Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter One | A Table with Quite a View
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, Paris POV
Inspired by: Just something that flew into my mind after a conversation with Freelance, not inspired by any particular episode. It does reference most Paris/Rory scenes from seasons two and three. This is what you end up with after a long drooling session with a fellow luster of the French soda monitor. Plaid skirts are going to be the death of us!
Rating: R (swearing, naughty femslash thoughts, self-pleasuring)
Disclaimer: It's not my world, I just live vicariously through it. Amy Sherman-Palladino paints the picture, Hofflund-Polone finds the museum to hang it in, and Warner Bros. Television puts the word of mouth out to see it, while hoping people decide to study the portrait in detail, especially those little details that convince you to buy appliances, breakfast pastries and orgasm-inducing shampoo, then waste a half-hour of your life watching Off Centre.
Summary: How does subtext taste? Kind of like ranch dressing and cherry tomatoes. Paris thinks of Rory as she sits across her at the table during lunch, and looks back at the last year.
Improv: #12 (lips, accent, pain, button, wine)
Archiving: Subtextual Intercourse, Improv, GilmoreGirlsSlash, and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Author's Notes: This is a story I wrote about a year and a half ago on a whim, and never had plans to sequelize until my Paris/Rory thoughts came back strong this week with all the talk of the kiss they're sharing during a dance scene in Girls in Bikinis, Boys Doin' the Twist. I haven't seen it yet, but I hope to have a second part to this story out soon after that. I also have plans to use more Season Three subtext to eventually bring the two together, and POV switches with each chapter (Paris in the odd-numbered, Rory's thoughts in the even, along with some combined POVs later on).

My thanks to Freelance for the interesting conversation about subtext that inspired this story. Challenge words are bolded.

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Really, I don't mind sitting across from Rory Gilmore all the time at lunch. It's not as if I have a choice in the matter however.

It's been in the Chilton bylaws since 1938 that the president elected by the student body must sit at the same table as the vice president in the dining hall, and next to them during assemblies in the auditorium, on stage or in the audience. The reason why is unknown to history, but supposedly according to a past president, it shows strength and resilience in the student government when we sit in the same place.

Funny they would say that. Because I feel my weakest when I'm sitting near or next to Rory.

When I found out the poll results from Madeline and Louise last year, I panicked like I usually did. I jumped to the first conclusion that I had, and immediately thought my chances of getting elected were slim to none. I was going against a boy who promised the world and the stars, and a girl who tried to convince the boys to vote for her by trying to pull a Basic Instinct stunt as I went on about my agenda if I were elected.

My first thoughts after finding out I was universally disliked were that of promising more than I was actually going to do. Fuck it, I thought, Little Debbie, sign on the dotted line and turn this school into Times Square, full of ads for Swiss cake rolls and oatmeal cream pies. Thankfully, my mind thought better.

For awhile.

It went through your general list of candidates who I felt worthy of being vice-president alongside me. I went through the names I remembered being in the top thirty of our class. Most of them had achieved fame in clubs such as chess and the mathlete team. A few were just quiet students, coasting along and knowing that their mothers would be happy if they were 22nd in the class and had some tough times in calculus. A couple of them, forget it. The only reason their grades were so high was because either they or one of their parents had succumbed to a teacher's sexual favor.

My mind was up to 15th in class when I directed my gaze over to Rory, sitting alone in the middle of a sea of chairs in the hall, furiously writing up her story on how each of us candidates did with each of our speeches for her op-ed column.

And just like that, I decided to throw my campaign on her shoulders. Damn her.

When she came two years ago, I was the strong one, able to order her on command not to do something. Many a time I told her to forget even bothering to ask for my notes, or to be my partner in a project. But my grip on her eventually faded, slowly but surely. A bump here caused by a misinterpreted date with Tristan, another somewhere else when I was spurned when I just wanted to go over debate transcripts with her...

Yeah Paris, keep telling yourself you were just going to do academic stuff with Rory that cool March night. The moment she said no to you so she could spend time getting to know that ditzy vessel her father called a girlfriend, you felt a pain rise through your stomach, and hit you in the heart, where it hurt you the most.

That's right, I'm in love with Rory. And if it weren't for that Sherrie bitch, I might've been able to finally tell that to her a few months earlier. It was perfect, a dozen roses delivered to the house, candlelight dinner with soft classical playing throughout the house. I had a Eisenhower-era vintage bottle of wine sitting on the work table in my bedroom, where I hoped to show Rory that she was way too good for Tristan, and Dean, along with everyone who ever carried an XY chromosome.

But whenever I get close, something pushes me away from her. So instead of inhaling her scent as we made love to each other, I sat in my room in dead silence, the wine glasses put back in the pantry, and the alcohol my love and me were supposed to share sitting in my bottom desk drawer once again. And I sat there, wondering how I could get that bottle opened up one day in the future.

So I stayed persistent. I begged for her help when I got a B in class. I've gotten B grades before, back in 7th grade I took it a little too easy and slacked off. A B wasn't even a big deal to my mother honestly, she just would ask me to try harder next time, honest.

But sometimes when you're in love, you have to lie. I turned on the Gellar charm (what little of it I have), and told her I'd never even gotten a B in my life. Sucker, she said she'd help me out a week later.

I decided to stop by her house and see if she would help me out after school, even after she said she was busy. Funny, she didn't look too busy, folding her clothes for a night alone with herself. My first thoughts as she said that were very perverted. In my mind, it was just her laying on that couch with thoughts of me actually initiating a real, truly passionate kiss as the emergency Romeo in our Shakespeare project. And her wanting to take it beyond that boundary, into something truly impure.

I can dream though, can't I?

Just the sound of her voice talking about obscure equations made me feel weak in her presence. It's those blue eyes that always do it to me, and the way she bites her lip in concentration as we ponder a solution to the problem. She can just make me go all aflutter just by doing her homework in front of me. Thank God she concentrates real hard, because I was scoping her out as she read the problems to me. She was laying on that couch in the perfect position for me to just walk up and sweep her into my arms. I sat there idly writing notes on my paper, as I imagined what kind of satin or cotton layer was beneath the fly button and zipper of her jeans. Or if there was a layer at all. She's way too pure to go that far though, so I don't even venture to think of her that way. Well, not that much.

They say to imagine people in their underwear when you give a speech. With Rory Gilmore though, I do it all the time, even when no speech is being given. I have an inner pervert trapped inside of me, I swear.

I wished that the hour would go on and on, and that after awhile I could finally admit my feelings for her. But then the boys who fawn over her had to come in and ruin my fun once again. Dean and Jess, the equivalent to two guards standing watch over the gates of my personal Buckingham Palace named Lorelai Leigh, but who keep denying me access to her. I had to fake being interested in what both of them said, then hope the aching I was going to get was light when I had to lie through my teeth and tell Dean I was interested in Jess, and that's the reason I came over.

What I really wanted to say was "Hi Dean, do you mind if I get down on one knee and decide to confide my eternal love for your girlfriend of eighteen months? It's not as if you're ever going to let her get past second base anyways, and I'm sure that us being gay would be something you'd totally embrace." Love made me numb once again though, and I didn't confess my feelings for her that night, even being able to sleepover at her house, my stomach filled with snacks my mother warned me never to touch, and my knowledge of the Pythagorean Theorem being threatened to be lost forever, replaced by the strains of the opening theme to Muppets Take Manhattan, along with the usual vivid fantasies of us making love to each other. Rory is holding my soul hostage, yet she doesn't even know it.

So who do I ask first to be my partner in crime when it comes to the Chilton council? My favorite coffee-addicted brunette, of course. I wasn't going to be stuck with a nobody for a running mate, and Rory fit the bill perfectly. She was the perfect Al Gore substitute, except for the stick up her ass and claim of inventing the internet. I was Clinton without that whole thing for land deals and chasing every tail that happened to walk by the Oval Office door.

I had to make an impassioned speech to her about how important this was to me, and we were totally the perfect campaign ticket. I was so desperate to get her running beside me I even pointed out we shared a G in our last names, and it rung off the tongue perfectly. Gilmore and Gellar; Gellar and Gilmore. I ignored the little voice inside my head that wanted me to sweep her off to Montpelier and put a hyphen in the middle of our surnames.

Finally after minutes of her not listening, and with her running out of the room looking at me as if I just escaped Bellvue, I got the excuse out of my pocket that was like my get out of jail free card. I brought up Harvard.

Suddenly she was cooperative, although I could tell she did it half-heartedly and without much effort on her part. But hey, Cheney sits on his ass all day waiting for that moment to come out of the bullpen that is sure never to come, there was an excellent chance Rory would do nothing in her capacity.

I got to look over the ballots after the voting was finished and we were declared the winning ticket. Somehow I knew in my mind that it wasn't the band that saved our hides from being in the loser column. Everyone can see that Rory and me have this secret thing going on, that both of us will just never acknowledge. And I think that won me a lot of favor I may not have gotten if I ran with a boy. I'm sure that some of those boys voted for us because girl/girl tickets inspire corrupted thoughts, and they were hoping to hear juicy details of a romance when we came back from D.C.

Washington. Damn it, if that isn't a waste of a good six weeks to get the girl, especially when she's sharing a room with me, I sure fucked it up big time.

It was my overdone itineraries that did away with any chance of romancing Gilmore at all. Everything was pre-scripted with the tour groups, the organizers of the conference, and with the other students who were in it with us. By the time midnight had rolled around after a moonlight tour of the Mall where the thought of taking Rory with me all alone to the foot of the Jefferson Memorial and confessing to her my undying love seemed like it was going to happen, I had to bury it under the excuse of yet another meet and greet with the loser congressman who represents my home district and trying to remember all the details of a Supreme Court decision we were going to be heavily tested on two days later.

And it was on that trip I learned that I dream aloud. Rory shook me awake one night, and wondered what I was dreaming about that I was screaming so loud into the night. She said I shouted "Oh baby!" at the top of my lungs, and I was tossing and turning alot.

I knew what it the mirage was about though. I was having another sexual fantasy about her. I could tell because the buttons on my nightgown were undone down to the middle of my breasts, apparently I also unknowingly take off clothes when I'm in my dreamworld. Thankfully the heavy comforter above me hid the image to the world and Rory. After a little comforting from her and a sly move by myself to button my gown back up, she went back to bed. This as I lay on the bed thanking the Lord for not letting Rory find out that my dreams were not involving famous Post writers from the Nixon administration. It took me three nights to get down that she was Woodward and I was Bernstein in my rest.

She didn't talk about the boys in her life much during that trip, so by the third week I knew there was trouble in paradise. I wasn't going to be pushy about it, so I stayed silent, yet told her if she needed an ear I'd be there. Sure, I'd have to hear about how well Dean treated her, yet how rebellious and all-around interesting Jess was in her eyes, but I felt it would be worth it in the end to be a comforting influence, and would help her realize that I'm not always bitter towards her, that I can make a good shoulder to cry on. She saved me that torture, so for that I must thank her profusely.

By the end of the conference, I found out that a guy named Jamie had asked me out. He was everything that I would love in a boy, killer smile and grades, wonderful conversationalist, and someone who I could see fathering my children someday.

Sadly though, he planned everything out to the last detail, so I was mind-numbingly bored sitting in a restaurant frequented by tourists with him. And sadly, the whole time, I was thinking about Rory, and how lonely she must be back at the hotel waiting for me to come back so we could reminisce about the times spent by us in the nation's capital.

I also felt like I was cheating on her. I promised myself the moment Tristan left that until I could find the True One, I was not to date any guy or girl. Unless it was Rory, the girl of my dreams. So I sat there picking at my salad as Jamie went on about how awesome Princeton was going to be, poking at the cherry tomatoes with my fork, and pouring the Hidden Valley Ranch on heavy, bathing the iceberg lettuce in the stuff. All I did during the date was bring up some kind of topic Jamie could go on and on about, so I could sit there and hear him speak as I thought about Rory.

I knew I shouldn't have felt that way, after all it was a girl I hadn't talked my feelings out with yet, I had no obligation to her at all. She told me to go out and have a blast with Jamie, hell if it was late, stay out all hours with the guy.

Instead, I brushed off his timid flirtations, told him nicely that he wasn't my type and it was never going to work out, and thanked him for the lovely dinner. I then walked back into my room, and with Rory still reading in the closet, slipped out of my pink dress, and crawled into bed wearing only my black silk lingerie, dreaming that someday, any day, I could finally get it across to Rory that she was the only one I ever thought of loving.

I lay in my bed, recalling how her hands felt in my locks as she brushed it with her fingers, after I asked her how you knew a guy was right for you. I don't know why I said 'guy' instead of 'someone' like I planned in my mind so my statement would be gender-neutral. Thing was, I didn't want to accent the fact that I was interested in both sexes to Rory. If I said someone, she might try to start on a tangent, and wonder why I wouldn't say guy or girl. And I didn't want to learn then if she was truly straight, with nary a gay thought in that beautiful body of hers.

Still, her advice to me as those nimble fingers worked my hair into something I had never before could be formed with my tresses resonated within me, as I ignored the fact she was applying it to men. "You'll find someone who compliments you," she says to me in that tone she uses that has made me go along with her crazy thoughts. It was then I knew that Jamie was someone who could compliment me, but it wasn't enough for me. Rory has never seen the negatives in me, and though I know she'll be at home telling Lorelai "that nutty Paris is going to be the death of me," it's all in fun. In between Louise's biting jabs to weaken her resolve to stay in Chilton, and Madeline being over eager to be her friend, I'm downright normal in her eyes. I don't let the high life control me like it does those two, and I'm conservative on the outside. I'm never going to be frivolous with money, because the vices would continue to make me feel empty if I never found that love.

When Rory is around, I feel full of life. And when she's not around but in my thoughts at night as I imagine her fingers brushing up inside of me, her hushed voice tickling my earlobe, she makes me whole. I thought of her and her voice in that room almost alone that night, my hand against the wetted dark silk of my crotch, as the fingers on my other hand brushed slowly against my erect nipples, prone against the lace of my bra. I prayed to God that I wouldn't be discovered as I drove myself to orgasm beneath those blankets, wishing my hands were feeling the soft flesh of Rory's ass as her pubic bone crushed into and created friction with mine. Sweated dripped off my brow as my fingers drifted further inside of me, thankful that my passion was silent on this night. If I'm in my room, I'll usually be a lot less reserved than I was, laying here on a dorm bed that has had many more memories than only mine.

I bite down on my lower lip as the tip of my index finger finds the spot I imagine her touching one day, that microscopic bit of flesh that turns me from the studious schoolgirl she usually sees into the passionate woman who reveres her as the most beautiful girl, and competitive equal in my world. I imagine my senses taking in the aroma of her fruity shampoo which is mixed in with the scent of a wildflower, and can feel the hair on my head become heavy against my shoulders as the sweat builds up in it.

With the thought of fucking her inside of my father's den in his big leather office chair in my mind, clothes all over the place and the scent of sex in the air, my pleasuring becomes faster and faster, and my prayers are now heavier, I'm hoping Rory doesn't hear the sound of my mattress squeaking and my short little squeaks of enjoyment as I edge closer to the brink of coming, with her in the room, albeit in a closet with some walls that don't let sound through easily.

Finally, with a hard tug of my clit, I start coming, and for a minute and a half, Rory is my entire world, as I ride out the most satisfying orgasm I've ever had. I imagine her doing the same at the same time in my arms, the loud utterances of our names with the occasional scream the only thing you can hear in the room. Her eyes are shut as she tries to savor the moment that I have created for her, and at the same time I thank God that he decided to have that girl attend Chilton two years ago. I feel pleasure ebb through my entire body, and I try to lengthen it as much as I possibly can, furiously rubbing at my groin to finish myself off, thinking of her breasts in my hands.

With my orgasm ending and my panties completely soaked through, my body finally starts to settle down, and I lay there as I put the nightgown next to my bed on, still unbelieving that my most rewarding climax came but with nary a whisper, I bit on my tongue and lips so hard to keep myself shut up I swear I can feel an indent from the teeth marks on my lower lip. With that, I throw on the nightgown, and after a little time to calm down, take off my bra and panties, and put them in the lower layer of my overnight bag, hoping that with my bag zipped up my only episode of self-love in Washington would never be known to anyone but me. That was one load of laundry I was going to do myself when I got back to Hartford.

I pretend to fall asleep, and Rory comes out of the closet a half-hour later, her mind full of knowledge. If only she'd have taken getting out of that closet literally, I'd be one happy girl. She whispered me a good night, and proceeded to change in the bathroom, and then go to bed. She wasn't on to me and my activities that night, thank goodness.

The morning after, she said I didn't dream aloud as usual, and I just brushed it off as a fluke. Of course, that's because I got my dreaming in a little earlier than that. As we packed, we talked about Washington and how we hoped to come back someday. Then she brought up Jamie and asked if I enjoyed it. I dodged the question, except to say I had a fine time with him, and maybe I'd go out with him again sometime. If only to not make my mother suspicious, I thought.

We went our separate ways at Bradley, her for Lorelai and me for Francisca. I love my nanny like a sister, and she's the only one who knows about my secret love for Gilmore. She can't tell my mom, who doesn't understand much Portuguese besides basic commands, and she knows someone who is gay, so we both win. I can't come out to my mom because I'm afraid she'll think I'm a failure because in a desperate bid for companionship I chose to be a lesbian. She puts so much self-loathing in me, and keeps convincing me that the guys she has me date on occasion are the best for my future. I knew if I admitted my interest in girls, she'd be on the phone to a But I'm a Cheerleader-like camp so fast, my head would spin. Keeping up appearances, she'd call it.

Stifling my sexuality might be a better term.

I didn't see Rory again till after Labor Day and the start of Chilton, where we were both sworn in as president and vice-president. My agenda, along with Rory were on my mind as I called the first meeting. Immediately, things turned sour.

Francine Jarvis, leader of the Puffs and my new worst enemy, asked if I could put a good word in to Charleston to have the skirt hems raised. My first thought was definitely not, no way was Miss Perfect going to get her way with me. I'm still convinced the initiation was a setup by Francie and her goons to get me and Rory in deep trouble somehow, and if she liked revenge, I could serve it back to her ice cold with a side of screw off.

By some means, I knew this wasn't going to be easy to brush off. Despite my persistence, I knew she'd go to any end to get what she wanted, but I didn't count on her blackmailing Rory.

Somehow, she managed to know Rory was my weakness. Damn Francie for that.

With Rory being persistent after Francie brought it up, I knew Francie had influenced her somehow. I knew, but I wasn't going to say anything because it was such a stupid thing to yell at Rory about. She convinced me that maybe if I threw Francie a bone, she'd back out. So I decided to say yes, but only because at the last minute I had an impure thought of my brown-hair ingénue in a shorter skirt which I really loved.

So basically the hemline controversy didn't come down to my feud with Jarvis, nor was it influenced by a group of students begging me to let the issue pass. It was because my inner pervert screamed out and asked me to bite on this hook, line and sinker. I know the day I come out, the history books will reflect on my decision as 'Miss Gellar wanted more of a gander at Miss Gilmore's gams.'

Ladies and gentlemen, this is what happens when you hang around Tristan DuGrey for eleven years, you end up making decisions in government based on how hot your girl is! Thank you Tristan, wherever in the Tar Heel State you are, being trained in 55 forms of hand-to-hand combat and enjoying food only a mother whose idea of high cuisine is Stouffer's could love!

I keep thinking she doesn't want me; I'm paranoid around her all the time these days. After an assembly I hosted with her about applying to college, I realized I had done too much when it came to charity functions. I called Rory on her cell phone and asked her to reassure me, but instead she thought I was panicking too much, and hung up on me. She apologized the next day and said she was in a panic herself.

See, we even get wound up the same way, Blind Date would have a fucking ball charting how many similarities me and Rory share!

 I sit here across from Rory, reflecting on everything that happened between us the last eleven months as she sits across from me in the dining hall, as Madeline and Louise chatter on about who's hotter, that carpenter on Trading Spaces or a cute geek guy named Kevin from TechTV that Madeline came across one day while channel surfing.

They're saying this as both me and Rory pick over the item we've picked out for our lunch everyday as a side since the first day of school last year. Each of us has a salad with quite a few leaves of lettuce, and cherry tomatoes. And we both slather each of our salads with three packets of ranch dressing, the better to get a lot of taste out of it.

I sit there everyday, staring at her salad and the way she eats it, and she does the same stare for mine, as if the salads connect us in some weird way. We both take time out of eating if one of us has a little ranch dressing around our mouths, and we usually eat it in relative silence, her listening to her CD Walkman, while I compute a complicated equation in my mind for a later math class.

Occasionally, our legs brush up against each other, and it takes everything I have not to just close the distance between us and kiss her. Her blue hosiery is a tease to me, and one day I hope she decides to leave them at home, coming to school with her legs uncovered and naked. The feel of her nylon hosiery is always something I imagine before I go to bed at night, and hopefully the day she comes wearing knee socks instead of pantyhose, I can initiate some quiet flirting with her, and start a cute little game of footsie, with us silently playing the game in a room filled with 800 other people, no one the wiser.

And it's now that I realize my thoughts are veering into X-rated territory, so I stop them in their tracks.

But in anticipation of the day I decide I've had enough of just dreaming of Lorelai Leigh Gilmore and have her fall in love with me, I can be content in letting my feelings for her out slowly and surely. We see each other from sunrise to sunset, and with the winter coming up, we're sure to be going back and forth between Stars Hollow and Hartford in our cars for various projects. That time alone with her should be enough to try to make her fall for me romantically.

For now though, there's a more pressing issue that needs to be taken care of.

"Rory, ranch dressing, right side of your mouth, you might need to stretch it out a little this time."

She blushes and smiles at me. "Uh, thanks for pointing that out Paris, I'm glad we're such good friends."

I smile back slightly. "Not a problem Gilmore."

Now it's time for me to sit back and enjoy the show as Rory works her tongue around her mouth, removing the offending glob of dressing. For now, I take delight in the fact that I can imagine my tongue is up against hers instead of a tangy salad topping.

The Simpsons were dead wrong. You do win friends with salad. And perhaps, in the not-so-distant future, the eternal love of another woman.

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To be continued...

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Two | Meanwhile, Across the Table...
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, Rory POV
Inspired by: The fact I'm such a lazy boy. With all the talk of the quick little kiss Rory and Paris share in episode 417, I started dreaming of the possibilities, and somehow they led me back to this abandoned little fic that I never really got off the ground, but I got great reviews to. It all came back to 'TomatoWorld', so rather than try to build on the possibilities of the 417 kiss that'll be done a lot better by the other writers on the slash group, I'm going to go ahead and make this a new series. Remember, this takes place in the summer and fall between the second and third seasons, and contains many spoilers and nuggets of subtext from late second season and early third season episodes, with a few changes.

Rory never struggled to send Jess any mail from Washington because her feelings after the Duper wedding kiss were clear; she wanted to just be his friend. That means her and Shane are ambivalent to each other because she's not fighting with her over Jess, though with the mannerisms of the actress playing Shane, I'll probably be making her a minor supporting character in this story later on. Also, Francie is a little more muted than she was in the show, so don't expect Rory and Paris to be catfighting with fencing foils later because both of them will be on to her games. I've glossed over Townie stuff because it doesn't play a role in the story as it is for now.
Rating: R (swearing, naughty femslash thoughts, self-pleasuring)
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own the show and the characters. See chapter one for my usual fun disclaimer, but substitute The Help for Off Centre as the show the WB wants you watch even though you shouldn't.
Summary: How does subtext taste? Kind of like ranch dressing and cherry tomatoes. This time, it's Rory doing the thinking from across the table as she ponders the possibilities in a way you might not expect.
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Author's Notes: Please note that this is my first time trying out a Rory POV, so if her voice seems off, I apologize, help me out and send a friendly email my way. Click on my name on the fic sites and there you'll find my address to send criticisms and feedback. I live for it, and it's definitely going to help later when I interchange POVs in the same chapter. Also if you're on ff.net and you're wondering why girls are lusting for girls in this fic? I'm not changing it, Paris wants Rory and Rory wants Paris, so if you don't like that, hit the right-hand corner X or red stoplamp button and find another fic, you won't like this one.
 
Onto the thanks; Freelance for the original brainstorm in October 2002, and I hope you like the next one, sorry it took so long to get out! Surya, Susie and Cinnamon for their sexy and hot Trory fic, which really helped set the tone for my own sexually thinking Rory, I couldn't have done it without recalling your work girls. Thanks to Janine for the hilarious chats and inspiration for this chapter, you rock! Raven for writing the only hot Narc fic I've ever read, and who is a real dear for answering my review so kindly, maybe this'll help you out. Steph (aka Reeka) for the little encouragement when I was writing this and chatting at the same time, may the LexLove live on. The guys on the Luke's Diner thread, I'm finally writing something to whet your Study Buddies appetites, hope this satisfies it 'till Tuesday! And to everyone on the GilmoreGirlsSlash group, thanks for giving me a place to share all my ideas about everything Paris/Rory, especially Christina for trusting me with moderating the group while she's on an internet break. Come back soon, I'm gonna be a busy beaver on Wednesday ;).
 
And finally many thanks to Alexis and Liza for having the guts to go through with this entire little thing in 417 even with the heavy fan criticism and some scathing media articles (I'm looking at you New York Post!) getting in their way. You must've shared a lot of trepidation before you went through with it, but no matter how it all turns out, your loyal fans will love you, no matter what.

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Why do I sit across from her everyday? That's the question I've been asking myself everyday since the start of second semester last year, and our paths happened to cross that day. Paris and I were in one of our momentary truces, and with some fraternity resembling the Puffs taking over the table I usually sat at alone for the rest of the time I was going to be at Chilton, I asked Paris if I could sit with her, Madeline and Louise at her table. Grudgingly she agreed, and that's usually the most peaceful we both get in school. She eats and does her school and newspaper work, and I do the same, only occasionally do we group up and compare notes.
 
It's also a time of day I don't feel like myself though.
 
Yes, I'm Rory Gilmore, and according to the males of Stars Hollow I seem to be the only 18 year-old girl that they want to talk to and date. I live in a town of 6,500 people, yet guys fight over me as if I'm the only surviving woman from the damned nuclear apocalypse. They fight, preen, and pose so they can earn my love.
 
Alright, so it's only my boyfriend Dean and Jess Mariano, nephew of the owner of the diner I frequent. My boyfriend suffocates me from doing anything that would keep me away from him for more than five hours, while Jess just tries way too hard to get my attention. It just gets so annoying sometimes, and with all this pressure, I just want to get away from them for awhile, and consider someone else.
 
Someone like my tablemate Paris.
 
I amazed myself when I first thought of Paris in the way I did Dean, because after all, I'm a girl, and we're supposed to be bitter enemies. So why does it feel like when I'm with Paris at anytime, I think I'm in a marriage with many ups and downs, but that we always manage to patch up and grow stronger from the downs?
 
I don't know, and every night before I leave the Franklin office, I always ask myself that same question. I just can never find the answer to it, because Paris is a mystery to me.
 
From the day I came to Chilton, she's always been a presence in my life, no matter what I do to try to avoid her. When I first saw her, and she told me that she was going to make my scholastic life a living hell, in her exact words. I've always wanted to prove to her that I'm her competitive equal after that, and I'll do anything to prove it to her. After finding out that the Puffs were a sorority, I wanted to run far away from those freaky girls. But Paris got to me, and I ended up at the last few words of the induction's incantation before we were all caught and the Puffs were forced to disband. I would've thought that basically sealed Paris' fate with me. I'd never be her friend, and she wouldn't look twice towards me.
 
But somehow, our roads always cross. The Franklin, she looks over each and every word I write and criticizes a writing style that might have been just fine at home, but in this school is called 'tabloidishly pathetic' by her. I've been improving slowly and her rebukes seem to have finally eased off a little.
 
What hasn't eased of is the fact that yes, I'm vice president of the student body. When I was in that room the day Paris debated with her fellow candidates for the job of president, I had no premonition that I was going to be used as a rubber duck on a fishing rod, dangled over my fellow Chiltonians as if to say 'Hey everyone, look at Rory, isn't she just so cute and cherubic? If you want her to run everything in the unlikely event I orchestrate a history-making student prank that'll get me booted from Chilton, you'll vote for me, Paris Gellar? Right? YOU BETTER, RORY'S CUTE AND SHANA McCADE ISN'T, YOU WANNA MAKE RORY CRY??!!'
 
Oh God, her anger; another thing that has me going towards Rosie's side when I think about Paris. Most of it, I want to cower in fear whenever she lets loose her vitriol towards me or some unsuspecting poor student like Brad or Madeline. But there's this little part of my mind that ponders 'Rory, isn't she hot when she gets all pissed off?', and that somehow weirdly seems to keep me ambivalent on the outside whenever she goes off on a tangent.
 
Anyways, once she said the 'H' word and how nice it would look on my transcript, I was all hers. She'd stay in the background while I'd talk her up in the halls and in the courtyard, trying to sell the world on a kindler gentler Paris who just happened to have innocent and nice-to-everybody Rory in front to take all the hits. I was on the frontlines, and little did she know about some of the questions from students that seemed to be as far from politics as possible.
 
The class horndog, Roger Saunders brought up a question to me while Paris was out of the room that I struggled to answer for him.
 
"So Rory, why are you really Paris' running mate?" He leered at me and though I wanted to bring out one of my saddle shoes against his groin, I answered with the usual spiel that Paris was going to help unite our student body, lower and upper classes, while balancing the needs of the few with those of the many, and I would make sure to ask a student time to time how we've been doing. He seemed to be listening intently, and I thought I'd have won him over.
 
Then he proved that he was thinking with...well, it's lower and definitely not shaped like a brain. "Well-formulated answer Gilmore. I really was under the impression that Gellar just wanted to get in your pants and fuck you, so I guess that answers my question. Thank you." He then fled before I could retort or physically harm him, and from there, I was in the gutter about that pesky blonde.
 
I'm taller and much more imposing than her, yet Paris is a hellfire that takes a lot of patience to get used to. When she asked me after a debate if I wanted to celebrate with her, she seemed a little too eager for my company, I mean I thought she was actually jumping up and down, excited that we had a night out. Leave it to Dad and Sherrie to ruin that bit of brightness in Paris' world, because with my having to get to know Sherrie, Paris was denied a night with me. She trounced down the hall steamrolling everything in her path, and I was left to muse what she and I would've done that night.
 
And now I'll be having a half-sister from that woman in a few months? No offense to my dad, but I'm really sure Lorelai wouldn't mind taking that baby off that control freak's hands and adopting her. I'm saying too much though, back to the subject at hand...
 
We did win the election, and that entailed Paris and I heading to our nation's capitol for the next couple months. Good timing too, because I was confused about the entire Jess and Dean situation. Just a little though, because after that kiss with Jess at Sookie's wedding, fantasy and reality collided, and reality won. I couldn't be with Jess, ever. He's too screwed up to be with me, and I want my mom with Luke someday. Would I really want to be frenching a future cousin? My mind and my body said no, and though he's nice, we're better off destined as friends than screwed up lovers that would be right on par with Romeo and Juliet.
 
A little sidebar; when Paris became the last second Romeo, was it wrong that I wouldn't have minded being kissed by her? When her mouth moved towards my neck and she did her 'die' movement, I yearned for a lot more than I got. With Tristan I don't know how I would've felt since we kissed before, but he's out of the picture; I can't start anything with him anymore since he's down in Dawson country. But with Par? I felt a swoon as she moved in for the kill, then when she faked out the audience, I felt denied. And would it have made her mad if I asked her if I could've rehearsed the kiss? I'll never know, but I would've taken her lips on mine for a couple extra points towards an A, no question.
 
I look at all these guys who ignore her so they can become Louise's newest flavor, and wish I could tell them they're missing out on a whole hell of a lot. Her eyes convey her anger, her sadness, her glee whenever she manages a victory in life. Her mouth has nice, rounded lips that yearn to be kissed and to share her inner-most secrets with another. And if there's a hole in the girl's locker room somewhere from the hallway, they've had to have taken a good look at her body because I'm jealous of her. Paris usually tries her best to hide herself beneath that uniform she wears and tries to find a place to change privately like in the stall, but after living with her for two months in that Washington dorm, I've seen more of her than probably her mother ever has. She's the definition of classical beauty; curves everywhere, large, but not too big breasts that draw you down towards cavernously deep cleavage. Long, blonde hair that makes the most primping-obsessed woman green with envy, because all Paris needs is an antique gold hairbrush and watermelon-scented White Rain shampoo and conditioner to keep it beautiful and lustrous. She does put some highlighting in occasionally, but not enough to really make a difference. Her face is something you can't forget, what with it's ovalish shape and bright red cheeks that look very cute in a cold Connecticut winter, or after saying something that makes her blush. And her ass...yes, let it be said that Rory Gilmore can be shallow at times, because I wouldn't mind feeling her firm buttocks in my hands, I really envy that part of her! She'd definitely make men turn heads if she ever got up courage and went to the country club wearing low-rise jeans that tighten right around her rump. I've also dreamed of her once wearing leather things on her lower section; pants or a skirt. It's like she was born to wear them, but as goes her mother, as goes her style. Which means stuff that would fit with my Grandma much more than on a 17 year-old classmate of the same sex I occasionally lust for...
 
Oh no, I'm getting off track again, focus Gilmore. Yes, you like Paris more than any girl in your life, but you don't like her so much that you lust after her!
 
Hell, who am I kidding, I've had hotter fantasies about Paris than I ever have about guys! Usually when I'd dream of Dean taking 'the big step' it involves me on the bottom, him on top, using every line I've ever seen in a teen movie about a couple's first time, as he Missionary's me through the entire dream with nothing to show for it but a 'Wow, that was fine' and me rolling over to the side to continue sleeping. But with her...it's been more. Heat. Passion. Erotic settings. That's how Paris and I do it in my dreams. It's just odd, because when I dream of Dean and I together, I think of clumsy touching, being too scared to do some things with him because it seems too aggressive, and I think that I need to serve him, rather than serve me. Sometimes the dream ends way too early and he releases too fast, and I'm left to either bubble it up for the next time, or think of some underwear model from my Cosmo as I try to make it end. But with Paris, everything goes off with a hitch. I'm familiar with my parts already, so it's easy to figure out what buttons to push on her, and she has a good knowledge of me too. We touch and tease in our dreams, maybe do a little slow and tentative kissing to start out with, pushing it up as the heat rises. And sometimes I end up sleeping with her dream self, but it's all about getting to know the girl within by imagining reading her biological instruction manual before I start getting into her and experimenting. Things heat slowly with me and Paris in dreamland, but when they get steamy and everything comes together, it's wonderful.
 
I can recall one of my tamer dreams with her, as a matter of fact it was the day after the debate. I dreamt that we were in the Franklin office, and she told me I needed to draft an article someone else had written. So I came over and got out my correcting pencil and started scribbling corrections. I can feel her breath against the back of my neck, and I inhale and exhale a lot more sharply than usual. Her usually bitter tone is replaced with an excited whisper as she helps me out. 'They could probably use a better word, might I suggest...damp?' she suggested in that lustful tone, causing me to firm up and certain parts to excite. My ears perk a little, my heartbeat speeds up, and I can slowly feel Paris' work-worn fingers against the bottom of my ribcage, she's wrapping her hand around me. She strokes the material of the blouse in a way that's driving me crazy, and slowly moving her hand beneath the jacket of my uniform. And then she gets closer, her lips brushing up against my earlobe, and her bust weighing down against my back. Her other hand drifts beneath the fabric of my skirt, and I drop the pencil to the floor, distracted by the sound of her breathing. I know then it's just a matter of time, and as I bend down to pick the pencil, she turns me over, my ass hits the hardwood floor, and her knee is up against the middle of my skirt. She doesn't say anything, and I just nod with permission as her lips close in on mine, her hands disrobe me as I tear off her clothes, and we proceed to do things that would forever change the meaning of that pesky 'Mary' nickname Tristan gave me.
 
I had so many of those dreams when we shared a room in DC over the summer. I also had daydreams. It was disconcerting that I, Rory Gilmore, was having very hot and heavy sapphic thoughts about a girl who made it clear from the beginning I'd never make it on 'her turf'. But as we rode around the Beltway on that bus everyday, headed toward places of government or leisure such as the Capitol or the National Aquarium in Baltimore, we had to sit next to each other. Would she ever say anything if she had feelings for me? Could I admit the same?
 
Because I came pretty close to taking that step as we took a water taxi back from Fort McHenry to the Inner Harbor one evening in Baltimore. It was such a beautiful evening too; the sky was clear, the awesome skyline of the city in front of us. We were sitting at a table eating dinners consisting of tossed salads with lettuce and chopped up cherry tomatoes, and Paris was looking so carefree. She was talking about her nanny Francisca and a story about her saying the darnedest things when she was young. She had on a cleavage-baring dark red top I know I'd never see her wear in Hartford, combined with a pair of corduroy pants that fit her slim legs like a glove. Her hair was in an elegant ponytail, and her eyes reflected the half-moonlight in the sky. She's really a good storyteller when she really gets into the meat of it.
 
I was about to ask her in a subtle subject change whether she'd ever fall for a girl, when suddenly this guy came in and broached conversation with both of us.
 
His name? It was Jamie, and he had prevented me from divulging close feelings for Paris. The boy seemed smitten for her, so I didn't want to be rude and be the third wheel, so I backed out and moved over to the front of the boat, looking at the skyline alone as we came back into Baltimore Harbor. I felt so stupid, because that guy seemed to be Paris' perfect type. Well-bred, killer grades and looks, and a highly developed wit. A small town girl like me never had a chance with Paris because I was too chicken to take the next step forward. So I pushed them together, had them keep looking at each other so that they could be happy and I could push any lesbian tendencies way down to the dark deep portion of my heart, never to lurk on the outside.
 
Three nights later though, it came back out, and strong.
 
See, if you don't know Paris, she sleep talks in her dreams. It's not that loud and barely noticeable, but when you're going on your 20th sleepless night without seeing your mother and best friend, you'll try anything to make yourself fall asleep. What I had previously ignored and tuned out, I listened to that night with interest.

I could see in the light of the window her tossing and turning violently to each side of the bed, clearly which I thought, was a nightmare. She'd mumble 'Oh God, oh my God' occasionally, and toss over to another side. So I continued listening, trying to wear my brain into REM playing silent dream psychic with Paris. I thought nothing of what she was dreaming, just that it was pretty bad if she was begging for God's mercy.
 
Suddenly though, she shrieked in her bed. Not a loud shriek, not a blood-curdling one, but just a shriek. A happy one. Now I was really confused, because why would she be excited that way during a nightmare, a postive way? I got up from my bed and crept toward hers, because from my position, I didn't have a good view of her whole body.
 
I should've probably stayed in bed. Because when I was about ready to rouse Paris awake with my hand, I discovered where her right hand was when she threw her comforter after another happy shriek.
 
There, in her hand, was the bedsheet, balled up. And her nightgown was bunched up around her waistline, I could see a couple fingers beneath one of the leg holes in her panties, exposed to me.
 
Of course, I blushed the deepest shade of red I ever could muster. I had come upon Paris having a sex dream! I whispered the F word to myself, and tried to will myself away from watching the scene unfolding in front of my eyes, very dimly. But my feet stood still. I watched her toss to and fro, her hair spreading out all over her pillow and her fingers working more furiously to get herself off. Her gown seemed to unsnap in the front like it had a mind of its own, and I tried to block out the fact that I was staring at her breasts so blatantly. I couldn't stop, and I felt my whole body react, despite not knowing what her dream is about.
 
Her panties were so wet, and she was arching against the bed, I could tell that she was about to reach her peak. She then shouted words I'd never have expected from her, and that, in a proper setting would have probably been a dream come true. But in that dorm room, I had to chalk it up to frustration.
 
She screamed "Oh Rory, baby!" loudly as she came in her sleep. I had never expected her to be fantasizing about me like that, so I immediately went into denial mode, despite the wild side of my conscious screaming at me to make her dream come true. I grabbed the sheet and comforter from the floor and threw it onto her body, then waited a few minutes for her to settle down from her orgasm. Then I approached her slowly and shook her awake, hoping she was unaware that I knew her secret fantasy. I told her that she was sleep talking, and though startled at the admission that she screamed in her dream, she seemed fine. I told her that she said "Oh baby!", editing my name out so that she didn't have to answer the awkward question of why I was in her dream. And I also made sure not to let her know she had an erotic sleep-talking dream, that it was somewhat normal.
 
She shook a little in her bed, looking down at her comforter in shock. Then she apologized for something I knew was tough to control. "I feel so embarrassed, I'm so sorry Rory, I promise you that I won't be so loud again. Maybe I'll get a muzzle for myself," she joked, though a little shaken. I thought that was the perfect time to assure her that her neurotic tendencies were actually fine to me, and I gave her an awkward, yet friendly hug. I could tell as she put her hand on my back that she was trying to push her nightgown below her waist again and buttoning up the front.
 
After her loud and obvious dream, I didn't know what to think of Paris' sexual orientation. But I did know she needed love in her life, and with Dean my boyfriend, I couldn't give it her, no matter what my dreams were telling me. So whenever Jamie came into the picture, I pushed them together. I think she flirted, but it seemed more to keep up appearances than in showing any actual interest in the boy. Jamie was just as tentative and very shy whenever they happened on each other at an event.
 
Meanwhile being with Paris in the same place almost twenty hours a day drove me into this sexual tizzy that Dean or Jess could've never gotten me into. The image of her almost nude and prone body in her dream that evening permeated my thoughts, and I spent all day counting the minutes until I could get in the shower and release all that energy over the cover of my CD player and the spray of the shower blocking my noises from her ears. I missed home and Stars Hollow, but that one mid-June night stayed with me all that summer.
 
I wrote postcards to the boys occasionally, leaving 'wish you were here' messages to them, when I couldn't give a damn if Dean pulled up and got a private room with me at the Watergate for the rest of the summer. I loved living with Paris, and though our schedules were planned up to the last minute, we still got time to get to know each other. I learned she was a closet romance and soap opera fan (she even brought a Tivo box to record them when we went on a four-day tour of Virginia battlefields so that she wouldn't miss a minute of The Guiding Light and GH), and she respected my taste in music and fashions. Though the 'L' word was far from being brought up, I found out that we were kindred spirits, and though her motives for befriending me were confusing, I knew one thing; I didn't want to lose it again. Lane's the friend you made in preschool and will know until you die and will probably wear the ugly bridesmaid's dress for, but I've never had a dirty thought about her in my life. Probably because I'm convinced Mrs. Kim can see into my mind where it concerns Lane, and she'd get out the cross and hand drill if I thought of Lane in less than a sweater!
 
But Paris, she's the girl who runs hot and cold. One day you think you've finally gotten into her good graces, and then you do something that seems innocent and screw it all up. Hooking her up with Tristan comes to mind. Strangely, I liked imperfect friendship, and perfect rivalry. Had she not threatened me that first day or my ass bumped her fort project to the hard linoleum as I 'opened' my locker, I might have been looking for an even more challenging school than Chilton to attend because everyone else besides her and the rest of the Chilton Three, I honestly couldn't find anything to relate to with them. She keeps me humble, I keep her humble, and we make the perfect, though flawed team. It's win-win for both of us.
 
August finally came slowly, and the last days of our Washington tour were finally here. Which meant a last shuffle at courtship, and that meant Jamie finally got off his stubborn ass and asked Paris for a date, much to my delight. I could finally get all those dumb thoughts out of my mind about jumping my classmate and concentrate on the upcoming battle of trying to drill into Jess' head that we're just friends and only ever going to remain that, and trying to keep my flame burning with Dean.
 
Two minutes in though, and already a hitch. Apparently Paris missed every cue in the book that yes, you're Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality and he wannnts to date yoooouu hon. She didn't know it was a date, and treated it as if she was being taken to Chunk E. Cheese's for turning nine! Being that Paris was new to the dating game, I gently nudged her and let her know that yes, she was going on a date with Jamie. She commented on how it would seem to the world how a Harvard girl would be dating a Princeton boy, and I just nodded and told her I'd help her get ready.
 
I should've seen through her from that moment though. She hyped herself on the date and had no interest in calling it that before I prodded her on. And I should've known that with her light beauty regimen, I'd need to give her serious help to impress Jamie.
 
Which meant touching. Lots and lots of touching Paris. She needed help in everything, and I just succumbed to helping her here and there, touching her almost everywhere. I helped her choose a dress, and had to imagine her in it. Oh God, here I go again...She took off her 'luncheon' suit, and there she stood, in a black demi-bra with matching panties, looking for something to wear in the closet. And I thought Tristan was a pervert! I admit, I milked the opportunity for all it was worth, having her change into outfits that I know wouldn't work just so I could touch her and ogle over her subtlety for at least a couple hours. I found the perfect little pink dress in the bottom of her suitcase, and had her change into it, and without even looking at her in it, knew she'd look hot wearing it.
 
She did of course, and though she was panicking as I made my weekly phone call to Dean, I still pondered why I was letting a overneurotic J-AP from one of the old bloodlines of Hartford get into my mind so much. And one from my own sex no less! About the only place I learned that girls even kissed girls was from Ellen and some soft-core movie I flipped onto during a free preview Cinemax weekend late at night, and from my health book, but I always thought you'd only find them in the big cities, the San Franciscos and New Yorks. I also heard of a term called 'lipstick lesbians', where cute girls would kiss or have sex with each other just for fun.

We certainly wouldn't be lipstick lesbians, I wear gloss, and Paris only wears the stuff on special occasions!
 
I took her hair out of a very tight ponytail, had her sit down and calm down, and then she asked how I knew a guy was right for me. As I brushed it out, ignoring any tingles I was getting from being able to be trusted with her long locks, I told her she'd know when she least expected it, "You'll find that compatible person who you share interests with, but not too many that they're boring." I told her as I calmed her nerves.
 
I hid behind the words him and his, and knew what I was doing. I had already found the person most compatible with me, and unfortunately she was about to go out on a date with a boy. I was telling her all this stuff and meaning it all towards Paris, not Jamie. I felt guilty for a moment, before I heard Jamie knock on the dorm door, conversation ended, and I had her turn around and I gave her one last once-over. "Perfect", I told her, and she asked if that was really my opinion. It probably would've been really weird and out of character if I had gone with my first choice of words, "Paris, you look totally fuckable!", so I confirmed the previously vocalized opinion.
 
She then smiled at me and told me to get into the closet. Some kind of fear about me being taken out instead of her by Jamie if I was in the same room. So I made a crack about her therapist and got in the closet anyways, trying to find some kind of Freudian theory that me in the closet was really the way she visualized me in her dreams in a lesbianic sense. Which sadly after the "Oh Rory, baby!" incident became about as exciting as a Prime Minister's Questions show on C-SPAN. I mean yeah, so she sleep-talk dreams about newspaper writers having ferocious battles about what to write, but could she really replace them in her mind with her and me sleeping together? Kind of a hard thing to do, say one thing and think another, especially in slumber. Still, the mind puzzles.
 
I wrote my postcards in the lit closet and packed up my clothes, trying to find anything to do to take my mind off my crush on my blonde roommate. I had three hours to spare and so much to pack, so it was pretty easy. When I heard Paris approach in the hallway, I decided she might need some recovery time, so I went back into the closet to give her the time she needed to recharge her batteries.
 
She came back into the room, and sighed as I hear her bed creak. She hesitated and I heard the floor creak as she took off her shoes and set them to the side of the door. So far, so good, I thought to myself silently, looks like they'll work out.
 
Then I hear another knock on the door. Hmm, maybe Paris and Jamie would give me an excuse to put in my earplugs? She walked over from the bed, and I heard her open the door. I heard Jamie, and eavesdropped on their conversation.
 
"You forgot your purse Paris," he said kindly.
 
"Oh, thank you, I was a little absent-minded tonight."
 
"So, do you think I can have your cell number? Maybe if I get up to Hartford, we can do this again sometime."
 
Here it comes; the crush is going to die any second now! No more hot dreams and getting off to images of Paris screwing me, this silly little phase is about to pass--
 
"I'm sorry Jamie, I didn't feel any chemistry with you romantically. I wouldn't mind being your friend, but I don't have the interest in you that you have for me, and I don't know if I ever can. I had a fine time, and I hope you have a good time the rest of the days you're here." She said it tersely as if she was repeating a test result verbatim.

"Oh, well, I'm sorry." He sounded stunned, and lost all his momentum, any love he had for the girl fading fast. "Uh, goodnight Paris."

"Bye Jamie."
 
With that, my lesbian crush on Paris Gellar went back into full effect! All the parts of my body that were normal seconds ago are feeling drugged up with desire. My soul swoons, and I'm trying to telegraph "DAMN IT PARIS, QUIT BEING SUCH A GODDAMNED ENGIMA!!" to her brain because she just turned down Mr. Right for who knows who! I want to come out of the closet and wring her neck for turning down such a nice guy. He left, probably heartbroken, and I'm left to wonder why she'd rather stay single than go out with him. I assume the date was fine because she came home safe and he wanted more. Maybe they did have sex and she was lacking?
 
I heard her lock the door and sigh as she took off her dress, dropping to the ground in front of the closet. "Hello? Rory?" she asked aloud to the room. I decided not to respond, thinking that she needed a little quite time to get ready for bed.
 
I go back to my letters and write quietly, wondering if she'd need something from the closet since her nightgowns are in here. Though she did have one next to her bed. Ten minutes later, she hasn't opened the door, and I know her as not going to bed without at least something on. Ten minutes later, she hadn’t opened the door, and knowing her not to go to bed without at least something on I opened the door slowly at first, I heard nothing in the room but her breathing, so I opened it a little more.
 
It's a good sign though. She's laying in her bed in her underwear, looking up at the ceiling in the dim light of the room, one bra strap fallen against her boobs and her fingers...
 
