, he said, "Actually, it's Jess. We've met. You ate my Goldfish, remember?"

"One, you gave me those, and two, do not change the subject, mister. You were looking at Rory, why were you looking at Rory?" Lane's head resumed the Labrador-observes-tennis-match thing. She didn't give him a chance to respond this time. "Oh my god. You were looking at Rory. My Rory, our Rory, Stars Hollow Rory. Rory Gilmore."

Jess' eyes came up again, but his head stayed bent. "So?"

"And—you were making that face. You were looking at Rory with that face."

"What face?"

Lane's fingers spread; palms raised to gesture as a frame at Jess' head. "The one you had on when I came in here. The one you were making instead of studying, the one that makes you look like you're in The Little Mermaid and oh my god—" she repeated, hands flying to her mouth but sadly not covering said mouth completely, "—you like her."

Jess' mouth twisted while his eyebrows came down hard. His heartbeat was doing the opposite. "Please."

"You do. I have a sixth sense about these things. It's like Mrs. Kim with the hippie crowd in Woodbridge. She's never been one, but she can spot one a mile away."

"Don't you have a convent somewhere to get back to?"

"When did this start?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on." Lane rolled her eyes. "I own three separate, legal copies of Agent Provocateur. Those who can feel it, feel it. And they make that face. And those who are not permitted to feel it listen to Foreigner on repeat and research the symptoms while their moms line up the next twelve most eligible Korean doctors of our generation downstairs for the remaining free weekends of their lives."

"Doctors."

"Until one sticks."

"Tea's probably gettin' cold, you should go check."

"You like Rory." Lane leaned forward, pace intense, eyes sharp and brown and a little scary. "Why else would you be staring at her like that?"

That's it. Jess straightened up, glaring. He'd had enough of crazy teenage girls crowding the counter and throwing out opinions. He'd especially had enough of Lane's urgent tone and the way she was gawking at him. The way she was barely sitting still.

Jess' free hand sprang into action and snatched the papery red-and-white thing out of Lane's open backpack on the counter.

"Hey!" Lane's own hand smacked down on the backpack to trap the item inside, but he was too quick. Surprise and fury fought to rule her expression.

"Wow," Jess drew the word out, holding up the object that was now clearly revealed to be one of those things cheerleaders shook at pep rallies. It was slightly-bent and some of it was shiny.

"Give it back." Now her tone was urgent in a panicked way. Hushed and snake-like.

"Did you transfer to Rydell?"

"Give it back, I'm not kidding."

"When's the sock-hop?"

"You're gonna crease it, I need that!" Lane lurched across the counter, reaching at full capacity with both arms for the paper tuft.

Jess whisked it behind his back, well out of range. "For what, Halloween?"

"Stop it." Lane lunged again, only to jerk backward as Luke passed by behind them. Her eyes followed the blue baseball cap with increasing horror. She looked like she was about to be caught with a Ziploc full of coke. Or wearing mismatched socks on a weekday in public. When Luke had made it safely to the register, Lane pointed menacingly. "If anyone sees me with that thing and word gets back to my mother—"

"So you sold out." Jess felt the corner of his mouth twitching. She was practically shaking in her denim.

"I did not sell out," Lane snapped in a loud whisper, jerking to glance back over her shoulder. Curiously enough, she looked out the window this time, but Rory was long gone by now.

"Just holding it for a friend?"

"Jess."

"Is there glitter on this?"

"Okay, you've had your fun." Lane stopped trying to regain her property and sat back down on the nearest stool, nostrils flaring. "Now relinquish the paper. Tonight is my first real practice and if I show up with one pom short—"

"One what?"

"Two are pom-poms, one's a pom."

"Unbelievable." Jess almost choked on the word, fighting a little laugh. The shrimp who wore a faded Metallica wristband to class every day was now carrying pep-squad memorabilia like it was a sacred badge of some kind. It must've rustled with plastic adulation, every step she took.

Lane was getting redder by the second. "Hey, you don't get to judge me. I am well within my rights to pursue any extracurricular activity I deem worthy enough."

"Or spirited enough."

"Stop!"

