(Author's Note: I remember this chapter being longer when I wrote it way back when, but in reality it's teeny-tiny. Oh well, can't help that. Enjoy. -Doverstar)

When Mrs. Kim woke Lane up for school in the morning, Lane expected it to be with two sharp knocks and no second chances. When Andrew came in the shop on Friday afternoons, Lane expected him to leave without buying anything, because she knew he was only there to meet "academic" girls. (Like running a bookstore wouldn't do that.) When the temperature was exactly 63 degrees outside, Lane expected to see Rory at the gazebo with coffee and a pastry from Luke's. Nowadays when she walked out of English Lit every afternoon, Lane expected Jess to stick out a foot and feign an attempt to trip her, and she expected his eyeroll when she ignored it each time.

That was the thing about her life. Or maybe about everyone's lives in Stars Hollow. It was all to be expected. It was easy to figure out. It always had been.

But one day she found something she wasn't expecting. And then she felt things she wasn't ready to feel, because she'd never felt them before. She didn't know Henry would like her. She didn't know there could exist, in this world, a Korean boy who wanted to be a doctor, thrived in church, and checked every box on Mrs. Kim's list—a boy who checked all those boxes and had a personality. One Lane liked too much.

They were supposed to go on their very first date, the day the Picnic Basket Auction ran. Mrs. Kim had no idea that Lane planned to ditch her cousin David, meeting Henry for a picnic that included a lack of tofu and a lot of fun.

And—yes—they were supposed to have that. But when the time came, tofu wasn't the only thing missing from the equation.

"Lane, I like you—but I want to be able to actually pick you up, stop the car, and take you out. And I wanna be able to call you, at your house."

"I'm gonna tell my mother, I promise."

"When?"

"Soon!"

Henry hadn't believed her. They'd been dodging Mrs. Kim on the phone for forever now. She hadn't seen him once since the Chilton party. It was too risky. And that day, Lorelai's cell phone pressed to her ear, Lane listened as Henry explained he was going to the prom—and he wasn't taking her. He'd asked somebody else. Probably one of those Chilton girls with the big brains and the even bigger futures, the free Chilton girls with free lives and free freedom. Or something. She felt a lump gathering in her throat.

"No, it's okay—that's good. You should've asked someone else."

"I do like you, Lane."

Her eyebrows came together, and there was a thick feeling in her chest she wasn't familiar with.

"Okay—well—thank you, I appreciate that. I have to go."

"Lane—"

None of this had been expected. Liking someone like Henry, having him like her back? Unthinkable. Having him work to talk to her, even for this long? Who could have predicted that? Mrs. Kim not finding out, not realizing that Lane had met a boy and he was perfect and she really wanted to go out with him? Never in Lane's wildest dreams.

But this—this part, this thing where Henry got fed up with the hiding and the double life and Lane's cowardice—this part she should have seen coming. This part should have been expected. Anything outside of Mrs. Kim's routine crashed and burned eventually. When that happened, Lane usually came up with something new in her half to feed her constant longing for freedom, for her own thoughts and personality to be expressed. Not this time. This time there was no backup in sight.

Lane had never gotten her heart broken before. Was that what this was? Did it feel like this, warm tears building behind her glasses, the stupid basket swinging too hard in her hand as she rushed home?

She was rushing home. Well, rushing somewhere. Eventually she would go home, because for maybe the first time in her life—at least the first time since the day Rory had almost drowned at the town pool in second grade and Lorelai had yelled at her—her bedroom was where she most wanted to be. Her Mrs. Kim-approved bedroom, curled up in her Mrs. Kim-approved bed, under her Mrs. Kim-approved duvet. So no one would see her cheeks this red and no one would see the too-full basket in her hand.

She took the long way. She didn't mean to. Some tiny, more-grown-up part of her wanted to cool down and get control before entering the antique store. Mama might have customers. Or David would be lounging around the yard, bored. Either way, Lane was out in broad daylight and still felt like she couldn't get enough air.

So around the square she went.

Embarrassment threatened to take years off her life as she walked. Lane was surprised that was the feeling simmering on the surface, making her heart beat fast like that. The people she passed and the smells from the various picnics around her were white noise.