Great, now she was masturbating again! I certainly couldn't interrupt her as her legs were spread across the bed, providing easy access to her clit. I was only seeing out of one eye because the door was in the way of my left eye, and the footboard of the bed was blocking it more just a little bit. It was pretty clear however, what she was doing. She bit down onto her lower lip with her upper palate, and was freakishly silent as I watched her give herself pleasure.
 
But she had just turned down Jamie. Why on earth would she have been giving herself pleasure after having a bad date? It didn't make much sense to me!
 
To me, Rory Gilmore, who hasn't even seen a penis before except in a textbook however, her private moment was arousing me so much that I wanted that closet door closed so I could have a moment like that myself. Imagining my fingers inside of her, myself on top, both of us oblivious to the world around us as we share in one of the most simple, yet carnal pleasures we can partake in.
 
I felt my cotton undies dampen as I continued to spy on her. I focused my eyes in on her groin, where the black silk of her panties had been shoved off to the side so she had full access. Her other hand was up against her breast, still in the bra, and she was barely making any noise. The springs of the bed groaned as she arched against her hand, and I could tell that she was soon to come from the fact her toes were curling back and each of her smaller fourth toes were clenched below her big toes. God, this was so wrong!
 
That's what I thought until that night. As Paris brought herself over the hump in front of my eyes, and her body became relaxed, I was totally thinking 'Paris does want me. She's dreaming of me.' Despite not having any confirmation except for the earlier sleep-talking dream, who else could she think of, Tristan? She hated him when he left for ruining his life with the help of Duncan and Bowman. And it certainly isn't Brad! It couldn't have been a boy because otherwise common sense tells me she would've been using an item shaped like a penis, like a vibrator or a dildo (geeze, I can't believe I'm even thinking about that! Gross!) to bring herself off. But her fingers worked just fine for her.

And if my vision wasn't deceiving me, she was trying to get her hand in the same position my fingers are normally.
 
The cork was opened. I had to get myself off too. So I grabbed the doorknob and slowly closed the door before Paris would notice, and moved all my writing materials off to the side so I had enough room to lay down. I took off my sweater and pants and kicked off my shoes, all my nerves excited as I stripped myself of my clothing furiously. I cursed myself for being a dork as I realized how unsexy my underwear was. I mean Hello Kitty underwear and a plain white tank top?! I suppose I could seduce someone desperate in that ensemble. I'm just thankful I've drawn the line of sharing clothes with Lorelai at underwear, because even she'd be embarrassed at what I wear under the Chilton skirt!
 
I examined my panties and discovered that they were soaked at the crotch. I felt the wet spot with two fingertips and actually felt the dampness of my juices wring onto my fingers into a small drop. Experimentally, I brought it up to my nose and took a sniff of myself, something that I've never done. Mom never really talked about masturbation to me, and I've never asked because that topic goes into her 'gross territory'. Basically she says as long I don't have sex before I'm 30, I can pretty much do anything with my body I want. My utter shyness before then had stopped me from doing more than 'buffing the pearl', as Louise had stated once in an impromptu sex talk she had with Madeline one day in the Franklin office (far away from Paris' ears of course). But I was very curious; if somehow Paris told me she had feelings for me, sexual feelings and decided to...use her mouth down there, would I have a bitter taste? Would she be repulsed upon knowing what she was getting into, stop right there, and never speak to me again?
 
Actually, it wasn't too bad. Sort of sugary with a bitter taste, but something that wouldn't repulse me like a dose of green NyQuil. I got a mouth-watering image of what I surmised she'd taste like. All bitter, but with just a hint of sweetness as it went down my throat. Though it did smell like a bodily fluid did, it was a much nicer scent. Not like Secret deodorant, but a musky kind of scent, something that would appeal to a man. Or a girl like Paris, it's just something that's so her.
 
I could smell her in the air, the stale sterile aroma of the Spartan dorm room disappearing around me as I dipped my fingers around the waistband tentatively. The skin along the bottom of my stomach immediately tingled, and sent shocks down to my core. God, I wanted this so badly, all the negative things about loving another woman not even a factor. I moved my hand in deeper and deeper slowly, imagining her against the middle landing of the grand staircase at school...

Her jacket is open and her tie is undone, and she's beckoning me closer towards her. Her skin is flush and beaded with sweat, and she releases her hair from a scrunci in this crazy movement that brings out my untamed heart. We collide together, and I feel her tongue demand to know mine. We crumple to the floor arm in arm, and I feel her large breasts weigh against my chest. I open a few buttons on her blouse (more like rip it open), and find the cleavage she keeps hidden to everyone except herself, and thank God that I know this girl so closely and intimately after only two years.
 
I try to keep my cries to myself, staying soft as I moaned her name in that closet and find my hand against my vaginal lips. I feel the brown hair tangled and covering it, and feel even more dampness than I did on my panties, it is clear the beginning of my masturbation fantasy is making me so wet. I dipped a finger into my pussy and against my clit. I'm already aroused and in another world where every little movement feels like heaven. My nipples tighten against the tank top, and I can clearly make out the outline of my areola. This spurs me on even further as I continue on with my daydream.
 
Paris is down to her underwear and her skirt, while I've already ditched the itchy fabric of my kilt and hover above her in a pink undershirt and bikini briefs, my shirt open and my entire body writhing above her. She can't take the fact that she's not in control, a trait that makes me respect her even more. I'd do anything for her, and if it involves her on top, well I certainly can't deny her, can I? She rolls me over, and with strength that's hidden somewhere in her analytical body, she tears off the undershirt and my bra at the same time right in the front, exposing my sort of flat chest to her. Somehow I don't think it's enough, and I await her answer as if I have enough cup size to satisfy her.

 
"Gilmore, I'd love you even if you were completely flat!" she says to me, sad that I even thought one part of my body wasn't good enough for her. She closes her mouth in on my right nipple in my thoughts in order to prove it.

In real life, my hand was fondling the underside of my right breast, and I muffled out a groan of pleasure as I found myself distracted, and very hot. My tank top had to come offso I interrupted my self-pleasuring and yanked the shirt up from the waist hem, turning it inside out as I took it off and threw it so high it caught the end of one of the wire coat hangers above and just stayed there, not slipping at all from its roost.
 
My dream self starts to stray towards the dark side of Mary as I'm now down to my panties and I'm returning the favor of Paris' fondling back to her, biting and and playing with nipples, driving her to beg me for more and causing her voice to become hoarse, I swear I hear her use vulgar and sexual Portuguese terms, and I take that as her losing control of her usual, reserved and conservative self. However, my language is far from G-rated as her hand rubs against my mound, her school-worn fingers perfectly frictioning against my needy clit. I actually use the 'p' and 'c' words in a way that Lorelai would have me eating a dinner of Ivory soap with Palmolive gravy, and I couldn't give a fuck because Paris is making me feel like a goddess. She's making it clear that she wants me for me, and would do anything to make me happy. And in turn the only thing I want for her is happiness.

She's really getting to me now, and I recall her moans as she had that wet dream I watched her have a couple months ago. I could only smell sex in the air then, and my panties were so wet I swore the silk-screened image of Hello Kitty's face was starting to smudge, turning the fabric's color from a virgin white to a muddy grayish red from the inks used.
 
I hoped Paris would be able to sense what I was doing because she was making me cum like I never had before. I had three fingers inside, stroking my clit so vigorously that my fantasy of her and me fucking in the school lobby has to struggle to catch up.

I catch it up to my current state, and now it's just Paris and I, naked as the day we were born, making love without a care in the world. I feel her fingers inside of me, and then I feel her leg against my entrance too. Another thing that makes me wet for her; she has perfectly long and sexy legs, and she barely stands five feet and a bit. She's imposing when she's sitting down, and small when she stands, and it's all because of her legs. She wears the smallest socks possible to expose as much gam as she can, and has told me that's the one body part she spends big bucks on, with waxing and exfoliating and what-not.
 
Figures that I have a double fetish, her legs and her breasts. But they say two is better than one. But as I prepared to orgasm, my panties are rolled down midway between my knees and my feet and they're tangled together, I wanted to see this thing her little show started in me all the way to the end!

I see her brown eyes reflect in mine, giving off an aura of admiration, respect, and love. They say all they need to about her feelings towards me, and I as I feel her weight on me, two fingers playing with my clitoris and two hitting that exact spot inside of me that guarantees that I'll cum like a gusher, I want to imagine a world with just her in it, no Dean, no Jess, no Tristan to interfere. No Madeline and Louise telling us lesbianism is so going to be out of fashion soon. No Mrs. Gellar frowning on her daughter's 'wasted potential' just because she swings the other way and won't marry one of those creeps that walks the Chilton halls and flashes around his bling-bling like no tomorrow. No nagging from my mother, confused because yes I certainly wasn't going to get pregnant from Paris, but now she had to deal with a daughter who doesn't like boys sexually and what ground rules she has to set. It's just her and me, and as the warm feeling of my orgasm comes down from my belly and onto my hands, I hear Paris wail loudly about her own release in my mind. "Fuck, Rory, I love you!" she screams as we come at the same time.

I settled myself down, lay my head down on the ground and let the afterglow pass over me as I realized how much I'd came. My hands were coated with my arousal, and the light blue carpeting beneath the apex of my thighs had turned a dark gray from all that cum. I feel somewhat embarrassed, because I'm sure a janitorial crew is going to miss this when they come in to clean the room, and whoever rooms in this dorm come the start of classes in fall had to wonder what that mysterious smell from the closet is.

Of course, I could've said the same for the person who'll take Paris' bed. I smile in contentment, knowing that in some gross weird way, Paris and I have certainly left our marks on Washington. To be seventeen and secretly in love with another woman, I guess that's how it goes.
 
I stripped off my underwear after I feel like I can walk steadily without tripping, and put back on my jeans and yanked my t-shirt off the hanger and put it back on, knowing I'd be changing into my pajamas when I needed to go to the bathroom in a bit. Having sex with myself certainly did some odd things to my bladder, and I really had to go after finishing.
 
I gather myself and my writing materials, and leave the closet, feeling the irony of that statement so much. I think I feel Paris peeking at me, but I'm not really sure. I go to the bathroom, change into my PJs, and head off to bed after wishing a sleeping Paris goodnight, anxious for the trip home and wishing I'd have a couple more days in DC with Paris, but knowing it wasn't to be.
 
Still, best damned good night's sleep I've had in my life ;). Paris had to drag me out of my bed because I almost overslept and missed the flight back to Bradley.
 
It was fun being back in Hartford, but I was counting the days until Chilton started back up again. I would've seen Paris before then, but her mother insisted on her yearly trip to see her parents down in Florida, thus she had to go down kicking and screaming. Meanwhile things were starting to get a little strained with Dean. He was still convinced I had my eyes on Jess and I never told him about the kiss, so he kept trying to get me to do more things sexually with him.
 
I would've complied had I not gotten this crush on Paris. But where Dean made me weak in the knees with his kisses before Washington, after I came back I kept thinking of Paris and how much I wanted to kiss her. They felt even more tepid than when Lorelai or Grandma would kiss me, and those were just to express love between family members. Jess had surprisingly taken my hint that we were meant to be friends, meanwhile, and gotten himself a girlfriend, a wild blonde named Shane. Somehow, they were perfect together, and his puppy love crush faded away.
 
So now my love life had faded from a love triangle, into a love quadrangle, then back down to a love triangle. The corners were slanted towards Paris' side thought, it was weird. I had almost not gone to Chilton two years ago because of Dean. This year, I couldn't wait to be there because a girl I liked, but who began by tormenting me was going to be my constant companion at the paper, in class, and in student government.
 
I'd give anything to add on a fourth point in that equation; lover. But I had to start slowly, lest anyone get suspicious. The last thing I needed from day one was the gossip circles getting wind of our small sparks in Washington, so I treaded cautiously.
 
Right off the bat though, one girl had to have known our secret; Francine Jarvis, chair of our class. Paris' move to slide me in as vice president snuffed out her last minute push at getting her ticket (with one of those tree or fruit named girls, I could care less) on top, so she had a vendetta, on top of the fact we were accidentally instrumental in ending the Puffs in their current form. So she tried her best in getting her way in student government, despite Paris' power over her. She'd push through these insane things that we all damn well knew would never make it past Charleston; Paris would snuff each one out before we could get it to a vote.
 
It worked well until Francie asked her to consider a slight raise in the height of the hems on the school skirts. She asked Paris, who immediately tabled it, thus I thought it was over.
 
Then she dragged me into the bathroom and played a game of Chicago Machine with me. I don't want to go through the details, but basically I'd be Francie's puppet, I'd support all her issues, and she wouldn't try to usurp Paris and make her look like an ineffective leader. I wasn't having it, especially on something as pithy as an issue with the hemline. I still had unfinished business with her, and she wasn't going to ruin Paris' power by starting on something small and moving up to something like putting the prom in the Civic Center with gilded gold decorations, something that would bankrupt not only our class, but the next classes for the next ten years.
 
As I was coming home from school on the bus though, suddenly I had a perverted thought. Higher hemlines? That meant Paris' skirt would no longer end at her knees, it would end just that much more higher. I almost became a puddle in my seat with a big grin pasted on my face as I thought of her in a shorter skirt. Needless to say, I had to vent on Dean with an extended makeout session after that just so I could get that thought out of my system.
 
But I still went to bed thinking about it, so I decided that it was time to play a little hardball with Jarvis. I called her about nine that night on her cellphone and told her I agreed to be her lackey. What I didn't tell her though was that I'd be writing everything down and using a microcassette recorder hidden either in my backpack or jacket to detail all our business together. In a couple months I'd let Paris know what she was up to, and with all the proof of her work behind the scenes, Francine Jarvis was going to bounced on her ass out of the senior chair, and with her proof of corruption, the only political aspirations she'd be holding after that would be for borough selectman in one of those economically depressed mill towns that are dying because no one wants to live in a troubled city with no hope. She could play evil? I'd play the bitch that brought her down, and still end up with a little something out of all of it.
 
Paris never saw me coming the next day. I gave her the puppy-dog look right into her eyes as I told her we should throw Francie a bone and let her have the shorter hemlines, and she relented and decided to let it go onto Headmaster Charleston. I could swear she was ogling me as I told her we should let it through, but I decided I was just seeing things. If it gave her a hint though, I'm certainly not offended.
 
Then there was the aftermath of that college applications seminar, she panicked as much as I did, maybe even more. She called me to let me know she was scared, and though I was in a panic myself and I hung up on her because I was dealing with my own panic, at least I knew I had a kindred spirit. At least there's something we agree with; if one neither of us get into Harvard, the admissions board is going to have to deal with two angry Chiltonites right on top of the class, because I won't forgive myself if I end up taking her slot. Paris deserves it after putting so many years of hard work in her academics, and I wouldn't want that to be lost to her on a technicality. The question is, if she got in and I didn't, would she ever go to bat for me?
 
That's one of the many questions I ask myself every day at lunch as I sit across from her at the table, nursing whatever food I buy from the a la carte line and my daily romaine lettuce and cherry tomato salad with ranch dressing. Paris recommended it to me a few days after starting Chilton because that's what she always ate, and I've had that as my second course every lunch since. She has the same exact fresh salad, and though I'll never forget why, they link us together much more than any test or exam could ever do.
 
Today I have my headphones turned down as Paris computes in her brain in relative silence, and Madeline and Louise debate an age-old question; is technology or good old sweat equity the better subject. OK, so they're arguing whether they'd jump either Ty from Trading Spaces versus Kevin Rose from The Screensavers on TechTV. Madeline actually has some good arguments for Kevin, but it's kind of hard to make a point when very few people watch his show. Louise reminds her of that, and she sighs and says, "Fine, I keep him all to myself Grant, but you don't know what you're missing. Installing Linux, XP, 98 and OS2/Warp on the same machine with a dual-boot manager while modding an Xbox into the machine? So hot, and he has that John Mayer everyday boy next door sexiness to him!"
 
Louise and Paris give her this bemused look of 'what are you talking about', and Madeline just shrugs. "What? It's an educational show, have to get something out of my eye candy." Her nose twinkles, and Louise decides to let bygones be bygones.
 
"Fine Maddy, prove it and bring over a tape of your geek boy tomorrow evening, but I'm sticking to my assertion that Ty is one hot carpenter and can hammer me anytime!" I ignore the obvious innuendo and turn the music on my CD player back up. Ahh, the theme to Birds of Prey. For some reason, I just really miss that show. Who knows why, but the WB screwed up the scheduling on that. Probably why I don't watch television all that often, it gets my blood boiling.
 
Paris' leg bumps into mine beneath the table, and I can't figure out why I haven't ditched the blue hose yet, despite the raise of the skirts. It's not as if I'm standing outside all that much anymore in the middle of a chilly fall day because I usually leave with Paris in her car and she gives me a lift home. I'm sure that's going to keep happening until we leave Chilton, and as long as I give her $10 every month for gas, she'll keep doing it. Her car is as unflashy as she is, but it fits her personality well. Her maroon red Jaguar has all the latest car gadgets, and though she keeps it as neat as possible, I still find the occasional sub sandwich wrapper and piece of schoolwork under my power seat, which of course is heated. And it reclines into a comfortable laying position, perfect for when I want to ask Paris if I want to...
 
Err, uh...take a nap. Honest to god, no siree, I, Rory Gilmore do solemnly swear I'm not having any thoughts of me and my classmate doing uncouth things in her car. Or the jeep. Or in the Franklin darkroom around 5:45pm on a Wednesday afternoon when everyone else is gone and we've met our publication date and both of us are really wound up from the adrenaline of putting an edition on the street, both of us alone--
 
OK, God! Enough Lorelai Leigh Gilmore, it's lunchtime, time to eat. Time to stop talking about Paris like she's the only one you're thinking of going beyond making out with, there's other fish in the sea. And other subjects to study.
 
Whatever Paris Eustachia Gellar did to my mind over the last two years, there certainly hasn't been a dull moment since I ended up at her school. However things do end up between us, one day I'll admit I'll have a crush on her, and there's this big hope inside me that things end up ending perfectly, with me kissing her in my arms, and all the boys who have been 'friendly' to me open to my new lifestyle. I hope Lorelai would be able to handle the fact I've fallen for my classmate and that it has almost nothing to do with sex. I'm also hoping that I can keep building my relationship with Grandma and Grandpa if I ever do admit to this, because I love them so much and I wouldn't want to see them have that 'Being gay is not for you Rory' attitude the rest of Hartford society seems to have. I've seen a couple girls on Valentine's Day admit they loved their best friends in the halls of Chilton, and they're popularity hit the floor swiftly and they ended up losing their friendships. Not to mention that being gay might as well be on par with hanging out with the goths in this school. Admitting what I feel so late might be to my advantage, so that I could go into Harvard relatively scot-free.

But I should stop thinking now, because Paris just snapped her finger in my direction. I turn down the music and look at her intently, wondering what was up.
 
"Rory, ranch dressing, right side of your mouth, you might need to stretch it out a little this time," she says, and I notice a white blemish right where she's pointing to.
 
Why must I be such a slob when I eat at lunch? Probably because I know it gets her attention, and not in an innocent way either. Might as well give her a preview before she goes for the entire thing one of these days. If she does.
 
I smile, and blush at her, cursing my messiness on the outside. "Uh, thanks for pointing that out Paris, I'm glad we're such good friends," I say to her sweetly, wishing I could add a certain four-letter prefix denoting a female to that last word. Not going to worry about the schematics of changing that sentence though, because it's time to give her a little thrill, unbeknownst to anyone else in the room.
 
"Not a problem Gilmore." She returns the smile, and I blatantly stretch out my tongue, messing with her mind as I keep 'accidentally' missing the lump of Hidden Valley Ranch on my mouth.
 
Yes I still have to break up with Dean. Yes I still have to convince Lorelai that I'd still be her little girl if I admitted my crush on Paris. And boy would my life change the moment my lips touched hers. But it's time to face facts; I really love the woman sitting across from my table, with her unique Ally McBeal-ish neuroticisms and a drive to succeed at everything she does that would overwhelm any other average person, because it's Paris Gellar, a force of nature.
 
I just have to find the right opening. I have to get her interested and let her know that if she has her eyes on me already, keep them there. She might not be the perfect girl, but she just might be my soulmate, and that's all that I need, because being the product of a scared sixteen year-old girl once before, I know how it feels to get lucky and have everything turn out well.
 
This is one part of Paris' life that definitely deserves a happy ending. And I better give to her. I will, soon. But right now that ranch dressing is still a little present below my lip, just a couple more centimeters...

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To be continued...

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Three | A Russian Class Conspiracy
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, Paris POV
Inspired by: From past subtext from the last half of season two and the first half of season three with many spoilers from those episodes. This chapter of the series however is all from my own ideas, we will get back into the show in the near future.
Rating: R (swearing, naughty femslash thoughts)
Disclaimer: Don't own GG or profit from the show, that would be Warner Bros. Television and Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions. War and Peace is in the public domain, despite the pleas from every teenager in America to burn the book or destroy all prints of the crappy six-hour 'epic' waste of film made from it. If you ever see anyone watching or reading Tolstoy voluntarily, please seek help for them immediately ;).
Summary: Things start to progress slowly as Paris daydreams about new possibilities brought up by Rory in the middle of a mind-numbing class she hates.
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Author's Notes: I'll only be making a small note since I finally got all my thanks out in chapter two. For those who reviewed, thank you for the encouragement (or criticism), and to my beta readers Raven and Cinnamon, thanks so much for all of your help, this story wouldn't be back on the fast track without you girls. Thank you to President Bush for pre-empting American Idol Tuesday evening, and giving this week's great GG episode the best ratings in a while.
 
And if you're a ff.net'er still hoping that somehow one of the members of Rory's boy harem will save her from (gasp!) kissing a girl, they aren't going to make it, sorry to disappoint. Heed the FEMSLASH warnings I've left throughout the story and just don't read if you're not into girls interested in girls.
 
Finally, I doubt that she'll read this because it's outside her regular fandom, but this chapter is dedicated to Kitty from the Gilmore Girls Fanforum board. Sadly, she lost her kind and loving husband Kevin, and another passenger was involved in an accident triggered by a drunk driver on his way to work Easter Sunday morning. He had just come home from a tour of duty in the Middle East a few months ago, and they were about to move into new housing with their daughters, 1 year-old Alexis and almost 4 year-old Karissa when his life was tragically cut short in a cruel and senseless act on such a holy holiday. Keep them in your prayers to whatever deity you follow, and I hope Kitty, the girls and the rest of her family will survive this strong. She's a true board mother and I know that her love is looking down from heaven right now and keeping her and her children's spirits up.

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September 25, 2000 is a day that's still strong in my memory to this day. Though it started out with my normal routine of shower, dress, eat and drive, by about 7:35 in the morning when I arrived at Chilton, there was a buzz going through the halls that someone new was about to come in. At first I thought nothing of this new student because it was made clear that they were a scholarship case, probably out after a half-semester of the mind-killing curriculum only a select few can handle. Another person to ignore, I thought to myself as I got out all my books.
 
And then Madeline shocked me to my core when I she relayed more details about the new kid.
 
"She's Rory Gilmore, of the Chatham Drive Gilmores," she told me, animated and smiling about the new gossip she could spread. "Back in 1984 apparently her mother Lorelai was discovered as pregnant at sixteen because of her boyfriend Christopher Hayden, and it was the biggest scandal of the decade up to that point in Hartford! A year later Lorelai had fled to Stars Hollow in shame, and raised her as a normal middle-class girl, earning  her way here eventually through her drive to get into Harvard. Talk is though Miss Gilmore couldn't afford the tuition and went to her 'rents for help. Thus, welcome Lorelai 'Rory' Leigh Gilmore, who has a 3.95 GPA coming in."
 
I honestly was shaken as Madeline told me all about Rory. But as quickly as my emotions were turned around upon learning I had real competition for the first time; it was time to go back to work. I became an iron bitch again and despite all that Rory tried to dent my armor, from setting me up with Tristan to answering questions before my hand could get higher than hers, she couldn't get any headway. The whole PJ Harvey fiasco was the straw that I thought would break the camel's back for her. She wouldn't try again if I made it clear we'd never be friends, or more than that.
 
But when I analyze that first year and a half after having so much time to think it over, I realize that the like for Rory was always there, lurking inside all along. I was hiding it behind an illusion that the only one I could ever love was Tristan, and if any person took him away from me I'd never feel loved again. I had to have him, my first male friend, the boy who pulled my pigtails in first grade and played Prince Charming to my Cinderella during the 1992 Chilton Country Day talent show.
 
However, after that night of studying that turned into attending a Bangles concert thanks to Lorelai, I started having very confused thoughts about my rival. While Madeline and Louise flirted with those boys, we just sat there, transfixed to the music and the meanings within. As Louise and Madeline decided to hit that party with the spiked lemonade, they gave me the biggest out ever. I didn't have to be Rory's friend, I could just be reckless with them rather than stay with the goody-goody listening to 80s music.
 
I didn't even hesitate to say no however, and from the moment I said the words, I couldn't figure out why. All I knew was that Rory was sitting next to me, and the aroma of her body heat was so intoxicating that I didn't want to replace that scent with anything male as long as I could hold onto it. And then as they left, came the image of her and I in my mind, dancing hand in hand intimately to the song being played. It was just a flash and I could've been easily freaked and disturbed by it, but I wasn't. I willed it further as I sat in that seat, Rory futilely arguing against my friends doing something that could get them on the New York Post's front page, and just became transfixed as my mind image danced with Rory's, and we discussed something as complex as whether Pluto should really be a planet or just a glorified Neptunian moon.
 
And with that, I admitted that Eternal Flame was my favorite song in the world to Rory. She gave me an odd look and went back to watching the concert, but from then on, the crush built up. I couldn't show it, but I was jealous of her not because she was possibly (but didn't as I later learned, to my chagrin) going out with Tristan because I liked him too, but that she was going out with him because I liked her. Thus came the summer of silence, with me shutting her out and living in a land of denial. I surrounded my thoughts with anything Tristan trying to get me and Rory slow dancing pushed out of my mind, but by September and the time she was on the Franklin staff, I slowly started backing off and began liking Rory again on the outside.
 
Maybe, just maybe though, the reason Tristan decided to turn on all of us was a swift kick in my ass from God. Rapidly, the glorified Prince Charming image from second grade I had kept for so long was fading away before my eyes, and I was finally able to see him the way the rest of the students did; as a manipulating boy who kept a swooning me on his hook as he uncorked about 47.66% of the girls in my same class. I'm only thankful Rory saw through him from day one and didn't go any further with him than some 'tortured soul' piano bench kiss during one of Madeline's many soirees.
 
Yes, I saw that kiss. The wonders of one those pop-up sold X-10 black and white wireless cameras connected to a VCR set up in a servant's quarters made sure that buss was permanently recorded for all to see, as Madeline gave it to me the day after the party and told me to do whatever I wanted with it so I could ruin Rory's reputation. But all I saw was pain in her eyes that night; that she was looking for anything to distract her from the fact that her first love had ended the relationship because he was a stubborn ass who needed to be told he was loved by her at a certain point in the relationship. She clearly had no heart to kiss Tristan and was trying to use it as a coping mechanism, but it failed and she ran out, wanting to cry out the anguish of being dumped by a boy who wanted her to speak words she was far from ready to utter.
 
So instead, I let Madeline know that she was not to copy the tape or let anyone know this had happened. To make sure of that, I threw the master copy down the incineration chute at the Manor in front of the eyes of my friends, shocking them and keeping them as puzzled into my motives for Rory.
 
It was only after Tristan was thrown out of Chilton minutes before the project, and I was pushed into the spotlight as an emergency Romeo that I finally confronted my building feelings for Rory. And I really looked at her for the first time.
 
Why did her mother have to be a talented seamstress? Why did the neckline of that pesky Juliet dress have to expose so much porcelain skin in front of me and her headwear have to make her so gosh-darned adorable? Why does she have the most beautiful and enchanting eyes that look like sapphires and hypnotized me into doing whatever she wanted? And why was I suddenly getting this evil little voice in my head telling me, Oh yes Paris, you want to rehearse that kiss with Rory so bad! Practice does make perfect and you'll only have one shot to pull it off!
 
Boy she looked cute in that costume. But then I remembered that yes this was a graded project and we better be pitch-perfect, lest I lose a letter grade after such a shock of losing my main player from the project. Oh, and there was that little problem named Dean out in the crowd, and I'm sure his lesbian fantasies don't go much beyond the Man Show definition of lust, meaning I'm too homely to be imagined in one.
 
So I didn't kiss her, preferring instead to go with a fake little move learned well from Louise before I 'died' by laying my head against her chest. It still meant I had to breathe in her scent though. And this time, she smelled like baby powder, probably because she had to put it on all over before she could slide into that tight, tight dress with a cinched-up corset piece.
 
Later on that night in bed, I finally let my crush on Tristan go, and for the first time my mind was free to go beyond the bounds of me and Rory dancing to Eternal Flame into what I can only describe as beautiful. As I came with her scent in the forefront and her face in my thoughts, that was the evening I swore that I couldn't love a boy again. It was all Rory from then on.
 
Then...oh my God, I'm being called on to answer a question! Shit! I hate this class, why did I have to be talked into taking Russian Novelists and Their Works 401 by my stupid guidance counselor? It's not as if I'll ever use this crap in my life, and any of Leo Tolstoy's works make much better doorstops or stepstools than actual good works of fiction! War and Peace wastes so many wonderful trees; you have to weep when you realize how many good logs in Oregon were sacrificed to make paper for that horridly boring piece of literature!
 
Thank goodness Rory's also in this class, but she's only taking it for the English requirement to get a merit award on her diploma. I've seen her with the Cliff Notes to every book we've read in this class, and I can tell she's not reading it on the ride into Chilton because she struggles with the questions raised by the teacher as much as me.
 
Hurriedly, I construct a half-ass yet complex answer that should have him singing the praises of my question-answering abilities, and sure enough, he takes the bait. I won't be called on again today and I can go back to thinking about how things with Rory are starting to change for the better.
 
Besides our lunchtime meetings, she's taken to spending much more time with me than she did last year. Gone is the nervous small-town girl looking for any praise she can muster while not damaging the way I shine with Chilton faculty, and in her place is this confident woman who's not making me regret making her my cohort at the paper and in student government one bit. She's suggesting articles and pieces that are changing the face of the Franklin from a dull, dry broadsheet that seems to only brighten up when the sports teams are winning, to a paper that's becoming full of life and will look awesome on both of our transcripts once the Harvard admissions board looks at them. I may be the editor in name, but without her help I'd still be fretting about my 'paper legacy' once I graduate.
 
We finally managed to eradicate the supper club and unhip soft drink ads of old that took up most of the ad space in the paper, and in their place elaborate ads for the hottest teen clubs and hangouts along the I-91 corridor along with bank and .com ads, pumping more money and ad revenue into the paper than I could've ever dreamed of. With her help we've been able to replace the aging 60 year-old press donated from Yale's Daily News thirty years ago, and replace it our own slick new model able to print full-color photography on the front pages. The Oppenheimer endowment we won from the 'Rory Curtain' story helped us get the latest and greatest in digital cameras, and just might make that darkroom we have now a glorified closet in a few years.
 
And after making that fine enlightened point of why I like Rory being around me, I'm going to purgatory when I pass on though, because I'm internally giddy that she finally ditched the ugly blue hose a few days ago. She's wearing boring white crew socks beneath her saddle shoes that only go a quarter up her shins, and I'm finding myself thinking seriously about 'accidentally' brushing up against her legs in one of the science classes I sit next to her in where a big black table-like desk covers up the fact I'm trying to coax her shoes off and get that dream footsie game started.
 
Yes, I'm a dork. Get used to it, because the little things about Rory are starting to bunch up together like a bee colony and I'm starting to think she's giving me clues herself as to what she thinks about me.
 
They started coming on strong during gym class last Wednesday. Because Rory and I aren't that wild about physical activity usually we slog through the class hoping for an ankle strain that would put each of us in the bleachers for an inordinate amount of time. We wear the school-issued physical education uniforms reluctantly and both puzzle how we can get a constitutional amendment banning compulsory gym class through if we ever get into politics.
 
Last week we had our field hockey unit, which meant bumps and scratches as I chased some stupid ball around a muddy athletic field with a curved stick while preventing another person from taking the ball away and putting it in their own team's net. Rory and I were picked last for our respective teams, a well deserved honor since the only exercise she and I look forward to is putting a #2 pencil to a Scantron form. We became opposing forwards, and I thought that we'd just spend the next hour having a glorified jog around the athletic field, occasionally passing the ball and scrimmaging for possession before we passed it back.
 
About ten minutes in though, I noticed that we were right in the middle of the action, and that Rory and I were suddenly putting the same passion into this game as we do a Latin exam. She was uncharacteristically athletic and kept asking for her team to pass her the ball so she could challenge me to a shot on goal. The adrenaline of competition kicked in, and I brought on my own passion of wanting to kick her ass. Our sticks started clashing together at every possession opportunity, and before we knew it, we had collided with each other quite a few times, ruining our personal records of not having to bring our gym clothes home to wash them, about three months each.
 
The other players on my team started passing me the ball, and I had to think fast as that brunette hellfire came bashing against me in order to dislodge the ball. Suddenly I was in a very completive game in something I despised with the girl I like, and I was enjoying it!
 
I felt the weight of mud on the bottom of my sneakers as the game went on and Rory kept trying to challenge me when the ball was passed over so I could take a shot. I didn't know what brought on this new flurry of competition, but I knew that I wanted more. I took shots on goal whenever I was called on to take one, and would pump my fist in the air and yelp happily whenever it got past the keeper. My heart thudded against my chest and I felt my whole body excite when I made a shot. Rory would look dejected, but then grit her teeth and growl, as if daring me to bring it on. Within about twenty minutes she had taken her hair out of a Lorelai-created braid that made her look cute when she left for school that day, but was plainly bothering as she played an aggressive game of field hockey, she looked so untamed and beautiful in such heated competition.
 
It didn't seem like she was out for blood, but rather just wanted to have fun for once in gym class. She took her own shots and gloated when she made a goal, and I was forced to put the same dejected look on my face before telling her with my emotions to bring it on again. And we brought it on so much I thought the gym teacher was going to have ring a bell and tell us to go back to our corners!
 
Rory would try to stop me no matter what it took whenever I had possession of the ball, be it tackling me and making my body tumble to the ground, or grab at my gym shorts or shirt and pushing me aside, trying to make it look like a legal trip. Whenever she would handle me roughly, I'd get this flash in my brain of her doing the same thing in a bed, and that made even more adrenaline flow down. I countered her fire with fire, and started playing more aggressively within the rules. I wasn't going to sit this game out in the penalty box, and Rory looked like she wanted to play the whole game too! I'm sure everyone could notice our sudden spurt of wanting to play, but I could've cared less that day. Also very noticeable was the fact that my bra was having a very hard time keeping my breasts flat and unnoticeable as they usually were. My nipples became erect as the game went on, and suddenly I felt very naked to Rory since I went with a tight gym shirt, not really caring when I bought it whether it would show off my goods or not.
 
I couldn't believe the effect she was having on me, and as I noticed her own small and pert tits harden against her shirt, I became distracted. I realized then I had the ball and Rory was coming at me like a freight train wanting it all to herself. As I came to back into the real world I tried to evade her, but I was a little too late pulling my trigger. She crashed, hard into me, and I felt her skull bash right into mine and her starting to weigh down on me as we tumbled down to the soft, muddy turf below. My ass cushioned the fall, and as I came back to, time seemed to slow down.
 
My eyes drifted up towards her face, and I wanted to ask what demon had gotten into her body to turn her from innocent to bitch on wheels. But I stayed quiet as my five senses made hay of the situation. Touch was going into overdrive from the fact her pelvis was right up against mine so close, and her arms were tangled across my front. Smell was gone to the world as her flowery deodorant had faded away and was replaced with this animalistic smell of sweat that made me clench my teeth together, trying to prevent myself from closing the distance between our mouths so unexpectedly. My ears could hear the pounding of my own heartbeat, sped up to an insane level, along with Rory's own mix of grunting and breathing, and the brushing of our sopping wet cotton gym clothes together.
 
Taste...thankfully not blood from a dislodged tooth, but instead my gaping maw was open as a couple of drops of perspiration dropped down from her chin and into my mouth. Fuck, even her sweat tasted divine!
 
It was sight that really got my attention though. Above me, the usually clean girl I respected for being a worthy competitor was still so beautiful; her crystalline blue eyes still clear despite the situation we were in. I seemed to bring my vision down from there and noticed the position we had crashed into each other in. Her left thigh was right against my groin, moving my gym shorts up just enough that I felt a sizable amount of cool wind between my shorts and underwear, and of course her leg. I could see just slightly down her t-shirt, which was coming apart at the seams from such a quick burst of strenuous activity. Pulling against the back of it when we scrimmaged seemed to have made the front droop down, and I could see what lay beneath it quite clearly. Not much cleavage from the side view, but now I could confirm that she wore a light blue sports bra during gym class. I felt like such a pervert gazing at her this way, and didn't know what to say as the moment ended and time sped back up to regular, she was getting back up and offering her hand to me.
 
"Uh, sorry Paris," she said, nervously. "I guess I got a little too into the action there." She helped me back up, and I was too startled to call her on the sudden burst of energy she had that day.
 
"It's OK Rory, really. You're pretty good at this game." I smiled and rose to my feet, wondering if we'd knock into each other again.
 
"You're not too bad yourself Gellar," she told me back, and we went back to being stoic and silent for the rest of it. We calmed down a little from there and finished the game relatively action-free, letting the other students have shots at the goal.
 
By the time it had ended with her team inching out a 9-8 victory, my gym socks were a deep dark brown, my face was caked in a mix of perspiration and dirt, and I was so dirty from all that physical activity that I was sure to get a scolding from Francisca when I got home that day. I also could see there was a little spot of blood settling on one of the shoulders of my shirt, I was pretty scratched up from the whole thing. The shower couldn't be avoided today, and Rory was going to be in it with me.
 
As the teacher congratulated me and Rory on finally participating in such a heated way, I looked over to her and shook her hand. I never thought I'd swoon from such a simple expression of sportsmanship, but she was definitely trying to prove to me she could be competitive and I had to catch up to her. And it's completely true too. I might be the one with the monster crush on her, but she held all the cards. If she didn't like me it wasn't ever going to happen, but if I kept up with her, there was at least a slight shot of hope.
 
I went back into the locker room and took off my gym clothes in the stall I usually change in, noting that even my lingerie had suffered from the effects of such strenuous activity. I never had bothered with a sports bra before, and after that game it was clear that I needed one since the underwire from one of the cups had torn out of the seam and was digging wicked hard into the bottom of my breast, a $35 bra at that. And yes, my mother is insane for trying to compress my chest into something flatter than an airport runway, so I certainly didn't mind going without the rest of the day. I took it off and threw it into my messenger bag, got out of my underwear and dreaded the shower ahead. I left the safety of my little stall wearing just a towel and carrying a bottle of combined shampoo/body wash I bought at the tanning salon (the school stuff is just dreadful on my hair and itchy), and was glad to see that almost all the girls had finished their showers already. Maybe that meant Rory was already on her way to class...
 
I put my towel on the rack outside the shower room and navigated the maze of stalls until I came upon one where I thought I'd get relative privacy, and started washing up. I turned the hot spray on heavy and put all the thoughts of that field hockey game out of my head as I washed my hair and soaped up my upper torso, though glad Rory was aggressive that day, hoping that it was just an exception.
 
I'm about to wash lower down, when suddenly I hear a familiar voice echoing behind me. I turn around, and the shower got a little more interesting.
 
There's my girl Rory, standing stunned, nude and all muddied up as she discovers that I'm taking a shower with her. Her hair is a mess and I see a slight scratch running lengthwise along her ankles, probably from my hockey stick. I try to block out her nude state as best as I can as she greets me, but I can't help but be distracted by her form. She seemed a little nervous as she set her shampoo and soap down on the shelf in front of her stall, and her fingers seemed like they wanted to be playing with a non-existent sweater cuff, something that always clues me into her timid moods.
 
"Hey Par," she says, very casually, but in a tone of voice where she tries to hide her distracted state. I note the fact my name has been cut down to one syllable very deliberately and listen to what she says next. "Got a little dirty there, eh?"
 
"Well I certainly wasn't expecting it, what got into you today Gilmore?" I answer back, sort of bitterly but laughing all the same. Yes, dull conversation is proven to kill any sexual mood, and many girls share a shower stall everyday. I'm not looking down at her; I'm concentrating on her face. Honestly!
 
"I don't know, I get this sudden urge sometimes to be athletic, and it seemed today was the day. It is mid-semester and I better show that I am somewhat athletic." Her nose wrinkles up and she sniffs herself. "Next time though I better put on some heavy-duty deodorant, I don't think this stuff works."
 
I turn around and focus on the front nozzle of my shower as I resume trying to shower without distractions. "I think you mean next time warn me before you decide to turn into Chris Chellios, geeze you were rough today! I wonder why you never got on a sports team here, when you get that adrenaline pumping it pumps hard!"
 
We get into a good conversation as the dirt from the day is cleaned off of each of us about athletics, and though we're usually ambivalent about them, she shares her love for football (Lorelai turned her onto the fact that Brett Farve is a pretty hot guy for someone who gets paid millions of dollars to throw a ball around for an hour), while I admit I have a soft spot for hockey, and it's more than just the guys, the strategy really does something for me. I think I'm still one of the few Harfordians who still follow the Hurricanes after they ended their run as the Hartford Whalers. We get into the pros and cons of each sport, and despite our state of nudeness, don't seem to really be flustered at all. Maybe that was a good sign.
 
I couldn't help but start to feel blood start to flow down heavy towards the area below my abdomen though. It felt so odd to be sharing such a casual shower with the girl I liked and not have anything be so weird. Sure she seemed to be a little nervous around me, but I couldn't help but notice her sidelong glances towards my chest out of the corner of my right eye. The competition was still going on according to my nerves, and the steamy hot water hadn't helped to simmer down any part of my body that could be excited. I was feeling so aroused that my nipples seemed to peak, and as I ran the bar of soap against one of them, felt that it was hard and that any sudden touch would cause me to start moaning in pleasure right then and there.
 
She was washing herself and distracted with her dirty arms, so I got a quick glance in to store in my fantasy memory banks. Rory is just a smidge taller than me; about four inches and I have to admire her slim classical Twiggy-ish figure. Her breasts aren't too large nor too small, and the tips of her nipples look so perfect, I can tell that field hockey game had the same effect on her body.
 
OK fine, I was blatantly staring down below the face line I set for myself! And I thought I could get through this shower pretty much scot-free. She was hardly noticing however, at least from what I thought. Rory finished up, and I saw her turning around. I brought my focus back up to her face quickly and was hoping for the conversation to resume where it had left off.
 
Instead, she threw me for a curve with a question that was out of character for her usually innocent guise, and right out of left field.
 
"Paris," she asks in the damned puppy-dog voice she's perfected, "Do you think I'm too flat?"
 
The only thing I'm thinking after that? Oh Dear God, is she trying to kill me?! I didn't expect her to ask me (or anyone else) that in a million years, and though our friendship is getting to the point she and her hometown friend Lane are at, I have no idea what to tell her in an appropriate way! If I wasn't shy I sure would've given her a little show and tell about what I really thought about her chest, but that didn't seem to be the best idea. Unlike the gym teachers from those bad 70s high school movies where unsupervised girl's locker room scenes were the norm, the gym teachers keep a close eye on showers here. They don't have cameras up or watch us in the act, but if we take too long, the teachers wouldn't hesitate to shut off the water and dampen any ideas I would've had in mind for Rory. We were already pushing four minutes with the end of class bell ringing in one more, and usually it takes me just five to get a quick enough spritz of water to be considered a shower, change into my uniform and start preparing for the next class.
 
All I knew was that I was turning towards her and she was looking like she really wanted to know the answer. I psyche myself up and think, maybe she wants to know if Dean has enough of a handful before they do it.
 
Yeah right, my conscious answers back. Knowing Caveman he probably goes right for dessert and avoids the main course and appetizers. I snort out a laugh at my internal comeback and suddenly Rory covers herself up from me.
 
"I thought I didn't have enough, sorry to have--" she starts cutting herself down, frowning before I interrupt her suddenly, just going off on a tangent.
 
"No, no, no, I was laughing because of how absurd the question was!" I didn't even have to look at her because I've seen her naked many times in the shower at school, but never like this before. It seemed like such a blatant question, but she had to have her body image propped up again. "Honestly Gilmore, you're fine, right in the middle, you have enough there to make anyone jealous."
 
"But you have a lot more than me," she whined, pointing right at my breasts. I looked down at myself mortified, and felt like I had to end the conversation before it became a lot more personal than it had already. Her eyes seemed to be transfixed on my chest, and though in another world entirely where she knew how I felt it would've turned me on, now it just seemed to dampen every sexual feeling I was having. She wasn't being shy about telling me I had more than her, and it made my firm up like a deer in the headlights.
 
I wanted to answer her, but I couldn't. I blanked out, and she shook my shoulder, trying to get me to answer her coherently. Instead I was mortified, and not knowing her intentions, I had to get out of there before all my secrets would crumble.
 
So I evaded the loaded statement. "Umm...uh-huh, that's genetics," I told her nervously, my face brought down in shame. "I have to go, I'll see you at the Franklin later." I cut out of the shower as fast as I could, changed back into my uniform and fled the locker room before Rory could catch up with me, red as a kickball. Of course she turned the breast question on me, how couldn't I have expected that?
 
After the whole shower incident we seemed to become silent friends again. That afternoon at the Franklin was pretty much the status quo, and when everyone was out of the room except for me, Rory and Ms. Peters, we didn't even broach it, focusing on the last touches for the week's edition before we went to press. Rory tried to bring up the topic on the way home, but I distracted her by claiming a good song was on the radio and turned it up.
 
Unfortunately it was All-Star by Smash Mouth, the soundtrack to every 'hip' television ad since 1999. Note to self, deport that band whenever I become president.

So for the next few days I avoided her once again, and told her I was too tired to make the drive to Stars Hollow after our government and paper work ended, so she took the bus home. Friday evening though, ended with a loud argument in the student conference room where we shouted at each other until our throats were raw about how we closed up on each other when we strayed out of our comfort zones. At the climax of the argument, she called me a 'prude' for not going further into my answer in the shower. Angered, I shot back with something I regretted the moment I said it.
 
"I might be a prude, but at least I don't have a chastity electric fence around my person preventing my fucking boyfriend from doing any more than heavy petting, Mary Stone!!"
 
Rory got this wounded look on her face like she was punched in the gut, and before I could catch up and apologize to her for using a prim 1950's sitcom character as a slur against her virginity, she had slammed the door in my face and stomped out to the bus stop just in time for the 5:50 to pull in the front circular drive. I refused to chase after her, but immediately left a message on her cell saying sorry for my behavior. No matter, she had shut me out for the next day and a half. Lorelai would pick up the phone and I'd ask to speak with Rory, but she was 'busy' whenever I called.
 
I spent all of Saturday then with a pool of acid down in my stomach, studying to no avail. This time I had said the wrong thing, I knew how Rory felt about her virginity, it was an iffy subject with her. She never said anything about it to me or anyone else because she was under the impression from her own mother that doing anything before she graduated college would be indicated as being a failure in her family. By pushing it though, I'd just put a further gulf between feelings that were starting to become known during that gym class.
 
I got out the bottle of wine from the bottom drawer of the desk, still fermenting in its 48 year prison, waiting for me to release its unique bouquet and pour it into the two flutes. It was starting to feel like the Tristan situation all over again, and I didn't know if I could rebuild a truce with her again.
 
There was no choice in the matter. I could sit there and have Rory ignore me for the rest of our time at Chilton, or I could go to Stars Hollow and settle things down. Despite the clock on the computer reading four in the morning on a Sunday morning, I had to take care of what I wrought. So I jumped in the car and took the Cross Parkway down to the Hollow, arriving at Rory's house just after 4:30. I made my way onto the porch and knocked on her bedroom window off to the side of the house, my face looking worse for the wear from all the fretting I did after I made the Mary Stone crack.
 
Of course she was pissed when I woke her up. And she had every reason in the world to slam the window right down on my fingers after my cruel treatment of her. But after her tired "What the hell do you want Gellar, you made it pretty clear I wasn't a sexual being yesterday!", I jumped right in and ad-libbed everything I had to say.
 
"Can I come in, please?" I asked with my eyes wide and pleading, and though leery, she opened the window all the way so I could crawl in and take a seat at her desk. She held her Colonel Clucker by its made-of tag, and was barely awake when she asked me why I'd say such things.
 
"Rory, you know how I think, right? You get too close to me and I have to shut down emotionally and act like a robot without feelings."
 
She nodded, and I went on.
 
"In the days pre-Tristan leaving for NC, there wasn't ever any effort on my part to see your side of the story Gilmore, I would've taken the assumption express until my argument ran out of steam and off the broken bridge into the gulch. But now, you're one of my closest friends, and I shut you down cold on Wednesday in that shower stall, leading to this domino effect which left you pissed off and angry at me. I'm done playing those games with you, and all yesterday all I could think was," I started sniffling, "I fucked up things, Florida-election style. I told you that you were playing with the emotions of boys and never intending to do anything with them without any proof to back it up, when you just have these strict morals and rules for getting to you more closely than Lane. And for the first time since I knew you, I scolded myself. I went way too far out of my way trying to avoid your question, and almost ended up squelching one of the most important friendships I've ever had."
 
With that, I went into detail about how I felt about my body image, Rory seeming to calm down with every one of my sentences. "The reason I didn't answer was that my mother has convinced me that I'm...too big. I eat too much despite my diet, and she hates the fact I have actual natural breasts that are bigger than hers, and made me feel so guilty about it since I had this huge puberty spurt over the summer of '97. Numerous times she's suggested I eat even less than I do, and even reduction surgery, which thank God no doctor in the Northeast will even consider giving her a quote for until I turn eighteen and can make my own medical decisions, and she tries to shape me in her image rather than that of her and my father's, because I received most of the genes for my figure from his side. I still eat heartily thanks to Fran's kindness and the fact she's being paid by my very supportive father, and not my stifling mother. And despite how I go to these insane measures to hide it, I love my chest, and I don't want to change anything about it."
 