"Does that sixth sense of yours extend to oncoming Destiny's Child remixes? Cuz that seems like something I'd want a little forewarning for myself, locate the nearest exit and all."

"All right! Enough!" Lane's head swung down to rest briefly on her arms, which she'd stretched out flat on the counter. Jess watched her knuckles go slightly-creamy where she was gripping its edge. "I took the mickey out on your crush situation, mea culpa! I give! I rescind my mickey-taking. Now please put my mickey back about this cheerleading thing before someone puts two and two together and Mrs. Kim sets fire to the gymnasium."

Jess' tongue rolled around against his cheek, watching her. He felt his jaw tighten at the words crush situation, but he'd mastered his expression at the ripe age of eight. Or he'd thought he had, anyway, but now apparently he was Jodi Benson. He went cold and still and nonchalantly passed her the pom, wiping red glitter off on his jeans.

"Thank you thank you thank you." Lane stuffed the pom as gently as possible back into her backpack, zipping it up with the whites of her eyes flashing from side to side.

Jess looked her up and down, lazily surveying the damage. This little Korean basket case was, somehow, now one of maybe two human beings in Liz's ancestral cesspool he could breathe around. She wasn't normal—no one in Stars Hollow could ever boast that, not even Rory Gilmore—but she could speak some of his language. Being in the same airspace as her for more than six minutes didn't make him want to consume his own ears, just for the silence of it. He couldn't afford to totally alienate her, in case he ever needed someone to help him hide Taylor's body somewhere down the line.

But he didn't care that her face was still bright red, or that her gaze kept flicking out the window, specifically in the direction of the antique store, with some very real panic. He definitely didn't care that there was real relief on her face when she finally closed her backpack. She'd deserved the blood pressure spike.

"Green tea." Luke materialized, setting down a to-go cup in front of Lane.

"No florals?"

"No florals."

"Bless you." Lane paid and tossed back the cup like it was full of something much stronger than green tea. Then she slipped off her stool, yanked on her backpack, and waited for Luke to dematerialize again before turning back to Jess. "I haven't told her yet, so."

"Who?"

"Rory? About the cheerleading?" Lane jabbed a thumb back toward the window, as if Rory was still standing at the crosswalk with Paris barking at her side. She was long gone and the view was duller for it. "I mean, not because I'm ashamed or anything."

Jess didn't reply. He thought the pom-poms in her backpack said it all for him.

She went on, like he was wasting any kind of time arguing with her. "It's just not the right time yet."

He nodded, mouth twisting.

Lane rolled her eyes. "Okay, maybe there's a little bit of shame. A hint. But it's basically peer pressure. Not from her, because she's cool. Just—self-inflicted, which is kind of its own peer pressure, in a way. And—it's just part of trying new things. Par for the course. Barely there at all."

"Okay."

"I can do this if I want to. I do not have to justify the pom."

"Uh-huh."

She sighed, rapid, through her nose. Then the bow-tie tightening of her mouth slackened off into one of those weird, melty, sheepish smiles he was learning was her go-to expression. "If you could just…keep this to yourself, I would so owe you. I'm going to tell her, I just—" Then the smile was gone. "You don't care, do you?"

No he did not. "You know, you really oughta rhyme more often if you're gonna make it to Nationals."

"Forget it." Lane pulled the other strap of her bag on, jerking it more than was necessary. Plastic adulation could indeed be heard if you were near enough.

"Study up. Break out the Dr. Seuss."

Then Lane turned around. Just snapped back on one heel suddenly, having been halfway-turned toward the door. There was an unsettling light in her eyes now. Too much like Paris. What was it with Rory and hanging with girls who liked to bite? Or dating guys who could reach the top shelf but had never heard of Tolstoy, for that matter?

"How about this, if you don't tell my secret, I won't tell your secret."

Jess looked right back at her, perfectly controlling every inch of his mouth and every motion of his eyes. "What secret?"

For a second, she was just watching him. She was doing that thing girls did when they traced your face and posture like you were a raindrop on a car window. Like you could figure anyone out that way. Lane wasn't stupid—he'd seen that in English. He'd also seen it in the bands on her T-shirts and the way she steadfastly did not turn around when the girls in class tried to get her to add to their slam books. But she wasn't going to get a confirmation like this. She didn't really know him, and she couldn't prove what she was trying to prove just by looking at him. He wouldn't let her.