Of course Henry had been fed up. And of course she'd been too giddy to anticipate it. She was supposed to be three steps ahead, hide the temporary tattoos in her left shoe, school her expression into stone before dinner like she hadn't had tacos at the Gilmore household minutes ago, do every bit of her homework an hour before Mrs. Kim asked about it so she wouldn't get suspicious when Lane went out for a forbidden milkshake with Rory.

Loser. Faker. Liar.

Liar. That one stuck out. Like Kirk in any room, ever. She'd lied. She'd lied to Henry about planning on telling Mrs. Kim. She'd never planned on that—wouldn't even have known where to begin. Maybe she'd hide her relationship until college, when she could move out and her mother had no real say.

As if she'd ever have the guts to move out.

As if she'd ever have the guts to tell her mom anything.

And she'd lied to Mrs. Kim. She hadn't told Henry the truth, sure, but she'd schemed today more than she'd ever schemed in her life, and lied to her mother, just to get out from under said mother's watchful gaze. Just to spend one glorious hour with a boy Lane knew full well Mrs. Kim would probably adopt if she saw what he was like.

Idiot.

Well, it didn't matter anyway. There was no relationship to hide till college. There would probably be no college at this rate. In fact, Lane would never get the courage to age past sixteen. She was stuck. The expected was forever. And it didn't include Henry. Because she'd lied. And that probably had her mother worried sick by now. She saw all. It was Lane's fault and wild animals were burrowing into her stomach the harder she walked, gnawing at her organs for the mess she'd made.

She didn't blame Henry for dropping her almost as quickly as he'd picked her up.

Stupid loser faker liar—

A shoulder slammed against hers for the briefest of seconds, throwing her off. She almost dropped the basket.

"Woah, Gonzales, where's the fire?" Jess's voice rang out a few feet behind her. There was a little puff of laughter in it. Good-mood laughter.

Lane didn't stop. She had absolutely no desire within her to face anyone. Especially not someone who was in a good mood. That was why her head was down; her hair was a shield. A black, shiny, straight, boring shield that was probably nothing like the Chilton hottie Henry was planning on taking to prom. Lane was crying, and she didn't need pedestrians joining in. This was an exclusive pity party. Not even. This was an exclusive Lane Kim roasting session, and Jess Mariano was not invited.

"Sorry," she heaved over her shoulder, almost eating a strand of the aforementioned boring hair as she did. Sucking in a deep, wet breath. Not meaning the sorry at all. Something automatic, something polite, because she was raised to apologize when she knocked into someone and she was a good girl. Except she wasn't.

And she hated the sniffle that happened when she inhaled. It was too loud and gross, and she knew Jess could hear it.

Suddenly he was right next to her. There was something thin, a ticket or a receipt or something in hands he was folding in front of him as he kept pace with her.

"Nice face," Jess said, twisting down slightly to catch her eye.

"Go away, please."

"What happened to you?" He asked it like she was covered in Nickelodeon slime, not like she was drowning in pathetic five-year-old-level tears.

Lane stopped and turned around, away from him, and started walking in the opposite direction. Retracing her steps. As long as he couldn't see the nice face anymore. The basket scuffed against his mustardy overcoat as she did.

He was fast. He turned on his heel and followed her, walking backwards so that he was half in front of her but still moving. "You get Kirk for a picnic partner or somethin'?"

Jess's tone was still light. Quick and cheery, like she'd never heard it before. It was similar to the one he used when he was teasing someone or something, Luke maybe, but this had zero bite to it. He was happy. He was really happy. It was disgusting. It hit her heartbreak like a flamethrower; it hurt. It should be raining. He should be scowling. Everything should be dark and bad because she felt dark and bad. Trust him not to follow the rules.

Jess was having a good day. That must be why he was following her. Had she ever once seen him on a good day? Was he always this annoying when he was genuinely happy? And why did it have to be today?

"Lane."

"Leave me alone, okay?" She swung her head back, stopped again, and turned back around to shake him.

"Lane come on, stop. Stop, hey—" Jess grabbed the handle of her picnic basket and yanked her to a halt with very little effort.

"I said go away, Jess!" Lane tugged at it halfheartedly, hating the whine her voice crawled up to when she cried.

Jess kept hold of the basket, looking at her out of the tops of his eyes. "Come on, what's goin' on with you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"That's right, nothing, you heard it here first, now let go and run along, disturb the peace somewhere far far away from here, please, thank you." Lane gave a more determined yank and he let the handle scratch out of his grip. Let loose with another sniffle.