She beckoned me to sit on her bed, and she held my hand as I finished admitting I was ashamed of my body. "I don't want to be Louise, all bone and no skin Rory. I actually respect you for never sticking to a diet, eating what you want in healthy portions and having a metabolism that lets you burn it all off right away. But my mother has fucked over my brain when it comes to my body image, and it does take me a long time to take a compliment to heart, which I assumed you were doing."
 
"Yes it was," Rory said softly, smiling. "Paris, you're very blessed and you should stop hiding everything."
 
"I know I should, but my mother is stuck on this scary Bela Karoli-ish plan that I can't stray from at all, except its all academic. Even my dates are matched up by IQ and grade point average, not actual looks or traits, which mean I get a lot of duds or guys desperate to be my first. The only reason they even take an interest in me is because I have a D chest, they've never cared what's on the inside, so I figure if I keep myself off the market, I don't have a problem."
 
Thankfully she understood after I explained everything to her, and after promising her with a pinky swear that the V material was off my repertoire of humor forever, she finally let me back in. I explained a few more things, like how I was closer to Fran and Daddy more than I ever would be with my mother, and that I never meant to let a little question like that become such a fiery argument.
 
"Paris, I knew you regretted it from the moment you uttered those words, that it was heat of the moment," she said as we both lay down on the bed looking up at the ceiling. "But I'm never sure with you so I wanted to make sure you were sincere about being sorry about it. I did get mad at first through Friday night, but by the time I woke up in the morning yesterday, I was over it."
 
She then turned towards me, and hesitated. "I'm sorry I shut you out Par. And I'm sorry everything ended up blown out of proportion in the conference room." She took my left hand into her right and intertwined our fingers together in a strong bond. "But having some time to think things over made me realize that you are quickly becoming my most important friend in life, maybe even my best soon enough. And I'm done losing you over petty little boy trouble or miscommunication for so long. So I want you to promise me that from now on, if anything bugs you pertaining to me, or you have to admit to something like about your mother, you'll come to me. I assure you of the same honesty in return, no matter what ends up happening. We're in these things together, and it's a two-way street." She went on to explain that she felt a closer bond to me than with any girl she had met since she started attending school (she and Lane were playmates way before she turned three), and she had found in me a solid soulmate when it came to our dreams and wishes for later in life.
 
It just went like that for the next hour or so. We talked idly about school, homework and our lives in general, the topic of our body images fading away in such close and intimate conversation. Even though her bed was far from the queen-sized cloud in my bedroom, just having such wonderful company was making me so sleepy and I didn't want to drive back home. Eventually, we fell asleep together in her bed about six, and I didn't have any jarring or odd dreams about her at all. It was a tight fit, but somehow we went four hours without one of us falling onto the floor, nor were either of us cover hogs.
 
That was how Lorelai found us at 10 am when she went to wake Rory up to go do her Sunday work at the Inn. She turned on the light and was a little freaked at the sight of another person in her daughter's bed.
 
Once I turned around to acknowledge her surprised voice though, Ms. Gilmore seemed to be relieved it was just me. I explained that I really had an urge to patch things up with Rory, and yes she did make fun of me for 'sleeping' with her daughter, joking that I was a harlot. Blushing, I got out of the bed (wearing a dark red Harvard t-shirt and black sweatpants I just threw on before I left the Manor), and let Rory and Lorelai get into their morning routine, due to the fact I didn't have a change of clothes in the car so I could join them. I said goodbye and prepared for the trip back to Hartford, and expected to be reamed out by my mother for leaving the house in the middle of the night.
 
Actually I was able to get back in undetected. I guess her newest affair is a Sunday brunch kind of thing, so she never even knew I had snuck out of the Manor as she was too busy 'entertaining' her newest 'client' at Mohegan Sun Saturday evening, and I completely forgot about it. Fran didn't even know either because she was at her Hartford apartment for an off night before church in the morning. I was starting to think that luck was really getting on my side if I was able to leave my house undetected to 'sleep' with Rory.
 
I'm a harlot according to Lorelai. For some reason the image of me slowly seducing Rory just seems more comical than sexy, our first time would probably be as awkward as could be. I'd probably twist her nipple a little too hard and I'd end up with a strained jaw from figuring out where my tongue should go. I do keep those images in mind as much as possible, the things that could go wrong if I admitted and Rory went for it, and keep those embarrassing outcomes far, far away from my fantasies.
 
As for this week, the last few days, they've been interesting. Madeline and Louise are looking for dates for their Halloween parties, so they've left us two alone to eat in the dining hall. We've been somewhat quiet, though I have to note that Rory started to take Louise's seat next to me, and was shifting a little closer than my bottle blonde confidant ever had been. Must be her slimmer figure, she doesn't need as much room to sit down; though I have been noticing she's been kind of brushing up against my arm several times.
 
Rory and I have already decided not to do anything on Halloween that involves a costume, but she's heading up to Boston to see her father, thus I'll be spending October 31st alone. I certainly don't mind, because Madeline gave us this insane costume idea where we'd go together to the party, and I would've been Roxie Hart, Rory would dress as Velma. Mr. Gilmore and the Bitch win out every time though, so I'll be left to dream about my girl in a 20's flapper dress instead of actually seeing her in it.
 
That stupid control freak dick-sucking and over-planning hussy! Sherrie's like a younger more perkier version of my mother, and I can never see getting along with her because of things like that!
 
It really doesn't matter though. I'm starting to feel like I'm going insane, because I think Rory's giving off vibes I can't ignore. The ditching of the hosiery, the gym class, the intimate contact we've started to have more than ever before. Tuesday on the ride home she stretched her arms out behind the seat, and one of her hands ended up brushing against my shoulder for a split moment and her hand seemed to linger against it as I drove, she almost veered me off and onto the shoulder.
 
Though it could be just the fact I've decided to ditch the jacket when I dress for school. I've been wearing the blue sweater instead over my blouse, and feeling a lot more comfortable in my own skin since she reassured me that I have something she's jealous of. I've seen her eyes wander down towards my bust as we sit next to each other in life sciences, but I don't know her ulterior motives. All I know is that unconsciously I'm returning the stare and glancing away from my notes and down towards her legs, and there were a couple of times where my teacher thought I was falling asleep and told me to pay attention.
 
Which is where it definitely isn't in this Russian novels class. Rory's sitting behind me, and I can feel her presence as her fingers brush up against the back of my sweater as she takes some of the most pathetic notes possible, enough to get that A without much effort to get her merit award. I swear it's accidental, but then why do I have this wonderful and serene feeling running up my scalp? She must somehow be sensing my stress level, and trying to calm me down by playing with my hair since it worked so well before the date in DC.
 
Thankfully far, far away from actually having to read this shit aloud to the class and the teacher's eyes off the 'scholar row' (the middle three seats in the first three rows), I scribble off a quick note to Rory, tear it out of my notebook and pass it back slyly.
 
Ror,
 
I'd blow Boris Yeltsin before I ever read any of these crappy books voluntarily again. Thanks for noticing I hate this class.

Par
 
I unsnap the sharpened lead of my pencil off on the paper so she can use her strategy of using a Dixon to wrap her response around one as she passes me a new utensil. I unroll the note and laugh internally at what she says.
 
Par,
 
I'll join you and we can get plastered on vodka from the Inn before we come in tomorrow, anything would make this class more interesting!
 
Ror
 
P.S. I hate it too, and it's my pleasure to make you feel better.
 
My heart skips a beat as I read her postscript and wonder if she is purposely trying to cause me to be aroused. All I know is whatever her intent on relaxing me is, my shoulders are relaxed further back into the desk chair, the other 30 students are too zombied out to notice anything but Mr. Mercurio drone on about some obscure czarist proclamation from the 1760's, and Rory's fingers are massaging my scalp and neck in the oddest way, causing my arms to goosebump.
 
I hope I don't fall asleep during this class, but it seems more and more like I want to. There's just nothing more I want to do right now than slide my skirt up just a smidge, close my legs, move the crotch of my panties off to the side and use the friction between my legs to have a nice touchless masturbation session with no one, not even Rory the wiser. To them it would just look like I was shaking my leg to and fro as Rory's pleasurable touch was redirected down below towards my core, and she brought me to an unknowing orgasm that would make me flush for the rest of the day...
 
Uh, darn, I better not. Seems the teacher just decided I was a little too drowsy and called on me to read another lousy passage from War and Peace, about six pages worth. I find where we are and start reading it with about as much enthusiasm as reading a teen magazine, wishing instead I was reading love sonnets to Rory as we cuddled together in bed.
 
Oh well, it's all good. She's still playing with my hair unconsciously and I feel a little better about the forced drudgery with her delicious fingers against the back my neck as I read. Now all I need to figure out is how I can get Rory behind me in every class she takes with me...

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To be continued…

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Four | The Pros and Cons of Romancing Paris Gellar
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, Rory POV
Inspired by: From past subtext from the last half of season two and the first half of season three with many spoilers from those episodes. This chapter of the series however is all from my own ideas, we will get back into the show in the near future. There's also a little plot device taken from A Tale of Poes and Fire.
Rating: R (swearing, naughty femslash thoughts, implied self-pleasuring)
Disclaimer: Can I claim ownership over the characters of Gilmore Girls with the season one DVD set I bought at Wal-Mart this morning? Anybody? Is there a lawyer in the house? Never mind, here comes the folks at Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions, Hofflund-Polone and Warner Bros. Television to give me a finger-waving lecture on the fact that they own the show and the ideas and I can't claim them, and they have a bad 70's educational film about intellectual property rights rolling starring Telly Savalas from Kojak (pout)! Can I at least ask the WB to create one of those huge PDF document posters like they have for Sophia Bush and Lauren with the 417 kiss in full color oversized detail? I promise I'll never bug you Hollywood types again!
Summary: Rory's thoughts on Paris become even clearer in the same class, along with a plan that you wouldn't expect an innocent girl like her to ever brainstorm.
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Author's Notes: It's certainly not easy posting a GG slash story and asking everyone to read it, but I've been heartened at the feedback I've been getting back from everybody about how they like my viewpoint of Rory and Paris romance. I'll admit I like PWP or frenzied attraction like the next average guy, but I've always been one for the slow tease, which is how I love to write, so to those who read this and somehow held back from asking me to have them jump each other crazy in this chapter, thank you and you'll be rewarded after this and the next double chapters, that's where things start to take the romantic turn.
 
Thanks to Raven for betaing, everything you've said about the story is appreciated beyond words, you make this story what it is with your corrections. And Cinnamon my other beta, who got me out of a minor rut with her newest chapter of Thoughts, which you should read even if you're not a Trory shipper just for the simple fact that Rory acts like a big tease and partakes of the pleasures of her own flesh to the fullest.
 
And if you're on ff.net, read the previous three chapters, and are just now realizing 'Uh, that ain't Tristan those two girls are thinking about?' and you don't like femslash, this is the fifth warning to hit the left-pointing arrow marked back on your browser toolbar, the X button or stoplight in the right-hand corner, and surf another story.
 
Finally, feedback, any feedback about this story is strongly appreciated, multiple words in a review are welcomed with hugs and smiles :D! See, there's one now! Go read now before you seal off my mouth with electrical tape to shut me up...

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There are those who are in the love 'industry' that will tell you that an attraction can start at the oddest and most inopportune time possible. The romance novelists, writers for soap operas and romantic comedies and those analysts running those dating sites on the internet seem to live on this theory and try to convince everyone who buys their ideal that Cupid is always hovering over you and that significant other, ready to release the arrow at anytime and start the gears of attraction into motion faster than Jessie Spano's Vivarin overdose on Saved by the Bell.
 
Let's just say I don't really believe that. In my own opinion, Cupid stuck his arrow into me two years ago, but instead of being fast acting, the effects of it have been slow to take root, like a cancer or Alzheimer's disease.
 
Okay, eww, fine, that's a bad example, but apply that analogy to a more positive situation and you'll see what it means when it comes to my attraction to Paris.
 
It seemed innocent and such a throwaway line two years ago that fateful Parent's Day when I found out that my mother was having more than parent-teacher conferences with my Lit 201 teacher, Max Medina. Paris had found out as she passed by that they making out in his classroom, and her attitude then being sour towards me, spread the gossip like wildfire across the school, I never saw it coming. After I found out she had poured the kerosene on the rumor, I had nothing but hate for her. I wanted her to feel as if she was the weak one in our little rivalry, and I was actually prepared to use fists to achieve it.
 
I had thankfully calmed down by the time I decided to make a truce with her. I approached her eating her lunch with Madeline and Louise after she made some offhand comments about Mrs. Gellar sleeping with a teacher, and told her we needed to talk. The other two girls seemed to draw their claws out before she called them off, and it was just Paris and I.
 
Everything else about that meeting is just a blur besides the fact I gave her an opening that if she ever needed an ear to listen to her problems, she had it in me. She was kind of off-hand about it, but I knew she would come around eventually, thus the state of our friendship today.
 
But the little joke she made before I took her to task for spreading the gossip about Lorelai and Max caused me to become disturbed for a moment and brought me off my train of thought.
         
"You're not going to kiss me are you?" she asked, with a wide smile spread across her face. If it wasn't for the fact my mother was becoming a sexual being for the first time in years with someone who could play with my grades, I probably would've brushed it off, which I did on the outside, and went on to call her on her crap.
 
Before I did, there was this weird flash in my mind of dropping my book bag to the ground, taking her by the hand and into my arms, and just planting a nice big smacker right on her lips. My shy reserved little self was pretty shocked by what my mind had just come up with, and I was strangely not repulsed by the image planted within. I had remembered a month before at the Formal her own reaction to me accidentally finding out that her date was her cousin, and her anger at me finding out about that fact. Her forehead was completely scrunched and she had bent down right to my face level to go off on this odd tangent that I was going to ruin her because of the small information that Jacob was her cousin, when really I felt so much empathy for her because I had hoped Tristan would've bought a clue, along with a ticket to the dance for a girl so smitten with him instead of that vapid Cissy.
 
I hadn't ever really looked at her before then as another girl, just as a classmate. But she had on this Kermit-green formal gown which went down to her ankles, yet on top was cut so that a lot of skin was exposed in her front. She just had so much cleavage showing on that dress, and I took in everything in front of me and wondered why she would ever be stuck with taking a relative to the dance. Paris looked very cute, and as I remembered her anger at me for finding out about her odd dating arrangement, I realized something I wouldn't have expected to ever happen to me; I was having thoughts about her like I had Dean! I also had offered her an opening in my heart, no strings attached.
 
So I did what I do best when I feel like I have a problem; denial. I put a wide gulf between that weird 'Paris is cute' feeling and those I did have with Dean. With Tristan involved with my love life back then he became the backup defending Paris from sliding into home position. Even when Dean let me go after I couldn't say those three words, I obscured that in a wild move of abandon by trying to bury it in a honey-do list for myself and Madeline's party, where kissing Tristan seemed like the best way to end that conflict. Unfortunately, my love for Dean came back with a string of tears, and along with it a feeling of betrayal against Paris. I had promised myself I wouldn't touch Tristan, and just like that I felt if she found out we'd never have a friendship.
 
The Bangles concert came through my synapses as his lips touched mine, and Paris' declaration as her friends abandoned us for some party that Eternal Flame was her favorite song. In the context that it was in, seeing it third person, it didn't look like anything abnormal. But the timing of her words, along with the smile she gave me and the eerie green sheen coming from the spotlights creating interesting shadows on her face, to me, it seemed like something out of a romantic movie. Dean was nowhere around, my mother was far away in the back edges of the balcony with her best friend, squinting to see what seemed to barely look like Susannah Hoffs, and there Paris and I stood, her friends gone, making such a cute declaration.
 
At the time, I put on a face of indifference and sighed, knowing she was just over-stimulated from being taken from her comfort zone of studying and into the own little happy world Mom and I inhabited. Then when she said this was the best night of her life, in addition to seeing her friends eviscerated by Lorelai, I continued to attribute it to her abandoning her competitive drive temporarily and wanting to finally start a friendship.
 
Of course you know the see-saw that happened after all that, with me hooking her up with Tristan and then her misconstruction of the PJ Harvey tickets. I then spent most of the summer after Dean had successfully reacquired my love in the courtyard with Tristan watching basking in nothing but heterosexual feelings for Dean. Paris didn't even enter my conscious as we built the house together, and we kept up our childish fighting.
 
Around the time of the Shakespeare project though, there were signs that the innocent little joke she made in the heat of an argument was actually begging to be answered realistically. Tristan had pulled all his crap, and she started finally rubbing the Vaseline from her eyes and seeing him for the jerk he was. She was distracted, and the flame she had for him was snuffed out, so she put 130% into the project. Which meant she projected a lot of anger towards Tristan, and I got a little more of a taste of her passionate side.
 
Her life became the last scene of Romeo & Juliet. She'd call in every script revision she made, every little change in scenery, and then the fact we were going to rehearse on my home turf. Little did I know that the whole situation would make me see the light when it came to men.
 
That when two men who have the hots for me got into the same room, they become total assholes. Paris and I seemed to be the only one with our hearts in the project at all, while Tristan was using the situation as a big transparent excuse to get into my corset in front of Dean. I thought my boyfriend would be the mature one, but instead he acted like an overprotective jerk. Until that moment, Dean seemed to be the one with the most pull on my soul.
 
Then I kept finding myself looking for help in Paris' eyes. Her commanding demeanor and push for me to be Juliet no matter what seemed to affect my performance a hell of a lot more than Tristan could ever cause. Dean certainly wasn't helping his case by acting like my personal bodyguard. I actually thought 'fuck you Dean' so many times during that whole thing I didn't want to touch him, much less look at him.
 
I thank God every day now that Tristan robbed that safe and got sent down to North Carolina. Without his stupidity I would've been buried in some soap opera-ish love triangle thing, and with that, I didn't have to face those artificial 'feelings' that flared up after the piano kiss. With him leaving, Paris was free to come in like a bat out of hell and get my focus off the devastation of losing a familiar teasing face. She put on the Romeo wig and told me to get ready to reenact like I never had before, and in her own joking way, suck on an Altoid. She didn't kiss me and faked that last move during the 'thus with a kiss I die' spiel, but it seemed more in fear that Dean wouldn't take it too well than in revulsion. I think that because her head seemed to lie on my chest just a little longer than usual, and I swore she smelled me. No matter, her adrenaline was probably piqued from actually getting to earn our grade, and just was breathing a sigh of relief.
 
I just would've loved to tell Dean when he asked in the diner if we did rehearse the kiss "Of course Dean, and let me show you the big ol' hickey she planted on my left tit before she slid three fingers between my folds and screwed me 'till the cows came home, we did way more than kissing backstage." Too bad I wasn't thinking of her that way when he asked, the reaction would've been fun.
 
I've had so much time to recall those little things Paris and I have shared over the last two years as I sit in a class that I'm only taking for the shiny gold seal under 'English and Literature Merit' I get on my diploma, Russian Novelists and Their Works 401. When you're in a class that even Paris hates (and trust me, she loves every class), that's not a good sign. I've had to read some of the dullest crap ever to come out of a pen and printing press, when the evaluation comes up after the final exam where I have to write down what I thought about this class, I'll be creating my own long-winded and boring novel describing how draining Mr. Mercurio and his love for Russian literature has been on my will to learn. This is the only class I half-ass, reading the Cliff Notes and doing whatever it takes to get an A without actually putting an effort into the class at all.
 
I have to admit however, it's helped me on one front. Whenever I don't have to read yet another dull Tolstoy plot point that has nothing to do with either war or peace, I've been adding on entries to something I keep hidden from everybody and deep in my backpack, and since Mr. Mecurio never goes past his own desk, I'm free to write whatever I want in a project I've been working on for the last two weeks. I like to call it 'Pro and Con; Romance with Paris Gellar'.
 
I started doing it on a whim one night when I was bored and all my homework was done, and my mother was working at the Inn. I turned to the back of my notebook, drew a line in the middle of the page, and wrote pro and con in big bold letters on the top line of the sheet. I also made up a sheet for Dean, in the case that Paris' cons outweighed her pros, thinking that because I loved him I'd have filled up the left side with reasons to keep him and knew for sure my little lesbian crush was just a phase.

Dean, I'm sorry, I stopped your list a few days ago when the pros were soundly defeated by cons 35-12, and even more sadly, in a college-ruled notebook. Yes, the things that attracted me to him at first were right in the pros, like the fact I loved him, he's a good kisser and he built a car for me, the obvious things. But those were taken out of commission by the cons that he dumped me for awhile because I didn't feel the same, his kisses no longer turn my knees to jelly, and his car is back in the junkyard, proven unsafe by Grandpa and fated to become a scrap metal cube when a little squirrel ruined things between me and Jess for awhile, and Dean's attention to safety was lacking since I had my arm in a sling for most of spring. Also not helping his cause was a big con that he distrusted me around anything else with a penis, he'd probably beat Brad to a pulp if he told me my hair looked cute in a ponytail!
 
With that list finished, I was free to concentrate on the girl who gave me a summer to remember. I honestly tried to drive everything she did into the cons column, scraping my mind for anything. But I only have about five items under the cons list right now, even those are little things.
 
·She doesn't like Luke and thinks he runs a brothel.
 
Paris was trying to get the Oppenheimer and hoping for a bite that there was a dark side to my town, so Luke became the victim of her drive. Once I can get her to know him though, I'm sure he'll relent. She does like Jess as a friend, helping her cause plenty with Luke. I'll also clue her into his long time crush on Lorelai and reveal him as far from depending on revenue from prostitutes, everyone in town already knows about their mating dance.
 
·Paris abhors my diet and keeps trying to make me eat healthy.
 
Once she gets a good taste of Luke's cooking and I can pull away from her health freak of a mother, she'll take it up. Though it's cute that she likes tofu and drinks soy milk.
 
·Stars Hollow is too stifling and all the people are too wacky for her liking, she thinks most of them are hicks.
 
I could make the same argument that she doesn't know one person on the cul-de-sac she resides on, and some of the high society matrons of Hartford are way too doped up on Paxil to be considered sane. At least Kirk is good for the occasional juvenile laugh, and Taylor's an interesting enigma.
 
·She talks in her sleep, keeping me up at night.
 
I live with Lorelai, who acts like a ten-year-old when she really wants something and wakes up to the sounds of either mooing or meowing. I already get woken by my mom at least twice a week for some little unimportant thing and am used to it. Paris just talks in her dreams, which I eventually tuned out in DC when it became clear she wasn't going to get herself off in one again. Plus, it's cute and something I'd recall as such when I'm old and in a rocking chair. If I can't get to sleep, I have two choices, NyQuil or getting myself off so I eventually pass out, it isn't as if she's a loud snorer.
 
·Paris would break my heart when she found someone else, or might disassociate from me if I admit I like her.
 
Not such a little point there, but it's definitely possible; I can't talk myself out of this con. I only have small clues to guide me towards what she feels for me, so she might not be lesbianic, not even bisexual. If she did feel the same for me, I might just be a gateway towards someone cuter, a Gina Gershon or Sheryl Crow-type woman later on, I don't know. But if I'm just her schoolgirl crush, at the very least I have to take a risk and hope it can last longer than these last few months at Chilton. I don't want to keep this silent, marry a guy I'm not in love with, and see her at the altar with the man or woman she used to dissolve her crush on me if she held one herself, and have to think 'what might have happened if I had told you I liked you Paris?'.
 
So yeah, that's all of the five reasons, all lonely on the right side of my notebook. Over to the left however, I've pro'ed so many things that on the surface might seem like cons, but upon further reflection I've erased and put on the the other side. For example;
 
·She owns medieval hardware and isn't afraid to use it.
 
To any boy who might have found this fact out, they might think Paris is some kind of whacked Xena nut and flee from her screaming bloody murder. When she brought out her sword as a prop for the project it freaked the living daylights out of me at the time. But when I thought about it in conjunction with my crush, I kind of found it arousing. If her family has passed down weapons to her, it has to mean she has enough interest in them to train on how to use them, I've fenced her in class before and she was a very worthy competitor. I've imagined her sleeping with me, and a burglar decides to break in through the window, trying to start some trouble. She'll unsheathe some dagger she has under the bed, and with her training the guy'll be too scared to mess with her unless he has a fetish for flesh wounds.
 
Oh, and I had a Buffyish fantasy about Paris slaying demons in a graveyard a few days after I came home, and woke up in a cold sweat due to what she did to my dream self to 'exhaust the energy'. For that alone, weapons usage goes on the pro list.
 
·Our arguments would be passionate and arousing.

I'll talk more about that later. Moving on...
 
·I'll see the world with her at my side.
 
I still plan on backpacking with Lorelai in Europe when I graduate, but unless Grandma springs for my own private jet, I won't be leaving the States very often after that. Paris however, I remember her trying to get me off Washington's beaten path and tour much more than the area around the Mall. We actually went into the city and Georgetown and she went into detail about things I didn't know about our nation's capital. She knows the hidden little things about cities, states and countries I would have never known if she hadn't turned me on to reading beyond the tourist brochures. Touring Fez would be the trip of a lifetime if she could come with me, and I'm sure she'd spoil me rotten giving me a vacation to remember.
 
·Paris understands the way I think.
 
I have to dumb down things to Romper Room level when I talk to Dean about anything that doesn't involve a hemi or transmissions, and when I argue book talk with Jess I try to keep opinions from the real world out of the debate since Jess isn't heavily invested in current events or topics that bore him. With Paris, I can talk at her level and she'll never go 'huh?' at any of my responses, arguing right back in a smart, cultured and witty way. Discussions that would end up like Fox News pundit segments with the boys would be much more like an enlightened conversation with Bill Moyers if I and Paris were a couple.
 
·Lorelai could become her second mother and be much more supportive than her real mom.
 
It's not all about me; though Lorelai would keel over once I exposed my secret, in time she'd relish the fact she could turn Paris from the automaton that Mrs. Gellar groomed her to be, into an actual girl with thoughts besides those that are academic. At first those two getting along all the time will be an iffy proposition, but I certainly never predicted that Paris would wind her way into my heart from her first impression two years ago. She currently talks above my mother's level, but I think she'd definitely take her in the complete package that comes with me, who wouldn't want to have Mom as a mother-in-law? She'd love it and finally have a shoulder to cry on that isn't paid for by her father; Francisca's been more of a mother figure than Sharon Gellar ever will be, and she's just Paris' nanny. I've heard her say nothing but positive things about her father so I'm not as scared of him as I am the woman who borne her; she even has a little humanity for her paternal side and calls him Daddy rather than the ever-unchanging and groaned out 'Mother' used to describe Mrs. Gellar.
 
I've been building this list from scratch and continue listing at least one new pro about her daily. But I have to admit, I've been trying to come out of my shell and looking for new things I don't know about Paris to list. So I've started doing things to try to subtlety clue her in that maybe I do have an interest in her. A controlled experiment you could call it.
 
I started out small with simple wardrobe changes that wouldn't startle Lorelai before I left for school. Instead of hosiery covering up my legs, I've been wearing short socks beneath my school shoes. Very few other students in the halls have noticed the change, and Louise hasn't started calling me a slut for losing them, but Paris seemed a little more distracted in the life sciences class I share a table with her in. My legs have accidentally brushed up against hers more times than when I was wearing the hosiery and I'm honestly sure that's far from a coincidence. With the issue of the hemlines approved by Headmaster C, I had Mom raise my own hem at least an inch and a half. It's enough to remain conservative, but just enough to expose a little more thigh.
 
I've also become more hands on when it comes to the Franklin and she's been giving up some of her editorial power to me and letting me get my hands a little dirty. That's meant I've been pounding the pavement and trying to get advertisers like banks who wouldn't even consider a high school newspaper to give us a try, the acquisition of the new printing press has certainly helped when it comes to circulars. We've also been cutting out any of the student writers who want to pander down to the base level by writing nothing but 'Administration, yay!' and 'Go Blue Demons!' stories. Paris has become much more impressed with my work ethic, and really appreciates what I've been doing to help with the Franklin, even finally thanking me for the help on that damned curtain story that won us the Oppenheimer. That means that attribute is in the pro column again. I'm still embarrassed about that whole debacle to this day, how do you explain to some teenager you hardly know whining that he couldn't rent Nude Bowling that I'm the one to blame for Stars Hollow Video being more chaste than certain places in Utah?
 
So basically what it's come down to on finding more Paris pros is becoming an instigator to probe deeper into her. I didn't feel very comfortable in the new role I put myself into; I've always been more of the follower, especially where Dean has been involved. She's always been shy around boys however, more so than me despite Madeline and Louise giving her inappropriate sex hints whenever they can. There had to be a way outside of an academic setting to draw her out and find out how she would tick in a competitive environment.
 
Then it came to me in gym class last week; I'd suck up my usual sour feelings for physical activity and try to prod her into competition. Usually I only get physical when it involves running for the bus when Mom put my pop tart in the toaster a little late and there was barely time for it to cool before I ate it. I totally sucked fulfilling my intramural competition requirements for the Blue Demon golf team a couple years ago, finishing last in the entire Charter Valley Conference out of eighty other golfers from ten schools my sophomore year.
 
Still, I psyched myself up when I heard we were going to do a field hockey unit in class and were going to play a full head-on game in Wednesday's class. Monday, we learned the skills and strategy of the game, and Tuesday was when the class went over the rulebook. I got my regular coffee from Luke's those days, but dumped it down the sewage grate before I got on the bus (if Lorelai found out I'm sure she wept, but I had to sacrifice to the cause here!) and drank Powerade from the dining hall's vending machine before gym class in order to keep my energy strong. I researched some stretching exercises from the internet to keep myself limber in case my arm decided to refracture or I pulled a muscle in the match.
 
The worst sacrifice of all; I drove myself to have seductive dreams for those three nights about Kirk, and his mom in the same room to kill my sex drive until Wednesday morning! That's right, I dreamt of the town bachelor's form of romance in order to gag any temptation to touch myself to the sounds of Paris' voice, and abstained from making out at all with Dean so the sexual energy that built up in those three days would instead flow up my stem to hit that part of my brain where adrenaline flowed from. I still thought of her in that tight gym t-shirt and those shorts, but this time instead of us staying relatively clean, I was going to get down and dirty with her, and she'd never be the wiser by the time she realized it. Competition is her fuel, and I hypothesized once she got the idea, we'd be at each other's throats in a different arena than usual for once.
 
10:00am had finally come, and I thought myself up a little pep talk as I dressed in the locker room. If I did find something up with Paris, I was going to know right away. I was also convinced that we were going to get dirty that day, since the evening before the skies had opened up and left the field outside a little soft and muddy. Perfect, I thought to myself as I stood next to Paris, awaiting the eventual whine from the team captains that they were stuck with the class geeks to pick last.
 
This time however, they were going to get much more than our usual small efforts to the cause. I felt very nervous as I took my stick and ran with Paris to our forward position just a little far from the goal. Technically we should have most of the shots on goal, but the strategies of both the teams pushed us back towards the center line away from the shooting curve so that the others wouldn't have depend on our usually pathetic athletic skills to win.
 
We went out to our positions, and Paris of course, looked immaculate. Her gym clothes, like mine hadn't been dirtied in at least a couple months, and her eyes were rolled as Ms. Paschke went over the rules and told the class she expected all of us to give 100% effort. There's just something about looking at the girl you have Sapphic feelings for and knowing in just a few minutes things between you and her were about to get a lot closer than before.
 
I didn't let her onto my plans at first, lulling Par into a false sense of security. I'd occasionally get the ball passed to the zone I was assigned to with her and quickly see it off to one of my more aggressive teammates. She'd get the ball occasionally and do that same thing, and I'd challenge her very lamely. I was definitely filling my role well as Rory Gilmore, sports wallflower.
 
Around seven minutes in though, her team had taken a two-goal lead from mine, and I found myself with the ball against my stick. Looking down at the sphere and using my head to compute the trajectory and the angle of the shot, I aimed and prayed that it would somehow make it past everyone and the keeper. I shut my eyes, and heard a yelp from one of my teammates as the ball crossed the goal line and made a little 'swoosh' sound as it hit the back of the net. I smiled and raised my fist, happy with the result as I heard the cheers from a couple of my teammates. 'Good shot Gilmore,' and the somewhat complimentary 'So nerds can play sports, nice attempt'. Yeah, some things about the plan, I wouldn't have minded tuning out.
 
Paris gave me a surprised look as we got back into our starting position, and asked why I'd want to participate. I told her not to be so stubborn and to have some fun for once, and slowly she got into the game. Based on my good goal I started getting the ball more often from my team and instead of taking a shot right away, tried to goad Paris into defending for her own team. At first her strategy was lame, trying to knock at my stick or shimmying around me to try and catch a pass I'd make and avoid my reaction. Eventually I had to start trying to prod her vocally. I reminded her of past victories in exams and tests, along with that PSAT score that almost drove her into a mental institution because I didn't reveal it until two weeks after the fact. "Come on Gellar," I'd yell at her in my roughest voice as we scrimmaged, "You call that defense? Brad could play better than that!"
 
After awhile, she started becoming a little more aggressive and I was finally able to see the results of my effort put into action. She started bringing out that energy she reserves for class and challenging me when she could for possession of the ball, our sticks clashing together at every opportunity. I felt the soles of the Cons I bought for gym class heavy with mud, and noted that though they look and work fine when you're far from athletic, purple Chuck Taylors really can't handle the stress of an aggressive field hockey game.
 
But besides that, things were working out well. I was playing good defense, but Paris occasionally got a shot passed me and into the goal, giving me a taste of my own medicine with an utterance of "In your face Rory!". I was so out of my element and I'm sure she was too, but we both loved every moment of it. Something had been building in our protests against gym class for the last two years and we were starting to kind of...like it.
 
Though to be honest, it was more about the physical contact between Paris and I that was spurring me on. When she got in position to take a pass, I tackled and brought her down to the ground, trying to stay legal within the rules. Then she did the same to me. One scrimmage she even grabbed at the back of my shirt and I could hear the seams tearing from stress as she gripped it for dear life preventing me from reaching my stick out to intercept the ball. That not only got me angered from her aggressive play, but it was turning me on! I felt my breasts tighten against my sports bra and my heartbeat speed even further than the adrenaline and exercise was already doing to it. Every little touch, grab, grope and shove from Paris' hands and body caused me to become disorientated as I tried to make hay of the situation the ball was in, and I couldn't take the fact that my plan was working out much better than I originally had expected!
 
She had attempted to pull my hair a couple times in the heat of competition to bring me down to the turf, so I had to tear out the rubber band the braid was in and unfurl it before she could bring me down again. With that move though, Paris seemed to get this look on her face like she was an untamed animal. I was so aroused by the way she was playing the game I didn't even notice my teammates anymore; they were there just to pass the ball and start another session of untamed groping and collisions between Paris and I. I kept forgetting that phy ed was only a 75-minute class and kept losing track of time; Paris had also truly got into the game.
 
Geeze, I was becoming so dirty! Everything on my person seemed to either turn brown or red; the red being blood shielded by my socks once Paris had taken a swipe at my ankles with her stick, I wasn't about to let the teacher know that though; she couldn't put me back on the sidelines if she tried. I heard yelling and cheering whenever Paris and I fought for the ball, and there was just something so hot about getting a chance to grab at her waist during a skirmish and not being yelled at for it. She wasn't objecting at all, things seemed to start working themselves out well.
 
Just before the end though, is something that I can't stop but think about each time I go to bed at night. The score was all tied up and my team was starting to tire out, my body seeming to finally realize that I was being physically active instead of sedentary for once. All that energy saved up from dreaming of Kirk was dissipating and one of Paris' teammates had passed the ball hard towards her so she could attempt the go-ahead goal. Her face seemed to take on a look of shock for being trusted with such a tough proposition, and she was just barely aware herself. Her soaked shirt was tight against her frame and her eyes struggled to stay open, as I nagged myself for not telling her I intended for her to be so active.
 
Still, something stirred up within as her stick touched the orange plastic sphere, and all I could think was I needed to not only save the game for my team, but find one last excuse to get aggressive with her before we left the field and resumed our pretty much solitary existences.
 
I untangled myself from the grip of a guy keeping me back from the ball and ran for the other side of the field and towards her. She was pretty much open to make the shot, but when I grunted she turned around and I found my vision clashing with hers.
 
I had an opening. She was looking down somewhere else (where I couldn't tell since my vision was a little blurred from a drop of perspiration in one of my eyes), and before her or I knew it, I had stretched my stick out and hooked it around her left leg. She stumbled around and regained her footing, keeping the ball in check.
 
That didn't work, so as other teammates congregated around both of us in anticipation of the ball popping out, I rushed towards Paris and grabbed at her arms, causing her to yelp. I then found myself with very little footing since the rubber of my sneakers was totally caked with mud, and tried to steady myself by grabbing onto her other arm. I failed, and Paris and I tumbled to the soft turf of the athletic field together as the momentum of my crashing into her was far from over.
 
I heard the sound of Paris' stick being dislodged from her hand, and the butt end rubbed up against the bottom of my stomach as we went down. All the other students saw the ball pop up from our small heap and down the field, and immediately raced to catch back up to it, our little predicament quickly forgotten in the heat of battle.
 
My teeth maintained the growl from before, and the front of my skull hurt from bashing into Paris', but I was still somehow conscious. Paris' eyes darted back and forth, a good sign that she was fine, but I noticed that she was kind of stunned. Her mouth was opened and I felt a drip of sweat fall off my bottom lip and down into it between her teeth.
 
But what I really noticed was the inopportune fact that her right knee was right between my legs, and was dug right into my crotch. That same fragrance she had when I watched her fuck herself in the dorm was in my nose, and I could swear she was clenching her legs around my thigh. Her eyes were transfixed to mine, and there was this little moment where I felt her breath in my mouth and just wanted nothing more than to kiss her and wonder if all this physical contact was all worth it in the end.
 
But then the gym teacher got our attention and wondered if we were all right. The moment was lost, and we complimented each other on putting so much effort in the game, got up and dusted ourselves off. We had to take it easy for the last few minutes of the game per the teacher's orders because she thought we were getting a little too rough, and finished the game rather unexceptionally. Someone on my team scored one more goal and we won 9-8. Paris didn't seem broken up, but it was such a great match I had to congratulate her.
 
I shook her hand and thanked her, and she gripped it pretty strong. In turn I tightened up my grip on her hand. I let go before she could catch on, and she started to trudge back towards the gymnasium building while the teacher complimented me on my effort and decided to give me a little extra credit for the way I took my academics and placed them into game situations. She then let me go, and I prepared myself to go back to class.
 
It was about at the threshold as I got back into the building when I remembered the real reason I hated gym class. I looked down at my muddied and dirtied self, and had forgotten in the rush to build up that Paris pro, that I was going to get all messed up and I was going to stink for the rest of the day.
 
"Shit, Rory!" I cursed to no one, and realized that I was going to have to jump in the shower for once, lest my A for the unit and extra credit was revoked. I had been in the stall many times before, but those times I rushed in and out because Hartford's water supply doesn't agree with my hair or body, at least in shower form. Also one day after class a couple years ago, Summer had teased me about my nakedness and whipped a wet towel at my backside to intimidate me. That pretty much killed my excitement for communal showers.
 
Worse, this time I was going to probably see Paris nude and all wet as she cleaned off her own grime. The analytical side of my brain told me to ignore any feelings I might get from sharing a stall and ignore her state. Relax, she might even be gone by the time you get in there, you got in late, my conscience tried to assure me.
 
But as I got into the locker room and started to take off my gym clothes, desire had taken over everything as I looked over the results of my endeavor. My socks were soaked with a thin line of blood from Paris' stick slash, and I thanked myself for deciding to bring along an extra clean pair just in case that ever had happened. I took off my grey gym shirt and shorts, and didn't expect much from the game.
 
Thank God I decided to change in a stall that day instead of out in the open! My breasts were fully aroused in my sports bra, nipples peaked and one of them had almost wiggled out of the cup, I could see the underside of my right one. I felt all flushed upon seeing that, but that would end up looking tame compared to when I pulled down my shorts.
 
I looked down myself, and couldn't believe my eyes. Usually when I wear underwear they stay stubbornly opaque, and I wear panties with as much cotton covering the front as I can. But when I looked down that day, they had soaked through so much, I could make out the outlines of not only the area down there, but where the hair down there ended, and bare skin began. I brought a finger to the large wet patch, and could tell that wasn't just rain and sweat soaking them! All that competition had gone up to my brain like planned, but I guessed that with my thighs rubbing up against each other as I ran, along with all that lust of seeing Paris in such an aroused and competitive state and our collision where Paris' knee ended up against mine, those factors combined together to make me drip like a rusty spigot.
 
"Oh my God!" was all I could utter as I took my clothes off, my lust-filled brain trying its best to not succumb to temptation, I wanted to rub myself off so bad! Somehow I shook off that feeling, and wrapped myself in a towel, grabbing my soap as I headed for the shower. I could easily remember the only other time I had gotten that wet; in that dorm room as Paris and I individually got ourselves off. My fantasies had been refueled, and I crossed my fingers, hoping that Paris took her time showering. Talk about killing all those showering fears!
 
Let's just say the shower was sort of interesting. Paris was in there and I struck up a conversation with her about this whole field hockey thing we did. She was kind of jarred by it all and I hid it behind the cover that if I'm not active Ms. Paschke is going to be iffy about giving us an A in the class. I couldn't help but feel her eyes dart onto my body several times during the shower, and though it seemed light-hearted, there was a sort of pall over it. She didn't know my motives for the whole thing, and I couldn't gauge her reaction all that well.
 
So thinking at the time it was a good idea, I decided to ask her a question that was so out-of-character, so unlike me, but that could make her mind spin for an answer. I just up and asked it without any hesitation.
 
I asked her if my chest was too flat.
 
Not a question you'd normally hear being asked by a girl to a girl; almost like if Jess dropped his pants one day and wanted Dean's opinion on his size. But it would certainly get Paris' attention away from the usually droll questions asked in school.
 
Even through the spray of the shower, I could tell she was blushing and looking down towards me to solidify her response. She then laughed, and somehow I took offense to that and almost backed off, embarrassed. Thankfully she clarified that my breasts were perfectly sized.
 
Damn, she firmed up on me, I thought to myself. So I then concentrated my eyes on hers, pointed at them, and faked a whine by wondering why her's were larger.
 
Unfortunately it didn't have the effect on her I had been expecting, she turned back into her shy self, made up something about genetics being to blame, and Paris fled the shower before I could say anything else. The way she frowned before she turned around and left me in there stunned, I could tell there was something underlying that caused the casual conversation we had to come to a sudden halt. I felt horrible, but I had to get to the bottom of it all.
 
However after the incident she seemed to start to ignore me, and I thought she was starting to catch on to my hints too much and was getting ready to give me the cold shoulder. Whenever I got within arm's reach of her the next few days, she either moved over, took the next seat or walked away. I wanted to apologize for the question but she would change the subject so fast there was nothing I could do but get back into the comfortable yet harsh groove we had been in before she asked me to be vice president.
 
The worst thing was she claimed she had a headache she needed to take care of, and wouldn't drive me back home because of it. Maybe the whole thing was a bad idea, and as I got on the bus to school Friday morning, hoped that I could get some dialogue with Paris so I could clear things up without revealing the underlying reasons behind the whole situation.
 
Too bad the situation felt like a nagging mosquito bite. Her silent treatment continued, even through a project we were assigned to do together in life sciences. The pit of my stomach felt like a stone, and I ended up throwing out my whole lunch salad because I couldn't even eat it, afraid it would come right back up. After school didn't get much better, as student government seemed to fit the mold of 'typical meeting' and she disallowed any attempts for me to debate or bring up issues. Francie continued delivering me dirty looks and hinting that her little plan to offer Atkins substitutes in the ala-carte line despite the harsh opposition of the school nurse and foodservice staff should really pass without opposition. Yeah, enjoy your lettuce-bunned bacon cheeseburger Jarvis, I thought silently to myself as I gave her a bitchy look, Can't wait to see until you become a fat cow with arteries clogged like downtown Boston during rush hour!
 
Working on the Franklin that night seemed to feel like we were closing the paper permanently, and Paris wouldn't even comment on any corrections she had made to articles before I rewrote the stories and posted them to the printing network. There was a dark pall and everything about the situation was bothering me. So once all the other staff and Ms. Peters had left for the night, leaving me and Paris alone, I decided to try to get Paris to say anything to me.
 
"I'm sorry about Wednesday," I told her, smiling. No response.
 
"Come on Gellar, where did those witty 200 WPM comebacks I'm used to fly off to, you've been Marcel Marceau'ing it lately." She quirked an eyebrow and groaned in response. Having a one-sided talk with her wasn't exactly what I had in mind.
 
I reached over and tried to grab her hand in a reassuring manner. "Look, whatever I said I take it back, it's nothing to be embarrassed about--"
 
She reeled it back and got up from her seat violently, not looking at me in the eyes. "I have to get notes from the conference room." She then turned her back, and I gave chase as she walked out of the office and across the hall to the conference room, I couldn't leave this thing going all weekend.
 
I caught the door to the conference room, and noticed she had pushed the lock on the door in. She must've really hated me because things just seemed to tumble downhill from there. "Paris, please talk to me, I don't understand why you'd act like such a question is--"
 
"It's not about the question at all Gilmore!" Fuck, she was back to the last-name-as-a-slur thing from last year. "You don't ask that kind of question in a locker room!"
 
"Well I was just curious about what you think and you seemed to have fun--"
 
"Which you pushed me into involuntarily; you know how I feel about gym class!"

"God forbid I get some exercise and try to help you!" I whined. "I just wanted to know what you thought about yourself."
 
"You see the coat?!" she chastised, pointing at her jacket as she moved towards me in a confrontational move. "I'm not Louise; I don't crop my uniform so that I look like a raging whore! I don't give a shit about 'body image' or Ophelia or any of this other bull the media tries to shove down my throat to convince me that I'm homely and dull!"

"That doesn't mean you have to clam up on me when I ask, come on Par! There's a feature about yourself you have to like!"
 
"Yeah, my brain. I'm here for one reason and one reason only Rory; to learn and get into Harvard, nothing else." Her voice and treble seemed to get louder as she moved closer to me. "When I walk these halls, I could care less about the hot guy walking past me, and I've been hoping that you've been doing that too. Wait, I forget, I'm speaking to a girl who's been mind-fucking two men since she came here!"

She was getting more vicious by the moment and I felt powerless to stop her ranting. "Don't you dare bring Dean or Jess into this, they have nothing to do with--"
 
I felt my figure shrink as her eyes became darker in mine as she went on. "You string Dean along even if you don't feel anything with him, and played with Jess like he was a pawn while you were trying to figure out whether to go for it with him or not. Meanwhile DuGrey was just your lapdog while he was here, I bet you miss him and want to pitch woo the moment you find out wherever the hell he is!"

Seriously, I wanted to slap that angry grin off her grille because she was getting me so pissed off at her when I just wanted to say sorry. But I took the bait anyway. "This coming from the girl with no sex life to speak of!"
 
"Whatever, at least I'm happy without companionship!"
 
"I'm sure you are, God forbid anyone gets into that cold little rock beneath your ribs you call a heart!"
 
"DO NOT TEST ME!" she cried towards me, her face flushed with blood.
 
"You know, I like you a lot Paris, I respect you, but I guess trying to get to know you if it doesn't involve a textbook is almost next to impossible, sorry I even try."
 
"It's a waste of energy Gilmore, besides I bet you need that energy to get Dean to second base before revealing the ball behind your back and tag him out, leaving him with a stiff dick between his legs as he goes home unsatisfied, again!"
 
I felt my teeth grit with anger as she made that assumption, and couldn't believe her gall. I wanted nothing more than to punch that commander-in-chief in the teeth. I tried to breathe in and out, but didn't feel any dissipation of my mood. I had to get her back.
 
"You know what's fun Gellar? That I even have a boy to lead around, you bitter little bitch! All I wanted to know is if you like your body the way it is and why the hell you hide it under so many layers, I'm sure a guy would kill for you!"

"I don't want a guy to kill for me, and like I said before. I. Don't. Care!" We were so close that in another situation it would've been a turn-on sexually. All I wanted to do then however was one-up her.
 
"I care!"
 
"Fuck off Gilmore, your compliments do little for me!"
 
"Well it's no matter Tristan never gave you more than a kiss, with an attitude like that I certainly wouldn't fuck you!" I shot back, and almost immediately wanted to take that insult back. She looked at me coolly, and made me feel really uncomfortable.
 
"Take that back, right now!" she commanded to me, and for some reason or another I didn't back down.
 
"I won't, because it's true. You just don't want some guy to sweep you off your feet and tip you off that high little pedestal you put yourself on. You're just too chicken to admit that you could be a lust object, and you're becoming just like your mother."
 
She pointed a finger towards me and her monotone became even deeper. "Don't go there--"
 
"Get a clue Par, she makes you ashamed to be yourself, and it's turning you into this sour little hag who, at this rate, might have to settle for some 'nice Jewish guy' on the Upper East Side with a small--" I didn't get the last word out as she finally got me to allegorically cry out 'Uncle' in such a way it almost broke my heart.
 
"I might be a prude," she started, "But at least I don't have a chastity electric fence around my person preventing my fucking boyfriend from doing any more than heavy petting--"
 
Then she tacked on the hated 'Mary' nickname at the end of her sentence, adding on 'Stone' to hammer home that I was nothing but a 60's sitcom girl who played with boys like building blocks. I lost it right there, and felt my jaw drop as the argument had its exclamation point tacked on to the end. I was too shocked to respond, and almost felt like crying as I left the room in a huff, made a beeline for my locker to retrieve my things and got out to the bus before Paris could catch me. I heard her apologies echoing in the hall, but ignored them. She brought up my most sensitive subject she could and smashed hari-kari through those boundaries I set aside. Not only that, it hurt for someone I thought I could love so deep to say such hateful things about me.
 