Even if it was a little unnerving how quickly she'd turned into Jessica Fletcher almost two minutes after entering the diner.

"Okay." Lane nodded at him, very slightly, and then headed for the exit. The bell rang when she left, Luke's was chaos he could hide in again, and Jess put his head down and resumed not reading his math book.

If his eyes happened to stubbornly drift back out the window every now and then, well, at least there was a refreshing lack of rice-scented cheerleaders around to point it out.

Twenty-five Korean choir members could really pack it in.

The only respite Lane could get from choir rehearsals, weekly, was when the garbage can in the kitchen finally reached capacity. As the sole heir to Kim's Antiques, she had the honor of taking the trash out into the cold, gloriously-empty night all on her own. If anyone else had ever volunteered to do it, Lane would've beaten them off with her bare hands.

Cheerleading practice had run long. Maybe because Macy Dickens kept starting the music over every time the CD skipped, instead of just rewinding or fast-forwarding a little to fix the problem. As a result, Lane had almost been two minutes late to choir night at the Kim house, which would've had her phone privileges revoked for the evening. Luckily, she'd torn through three backyards to make up the extra time on her way home.

Having the nightly call from Rory taken away would have been unacceptable. Especially because it wouldn't really be Rory on the other end of the line. Henry had been calling for almost two actual months now, with Rory covering for them. It was bliss to spend those precious fifteen minutes asking him about his day at school, listening to him tease her about her movie preferences, getting to educate him on the decline of modern-day bluegrass.

She was addicted. She needed her phone call from Henry Cho. It would make the doldrums of choir worth it. It would make the buddy-buddy vibes Janie Fertman was still trying to give her in cheer practice worth it, too.

(She'd missed the first round of tryouts, too proud to flip and kick and bounce to generic hip-hop. The second round, she'd given in. She'd given in and she'd gotten in. Lane couldn't have said what made her want to try cheerleading—maybe the fact that Mrs. Kim had vetoed her skirts one too many times this winter due to fabric, not length. Maybe because Rory was in the house and the gazebo and their small-town world in general less and less as college loomed on the horizon. Whatever the reason, she wasn't going to back out now. Lane was good at cheerleading, just like Janie had been saying. And she didn't know when she'd be ready to admit to Rory—or to herself—that she liked how good she was.)

Before the phone call before bed, she'd had to get through school. Then she'd had to get through cheer, but at least there she got to dance. Now she was getting through choir, one Hefty bag full of paper plates and bean sprouts at a time. When that was over, when all the guests left and she and her mother did the dishes and swept the floors and turned off every light, and she'd gone upstairs to finish homework and drink her thirtieth cup of tea that day, then Rory would call.

Henry would be there.

Her reward.

Lane tugged the lid off the vintage-y metal trash can, slinging the bag in as quietly as she could. Everyone inside was milling around, downing the last dregs of filtered water and listening to Mrs. Kim's notes on their performance. They'd be gone soon, filtering out two by two like the animals in all those paintings of Noah's Ark. Then the nightly ritual would begin.

For now, she got to breathe in the cold outdoor wind and get the sound of Da-Eun's out-of-tune violin out of her brain.

Stars Hollow was relatively silent at this hour. But she did hear the murmur of voices across the street, a little to the right. Lane turned and saw Rory, heading in the direction of the Gilmore household. Lane waved, but Rory didn't see her, and she didn't want to call out for fear of alerting the chattering figures behind the curtains in Kim's Antiques.

Rory was carrying the usual massive amount of takeout from Al's Pancake World, clearly on a mission to feed Lorelai. She was sans Chilton uniform and hadn't paged Lane once all day. It must have been quite the study session with the blonde girl from earlier, then. They'd meet up tomorrow, maybe.

Of course, being with Rory or paging Rory just meant more time spent publicly, blatantly hiding the whole cheerleading thing from her. Lane had come too close to lying to her best friend lately.

Actually, it was fine that she hadn't waved back. It was fine that she hadn't paged. No need to be clingy. She'd find out about the pep squad. Eventually.