"Looks like you're the one disturbing the peace." Jess's tongue rolled around against the inside of one cheek. He was watching her curiously, eyes half open.

She looked up, pawing away streaks of liquid heartbreak with the back of one denim sleeve. Glancing to the left, Lane saw a wobbly version of herself reflected in the Chat Club's window. She was a mess. Her whole face was puffy and orange. Her shoelace was untied. Her hair was sticky at the ends.

She should have gone straight home, away from the masses, so she wouldn't be subjecting anyone else to her one-woman circus act. But it was too late; Jess had seen her now. She couldn't hide the crying. And it wasn't like it would be the first time he'd found her red-eyed and snotty.

Lane found she couldn't get more embarrassed, especially when she relented and said, "Henry dumped me."

Jess blinked a lot. Sharp, pinched eyebrows hid his pupils. He would be confused; he had no clue there was a Henry Cho on the planet. And as far as Lane's future was concerned, Lane's happiness, that might as well be an accurate assumption.

Her mouth jumped into explaining without asking her brain. Happy to explain. Happy to clear things up in a wobbly, biting tone. "Except he didn't dump me," she huffed, swiping at another tear like it was a mosquito, "because we weren't actually dating, because I'm not allowed to date anyone my mother doesn't grow on a farm somewhere in the bowels of South Korea, even though this guy was perfect and perfect for me, and I'm so pathetic I couldn't even manage to get one date with him before he got sick of the lying and the hiding and pretending to be Rory—"

"What?"

"—and so now, now he's taking someone else to the prom, and that was a pre-meditated decision, let me tell you—he already had someone lined up, he already asked her, and—" She gulped in, threw her arms up and slapped them back down to feel the basket crack in some place, felt the words shake when they kept coming, and then got louder in an effort to make the shaking stop, "—it's too late because I screwed it all up with David and the wheat grass juice and…."

Lane needed more air. Her lungs were dual pigs; she couldn't even get a single sobbing rant out without pausing for oxygen. Further proof she was lacking. Jess just stood there with his huge yellow-cream jacket and his lopsided mouth, obviously waiting for her to finish heaving like a Jenny Craig commercial. The thing in his hand was a receipt, she realized, now that she was taking a second to actually look at him. It had Pete's swervy Antonioli's logo at the top, upside-down. Pizza.

Well, not everyone in town chose to suffer through an actual homemade picnic for lunch that day. Like nephew, like uncle.

"...And it's my fault," Lane concluded, blowing out through almost-pressed-together lips. Furious at the oxygen intake.

Henry's voice saying her name in that exasperated, pained way right before she hung up on him was going around and around in her brain. Lane. Lane. What had he been going to say? If it was anything less than just kidding, I'm five minutes away, gotcha, it couldn't have been worth hearing. And why should he say that, why should he back out? He was free, he'd made his escape. No more Lane Kim or dodging her crazy mother or putting up with insane picnic schemes. He had a Chilton girl he probably interacted with daily to fall back on. Or maybe Lane had been the fallback all along, a backup in case Miss Chilton said no to the prom, and Auction Day in Stars Hollow was just the perfect time to get rid of her.

But he wasn't like that. Not really. She at least believed that much.

That almost made this worse. A really good guy, a guy Mrs. Kim would actually like, and with good reason, had decided Lane was not worth the trouble. The fact that it was Henry Cho deciding it made for a pretty convincing argument.

She must not be worth the trouble.

Jess glanced down, gingerly, at the receipt in his hands. When his head came back up, he was looking at the gazebo, like he felt weird facing her runny nose dead-on. Probably wise.

"Pretty sure there's no such thing as wheat grass juice," he said, squinting.

"Forget it," Lane scoffed, pushing past him.

She only got three steps away before he called, the word thudding in the air, "Sorry."

That got her to stop, because she could tell he did mean it, even if it sounded hard and short. She turned obligingly, shoving her hair out of the wind. Wishing the tears would just dry up already. But Henry's Lane was still making the rounds.

Jess turned around to look at her, and actually—he didn't look uncomfortable with the snot. Or the crying. He had a strangely blank expression, lips pursed. But something about his posture, at least, told her he had been listening and he was still standing there because it mattered. It mattered she was crying. And because she never intended to describe this day and this feeling to anyone other than Rory Gilmore ever, ever again, this might be the only chance she got to soak in someone's genuine sympathy.