But it was true. I didn't truly love Dean anymore, yet kept him along. I felt too distraught to think of anything else except the argument as I watched the headlights of Friday rush hour pass by in the northbound lanes, and I looked out of the bus window in despair. My phone rang in my backpack, but I didn't even bother to take it out. A couple minutes later I heard the chirp of my voicemail, and pretty much assumed it was Paris begging for mercy.
 
Maybe it had been my fault. I was bringing her out of the shell too fast and perhaps being a little too forward. But I didn't expect to be perfect when I pursued the pro and con list since it was my first time playing the seductress. I needed to regain control and her trust, and hoped that putting space between us to calm down would put us back on an even keel.
 
Once I got back home, I had to vent to Lorelai my frustration about Paris (leaving out all the girl-crush details, along with plenty of edited language) as we both got ready for Friday night dinner at Grandma's. I don't remember what I said, but it must've been a long tirade because I was still going strong about her as we got in the Jeep, and only stopped once we were midway between the Hollow and Hartford, I went on about almost the whole summer and most of the new school year. I didn't let Mom know about the field hockey stuff, but even with that as we pulled of the I-84 exit towards the mansion, she seemed to figure out something I hadn't been noticing as she glanced in my direction.
 
"Whoa, calm down there kiddo," Mom told me as she put a hand on my knee, "The way you're talking about Paris I swear you're acting the same way you did before you and Dean got together, ranting on and on without an end because you like her more than you let on. Just breathe hon, she isn't here and the only evil forces in your sights tonight are Emily and Richard trying to steer you towards Yale."
 
I swear when she told me that, I immediately turned white. Not at the whole college situation of course, but that she saw through my anger and towards my arousal unwittingly. I have my mother to thank for the rest of the night, because instead of stewing in my anger over being called Mary Stone, my body woke up to the fact that the whole argument had left me aroused and wet since it began.
 
There I sat during Friday night dinner, a time I usually enjoy because my mother's quippy nature becomes mixed with the older, yet refined humor of my grandparents and things always get interesting between the two generations, and all I was thinking to myself was, I'd rather be upstairs in that NSYNC'ophied bedroom scratching that damned itch Paris irritated. I sat in my seat, legs tightly crossed and reanalyzing the entire argument and Wednesday's third period over and over in my mind, trying to find out where exactly pleasure had been triggered in Paris' responses because I sure wasn't noticing before Mom noticed my rant-track. I ate that evening slowly and deliberately, and tried to time my responses to any queries Grandpa and Grandma sent my way so that in the end my answer was satisfactory, they wouldn't ask a follow-up and I was free to go back to thinking about Paris.

Several times that night I wanted to ask if I could either use the bathroom, or take a nap upstairs before I left, but I held my tongue since that would have caused Lorelai to become ever more paranoid about the intentions of her parents. That, and the thought of masturbating with all those frilly covers below wasn't exactly conducive to any fantasies I've had of my classmate.
 
So I waited until I came home, and after watching some late-late movie on channel 20, went to bed after wishing my mom a good night. By then however, the only thing I was feeling was tired, the turn-on from anger seemed to be fading, but I really wanted to get that tension out before I began my next beg-a-thon for Paris' forgiveness Monday in school. Thinking about that, I felt like crying, but I had to focus on the positives of the situation. I could do this with a heavy heart, or try to keep the flame strong. I silently read my pro-con list to myself (at the time it was a 28 pro-3 con tally), and got my cell phone out so I could listen to Paris' messages. I turned on the phone and noticed that not only did she leave about four voice messages, but a couple of text messages later after the voice mails.
 
The voice mails were as devastating as I expected, her voice strained and subdued as I heard in the background soft classical music. The last one, left around nine seemed the most apologetic. "I know in the past Rory, I've told you that I hate you, especially after Tristan revealed our date was set up." Her composure seemed artificial as she went on, she was definitely on the verge of tears. "I do sort of hate you, but not for any negative reason. It's just that sometimes I feel like you're way too lucky in your life, and I envy that about you. Your mother speaks in your primary language and is your best friend as you say, and there's just this part of me that wishes I could go up to my mother and she'd act like Lorelai. But I know that's never going to happen, and though I know you didn't mean it, she is a bitter hag."
 
That's when she started crying, full on. I've never heard her voice so desperate and sad, and it just broke my heart to hear her. "If I ever get like Sharon, I want to know so I can back off that track, because today, there was no doubt I was carbon-copying when she fought with Daddy and accused him of some affair that was impossible with his schedule and everything else. Anyways, please, I beg of you to call me back Gilmore, today we went too far with our fighting. I'm so sorry, and I'll get off the phone before I crumble apart here. Goodbye." Paris then hung up, and I read her short text messages, asking me if I was back home yet.
 
I knew there was one thing I shouldn't do, so I decided just to go to bed and not think about Paris sexually that night since it wouldn't do any good to fantasize about her when our friendship was fractured. Instead, I went to sleep thinking about all I could do in order to patch things up with her. I knew she'd be sorry, but I was scared that the next time we'd find something to argue about we'd actually come to blows. The simple fact was, there was an untamed lover beneath Paris' façade, but that self was heavily guarded by so many conflicting emotions, problems, and guilt for not going with her mother's planning that she couldn't help but keep herself sealed off. That part of her was so much in her blood that the formerly carefree seven year-old she was, who ran around the playground not worrying about her image or how she came off to the trustees of Harvard or Hartfordian society was trapped beneath her iron bitch self.
 
Really, that's the first time I really truly knew how my mother felt, and the reason she had to run away with me after my first birthday. Mrs. Gellar had definitely done so many things to screw with Paris' mind up to and including making everyone who didn't support 'The Plan' miserable. I remembered Paris' housekeeper almost dragging her out by the ear the night of the initiation. Definitely hired by Mrs. Gellar, I thought, remembering the times she spoke in animated and happy Portuguese to 'Nanny' on her cell phone. I never understood what they were really saying, but her attitude was so much different than it was whenever Mrs. Gellar had come to school to 'check up' on her daughter. There was also the clear sign that whenever Paris and I were paired up for a project, we'd only go to the Manor if Mrs. Gellar was at one of her club meetings or on a business trip. That woman just makes me so angry that she can have this bright girl she foaled, but could ignore all the positives in her life and hammer home the negatives so hard, Paris can't help but have a bitter front surrounding her.
 
That night, I didn't have a passionate, sweaty, and porn-without-plot dream with Paris, but instead I just thought of her and us, sitting at a table at Luke's talking for hours on end about anything and everything we could come up with, a true wild card night over a plate of chili cheese fries and endless coffees debating endlessly without interference from the guys or our mothers. When I woke up from it in the morning, I recalled all the good times we've had, the study sessions and the constant quizzing that never stumbled or ended awkwardly. There was nothing more that I wanted to do but resettle things down with her.
 
But I had remembered the many times I had made peace with Paris, only to see it break and it was on my shoulders to make peace once again. There was a big part of me that wanted to drive out to the Manor and patch up things. However, this time I felt it was Paris who had to come to me since I did still hold some anger over the way she went off about my treatment of Dean and Jess.
 
So I decided to wait for her to get off the phone and make her amends in person. I did my usual Saturday things, homework, studying, working at the Inn for a few hours, hoping the next person to walk into the front foyer would be a 5'3" blonde hellfire with deep, dark brown eyes. She didn't come by though, and though Lorelai noticed how anxious I was, I avoided her queries and blamed my worry on homework and the whole situation. We had a late night with a taped copy of the MST3K version of Space Mutiny, and I went to bed at two thinking that the Paris stalemate would continue to fester for the next few months, continuing in that three months friends/three months enemies cycle we seemed to always be on.
 
I was asleep and not dreaming, when suddenly I heard this strange rapping on the pane of my window. "What the--" I mumbled as I struggled to look at the green numbers of my alarm clock on the nightstand. It read 4:34 and it took me a bit to remember the little dot in the corner meant AM rather than PM. I sighed in relief that I hadn't slept fourteen hours accidentally, but was kind of scared about who was trying to get in the house.
 
I grabbed the closest thing I had to a weapon nearby, Colonel Clucker (Yeah, I'll beat that burglar into a coma with a stuffed chicken. Stars Hollow isn't exactly known for a high crime rate, OK?), and slowly crept towards my window. I mumbled a tired hello and awaited a response as I wiped the sleep out of my eyes.
 
"Rory?" the voice asked, and I could immediately recognize its owner. I clutched the string of my window shade and pulled it up to confirm who it was.
 
Paris had driven all the way out to my town on an early Sunday morning on a crazy whim, and I could tell this wasn't well planned the way she usually did before we talked. Her hair was barely done, and her choice of a Harvard sweatshirt with dark sweatpants was an ensemble so unlike her. But what really hurt as I turned on a bedside light and opened up the window was seeing her face.
 
Her usually spare makeup was gone, and in its place was a face full of worry lines, a frown, and eyes that were so forlorn and tired I was shocked that she could make a forty minute drive to my house, she was in a distraught condition that I never would associate her with.
 
At first I felt bad about what we had done each other to create a rift in our friendship. Then my mind reminded me that she had called me a teasing prude who could care less about sex. Upon that thought, I opened the window and asked why she was there when she had made the assertion I never thought about sex, being extra harsh about my response.
 
Instead of a heated argument ensuing like I had expected, Paris just asked meekly if I could let her in so she could tell her side of the story. The way she asked me, with a hoarse and sleepy voice, I couldn't deny her. So even though I was apprehensive, I let her in my room and listened to her carefully.
 
I was expecting her to stall somewhat, but she went right into answering my question from Wednesday, in more detail than I could've hoped for in the shower.
 
Thank God, because she only confirmed what I had expected; her mother controlled her body image. I didn't know what to say as Paris explained sitting at the desk that she had so many problems being proud of herself because her mother made her feel ashamed of her figure. When she said that she was forced to consider reduction surgery on her mother's behest though, I didn't know what to say. No wonder she stays hidden, I thought to myself as she relayed to me that no doctor around here would do the surgery as long as she was 17, her mother's too obsessed with her schooling to even consider her wants.
 
As Paris went on, there was so much seizing up in me that wanted to drag her over to my bed and prove to her that her body was perfect in my eyes. I continued listening to her relay her mother's insane plans for keeping her the dullest and least interesting girl ever, and couldn't understand Mrs. Gellar's motives at all. Why would she want Paris to be almost like a robot?
 
Then I found out how her mother plans dates, by IQ and how good the boy's genes were. No wonder she kept her heart locked away; she was a hopeless romantic who was unlucky to have a mother who seemed to think courtship was like those Valentine's love surveys the student government used to hand out a few days before the 14th (and was one of the first things Paris and I outlawed, how can numbers and computers create the perfect match? With them in the mix, girls attracted to girls aren't even in the equation!). My anger over her remarks had faded completely, and I invited her to lay with me on my bed as I explained my side of things.
 
"Par," I started, the words coming slowly, "you were just getting to me in the worst way possible and there was just a lot of baiting going on in that room, there's no justifying calling you a bitter bitch, just as I don't think you could explain why I could be called a tease. I pull away from Dean because he has to get the picture that I'm far from ready from doing that with him."
 
"I understand that, completely, and I certainly don't frown on you staying a virgin." She lay down and started making amends with me. "You have my word from this moment on that I won't be making any more cracks about our sexual statuses, and I'm sorry I even asserted you were on the level of Louise. Not that's she's a bad girl, she's been my friend since kindergarten."
 
"Hey, she isn't bad, just goes about things a different way than us two, and at least she does things in a safe way."
 
"Thank me for that Gilmore; I just about drilled an entire sex-ed curriculum into her blonde little head before her first time."
 
We both laughed and got off that whole messy subject of Friday night, and she went on and on about her relationships with Harold, her father, and her nanny. She explained that though Mr. Gellar wasn't always there, he was a true father in her eyes and she wasn't ashamed of him, and how Francisca had just about raised her up to her teenage years. Of course lots of details were left out about her mother, and I could tell she was trying to swerve around the topic as much as she could.
 
So I made her an offer that if she had anything she needed to talk about or find a second opinion, especially about her mother, she could come to me, no questions asked. I wouldn't judge her, nor would I make fun of her.
 
"Are you sure?" she asked me with some reservations. "What if it's a topic that would make you squeamish, like my love life? Sure, you aren't exactly Caroline Hax, but you know Louise, she's a little extreme, and Madeline, anything more taxing on her brain than fellatio and she needs a picture book--"
 
I cut her off kindly before some icky mental pictures of Madeline were planted in my brain and took her left hand into my right, rubbing around her knuckles so I could calm her down. "Par, honestly I've already given you more dating help than those two, so what's a little sex talk between friends." I laughed and we turned to face each other. "I don't exactly know how to do much, but in some weird odd little way, you're the closest thing I've had to a kindred spirit since I came to Chilton. We fight and debate endlessly, but at the end of the day we're still two smart young women both vying for the big H and the valedictorian's slot, and probably bound to each other for life in some karmic plan."
 
"True," she mumbled, and I noticed her grip on my hand become a little tighter, "Fine, I'll come to you for help, but don't expect me to give you advice about Dean, I'm kind of inexperienced."
 
I think you have nothing to fear, I thought to myself as I acknowledged her and smiled back. From there we forgot all about everything and fell into one of those deep, thoughtful conversations that pop up at the oddest times. Paris and I talked about anything besides the way we think our bodies and families were, including some things about the newspaper and Francie. I had gotten just a little more dirt on the Puffs leader since I became her 'lackey', but nothing yet that would prove beyond a doubt that she was using me for a puppet. I kept silent on that front, but couldn't wait until I had so much taped and written evidence she would be a goner. I'm sure Paris would be mad at first for going behind her back, but she'd commend me later for my resourcefulness.
 
By the time six had rolled around, I was starting to feel really sleepy, but also very comfortable. My bed was feeling awfully tight since Paris' body took up the right side of the mattress, but I didn't want her to go. She yawned kind of softly, and seemed so drowsy that I couldn't see her going back to Hartford when she was already sinking into my pillows.
 
Paris tried to lift herself out of the bed and see herself off, but I kept my hand clasped in hers, and held her back with my open arm.
 
"You're too tired to get back on the road, stay here." I gave her a pleading look, but she was still unsure.
 
"Sharon might not be happy to let me stay, and really I just came to apologize, you need sleep, right?"
 
"I don't mind Par; you're not a bad bed partner." I laughed. "Besides, does your mother really care at all?"
 
I won her with the emphasis on that word, and she kicked off her shoes and brought the covers on her side of the bed over her frame. "I guess you're right, I'll stay."

"Great," I said, and shortly after wishing each other good night despite the sun rising over the horizon, we fell asleep. Not in each other's arms mind you, but close enough that her body heat lulled me into a deep slumber I didn't think would've been possible without her sharing my bed. We brushed against each other a few times, but my senses were cooled and after all that talking my only focus was on recharging my mind.
 
I didn't have the good sense to set my alarm for my regular 9:30 am wakeup time so that I could get up and work at the Inn however, and forgot all about Lorelai in the rush to set things straight with Paris. Mom knocked on my door around ten, and was surprised to see that there was someone else sleeping next to me.
 
"Rory, it's time to--" she flicked on the light, and saw the back of Paris' head, misjudging its owner at first. "Dean, what are you doing in my daughter's bed?"
 
I rubbed the sleep out of my eye and for a moment thinking that it was indeed Dean in my bed, shook her awake vigorously.
 
The long blonde hair I felt against her shoulder however gave me much-needed relief that everything about last night wasn't a dream, and I had made up with the girl I had such heavy feelings for her. "Mom," I mumbled, "that isn't Dean, it's Paris."
 
As I roused her awake she was mumbling something about a guy named Milt and his radio show, and when she came to, she was surprised by the fact she was in my bed and in my room.
 
Mom wanted to know everything that lead Paris to sneak into our house, so I told her about yesterday and how we were both feeling depressed that we tore ourselves apart, though instead of 'the flat question' I made up something about editorial differences with a Franklin story, and Paris was only too happy to go along with the cover. That seemed to appease Lorelai, and Paris got up from her side, straightening her hair crudely by running her fingers through it.
 
Perfect timing of course, for Lorelai to resume acting like the sixteen year-old girl she always would be in spirit.
 
"So, you wanted to seduce my daughter by sleeping with her you harlot? I must say you're doing quite a good job," she joked, making Paris' eyes bug out, my eyes roll and both of us take on that familiar shade of red that's becoming familiar between us on our faces.
 
"Mother!" I cried in an Emily-ish tone, and she laughed at my reaction.
 
"What, I'm just saying that you have excellent taste in women my darling daughter." Paris laughed at my misery along with Mom, but I guess when you get into a situation like that, you're asking for it.
 
I got up and secretly held out a glimmer of hope that Paris might decide to have a day of fun with Mom and I, even if it involved some work at the Inn. However looking at her in full daylight...yeah, her shirt and sweatpants certainly didn't scream out 'outing ensemble' at all. So after a quick breakfast she said her goodbyes and I watched her drive off, I got back into my regular Sunday routine, quite pleased that Paris and I had patched things up, maybe even permanently.
 
This week, I've started to become a little bolder, and losing the excuse of trying to find things to put on the pro/con list. Madeline and Louise were off to troll around for guys lucky enough to be dates for their Halloween shindig and Paris' side of the table seemed a little lonely, so I've taken to sitting next to her at lunch. I sit a little closer than Louise has and can proudly note that Paris doesn't think I've invaded her space at all, and I've been able to brush against her arm a few times as we ate.
 
I am feeling kind of depressed though. My dad decided to invite me up to Boston for Halloween, and with Sherrie being much more demanding as her pregnancy progresses ("What do you mean I have to take a lighter caseload Chris, I can handle six clients in one day!" she whines, and I so want to tell her gory details of what wrath I wrought gestating inside of Lorelai starting in February 1984), it's up to me to keep them both sane as they drag me off to some lame gathering where there are sure to be few girls I relate to, and I can't turn down my dad no matter how ridiculous the request. I know Paris really doesn't celebrate the holiday and it would've been fun showing her how October 31st in the Hollow was, but I better show some respect to Sherrie seeing as I'll have a sister from her soon.
 
Also, it hurts that she ruined a perfect costume match-up with Paris being Roxie, and me playing the role of Velma. That dream kept me wet the night after Mads suggested it in jest. Paris could pull off Roxie, she was a top ballerina when she was younger and before she...filled out and became so voluptuous.
 
A couple things make me feel better though. For one, that she's starting to become a little more cautious and unhinged around me. The other thing is Monday morning I met Paris at her locker, and was pleased beyond belief that the little pep talk I gave her in my bed convinced her to ditch the uniform jacket permanently and go with the blue Chilton sweater instead. It looks so much nicer and flattering on her curves, and makes her in class and extra-curricular activities so much more approachable to others. I steal a glance occasionally in her direction, and my mouth almost waters at being able to look at her in such a way.
 
I lick my lips as I remember she almost swerved off the road on the way back home Tuesday night because I was reaching over to retrieve a book from my backpack sitting on the driver's side of the backseat, and my hand brushed up against the top of her shoulder. I don't know if I'll be doing that again though, Paris usually pushes 75 on the Wilbur Cross and is a very aggressive driver, managing to swerve in and out of traffic, even during the heavy jams we occasionally run into on route 84.
 
Though I have to admit, the way she drives? Also a big turn-on...ahem, I should say pro. Yeah, I keep trying to convince myself that I should up and give up, renaming the list 'turn-offs and turn-ons', but if someone happens to glance and see Pro and Con on top instead they'll be less likely to read it if it does get in the wrong hands.
 
Speaking of hands, I think I'm going to run mine through Paris' hair right about now. She looks like she wants to bite Mr. Mercurio's head off, and I don't blame her because once again, this class is boring! Her shoulders are all hunched up and from behind, it looks like she has this imaginary weight stressing her upper body. I remember what happened when I calmed her down before the date with Jamie and hope that this works too. Thank goodness the boy in back of me is too much of a Russian geek to care about what I'd do with the girl in front of me, he's freakishly into bad Russian fic and keeps raising his hand and butting in with these facts that no one gives a damn about, it's like going to class with a Trekkie!
 
Wait, that would be an insult to Luke, oops. How about Battlestar Gallactica? Yeah, few fans supporting that fandom, I feel better now.
 
At first, I comb through her hair with my fingers, then when I notice no one's attention drawn towards me, I part the middle so I can rub right near the back of her neck, noticing the thin gold chain that her Tiffany & Co. Star of David necklace consists of. I've never seen it up close (she usually keeps it concealed beneath her shirt because of her conservative dress), but she told me that Sunday morning it was a gift from her father for her bat mitzvah, and that it had a beautiful brilliant blue topaz stone in the middle pentagon that denoted her birth month of December, and said it was in the same blue shade of my eyes. When she told me that I thought I heard her voice try to flirt, honestly. Hearing her repeat that in my mind sends shudders up my spine as I play with the chain and a couple of my fingers rub against the sensitive skin beneath her hairline.
 
She starts to ease up a little and relaxes her shoulders as I go along, and then I feel a piece of paper jab against my knee. She passes me a note, and I wonder what it says. I sneak it slowly against my body until it's high enough to hide behind my War and Peace copy, and I open it up.
 
Paris isn't blunt about her disappointment with this class, and when she compares it with having oral sex with Boris Yeltsin you can't help but laugh. In her own little way she makes it clear she hates the class but loves my 'stress relief', so I'm very pleased.
 
I hear her unsnap the end of her pencil, which means she wants me to respond. I scribble down a joke about getting drunk on that Russian favorite, vodka, and on a whim I decide to include a little flirtatious overture in the postscript. Surely she's getting my hints as I make them more obvious, and as I pass the note back wrapped around a sharpened pencil, I make sure that I brush her fingertips and linger the touch longer than needed, very obvious to just her.
 
I can't see her reaction to the 'pleasure' I added on towards the end, but I can feel it. Her pulse is apparent, and I can feel it race oh so slightly, along with a sharp intake of breath that's unnoticed to anyone else but me. Seems like everything is slowly going according to the plan I'm making up as I go along.
 
"Miss Gellar, can you read from page 337 all the way to page 353 for the class please, you seem engrossed in this story so much."
 
Damn it Mr. Mercurio, why did you have to call on Paris, she's all tensed up again and I have to back off my little mini-massage! Everyone looks towards her, and I pull my hand back so I'm just touching her hair as she starts reading in a voice that suggests she'd much rather be reading something of substance, say a Hot Topic catalog. I frown on the outside, but turn to the back of my notebook and write she loves a good back rub under the ever-growing pro column.
 
I'm still nervous what everyone's reaction to my news would be, and still a little bit unsure of exposing my crush on Paris to her. But it seems that with her candid answer about her breasts when she apologized and the shedding of the jacket, I might have more than a kindred spirit, as I told her on Sunday, she might really be my soulmate and feel the exact same way I do. She is letting me touch her in class without trying to shrug it off, isn't she? That's a good sign.
 
She's reading, and right now I'm curling a couple of strands of her hair around my index finger, retaining just enough of the words she's saying that I'll get out of here unscathed and my love of books won't be warped from reading this crap. I should be soaking it up like a sponge, but instead I'm sitting in this hard wooden desk chair trying to keep the fragrance of her hair out of my mind, and keeping my fingers relatively in control so they don't end up south of her neck. There's so much spinning around in my mind, and the only thing that makes sense is that she's a wonderful person to sleep in the same bed with, our fights pump so much blood around my body where it shouldn't be, and doing more things with Dean to try to dampen these feelings I have for her has lost its intended effect, since I'm now imagining her lips on mine instead of Dean's.
 
I know one thing though; I'll break up with Dean before I do anything with Paris, because I'm certainly not keen on cheating on him, I'm sure she wouldn't take well to being a side project as Dean and I stayed together.
 
Although there's never been anything said about fantasizing about a girl while you're still with the boy, so I'll try to keep those thoughts on a speedy boil. Hmm, there was that one I had last night where we were at the point of the Mary Stone crack again, I wonder what I could do with that if instead of stomping out, I shoved her on that big and spacious conference room table and let her know that the 'chastity electric fence' system I wore failed on girls, when it came to her I wanted to do much more than heavy petting, and that I lied about not wanting to fuck her back to fifth period that Friday?
 
Yeah, I can work with that, and best of all as long as I keep my eyes on the book and occasionally change the page, Mr. Mercurio won't notice a thing. That's the great thing about having a very high IQ and a fast WPM figure (and lusting for the same); you already know how to get yourself off without arousing the attention of anyone, not even the girl in front of you. I better get started then; Paris is down to fourteen pages and she reads a page every twenty-five seconds, not a lot of time to get the friction going down there...

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To be continued...

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Five | Shirts, Skin, & Two Left Feet
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, Paris POV
Inspired by: Past season two and early season three subtext, as I've said before. This chapter takes place between Eight O'Clock at the Oasis and They Shoot Gilmores, Don't They? with the timeline between episodes compressed for dramatic effect. A couple things to point out;
 
·Take the Deviled Eggs never took place in TomatoWorld since Jess isn't involved romantically in Rory's life and is actually fine when it comes to his education (Shane's been helping him out), and we'll assume that Sherrie worked herself way too ragged a couple days after that whole Halloween party I mentioned in the last double chapters, and was ordered by her doctor to have 24/7 bedrest until she gives birth to Georgia in February and to stay away from work (I promise this will be explained by Rory in chapter six). That means no baby shower, no Rory and Lorelai going to Boston, and no hard-boiled eggs being thrown at Jess' car.
 
·I don't hate Dean, so don't take this as my personal attack on him and his character. This is just fanfic, I'm just not a fan of the whole Rory/Dean dynamic and I mean no harm at all (He's better with Lorelai IMO). Remember, this is Paris talking about Dean; she has a low opinion of him in general and this is the way I think she'd express it.
 
Rating: R (swearing, naughty femslash thoughts, self-pleasuring with a sexual fantasy)
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my show, they belong to Amy Sherman Palladino, Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions, Hofflund-Polone and Warner Bros. Television. If they were mine, Dean would buy a clue and leave Stars Hollow in shame for cheating on Lindsay, and Rory would've chased Paris, settled things with Jess and kept him as a good friend before she tried to pull Paris off her flight to London this week, telling Paris she was indeed her type and to dump Asher. Fireworks would light up the sky over Hartford; they'd look into their eyes, and kiss in a way that would put the Friends closure of Ross/Rachel to shame ;).
Summary: The gears of progress between Rory and Paris start to turn in unexpected and surprising ways as Paris remembers the last week as she prepares for one of the most important days of her young life.
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Author's Notes: I never expected to enjoy writing a story so much, but honestly, I can't wait until I get to open up Word everyday, be it at home or work (don't tell my boss ;) ) and start working magic with Rory and Paris because I'm having a blast, and getting to know so many new people, I feel so heartened by all the feedback being given to me. Whenever I find myself in a bind, someone gives me an idea or a brainstorm and I just love running with it, so if you're afraid to review or give me advice, don't be. I will listen and consider your idea with all the fervor of the others I've received.
 
Raven and Cinn, thanks again for the awesome betaing, and the advice for the tail-end of the chapter, sometimes a guy just needs a little help, and you two delivered again. I also have two new people to thank, Christina for the wonderful conversations about femslash and music, and Vixen for our fun, hilarious and hot conversations about Rory/Paris, and Liza in general, I'm so glad you loved that little sneak peek I gave you earlier, and thanks for the future ideas!
 
Also to all my reviewers and everyone on GGSlash, you're wonderful and write such great stuff. I'm glad to be in such close company, Rox's story is awesome, and I'm begging for more from all the other authors. Finally, thanks to Carlos for the Portuguese dialogue help.
 
FF.net readers; warning #6 that this is femslash. Turn back now if you're not a slash fan, but I hope by now you're a loyal reader of this after four chapters, and gotten over your fears about f/f fic. See, it's not as scary as you might think; you just have to find the right story to get into it all :).

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There are a lot of things I loved about Tristan DuGrey before I became fixated on Rory as more than my rival or in the sense of a best friend; unfortunately most of them were stuck in the realm of fantasy. Those blue bedroom eyes, that hair, the way he looked shirtless, and his chivalry, those were the trademarks of my little schoolgirl crush on him, I would have done anything to be his.
 
But even before he cracked the safe, I knew that the possibilities of a sexual relationship with him were, using a soccer term, slim to nil, since he barely acknowledged I was a female at all. I'd take the advice of Madeline and Louise in freshman year and slightly try to slut myself up whenever he was around, but to no avail. My ideas of flirting were far from his, he'd be surrounded by his fanclub whenever I tried to attempt it, and when I tried to pull a Phoebe Cates in Fast Times strategy (sans taking off my top) one summer day at the country club's pool, he didn't get the hint I was trying to hammer home, that is 'Look at my breasts in this wet bikini as I rise out of this pool Tristan! It might be degrading to feminists but I'm willing to try anything to get your eyes on me!'. Guess he isn't a breast man in retrospect, figures I'd crush on the only boy in the entire school who doesn't fixate on them.
 
As for the date Rory set me up on with him? Looking back, it was definitely obligation. I'd try to flirt and tell him he looked handsome, and he'd come back and say that I was 'fine', and not in that stretched-out 'street' way that Nelly, the rapper from St. Louis does either (What? I have to keep abreast on pop culture, so I soak in all types of music, doesn't mean I have to like it).
 
Dinner was eerily quiet, and I played with the cuffs of the borrowed shirt from Lorelai's closet as he droned on and on about Summer and how he wanted her back, when it was so damn clear that he could've easily replaced that bitch's name with a certain 5'7" resident of Stars Hollow with long brunette hair, sparkling blue eyes and a well-evolved wit that I still envy to a point to this day. During the movie he didn't even stretch his arm across my shoulders, but considering the film had about 1/10 of a love story and 9/10 mindless violence, I wasn't expecting that armrest between us to go up and for him to slide a hand up my skirt.
 
The last confirmation came during the kiss goodnight. I did enjoy it, but when I look back, it seems so pedestrian and dull. Yes, his tongue ended up in my mouth, but only touched the tip of mine for slight seconds before he drew back and said goodnight, leaving me to walk the steps back up to the front door of the Manor alone. No knees turning to jelly, no memorizing the fragrance of his shirt, nor did I head back up to my room and strip down to nothing wanting to finger myself silly just because of the whole date. There was nothing there, no attraction, just a puppy-love crush that was confirmed the next day when Tristan revealed all and I went off on Rory for no reason but to numb the pain, I certainly never meant to scream 'I hate you!' at her as I rushed out of the classroom.
 
God, that was two years ago, but I might at well be forty years old looking back on young love, because Tristan is as far from my thoughts as possible, except when I compare this last whirlwind week around Rory to those nine years with DuGrey.
 
I swear that girl is coming on to me, but I'm just too stubborn to confirm it, because I'm fearful I'm misreading her signals.
 
So why am I sitting here in front of my little-used vanity on a very early Saturday morning, recalling the week in Rory and trying to mix and match makeup shades as I look myself over in the mirror, while trying to find that 'perfect dress' somewhere in my closet that will meet her approval?
 
I suppose though, it might be better to start off by relaying what happened earlier in the week, Tuesday morning to be exact.
 
It was an unseasonably warm November day outside, and though when I woke up it was dark, by the time I had finished my meditations, along with some leftover homework at 6:30am, my window was filtering in bright sunlight. I was really looking forward to this day because there were tough quizzes in Life Sciences, AP Honors Calculus, and Advanced Economics. Days like these psyched me up, and as I walked into my private bathroom, turned on my shower and disrobed, I was excited. There was also a special playoff edition of the Franklin to put out that day since the football Blue Demons had made it into the regional semifinals, so we were charging a high rate for each ad and all the students would want a copy, special events like that make being into journalism a special thing for me.
 
I was so into academics and publishing that morning, in fact, that I completely forgot about Rory. She had done her little 'flirting' on Monday, and was happy to see me, but was a little low-key since it was Monday. Even we academic types dread the end of the weekend sometimes. So I was blissfully out of my Rory funk for just a bit, and resumed my morning routine relatively unconcerned with the welfare of the girl I liked.
 
Francisca carted in my breakfast into the bedroom as usual (the less I see Sharon the better, so I never eat with her in the breakfast nook), and I came out of the shower in my robe and ate my cereal and English muffin as Fran and I had a conversation in Portuguese about one of her children, apparently her daughter Caterina had been proposed marriage in Lisbon by her boyfriend Saturday evening, and accepted. I was so happy for her and told her I was crossing my fingers she was going to have grandchildren from Cat. We finished speaking as I sipped the last of my orange juice.
 
I took a look at the clock, which read 7:10, meaning I was six minutes behind in my routine when I finished. Usually by that time I'd be in my uniform and sorting the books and papers from my desk and into my messenger bag by subject. I wasn't even dressed though, nude beneath my robe, so I was painfully behind in my opinion. I took off the robe and hung it off the bedpost, and walked over to my dresser to take out my lingerie and socks...

And then my cell started to ring! Sitting on the desk all the way across the room from where I was, and with the robe in-between, I was stuck in a rock and a hard place. I never had phone calls that early in the morning, so I had to assume that it might be Daddy having some kind of emergency since I kept my number from Sharon intentionally. I wasn't going to let it fall into voicemail, so I ran for dear life trying to catch the call, naked and embarrassed by my loss of the track of time.
 
When I finally arrived after feeling like I was auditioning for a slot on the Baywatch cast I read the screen and cursed inwardly. Damn it, I thought to myself as I saw that familiar number, followed by 'Gilmore, L R' scroll across the color screen. I don't remember her forgetting anything before she left school the day before, so I didn't know why she was calling me before school. I picked up the call, ignoring my nude state as I began the conversation.
 
"Hello?"
 
"Par, I need a favor." She asked, sort of in a panic.
 
"You want me to pick you up?" I responded, assuming she needed a ride in and missed her bus.
 
"Actually, I'm fine, as a matter of fact I just got off the bus at Auer Farm and I'm walking towards the Manor."
 
I asked her why she'd get off the bus about three miles away from the school and close to my house, and told me that she was house-sitting for a new guy in her town, going into quick detail about Dwight and his stupid clock that chimes off a novelty hit from the 70s changed to fit each hour.
 
"....So I was leaving his house and watering his plants when his stupid sprinkler system starts going haywire," she complains, "and I'm caught in the middle, unable to turn it off since the idiot didn't leave me instructions on where the shut-off valve was. I was basically stuck and thank goodness Jess walked by, otherwise I'd have been completely soaked, and he found the valve for me. Who needs to water plants that much, its ridiculous--"
 
I interrupted her and asked what the favor was as I tried my damndest to get into my panties and socks with one hand.
 
"I need to borrow an extra Chilton blouse from you, mine is completely soaked and I'm shivering, my hair is drenched and I wouldn't normally ask since I have ten or twelve blouses in my closet, but today's laundry day and Lorelai has everything we wear down at the Inn, I'm down to the clothes on my back and desperate Par!"
 
I laughed and felt sorry for her...sort of. "You mean Jess or Dean didn't have a spare shirt?"
 
"This is no time to wallow in my pain," Rory nagged at me. "Please let me borrow one, I know you're a little...bigger than me but it's an emergency and I'm sure if the dress code police believe my story they'll let it go for a day, I promise it'll be returned in good condition."
 
"Alright, fine," I said, no questions asked. "How far are you from the house?"
 
"About 300 feet, I should be at the front door in a bit."
 
"OK," I said, and I then let her know that Fran would let her right in and that she could come in my room, no questions asked. She thanked me and told me that she owed me a big favor one of these days, and I ended the call, ready to get back on routine from the interruption after I Nextel'ed Francisca and let her know to open the door for Rory.

Then I remembered as I snapped my skirt closed and started putting on my bra, the keywords from Rory's short little conversation moments before.
 
Wet...soaked...shivering...desperate...Rory...
 
"Oh fuck!" I mumbled to myself, my breath catching as my imagination brought through an image of Rory wearing a uniform completely soaked through and sheer, the outline of her bra and what was contained within all but clear through her oxford shirt, and her hair damp with wetness looking all cute and irresistible to me. I shook my head and closed my eyes, trying to take the image out of my mind. "She just needs a shirt, this isn't an attempt on her part to seduce me," I convinced myself futilely as I tried to focus on something else. "A shirt, that's all it is, my shirt on her body--"
 
Where I was in a panic moments before, I then realized the golden opportunity being presented on a silver platter to me for the day. Rory would be wearing my blouse, with her fragrance, her essence, and her body heat leeching onto the fabric right in front of me, without a care in the world! At the same time, I could virtually have my arms wrapped around her in such a unique and erotic way, and she'd be none the wiser. She would smell me through the entire day and not realize that when I took it back, the plans I had for that uniform blouse.
 
My mind flashed forward to a future bedtime, where instead of changing into my pajamas like usual, I'd take off all my clothes and wrap myself in that blouse, my nose aware of her scent as I slid a hand across my thighs and towards my mound, running a fingertip against my hypersensitive clit as I recalled each and every detail of that day, my love wearing something I had worn many times before and just maybe, taking my smell in her memory and thinking seriously about breaching the line drawn between friends and lovers.
 
Just the very thought of that was getting me wet, and I was seriously contemplating locking that door and telling Fran to entertain Rory for the next ten minutes so I could bask in those thoughts. There was this seriously giddy smile on my face and as I got a relatively clean shirt out from my laundry hamper (just enough fabric softener fragrance yet to hide my scent to everyone, but keep it in the forefront of Rory's nose) my love for her was once again renewed. She could've just been threw her wet shirt in the dryer at home and ended up slightly late for school, or tried to get away with a non-standard uniform shirt. But she thought of me first, she asked me for a shirt! I put on my own shirt and started buttoning it, when I saw the doorknob turn across the room.
 
I quickly got back into conservative and unexcited mode as she walked into the room, and though it somehow lasted on the outside, the moment she shut the door, smiled at me and wished me a good morning, I was internally thanking whatever higher power told that Dwight guy to fuck leaving Rory the sprinkler directions.
 
She wasn't as soaked through as she was in my imagination, but she still looked very hot. Rory's hair was flat on her head and still slick, and her face was flushed red, her teeth chattering and showing off the very obvious sign that her jacket had acted as more of a seal of the freezing temperature of the water than heating her up. Everything on her person was soaked, and the only thing I could think at that moment is I needed to play her own personal heroine since I already was giving her the shirt off my back.
 
I used the intercom down to the kitchen and asked for them to bring Rory up a cup of coffee, and though she was iffy about it at first (she thought for some reason that she invaded my space), I smiled and told her it wasn't a problem, telling her to take a blanket off my bed to warm herself off.
 
"Thanks," she said as she took off her jacket and set it off to the side, wrapping herself in the afghan.
 
"It's no problem, why don't you just leave everything here to dry, I'll send it down to the laundry with Fran and we'll stop by on the way home to pick up your dry clothes." She seemed to appreciate it, and I thought I was pretty much out of the woods once the cup of coffee got upstairs and she started sipping the warm dark liquid slowly. I was dressed, and I thought she only had to change her shirt, so we could probably make it to campus just a few minutes before first bell. This is one time where 7:35 wasn't when I'd first walk in the halls, but as long as I maintained perfect attendance I didn't care when I got in that day, because I wanted to spend a little unfrenzied time with Rory.
 
She put down the coffee on the nightstand and I handed her the shirt, expecting her to change in my bathroom due to her shy nature. Once again however, she surprised me, undressing in my room as I put on my saddle shoes. I paid no attention and didn't mind it since she'd probably put my shirt right on.
 
I turned around and asked her to grab her backpack so we could head to the garage, when she sat down on my bed, holding my shirt in one hand and throwing her blouse down to the floor.
 
"Paris," she asked kindly with a slight hint of come-hither in her voice, "Would you mind warming me up? The blanket didn't heat my skin all that much and this hair," she pointed at her soaked locks as I turned around, "Will give me a case of brain freeze if it isn't taken care of."
 
I couldn't believe what I just heard from her. There Rory was, the girl who usually stuck to long sleeves and covering herself to keep Dean's hormones in control, on my bed still wearing her Chilton skirt, but on top, a thin white tank of an undershirt that was even tighter against her ample bust than the gym shirt during the field hockey game. I walked closer to her and sat down on the bed.
 
Sitting next to her, it was apparent that she was going braless to school that day. The outline of her nipples was perfectly apparent through her undershirt, and it was still a little damp, soaked by the blouse. She'd have to live with it however, it was 7:25 and we were running out of commuting time, not enough time to bring it downstairs.
 
Rory noticed my stare, and didn't flinch as she excused her unsupported state.
 
"Like I said, laundry day." Her words sounded like come-ons to my ears, and she laughed as I soaked in her hidden beauty. "Thank goodness my underwear didn't get soaked, could you imagine me without them?"
 
"Uhh, not really," I say half-heartedly as I try to take my eyes off the slight bit of cleavage being exposed beneath the shirt, and well...any allusions that she would ever have nothing but air under her skirt. Unfortunately, my idea of distraction was to look at her arms. Her arms, with cute little freckles stretching from her wrists all the way to her shoulder blades. Until then I never really paid attention to the fact she had all these sexy little spots all over her upper body since she was usually covered up by the oxford shirt, but I became fixated on them, and though I tried to keep my gaze neutral, she seemed to get clued into the movements of my pupils, passing on the fact that she was receiving the signals herself.
 
She reached over to the nightstand and took hold of my antique hairbrush and handed it to me, trying to prod me to speak. Thankfully whatever was in my throat cleared and I was able to concentrate on something else.
 
"You want me to brush your hair?" I asked, picking some lint off my sweater.
 
She nodded her head. "I just don't want to soak your shirt from my wet head."
 
"Alright." That was a perfectly good reason to brush her hair, right? I got my hair dryer out of the nightstand drawer and plugged it in, and started drying her long brown hair as I ran the brush, passed down through multiple generations of my paternal side, through her hair. The strands slid right through the stiff bristles like silk, and I heard her sigh happily after several brush strokes, she seemed to find it to be something that was warming her up. I made a little small talk about the tests as I moved on to her front, my fingers seeming to somehow transmit erotic feelings through her skull and into her mind each time they touched the top of her skull. Her breathing seemed to become shallow and short, and her state of semi-undress was causing me to notice things about her that I never had before, even during the shower.
 
The long, slender and classical column of her neck, also filled with spotty freckles and skin marks, so many I could probably make a whole day just by trying to count them in my mind. I glanced down as I brushed the top of her head and noted that each of her arms were goosebumping. That little denial part of me tried to attribute it to Dwight's sprinklers, but I couldn't lie to myself. Something was in the air, and I tried to keep myself in control as best I could.
 
I moved the brush strokes down her back, parting the hair into three sections so that her hair didn't tangle in the bristles. I decide to stay within her mandate of warming her up, so to thank her for the neck-rubs she's been giving me in the Russian class I asked her if I could bring her shirt down a little so I could brush not only her hair, but bring the bristles in enough so that she can feel them up against her upper back. Rory didn't even shrug or argue, and helped me out, and I tried to breathe as I realized I'm looking at almost her entire backside nude and in almost relatively complete privacy.
 
I brushed each part individually, and with my free hand scratched her back on the exact other side so that she had the feeling that both of my hands are on her back. I loved doing this, and though every part of my sexual being was on a high alert, it was thankfully numbed by the easy-going conversation that we had, it was almost as if we were betrothed already. Not everything in our worlds revolved around sex, this seemed to be just as if we were both winding down our days, and Rory had asked 'Scratch my back honey'.
 
Everything about her is so graceful, yet sexy, even on her back where she can't see anything with her own eyes without a mirror. When I reached the middle, I traced the outline of her spine with my fingertip, going in a zigzag pattern as I winded slowly around each of the vertebrae that were apparent and exposed through her milky white skin, like a maze that's solved only when you get to the bottom, literally. When I knew she wasn't looking, I licked my lips and hesitated; if only she knew what she was doing to me by asking me to brush her hair, and silently consented to me scratching her back.
 
I thought she sensed every little touch I was making; her posture was straight and when I'd bring a brush stroke down towards the small of her back, she had no objections. If there was all the time in the world that morning, she may have taken off her undershirt and let me go lower than where her bra line was.
 
Sadly, there wasn't, and I knew it. I spent five minutes brushing her hair and scratching her back, and before I could fathom that much time had passed, the little alarm I set on my cell that signified the least amount of time possible to commute between the Manor and Chilton had chimed. It was 7:40, and that meant I had twenty minutes to drive from here on the northeast side of town, to the south side of the metro area.
 
It stung to lose such intimate contact with Rory, but she was as stubborn as I am about tardiness, so I let her go and she thanked me for the great job I did brushing and drying her hair. We both smiled at each other, and she slipped on the blouse I lent her as we walked out of my room and down the stairs. It was strange because I expected after the chiming for things to be awkward. Instead, our bond seemed to become stronger, and as I drove out of the garage with her in the front seat, we fell right back into academic talk, with a little soap opera gossip here and there (which I love since I wouldn't admit watching them to anyone else).

Rory and I arrived at school with just five minutes to spare and had to race to the other end of the building after stopping off at our lockers in order to be in our seats when the bell rang. We made it just barely, both of us almost tripping over the threshold of the Advanced Economics classroom as the last seconds before eight ticked down and planted each of our asses in our individual seats.
 
I have to say honestly, I would've taken the tardy, and though I can't speak for Rory, I'm sure she might have too. That morning was probably one of the most exhilarating ways to wake up I've ever experienced, and though not much was revealed in an actual conversation, the body language between both of us suggested that since the unexpected sleepover, we've made progress. Before then she may have been scared too shitless to call me and ask to borrow my blouse, but there's no doubt in my mind that she never even considered Madeline, who's closer to her on the route to Chilton, or Louise, probably because she would have initiated an extreme makeover on Rory besides the blouse (Sorry Louise, whore eyeshadow and blush absolutely do not work with Rory's skin tone!). She came right to me, and there were no arguments.
 
She may have asked me to warm her up that morning, but when she called me, I hate to be sappy and all Hallmarkish here, but she warmed my heart. And damn it, she did look adorable in my shirt too. She was right about it being a little big, but she was able to hide most of it under a spare sweater she kept in her locker so she stayed within dress code. Thankfully I got to see her in just the shirt, untucked as we drove to school, and she looked so lovable. Too bad the weather was cooling down and Rory would know how to control Dwight's sprinklers after that, because her running into my room in a panic probably would only happen that day.
 
The jitters that I thought would build up, having Rory in the same room and taking that test subsided since the pressure seemed to release, and the actual school day was about as exciting as usual. I sat down, I learned, took notes and raised my hand when I knew the answer and was confident that I'd score my usual A+ grades on the usual tests.
 
OK, so I daydreamed about Rory whenever I didn't have a class with her. But I kept it clean, I promise.
 
One thing I can't figure out; where was she during lunch that day? I sat down and expected her to sit next to me, but she never ate that day. I asked her when we met at our lockers after lunch and said she had to study in the library, but I didn't see her carrying any books as she approached the locker. One of her ankle socks was drooped down, her face did seem a little flush and some of her hair was in front of her face, not to mention I warned her to tuck her blouse back into her skirt since one of the tails was exposed...
 
Oh God, I guess that explains why I could really smell her scent on my blouse after I got it back! I guess sometimes, I'm not the smartest girl in the state, for the love of Eleanor Roosevelt, why didn't I think of that?!
 
Uh, getting back to Tuesday, the rest of the day was pretty dull, though the tests were very challenging, much more than I thought. I breezed most of them by the end of the day though, and the work on the special Franklin went by with nary a hitch. We didn't have anything to do with government that day, so I didn't have to look at Francie and her army of darkness trying to push through things. I have to admit though; I'm a little suspicious that Rory's taking her side with issues, pushing me to bring them through. However I should note she's been talking about Machiavelli on our drives home, so I have just have this little feeling that Rory is still on my side, but has something in store for Fran later on. I'll ask her one of these days, for now however the issues being passed through aren't all that important and could easily be nullified by the student body president next year.
 
On the way back to Stars Hollow after we picked up her clothes at the Manor, I expected Rory to change back into her newly washed shirt. She must really love the individually heating system on her seat though, because she took off my blouse after we left and didn't change into hers, causing me to have an even wider blind spot than usual! The artificial scent of her perfume had disappeared; replaced by what I could say would be a preview of our individual aromas being mixed together. My plan for her to wear my shirt worked better than planned, and though I didn't hold the darned thing to my nose when she was in my car, I took a secretive sniff of it as she threw it into the backseat.
 
That drive home though was probably the worst I ever had, at least when it came to distractions and traffic conditions. Rory lay back in her seat reading a book with just that undershirt and her skirt on, and everything about her position was very distracting. I tried to make small talk with her in order to keep my mind on her voice and my eyes on the road, but nothing was helping. Traffic seemed to be cursed that afternoon too, as I found myself out of the way of the Hollow on route 691 instead of the Wilbur Cross Parkway because of a jackknifed semi that closed the interchange for 91 and the Cross. That added on even more time to the usual commute south, along with a couple traffic bottlenecks near the Cheshire exit.
 
Being stubborn, I kept my eyes on the road, my hands at ten and two, and my thoughts on the shortest route to the Hollow off 691. My libido however kept requesting my eyes centered on Rory's chest, my right hand against that space between her inner thighs, and thoughts of becoming a sudden public exhibitionist in the middle of rush hour with the girl I had such a hard and insatiable crush on filled my brain. She sighed and pouted through the entire quagmire, and once we hit a dead stop two miles from the Route 70 exit, I finally decided to hell with being patient, I had to take advantage of the opportunity being offered.
 
I turned towards Rory, and engaged her in dialogue about the traffic. "Think this stuff is ever going to break up?" I asked, and she put down her volume, heaving out an annoyed breath.
 