She'll never let you keep at it.

Lane swatted that thought away with all the grace of Kirk every time bee season came around. Rory had no say in what she did. Rory wasn't her mom. And Rory wasn't someone she needed to hide anything from like this. There was no letting with Rory, because Rory wasn't like that. It wasn't conditional, what they had going. Stupid. Ridiculous. Her BFF wouldn't ditch her just at the sight of a glittery red uniform.

But she'll never get it.

More mental swatting. She almost moved her physical hand at that one, it came on so strong. So much defeat in it.

She could make Rory understand about cheerleading. Lane was an artist at rationalization. She didn't have to be afraid of Rory's opinion. Or sarcastic comments. Or quips. Or super-smart blue eyes that did not need glasses or contacts, looking at her like she'd changed, like she was even further removed from the Gilmore world and the Lorelai way of life.

That did it. Open the floodgates. As Rory's tiny distant figure disappeared around a corner, into the shadow of trees on Peach, a wall of doubt and familiar hide-hide-hide reasoning washed over Lane's mind.

You're already going to two different schools.

Plus Rory has a boyfriend and you don't.

She'll think you hang with Janie Fertman now.

It's not like you'll have Ivy Leagues in common.

She'll say you're peppy.

She'll make the Rory Face.

Don't tell her.

Not yet.

Lane blinked hard and turned to go back inside. Nothing like Mama's kitchen gloves, waiting for her beside a sink full of dirty flowered teacups, to fight off the bad vibes. Then something stopped her. A teeny noise. A teeny noise in a very empty Stars Hollow at every kindergartener's bedtime.

A very tiny thwip-thnnk echoed through the square, near enough to make her feel she had made the sound. Lane paused and turned toward it, thinking maybe the Hefty bag had had a hole in it or something.

No trash, but there was a lump of bent paper lying on the sidewalk, near the still-open gate. Lane didn't mind stepping over for a closer inspection. The lump was actually a paperback book. The cover was worn. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. She'd never heard of it, but she definitely recognized the way it was creased and curled backward on itself. It looked wrong, like when people folded a slice of pizza to eat it easier. Sadists. Only one person in town seemed to buy books in this dime-bin size, or break their spines like that.

Lane straightened and looked for Jess. It took her eyes a moment to adjust enough to the lower lighting of the street beyond her yard, but yes, he was just a few feet down. She could see him dimly, walking toward Elm with no discernible destination. He definitely wasn't carrying garbage.

He was bundled in a big denim coat, hands in its pockets, marching to nowhere. His cargo pants were big, too, and they made him look smaller and colder. Lane had no idea how he hadn't heard his book hit the ground; the square was deadly silent. Jess seemed totally absorbed in thought—cruising in la-la land. She could tell because he almost hit the Mason family's mailbox. You couldn't miss that. It was shaped like a mini barn.

With a quick glance over her shoulder at the living room window—no one waiting for her to come back in, and Mrs. Kim nowhere in sight—Lane darted out the gate and down the sidewalk, rolling her eyes.

After a moment of her feet repeatedly and loudly hitting the sidewalk, Jess turned around. He didn't stop right away or wait obligingly the minute he saw her. He kept going a few paces, backward, before pausing right as she was catching up. He wasn't that far away, but it was totally like he was making a point of avoiding consideration. He had that general aura.

When Lane reached him, slowing to a walk, she noticed his mouth was slightly open. And his eyes were kind of glazed. He had absolutely been dead to the world a second ago. She was surprised an ellipsis didn't show up in graphite over his head, floating like a Peanuts panel.

"Don't hurt yourself," Jess said as she halted in front of him. His tone was surprisingly light. Maybe he really didn't always carry a mental Nirvana raincloud with him everywhere he went.

"Dropped your book." Lane held it out to him, fully shut. He took it, scoffing.

"Thanks for losing my place."

"Thanks for littering on my property."

"That's your house?" Jess nodded to Kim's Antiques.

"Yes."

"Huh."

"Why?"

"Kinda eclectic if you ask me." Jess' mouth did that aggravating Stark twitch.

Lane felt protectiveness make her shoulders tighten. A shield for the lawn jockey she hated and the rotting rocking chairs she also hated. "Well, nobody asked you, so—"

"No, it's good. Really fits the small-town insanity theme."