Even if it came in the form of a twisted boyish mouth and rude eyebrows. From the town scamp.

"Goin' home?" he asked.

"I have to," Lane said. "My...my mom's probably called the fire department or something by now."

"Yeah, saw her yellin' at some innocent bystanders in front of the shop," he confirmed.

Sniff. "Well then I'm doing a public service going back."

"There's a phone booth a block away if you wanna change into your cape first."

Lane huffed out a laugh she did not feel coming, nor enjoy when it did.

That seemed to encourage Jess into saying a bit more slowly, firmly, "Screw 'im."

"...Huh?" She narrowed her eyes. Another heave of shame and general sickness and bad temper was making her chest constrict. More sobbing on the way. Lane tried to rein it in, tried to focus on Jess's voice. On his angry bushy eyebrows.

"That guy. Screw 'im. I mean, picnic thing's idiotic anyway. You're better off with wheat grass juice."

"No one is better off with wheat grass juice."

"Hey, I'm not the one holding a Donna Reed-sized basket with flowers on the handle."

"What, so you didn't even try to bid?" Lane smirked in spite of herself, rubbing underneath her glasses. "I saw you earlier."

"Yeah?"

"You were loitering."

"It paid off." Jess held up the receipt and wiggled it.

She didn't have the energy to wonder what that meant, or who he was going to be sharing the pizza with. Or what it had to do with the loitering. "I don't think Pete's cheesy bread is included anywhere in the Auction-related bylaws."

"Lane."

She stilled at his tone. The wind continued flicking her hair back at her, into her glasses, against her nose, sticking to her wet cheeks. It was a nice buffer. It helped make her feel as though the town square was actually empty, that it was just her and Jess on the sidewalk, that she was a little safer to keep crying. But the look in his eyes made her forget to start up again.

"What?" she mumbled.

Jess raised his eyebrows and chin at the same time. Firm. "Screw him."

"Yeah." Lane blinked. Then she forced an almost-smile, tight and stretched. "I'll try."

"Good." He nodded, jaw working. Then he added, tone nonchalant, looking away, "S'not your fault."

"My cousin would beg to differ. So would my mother and whoever she roped into praying about my mysterious picnic-day disappearance." Lane tilted her head. "And the fire department if they're there now." She glanced at the sidewalk, shyly. Then, to her instant mortification, she started crying again. She couldn't help it. It's not your fault. She didn't believe him at all. Still, it was nice that he'd said it. "But thanks," she said, voice cracking with the sob.

He didn't look freaked out by the crying, he just nodded again. In that split second, he looked exactly like Luke.

Lane felt she owed him something to make the moment more comfortable. She'd already screwed everything else up in the last twenty-four hours. The least she could do was attempt to lighten the mood. Try not to ruin the good day he was clearly having.

"Your hair looks really stupid like that," she said, mouth quirking.

Jess glanced away, scoffing out a laugh. His ears were pink at the bottom, maybe because of the wind. "Too George Michael?"

"Way too George Michael!"

"Thanks for the input."

"Stick to the hair gel." Lane felt her eyes scrunch up with a genuine smile. "Seriously."

"I'll make a note."

He lifted a hand, halfway, lazy, and Lane mirrored the gesture. She had to head back home. She had to deal with this and stop Henry's voice in her head and cry under the covers the way teenage girls were supposed to. Jess turned around first, and to her bewilderment, turned left and went into the bookstore. Wasn't he waiting on a pizza? It had to be done by now. Oh well. That was Jess. Any excuse to maul a paperback. Any excuse to shave years off Andrew's life, too, as a fringe benefit.

Lane headed back home, relieved to feel the tears all dried out for now. She knew there were more coming. She knew she was far from okay. Months of phone calls and daydreams and wishing and prom plans were dashed in a single day. She knew Mrs. Kim would be furious. She knew David would have ratted her out by now, or that Mrs. Kim would have divined the situation's particulars from Henry's botched attempt to reach her at the antique shop. She knew, too, that this sick feeling in her chest and stomach wasn't going to go away any time soon.

All of that was expected. Just as usual.

But the last fifteen minutes hadn't been. "S'not your fault" hadn't been. And for now, that helped her breathe a little easier.