"I was supposed to be at Luke's by quarter after five, at this rate Jess will have inherited the diner since his uncle's gone to the great greasy spoon in the sky," she responded, kind of angry about this all. "It's not turning out to be my day, isn't it?"

I told her there was always a new day and Wednesday was bound to be better. Then she did that cute pout she's seemed to perfect down to a science and tried to ask me something.
 
"Why do you insist on taking me home every night, it adds on at least fifty minutes of commuting time for you, and we always seem to get in a traffic jam no matter what. I could be taking the bus and saving you fuel instead." Rory really was starting to think she was a burden, and I had to assure her that it was far from the case.
 
That, and the hem of her undershirt had untucked from her skirt, exposing skin at her waist that was causing my mouth to water, any distraction from that was welcome. I set my hand on her thigh and tried to make it as asexual as possible in a reassuring manner.
 
"You're not a hassle Ror, it came with being vice president that I have to bring you home, and if that takes a little extra in the gas tank, what's the problem, my mother pays for it anyways." I smiled at her and intentionally shook my hand on her thigh to keep her calmed down, and maybe send a few mixed messages to her. "Besides, you're way too good for the bus now, have you ever heard of any public official actually taking one to work? Never, and that's why public bus systems struggle to make ends meet, there has never been a politician who would be caught dead on one."
 
I noticed Rory start to shudder as my hand rested on her leg, along with some shallow breathing. I moved my hand around a little more to reassure her, getting a feel for the soft skin beneath my palm. The hem of the skirt was mere millimeters below the tips of my fingernails. Better than I thought, she's wound up, I thought to myself, internally triumphant.
 
"So...uh, you really don't mind?" Words were coming to Rory's brain a little slower than usual, and I noted to myself to never touch her when we were debating together again since it really threw off her concentration. "Because I could always ask Gypsy if I can buy a used car on a loan from the bank so you didn't have to--"
 
"I made a promise to you, and there's no way I'm breaking it, I will give you rides home all school year as long as it's a Franklin or student government day. Hell, maybe one day I'll even let you drive my car home, I trust you Ror." I smiled before I put my exclamation point on the whole talk. "I admit, it's a lot less lonely on the way home with you as a passenger, it's as if the school day is extended another 35 minutes when you plant your ass in that seat."
 
My hand drifted up just slightly above Rory's skirt hemline beneath, and though it was just mid-thigh, I was being a little cavalier. My eyes shifted up and down between her breasts, hidden in the tank top except for the very apparent and excited nubs of her nipples puckered against the rough cotton, and her face, pupils widened to their limit and her biting down on her lower lip. I then made an effort to cap the conversation as a couple of my fingernails scratched her skin, smooth as satin. "Honestly Ror, don't ever hesitate about this whole situation, I'm actually happy to be your ride home. I'll even open it up from the meeting-day only requirement, if you ever need a ride somewhere and I'm not busy with so-and-so from Harvard admissions, call me, I'll be there for you always, no matter what."
 
Those were perfectly spoken words, if I say so myself. Hidden in that overture of unlimited rides was a promise that she had infinite access to me, even late at night or at the oddest times of day. She seemed appreciative of the gesture, and thanked me for the offer, making an unneeded pledge that she wouldn't abuse the privilege I had just given her.
 
"No need for thanks, as long as you're here I treasure your friendship." Another inch up I moved my hand, and I was able to keep it on Rory's left thigh another couple minutes before the traffic jam cleared up and I had to bring the right hand back to two o'clock on the steering wheel. I made sure however, to ease the touch, letting my fingers drift down her left leg until the only part I was touching was her knee with my fingertips, and I finally pulled it back up. The drive seemed to ease up after that, but not her emotions. She put her own hand on her left thigh after that, and in the corner of my eye as I drove on the two-lane down to the Hollow I saw her face was flush and her skin was glistening from sweat, she had turned her side of the climate control system down to 66° and slightly opened her window. Despite the rapidly cooling 54° temperature reading on the outdoor thermometer, I didn't feel any rush of heat myself from my veiled attempt at flirting.
 
When I pulled into the Gilmore driveway, it almost seemed like she didn't want to get out of the car. Rory was looking down at her book, the page she was on unturned for at least fifteen minutes, and I had to shake her shoulder in order to make her realize she was at home. She came to, and almost seemed to want to ask me for an impromptu Tuesday night sleepover. She unbuckled her safety belt, and I handed her clothes and bookbag from the back.
 
"See you tomorrow Par," she said with what seemed to be a voice that was telling me she didn't want me to go quite yet. So I had to Band-Aid the shock with a little humor.
 
"Hopefully you'll be in school in a uniform that's a little drier than this morning, right?"
 
Her mood shifted, and she was back to the usually quippy and hilarious girl I knew well. "I'll wear a raincoat to Dwight's tomorrow morning, I promise!" She laughed, I laughed, and we both said our official goodbyes for the day, with me leaving the town with all five senses spinning into overdrive, and hopefully, God willing, my touch far and foremost front and center in her mind.
 
After re-navigating the traffic jam, and taking so many detours away from the expressway I didn't know the name of the road I was on from the next, I finally arrived back at the Manor around 6:45pm, very behind for a Tuesday night. I did my homework in thirty minutes, and for once not changing out of my uniform, sat down at the dining room table and had yet another 'exciting' dinner with my mother, along with twelve other members of some service organization probably just existing to give Sharon and all the other members of the group a quick and dirty deduction on the ol' 1040 form. Six of the ladies had their daughters along, and I sat there picking at Francisca's meatloaf, counting down the moments until I could get upstairs to my bedroom. The girls blathered ad nauseum about the attributes of the newest piece of cinematic beefcake that had his premiere on the silver screen, while the older ladies and Mother made 'plans' for some social calendar event that was pretty much interchangeable with every other event on the social calendar seeing as it featured the words 'black tie gala' within the title. Trust me, there's so much loosening of black ties at those places in certain unmonitored places, and unless you count the endless liquor cache, the event is far from a gala. What I wouldn't have given for Rory to text message me for some math help, but I knew it was probably a longshot.
 
That, and I was already wound up enough from the entire day, did I really need her voice in my ears again causing even more impure thoughts on my side? By about eight when I finished my dessert course, I had my legs very tightly crossed since every time I opened them, I felt a rush of cold, shocking air against my inner thighs, spurred on from the soaked panties I was wearing since I was thinking ahead to the scene that would ensue in my bedroom later.
 
Finally, my mother's friends finished and their daughters were whining to get home, so I could get out of that stifling dining room. I got up and pushed in my chair, eager to make a quick escape from the situation, when Martha Beardsley stopped me. The lady was a childhood friend of Sharon's and both of them seemed to have a keen interest in trying to push me and Mrs. Beardsley's seventeen year-old son Vance II together.
 
"Hold on Paris," she told me in that high-pitched richie voice that I swore to God I would avoid emulating at all costs later in life, "Vance has wanted to know if you'd accompany him to the Foundation for Historic Preservation of Connecticut's Antiquities Turkey Trot Dance in a couple of weeks, he seems really interested in you dear. What should I tell him?"
 
Yeah, he's interested in me alright, I monolouged silently, in my mouth to get his sad little cock off and my tits so he has something to paw on. Vance was a sad, sad emulation of a Hartfordian Society version of a lounge lizard, and Louise and I still laugh at Madeline's description of his tiny little dick back in a seventh grade party where she spent seven minutes in hell stuck in a closet with that boy. Sure, he didn't mind it when he got off, but don't you dare have pleasure yourself if you're in his presence.
 
So in my own succulent way, I told Mrs. Beardsley and her stupid son to fuck off. "I would go, but you see Mrs. Beardsley, I have something I'd like to call a life, you may have heard of it before. It's something where I live things out my own way, and not with your son, whose idea of high romance is to tell his date she has a nice set of breasts and ask if could he closely examine them, however, in a much cruder way than I've just expressed. My life therefore, is incompatible with Vance II, so you can just tell him he can go trot himself." I smiled as I left the room, Mrs. Beardsley trying to decide whether I was insulting her or trying to be complimentary. "Though I'm sure that won't be much of a change from his usual routine, tell Vance I'll see him in his dreams, and by those I mean the ones where he obeys everything I say in clipped and rough German. I'll see you around Mrs. Beardsley." I smiled to myself as I climbed the grand staircase to my bedroom, being able to use my vast knowledge of the English language to fuck around with stupid socialites and their inadequate and inbred offspring was a gift I'd always treasure from the instructors at Chilton. I'd also occasionally curse in Portuguese at that sad lot, and they thought I was speaking in gibberish, unaware that I had called them loose and used a very crude sexual term for a woman starting with the letter C in English.
 
With all that out of the way, I was finally free. I wished Francisca a good night and told her to let Sharon know not to bother me anymore that evening. I then walked into my room, locked the door, and took the shirt Rory wore out of my messenger bag, savoring the scent contained within.
 
It felt so odd being back in there without her nearby, because I could sense her presence everywhere around my bed. The end where we sat as I brushed her hair and massaged her back was a sharp contrast to the rest of the made bed, the places where we sat depressed and clear. I took the hairbrush off the nightstand table, and despite the single use by Rory, I could still place the honeydew scent of her shampoo mixed with sprinkler water that had greeted me when she walked in the door. Suffice to say there was quite a bit of pressure building up within me.
 
I slipped out of all of my clothes slowly, shaking with pleasure as my fingertips ran against my bare skin as I took off each article. I felt so tired and worn out, but in a good way since I had to hold off the urge to fuck myself for such a long time. I finished undressing down to everything except my underwear, and as I passed my vanity mirror on the way back from putting my school clothes in the hamper, I really looked at myself in the mirror for the first time in a carnal fashion.
 
A little shy, I slipped on the blouse Rory wore and covered up my breasts, but kept all except for the bottom three buttons open so I could have a little fun with myself in front of the mirror. I recalled the conversation in her bed a couple weeks back where she told me I was well blessed, and though with that confirmation, kept my mother's words about reducing my chest on the forefront. After all, it was just one girl who told me that, who else would be able to confirm something like that?
 
Madeline and Louise for one. They noticed my change of uniform from the jacket to the sweater, and though they knew I could carry myself in a formal gown, thought I was beyond reproach when it came to everyday dress. They both confirmed Rory's opinion, albeit a little more muted. What got my goat though was that even though I was luring Rory, I expected the occasional boy to comment on my newly-found curves beneath the uniform of Chilton blue.
 
I'm afraid poor little Brad's compliments don't really count, even if he was the only one to make a comment. To be fair though, he was in that usual timid mood he seemed to be around me, afraid to say the wrong thing.
 
Do you really need their approval? My mind questioned. Your friends agree, and damn it, Rory agrees too, and this is why you're trying to do all of this, it's all for her, to lure her in. If some guy says you look hot you're not going to do anything but thank him, did you forget already just how close you were to losing control in that car and sliding your hand in further?
 
"Oh God," I moaned, recalling that I almost did drift that hand high against Rory's inner thigh, and if that traffic jam hadn't cleared up, that things could've have taken the turn of revelation in a swift manner.
 
That day, I made so much headway when it came to touching; I think that I'm beyond reproach when it comes to admitting my feelings to Rory. I have to know if she feels the same way about me. But looking at myself in that mirror, with nothing but silence and corrupted thoughts in my ears, I was aching for release.
 
I started out with my breasts, rubbing the fabric of the blouse slowly against each of them, trying to make sure every piece of erect tissue within the two areolas was aroused to a level that caused me to groan out harshly as my hands brushed against them. I imagined Rory's small and delicate fingertips in place of mine, elegantly balancing the line between worship and outright carnality of my tits, recalling her looks at the swell of my bust over the last two weeks, and electrifying the sparks sent up my spine from her back rubs in order to get a sense of her touch there.
 
My gaze went from my own body to my mirror image, and I found myself being turned on looking over myself. My lower lip quivered as I became adventurous, pushing the shirt aside to expose a breast. In my mind, I brought over that image earlier of her biting her lip in the car, and pinched the nipple softly, thinking of how she would kiss and nip at them, her soft lips and tongue teasing them to the point of almost a true and solid state. I yelped and felt this mix of pleasure and pain which I hope to reproduce with better results with the actual test subject one day, I wanted much more.
 
I could feel Rory all over wearing that shirt, against my shoulders, all over my chest, and in my nostrils, her perfume permeating my senses. I also could feel her up against my lower section, and brought my eyes down towards the very apparent wet spot on my silk panties. I ran a hand down my midsection, watching in the mirror as the tip of my index fingernail traced its second maze of the day around my bellybutton. A fantasy was building up involving the events of the morning, and I wanted to keep it brewing just a bit longer before I walked over to the bed and basked in the sexual brainstorm.
 
My God, I had some fun in that mirror; doing everything I had dreamed of before the crush on Rory started heating up. I ran a finger against my wetness, feeling the skin beneath the cloth tingle with each touch of fingertip to satin to skin cell; my sex must have really been needy for attention all day. I ran another hand against the back of my neck, failing to replicate in full Rory's unique way of easing out all of that tension and pushing it from my neck and lower. I would moan her name recklessly and without abandon, creating new syllables for that combination of four letters out of thin air as I teased myself with her in my thoughts. I thought of her in her outfit that morning, only I took the skirt she still wore off and imagined her in matching white panties, and I still clothed, though taking the chaste idea of brushing her hair much further as I felt ready to wallow within my dream situation. I started walking towards the bed a little shaky...
 
I'm at the point where I'm brushing her hair, but instead of merely asking her to shrug down her undershirt, I ask her to take it off. Rory questions my motives at first, but I assure her they're completely innocuous. She complies, a little leery, but notice she's not complaining about my request.
 
I remember where her bra line would usually be, and start to brush her hair just slightly above it, trying not to arouse suspicion. Instead of scratching Rory's back however with my free hand, I bring it to the nape of her neck and start rubbing against each side of the bottom of it. I can slowly feel whatever skittishness she had before slowly ease out, so I decide to go a little further.
 
"You like that Rory?" I ask in the best seductive tone I can muster, though in my ears it sounds as if I'm auditioning for 'Red Shoe Diaries'.
 
"Yes, a little faster, on both counts." I can hear a smile in her voice, and hasten the movement of my thumb and forefingers against her neck. I dig into her hair a little closer to the plate of the brush, and my strokes become a little faster. My face moves closer in order to feel the warming body heat basking off of her, and I notice the sunlight of the room from the window is almost directly at us. Rory's shadow is apparent against the wall, and detailed, and since I can't make out her bare front from the point of view of behind her back, I have to make do with the shape of her shadow, the delicate rise and fall of her chest apparent in her dark form against the wall. The swell of her breasts formed into the perfect tip of a water droplet as it comes down, and I caught a breath as I realized my heated breath was apparent against her shoulder, and could be heard as very shallow and short.
 
I want to take it back as she catches on to my signals, her shoulders tightening on her frame. I feel embarrassed and want to shirk away from her.
 
Then her dream self gives me the all systems go, and I have to shake off the feeling I was hearing things as her words become apparent.
 
"Par," she tells me in a shy, yet assertive tone. "I think we could miss class just this once, don't you?" She then backs her neck towards my face, a very blatant move on her part. "Is there something you've been keeping from me?"
 
I gulp down some saliva, afraid to answer. "Not really, no."
 
"I notice the fine details Paris." Rory's confidence slowly was picking up. "The small signals, the lingering touches, the obvious foreplay that's expressed in our voices rather than our bodies. What your voice does to me, the way you state things…" she wandered off a moment, and turned around, her eyes fluttered closed. "That's the kind of foreplay that makes me wet when I go to bed at night."
 
My eyes wander down to her ample, yet small breasts, perfectly proportioned to her body. She brings her left hand up to my face, and brushes a couple of hairs out of my eyes. Her eyes are full of arousal, and it's obvious to me that she wants to breach the boundaries usually holding us back. I watch her lips, transfixed by her words. "Dean used to give me 'amor', as you'd say in Portuguese, but it's never been enough. From the beginning of Chilton you've been there, through anger and sorrow, joyfulness and victories. And now I want to reward you for being there for me, since you're the 'amor de minha vida' that's been yearning for it for so long. I feel I'd give you that promise, and much more."
 
And then she closes the distance and kisses me. A small, simple kiss at first, but something Rory knows will just instigate me into taking the kiss far from being innocent. The way she's kissing me, I can tell she's been saving her major league stuff for me, and leaving Dean the kissing style she trained on from AA Beloit. I hasten the process and bring her closer in a hug, her full and wanting tits squashed against my own. I deepen it further, and before I know it, she's moaning my name out and asking me permission to undo my uniform.
 
The situation is perfect, and as I bring the covers down on my bed and lay down on it, the track of my mind has been reduced to a base level, hand to pussy. I don't bother with the teasing and put my left hand right in, my thumb against my clit within seconds. "Fuck, oh Rory!" I scream as she shock pours through me, it doesn't take all that long for my hand to become damp with the arousal building up inside and finally getting at least a little release. I spread open my legs, and place a finger on each side, writhing in place as I tried to imagine Rory becoming a little adventurous.
 
The dream I have heats up, and for about ten minutes I try to picture each of us giving each other slow and teasing foreplay, trying to ease ourselves into a comfort zone. She unclasps my bra by reaching beneath my blouse, and starts kissing at each of my breasts through the blue shirt I wear above them. Rory is trying to help me out, and wanting to go with the flow, I comply with her wishes, holding off on her pleasure as long as I can. Somehow, I manage to feel like I'm not returning the favor, but she doesn't seem to mind, struggling with the snaps of my skirt in order to throw it off of me. She grits her teeth, swearing at the elusive little snap.
 
"Come on damn little guy, fly free, fly free!" she says, and I can't help but giggle at her desperation. Somehow, Rory is finally able to disengage the snap after about a couple minutes, and I'm only too impatient to slip out of the plaid article and throw it off to the side of the bed.
 
She finishes unbuttoning my blouse, and I shrug it and the bra off, along with each of our shoes and socks coming off , leaving us sitting on that bed, kissing with fervor in our panties. Rory plays with my breasts for a few moments, running her index fingers around the inner circle surrounding each nipple, then the outer fringe 1 3/4" away from the inner circumference where the aureoles begin, turning a rosy shade of pink from my sort of darkish Mediterranean skin tone. I feel the tips of her nipples just below the undersides of my own breasts, and I cry out in agony as she licks her fingers, then brushes the saliva onto the tip of each nipple. She blows a puff of air onto each one, and I shut my eyes as I feel every nerve ending within my torso, and my extremities transmit the pleasure all over my body.
 
"Yes Rory," I answer with a crackly throat, and then with no need to ask my permission, she suckles the top of one of my breasts with her mouth, wrapping her lips around the skin below and biting hard into it as she made this little suctioning action that was definitely more than an innocent gesture of appreciation for my body. I made a high-pitched little whine and tried to keep my concentration on what I was doing, kissing her forehead since my mouth craved any contact with her.
 
After one last nip, she releases her mouth, and I bring my gaze down as she hovers above me, appreciating her handiwork. There, on the top of my right breast and what would barely be hidden by my bra cup, was a dark purple bruise signifying that I was hers to treasure, a hickey.
 
I looked up at her, sort of swooning, sort of mad that she did something like that. But those usually innocent blue eyes instead reflect her adoration of me, and that even if I could control our order in the world of textbooks and Harvard, we would be nothing but equals as lovers. The Rory I dream of knew I was a control freak, but by giving me that love bite, she had turned the tables around.
 
"I want you all," she commands in a mix of her 'what's up quippy?' pissed-off voice and that nervous one I'd seen her use around Dean. "And if you'll let me, I'd like to be your first and last."
 
There was no need to elaborate on her motives, Rory moving up to my lips and giving me a lingering kiss as she hooked her fingers around my panties. I knew the message she was sending; she was getting over her sexual inadequacies in order for me to get over my own. I felt her thigh rub against mine harshly as she starts kissing down my middle, causing me to moan that I needed her now, along with plenty of sexual cursing.
 
That only causes her to tease and linger on something each time I demand she obey me. First she stops right in the space between my breasts until I settle down, agonized beyond belief. Rory continues. and I go on being wound up, and then suddenly, she stops just between my belly button and the upper edge of my pubic hairline. She pulls my panties down my legs slowly, causing me to gasp from the new rush of cold air caused by my tingling and sensitive flesh being exposed.
 
"Now, now Par," she admonishes in a sarcastic tone that could only be perfected by anyone with Gilmore blood in their veins. "My tongue won't be able to do its work unless you stay completely still for me, I've been practicing for this in the mirror for months, bastardizing those WPM-improvement tapes you gave me for my own twisted needs. Not only can I do 200 WPM now, but I think I can bring you to a powerful release in mere seconds." She then smiles up at me like the cat who ate the canary. "But for you I think I can stretch that out for an indeterminable amount of time."
 
Desperate to see how she'd be at cunnilingus, I close my mouth and try to keep any unexpected words from coming out, and think of Summer and Dean mating together in order to temporarily gag my sex drive.
 
Boy did that help me out a lot, since it gave me just that much time to throw my underwear off to the side and spread my legs wider as I put the three middle fingers of my left hand into my mouth and moistened them with my saliva. Despite the fact I had a vibrator in my drawer off to the side (Louise bought it for me as a gag gift, but I actually use it occasionally), sliding wet fingers inside of me seemed to be a crude, but effective way to Xerox the effect of Rory's tongue down there.
 
I reenacted most of the tease myself as my hands drifted down my upper body, the cooling sensation of my spit stiffening almost everything on my person, with my thoughts giving me a little help.
 
After a little trepidation and a paranoid look both ways around the room to see if anyone was watching despite the locked door and drawn shades, I ran a finger against my clitoris, which seemed to have a life of it's own. I barely touched that flesh and whinnied deeply. If that alone was enough to take me over the edge I had to slow down the fantasy a little.
 
So I took my time. DreamRory didn't go down on me right away so that I could give other parts of my body some attention. I ran my dry hand against my breasts, and tried to keep my session going as long as I could. I turned around in the bed and rubbed up against my sheet, trying to bring the fantasy to a short halt. The shirt Rory wore was causing me to feel things that Tristan or any other guy never would have caused.
 
I teased my slit in an agonizing manner, enjoying every little shudder and moan that went through my system as my wet fingers worked their magic, though keeping myself silent with the pleasure was becoming an iffy proposition. There was this butterfly-ish tingle in the pit of my stomach that I had never felt even when I built myself over a matter of weeks in my Tristan days for a powerful orgasm. I closed my eyes shut, and eventually, parted my lips again so I could slide my fingers all the way into my slit, imagining Rory down there...
 
Rory starts out slow, and I can tell she has some shaky nerves, never getting to the step of oral pleasure, even with Dean. I hear her sniff, trying to psyche herself up a little, though she's seems assured and confident. I feel her nose tickle against my hair, and suddenly she reels back a little.
 
At first I'm scared that she finds me unworthy, until she holds her nose and pinches it closed. Rory sneezes, and all I could do was laugh back at her as I hand her a tissue to blow her nose.
 
"You're not allergic to me, are you?" I ask, and Rory rolls her eyes as she wipes her nose and blows into the disposable handkerchief.
 
"Ha, ha, ha Gellar, you're so funny with that joke I forgot to laugh." She smiles so that I don't take her joke too seriously as she comes back down for a second try. "Now be quiet and still, I want to do this right."

I find her saying that cute, her trying to be a perfectionist when it comes to oral sex. But it was kind of annoying, since the first time should be far from perfect. I prop a couple of pillows up against my back, and beckoned her closer to ease her into this. I took her head in my hands and tried to help her start a consistent rhythm, rubbing her scalp reassuringly.
 
"You'll be fine hon," was all I could get out as Rory sticks out her tongue, and within moments eases it into me, immediately finding just that right spot.
 
"YOU'RE BETTER THAN FINE!!! YES!!!" I scream as her tongue works its magic below, and I'm seriously thinking that I want to reciprocate all of this with her. But then I remember what she told me before we started foreplay; that she could wait another night, for now this was all about me, the girl who needs to be worshipped by someone not involved with the Princeton Review.
 
Usually, someone who tells me that makes me feel like an old maid. But with Rory, it caused me to become even more turned on. She takes my ass into her hands, and holds onto each side for dear life as she tries to find her perfect rhythm, my hands moving her mouth around whenever she gets off-track, guiding her back to my clit. It's really needy for attention, and I can feel it throb with each stroke of her tongue. My eyes roll into the back of my head and I swear to God there was nothing more I wanted to do with my life thinking of her that way; Harvard could reject me, the only job I could get would be as copyrighter for some shopper in Providence, and I wouldn't have as much money as I really have. As long as Rory is with me, I don't care, because she's the one I've been living for lately.
 
I go on and on with the fantasy, fingering myself with more fervor than I ever had in my short sexual life. I thanked my Daddy for having the forethought of granting my dance school wishes when I was six; without them I wouldn't have broke, and I couldn't have penetrated myself deeper than I had that evening. I could still smell Rory's scent on the blouse, but sweat was building up all over my body and my own essence was quickly overtaking hers. So before I could forget I brought it closer, and with an impure thought of Rory floating in my mind deciding to slide her hand up her skirt in my car as I drove down the road, I knew I had to take care of this itch I had, and soon! Goddamn, she smells good!
 
My clit seemed to harden with each touch of my fingertips, and I kept putting the saliva-coated hand in my mouth to keep the dream of Rory eating me out going. I tasted myself when I slipped the fingers in my mouth; I thought I tasted fine, but I don't know if I could easily taste the flavor. Something that's both bitter and with a hint of sweet at the same time, but not too sweet, nor too untasty. Better to just imagine Rory thinks I'm a divine flavor...
 
"You...liking...that...Par?" she gasps out as she tries to come up for some air. I can tell she's starting to wear out a little, and I press her to continue before her jaw stiffens from such heavy use. Her tongue slides in and out of my slit, and I'm still in shock that organ can do so much more than blast off witticisms and observations at a speed I didn't know was possible.
 
"Fuck Rory, yes. Fuck me, fuck me." My voice is raspy as I bring her head closer, so close in fact that I can feel the front of her teeth mash against my lips, I hope she can breathe! But she seems to be just fine, as a matter of fact she's speeding her strokes. I arch back on the bed as I feel her hands tighten even harder on my rear. I look down at the hickey she gave me earlier on my tit, and feel another gush of arousal coming down from my stomach. Oh God, oh my God...
 
She's thrusting her tongue in and out like a little cock, but so much better. The sandpaper-ish like tingle of the organ against the sensitive tissue of my cunt, I felt like I was dripping my juices into her mouth so much she must be ready to drown soon. She heard my gasps and my anguised cries for her to make me come soon, and picked up the pace quite a bit.
 
The dream was starting to really work its magic, as each touch of my clit seemed to tingle with even more power than the last. I was starting to feel dizzy from all the desire, moaning Rory's name as if she was actually there. The shirt felt even heavier as I went on and my fingers became sore; almost like her slim figure was right on top of me, weighing me down. I think back to that night in Washington I finally succumbed to my desires; this was as far from that as could be. That was simple basic lust I was dealing with in the nation's capital. Here though, there was a slight chance that in the next few weeks, Rory could reciprocate my feelings. I seriously wanted to finish myself off by that time since my eyelids were weighed heavy with sleep, and any more use of my hands and I'd have to make up an interesting excuse for the reason it was stabilized by a cast since I wore down the tendons.
 
Alright, so I'm exaggerating just a smidge there. Seriously though, I stroked, pinched, scratched, did almost anything to bring myself over the brink. With Rory's help, it worked wonders...
 
"That's right, make me cum baby, make me cum, I love this Gilmore, I love you." Sentences didn't make sense anymore to express what I felt for what Rory was causing me to feel, and she was starting to tinker with not only getting me off with her tongue, but had slipped a finger between my legs to hasten the process. My long mane of hair was pretty much done for, tangled and soaked, and I'm sure that Rory would need to hop in the shower to clean her face of my cum as I recovered from the orgasm she was causing.
 
Finger, tongue, finger, tongue. She was in her groove now, and I feel that large butterfly being pushed down my stomach faster than it had before. I feel the liquid stirring up inside of me, and there was going to be a lot coming out once I reached my peak. She fucks me with her tongue as if she knows how to work my parts, and the brunette I had started out hating was swiftly becoming a person I couldn't live without.
 
Before I knew it though, she had hit that perfect spot. I try to hold it back for as long as I could as her tongue sweeps across my swollen clit, and start to warn her that she might want to move out of the way. "ROR, I'M--I'M--GONNA--CUMM..."
 
I can't even get it out and barely get the sentence out as I feel my pelvic muscles contract within and my eyes tighten, all I can see in the darkness caused by my lids is stars and swirls of many colors. I was expecting her to retreat her face back, but she keeps stirring me up, her tongue still in my slit and prepared for the onslaught.
 
She doesn't make it out of course. I arch and curl my toes as the orgasmic feeling spreads from my belly and my pussy, to all over, I can feel it everywhere. The tips of my hands, the blades of my shoulders, each root of my hair, and especially in my breasts, God, I never had known an orgasm could be this good! I scream out every exclamation and curse I can possibly think of as the feeling washes over me, and Rory takes in my unique sense and taste. I call out her name as I ride out the waves, and finally, about a couple minutes later, I stop as she lifts her face up from between my legs, and grips at my side to bring herself up to my face level.
 
I'm tired out, sleepy, every chamber of my heart beating at quadruple the normal rate and want nothing more than to take Rory into my arms, spoon into her, and have her watch me fall asleep in her arms. She smiles at me, and for at least a bit, the Gilmore wit and sarcasm she usually has is replaced with amazement that a girl like her had just done that with a girl like me.
 
She smiles, and I run a finger through her hair and down towards her jaw as she settles down from it. "That was even better than I thought," she told me. "I just wonder though, maybe we could do it again in a bit, and this time I receive?"
 
I laugh weakly. "Hon, you know I would, but you wore me out! Now I know why Lorelai was irresistible to all the men back when she was a teenager, you got her genes." I laugh as she fakes a scowl.
 
"OK, not wanting to hear about my mother at all, nor her 'oral habits', as you would put it." She scrunched her nose, and I kissed her as I cuddled her closer.
 
"Sorry Gilmore," I say as we look into each other's eyes. "I did love that all you know, and I love you Rory."

"Right back at ya," she says, and the dream fades out as we fall asleep together...
 
Now you'd expect me to cut back to past tense Tuesday night around nine here and describe in detail what the whole thing had done to me, how much I came and that the center of my bed was totally soaked with my arousal, and that I basked in the afterglow, happy despite my solitary state. Also, there would be a serious craving for some kind of tobacco product or chewing gum to finish off the night perfectly.
 
Well, you'd be right. But you'll have to move that description up to the next morning and change some details around since as with my dream self, I immediately passed out after I came and before I knew it, the backup alarm from my Palm was beeping, I was waking out of a deep and dreamless slumber, and I found myself looking at black-on-green numbers on my alarm clock reading 6:43am.
 
I still felt a little dazed despite the nine hours of sleep I had unexpectedly fallen into, and since I couldn't get back into my normal position, felt a stinging numbness in each of my widened legs, having to shake both of them to get blood flowing again since the vessels seemed pinched. After I realized how much time I had left, there wasn't enough time to think of anything else but getting ready for school, so I got up and started my routine in a rush of activity, and seriously needing trip to the bathroom and a shower.
 
Crossing my fingers that Rory didn't get into trouble with the sprinklers at Dwight's again, I jumped right back into my routine, killing any thoughts of her as I showered, dressed, ate and organized my schoolwork so I was out the door by 7:20.
 
As I merged onto the bypass around Hartford, it came to me that I had forgotten one important thing; to make my bed! You know how embarrassing it is to have to call back home and let the housekeeper know not to enter your bedroom, and that you'd take care of your own bedclothes later in the evening? Yeah, my housekeeper is that much of a bitch that I'd probably get a lecture that 'good girls don't do that' from Sharon if she found out why I went to bed at 8:30 the night before thanks to Celina relaying in detailed Spanish every stain she found on the sheets!
 
I arrived at school on time on Wednesday and I had expected Rory to be in a good mood about everything that had happened between us. Unfortunately, she was distant and out of it all day, and though she did sit close to me as usual and still play with my hair in Russian Novels, she was down. I couldn't get anything out of her about what was wrong at lunch, so I waited patiently through the day until it was 4:30 and we were in the press room monitoring the week's Franklin run.
 
I asked her in a stern tone what happened, and made it clear that her demand to hear everything about my life, including Sharon applied in turn to her also in my eyes, and sat her down in a chair as we watched the run of 1,800 editions fall into the tray below.
 
She seemed to be playing with the bracelet Dean had given her, and it was only after I heard her mumble out that she had broken up with him because of the inopportune fact that Jess happened to be the warmest body nearby to help Rory turn the sprinklers off, and his brain, which seemed stuck in the Paleozoic Era reasoned 'Other guy help Rory with sprinkler - Rory fuck him behind my back - club her, take her back to cave after killing Jess - make her lame housewife' that I realized what she was doing.
 
Rory was trying to take it off, symbolically cutting off her love for him.
 
"I'll help you out with that," I told her as I took her wrist and retrieved an apple knife from my messenger bag, concealed as a tube of lipstick in order to keep the paranoid teachers from applying those annoying Columbine aftermath policies on me just because I wanted to cut a piece of fruit in half. I was kind of nervous though, afraid I was going to accidentally pierce into her skin and open up an artery since my hand was so shaky. I asked her one more time if she was sure she didn't want it on her wrist, making sure it wasn't caused by a heat of the moment.
 
"Paris, I'm done. Last night was the breaking point." She smiled, and had no tears to cry for her first love. "First with Tristan, then it was with Jess. When you say something about his girlfriend and him in it for the sex and not the love right in front of their faces without a regard to their relationship, it's time, he's a control freak who's better off without me."

"What did he say to you?" I asked, my heart skipping a few beats as my mind wrapped around the fact Rory was as free as Carrie Bradshaw.
 
Rory then initiated a dead-on impersonation of Dean's lunkhead voice. "Rory, it's clear he's in love with you, he doesn't give a damn about Shane and uses her as a living blow-up doll, imagining she's you. Jess doesn't know how to love, and neither does Shane. You know you're the only one for me, blah, blah, blah, love, love, love, never get out of my sight my love because I have all the appeal of an evil Lifetime movie boyfriend played by Ivan Sergei, and so on."

I laughed at her act, and couldn't wait to hear the result. "Let me guess what happens next, Miss Patty hears, spreads the gossip, then Jess beats Deano within an inch of his life."
 
"Actually," she told me, "he was just coming down the stairs, and Shane had heard almost everything working in the back room washing dishes. Dean pretty much lost his concentration and argument after she said 'Wow, that's news to me Produce Pete, considering I got a promise ring from Jess Saturday night and he confessed he loved me. Then I told him I loved him too and gave him a ring of my own' as she walked over and gave her boyfriend, my boy friend with a space in the middle never to be combined together, a pretty intimate hug, then a cute kiss."
 
"Oh boy, how many shades of red did Jess turn once Dean turned around and had to face him?"
 
"I think Jess was in the darkest part of the red color palate as he told Dean to leave Luke's and never come back unless he wants his uncle, Taylor, and Shane to kick his ass all the way back to Winnetka!"
 
"And you?"
 
"Told him to call me back once he finally turned seven and until then to fuck off!"
 
"Actual words?"
 
"I was editing, dickhead finished off the sentence." She beamed a bright smile towards me, and that was when I knew without a doubt that her and Dean were as history as J-Lo and Chris Judd. I told Rory I was proud of her, and with not much effort, I used the apple knife to cut through the thin yet resilient leather, baring her left arm permanently from his influence. I handed it back thinking she'd simply throw it in the wastebasket, but she suggested that it might be more fun if we used our student body presidential key privileges to make a little stop in one of the chemical sciences classrooms.
 
We both grinned like clowns on Ritalin and crystal meth as we both took tongs and dipped Dean's bracelet into a beaker of hydrochloric acid; the pithy little strap and cheaply forged little coin charm never stood a chance in the volatile liquid, and we watched it disintegrate into a dark black mess of burned cowhide and metal. She then had me drive into downtown Hartford after all our work at the school was done, and she threw what was left of the former bracelet off the Founder's Bridge and into the murky waters of the Connecticut River below, the debris spreading like ashes onto the waterway. What I thought was her trying to back off her track with me the last two weeks, instead turned out to be what I think might be the turning point in our relationship.
 
We walked in downtown Hartford for about an hour, watching the nature pack up for winter and the last leaves fall off their trees in Bushnell Park. When we approached a bench with a perfect view of the skyline and the dome of the Statehouse, she had me sit down, and seemed a little nervous. I wondered why, and my heart started skipping again, considering all the possibilities of what she might say next.
 
Was she moving away from Connecticut? Telling me she was having a secret fling with Tristan? Running away to become a model in New York? She took my hand in hers, and asked me the most important question I've ever heard, nothing before that in a class or in my life prepared me for that moment.
 
"Paris?"
 
"Uh-huh?" I found myself trying to be evasive, and then I listened to her ask her favor.
 
"I need another favor, would you be my partner in the Annual Dance Marathon we're having in Stars Hollow Saturday?"
 
I certainly couldn't ask her to pinch me (bye-bye any hidden feelings and hope!), so my mind recycled the question, and brought up what I could remember from our 'seedy side' article.
 
The famous 24-hour dance marathon. The one officiated by Taylor and usually won by Kirk every year. The event that starts at six in the morning on a Saturday, and ends at six as the sun rises on a Sunday morning. An affair that Lorelai usually brings out all her blood-thirsty tactics for to win, but usually fails because she consistently makes the fatal mistake of wearing heels as dancing shoes.
 
The one event...where my body would have close, and very intimate contact with a certain other brunette's body for between as little as a minute, or if God allowed, a full revolution of the earth (give or take a few seconds or minutes).

There I was, being asked to be her dance partner. I didn't know what to make of it, so I asked her why she would ask me.
 
"Lorelai has a hotelier's convention to attend in Nashville until Sunday evening, so she won't be able to partner up with me this year. But I really, really want to win that trophy and prove to my fellow citizens that I can dance with the best of them. I have to keep our strong rivalry with Kirk going, and I figure you're just the girl who can help me win it."
 
"But how, I have--"
 
"--Had a strong and successful dance side project career thing going before you were eleven, when your mother pulled you out of there to have you focus on getting into Harvard and nothing else. Not only have that, your 'talent agent' suggested you quit since puberty was taking quite the toll on your formerly slender figure despite having one of the most supporting teachers in New England. This wouldn't only help me out, but Paris; you could be victorious in this and let your mother know that you had something good going there before she went school-insane!"
 
I was then reminding myself never to have Louise recount my childhood in excruciating detail to Rory during a boring study session ever again. That, and I had to lock up every award, trophy and ribbon I ever earned from those five years I pursued my childhood hobby. I remember the day I quit in December of 1996 many of the parents in my ballet, tap, ballroom and modern dance classes celebrating the fact I was no longer there to beat their children during my recitals.
 
Since then however, I had lost my touch. I gained two left feet from ending my dance career, and with my social life being defined by Madeline and Louise, two men in a little box (Brian Lamb and Alex Trebek) and one real boy in Tristan, fell out of the whole dance scene altogether. I'd still watch the ballets and ballroom dancing championships on PBS and Bravo like a little child in awe, along with figure skating, but it wasn't the same. Sharon had taken me out just before the swing craze broke out across America, and instead of becoming a dancer like I had dreamed as a kid, I became yet another Harvard-obsessed girl, drowning my former dreams by becoming fixated on politics and journalism, which thank God I'm good at on both counts. I love them, but dancing still holds a special place within.
 
I looked at her, wondering what to say. I tried making up excuses in my head to say no. Technically I was having fun, so the whole endeavor didn't violate the Sabbath. And I certainly couldn't tell her that being that close would cause my hormones to go haywire, causing a full-on lesbian reenactment of Dirty Dancing that would be a day long.
 
I came up with one that I thought would pass muster. "But I don't know if I can stay awake that long Ror." I smiled at her kind of weird, and she put on a little frown.
 
"Well there will be coffee and plenty of sugary sweets and pizza, I could get one with soy cheese since I could probably request that from Joe just for you, plus you get four twenty minute breaks throughout in order to put your feet on ice and catch a few winks. And don't tell me you're out of shape, I'm sure if you can really think back, you'll have your old moves back in no time!"
 
"What about school? This will certainly mess up my biological clock."
 
"It's on the weekend, so you could get your homework done Friday evening, sleep until about 4am, then come and dance. You can resume your sleep schedule after an abnormal Sunday nap."
 
I stared at her like she was on crack before she started playing with my knuckles, then unconsciously I found myself doing the same thing. Rory asked me to make eye contact, and as I looked at her, into her pleading eyes, those two orbs that enchant me the most, and that cause my resistance to fall, along with her smile.
 
"Paris," she started, being serious as a heart attack. "You don't have to say yes to it, nor do you have to feel pressured that I'm asking you to go. I just want you to know that I think of you as becoming my closest friend soon, and that I'm coming to you with this invitation because I know you'll put all you have into this. I know it's going to be a challenge staying awake, but you put your heart into this, we're going to win, Kirk's not going to have a chance in hell. I just want you to think back to two weeks ago when I challenged you on the pitch in gym class. You had a blast playing that field hockey game, didn't you? This is something that we can take, and Par, I wouldn't come to you with such a favor unless I really needed it. I was already iffy on Dean and I winning before last night, but with you on my side and in my arms, I think we both have a shot."
 
She smiles, and I don't know what to tell her. It's such an obvious request for her to be my partner, but I don't know if I could be ready to attempt to solidify my feelings for her in such a short period of time. I'd only have at least two evenings to prepare, and though there'd be no doubt I could find my footing again on the hardwood of Minutemen Gymnasium, I'd be seriously thrown for a loop, balancing my competition instinct with that of my arms wrapped around Rory's neck, sharing an intimate 2x'2' box and swooning with every little touch and tingle.

I thought about it for a couple minutes, swinging between yes and no for an answer. I couldn't decide right then and there, and thought perhaps that she might have someone else she could get on such short notice.
 
Don't let it slip by, my conscious told me. My mind went the more analytical route. Don't do it, you're not ready.
 
But the truth is, I was ready to go, I just didn't know if I was that ready. Rory made it clear in her words that it wasn't a date, which it certainly wasn't because of the abnormal time frame of a full day with her, but it was still too much too soon, Dean still had to be fresh in her mind. So not feeling ready to answer, I decided to leave it open for another day.
 
"I'm not sure yet," I told her, smiling. "Honestly, I need a day to think this over Rory. I'm not saying yes, I'm not saying no, but if I gave you a response by tomorrow afternoon, would that be OK? I still have a few things to work out before I decide to go for this."
 
I expected her to pull out another card and tell me to forget about it.
 
Instead, she smiled back at me, and gave me a reassuring pat on my hand. "Take your time, I want you to know for sure if you do say yes, but it's not the end of the world if you tell me you can't."
 
Rory thanked me for my honesty, and we headed back towards the parking garage so I could run her home before I spent a night in seclusion, deciding my fate. The mixed messages she's been sending me started jumbling in my brain as soon as I left Stars Hollow, and I continued to be my own personal Florida, separating the good votes from the bad and checking for chads in the decision, going to bed around ten still not sure if I would go or not.
 
I had a dream that night, of the entire marathon situation and my close proximity to the girl I loved. The most important item in it all had never seemed to come up until then; what would the residents of her town think of two young women dancing together? That was definitely frowned on at any Hartford ball, and at Chilton, you never even considered it within the realm of the upper class. I thought of Rory and I dancing together in a mix of slow and fast songs, trying to get my footwork from the old days back desperately, and though struggling, staying up. Everyone in the crowd looked at us as if we were the only two on the floor, and I felt their eyes move with each sweep across the floor, both of us in tune with the music.
 
Of course there had to be a nightmare portion of the dream, and Dean filled those shoes snug. He sat off to the side of the proceedings, muttering in my direction that I was an usurper out to ruin his life by stealing Rory away from him. In that situation I felt like 'the other woman', there to fill an emergency need for Rory to have a partner. He'd say cruel things I don't wish to share, but I can mention that words beginning with the letters F and Q were directed by him towards the both of us.
 
The dream ended abruptly when my mother and Dean came out of the crowd to try to break Rory and I apart by any means necessary, including violence. I woke abruptly, and read the clock at 3:45am, trying to make sense of it all. Dreaming of the situation hadn't helped things at all, and I was left even more confused. Would Dean dare to disparage me?
 
I needed an impartial third party to this all, so despite the early time, I decided to give my nanny a call, wanting her opinion. I dialed up to her quarters upstairs, and Francisca answered in a tired voice. Since she knew my feelings for Rory to a small point (I was telling her a few things here and there, but leaving out some of the more mature content), I was able to ask if I should go with Rory to the dance marathon.
 
"Tell me Paris," she spoke in English, "Would you have wanted to go back when you wanted Tristan to be your príncipe (prince)?"
 
"Of course I did."
 
"If he offered you the world without any questions, you would have taken the opportunity."
 
I certainly didn't have to think on that. "Yes, I would."
 
"Then I have a simple question for you my menina (girl); why would you not want to do this? You haven't let anything like this ever get you down before, and every day you look towards the telephone hoping that Mistress Gilmore calls you back, and the front door hoping she'll come by for a non-school visit. You never had a passion for wanting Tristan like you have Rory."

She paused for a moment to refresh her English. "The girl, whenever she comes by here, loves to get lost in everything that you do, she envies your library and loves your room. And if you'd open your heart, your alma (soul) to her, you'd know she that she'd fill it with her love. She gave up safe love for a chance with you Paris, and is ready to take the risk."
 
"You're sure?" I asked. "I don't want to regret this and find out that everything she did I misread."
 
"Paris, she wouldn't have invited you out of pity, you know she's above that. You also know that before, she would've made it work again with her old love, no matter if she could or not. She loves you and wants to see you return to the dance floor, something I've been aching for you to do since you turned away from it at the behest of sua cadela de mãe (your bitch of a mother)."
 
I laughed; thank God my mother knew little Portuguese except for the basic commands, since Fran has called her just about every slur in the book. "You really think Rory is my a única (only one)?"
 
"That is up to you minha menina, I can't tell you for sure. Don't let this slip through because of your mother and some ignorant individuals, that would be horrible to me. I hope I've helped raise you to be a strong young woman who goes after what she wants, and right now, you want to fall in love. Do what your heart tells you and if it says don't, you shouldn't. But I think your torch for Rory is strong and bright, and I'll be ready Saturday morning to turn you into her personal pretty little cisne (swan) before you leave for Stars Hollow, promise."
 
I felt a lot better after listening to my nanny's words, and though I wouldn't decide for another twelve hours, I was ready to give in to the opportunity. "Eu te amo Francisca, obrigado para o conselho (I love you Francisca, thank you for the advice)."
 
"Você é bem-vindo minha menina, dorme bem. (You are welcome my girl, sleep well)". I fell back into bed, and had a restful and happy sleep after that.
 
I went through the day still a little unsure, but by the time seventh period had rolled around and a Latin lecture that meant little to my grade since I knew the words being tested already, I had daydreamed of the marathon, but in a much more positive way than my subconscious had mixed up in my sleep. Rory seemed to back off just a little, in order to keep my mind clear and to keep her influence out of it. I missed the backrub that day, but all that did was make the decision easier.
 
With nothing to do that evening with student government or the paper, and an in-service keeping everyone except the teachers home for Friday, I met her after school in the courtyard, and we sat down on a bench away from any of Madeline's sources just in case they wanted to spread something that might not end up being true. She seemed scared, and as she sat next to me, asked if I had considered her offer in a neutral way, unaffected.
 
"Rory," I started, "I would be honored to be your partner Saturday. I think I'll survive being up for a day plus--"
 
Everything else I was going to say after that was muffled by her sweater vest as I heard what I thought was a gushing her squeak "Really?!" out, and she hugged me. Very tightly. No one else was in the courtyard so that the gossips could bastardize it, but it felt good, wonderful. And it showed me that Rory was thankful I had said yes.
 
"OK, Gilmore, I kind of need my lungs for respiration," I muffled into the top of her right breast as she squeezed a little down towards my diaphragm.
 
"Oh, uh, sorry." She felt kind of embarrassed and released it. "I'm just so excited, Kirk is going down and you're going to help me!"
 
I let her bask in her almost-victory for a bit, and as we walked out to my car, I decided to ask for more details about the whole dance, like the theme and such. I was pleased to learn that it was themed on the early forties, and though some modern music would be played in the late evening hours, most of it was going to be classic big band and torch singers.
 
The only problem was what I was going to wear. My wardrobe seems to consist of either corduroy pants and cashmere sweaters, or my uniforms. I brought this up to Rory and she said if I was desperate for a dress I could come to town and try some out. I took it under advisement, but honestly didn't think I'd need to.
 
Because after I dropped her off, and in an over-giddy voice said I couldn't wait for Saturday (see what the heck that girl's doing to me? I'm losing my serious edge!), I remembered that Francisca's had inherited her mother's wardrobe, and her mother's prime was during the 40's.
 
She was only too proud to help me out with the choice of a dress, and I spent all Thursday night twirling to and fro around the ballroom downstairs in many of those dresses, trying to find the perfect one for Rory and ironing out my dancing kinks while I was at it. It had been all those years after my abrupt retirement, yet I was still graceful when it came to modern and ballroom dancing. I counted 1,2,3 to myself as if I was ten and carefree, remembering all the steps like the pro I used to be. Despite my larger figure since my last competition, my breasts seemed to behave just fine. Fran encouraged me on further and kept telling me all these stories of the war years in Lisbon involving her mother, and since the southern tip of Europe was neutral during the entire conflict, there was much more entertainment there than in say, London, it was awe inspiring hearing her describe all the dancing her mother did when back then in the war years. I fit the each of the dresses perfectly to mine and Francisca's surprises, but unfortunately, I could only wear one.
 