"Meaning?"

"Looks like some kitsch leftovers of the industrial revolution threw up on your lawn, that's all."

"It's an antique store."

Jess grunted.

Lane took the next few seconds of silence to stoop a little, catching the glaze in his eyes decidedly not going away. She folded her arms across her chest, trying to keep warm. He hadn't even put his book away, stuffing it in his back pocket as usual. It was like he was looking through her.

"Are you sick?" she asked suddenly.

"'Scuse me?"

Then she realized. He'd been walking in a wide circle, but it could have easily been the long way around from the direction of Al's.

"You have that look on your face again." Lane's mouth did some twitching of its own.

The dreamy expression immediately started getting slurped up, like suds down a tub drain. Jess shifted his weight and rolled his eyes so far to the left, Lane half expected them to go lurching right down onto the pavement, leaving their sockets. His grip tightened on Hemingway in the orange street-lamp light.

"You were with Rory."

Evidently, he could neither confirm nor deny that. With his face or his mouth.

"You know she's spoken for, right?"

"Would you give it a rest with—"

"Okay, look." Lane held up a hand. "Let's just proceed as if, hypothetically, you're in love with Rory Gilmore."

Jess shifted his weight again. If she wasn't very gradually learning to read the signs—and let's face it, what was Lane Kim good for in her life other than observing the free—she might have said this was his version of fight-or-flight.

Sure, there was the usual awkward, if-you-say-crush-I'll-die-on-the-spot teenage pall over the moment. Yes, he was entirely avoiding eye contact now, like any of the other guys slouching through Stars Hollow High might do in this situation. But there was also a specific Jessness to what he was doing while she spoke, and Lane was cataloging it like the CDs under her floorboards. His shoulders were tight like Luke's got when anger struck, but his eyebrows were all Jess-exclusive, threatening to disappear the rest of his face completely. Hemingway had survived spinal damage only to be strangled back-cover first. And every time he did chance to look at Lane as she went on, it only lasted half a second.

He was irritated, but he was so totally freaking out, too. And she knew it. And it said everything.

But she continued with the hypothetical because approaching cornered animals is dangerous without a net.

"Rory is my best friend. My best friend in the world. On the planet. In the universe, probably for the rest of our natural lives. We are Blanche and Dorothy. We are Peter Shotton and John Lennon, except when I eventually rise to fame Rory's coming with me." Lane raised her eyebrows as Jess opened his mouth to speak, shutting him down with a quick, "I know Rory. And I know Rory is with Dean."

Jess' jaw worked.

"Dean Forrester? He's in our math class? I know you've seen him, he sits behind you, which is considerate of Mr. Nicholson because otherwise you couldn't see the board, so." Lane didn't wait for the joyous light of recognition to come into those eyes. She hopped back on track. "Rory is with Dean, and Dean is with Rory, and—I also know that Rory and Dean have been together for two years. Two years, that is like—that is like renew-your-vows-marriage type stuff for people our age. I mean, he built her a car. He finished it yesterday; he showed me the grease stains."

"Done yet?" Jess exhaled.

"Rory's spoken for," she repeated. "Really spoken for. And as Rory's best friend, I reserve the right to protect her from any kind of hypothetical Great Gatsby-level heartbreak I might sense coming her way. And, by extension, coming Dean's way."

She was struggling to maintain the old Kim fire while Jess was standing there like that. The freakout seemed gone, how did he do that so quickly? The absolute blankness his face had melded into while she was winding to a halt was unnerving. His eyebrows were almost at his hairline, his mouth was unreadable, and those eight inches he had on her were really starting to be felt. It was hard to act tough against such seasoned apathy. Like squaring up to a sock monkey.

"So if, in some bizarre alternate universe, you might find yourself crushing on Rory," she added, trying not to stammer, "first of all, you would not be the first, believe me, and second of all, it'll never work because Rory's not Daisy, and—she's not the kind of person to just drop her two-year boyfriend like a bag of sand the second someone new comes along. Hair product or no hair product."

Jess scoffed again, thicker, wetter. "Any particular reason you're telling me all this?"

"Because. If, hypothetically—"

"If hypothetically it'll never work, why're you so worried about it?"

Lane tried not to bite off the end of her tongue. "I'm not worried."

"Then why not beg off?" Jess took a slight step closer. There was an edge to his voice; he started talking faster, harder. "I mean why waste your breath reading out the Teen Vogue article detailing their whole insipid romantic history? If they're so madly in love, why's she need your protection at all?"

"She doesn't need it, because they are madly in love, that's what I'm saying." Lane stood on tiptoes, almost grinning in triumph now, pointing at him.

"Great, so why?"

"Why what?"

"Why say it? Why do you still look worried?"

"I told you, I'm not worried."

"Could've fooled me."

"Okay, see, I should've been a little clearer." Lane huffed, lifting her chin and her eyebrows and doing basically anything that might make her seem taller. He wasn't getting it, and she was right, and he wasn't getting that, either. "I'm not worried about Rory and Dean, I'm worried about you."

"Me."

"Yes."

"What for?" Jess' eyes squinched. He let out a puff that was half-laugh.

Lane looked between both his eyes, mouth open. She'd actually gotten so wrapped up in making her point, she hadn't been careful about what she was saying. How the words worried about you could be said without sounding like a Dolly Parton record. She should've slowed down, used a little more tact. She got the feeling that with Jess, you had to phrase and do things a certain way. Otherwise, he'd bolt like a deer into oncoming traffic and that might be the end of you getting anything through to him. Just sitting in the diner on a Friday night could teach you that, watching Luke try not to club his nephew over the head with the waffle iron.

"Because," Lane said again. Arms folded, still looking from one big dark eye to the other. Then she didn't know what to say next. She just stood there like an idiot.

The Sun Also Rises hung limp at Jess' side. He waited for a moment, like he actually expected her to finish the thought, you know, like a sane person would have. A person who had time for introspection in between rice balls and study hour. When she didn't, he rolled his eyes and filled the silence himself. The sneer on his face was terrible.

"What, you think I'm gonna Jay my way through town, just fall apart the second the guy doesn't get the girl, maybe mow down a couple pedestrians?"

"Okay, that is more Gatsby references than I think I'm comfortable making in one conversation," Lane commented, momentarily yanked out of the gravity of the conversation and the way Jess was glaring. Picturing him mowing down anyone in Stars Hollow at nothing-miles-per-hour had that affect. "Go easy, I only saw the movie."

"I'd worry more about the ghosts of the Collyer brothers taking up residence in your living room," Jess went on, gesturing with a lazy arm at Kim's Antiques behind her, then twisting that arm back around to his own chest, "than how I'm doin' when it comes to the town's cheesiest Roman Holiday audition."

Lane's mouth opened wider, brows drawn, but he didn't give her the chance to defend the ol' homestead a second time. Or her best friend and that best friend's lanky boyfriend.

"Next time leave the book on the ground," Jess spat, stuffing said book at last back into his pocket.

"Wh—well, excuse me for trying to help," Lane huffed out at last.

He snorted. "Help with what, there's nothing to fix—"

"It just sucks, that's all," she said, raising her voice. Ignoring his super unconvincing rebuttals. "It sucks to be totally in love with somebody and have no chance. Believe me, I should know, I've been crushing on Cobain since I was ten and he is not only spoken for, he's dead." She started to lose speed again with the way he was gawking at her, that head tilt that told her she was talking but all he could hear was Charlie Brown's teacher. "Not that your situation with Rory is anything like my undying love for what was perhaps the greatest anti-establishment songwriter of our time, but—"

Jess rolled his whole head now, and Lane could see him revving up his denial engines. She tried to go faster.

"I'm just saying. Seems like you'd be saving yourself a whole lot of heartache to quit while you're ahead." Lane pursed her lips, squinting at the Mason mailbox. "Or—not ahead."

"Because there's no chance."

"Right."

"Hypothetically."

"Very hypothetically."

Jess cocked his head at her, the other way this time, more exaggeratedly. Less Charlie-Brown-teacher and much more Sylvester-and-Tweety. "You said Rory doesn't need protecting."

"Not at the moment."

"And you decided to come out here and tell me all this anyway."