I then spent most of yesterday stretching my body out and continuing to practice in the ballroom, thankful that Mohegan Man was keeping Sharon very distracted from anything I was doing. I left her an excuse saying I was to be in Boston today until early tomorrow so she'd be unaware of where I was, and she shrugged it off as she let me know she was flying out to San Diego for the weekend with Mohegan Man, something about a convention on a yacht or some other bullshit excuse.
 
That entire description now leads me to here, at five in the morning, sitting at my vanity putting the last touches on my makeup (which I can do fine, surprisingly), and looking behind me at the three dresses I'm down to hanging off hooks on the bathroom door. Rory's going to be wearing a bright red dress with tiny little polka dots all over the fabric, so I have to pick out something that either relatively matches or contrasts. I was going to go with one that was a dark maroon to match my eye color, but that wouldn't match up with her well. So I was down to a dark green, a dark blue, and a dark orange dress.
 
I held each one to my front, thinking of Rory in front of me and her eyes floating up and down my form, but each of them seem to clash with my ideal. Most of them seemed to be a little on the conservative side too, and as I slide a pink rose into my Lana Turner-inspired hairstyle (once again, Fran being a lifesaver with my hair, I would've gone with just a simple ponytail otherwise), I found myself in a sort of panic, sitting there trying to brainstorm if any of the other ones I rejected would be nice on a second look. They're spread all over the chaise lounge on one side of my room, and I go through them one more time, trying to find the perfect dress.
 
I'm about ready to just give up and get one of my dad's suits from his closet. If I'm going to seduce Rory, why not go full-tilt Hollywood fantasy and call myself the man in the couple...
 
But my eyes suddenly catch one on the bed I had rejected before as a little too much for Rory, without trying it on. "What the heck, it can't match up any worse than the others," I told myself as I decided to change right into it instead of going with a dry run.
 
The dress is a rayon black halter with a pattern of tomatoes and onions all over the fabric, and my heart catches as it realizes how this all started, back in the dining hall with our shared salads the first day we met, the first thing we had in common that wasn't academic. It seemed ironic that I'm trying on a tomato dress, but I shrug the coincidence off as I slide into it.
 
I love the feel of the manmade vintage fabric against my legs, smooth and sliding over my bare legs like it was exactly cut for my waistline. The skirt seems to run just a smidge below my knees, yet it flares out just enough so that during a spin the dress rises up with me, giving Rory a nice view of what I know she's been closely noticing. This again, isn't the time to bring out to bring out the stockings. Though I do have a set of unopened fishnets in the bottom of my dresser...nah, too much, and I wanted to have as much skin as possible exposed.
 
As I brought it up my body, I realized that this wasn't a very conservative dress...it was a halter dress. I snapped the straps in the back together in a loose position, and found myself looking in the mirror at someone who could turn some heads.
 
I looked hot. I, Paris Gellar, social wallflower, had found the one dress in the world that seems to be perfect for my body type, and which flattered what I wanted. My legs within the dress seemed long, the intended effect, and along the waist, the fabric seemed to be cut so close that when I walked around the room, I could feel the rayon tighten and release against my thighs, the dark color and bright pattern also helping to hide my pantyline, which since I was going to be hand-to-hand with Rory for an extended period of time, I decided to make it special. Lacy and thin dark red silk, that way something that day besides my dancing shoes (sensible, yet flattering on my feet) would match up with my conservative nature, yet still be sexy.
 
As I looked in the mirror towards my chest however, the two clear side effects of wearing a halter dress that bared my back and sides were apparent.
 
My matching bra wasn't going to work today. I'm wearing the perfect dress and the other thing Rory notices about me besides my eyes and my legs, I think, are my breasts, and I'd look just plain silly wearing the dress I have on with a regular ol' two strap bra. Once again struggling to think, I dug out my lingerie drawer trying to find something, anything that was strapless, Louise had to have lent me one somewhere down the line for some social gathering...OK, maybe not, considering my cup size, but still it was worth a shot in the dark!
 
I hauled the entire drawer onto the bed and searched around for anything, but it seemed to be a lost cause, there wasn't a single strapless bra in that entire dresser drawer, not even one of those three-in-ones where the strap would go over my back like a bikini and stay hidden underneath the dress.
 
I was ready to stop at the Wal-Mart just outside of the Hollow and go with whatever gaudy patterned strapless bra I could find on such short notice at five on a Saturday morning, I would take leopard print if that's all the heck they had, I wanted to dance with my girl!
 
But then, I had a total recall moment of my dreamed-up situation Tuesday night, and of all the lingering stares Rory's eyes were giving my bust over the last few weeks. I even remembered back to the night of Jamie's date all the way in August, where when I got ready and was in this same predicament, she was making me try on every outfit I had no matter how horribly matched up it would be. "Hmmm," I pondered to myself, a serene smile playing on my lips, "Was she trying to keep me in just my undies for as long as she could?" All these months later, it did seem odd that she had me try on an ugly crotched sweater from my maternal Aunt Mildred, combined with a horribly matched skirt, and then had me take it off almost immediately after I got my head through the top hole, taking an awful long time staring at me as she struggled to match up another outfit. Then that damned 'Am I too small?' question in the shower stall that my stubborn pride almost used to tear apart my friendship when she was just trying to flatter me...
 
Testing something out, I undo the back snap, and decided to take off my bra, trying to get a gander at what I'd look like in the dress without it. I then brought the halter straps back up and played with my boobs a little, holding the straps up with one hand as I pushed my breasts up with the other. I didn't know what to expect as I found what I thought was the perfect position, as I snapped the straps into place, then tied the slack tight just in case the dress got a sudden idea to fall apart.
 
Back to the mirror, and the verdict from the fashionista portion of my brain. I turned on the Hollywood lights surrounding the mirror that I never really used (I usually depend on the sunlight from my window as I put on my makeup), and gave myself a once over again.
 
I called myself hot before, but wearing that dress unsupported by anything underneath, I had to catch a breath, because I looked absolutely perfect, a fucking Venus de Milo-type of goddess. At first, I thought I seemed a little slutty because the back of the dress plunged beneath my bra line, but I took another look and saw that it was pretty conservative. The deep-cut back isn't all the way down to exposing the small of my back at the tip-top of my rear, but it's right in the middle between that and my bra line. I had an immediate thought of Rory's fingers intertwining against the naked skin, and her running them along my spinal column and my sides in order to keep me awake, or relaxed if Kirk pulled something out of his bag of tricks in order to throw off our concentration.
 
It didn't take me long to go from completely unsure, to very turned on from just that. I brought my gaze down to the front, and found myself thankful. There is just a slight bit of padding in the front that's over my breasts, and it's quite enough to hide my nipples from peeking through the dark fabric, at least for now. Hour twenty-one, not sure, but at least I'm not going to be having underwire digging into the underside of my boobs all day and all night, wearing it well past eighteen hours.
 
Best of all, I'm sure Rory will notice all the cleavage I was bringing to the party. The neckline isn't as deep as Madeline and Louise have worn before (and they've risked going as low as Jennifer Lopez's Grammy dress at times), but being pretty scandalous sixty years ago, it was a big risk for my being. Bending down into the mirror though, it's going to make her mouth water, and I'm sure there's going to be plenty of looking down towards my midsection through this whole endeavor.
 
I look great, almost like Lana Turner, but with my own spin on things. So I guess it's time to gather up all my courage and walk out of the Manor with my confidence and spirits on high, and any sexual thoughts about Rory dampened at least in the beginning here. For the first time since I was nine, I'm walking out of my house without a bra on, and I feel so free.
 
No, not just in the physical 'my goods are out there for Rory to ogle' sense, geeze, that's my inner pervert talking, ignore her! Just three months ago, I thought that my love was totally unrequited and I was cursing myself to spending the rest of my life pining after her like...hell, I'll admit it, like Tristan before that, and probably marrying someone unworthy just so I wouldn't be an old maid. I could've never thought however in my wildest dreams, that Rory would be reading my signals, and changing our friendship around in such an abrupt way. In all these three years I knew her, we never had intimate conversation, and barely talked about anything unless it prefixed Harvard. But in one month, everything's changed.
 
Rory Gilmore might want me. She's been getting awfully close to me, and I in turn have welcomed the contact, giving her so many clues myself. Just this week, she's let me give her a very intimate hairbrushing, put my hand on her thigh for an extended period, and after giving Dean the heave-ho he's deserved since she couldn't say 'I love you' to him right away, here I am getting in my car on an early November morning, completely nuts because I'm about to dance for a full day (hopefully my feet don't fail me) just so I can get that much closer with the girl I love.
 
I can't wait to see how she looks. I can't wait until six, when our fingers intertwine, and I slide my hands beneath her arms and feel her cool skin chilling every part of me. I can't wait to see how Rory will try to keep me awake through all of this.

Most of all, I'm excited because I've done all I can with myself with some of Fran's help to keep Rory from resisting my charms. I've spritzed orchid-scented perfume in all the right places and washed my hair with a very expensive, yet fragrant shampoo instead of my regular store-bought product. By the time the sun rises over the village tomorrow morning, her head will be bowed and tired due to exhaustion, and she'll find her head resting on my breast like a pillow, taking in the extra fragrance I've sprayed into my cleavage. I have so much hope for today that it would be a loss if we not only lost to Kirk, but we didn't run into our feelings more than we have so far.
 
I want to give Rory the time of her life, and even though we haven't said it aloud, we know it's a date. This day is going to be interesting, in more ways than one, and I'm smiling wide at all the possibilities. I wonder, what the odds are of Taylor letting Rory and I have a hot little tango together...

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To be continued...

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Six | Endings, Beginnings, and New Legends
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, Rory POV
Inspired by: Between Eight O'Clock at the Oasis and They Shoot Gilmores, Don't They? with a sped-up timeline for dramatic effect that pushes Take the Deviled Eggs out of this fic world.
Rating: R (swearing, naughty femslash thoughts, self-pleasuring with a sexual fantasy, and some homophobic comments from one character towards another, but not a personal attack towards the character)
Disclaimer: If you don't know it by now, Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions, Hofflund-Polone, and Warner Bros. Television own Gilmore Girls and their characters, although from the finale two weeks ago, I've deluded myself into a few things. First, RealRory kicked Dean in the balls before he could get his pants down, and ran off to Europe to join Paris for a summer of love. Second, when we came back from commercial, that was Lorelai's evil twin daughter Schmory, played by Alexis' evil and less-talented twin Infinitee Bledel coming out of the room with Dean and we'll find out over the summer that this was all a cruel joke which backfired when Schmory and Dean are run out of town with a pitchfork mob, and currently live in Chino with all the other OC unbeautiful people. Finally, Dean has all the sexual resiliency of a horny hummingbird on speed. What was that, two minutes between the Luke/Lorelai kiss and Schmory and Dean coming out of Rory's room? No wonder Lindsay has good reason to be bitchy with him!
Summary: Rory's ammunition to be with Paris builds even further and she starts bringing everything into place to convince Paris to be hers. Meanwhile the end of Dean and her is nigh, and someone finds out about her secret.
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Author's Notes: My goal was to get this out by Saturday June 5th (Liza's birthday), but it wasn't meant to be. My betas advised me to edit a couple of scenes, and upon further review, I found myself displeased with the quality of my writing when I reread them. So instead of a long drawn-out breakup scene with Dean, it'll be only a few paragraphs and we're going right back to what you came for, Paris/Rory. I was also intending to introduce Shane as more than a minor character, but it was suggested that her role in this fic should probably be something else.
 
Thanks again to Raven and Cinn, who have betaed this and been so loyal, doing a wonderful job, and probably saving me from making a couple mistakes with the storyline. Even with Raven going to Belize for a few weeks, she's still going to read (Thank you to whoever invented the satellite phone!), I promise the updates will still be as frequent. Thanks to Vix for her help about certain scenes (plus inspiring Paris/Rory conversations), and Christina for being a loyal reader.
 
Those who reviewed on GGSlash, thanks! Rocky's new script helped me out at a tough time and got me reinspired for this chapter.
 
Do I even need to tell you ff.net'ers again for the seventh time that this is femslash and if you don't like don't read because Rory's drooling over Paris instead of the guys? I will anyway just to cover my rear. And of course if you like, review constructively. To those who've asked the major reason I have signed reviews on is because of past attacks of my writing and the concept of femslash in anon reviews, so I could never identify who was attacking me to defend myself. So if you have any negative words, you'll have to sign on with your ff.net account or review me through my email, I'm not taking any chances.

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There seem to be milestones to your life that you always go back to in the chaos that is your photographic memory bank, and though you don't remember most of the surrounding details, say the weather, day of the week, type of dress and what may have been spoken before that moment took root, more often than not, you can easily imagine what the actual event is, and maybe even an extraneous item that helps you recall when the event might have happened.
 
For example, my first day of school when I was five. My mother had been a big fan of Twin Peaks as mocking material, so she taped all the episodes off channel 8 and we had a marathon of it the night before I walked in the doors of Stars Hollow Elementary to begin my academic career. I couldn't even tell you what the heck the show was about then, nor can I tell you today because I was too buried in Ramona Quimby, Age Eight to really pay attention. But I can still tell you I know my first day of kindergarten I had strange visions of this Laura Palmer lady and her mystery. Knowing that instead of that boys are gross and/or cute probably set my wallflower path in stone instead of being a social being.
 
Then there's my first kiss with Dean, that's what we'll go into detail about. I almost didn't go to Chilton because of him, and for that I'm still kind of bitter about, since without Grandma and my mother yelling back and forth about supporting my education, I may have pulled out, simply because of a boy. That's another tale for another day though. All I know is I can't even remember the details before it all except for an argument about regional cola terms, and that he asked me to pick the hand out with the soda. I was nervous as I chose, and then when Dean bent down and kissed me sweetly, I found out that it was all a ruse for him to finally express his feelings for me. I ran out of the store at eighty miles an hour immediately after with a stolen box of cornstarch in tow, and couldn't believe the sparks I had felt. I was shocked that my body has responded to his kiss, and in such an odd way.
 
For Dean, I've always remembered the large, grandiose gestures he made for my love. I recalled the bracelet, the perfect ¼ year anniversary dinner, the car, and the heavy makeout sessions. I'll remember always with reverence those things he did.
 
What I won't remember happily however is that he always treated me like a china doll.

I guess the fact I'm the product of a teenage mother, and my own innocent looks played into the stereotype that I was the living equivalent of a china doll to Dean, meant to be browsed, examined and looked at with his eyes, but never to be touched. There were so many times I tried to give him signals that I wanted more than a replica of a relationship in the 1880s Victorian period, but he was too much of a wuss to take the bait.
 
The night I dressed up like Donna Reed, for example. Beneath that damned cursed TV mother skirt I wore the thinnest underwear I could find, and decided to go with a strapless bra, hoping for God's sake my brainstorm wouldn't only prove that women should be equal to men, but that I wanted to use that rare opportunity of being alone to have him initiate more than chaste French kissing from me. He never took the bait, and I left that night still in like (note the absence of love, we'll get to that in a bit) with him, but with a huge sexual knot inside of me yearning to be released. Dean then ruined the opportunity presented during our ¼ year anniversary with his demand I tell him that I loved him in that wreck of a car he was building, and it took even after we reconciled on the last day of Chilton for my sexual feelings to become renewed again.
 
Strangely, even after Paris had put a stop to our friendship with that ticket mess, I wondered if she was watching as we made out in the front drive.
 
I seriously thought that the second chance for Dean would lead to a renewed and arousing love, but by July of that year with my charity obligations for Harvard, he had renewed his bellyaching again that I wasn't there enough for his liking, and backed off from touching me in any way that might cause a minor arousal in my system. He was always so boring, pedestrian, and as he got even more into the car building with Todd and his buddies, I could sense all those damned fumes he dealt with in building it eating away at his IQ.
 
Instead of talking about books, he'd talk in Detroitese about how he needed a converter or SAE wrench head or some other kind of crap that I had absolutely no interest in at all, and also talked ad nauseum about that stupid robot boxing show he thought was the height of Western culture. The only thing I thought when I voluntarily watched an episode was the robot controllers were definitely using their machines to overcompensate for a certain reproductive part of their anatomy that had to be smaller than average.
 
Thank the Lord Jess came in just in time and I started realizing I was thinking of Paris as more of a rival around last November, because if he hadn't come in and I kept thinking of Paris as just a friend, I seriously think Dean would've gagged my intelligence, he's that dull! Did I forget to mention that Clara, his sister, is the only child I've ever wanted to give a nice, hard slap to because of her annoying, prattling attitude and diamond-cutting voice? I'm nothing but glad to be rid of any member of the Forrester family in my life.
 
That's right; I'm now a single woman, at least for now. But hopefully in about an hour, I'll be starting to make progress with Paris. For now though I'm sitting in my bedroom at five on a very early Saturday morning, bleary-eyed as I try to look for the right things to go along with the look I'm trying to perfect.
 
Why did I just say Dean is a footnote in history? Probably best to turn back time to Tuesday morning so I can explain everything up to this point, to when I was watering Dwight's garden.
 
When that bachelor left me in charge of his plants and everything, I had expected things to be easy. Of course Lorelai pawned everything off on me since she had Inn work in the mornings, so for the next few days I went over to his house after my stop at Luke's, watered his plants and made sure everything was in order, then left on the 6:50 bus on the loop around Hartford. It was a routine that was going to be easy to fall into, at least I thought at the beginning.
 
However, I failed to account for a few things as I woke up on Tuesday morning around 5:45. I got out of bed and made sure that everything was in order for my Chilton uniform, and took a shower before my mom, keeping my mind from wandering to the fact that in my sleep I had an interesting dream about the girl I had my eye on, and also about how I would go about breaking up with Dean beforehand. I was still undecided about cutting him off so abruptly, and my conscious was telling me to wait for an opening, which in our snooze of a relationship might take months.
 
I got out of the shower and prepared to put on my lingerie, when I found that there was absolutely nothing in my bra drawer, and Lorelai was nowhere to be found. I still found a pair of panties buried in the bottom of my shirt drawer, but nothing to support my breasts. Throwing on my robe, I ran out of my room, and found a note on a plate with a couple of pop tarts on it telling me the whereabouts of my brassiere collection.
 
Kiddo,
 
Decided to do all of our laundry together at work today before I went to Nashville tomorrow, so combined it in one pile before I left for the Inn while you were showering, you'll get it all back tonight. Have a great day at school :)!

Mom

I forgot to set aside at least one before bed to shove in my blouse's breast pocket like I usually did, and I hit my head on the wall for my stupidity! How could I forget that Mom was going out to Tennessee for a hotelier's convention until Sunday and decided to give me as little to do as possible while I was home alone? I blame the long two-hour conversation I had Monday night with Paris about the tests we would be taking on Tuesday, along with some brainstorms about the special Franklin edition we were printing later in the day about the football team's run to state. Lorelai had shouted something about laundry, and I probably yelled back 'yeah, go ahead' so fast I didn't realize the topic my mom was bringing up because I was too busy swooning to the sounds of Paris' voice.
 
I cursed God out, and quickly figured that if I just kept on my normal tank of an undershirt beneath the blouse and sweater, no one would notice that I was as free as a hippy beneath it all, thank goodness for my B cup that wouldn't be too noticeable beneath all those uniform layers. So I put on my clothes, ignoring that lovesick little voice in the back of my head that told me Paris might be taking more interest in my chest that day than usual. Come on, nothing can get any worse today, can it? My mind thought as I finished dressing, organized my backpack, did my hair and prepared for the day ahead.
 
You all know that after you say or think that, you're cursed, right?
 
Seems in the panic about my bra, I forgot to realize that the sprinkler timer at Dwight's was timed to water his annuals every Tuesday and Saturday at 6:45. I went into the house to get the watering can, and within moments of coming out of his home, I found myself in a nightmare that made my day even worse.
 
The sprinklers came up from the ground, and on full blast, the water came from all directions, basically covering the entire property with no little dry space along the front walk for me to escape their wrath. Since the timer was set to water for ten minutes, and he had locked the back door in the kitchen with a deadbolt lock he failed to leave me the key for, I was stuck in a very wet pickle.
 
I found the manual shut-off and tried to turn it closed, but it seemed to slip in my wet hands and I couldn't get a very good grip on it since it required a wrench rod I wasn't able to locate. Trying to save my academic day and thankful I decided to get a watertight bag two years ago, I threw my backpack past the picket fence and onto the sidewalk in order to keep my books dry, I wasn't ready to owe Chilton $600 for wet texts! It landed with a thud against the street's curb, but everything stayed in. My work was safe.
 
My own self, however, was getting totally soaked. I wasn't about to bring out my cell phone to call Dean lest it be destroyed by the soaking water, and the fact he'd be whining and making jokes about my stupidity for the next eight days because I couldn't turn a simple fucking sprinkler off! So I continued to struggle with it, my socks becoming soaked and my sweater swiftly becoming a glorified sponge from all the water being soaked in. I could feel the liquid seethe into the blue blouse above, and into the only other layer, my undershirt. Since it was cold water being sprayed all over, I started shivering in seconds. I cursed at Dwight for having such a screwed-up watering schedule, and I wasn't willing to go further in his front yard since the sprinklers in the front were on a higher jet setting than the ones towards the back, which would cause me to become even wetter.
 
Jess happened to walk by then on his way to walk Shane from her house to school, and with him being a guy who could probably remedy the situation, I yelled for help. As he made some snide crack about me being perfect for the cast of Blue Crush, I told him I needed him to turn them off, and now.
 
"Why didn't you call the bag boy?" he asked snidely as he found the control rod to turn shut the spigot hidden in a crack along Dwight's front walkway.
 
"I don't want to bother him, I thought I could do this myself," I screamed over the loud spray as he jumped into the situation and put the rod into the plate containing the watering controls. "He'd probably get this big superiority complex in his head for the next week and rub in my face that I was Periled Pauline and he saved me from the big, mean sprinkler!" I added on with a bitchy and bitter voice.
 
He laughed at my situation and Dean as the water started to finally stop flowing. "How about me saving you, isn't that the same?"
 
"No, because you're totally nuts about Shane and you're just a friend helping a friend out, and you have nothing but friendly intentions for me. There's a big difference there, it's too bad Dean can't get over the fact that boys can be friends with girls."
 
He finally got the flow of water to stop, and him also soaking, brought the control rod out of the plate, brushing off my complaints about my boyfriend. "See, all you have to do is apply a little pressure next time."
 
"Uh, thanks," was all I could say. I decided to take this opportunity of Jess wet to test out my sexuality a little as we looked at each other wet. In a perfect world, I'd be swooning over him and seriously considering taking him away from Shane.
 
But immediately my thoughts inexplicably drove me towards an alternate universe where Paris was the one who came in and turned off the sprinklers, getting her own self wet in the process. Let's just say with her breasts and her legs, within moments that thought of her damp body, had I not shaken myself back into reality, would have wandered off into a late-night pay cable track that would be very embarrassing.
 
Looking at Jess, I saw nothing but a loyal and trustworthy friend. Yeah, he kisses well, but Shane deserves those lips much more than me, especially when I'm smitten with someone else and considering my mom's unsaid feelings for Luke. We're already making progress in getting my mom to like Jess, so we both weren't about to ruin that, along with the hope she'd finally hook up with Luke by getting into more than a platonic relationship. Besides that, he admitted his love for his girlfriend Shane on the bridge Saturday night after a romantic dinner, and she's keeping him out of trouble, helping him a lot with school.
 
All right, so they got one ticket for lewd conduct on Taylor's watch because they almost had sex in his car parked next to the town square. They're in love dammit, give 'em a break old man!
 
Jess helped me gather everything back up and I took my soaked sweater off, hoping by wearing my jacket over my blouse it would dry off on the way in. We said goodbye to each other and wished good luck with our days, and he told me he'd take the sweater to the inn so my mom could throw it in the wash. I handed it over, and just barely made it to the bus stop and got on with a soaked head of hair and still shivering.
 
As we got on the expressway, some smart guy figured that on a 52° day, he was still hot. So him sitting in front of me, he opened up his window and on the way up to north Hartford (I get off towards the tail end of the route on the south side of the city, because of transit cutbacks they don't have direct service to Chilton this year), I ended up even colder than before with the 55 mph wind blowing right in my face. My hair was drying a little, sure, but everything else was staying stubbornly still, or making me freeze even more. I could feel that my breasts were hard in my shirt, the rough cotton undershirt rubbing harshly against my nipples, and I shut my eyes trying to concentrate on some answers for one of the tests. It wasn't happening, and even closing the coat to build up body heat failed to do anything but bring the damned shirt closer and make me even colder.

Oh, and he occasionally took a glance back as I read my book, trying to peek at my breasts through the wet shirt. I got out my huge Advanced Economics book and hoped that would be enough to deter him. He still looked however, the idiot.
 
I was about ready to give up hope and grin and bear the entire day through chattering teeth and snide Chiltonians commenting on my sheer blouse's state, when I realized where in north Hartford I was. Gellar Manor was only a few blocks away from Simsbury Road, and the bus was traveling south on its way to Main Street, where Chilton was along. I'd have to walk along a few gravel shoulders, sure, but I could find a place to at least dry off and...
 
I could borrow one of her blouses, I thought to myself, and suddenly there was a brilliant flash of light going off in my brain, and I started smiling. Suddenly, Dwight's evil sprinklers didn't seem to be putting a damper on my day.
 
As the bus came within a quarter-mile from the intersection with Auer Farm Road, things started to take shape. I, Rory, was wet, along with my blouse. She, Paris was probably dry and would never bring herself down to the level of a gardener. She also happened to be at my school, wore the same uniform, and was my current object of lust. Paris also was hinting at those same feelings lately, and though I couldn't confirm them 100%, certain little things I was doing to probe her sexuality were hinting towards the fact she had some thoughts about me. The neck and back massages, and lingering touches back and forth between us. Don't forget that we also shared a bed one morning with no argument and I'd found myself wanting to leave my current boyfriend for her.
 
As for my state at that time, it was almost perfect for a little seduction. With my mother's sudden whim to throw everything but the clothes on our backs into the washing machine at the Inn, I had no bra on, and was shivering cold. Every time I took a step or the bus went over a dip or bump, the tips of my nipples would rub against the fabric of my shirt, and I had to think of things that were unsexy in order to calm them down and numb them. Say, the effect of Dean's tongue against mine lately while we kissed.
 
I was already seeing it in my mind; I'd walk into her room, she'd hand me a shirt, and I'd take it off, revealing the thin shirt that fit my body like a glove. I could almost see her eyes drawn down, and her interest piqued. Paris would probably be thankful I was in that room, and hand me a shirt right away in order to calm her own nerves and her hormones...
 
Which meant even when she was out of the room I was in, she'd be with me all day long in that blouse, wrapped around my arms with her scent and essence in my nose, and feeling her own small, yet voluptuous form all over me. The shirt would definitely be larger than mine, and I could run my fingers along where the swell of her breasts would usually be, thinking of my own fingers in the real world against the bottom of her ample tits...
 
If not for my clothing and own well-being since I'd catch a cold staying in this shirt all day, I had to get that blouse with Paris in order to calm myself down, since thinking all those thoughts seemed to cause another liquid that wasn't water to seep onto my panties. If I didn't get off that bus I'd be having an Herbal Essences moment right in public! That, and once I was off the bus, Paris couldn't turn me down, she'd be concerned about getting me to school on time to keep our perfect attendance records going.
 
The bus speeding along at about 45 mph, I pulled the stop cord, heard the bell, and gathered my stuff together. At first, the driver thought it was a prank chime and started to speed up.
 
"Whoever did that, it's not funny!" he yelled into the bus' PA system. Apparently not many people took the bus from that upper-class part of town.
 
So I got up and yelled his head off. "No, I want to stop here! I've had a bad day so far and you better pull off to the side and let me off, don't forget my $40 a month pass is paying your salary buddy!" Boy did I sound like a prattling housewife.
 
Everyone on the bus looked at me, but I could care less. The driver grumbled out "Whatever, here you go girlie," and stopped, and I made my way to the front. I still felt a little bitchy though, so I thought I'd give Window Guy a piece of my mind. I bent down to his eye level and let him have it good.
 
"By the way you undersexed idiot, next time you see a very wet girl get on the bus and sit behind you, you might want to consider keeping your dumb window shut! It's warm, but not that warm!" I then gritted my teeth and finished off my put down. "Oh, and you're not my type, sorry to say. Next time take your eyes off my boobs and try to TALK to a girl, you might get somewhere!"
 
All I received was a pair of rolled eyes, and I got off the bus wondering if it was worth it to have a ride like that every morning, when Paris' car was much warmer, drove over bumps like a monster truck, meaning I couldn't feel them at all, and had a much better driver. A luscious looking speed demon one at that...
 
Uh yeah, I got off the bus and took out my cell phone from my coat pocket, scrolling through the entries until I found her number. She picked up, and seemed to be struggling a bit with something. I didn't know what, but I figured she might have been getting dressed. Ignoring the thought, I started a long ramble about Dwight and his stupid sprinkler system, and before I knew it I was only two blocks from her house. I was about to go into a whole rant about horticulture, when she interrupted me.
 
"Gilmore, I know you love rattling off every detail about something like a monkey on speed since those tapes you bought improved your WPM, and I'm sorry you got soaked this morning, but I need to know what you want before the first snowfall of the season."
 
Me on top of you, my inner vixen screamed out in desperation to mute Paris' annoyance, and I blushed red as yes, that exact thought got planted in my mind's frontal lobe since I was probably going to be in her bedroom. I shook that dirty thought out and asked for one of her blouses and promised to take good care of it, revealing the state of mind I was in since I was literally down to the clothes on my back.
 
Though she was a little surprised by my early morning appearance, she said yes without any hesitation surprisingly, and gave me instructions to get in. "Ring the buzzer at the front gate and I'll have Fran let you in, she'll guide you right towards my room through a shortcut past the kitchen and living room. I don't want you to have to run into my mother and have her question the reason you're visiting."
 
Things were still unclear between her and Mrs. Gellar, but at least she was starting to warm to the idea of me in her bedroom, much less her house. I hung up with her and finished walking towards her grand house, and Fran greeted me at the door after I got in the gate with a happy greeting.
 
"Hello Mistress Gilmore, Paris said you'd be coming by." Francisca looked very young for her age, and I could tell why she was one of the few lights in Paris' life. "Follow me upstairs. Did you want anything to eat or drink?"
 
Paris' nanny seemed sincere with the invitation, but I didn't want to make her feel like I was being an inconvenience. "No, thank you ma'am." We both headed towards a back patio in Harold Gellar's study and got into the house through there. I could make out the arguing voices of a richie-voiced woman and a younger man with a very fake British accent, three rooms away.
 
"So are we going to San Diego this weekend Sharon? I'd like to show you around the yacht I'm planning on using to tour the South Seas," the man said, and I could immediately deduce that the Sharon he was referring to was Paris' mother. As Fran guided me through the study door, I eavesdropped to Sharon's response, and couldn't believe the audacity she had, cavorting around with that guy and ignoring her own daughter.
 
"We should, my daughter is starting to become a pain in the neck again. She keeps asking me about moving out of the house and into an apartment near my ex, but I'm not having it. As long as she's under my roof, she's under my control, and I'll use her however I want." I blocked out the rest because it turned into a disgusting woo of him. I couldn't believe that Paris was only here because her mother was using her as a bargaining chip. December 25th couldn't come soon enough; because that's the day she turned eighteen and could finally get out of what clearly was Sharon throwing tens of thousands of dollars towards the judge a couple years back, and getting at least the custody arrangements and use of the house weighted her way.
 
We stopped near the stairs, and Fran noticed my clear anger at Paris' mother. She turned around, and I admitted I had been listening in.
 
"Paris is going to use part of the opened trust she'll get on her birthday to buy out the house, throw her mother out and take it back for her father, there's at least $15 million coming for her from her late paternal grandmother," she told me, honest and open. "Sharon is living off that man and Harold's alimony and that's basically it, the house hasn't become a wreck because the judge refused the throw out the staff for upkeep since Paris' father pays all of us, along with the fact he had a landmark status put on years back just in case everything that ended up happening, did, that way there would be big fines levied on Mrs. Gellar if she let this place fall into disrepair."
 
It saddened me to hear all these details about the inner gears of Paris' family, but it brought my heart closer to her empathy. Her nanny would have married Paris' dad had she not had a love of her own already; they had a relationship just short of Tracy and Hepburn, despite the fact they were employer and employee.
 
"Is Paris happy in this house?" I asked Fran as we climbed the stairs.
 
"She grew up here at the Manor with many positive memories, though the bad have outpaced the good in recent years." Fran smiled, and gave me that look that said she knew I was loyal and trustworthy. "It's only been recently however that her lost felicidade has came back, despite all of this." The woman set a hand on my shoulder, and rubbed my cheek. "Somehow, I think you may have a lot to do with that. When she came back from the Distrito where you accompanied her, she was in a mood she never had been since before she was forced to quit dance."
 
Louise had told me about Paris' days as a top dancer in Connecticut when she was younger, and showed old videos of her performances one day while we were over at her house studying for a test. Sharon had tried to destroy the videos, but Louise snuck them out before she could locate them. Paris tried to ignore them and went in the other room to study as Louise and I watched her smaller and more petite nine year-old self put Jennifer Grey and whoever the body double in Flashdance was to shame with her moves. I could still see her beauty, even through the haze of eight-year old VHS tape and the occasional shaky camera. She was on stage, and as she strutted her stuff to tunes from old Broadway musicals and 70s rock, her eyes told the story as well as her moves. Learning that Mrs. Gellar had choked Paris' dream the moment she needed a training bra and being told by her husband that he would not allow Paris to starve herself in order to save her dance career on her suggestion, it made me sick. She still had a bright career, and it was but another thing snuffed out by Sharon's dream of putting a 'My child attends Harvard' bumper sticker on her Audi's bumper.
 
I came back to normal time, and tried to shrug off Francisca's insinuations that I was the one who gave Paris her best summer yet, but she treated me as if I was the best girl ever to come in her life. We went down the grand hallway and finally arrived at the doors to her room.
 
"This is it, of course," she told me. "Are you sure you don't want anything, maybe a leaf blower to dry you off?" She smiled, and I couldn't help but laugh at Francisca's joke.
 
"No, I'm still fine, thank you; she's letting me borrow a shirt for class today."
 
The woman nodded back at me, and bid me a good day, turning around and headed towards the grand staircase to resume her duties in the Manor.
 
I opened the door, my inner pervert getting it's hopes up that I may be able to catch her in an undressed state. Paris was at her dresser almost fully clothed though, and I wanted to pout. Despite that though, she still looked cute, watching her out of her usual element. She was buttoning up her blouse and turned towards me.
 
"Hey Gilmore," she said, and I was thankful that my last name had retaken the playful nickname status that it had before the whole shower incident. She seemed to pause for a couple moments as she looked over my condition, as if she was trying to gauge the amount of water and freezing all over my person.
 
"Hi," I said back, my voice a little shaky from the cold permeating my skin. "I'm actually OK--"
 
"Nonsense, you look like you're in the first stages of hypothermia, that coat isn't helping at all. Sit on my bed, take off your jacket and wrap yourself up with that afghan," she told me in a maternal tone, though it was more warm than nagging. "I'm going to call downstairs for a cup of coffee so you can get some caffeine in your system to cause your mind to think that it's warmer."
 
Though once again I appreciated the offer, I tried to turn her down. "No thank you Paris, I don't want to seem a bother in your morning routine--"
 
"I don't mind Rory, really, now sit down and warm yourself up while I give you a dose of your favorite drug." She pushed a button next to her bed and asked for it as I sat down, suddenly warming to her motherly instincts. "Charles, I need a coffee bowl full of Maxwell House up here as soon as you can, straight and black, I have an urge for it this morning." Apparently the kitchen staff was pro-Sharon, but I didn't care, I was getting a chance to warm up in Paris' presence.
 
As I thanked Paris and she told me I'd get my wet laundry back on the way home from school, I took a look around her room, sort of dim in places, but in most having bright sunlight bouncing on and off the violet-colored walls. I wrapped the blanket around myself, and with Paris concerned about getting ready for school, was free to think to myself. I brought the blanket close to my body trying to dry the blouse so I wouldn't have to borrow hers, but I could tell it was a lost cause. Seeing Paris in her natural habitat was interesting to say the least.
 
She walked around her desk gathering up her books and complaining about the speed of the Manor staff getting my cup of coffee up there. It was as if I was watching that episode of The Jetsons where Rosie the robot went all insane perfectionist on the family because of a malfunctioning microchip. A place for everything, and everything in its place, I thought to myself, there was no place in the room that was cluttered up or out of order. Maybe her corkboard above the computer desk that was just as packed with crimson-colored pennants and materials as mine, but that was one of the few exceptions.
 
As I watched her get ready for school with her back turned and I tried to warm myself up, I found myself with a chance to look at her in a way that I thought she wouldn't notice. Paris bent over a little to pick up a book off the ground, and my eyes were drawn towards the back of her legs. Her skirt rose up a little, and I found myself stunned in place, part of her upper thighs exposed. My breath caught, and suddenly I had yet another perverted thought of 'accidentally' getting up a little too fast, and slamming into her so I would get an even better view of the back of her legs...and maybe her rear.
 
Stop it, stop it right now! My monologue admonished. You're not here to ogle her, you just need a shirt. You're going to be wearing her shirt all day and you won't think a single dirty thought about it...
 
However, it was too late. As her servant handed her my coffee in the door and she gave it to me, I could tell she was going all out to make me feel so comfortable, and that I should be appreciative for the gesture.
 
At the same time however, there was a sexual buildup flowing through me as the warm and familiar aroma of the boiled coffea arabica plant went through my nose. She certainly knew by now that the way to my heart was through my caffeine addiction, and I appreciated that Paris didn't take it to an extreme level. Starbucks would've been nice, but as I sipped my coffee at a moderate clip, I started warming up, slightly.
 
The scent of her afghan alone was getting to me, canceling out the coffee altogether, and I found myself bringing the blanket even closer. I read the clock over on her Mac's screensaver. It read 7:24am, and I would usually be in one of my large shuffling panics, hoping I'd get to school on time. But being in the room of the girl I was falling for, something inside of me made me want to stretch out that time out to an infinite period. My mind analyzed what she might have been doing on the other side of the line as I called her; something like dressing or just coming out of the shower, maybe something besides those things entirely. It wasn't like she had a webcast to her bedroom, but whatever she was doing was certainly distracting to my subconscious as I set the groundwork for the events for that morning.
 
I kept sipping the coffee, though I was sure I wouldn't finish the cup. Sitting on her bed was really getting to me, stirring up some strategy in my brain. My wheels were turning, and there was a golden opportunity being presented at the moment. I had on a wet blouse, and she was getting hers for me. Beneath my blouse, an undershirt that was causing me to feel more exposed that usual. And in my eyesight was Paris' ass, hidden to a point by her flared skirt, but towards the top I could make out her form. She put on her sweater in front, and I deduced that she was ready to turn around.

My chest is smaller than most girls, yes; but it's still enough to lure. I moved my eyes towards Paris' nightstand, noticing the golden antique hairbrush sitting on the top. Paris had probably used that multiple times; if I could get those bristles in my hair, there would be another connection to me right there.
 
Then suddenly, I had my most erotic brainstorm of the day up to that point; her hands would be all over the back of my neck, and my actual back as she tried to brush my hair. She would have to touch me, and I had a completely justified reason for it.
 
I closed my eyes, and my analytical self took it and tried to make it a reality in my brain. I could already feel Paris' breathing in my ear, her body heat against my backside, and her hands drifting all over the place. It would be only be a few minutes' time I could enjoy it, but I was going to stretch that moment as much as I could.
 
I took one last sip from the coffee bowl, and Paris turned around and handed me a shirt.
 
"You can go ahead and change in the bathroom," she told me off-hand, then turned back around and walked towards the corner of the room where she kept her shoes.
 
My usually shy side was taking a nap however. I kept on staring at the girl, and I brought her blouse up to my nose, despite the 97% chance that it probably had nothing but the scent of Downy and Martinizing.
 
After I smelled it however, I was intoxicated and thankful that the 3% chance it was Paris' unique bouquet was in play instead. It was a little wrinkled, probably straight from her hamper, but that certainly wouldn't be noticed beneath the spare sweater I kept in my locker at school. There was a small hint of vanilla perfume around the collar and her usual melon shampoo, and her own pheromones everywhere else. I just can't describe her scent without fragrance in words, I don't know, but I do know that it was sort of calming my mood down from bitchy and angry earlier, to something resembling lovesick and lustful.
 
There's something here, I thought, looking at the hairbrush, down towards Paris' shirt, then down at my wet shirt. I found myself connecting a seductive set of dots and finding another place to get in some touching with this whole situation. I had wet hair that needed to be dried. Thus, Paris would use the hairbrush on my head. I was also cold. I'm sure she had a hair dryer, and that her touching could do more than chill me for once. I also had fifteen minutes to go before we really had to leave. I smiled to myself and looked towards Paris, slipping into her socks. If this doesn't distract her attention, I thought to myself, I don't know what else will.

So with her eyes on her shoes, I went for it. I shrugged the afghan off and took off my blouse, still very soaked and completely damp, I actually wrung out little droplets of water with each button I unhooked. I could feel the effects of desire start to take over as skin was exposed in the front; I never had noticed how much space there was between the bottom of my neck and the neckline of my low undershirt before. I undid the last of the buttons and the cuffs, and got out of the drenched article of clothing. It was time for the plan to go into effect.
 
Paris turned around just as I got my left arm out of my blouse. "OK Rory, grab your backpack and let's get down to the--" I dropped the shirt to the floor, and held her shirt protectively. She paused, but somehow completed her statement. "...Go downstairs to the, uh, garage."
 
She was caught unguarded, and I knew it. Her deep brown eyes had turned from an unaffected look to something that could be defined as part lust, part scared shitless that she was facing her rival and friend, wearing nothing but a newly hemmed up skirt and an indecent tank top that almost showed off my entire upper body. The exposition of a little more chest to nothing but air caused my nipples to firm up even more, and I really woke up as I straightened the shirt over my chest and felt the cotton rub against the tips like sandpaper. I almost gasped, but bit my tongue so I could continue the slow and painful seduction of Paris.
 
I told her in a low voice that was about a fourth-generation copy of Louise's dulcet tones, which I always thought would make her a top phone-sex operator, that I wanted her to warm me up. Before I finished saying 'warm me up' though I realized I was being a little too forward, so I tacked on the excuse that I didn't want her shirt to become wet in turn.
 
She muttered something that sounded like 'sure', and she sat next to me on the bed. I immediately felt everything within firm up and on high alert, and my nose could certainly sense her presence. We hadn't even touched, but I already felt things inside that never happened with Dean right up against my chest when we made out. My pelvic muscles seemed to want to do involuntary Kegel exercises, tightening and releasing, as if wanting to tell me to screw this whole ruse and just take Paris onto the bed and let her have her way with me, if she was thinking that way.
 
There didn't seem to be any doubt though. Her look, usually stone cold and hard or as relaxed as a girl like Paris could be, was instead in that same gaze I remember her giving Tristan back in sophomore year whenever she was giving him a loving once-over, admiring the body she knew he was hiding in that uniform. I couldn't see her eyes, but I could feel them. The gaze she was giving me felt like it was all over my upper body, from the freckling all over my shoulders and arms down to what was obscured by the undershirt.
 
I smiled and let her know that I knew she was going to ask about where my bra was, so I was honest and told her laundry day stopped me in my tracks. Then, I made an unsettling comment that had I not found those stray panties somewhere in my dresser, I'd have nothing beneath my skirt.
 
That got me going, as I felt her stare even more. I felt not only internally giddy, but very stirred up. I had partaken in my feelings for her again a couple nights ago during a very unsettled sleep, and I craved...no, I demanded any contact I could muster with her.
 
I reached over to her nightstand, and not saying a word, watched the movement of her eyes as I felt my hand grip the cold metal handle of her antique hairbrush. Touching that alone gave me tingles, and I handed it to her, though it seemed like her brain had a sudden seizure and was in carnal state of mind instead of that of the average teenage girl. She seemed distracted with her sweater, and asked if I wanted her to brush my hair.
 
I gave her a good excuse that I didn't want my hair to soak her shirt, and Paris took the brush from me. This time instead of a lonely linger on her fingers, she took her time getting a grip on it from me, her hands almost seemed to grab mine. I released it, and she stretched over and grabbed a hair dryer from her nightstand drawer, plugging it in on a side outlet at bed level.
 
At first, she had the dryer on high, and it seemed like she was trying to find a way around brushing my locks. However, the sprinkler water had done quite a number on my style, so eventually she relented, and within about a minute, I felt the stiff bristles of her hairbrush deep within my scalp. Mmmm, just remembering how smooth that brush went through my hair, and comparing that to my crappy pink Goody from the beauty shop, there's no comparison, I'd get together with Paris just to have the right to use hers anytime I'd like.
 
Judging from how I envied her hair, I knew Paris wouldn't disappoint with brushing mine, and that's what she did. She alternated between fast and slow strokes, hitting all those right spots. She'd slow down for a bit, I think trying to get a feel for what was in back, and then start back up again, running the hair dryer down and over, then smoothing it back straight.
 
Then, she stopped suddenly, and turned off the hair dryer. I couldn't feel any heaviness against my skull anymore from water, but my head was feeling dizzy. The heel of her hand had barely grazed my head a few times, and I was wishing for more touching. I felt my heartbeat rush up, and then she spoke.
 
"I'm going to part your hair so it doesn't tangle up in the brush," she told me as she started running her fingers through in an innocuous way. OK, nothing at all suspicious or with an ulterior motive there, Paris wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. It was an expensive brush after all...
 
"Ror, would you mind if I brought down your shirt a little?"
 
Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop this train! My mind immediately reeled as my ears took in her words. They weren't in her normal monotone at all, there was a bit of a smile in her voice along with a little...flirting? Can Paris do that?
 
"I want to warm you up," she tried to clarify, but now it was obvious, she was trying to use this opportunity as much as I was. I hadn't even let Dean see anything more than my bare shoulders, and what should be, in a normal dull completely heterosexual world just a girl borrowing another girl's shirt, was becoming much more than that in the confines of Paris Gellar's bedroom. Despite the situation, I agreed without argument, and stretched the neck out so I could get as much as my back exposed to her as possible.
 
She parted the hair slowly, and I watched the time tick up on her computer clock, trying to keep my concentration on things other than her fingers against my back. I thought about a safe topic, like the Economics test. 7:31 and thirty-four seconds, 7:31 and thirty-five seconds, 7:31 and thirty-five seconds, the concept of supply and demand. Yes, perfect example! New Coke sucked, everyone demanded Old Coke back in 1985, but the supply was dwindling with the demand...I'm demanding Paris' touch and I hope she'll supply me and satisfy my needs...
 
Oh yeah, I did a real good job of distracting myself once I found out how exactly she'd warm me up, uh huh. Her brush not only smoothed out my hair, but she was deliberately bringing the tips of the bristles against my back, and it was feeling so good. It was like heaven having her do two things at once, and I never knew that she could distract me to that state. I thought the morning couldn't get any better.
 
That however, was before she brought her free hand to my upper back and began scratching the other side as she brushed each of the parts she created with my hair. I felt myself stiffen as her fingernails scratched against my skin, and I felt myself respond to her touch. Involuntarily I felt my legs sort of part a little and my back relax even further as I felt her trace patterns with both the brush and her hand, I swore I felt her signing my name and hers into my skin with her thumbnail. The fingers in her hand she was using to brush would occasionally tickle against my scalp, and all those erotic and tingly feelings in my head were being sent down my spinal column all the way down to where I could really feel it! I started struggling for both breath and thought, my lungs filling with the air she breathed and all the innocent and negative notions of her disappearing into the ether. I tried controlling the arousal wanting to leech onto my panties; nothing was helping and I was sure by the time I left I'd be dealing with much more than a damp undershirt.
 
I then tried to start conversation about the test to the best of my ability. I used my vocabulary to attempt a block out of every erotic feeling Paris was sending through, being purposefully wordy so that my brain had to concentrate on academics instead of sex. I rattled on for two minutes about Albert Greenspan's economic policy, and hoped that would do the trick.
 
It did, at least until Paris' index finger decided to trace around each one of the vertebrae along my spine up to just above the fringe of my tank top, she dug in her tips pretty deep. I was lost after that, as my arms developed full goosebumps, and my lower body started to tingle with what I can only describe as what felt like my groin becoming very hypersensitive to anything in and around my walls. The arousal was building down there, and I was seriously thinking of asking Paris if we could be late to Chilton just that once so I could choose from one of two things to scratch that nagging itch; solitary care, or...well, convincing her to try and 'cure' me of the problem she wrought.
 
I shut my eyes and couldn't think straight; my breathing was even more labored than it had been previously. Paris was killing me with her idea of scratching my back. God, Dean had never done that before. Yeah, he massaged my back, but over my clothes and in a way that suggested he was less than enthused with the idea. I was putty in her hands, and if her next words were for me to commit some kind of crime, I would've done it if that were my reward after. I smiled serenely, and intended to keep this morning all to myself.
 
When I opened back up my eyes, I found that those ten minutes had sped by in a blur, it was 7:40, and Paris had told me she was done and that it was time to go, we had a pretty tough commute to navigate in the next twenty minutes in order to get into class before 8:05. I brought myself out of my turned-on state, and got up from the bed, really not wanting to move, but ready for the day ahead. What had been a crap day the moment I got out of that shower, had with being so close to Paris quickly become a day where things were changing at a rapid pace into something wonderful.
 
"Thanks for brushing my hair, and the massage," I told her in appreciation, and she didn't vocalize it, but was just as thankful for everything. We raced out to the garage, got in the car and immediately peeled out, the rush of trying to make it on time fueling us onto the road to Chilton. We had a wonderful conversation on the way down as she peeled in and out of the rush hour traffic along Main Street at a pretty good clip, I was surprised when we passed a couple of police officers and saw her speedometer display reading fifty in a forty zone. Her father must pay off them off in order to let her indulge her inner speed freak.
 