"Well, it's choir night at the Kim house, which basically makes me Tim Robbins and you Morgan Freeman. No pressure." Lane wrung her hands a little, shifting her weight. "Plus you dropped your book."

His mouth twitched. It was the first sign of a cool-down she'd seen for the last ten minutes. "So if you're not protecting Rory, and she and Sean Connery are still attached at the promise ring—"

"Oh, neither of them can afford promise rings. Actually, I think the car was their promise ring. A big metal promise ring with a leather interior."

"Then you're here protecting me."

He said it sarcastically, like it was a pop quiz query, with the answer inside the question. His very-high-up black eyebrows were saying he was amused. Jess was almost laughing at her with just those eyebrows, and it occurred to her that he was still trying to win some kind of battle he thought they were having. He wasn't saying it because he believed it—he was trying to throw her off.

Well, she was right about Rory anyway, so she had already won this fight. Rory was safe and her relationship with Dean was safe Jess was stupid for thinking otherwise. Stupid, presumptuous Jess. Silly Jimmy Dean wannabe. Box with Lane Kim over foreknowledge of Rory Gilmore and you were bound to lose.

Lane had no problem saying proudly, finally understood, "Exactly!"

Then he did the blinking thing and Lane realized she was wrong.

Jess wasn't trying to throw her off. He had genuinely been asking, and he had genuinely expected her to deny it. Some Cheshire Cat test of some kind. No wonder Luke wanted to waffle iron the guy all the time. And because Jess was himself, the question had sounded like a challenge. Maybe he wanted it to.

But her answer had thrown him. All checkered flags had been lowered. He looked like she'd raised both arms and summoned a flash mob behind her, or like the nearby lamppost had grown legs and Carlton-Danced down the street away from them.

Lane's victorious smile slid away. Suddenly it was very weird that she'd said exactly so nonchalantly, and it was weirder that he wasn't saying anything back. Of course, the weirdness wasn't as bad as how obviously surprised Jess seemed. Surprised at her.

Surprised she cared.

The Kim fire was instantly snuffed out by something warmer. Lane smiled again, tentatively this time. "I wouldn't want you to be the next Billy Vera."

Jess' scoff was loud and reminiscent of a laugh. He hung his head back. "Oh, god—"

"If you ever end up in the City of Trees, staring into the distance listening to At This Moment on repeat, and find yourself thinking hm, what a nice song—"

"—just push me into oncoming traffic."

"It's a promise."

"Thanks." Jess' mouth was twitching again, but it actually spread now—into what looked frighteningly like a real, tiny smile of his own. It was crooked, but it wasn't mocking. And for once it didn't look like it had its own extra, invisible mouth reserved for one-liners, either.

It was cute. Lane got the feeling that if ever Rory did end up in danger, it would only be because she got him to smile like that someday. It might take a lot of work, but then, Rory was nothing if not Stars Hollows' hardest worker. Suddenly Lane found herself worried after all, just for a second, for Dean. For Rory. Then she did some more mental swatting and focused on the here and now. Rory's not Daisy.

It did take her a moment longer to recognize that Jess was thanking her twofold.

And then of course, because he had Danes blood in him, he didn't give her the chance to extend the nice moment.

"So does the offer of protection lend itself to school assemblies?"

"Ugh."

"Because I gotta tell you, I'll feel a lot more subservient in the auditorium when the rallies begin knowing I've got someone on the inside." Jess was backing up a few steps, and this time he was definitively moving in the direction of the diner. Not staying to prolong the warmth, but the crinkle by his eyes told her he was still feeling it.

Lane rolled her own eyes, letting the moment pass by and make a left at the Masons' mailbox. She started heading for Kim's Antiques, taking her time. It was only a few feet away, and she had to admit that this was so much better than dishwashing. It was becoming almost as easy as sparring with Lorelai.

"We'll see."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, I am not above toppling the red-and-white empire under truly oppressive circumstances." Lane paused, parallel to the antique store's gate, to pretend to consider. "Especially if it means never having to hear Destiny's Child again."

"I feel safer already," Jess called.

(Author's Note: Your comments encourage me to keep posting. Thank you! -Doverstar)