I don't know how the hell she did it, but I found her Jaguar going under the familiar wrought iron gate of Chilton Academy with about six minutes to spare. Thank the Lord that Charleston gave her a close presidential parking space right next to the front doors, and we got out of the car before the engine cooled down after she turned it off, rushing our way into the hall and stopping off at the twin set of lockers Chilton seemed to curse us with. We threw both our unneeded books in and I grabbed my sweater, putting it on in a hurry like I did that one morning I hit the deer a couple years ago.
 
Paris and I got into the Advanced Economics classroom with fifteen seconds to spare, and with the policy being ass in chair at bell, we avoided tripping over the threshold of the classroom together and made it in our seats just as the first trill of the bell denoting class was in session rung. Thank God Madeline and Louise don't take that class, because with all that running we both did, I could feel that I was flushed, and Paris' face was shaded red from the exertion. If they did take the class, I could picture Louise bending down into my ear and asking me "So, did you both get lucky before school?" as both of us tried to refute the rumors.
 
I don't know what Paris did to me that morning, but my concentration was sort of shaky through all four of the morning periods. In the two classes in-between that we didn't share (gym's bi-weekly so this week was all academic), I went over the scenes in my mind all over again as the instructors thankfully gave us silent book work to mull over for those classes. I kept imagining the person in the seat in front of me was Paris, but thankfully I kept the urge to play with their hair bottled up. I read silently one passage in my AP Honors Journalism class as 'When you want to make an interview subject less intimidated by your presence, try to touch their inner selves.' I immediately thought of Paris, and my fingers doing exactly that. Flushing red, I shook that thought out of my head, and read it back in reality as 'try to get in touch with their inner selves.' Her damned shirt was getting to me in the worst way and I found myself trying to bury my neck within so I could get more of her scent. The teacher called on me a couple times and I almost didn't respond to his queries from the distraction.
 
By the time I got into fourth period and my seat behind Paris in Russian Novels, I was convinced that this day was going to be far from boring. Instead of waiting for me to come to her, Paris splayed her hair across my desk as she sat down in a way that was far from an accident. Usually she'd keep it tucked behind her chair so that it wasn't a distraction and I'd have to pick out the strands, and for almost the entire class period, I found my fingers and pencil winding around several strands whenever a student in the back got the lucky reading duties, and when I got up my courage to play with her necklace, the moment I touched her, I received yet another flash of arousal.
 
OK, you can keep this in control Gilmore, I tried to think to myself as I kept one eye on the dull reading material and the other on the back of Paris' head. Mr. Mercurio was far from attentive towards the middle of the room, and as the midpoint of the class period neared, I found myself recalling each and every touch, sound, scent and taste from the morning in Paris' room.
 
My brain's pleasure center started to create interesting scenarios as my eyes wandered around the room, uninterested in the translated literature assigned to me. The classroom had a window into the courtyard, so it wasn't hard to imagine having interesting conversations with my row-mate in front of the school's fountain. I shut my eyes, trying to will any non-scholastic images out, but it was for naught. Paris' hot breath against my bared shoulder, her hushed flirting voice and her untamed emotions from when I walked into her room all the way up to five after eight, all those things were stirring up emotions I thought I could control within the stone walls and hardwood floors of Chilton.
 
I hated to think it, but with her gold necklace chain in the ridge of a couple of my knuckles, her luscious hair tickling my hand and remembering her at her most seductive? I was becoming aroused within that class. Unlike the last time I secretly partook in my feelings during, I suspected I wouldn't be able to get away with silently coming with no one the wiser. My clit was throbbing, every shift in the seat I made was done slowly since I could feel friction each time I moved, of course the only pair of underwear I could locate was indecently thin and meant for when I wore a pair of jeans that was just that much tighter on my waist. I felt my heart beat at a double pace, and ignored any words coming from the teacher as he discussed yet another boring plot point.
 
My eyes opened up wide as I looked out the window towards the courtyard, and had this image of being backed up inches away, my skirt pooling on the surface of the water as Paris gave me a hot, passionate open-mouthed kiss and ran her hands up my legs, trying to get at my crotch. Even from inside, my ears could pick up the dripping of the centerpiece of the beautiful open-air quad surrounded on all sides by the four walls of Chilton's upper classmen building over the lecture and hum of the overhead projector, where Mr. Mercurio was circling points I already knew from my Cliff Notes book. I was losing the will to stop the fantasy, and with the lights turned out so the class could see the notes better, there was getting to be a huge temptation to cool my feelings within that classroom, or pray he'd let me use the bathroom pass so I could finish myself off in there before lunch.
 
Problem with both of those things however, as I said before, I'd definitely be loud since my entire body was on overdrive, so no secret pleasures of the flesh at my desk. The bathroom wasn't safe either, since Francie had been using her study hall to congregate her newly-organized secret society to replace the Puffs in there to make plans behind Charleston's back. Jarvis was the last person I wanted to find me out and expose my secret. So I gulped it all down, cooled my libido down by ending my massage of Paris' neck and hair, and thought of how dull and complicated sex was in French Revolutionary and Napoleonic times. That stopped all thoughts, with all the layers of petticoats and dirty French and Russian men and women becoming possible partners, so the rest of the class period went without nary a dirty thought of Paris.
 
Finally, the bell rang, and I got out of my seat, ready to eat lunch. You'd think the threat of hunger would kill my sex drive, wouldn't you?
 
Well, when Paris got out of that seat in a different way than usual, my thoughts, instead of food, went to eating of a different kind.
 
Yeah, that other one. Let me set up the scene;
 
I switched over to the desk on her left for a bit to talk paper strategy and wondering if I should get a couple different interviews during my other classes with the faculty to see what they thought about the run for the championship. She told me she had what she needed and we'd be ready for layout the next afternoon. Paris was about to get out of her seat, when it seemed like her right foot's shoe didn't get a good grip on the hardwood floor since the polishing job the school does in August had faded away, leaving sort of slippery floors, which caused so much chaos with the compulsory saddle shoes. It slipped, and I never expected what I saw next.
 
She rose up a little from the seat, but with her shoe not getting a good grip on the floor, she started to do this weird sort of sideways split. She tried to regain her footing, but it was too late. She fell back into her desk, and unexpectedly, her legs went into the air a few inches. She did something that resembled a spread-eagle, but thankfully there was a metal safety bar between the chair unit and desktop so she didn't fall through that space and bash her head into the next desk over. My mouth dropped open in shock, and I thought she might have been actually hurt.
 
That was before I saw a slight patch of white. The downfall caused her skirt to rise up a bit into the air, and as she came back down, my eyes, usually looking at her face where they were, were drawn down with the distraction, getting a nice complete gander at Paris' legs, all the way up to her junction. In the short space of thousands of nanoseconds, my mind went crazy as it got an unexpected view of her silk panties. She landed in the seat and the skirt came down, but it was of little comfort. The photographic portion of my memory had taken a mental picture of Paris beneath her skirt, and as I panicked, I was afraid that her eyes had met where my gaze was directed and the last three weeks of progress would be quickly forgotten.
 
Meanwhile, my inner vixen did a dance of joy to the tune of I see London, I see France, I see Paris' underpants!. I really, really wanted to ignore anything being sent down the sexual pipe by that side of me, so I put on my innocent face as best I could, and quickly offered a 'Are you OK Par?", a hand, and some assistance getting on her feet again.
 
She took it easily, and with a tight grip on my hand, got up from her chair steadily, cursing Mr. Mercurio.
 
"You know, the janitorial crew would come in here and rewax if he just asked," she told me, and something told me that my little sneak peek indeed went unnoticed. She ranted a little bit as I suddenly became newly aroused. I couldn't hear a word she said as a fantasy started building within my mind without my permission unexpectedly. God, I knew what she looked like nude already, but in such an unexpected way, that little slip was turning me on. Beneath I felt the floor beneath my feet take the texture of wheat bread as thoughts of my face between said other girl's legs shouted loudly over my regularly academic conscience.
 
Oh God, the way she was looking was absolutely cute. She had raised her own hemline at least a couple of inches as I did, and as Paris rambled on, I did my own interpretation of how the adults in Charlie Brown's world talked and thought of her saying completely different things. "Don't you agree that we should campaign Charleston for a compulsory polish and wax for all classrooms Thanksgiving weekend?" seemed to turn into "Ror, don't you think the surface of Mr. Mercurio's desk would be a great place to get between my tanned legs and eat me out?".
 
I had to get out of there, before I vocalized that I wanted to do a different kind of buffing on her than floor waxers did!
 
"Yeah, it's a great idea Gellar," I told her honestly. I wanted to say 'Let's go to lunch' and resume the day from there, hoping I wouldn't think about her slip for the rest of the day.
 
Leave it to my busy mind however to decide to go on a different track, and I said something completely different as I felt myself become even more turned on. "I think I need to refresh my mind a little before the Life Sciences test, so I'm going to go do some studying in the library for the first half of the period." I then extended a branch, hoping she'd take it. "Care to join me?"
 
"No thanks Gilmore, I have the material pretty memorized," she answered as she got up and regathered her books. "Want me to save you a plate of food?"
 
"Sure." I smiled at her and we said our goodbyes as she went towards the dining hall and I went to the library despite not having anything to study.
 
I intended to stop at my locker on the way to the library to pick up some of my materials and go over them alone in a carrel until about 12:25, when I'd leave for lunch. I was trying my best to distract myself from what I had just seen in the classroom, ignoring the powerful vibes being sent from my mind and my body. Every time I took a step, the process started anew; everything rubbed up against each other and I thought again of what would happen if Paris were able to keep going with her hairbrushing and backscratching past 7:40.
 
Stop it! This is school, my conscience chimed in, but my body was seriously having problems dealing with all these lesbianic thoughts of Paris. My feelings for her were hardly dissipating; Tuesday morning alone they seemed to build even further. Now I was walking down the halls of Chilton having dirty thoughts of her. Denial again, seemed the best course of action, so I blocked them out, thinking of Dean. Wonderful, cute, dependable, boring, safe, asexual, settling for less...
 
I'm afraid thinking of him didn't help; it only made me recall my entire Paris pros list, which I went over with fervor as I headed down the corridor. A minute had passed since the end of class, where I found the hall traffic surrounding me fading, and my eyes looking up at the plastic slate above the door that read Franklin Offices passing me by.
 
Now in a normal unisexual and completely academic situation I may have walked right past, heading towards the library, studying like the good little girl everyone thought I was, then heading to lunch when I finished.
 
All the sudden however, I was getting this strong and nagging urge to demean the privileges vested in me when I took the oath of office for Chilton Vice President and Paris' assistant editor at the paper. In my backpack's front pocket, sat the master key to almost every door in the school, given to both Paris and I as a reward and a privilege for earning our titles by the vote of the student body.
 
In front of me, stood the door to privacy. No one ever did Franklin work at lunch, so I'd have the entire office to myself for the next forty-five minutes.
 
I usually hate to be blunt and profane when it comes to my sex life, but I can't think of any other way to say it; I was overly aroused, horny as hell and the entire morning had caused my mind to go haywire. It flashed one of my most sexual dreams between Paris and I, getting hot and very heavy in the paper's darkroom. I paused in front of the door and felt my body excite as the mirage of eerie and haunting red glow from the light bulb above the developing area cast a glow on our prone bodies as we made love to each other on the table in the middle of the room.
 
Who was I kidding? I could've snoozed through the entire year so far and still gotten at least a 97 on that life sciences test, I wouldn't forget the material that easily. Considering whose shirt I was wearing, and how my right hand was against my thigh, craving to make its way above the hemline of the skirt, I'm sure I wouldn't be caught getting myself off in the office. Everything on my person felt so sensitive, and my pussy was begging for attention.
 
60% of myself didn't want to go through this whole perverted situation, but the other 40% consisted of my pleasure lobe, the thoughts I had of Paris and all my sexual parts. I certainly couldn't ignore all those parts. I recalled the way she had rubbed and scratched my back hours before, the soft and somewhat calloused feel of her fingers against my spinal cord, that breathing in my ears, her voice, sounding very sexy in a hushed whisper.
 
Not to mention the extra item that was the blouse that fit her curves quite perfectly residing on my body, and looked very cute and oversized on my form. I could still smell her scent within, and there was a voice in my head nagging me to pay her back for her generosity. I was losing all my hunger for food, and in an extreme mood to sate my appetite for her.
 
Paris' blouse seemed to be the next best thing to her warming body against mine. "Here goes nothing," I whispered to myself, taking the keychain from the clip in my backpack pocket, and unlocking the door to the newspaper.
 
Once I got in and after locking the door behind, I noticed how quiet and desolate the room was when the paper wasn't being put together. Desks stood empty, the hum of the 24 monitors in energy-saving mode seeming to be the predominant sound in the sort of shoeboxed office. I set my backpack down on a layout table, threading my fingers through my hair as I brought down the shades on the outside and inside windows, hoping to God there was no one around. Even in my aroused state, I was paranoid someone was watching me, so I checked to make sure there were no security cameras killing my urges. None to be found, and I tiptoed on the hardwood floors towards the room with the eerie red glow, thinking about Paris' current overtures all the way over in the twenty feet between the backpack and the door to the darkroom.
 
I shut the door, and what might have been a hot place in my dreams to fuck Par turned out to have some problems. Namely, the drying photographs hanging from clothesline around the room, moments from all of Chilton frozen in place. I started unclipping each one from their individual clothespins, and turning them around so that their eyes wouldn't see me and throw off the entire fantasy that was being brainstormed. After about three minutes, I finished turning all of them around, seeing nothing but the genuine Kodak paper logo staring me in the face from almost all four directions.

There was a part of me that really hated planning out the seduction of myself into an orgasm, the same little voice that keeps nagging me to grab Paris in the hall Francie-style, push her up against the wall and kiss her numb. However, I couldn't, because I like taking time on my fantasies. Slowly, I unbuttoned the sweater over her blouse, trying to watch myself be seductive in a mirror that stood just off to the side of the sink. My hair was still somewhat flat from the sprinkler incident, and as I opened the sweater and took it off, I finally got a good look at myself in the mirror for the first time since I put her shirt on.
 
"She chose the right shirt," I told myself as I untucked it from my skirt, trying to muster up something sexy. Then I smiled at the way I look. I know it pisses Paris off when the moment I get in the car I strip myself of the tie and untuck the shirt, but lately she hasn't been commenting on that. She's been even more concerned about the road than usual, and I can tell there's something inside that tells her I've become as much of a distraction as a phone call from Sharon asking her twenty-one questions on her anytime minutes.
 
I smiled to myself, and with nothing stopping me, inhaled the scent of her blouse with my nose as I sat down on a hard metal stool. I spread out my skirt so I wouldn't sit on it and for easier access. Honestly, I thought I'd be able to keep myself under control.
 
Watching my eyes trail my hands, I undid the pesky Chilton tie that I usually felt like would choke me, and unbuttoned the two top buttons on the shirt, exposing some skin on my front. I could feel myself flush as my shy self realized the gravity of the situation, but the sort of thrill of being caught despite the two locked doors in the way of the catchee spurred me on further.
 
I brought my hands to the front of my shirt, stroking the material in a slow and wanting manner, imagining my palms on Paris' waist, bringing the material up her body and getting a small glimpse at her stomach. I could feel the cold steel along the edge of the drafting stool against the bottom of my thighs, and already felt myself wet with desire at what I was coming up with. I moaned her name as I undid a couple more buttons on the shirt. So far, so good, I wouldn't mind sending one salad to the trash that day, because I was going to take my time bringing myself to orgasm before 12:50 with the fantasy that was brewing in my mind...
 
Instead of thinking of a future situation with Paris, I decided to dredge up something from our past where we may have been able to fit in our relationship. It's the night of last year's Bracebridge Dinner, and I changed around a few details to fit my needs. Instead of lying down to fake a buss as Romeo, Paris went ahead and gave me a kiss that was so full of love and wanting, that I wanted more. After the curtain was drawn on the scene, we started making out backstage, knowing where everything was going from there on. We didn't quite get to second base that night, but we were both hooked on each other from then on. So I broke up with Dean citing his jealousy, and started seeing Paris behind everyone's backs. Whenever we could get a moment, at the Franklin, girl's night outs in Springfield, Mass. restaurants that were far from the Chilton and Hartford gossip mills, sleeping over at each of our houses and getting close and intimate once either Lorelai or Mrs. Gellar went to bed, we were slowly building up a relationship behind everyone's backs.
 
Then, my mother got the idea for the Bracebridge Dinner. She'd invite everyone in town for a free supper, sleigh rides and a night at the inn. I didn't know whether or not to invite Paris since she technically wasn't a citizen of Stars Hollow, so a couple days before the day, I dropped a hint to her as we had a tryst in my mom's Jeep that she might want to drop by with some newspaper work so that she had an in. With that, Lorelai was sure to tell me to share her room, and we could consummate our relationship with no one the wiser. Of course she said yes, and we put the plans for the evening in motion, knowing that Madeline's writing style somewhat resembled Usher's, who in turn stole it from Prince, who originally took it from ee cummings. Seriously, is there any originality in publishing or music anymore?
 
I couldn't wait for her to be mine finally, wholly and fully, as I looked myself over in the mirror and put on a green dress made out of silk-like material. It slid over my form, and I really felt sexy as I walked out of the room and my mother told me that I looked like I was ready to turn heads. There was only one person who I wanted to have all of her attention; and Paris fit that role wonderfully.
 
I did my usual Inn stuff once I got in; the place settings and things like that. I also do some room service by putting mints on all the pillows, and getting a look at the register beforehand, I saw the only room that had a blank spot under it was the Presidential/Marriage Suite. I thought that was perfect and fortunate; my mother would have to give a room like that to her if she stayed; Paris would technically be an invited guest of mine, and with that she did need a room. I knowingly smile innocently as I walked in the room and place the mint on our pillow. I just had a feeling I'd forget about that later as we ached to make love to each other.
 
Finally, the time had neared, and after putting that final touch on each of the rooms, I go downstairs to the front desk and start checking the townspeople in. I do my best to keep my face unexcited each time the door opened and instead of Paris, someone like Gypsy or Miss Patty walks into the front room instead.
 
Dean comes in a few minutes later, his hand being held by a girl I'll kindly say was just a little less whorish than Summer, and who would be fit perfectly later in life into his 'subservient little housewife template' he had made up in his head. He regards me with all the enthusiasm an ex-boyfriend can muster for his former love (read; barely any), and they go off and join everyone in the dining room to prepare for the event.
 
Thirty minutes later, she still hasn't arrived, and I get worried because there's some snow starting to fall outside and she may have spun out on the road down. I start pacing the room, hoping that she's OK, but there's not much to fear, as moments later she walks into the inn, her hair covered by a cute brown knit cap and with a bright smile on her face, her jacket hiding the body I've gotten to know so well over the last couple of months. I want to smile back, but we have to keep the cover going, so we both settle for a non-sexual handshake and snuck blown kisses as she goes over the Franklin stuff we have to look over during winter break.
 
Thankfully, it's not long before we can find an opportunity to be together, because there's a couple of horse-drawn sleighs in the town square that go around a couple times, and at a slow clip. We both decide to go after we go through the little mirage of I inviting Paris to dinner and Lorelai giving her the Suite since the snow is starting to come down a little, and we get into the sleigh together, wrapping ourselves together in the comfy woolen blanket over our bodies.
 
We watch the scenery together, and I just love looking at Paris' face in the cool December night. Her eyes are wide as she looks into mine, cheeks flushed and rosy, wanting to be warmed by my love, and her lips…well it doesn't take long before we're able to sneak in a soft kiss as we hit a dead spot along the makeshift trail.
 
I'm thinking I won't be able to do all that much with her in the sleigh, seeing as it's so public. But all the sudden, she starts talking about some obscure book she had just read and how much she loved it to me, when I noticed her hand hardly at her side, instead it was drifting up the skirt of my dress.
 
I intake a sharp breath and thank God for blankets, as I try to control her wandering hands. She uses the talking as an evasion topic all the time in order to get into my pants in my fantasy.
 
"Paris," I admonish her as I grip her wrist. "Not until we get into the room! Geeze, I thought you were going to be more well-behaved than Dean."
 
She gets this cute guilty smirk on her face. "I guess you're right Ror. After all, I'm just a repressed private schoolgirl with a high intelligence quotient and lesbian tendencies trying to seduce the same type of girl, namely you, how can I help it though? I'm repressed and you're making me come out from my cocoon." Then, she gives me this serious hovering look that makes me want to either slap her or bring the blanket even higher against our persons.
 
I get an evil idea, and start to play with the buttons on her jacket, trying to get it unbuttoned so I can get at her breasts above her full cashmere sweater. At first she resists, until I decide to relent and let her move her hand higher up my thigh. So we end up spending the entire sleigh ride not taking in any scenery, and instead building ourselves up for later in the night, playing with each other beneath the blanket wearing all our clothes. When we get off the sleigh, my mother is there to see us in, and notices that Paris' jacket is open and my dress has seemed to develop a sudden case of static cling in the front.
 
"You two better straighten your clothes up before you get in, Taylor's going to be grumpy if he sees you two at the dinner table like that." We both laugh nervously and straighten out our clothing, hoping that no one noticed what we were doing as we made the double circuit around the gazebo.
 
My eyes glazed over as I got into the fantasy further, and I loved the slow burn I was causing to myself. By about that time I'd unbuttoned the blouse a couple more buttons down to just below my breasts, and felt the warm air of the darkroom against my undershirt, straining my nipples right against the cotton. I felt the tank top shift a little up towards my bellybutton and could see the fringe of my panties under my skirt. I used my other hand to hike up my skirt a little for easier access to my clit, massaging it through the blue material. I could already feel myself wet with desire, and moaned out with each slow agonizing and teasing stroke.
 
I could taste Paris in the air as I started to sweat a little, and could sense her scent. I wish I could've gotten a peek at her bathroom to at least get a hint of what kind of toothpaste she used. Probably Tom's peppermint, she's the kind that goes all natural, I thought weirdly to myself. Why did I suddenly fixate on how Paris' mouth tasted? I knew she went for something off the pop culture radar when it came to a mint choice, because when she needed to fill up her gas tank on the way to Stars Hollow occasionally, she'd pull into the 7 Eleven and along with the gas, bought a tin of vanilla mint Velamints...
 
Sorry, I got a little off-track there. Sense my excitement here? Anyways, I was starting to feel pretty hot sitting on that stool getting myself off, and could feel the thin wood board that padded the metal seat start to soak up. I ran a finger slowly against my pantied slit as I went further with the fantasy...
 
I fast forward the fantasy through the dinner, where even though Paris sat next to me, not much happened except for the occasional hand against a thigh here and there or my foot against hers. Sadly, she couldn't dress fancy because of our little Franklin work scenario, so she had to wear loafers instead of dress shoes, but I still was able to coax Paris to brush her socked foot against mine here and there.
 
She loved the dinner (and the company that came with it), but nagged at Lorelai for some specific problems with the believability of the activities, including the servers wearing shirts not made from cotton, or wool. My mother just laughed off the complaints, and I could tell Paris was being playful with her words. Of course I found her attention to detail something I loved in her. Especially when it came to our long talks with each other and going over everything in our relationship with a fine tooth comb.
 
Finally, after some more fun pomp and circumstance, it was finally time, Paris and I could go up to the hotel room, and we could finally go farther with our relationship than the occasional backseat groping and cramped coupling sessions that so far had defined our secretive dance. As much as I loved her lingerie, I wanted to feel Paris' fingers inside of me. If her handwriting was that beautiful, imagine how'd she make me come with those hands.
 
We linger in the front room for a bit, talking with my mom about what we were going to do over the winter break. It was idle conversation Paris and I really weren't getting into, just enough to keep us in control until we got up the stairs. The last person climbs the stairs, and after we hear the door shut, we look into each other's eyes, filled with lust and want and smiling at each other. Thank God Lorelai's still under the assumption that we're good friends.
 
Paris and I run up the stairs and into the suite, our hands intertwined as we locate the 'do not disturb' sign and she hangs it outside on the door, hopefully no one is on to us, but I doubt it since the townspeople should know how exhausting Chilton's curriculum is and that I'm thankful I get such a long two week break.
 
The door hasn't even clicked before Paris has wrapped her arms around me and starts playing with the back zipper on my dress. She eases me into a luscious and cute open-mouthed kiss, and that awesome feeling of her lips against mine sends a chill up my spine as we slowly navigate the space between the door and the bed.
 
"Don't you think we should light a few candles, get some romantic atmosphere in here," I stumble out between kisses. "I mean it's our first time…"
 
She shushes me up with a finger to my lips, my eyes following the digit as she brings it from my lips and into my hair to run it through. "We can do candles and flowers and chocolate kisses on Valentine's Day, right now all I want is you Ror." She kisses my nose softly, and I almost want to tear up, that she wants only me, not the other things that surrounded it. "Though that bowl of chocolate ice cream with peach slices I had for dessert probably has something to my sudden craving for you."
 
I laugh, as I run a hand against the bottom of her breasts through her red speckled sweater and try to muster up a seductive tone. "I suggested that for the menu just for you, I read once that they're sensual aphrodisiacs and I know from experience that you love peaches."
 
She moans out, the whole seduction is working so perfectly. "Would've been a better dessert if you would've been feeding me though." I move my hand down and into the shirt, and she brings me down with her onto the bed.
 
There are no words as she starts to bring down the zipper holding my dress together, and I try to move her shirt up so I can get a hold of what I really envy about her, God I love her breasts, they're like pillows that I've ended up sleeping on a few times when I got Mom to let her sleepover after one of our meeting of the minds where I'd bounce paper ideas of her, and Paris would return some more. I knead them through her bra sensually, running my thumb against where I guess her right nipple is. She gasps out and cries my name as I find just the right spot.
 
"Oh God," she says, and Paris is distracted from her task for a moment as I hear the slight sound of a rip coming from the back. She finishes unzipping my dress, but the shock of my touch apparently made her grip the material, causing it to tear below the end of the zipper.
 
"I'm sorry, I guess I got a little too wild there, I'll pay--" Her apologies are muffled as I kiss her again, trying to bring her focus back to the task at hand. I decide not to get revenge on her by ripping off her sweater, and she lifts it off and throws it off to the side. I look at Paris' chest, covered up by her bra, and still think she's wearing too much.
 
I slide out of the shoulders of my dress, and I can see the giddiness in her eyes as she finds there's nothing between it and my breasts. I decided to go without intentionally just so I could see her reaction. Her mouth drops open, and she somehow finds words to comment me on my gutsy move.
 
"I thought I had the shy one," she gasps out, and she looks at my naked front with this reverence that's usually reserved for an article or a well-produced debate argument. "I'm going to die young if you keep on shocking me like this."
 
I muster a sexy smirk and wind my arms around her back, her body hovering over mine as I get a deep view into her cleavage inside of her bra. "I am Mary you know, puritan and clean on the outside..." I trail off as I stretch out the bra hook and release it, hearing a satisfying snapping sound as Paris' tits are freed, "But inside I'm yearning for you."
 
We tangle together, and we get more intimate as the minutes wear on. Shoes, socks and hosiery get kicked off, and I manage to make surprisingly fast work out of stripping Paris of her corduroys, revealing her wine red-colored undies, already damp with building arousal. With her watching me, I brought my nose down to just above her stomach, taking in her fragrance. There was nothing in there but untamed wanting and longing for me, my body, and my heart and soul, looking down at me as she released her hair from an uptight, conservative ponytail.
 
Foreplay with her is amazing; I can tell though she's never had to do it before, she's been reading plenty of books on the subject of sex, and trying to learn from the mistakes her mother and father made in their years together. She's harsh when needed, but there's this side of her that's just happy someone loves her. She plays with my breasts and kisses down my torso just as much as I do to her, and I love the slow torture that she's giving me. I reward her with the same attention she deserves, taking a hold of her body and showing her I may have been a sexual slouch when it came to Dean, but that was only because I was not only with the wrong guy, but the wrong sex altogether. Somehow, my oil and her water mix perfectly when we're together.
 
I shut my eyes and go with the flow of the fantasy as it continues. I'm not even watching the clock as the blouse Paris lent to me was fully open, I took my right hand and brought it beneath the undershirt, trying to tease my breasts. They're both firm and hard, excited beyond belief from not only the mixed signals, but what I've been dreaming about; imaging Paris giving each one attention. I slipped a finger in my mouth, coated it with saliva and moan erotically as I run it against the outer circular areola; the tropic temperature of the darkroom heating my body so much I had to keep myself from fainting.
 
My other hand was just as occupied, loosening the snaps of my plaid skirt as I dreamed Paris was doing that instead. I opened it up and ran the hand against the blue waistband of my underwear. Because of the dark color of the room I couldn't actually see how damp I was, but from the sense of air flowing beneath my pussy, my lips were quite damp. I couldn't take everything off obviously; so I had to make do, trying to shove the skirt as off to the side as possible so I could access my clit and get myself off. I could hear the unbalanced stool shake beneath me, the feet not properly aligned with the floor, so I started to be scared I was going to fall off the chair and onto the hard linoleum floor below.
 
Thankfully, I was able to be somewhat enterprising and find a perfect position to screw myself in the cramped space. I stayed on the stool, but moved it to between the photo-sorting island table in the middle of the room and the side counter. I then reclined up against the front of the counter, my back resting comfortably and used my feet to brace against the island, thankful that Chilton was an expensive enough school to afford a high-quality darkroom like that. I spread my legs a little, and pulled the skirt down my legs just enough to mid-upper thigh so I could see my groin. Then I brought my undershirt up just so it was exposing my navel, and prepared to jump back into the fantasy, literally, as my right hand traced the faint outline of my wetness and I renewed my makeshift fantasy...
 
Paris and I are under the sheets and blankets of the large king size bed, very comparable to her bed, and though I think she's going to try to initiate cunnilingus on my first time, she tells me it might be a lot easier on me if we just did hand-to-pussy with each other. We're completely naked, and hoping that no one ignores the sign on the front door and tries to unlock the door and walk in on us.
 
She seems a little nervous, as do I, and we take a little break from pleasure in order to calm our fears.
 
"Did you...um, would you want to be on top?" she asks me, biting her lip as her doe eyes look into mine, trying to decode the answer straight from my mind. "Because if you wanted to, I wouldn't mind being bottom, at least that's how I was taught in the books since the--"
 
I take her hand into mine and try to calm her down, she's almost scared. "Par, those situations are with a man and a woman, they certainly don't apply to us at all." I bring her close, and kiss her as I bring my hand up to her inner thighs. "I respect you and I've taken most of the initiative trying to keep this hidden, so I feel like you should be on top."
 
"You're sure?" she asks, sort of with a frown and her voice strained. "I don't want you to feel inferior to me, you know we're equals in this--"
 
I couldn't take it anymore, what with her left thigh right up against my apex, her chest on mine and both of her hands on each side of my rear, so with all the strength I had, I caused her to roll over so that I was on the bottom, and Paris was right on top. I move my hand from her side, and towards her crotch, and though we were both covered with the blankets and sheets, she knew what I was trying to do. All I had to do was vocalize the confirmation.
 
"Paris," I said firmly, her eyes never leaving mine. "Fuck me."
 
I think that basically shut her up, hearing her girlfriend use profanity so freely without regards to her usual puritan virtues. I hear her voice gasp at the shock of the F word from the girl below her, but she still moved down and we started to kiss heavily as she tried to reassure me about what she was about to do. In the fantasy though, I thought of myself as already broke for some reason or another, so I assure her I wouldn't feel a thing but her hand inside of me.
 
"You know I love you, right?" I coo, and she smiles at the warm words.
 
"Yes, and I love you too Rory." With that, I eased my left hand into her slowly, and she slips her right into my wetness, careful to make sure I was ready to be filled. Within moments, I feel dizzy with desire as without trying, she hit a very sensitive spot within my walls.
 
"Oh God!" She firms up as I scream, thinking I was in pain. I use my free hand to grip her wrist, and my smile said it all; I wasn't in much pain. A little bit from the stretching out hadn't been done before, sure, but it was easily replaced with a wonderful dose of relief called ecstasy. She resumes her slow strokes, experimenting all over and trying to find just that right spot to give me pleasure anew.
 
Meanwhile, I don't know how Paris was doing as my hand strokes in and out, but whatever I was doing, though not as shocking to her as my screams, it was working. She sighs and moans, content with my pace so far, though I haven't hit a sensitive nerve yet, I think of her as sort of uptight, so I expect to take a while to figure out just what makes a Paris Gellar orgasm tick. Her hair is against my shoulder and I feel her breath quicken with each push and pull, movement in and out. We seem to find a rhythm, and I calm down as the stress past my lips seems to numb from the pleasure of her fingertips. They feel comfortable and passionate, the ridges of her prints seeming to treat my insides like a finely-tuned engine, trying to find that right place for me to make a certain sound. The heel of her palm is against my clit, and I feel fully and truly whole. The "Oh God!" cry of earlier seems to be reduced to a murmur of contentment with my schoolmate as her idea of pleasure is something I'm quickly starting to agree with.
 
She eases each finger in slowly, and from two to three, I start to feel very content. My pelvic muscles tighten up against her digits and I feel my hips involuntarily rise up and down as Paris' hands, not to mention her well-manicured fingernails (Mmm, another thing I love about falling for a rich girl) find all the right spots. On her end meanwhile, Paris seems to be just fine. I'm a little more awkward and tentative with my strokes, but she doesn't seem to mind my more experimental nature of things, because she's trying to get more of my hand inside of her with each push in. In my hand, she feels so warm and open, she's definitely a hidden sexual being.
 
I decide to push a little deeper within, and we're looking into each other's eyes, gazes never wavering. I can tell Paris is loving the deeper push because all the sudden she bites her lip and whines, which with her mouth open would have certainly been a scream. We're still kissing so much that I can't even count each time her lips have touched mine or my cheeks, and my hand is cradled against the small of her back as I nuzzle against her nose.
 
I don't know what it was about being alone that was causing me to be a little more adventurous, but I was doing more than rubbing myself as the fantasy went on. My legs were spread even wider and I used my left arm for leverage against the back of the counter to stay steady. My panties are about halfway down my thighs and I'm feeling very damp as I work my clit over, thinking of Paris' hands. God, it felt so good, even moreso than when I thought of her in the dorm closet months before and any of the times I've thought of her in my own bed. I felt the tangle of fluid and hair around my fingers, and it made me feel ever more untamed. I was ready to foam over soon, bucking against my hand as the dream of Paris and I went forward. I looked up at the clock to get an idea on time; only fifteen minutes left! I had been so into the fantasy that there was no way I'd be able to finish, clean myself up and eat.
 
My fingertips were glistening with my cum as I drove them in as deep as I could without tearing through, I was almost crying as I begged myself for a release, basically gasping for air. My exposed skin was covered with a light sheen of sweat as I continued on, and I tried to resist the high temptation to stop and cool off in the office. I knew my hair was basically done for, and it was too late to realize that several of my fellow peers would take one look at me when I got back into the halls and deduce that I got laid during the lunch hour.
 
Screw 'em, my usually conservative conscience chimed in. They don't even pay attention to you and Paris in the first place, they're all about the QB anyways lately, he's the big man on campus. Remembering that I have no interest in any of the males on any of Chilton's athletic teams, I decide to go into the homestretch and conclude my fantasy, what with Paris' shirt becoming close to soaked in the underarms...
 
I can tell Paris is starting to tire and her energy is fading as we almost come to the point of satisfaction. She's wavering and her grip on my body is starting to loosen, and I think I'm getting to that same state of exaustion. I feel my lips becoming numb from all that stimulation and she's told me the same thing with hers, so we're stroking each other's in a flurry of activity, we can feel the bed beneath us creak as our sex is coming to fruition. She's still caring in the rushed lovemaking, kissing my forehead as she beckons me further.
 
"Come on hon, come on," she pants out. "I'm almost there--". She groans in pleasure, and I see her eyes roll back in her head as she tries to drive herself further into my hand. I think I've finally found her spot, so I leave it where it is and ask if where my hand works for her. Paris sighs "Yes!" aloud, and we're both starting to get to our peaks. My body is writhing up and down, and I can feel my boobs bounce up and down on my chest with each stroke of my pussy into her hand. I'm smiling deliriously, and I can feel the beginnings of the orgasm building.
 
Paris' strokes are coming at me in rapid succession now, and I feel her fingers pound against my walls like a drumbeat. I didn't think it would ever feel that divine, but I'm starting to see stars from her attention. Noticing my body is starting to shake and it's almost time, she starts tugging at my clit in order to hasten me. Almost, almost...
 
"Paaaarrrrr, ugggghhh," I scream as I try to will the O further. I want her to see that she's the one true person that I love. We push into each other, trying to find our way into a combined euphoria. Our teeth are gritted, foreheads scrunched, and our bodies are as tight as rubber bands as we ride out those last few movements in each other's arms. This night has been even better than words could ever describe.
 
Finally I feel release and I shriek at a high decibel as I cry out Paris' and God's names together as I feel my muscles contract tight against Paris' hand. My mouth is wide and I swear I can't breathe as the orgasm she gives me makes me see literal stars in my eyes. It's sensual, beautiful, raw, and everything that I ever dreamed of for my first time with her. Somehow I manage to find just that right spot within her, and a couple minutes later Paris is reversing the process, even if she was a little late, but I blame my inexperience for that. In my eyes, she becomes more than my academic rival and girlfriend; we share everything together, and I hope this night shows her that I'm nothing but thankful that she breached that barrier between romance a few weeks ago on that stage.
 
It takes us both quite a while to settle our bodies down, damp with sweat, tears and our fluids, but I wouldn't have it any other way. After she comes down from the high, with me being the taller one in the relationship, Paris spoons into me and gives me an intimate hug, smiling as she plays with my hair, and I in turn flitter around with her locks. She looks at me with her wide enigmatic eyes colored the same shade as a walnut, and finds nothing but reverence.
 
"So earlier," she says, "when you asked for candles and all that other stuff? Much safer and sexier in just the dim light, isn't it Ror?"
 
"Very," I affirm. "We both have long enough hair anyways, candles would've been a fire hazard to this entire evening." I nuzzle her nose, and listen to the sound of her breathing. "I really did want to feed you peaches and chocolate ice cream though, think it's too late?"
 
"It'll make a delicious breakfast at the very least; right now I'm too full to eat, physically and spiritually." She kisses me, and I start to feel the situation start to lose a little steam, albeit with some nice closure.
 
"You're not turning down a session of lovemaking in the shower when we get up then?"
 
I watch her smile curl even further as we cuddle into each other and get ready to fall asleep. "I told you I loved you today already, right Gilmore?"
 
"You did, about five times," I say as I feel her chest press against me and sleep coming fast. "Of course, it's not too late for you to tell me again to make it number six."
 
"Then I love you Rory," she confirms in her best seductive monotone. "How was that?"
 
"Just what I was hoping for again, for I love you too Paris." We fall asleep in each other's arms, knowing the magic of the snow outside falling on the streets and lawns of Stars Hollow has once again worked its unique magic on two lovers, undiscriminating about whom loves whom.
 
The dream ends just as I started the last strokes of my hand against my clit and I bucked against my fingers, feeling satisfaction seeping from my pores. I was so a total mess and going to need a trip to the bathroom on the way in, but as I came all over my hand and a towel I had placed over the seat of the stool so I could catch any arousal dripping from me, I felt so content and full, dreaming of Paris that way. I was about half-naked, but I had fulfilled a sudden fantasy that I loved carrying out. It took a couple minutes for the orgasm to go through me so that I could regain my footing as I got out of the painful position I was in, though the sexual feelings numbed any extra back pain I was sure to be carrying around for the rest of the day.
 
I looked up at the clock and found it reading 12:43pm, which meant I had seven minutes to get ready to get to the classroom before the class I took started. Since it was in another building, I started rushing things a little, toweling myself off with a paper towel and intending to flush it down the toilet as I struggled to rebutton up my blouse and straighten up my shirt. I was in a panic, and it took at least a minute to find the discarded tie within the pitch black area along the bottom of the darkroom's floor.
 
As I bent down to pick it up, I remembered that I hadn't pulled my panties up quite yet. I picked up the tie and was prepared to pull them back up, when as I rose, I felt this blissful rush of cool air rising up beneath my skirt and breezing across my numb mound. I shuddered at the shock, and suddenly my devilish conscience, the one who in my mind wore a slutty low-cut top with a high-rise red leather skirt, seemed to have tied up Good Rory temporarily, because I got an idea that made me smirk.
 
If you don't have the top, I reasoned with myself, why not forgo the bottoms? Isn't like anyone's going to notice the school's good girl without a certain something beneath, and it'll certainly make the paper work and ride home very interesting.
 
I recalled Paris' reaction to my not having a bra on earlier that morning, and I swore I remembered her pouting because I still managed to find a pair of panties despite the laundry situation. It wasn't like they were ruined at all; some drops of arousal in the crotch but certainly something I could keep. But if I didn't, my skirt was still long enough to hide the fact I was taking a couple lessons from Louise. I still remembered her description of trying to unnerve a teacher last year by grabbing a convenient front seat and spreading her legs open so the teacher was lured into giving her A's, and thinking at the time what were to happen if I tried that same thing with Paris around, only instead of grades I wanted gratification. I did happen to do that as we took the Acela train down together from New Haven to Washington in June, but since I was wearing jeans on the train, everything was basically negated so there was no chance to gauge her reaction.
 
I smirked as I spread open my legs and let the blue cotton drop to my ankles, then picked it off my legs and threw the incriminating skivvies into the deep, deep section of my backpack. I put back on my school sweater and cleaned up the darkroom a little to hide what had happened in the last half hour, and gotten out of the Franklin office and into the hall just in time to blend in with the crowd coming from the dining hall.
 
Then I stopped at my locker, and found Paris at hers, digging for her texts for the next three periods. She looked so cute, if only she had known how I just thought of her minutes earlier. I grabbed my books, and said hi to her. She looked towards me, and suddenly got this disapproving frown on her face.
 
"What?" I questioned, shrugging. Did she know I was--
 
"You might want to make a trip back to the bathroom before class. Charleston's going to stop you and make you sing the spirit song backwards in Klingon if you don't straighten yourself out there Gilmore."
 
Looking down at myself, it seems in my rush, I forgot to tuck Paris' blouse back into my skirt, and one of my socks was askew, not to mention I had to be wearing that nature-made color they call Afterglow Pink all over my face, judging from my messed up hair.
 
I rush out thanks for her looking out for me, and clean myself up in the bathroom, making it to AP Calculus just before the bell trilled and thankful she didn't notice anything else or comment on my absence during lunch. The rest of the day seemed to strangely speed up after lunch, but probably because my adrenalin was on overdrive. It was such a rush to sit in each of those classes and sit there learning, reading and testing like usual, knowing that you're getting a kinky little thrill from having nothing on beneath the Chilton tartan.
 
My mood was a mix of giddiness and disappointment at the same time as Paris and I took the test in Life Sciences seventh period. Though I could sense her ankle up against mine and what seemed like accidental contact, I could tell she was hiding something as the hour wore on. My libido was seriously pissed however, since because I was taking a test, I couldn't gauge any reactions by looking towards her because I didn't want to look like I'd be cheating off her paper. I knew the material and the teacher knew I did, but better to keep eyes straight and thoughts on the chemical compounds within molecules and just let myself enjoy what went on underneath the table. So close to footsie that day, but it kept my flared-up hormones under control at least.
 
A couple hours later after school as we did the work on the paper, I felt nervous that someone on the photography staff would discover that someone had been sleeping in their room and they'd discover that I was the Goldilocks in the scenario. I kept looking nervously towards the room as I organized my thoughts into a profile about the team's trainer, about the only person on the Blue Demons I'd write about since the team itself intimidated me. Paris organized it all and there was a general sense of bedlam in the room I'd usually associate with a busy scene in All the President's Men as Paris and Ms. Peters organized us foot soldiers into a lean, mean, reporting machine trying to focus all our energy on this one special edition. Sports, News, Photography, Layout and Entertainment seemed to be able to work well, and I respected my girl for managing to fit all of this stuff into thirty-two pages to be handed out by third period Thursday morning. Even Madeline and Louise worked diligently, scanning the results of an unscientific poll they had taken throughout the day asking who the five cutest guys on the team were. I didn't vote of course, but they respected that despite. It was a rush to go from Paris' original idea on Friday, the staff getting stories all weekend and Monday, then drafting through last night into today until around 4:20, all of the staff was in the conference room looking at the projected computer layout of The Franklin, Special Edition - The Blue Demons' Run to State.
 
Paris was proud of all of us as she went through each of the pages, pointing out something on each page and giving a personal thank you to each of the contributors and photographers. For once, she had nothing negative to say at all, though she did tell poor Brad to maybe not put that he wanted his mommy and was very scared as he interviewed Cornelius DeMateo, the 345-pound defensive back that easily tore through the front offensive lines of most of our rivals. He managed out a "Sorry," and Paris gave him a smile as everyone laughed with him. He's a good kid, and even Paris, who lives to torment him, is taking it easier on the boy since he came back from a successful run on Broadway as a character in a top musical over the summer. I might be seeing things also, but Madeline is flirting with him at times when Louise's back is turned, sort of like the dance I've been initiating with Par lately.
 
She praised my article on the habits of the team trainer and told me I had come a long way since my poetic prose on the parking lot resurfacing I started my high school journalism career with. By the time the meeting had ended ten minutes later and everyone was dismissed, I was on cloud nine as Paris and I got into her car and she started the drive back to the Manor to pick up my dry clothes and was thankful no one made a comment on the darkroom. She pulled up to the front drive, Fran handed her my blouse and jacket, and within a few minutes we were on the expressway out of Hartford.
 
I was hoping that I could get home in time so that I could change into regular clothes that my mom had dropped off, get in the shower and clean up so I could meet Jess and Shane around 5:15 so we could discuss an Austen book I had recommended they read together. I thought with the school day over, I could get home unscathed and not have to face up to any more awkward situations.
 
Oh, how wrong I was. The usual smooth commute turned into a nightmare as the traffic reporter on WTIC broke into the talk show Par was listening to with a loud boisterous traffic alert.
 
"91 at the Cross is currently closed due to a jackknifed semi blocking all lanes, CDOT is out cleaning the wreckage and traffic both directions is absolutely jammed. The state patrol is currently redirecting southbound traffic onto the 691 west..."
 
"No!" I cried out, and Paris rolled her eyes as she prepared for the bottlenecks ahead. Route 691 usually added twenty more minutes onto my ride home because we had to take a whole bunch of surface streets and two lane highways once Paris reached the exit for the road we needed.
 
Paris huffed annoyed, mad at the unexpected delay. I took this as a bad sign and got out a book from my backpack, trying to stay out of her way as she navigated the heavy Tuesday gridlock. I couldn't concentrate however, because she kept cursing to drivers in other lanes once we merged onto west 691.
 
"C'mon!" she complained angrily, pushing down on her horn and directing her bile towards some jackass who merged across three lanes of traffic and right in front of us. Thank goodness for soundproof material, I thought to myself as she went on and on with her complaints about idiotic Harford drivers preventing her inner speed demon from playing on the expressways that afternoon.
 
Her forehead was scrunched up and she was gritting her teeth. I have no idea why a thought like that came to my head, but I thought asking her for rides was starting to become a hassle. She was trying to use conversation to distract me from the jam, but it didn't seem to work as her Jaguar was crawling along the road at a glacial speed of fifteen miles an hour, her face becoming redder with annoyance by the moment.
 
She needs a little boost, or perhaps a little distraction, I thought to myself as I turned the temperature down on my side because my mind usually can't handle a small space like a car more then necessary, causing me to think I was hot. I brought my eyes down to the book in my hands, but my gaze was directed down towards my breasts. I loved unnerving her during that car ride a couple weeks before with nothing but the open road ahead of us, surely I could help her decompress what anger she had at the situation. Plus it would only be natural for me to change back into my own blouse and give hers back.
 
So I went with my plan, taking off her blouse and throwing it in the back. Usually when she saw the Chilton uniform unkempt on anyone else, even after school, she'd go off on the unsuspecting person with a tirade about how could they ruin the integrity of fair Chilton's uniform, your shirt should stay tucked in, blouse or shirt straight and starched and skirt even on your legs, it went on and on.
 
I must've been a big exception though, because lately she hasn't been making a negative comment towards me. So I lay back on the seat, straightened my undershirt out and untucked it from the skirt, knowing that she might bring her eyes towards my waist to glimpse at the skin exposed. I was also feeling a little hot despite the temperature, so I turned the climate control on my side even lower. Nothing like a little gratuitous in-the-shirt nipple exposure from a cool air conditioner vent to drive a certain blonde up the wall.
 
We talked as we got into the thick of the quagmire, Paris' mood not improving as time passed. The minutes ratcheted up on the clock, from 4:40 up to 4:50, my hope for getting to Luke's on time at 5:15 fading and my annoyance along with Paris at the traffic rising. I read the book, sort of aware of her eyes on me. I judged her look to be more I could be home studying by now instead of chauffeuring Rebecca here back to Sunnybrook Farm than of carnality; her mood seemed to be unreadable. We tried broaching conversation, but it just wasn't happening. I honestly that it might be a hell of a lot better for both of us if we took separate cars home, that way she'd never have to drive me back to Stars Hollow again.
 
She was finally able to make conversation by asking if the traffic would clear, so I complained that Luke would be 80 by the time I got home, and that it wasn't my day.
 
"So this day was bad for you Gilmore, big deal. Suck it up and think ahead to tomorrow, the forecast is for sunny and 63°, as Annie says it's only a day away." I didn't see any humor in it though. I still had seven hours to go on Tuesday, and she was getting in a bad mood that I thought I caused. I asked her why she'd give me a ride when it was a clear hardship on the time she spent on her studies. I talked about how much better it would be if I was on the bus and she was on her way home.
 
What happened next just about made it clear that Paris was far from annoyed at me.
 
As she started to tell me that I was no hassle to take home, I saw her right hand move towards my legs. I then gulped as she set it down on my left thigh, just above my knee. If I had been tuning out the fact I wasn't wearing underwear for the last couple hours, I had just found a clear signal since the moment her palm made contact, my clit responded immediately.
 
Oh God, oh God, oh God, her hand is on my thigh! My touch senses relayed to those certain parts, and since the seatbelt was cinched tight around me, I couldn't move, or evade. It seemed completely innocent, a reassuring technique as she reminded me about the fact her mother paid for her fuel.
 
I bit my lip, thinking that it wasn't going to go beyond that; she kept looking at the road talking, not noticing that my other leg was shaky and I felt so underdressed! Then her hand started shaking my leg.
 
Oh Paris, my internal dialogue gasped out, her simple touch wearing my mind thin. There was really nothing I could do; I was putty in her hands since as her aversion tactic to take my focus of my complaints was working, maybe a little too well. I could feel my legs part involuntarily and I tried to keep my mind in control, despite the fact I was wetting the rear of my skirt with my arousal.
 
I tried to speak to argue back against her pols-on-the-bus point, but my scholarly mind seemed to regress back to kindergarten as all my brain power went to processing the fact her perfectly-manicured fingernails were now scraping against the inside of my leg and were rising at the rate of a millimeter a second! Damn you Paris, damn you and your evasion techniques. I forget what I said back to her, that's how distracting she was.
 
I felt everything stir and respond and my line of vision fogging up, breathing become heavy and my heartbeat speeded. The book was losing the battle for attention, and as her fingers trailed above the hemline of the skirt, I became very aware of what was happening. I set the book down and listened to her explaining why exactly I was not a pain in the ass, wondering if it would be bad form to grab her wrist and shove her fingers into my wanton pussy since that's where she was probably headed anyways.
 
The only thing I could decode from her words in my lust-fogged mine was "I'll be there for you always, no matter what". At least my romantic side got a little numbing and a little swoon, but the primitive animal never aroused within me took that as an open invitation. God, I wanted her so bad, her hands in me, getting me off through the traffic jam as I admitted I was interested in her, my fingers crossed that she'd be open to experimenting with fucking me and giving those tinted windows and soundproofing some great use on one of Hartford's busiest expressways.
 
Her hands wandered ever further, my eyes shutting as she came that much closer to realizing her friend and rival had nothing stopping her from sliding elegant fingers up into me, and making my wildest wishes come true. I watched the traffic, starting to pout as I saw it start to clear up. Paris' digits drifted up into virgin territory, scratching my skin with the same enthusiasm as my back hours before. I remember the times I had gotten off just imagining her hands fingering a pencil within my bed, thinking at the time it was such an odd thing to dream of. I guess my mind got ahead of my touch though, because her fingers against my thigh, shaking it too and fro? I could die a happy woman right about there.
 
Though I would die a virgin, not knowing the pleasures of Paris' tongue. Yeah, morbid thought I'm so not thinking again!
 
She was getting closer and closer, what would she have thought if there was no trace of cotton and instead she ended up feeling the tangle of the dark curls on my mound? Would she smile, laugh, cringe, and think I was crazy for going without? Be appreciative that my natural hair color was indeed brown?
 
"Uh, thank you Par, I appreciate all the rides you give me--and, uh, those in the future," I spat out, feeling my crotch become slick and wet. A few more inches and she'd know what her hand alone was causing in me. "I promise I won't abuse your offer."
 
I certainly wouldn't mind giving you a ride Gellar! I suddenly thought, and it took all I had in order to gag what I felt was a very loud moan forming in my larynx. What was up with us that afternoon, me fucking myself in her shirt in the sacred space of the darkroom and deciding that a pair of panties was wearing too much, then Paris with her hands, it was like I was living some kind of romance novel where we teased each other crazy!
 
I felt like I could come right there in her car and onto my skirt, the heat from her fingers drifting up into my slit. I heard her say there were no thanks necessary for the lifts home. She was so close to my core I could almost taste it and sense the oncoming orgasm, I started straightening myself up for the inevitable reception of her fingers within as I imagined she whispered 'Let me show you how much I appreciate you as more than a passenger Ror' into my ear, then closed the distance between us and kissed me...
 
Then I saw her hand recede towards my knee. I was shocked and struggling for breath as I lost her contact, almost on the verge of tears. The traffic started speeding up and we had finally found an opening, so Paris had no choice to bring her hand up from my thigh and back onto the steering wheel, drifting down my leg towards my knee until she wasn't making contact anymore. I was at the absolute edge of giving it up, the balls of my feet right on the cliff and ready to fall into her, but had been saved just in time no thanks to the help of the Connecticut Highway Patrol in clearing up the rush hour mess.
 
I'm serious; I was ready to admit right then and there my interest in her. But I had to keep it silent as the speedometer made it's way back to a speedy 55. My virtue was still intact, though as I looked at Paris keeping her eyes on the road, I honestly wished it wasn't. I never thought my breasts could be so hard and my pussy so wet and wanting for more, but I sat in the bucket seat, wet as could be and wishing I'd have taken the risk.
 
My brain stirred into action the rest of the way, trying to figure out ways to lure Paris into finishing what she started. Sleeping over at my house? Not a good idea on a school night, and I don't know if I'd want her and I to go back to school the next morning. Maybe I could take her to the bridge and we could just talk? Judging the fact I would have a sudden urge to shove her into the freezing cold water and ravish her beneath the surface, not the best course of action. I knew I didn't want her to leave, but I had to let go sometime that day. After all, I still had to see Dean and Jess and get some last moments with my mom before she went the town of Music Row and the Grand Ole Opry until Sunday evening. Oh, and I still was bound to Dean. Probably wouldn't appreciate seeing me make out with Paris when I still had his bracelet on my arm.
 
She finally pulled into my driveway around 5:40, and I didn't even realize it. My body was cold and numb from the air conditioning and thoughts enflamed, and I had made an indent in my lower lip from biting down on it so far. Not to mention I was sure the back of my skirt probably had a slight dark spot in back that would show off the effects of Paris' almost-fingering of me.
 
"Rory," she said, shaking my shoulder. "We're home."
 
I widened my eyes and saw the familiar blue abode I've come home to for six years. "Sorry," I said, trying to normalize my thoughts, "I was really into this book."
 
Paris then smirked at me, and my excuse fell apart like a popsicle stick bridge with a sumo wrestler crossing it. "So into it you've been reading the last page for fifteen minutes, I think you've analyzed it to the point of exhaustion."
 
"I guess, I'm just tired, stupid traffic," I lied, and she didn't seem to press. I seemed to lose my attention.
 
"You're OK then?" she asked, and I felt words on the tip of my tongue that would invite her to come into my house. I didn't want to get up, but I unbuckled the seat belt anyway, despite the fact I didn't want her to go.
 
I was falling for her, her voice sounding so sweet to my ears, and her nose, I just wanted to bend over and give her a kiss goodnight right on the tip of it. I wasn't even out of her sight and missing her. But I got out of the car and grabbed my things, ready to be alone in my unhappy relationship with Dean once again.
 
I told her I'd see her tomorrow, hopeful she caught the hint I wanted to see her at 7:35, the moment I walked into that building. She then joked about what got me into that whole situation, Dwight. She laughed when I said I'd wear a raincoat while I watered, and it caught in my ears. It's rare to hear her laughing at a joke, she's usually a Daria-like cynic who usually keeps her giggle to herself. When she laughs though, it's more of a nervous guffaw, and doesn't sound like her voice at all. She smiles too, and I recycle her sexy laugh into my memory banks, hopeful that I'll get to hear it from her in the future many more times.
 
The way I feel about her is something like I've never felt before. We say goodbye and I walk onto the porch, turning around just in time to see her squeal her tires and peel out of the driveway back onto Cherry Lane, as I watched her car fade on the gravel road leading to downtown. I squint and still make out her HVD-BND license plate as she stopped at Peach Street a block down. She turned on her right turn signal, and my heart tightened up as she turned towards downtown and out of my life for the next fourteen hours.
 
"Goodnight Paris, and sweet dreams," I whisper to myself as I walk into the house and get into my usual afterschool routine. Thanking God that Lorelai dropped off an entire clean outfit with bra and panties so that I wouldn't have to stay without, I jumped into a very cold shower and got back into my pedestrian 'I love Dean, he's the only one for me' mind track that was so hollow I could hear a woodblock in the background signaling what I really thought about him. Certainly after going through an afternoon like that where thoughts of Paris made me come one and a half times (half for the almost-orgasm in her car), Dean's record was truly pale now.
 
Speaking of whom, when I went to Luke's, came in once I got settled in and immediately when on this insane streak of accusations that I struggled to explain away as a total accident. He started out with the fact his friend had seen everything going on between Jess and I when we were trying to turn off the sprinklers at Dwight's. I tried calmly and rationally to explain that no, I didn't decide to suddenly have a wet t-shirt contest with Jess as the judge, and we're going to be friends and nothing but that.
 
He got overly defensive then, and Dean was seriously starting to scare me. As I kept my cool, he kept making all these accusations that I was a whore and going behind his back and dating Jess. Trying to point out the fact I felt it was bad form to date someone who already had a girlfriend proved fruitless, and Shane and Jess came downstairs to wonder what the ruckus was as he tried to assert his ownership over me. He kept calling me his, and the worst of the tendencies that kept me on my toes when we were in the courtship and renewal phases of our relationship were out there for me to see.
 
I also made it clear that I was very unhappy with him because his idea of romance was so boring it put me to sleep. Telling me that he was afraid my mother would kill him wasn't a valid excuse, and considering my burgeoning feelings for Paris, he certainly wasn't making a good case for why I shouldn't change teams.
 
Finally, I had enough. I told him I was sick of all the accusations and his Lifetime movie boyfriend imitation, so I felt that it was time to end the relationship. I told him we were through and if he couldn't handle the fact Jess was my friend that he could have a nice life without me. Losing his girlfriend to whom he thought was in his words 'a homewrecker', he made his way around me to try to get at Jess. Cesar, who had brought my supper out on a plate, leaped over the counter and restrained Dean just in time, and Jess kept his cool, nary making a movement towards my now ex-boyfriend and telling him that if he couldn't behave, Luke and him would be more than happy to beat him up for me. Before Dean left, he tried one more time to explain his side of things, but I was overly pissed off at him about the reaction he had to the sprinkler incident. Until he matured and set his priorities straight, I told him not to see me anymore. I was so mad in fact, I swore at him and told him to fuck off, and then called him a dickhead in the heat of the moment. I would like to say I'd like to take it back, but for right now he needs to stay away from me as I try to build this thing up with Paris, I'm not ready to get into a love triangle with Paris, a girl who's building towards becoming my true love, and Dean, who was my first love, but ready to move on from.
 
As he prepared to leave, Jess got Dean's attention, and made me laugh as he reminded Dean that Shane and he were in love and that he should've taken my sexual cues and ran with them even though we wouldn't have sex.
 
"If I had a girl like Rory," he claimed "I would've already made her come so many times you'd be nothing but a silly childhood fling. You missed out man, and now she's leaving you, just as I've always predicted she'd always do. Idiot." Jess shook his head and Dean bit his lip, somehow controlling himself from saying something he might regret. He turned around, walked out of the door, and out of my life as I had knew it before then.

After talking to Shane and Jess in the diner for just over an hour and a half about things not involving fighting robots and cars, but instead what we knew well, books and music, I walked home and got into my relaxation mode, feeling not one bit guilty about my actions that evening, nor did I want to wallow. Dean was fine as a first love, but in the end, he just wasn't a good enough boy to become my one and only. I changed into my pajamas shortly after getting back, and did my homework, waiting for Mom to come home. She did around ten, and once she walked in, I could tell that she knew since she brought in a gallon of vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup.
 
"Hey hon," she said as she leaned against the door. "Need to do some wallowing before you shove off to bed and I leave you all alone to fend for yourself the next five days?"
 
I turned around and smiled at her, appreciating her gesture despite the fact I didn't need it. "I'll take the ice cream, but I won't be wallowing, this time it's for real. I'll be burning the Dean box one of these days and there will be no more tears shed over him."

I then came out to the living room and cuddled on the couch with my mom with a big bowl of hot fudge as she vented about how horrible hotelier's conventions usually are, while I told her about what led to the end of Dean as my boyfriend (again, no details on my love for Paris, got to keep those hush-hush for now). We had fun discussing the good and mostly bad of the relationship, and it felt good to finally talk out my frustrations over the last two years. Mom seemed to be more relieved than shocked, though a side benefit of our relationship was to be totally lost.
 
"There's only one thing I hate about this Rory," she told me seriously, frowning.
 
"What's that?"
 
Lorelai faked a cry. "We're never going to drink water again, are we?" She looked forlornly towards the water cooler, formerly changed by Dean in the kitchen, and I laughed at what she was getting at. Even if I could get Paris, there was no way she'd ever change the Culligan bottle. She couldn't even try, what with her 'jugs' and all getting in the way of the water jug.
 
I immediately had a brainstorm. "We can always buy a Brita pitcher. Or you can hire Luke for the water-changing duties, either's fine." Taking care of my mother's love life by adding on chores to Luke's list seems like a good idea. But my mom's still not taking the bait.
 
"Brita pitcher it is, I think I've favored poor Lukey out." We then had a nice 'evil boyfriends being murdered in cold blood by ex-girlfriends out for revenge' theme night thanks to Lifetime's movie channel until I finally got worn out, and we both went to bed around two in the morning.
 
I only had four hours of sleep that night, but they were all wonderful hours. Without the complications of a boyfriend in the picture now, my dreams were free to go a lot further with scenarios with Paris and I. That evening into morning, I had a very wonderful dream where Paris and I sat down together and read through our old yearbooks, getting to know each other and what we did as we grew up. I have read through the yearbooks of our class from all the way back in their Chilton Country Day days all the way to junior year. It's sad to note that each year starting with kindergarten, Paris' cute six year-old wide-toothed grin seemed to fade to a flat frown as she grew up, it was like watching a flipbook of love being sucked out by her mother's influence.
 
When I got up the next morning, I was in a fine mood, but wondering how I'd bring up the fact I was now loveless to Paris that day. I wanted to tell her as soon as possible, but I couldn't just say 'Hey Paris, I dumped Dean.' After I watered Dwight's garden (with Jess keeping a close eye on the sprinkler system to prevent a repeat of the day before), I got on the bus and spent all of it thinking about what to do. The driver was still pissed about my conduct Tuesday morning, but Window Guy was thankfully very absent, and I was grateful that I was back in my regular underwear, not about to have a temptation to repeat the lunchtime orgasm of the day before.
 
There was also the issue of the dance marathon to think about for Saturday into early Sunday morning. Winning the trophy has always been a goal of my mom's, and as the years passed in turn, it became de facto for me to try to win it. Though last year Dean didn't last five hours (there's a reason we never went to a dance after the 2000 Winter Formal, and that's because he's awful at the fast dances), I really wanted to win the trophy and beat Kirk. When she heard that the convention fell on the same weekend as the marathon, she was mad and trying to talk Michel into going instead. After about the fifteen iteration of a profane French sentence from her co-worker however, Lorelai realized that it was going up to me to represent the Gilmores this year all by myself.
 
I stayed silent throughout the day, miming it up except when Paris asked me something as I imagined what it would be like to spend an entire twenty-four hours with her in my arms, dancing at all speeds. There was the hormonal challenge of keeping my feelings in check going on, and the added factor of dealing with the fact she usually shied away from public activities. She was supposed to come out the night I did as a debutante, but never came because as I found out later, she hid out at the Harford library claiming that her debutante dress had caused a rash to develop on her back and she had a sudden case of laryngitis onsetting. Mrs. Gellar gave up on her daughter coming out, and that left a burning question unanswered; would Paris have brought a flask of bourbon with her to the bash and tried to outdrink Libby in order to avoid the whole experience, yet still participate? She's a very light drinker, yet I know she would've soaked herself in booze I feel in order to keep the memories of the fan dance out of her head.
 
From her old dance tapes however, I knew she still had some talent within her languishing for six years, and even if she wasn't at peak form she could still probably outdance Kirk. I was about average when it came to dancing, but then again I did play a pretty aggressive field hockey game the month before, surprising myself. Surely Paris could help get me into the swing of things.
 
Neutrality was the order of the day. I was already worried that if I did ask her, she'd come out against it right away and wonder why I'd invite her to a dance a day after I broke up with Dean. Not only that she'd probably analyze the fact that a girl was asking another girl to dance with her for twenty-four hours.
 
That made me chicken out for a bit. You don't need the trophy, this is too much too soon, I thought to myself realistically. I was just coming from an off-on two-year relationship and trying to make Paris fall for me would confirm that I was a sucker for commitment.
 
Then again, as I looked at her in lunch (fixating on her ear, don't ask), when did I ever think about boys before Dean, if at all? I remembered back to when I was ten, and discovered the pleasures of masturbation and sexual attraction in general on a very hot July night in my bed. The air conditioning was broke and all the fans in the world couldn't keep the house cool, so I slept in my bed nude but for my panties. I had gone to the pond earlier that day to cool off with Lane, and saw a girl I remembered from my fifth grade class, Tracy McCarran.
 
Looking back, I had no ideas of the boundaries between boys and girls, that girls were meant to mate with boys and were expected to never have a sexual thought about another girl. Tracy however...it made me flush and feel funny when I saw her jump into the pond and come near me to say hi. She was an early bloomer, so she took advantage of her growing body by wearing a two-piece that was conservative enough for Stars Hollow, but on her looked so hot. She had green eyes, long red hair and was about 5'4", and I remember before that I usually bottled up any sexual thoughts.
 
But as Lane swam laps across the pond, I found myself drawing closer to Tracy, trying to figure out exactly what was attracting me to her. I was wearing a very conservative blue one piece, my breasts starting to develop but in no need for a training bra at all just yet. We played together, horseplaying in the water and splashing each other in the way that normal fifth graders usually did.
 
Then when Lane had to leave to help her mother at the shop, it was just Tracy and I in the water, all alone. We talked and continued to have fun, both of us diving off the bridge. I didn't want to leave, I was having a blast.
 
We started playing in the shallow end of the water, grabbing each other by the legs and propelling out into the middle of the pond. I seemed to be aware of her hands on my ass, when I felt a tingle down in my crotch. Suddenly I was very aware on her hand on my waist as she reeled my body back, and the pushing right against the bottommost portion of my rear. I moaned aloud, and at that time, I didn't know why.
 
I felt Tracy had done something wrong, so when I swam back I tried to tell her what happened.
 
"Don't do that again!" I cried out.
 
"Don't do what?"
 
"Make me tingle down there, Safetypup said that was wrong to do and no one should touch you down there!" Hey, I was ten and listening to a guy in a dog costume back then was the equivalent of Socrates in my small little unenlightened world, I'd probably jump off a cliff if he would've asked me.
 
"I'm sorry," she said, looking down, forlorn. "I didn't know that made you uncomfortable. When Sally, my best friend does that at her pool at her home, it feels really good, and she said I could do it in my bed too before I went to bed. So I tried it in my bed one night, and it felt good. I didn't know it was a bad thing."
 
I looked at Tracy, curious now as to why it felt good. Thankfully Lorelai had given me the birds/bee talk a year earlier so I didn't embarrass myself and say something like 'but that's where I pee'. She then, right there in the pond, showed me how good it really felt to get off, rubbing herself through her swimsuit bottoms. I watched in shock and noticed I was tingling too as she rubbed her breasts with her free hand and then shuddered as her orgasm took over her body. I didn't join her, but she told me to think about something sexy when I tried it for the first time alone. "Like think about a hot boy on a soap opera or something," she said.
 
"What if I want to think about you," I asked, "Can I do that?"
 
She blushed, flattered, and smiled at me. "Sure," she said. "As long as it's sexy, it's fine." We got out of the pond and dried off, and she told me she was moving to Rhode Island in a couple weeks, so I couldn't be her friend. "Maybe I'll see you around one time, I'll come back occasionally."
 
We exchanged addresses, and went our separate ways. In bed that night, curious, I started rubbing my palm against my pussy, and thought of Tracy's hands doing that, then of her kissing me and taking off my clothes. From there I felt something bubbling up, so much so I thought I was about to die from it. When I came though, it felt really, really good. As a matter of fact, until I came in the closet in Washington, I never had a better orgasm in my life. After that I was curious, so I snuck home every book from the library I could possibly find that dealt with sex and everything around it, I wanted to be enlightened as possible without having to watch Lorelai try to explain where babies came from. I'll just say it involved dirty sock puppet play and When Harry Met Sally.
 
By the time the next year rolled around though, I became more aware of the social mores, and drowned myself in the ideal that I had to have a guy one day. I never saw Tracy again strangely enough, but even if I did she probably grew up into a beauty that was unrecognizable from the young girl I met in that pond.
 
I realized at that moment, sitting next to Paris, I never thought of boys sexually at all before Dean started getting my attention, not even in my dreams. All my fantasies and dreams before then always revolved around a girl I secretly had a crush on, but would never acknowledge having, or Tracy. Sometimes Lane, but those were few and far between because I knew she would never return the feelings, so why lust for her? Only after Dean kissed me did dreams of boys and men start permeating my mind. Even then though, it took Jess to turn them from innocent to sexual. I still had many more dreams and fantasies of Paris, Louise, and even Summer (don't laugh, I took note of how hot she was kissing Tristan, she'd be an awesome one-night stand), than I ever did of Dean or Jess, because with my upbringing and my dad being absent, I never saw many men except for those in town, along with Luke. I never had a silly childhood crush, a boy who played doctor with me, a guy who caught my eye and I pursued them. I was always the prey in those situations, and because of my solitary nature never really noticed guys except for when they pursued me.
 
A girl like Paris though? I've always been aware of our heat and chemistry, and trying to wring out something sexual from something she's done. Why hell, I'll admit it, I even noticed from the first day she's been more open with me than any other girl she knows. She touches me much more than Madeline and Louise, isn't afraid to be snarky, and will confide in me when pushed. Also, she has this secret little wry smile she saves for when I'm around. It's like magnetic attraction; I'm north, she's south. When we're in the same room with each other, our chemistry mixes up and charges our ends of the magnets, and brings us together, no matter how much each of us wants to pull away.

Sitting at that table, at that time, I knew it was undeniable. I was head over heels in love with Paris, and I couldn't deny it to myself anymore. I don't know if I was born gay, if that's possible. But at that moment, sitting next to her with her hand accidentally brushing up against mine, I finally vocalized to my brain what had been planted within ever since that hot July day in 1995.
 
My name is Rory Gilmore, and I'm a lesbian. I'm a lesbian in love with another girl, Paris Gellar, and I want her to dance with me this Saturday so I can take the first steps towards obtaining her love.
 
I wasn't ready to outright say it of course; better to bring her to the dance, try to notice if she's sending vibes my way and then go from there. So after confirmation of my sexual orientation, I spent the rest of the day trying to think up just the right way to pop the question. It was worse coming up with a broach with that than when I tried to ask Dean to the 2000 Formal in the grocery store (note to self; don't mention chicken). I went through class and kept my eyes on my schoolwork, and figured that if I could ask her in the relative privacy of the Franklin's pressroom as we watched the special edition print out.
 
There was still something bugging me however. I had forgotten in the rush of pushing Dean out of my life that his cheap little bracelet, which seemed cute and lovely two years ago when he gave it to me but now reminded of me of who I had wasted two years of my life trying to fall in love with, was still on my wrist. Unfortunately after I had lost it that one time and Jess found it and took it with him in a 'I'll have a piece of her' misguided love thing, I had Dean knot it very tightly onto my wrist, and he took a bottle of super glue and injected a little inside to solidify the bond. It was very tight against my arm, and there was nothing more I wanted than it off.
 
Paris noticed my struggles, and brought her attention from monitoring the paper run to try to figure out why I was playing with my bracelet.
 
"Nothing," I said lamely.
 
She turned towards me and stared at me seriously, her maternal instinct from the morning before coming out for another appearance. "You've been playing with your bracelet all day and haven't said all that much to me, so what's going on? Is it involving Dean?"
 
"Well, yeah--"
 
She took my hand, and reassured me. "Remember your promise that I could come to you for anything, even if it involved my mother?"
 
"Yeah?"
 
"I think there's something going on with Dean you want to talk about, so I want you to tell me everything, what's he done to you? I hate it when you're not vocal and keep to yourself Ror."
 
"Sorry, you know I don't come to you with boy talk..." I felt unsure of myself, but Paris insisted on hearing all.
 
"Spill it Gilmore, I still have Miss Patty's number on my phone from a year ago and I'm sure she'd give me details third-hand, but I'd rather hear them from you."
 
The rehearsals, right. I know Miss Patty was already on full gossip gush before I left so I told her everything, about the sprinklers again and everything that went down at the diner. Once she heard the words 'I'm no longer with Dean', I think I saw her smile, and she decided to help me out a little with my wrist problem.
 
"I have a knife in my bag," she said. "I use it for fruit, but I'm sure it'll cut through that like butter, want me to use it?"
 
"Would you?" I said, a little too enthusiastically. Once again I was on edge; my hopefully future lover was going to cut off the closest tie to my former lover! The romantic in me swooned as she took the knife and used it like a saw to slash through the leather, her cool and slim hands soothing my hand as she tried getting it off. Paris was careful not to pierce my skin, and I found myself strangely romanticizing the moment. I loved the contact I had with her, and as she cut through the last strand of cowhide, I looked into her eyes; finding what I thought was a connection that now that I was free, she might confess. I knew she wouldn't, but it was good to know that she completely agreed that Dean was the wrong guy for me.
 
After she was done she handed the strap and coin back to me, asking what I was going to do with it. My mind wandered towards interesting scenarios, including giving it to her and tying it around her ankle to symbolize our friendship and possibly love, stronger now that Dean was out of the picture.
 
But it was Dean's gift to me. I couldn't stand to look at it anymore, and Paris would probably be less than enthusiastic to wear something her girlfriend...uhh, I mean best friend wore as a testament of the love for her ex-boyfriend. Sorry, I'm starting to already think we're already together at times with her lately.
 
I then remembered the presidential key that gave us the ability to enter almost any room at Chilton. It was intended to be used so we could keep our competitive edges so we could do our homework late, but suddenly it took on a new meaning. I took the key out of my backpack, and held it by the ring with a giddy grin.
 
"How about we do a little experiment?" I asked her. "Let's go into one of the chemical science rooms and observe the effects of hydrochloric acid on crappy leather and whatever kind of metal makes up the coin charm. I'll even let you help."
 
"Once you do this there is no going back, you know that, right?" Paris cautioned like Grandma, and I had to assure her that indeed I was willing to part with the bracelet.
 
"I'm well aware. Now come on, it's not every day you can get revenge in such an evil way on an ex-boyfriend." We finished watching the last Franklin copies come off the press, and headed towards the classroom, where we both took all the safety precautions of safety goggles and gloves before we poured the acid from the bottle into a wide-mouthed beaker. Mr. DeBruin wouldn't miss just a little of the stuff I'm sure, and if he did I'd reimburse him, because disposing of the bracelet in this way would be so worth it.
 
Is it possible to find Paris in big goggles covering her eyes, a white lab coat and gloves stretched out to her elbows kind of sexy by the way? Because I kind of thought she did. Mmmm...oh yeah, where was I--yes, the damned bracelet. We both took sets of tongs, and I got first dip. Immediately on contact, the fluid started to foam up like Alka Seltzer against the leather band, and when I dipped in half of the charm, I could feel the beaker sort of vibrate, having a violent reaction with the metal.
 
"I've played with acid before, but I never saw something bubble up that quick!" Paris commented as she watched, amazed with the bracelet's disintegration process.
 
"He probably expected it to stay on my arm forever." I smiled at her as I took the bracelet out and transferred it onto Paris' set of tongs. "I still can't believe I forgot all about last night, I should've ripped it off and thrown it at him."
 
"But you wouldn't be here in this classroom with me Ror," she reminded, her voice sort of taking a soft tone as she dipped the other end of the bracelet into the acid, where it created even more bubbles than the first. "I'm glad you got rid of it though. Personally, I loved that green clear watch you used to wear on your wrist before Dean gave that to you; it was a unique fashion statement." Paris smiled at me, and I took in her words. "Even though we were at odds those first few months, I have to admit, there was just something that made me want to keep pushing your buttons, before then I was feeling very unchallenged. You were definitely a bit a fresh air in these musty halls, and I don't know where I'd be without you today."
 
The bracelet in the beaker seemed to form into this unrecognizable mass of black with a slight rounded edge resting on the bottom, and I got an evil grin as it bubbled up and disintegrated further. My mind was still stuck on the fact Paris complemented me, and I felt a strong need to return it, which is exactly what I did.
 
"Thanks, that means a lot coming from you." I slipped the bracelet mass out of the beaker and onto a sheet of paper while the acid settled down. I stated flushing up a little, feeling her stare, the signals from her interest becoming even stronger. "I have to admit Par, without you Chilton is boring. I can't relate to a single guy here except maybe Brad as just a friend, and in two years you, Louise and Madeline are still the only three I've gotten to know more than your entry in the Chilton directory. I especially liked slowly getting to know you though. It took awhile, but I hope I've finally convinced you I'm not out for academic blood or to take Harvard from you."
 
"I know, I just need to focus those feelings on someone." She took of her gloves and started to strip from the lab equipment. "I'll still be trying to scare you if you do make valedictorian."
 
"What if I agree to split it with you?" I asked. That gave her something to think about, and Paris became deep in her thoughts for a minute.
 
"Split the title?"
 
"Yeah, we become co-valedictorians and split the duties. You get one speech to inspire everyone you went to school with; and I get to be thankful for the three years I was here. It's happened many more times than you think," I noted.
 
"Still, wouldn't that put an asterisk next to each of our pictures?"
 
"Nope, and I'd make sure that the yearbook committee would line up our names evenly on one line instead of two where I was on top, and you're on the bottom."
 
"But I love being on top!" she pouted. I ignored the King Kong-sized entendre floating in the air with my ill-advised words and placed the bracelet in a sandwich bag as we finished cleaning up our mess.
 
I finished the conversation as we locked the door and prepared to leave Chilton. "Look, we'll cross the whole valedictorian issue when we come to it, but for now we should relax and just let things take course." I came up with a great idea just then to dispose of the bracelet and shared. "How about we head to downtown, pick up something to eat at a café near the Statehouse and you watch me throw the bracelet into the river off the bridge? We're all caught up for the next few days schoolwork-wise, so we can hang out for a bit, Lorelai's in Nashville so there's nothing to do at home but hang out bored." I awaited her response, hopeful I'd get a couple extra hours with her. That would also give me a little more time to figure out how to coax her into the dance marathon.
 
"Sure, I guess." Paris seemed a little uneasy about it, but once she got to thinking about it, she was cheerful. So we left the school and arrived downtown around 5:30, walking towards the pedestrian walkway of the Founders Bridge and talking again, about everything under the sun. It was strange, yet not at all surprising that Paris and I could get into such deep conversation as the street lights on the bridge slowly started sprinkling on across the bridge, the sun beginning to set towards the west.
 
We stopped at the middle of the bridge on the north sidewalk, looking down the river and towards Hartford's beautiful skyline, as I took the bracelet out of my jacket and shook the blackened contents into my hand.
 
Paris looked towards me, and gave me words of encouragement just in case I decided to change my mind. "One more chance, are you ready to let go of him?"
 
I took one last look at the bracelet in my hand, and then towards my blonde compatriot, having a neutral look on her face. Despite the indifferent image she had, I know that she was relieved that he's gone from my life. Her hand clasps my wrist in a show of solidarity, and it's then I know I'd rather go through bumps here and there with her than smoothly sail with boring Dean.
 
"Goodbye to the past," I said aloud as I tossed the bracelet up in the air and over the railing. It came apart in ashy pieces as it fell the thirty feet down and into the water. "Welcome to the future."
 
That was it, the official end of Dean, and a forced phase in my life of trying to grow to like a boy as the one in my life. The bond to him was broken, and I was free to pursue what I wanted with Paris. She asked how it felt, and all I could say back in response is, "I'm free." She nodded, and we took one last look at the river as the tattered remains of a love I never really had floated beneath the bridge and out of my eyesight.
 
We walked back towards downtown and took a footpath into the park, just walking together and nature-watching as we talked about nothing in particular. Two girls with nothing to do on a Wednesday night, we both were in high spirits now. After about forty-five minutes our feet were tired, so we sat down on a bench.
 
Paris was at her softest and her most beautiful. The sun was fading behind the giant insurance towers that defined the downtown skyline, and the pinkish glow from the remaining light made for a perfect picture opportunity. This was a girl who had worked so hard for acceptance on her terms, for respect and admiration, and she got it, but usually had to cede it to her mother. She was never one for celebrating a victory, only very rarely did she do it. One of those times sadly was when I first had to meet Sherrie.
 
It was time. I wanted her to win, not only the trophy, but give her a chance to win my heart. I looked into her eyes and received immediate attention. I took her hand, placed it atop of mine, and with her watching me and so much nervous energy on my part, I asked her to be my partner in the dance marathon.
 
I could see a sense of panic overtaking her as she processed my inquiry, so as she did, I built up an acceptable answer that would give her all the reason in the world to abandon what her mind told her and to follow her heart. When she asked me why her, I explained that I was obviously partnerless, and with her past experience when she was a child, I'm sure she'd blow the room, and of course Kirk away.
 
I would be disappointed if she told me she couldn't, but not mad because she had perfectly valid excuses not to attend. I worked on the ones I could make dents in, like the sleep and food issues. I could already see us together in center court at 5:57am on a Sunday morning as Kirk fainted and gave up, and we were able to claim victory. My head resting on her breast as she congratulated me on a job well done with her as we took our last dance of the event, hearing the romantic strains of Susannah Hoffs singing Eternal Flame over the loudspeaker. My fingers threaded in her blonde tresses, running through them in an assuring manner as the scoreboard clock ticked away the last minutes.
 
She thought about my invitation with grave seriousness, and honestly let me know she was undecided because of the suddenness of the invitation.
 
At first I was sad, but it was still a small victory in my mind that she said maybe. She was at least flattered, and that had to be a good sign. I patted her hand and let her know that it was OK. I smiled so she knew I was fine with waiting one more day with an answer.
 
After she dropped me back off at home, I lay down on the couch in the living room, watched PBS for the next three hours, and indulged on the bacon cheeseburger and fry plate Luke had made Jess deliver to the house for me. Can I ask again why my mom is letting this awesome guy stay on the market when he's such a good provider? If I was straight, twenty years older and single I so would've jumped Luke years ago! Not that I would now, that's too Lolitaish and creepy, but c'mon, it's been ten years! One of them needs to get off their duffs and make the decision.
 
I fell asleep just after eleven, and had more dreams of Paris. This time though, with the filter Dean's relationship put over them because I brainwashed myself into thinking I had a future with him gone, I thought of Paris and I in Boston, working internships on The Phoenix. We were living in our own apartment just off the Harvard campus, and getting along like two people in love. I dreamed of us having silly arguments over things such as the cell phone bill and the Sacagawea dollar coin, but in the end one of us kissed the other, and it turned into shameless necking. Around the middle it did get a little dirty, with her and I in the restroom of one of Boston's most famous restaurants getting very intimate in a stall...and then towards the end we were underneath Luke's chuppa, wearing wedding dresses, exchanging rings and reciting our vows of love. It ended before the minister or rabbi (that part I'm unclear on) told me I could kiss the bride, and it went to black.
 
When I woke up in the morning, I was even more hoping that she'd say yes to the invitation. I decided that I wasn't going to put any pressure on her, so when I was in school that day, I only talked to Paris about school stuff, and did nothing to touch her so her decision was unclouded.
 
I did run into one complication during the day though. Francie yanked me in the bathroom before sixth period and demanded that I have Paris cut funds for the Winter Formal, and instead put them into the Valentine's Dance and have it held at the Capitol Hilton instead of in the armory next to campus where the boy's basketball team plays like usual. So I had to get into another bitch session with Francie that despite what she may think, the Winter Formal is as important to most people as the Prom, and not everyone celebrated Valentine's Day. After we settled that, and with the tape recorder on, I was surprised as to her next little guerilla order of business.
 
"One more thing before you go Gilmore, I'm going to be bringing up an issue where the student body will kill funding for the school's les-bi-gay social club. We could use more of that money to go to an actual cause, say, the Football Booster Club since they're winning now. Those fags don't deserve our support; they just take up space and really don't make a difference at all. Besides, they have no fashion sense."
 
I couldn't believe what was coming out of her mouth. Eliminate the Rainbow Triangle Society? When I had just come out to myself the night before?! My teeth gritted, though didn't show it as the girl who had a sorority that was nothing but a pain in the ass to the Chilton administration for the last seventy years, came out against an idea that was great when the RTS formed a couple months after I came to Chilton. They had done a helluva a lot more for the school than the fucking Puffs ever did, because the wealthy members in that club wanted to do nothing more but help anyone who came across. Despite some aversion from the Headmaster at first he let the RTS go forward, and the senior class of last year voted them the best and most helpful organization in school behind only the student government, Key Club, NHS and Rebuilding Together. Paris supports them 125%, as a matter of fact she hired Nancy Auburn from the club as her new music writer when Louise's talent was clearly just describing Justin Timberlake's abs. The RTS wasn't militant or angry, they just wanted more rights for themselves and those disenfranchised in the school.
 
The Puff's biggest statement? Sandra Day O'Connor, twenty years ago. A fine thing getting a woman into the Supreme Court, but no one knows she sat at a dining hall table with them all they way back in the 1940's. The RTS is one of the many organizations in the state organizing an effort campaigning the State Senate and Governor Rowland to allow gays to marry, which is a worthwhile goal I want to see become a reality in my lifetime. They've also helped with organizing so many school events, helping construct sets for plays and musicals, and taken on the responsibility of tour guides when new students come in the school. The Society may only be 27 members strong, but at least they're public and proud of it. Much more than I can ever say for the Puffs and the new organization Francie was sneaking around Charleston's back.
 
I looked into the redhead's eyes with disgust. "You don't have my support Jarvis, you will not eliminate the Rainbow Triangles."
 
"Oh, I think I will." She gave off an little evil smirk and twinkled her nose. "You forget you're dealing with the daughter of a powerful assemblyman who raised the most money in the state to Bush in 2000. Still wasn't enough to get him our electoral votes, but enough to make a statement. You're going to help me or I'll undermine Paris and make her a pathetic puppet."
 
"Look," I told her, backing her towards the mirrors. "I was fine when it came to the hemlines, the Atkins crap, the cuts in materials to the homecoming decorations in the freshman and sophomore halls, I agreed with you that they could be just as creative with less. But these are students you're talking about, wonderful, caring students who love this school and are proud to be out of the closet. If we take away their meeting place, the group statement of our government will be 'go back into hiding and don't show your face, you don't belong here'. If you get enough votes, I'll be voting no. If you don't, I'll still be voting no, and I know Paris will too because that group gave us a big boost in May during election time. I will vote with you for most everything else, but I refuse to discriminate against anybody."
 
"What are you, a Democrat?"
 
"Card carrying, last Tuesday I voted for the first time and checked the entire ticket, straight through. Bush is messing up this country, taking away women's rights slowly and trying to put an end to the public school system as we know it. I refuse to cater to your sick little fantasy of sucking Bush's dick and being his mouthpiece at Chilton Jarvis."
 
Francie was giving me this stern, angry look, but I think that I got her to back off for a bit. "I won't bring it up this time, but when January comes, the dykes better watch out because I'm going to do all the convincing I can to take away their money. Until then, I'll keep bugging you to change your vote." She grabbed her bag, and I was glad that this entire conversation was caught on tape. "One more thing, you let RTS or Gellar know about this, I'll take you down with me Gilmore. Watch out."
 
Her evil gaze stared into mine, and I had a new reason to hate Francie. I always thought she was a little wild with her Republican agenda, but this was downright scary right-wing, so much that Rush Limbaugh would tell her to calm down. She walked out of the bathroom, and I was left with a new dilemma in my mind. Let Paris know about Francie's meddling and lose my credibility? Yes, I had her on tape saying hateful things about gays and lesbians, but if those were to be released, RTS might become militant and try to hurt Francie. She was misguided, but I didn't mean harm to her.
 
But if I didn't tell either Paris or RTS? Francie would win, she'd gather the support necessary, and I'd be the fall girl for not doing enough. I wasn't out like them, so I would have to suffer in silence for the next two months. Thankfully, there's still be time to keep her in check. I could gather the facts for a case against her, but I'd definitely have to be much more careful about every move I made to gain Paris' love. The goal was now to keep it within the bounds of Stars Hollow, and away from Hartford and Chilton as much as I could.
 
Brushing off Francie's newest attack on our government, I went to class and kept my fingers crossed that I'd be taking to the dance floor with Paris this morning at six. The time thankfully seemed to fly, and with no meetings after school and the special Franklin a big success, Paris was in good spirits.
 
I sat at a bench next to the fountain, playing with the cuff of my sweater and nervous as hell, ready to prepare for a life of 'just friends' if she did say no. Two days as a self-declared lesbian and I was already thinking about the future of our friendship and an unresolved crush if rejected. Paris set her messenger bag at her side, and I gave her a hopeful, yet vague look that disguised my emotions.
 
"So Par, did you consider? Do you want to go?" My heartbeat thumped in my chest and...
 
She said she would honored to be. My mind recycled the answer, looking around for any negativity in her voice, but it wasn't to be found. Paris had accepted my invitation, and in less than 38 hours, I'd be holding her in my arms for hopefully 24.
 
She said yes, she said yes, she said yes!! My mind was screaming in victory and I hadn't felt so happy since my mom showed me the letter that confirmed I was going to Chilton, and started this whole thing in motion. I tuned out everything else as I enveloped my girl in a huge bear hug and heard the remainder of her answer muffled into the Chilton logo on my sweater. I didn't care though, the only word that was important in that was honored. Paris was my date for the dance marathon, and was as excited as I was.
 
Well, after she started breathing again, my victory hugged almost made her pass out since the sweater was cutting off her path to air! What can I say, love is a funny thing.
 
With the doubt of a partner gone, I was free to tell her all about the strategies of staying up all day and night, and how fun it was going to be and what to watch out for when it came to Kirk and his tactics. I think around the route 26 exit her major answer became an 'mm-hmm' mumbled out with a smile because I was wearing her out. But still as she pulled into the driveway, she started to get her enthusiasm up, and I swear her voice became a scary combination between Babbette's and Sookie's when they get into happy-gush mode.
 
"I'll see you on Saturday at 5:45 sharp Rory, we're gonna take the title this year! I'll be practicing at home from the moment I get in up until nine tomorrow night." She smiled at me and set her hand on mine as we touched for the last time that school week, since Chilton had a no school day the next. "I promise you, I'll sweep you off your feet at least a couple times." There was the sort-of flirt voice again, and I think my heart rose in my chest about three feet from her declaration. After telling her I hoped so, we went our separate ways, and I got into my sweatpants and t-shirt so that I could stretch myself out and prepare to put my body through the big grind coming up soon.
 
I had made a stop at the library the night before for every dance book I could find, and had opened at least twenty windows on my iBook set to various websites with various steps. It was tough to practice them with only myself in the room, but I made do. After about the seventh time though, I got the quilt from Lorelai's bed and put it on the living room floor so my butt wouldn't bruise up again from my legs tangling together at inopportune times.
 
I hummed the music to myself, but I found myself embarrassed by my humming voice. So after that I flipped on the cable box and turned on an audio channel with show tunes, big band and orchestral music on it. That kept me in tune much better than my own voice.
 
I practiced Thursday night for six hours, only stopping when Jess came in to bring me my food. He gave me this sort of weird look as I shimmied across the floor and noticed him just as I tripped over the edge of the quilt and right onto my boobs. That evil, evil boy laughed at my pain, but I forgave him for providing cappuccino, chili fries, a salad and sugar-packed doughnuts. I made sure not to say who my date was, and he didn't surprisingly press further as we ate together, and he described a scene at school earlier in the day where Dean tried to flirt with a ditzy blonde in order to try to get into the dance marathon. She must not have been that stupid though, because she told him she knew about the diner incident and that he had too much baggage for her to consider going out with him.
 
"Looks like in the words of Billy Idol, he'll be dancing with himself!" Jess joked, and I groaned and threw a pillow at his head.
 
"Please, I never want to hear about Dean and his habits ever again. I hope he leaves this town, I should've known stalking stockers were bad for my love life!" With all the sexual tension gone due to the Duper kiss and the influence of Dean far away, Jess and I had a great heart-to-heart that night that surely would prove to my mother it was safe to let him in the house from now on.
 
Still, as he left, I realized something as I started putting away stuff and cleaning up the house; I was all alone in knowing that I was in love with Paris, and that I was gay. No one else did, and it was stifling because I wanted to scream from the rooftops that I wanted her. She at least had Fran to vent to or confide in. Me? I really had no one. If Lane were to know I might trigger the only part of her Christian upbringing she was opposed to, since I never heard her say whether she was for or against gays. Madeline would probably spill the news to everyone within a 30 mile radius of Harford moments after I said it, and Louise? Uhhh, maybe, but she'd probably be more likely to rope me into a threesome than to give me advice to what to do. I never really got to know anybody else in Chilton or at Stars Hollow High.
 
Who was left? There's no one I'd relate to, I thought as I went to bed, clouded with my thoughts about revealing my sexual orientation to anyone. I wanted at least someone to know and give me a show of support, albeit silently as Paris and I shared that long dance, so I could have pride in myself.
 
I got up Friday morning, showered, dressed, ate, and then started rehearsing anew. I was getting my confidence up somewhat, though things still clouded me. Would Paris go for the more intimate kind of dancing or keep her distance, and would she shy away from me during the small breaks? There were still some questions about it all hanging in the air.
 
Thankfully there was one thing not stopping me from being my best; the traditional Friday night dinner with my grandparents. I called Grandpa and explained the situation I was in with having to be up early in the morning (not telling him who was my dance partner), and he readily agreed to have Grandma not expect me this evening. I couldn't go anyway even if I wanted to; the Jeep was stuck at Gypsy's with a blown radiator so I was stuck in town for the weekend. With that burden out of the way, I went back to practicing.
 
About one I decided to take a little break with my stomach growling for more sustenance, so I stopped by Luke's and had a BLT sandwich with fries. Lunch on a weekday lately without Paris however seems just that much more lonely, I had gotten so used to sitting next to her, munching on my salad and coming out of a shell created by the headphones of my CD Walkman. Even in a different venue, my mind thought that her aura was in the seat next to me, comforting me into the habit of routine. I thought it strange to think of it that way, but I wasn't about to stop my mind from thinking about her. I even considered calling her just so I could hear her voice some time in that day, but talked myself out of it since she probably was in hyperfocus mode, all of her energy targeted towards being the best she could when she takes the floor tomorrow morning.
 
After finishing eating and giving Luke a sort-of status report about how his favorite customer was doing (My mom's doing fine, though a little lonely in her little shoebox of a hotel near the Ryman), I left, walking about town and taking in the beautiful cool November day. I strolled across the bridge, just thinking about what I would have to do to reintroduce Paris to the community.
 
I think she only has three allies in the Hollow for now; Mom, me and Taylor, everyone else thought she was so abrasive when she came here for her Oppenheimer story, and she was just a little too diva-ish (I don't use the term in a bad way, but she was pretty demanding) during the rehearsals last year at the dance studio. I think eventually she can get along with the townspeople and consider them more than 'Yankee rednecks', I mean she's coming here to dance, isn't she?
 
Somehow, thinking about the rehearsals last year led me into the former railroad depot that now doubles as Miss Patty's dance studio and the village's de facto meeting hall. It's also sort of an extension of the town's history museum, which is near the Inn, but since it's so close to downtown they put an exhibit in the front room so people can look at it and remember when and think back wistfully to that time they did this or that.
 
Of course, today being the dance marathon, pictures and artifacts from the event were on display, like the buzzer that was used to denote that a couple was being taken out for falling down or stopping before it was replaced a few years ago. There were some pictures from the first events in the fifties, faded sepia toned or black and white snapshots of girls and boys, along with their parents having fun at the event. Somehow it kept the big band influence through the late sixties and through the seventies, though let's just say I'm glad there was no film of the event in 1977. Having to see a picture of Taylor in full John Travolta mode with the leisure suit and ruffled shirt is something I'd like to excise from my memory, that man can scare me sometimes so unexpectedly.
 
There were a couple of photo albums on a table below the exhibit, so with nothing much else to do, I sat down with one of them, marked '1980-2000' and paged through it, seeing the faces of my childhood blur by. The townspeople I know so well look at their most innocent and fancy-free, like there was nothing weighing down on them. I look through, in awe and confusion as I see all the men and women, and in some cases boys and girls dancing in the pictures, the dim glow of the spotlights throughout the gymnasium highlighting their shadows and facial features.
 
I note men and women strongly because I wasn't finding any pictures of men with men, or women with women unless they were related to each other. If my mom had been here this year she may have danced with me in lieu of Dean, and that wouldn't have been considered odd at all. Another girl though...my thoughts were becoming clouded as I paged through the early eighties again, trying to find a case of a girl dancing with another girl. Come to think of it, I've never heard of anyone except males coming out in this town. I didn't know whether to feel like a pioneer for my love for Paris, or to be scared of going into truly virgin territory when it came to love in this town.
 
I ended up at the page marking the 1988 marathon, and was reading through the results page, when I suddenly found my eye catching something familiar. I stopped and reread the winner of first place for that year.
 
Champions - Patricia LaCosta and Gerald Savoy (alt. Lorelai V. Gilmore)
 
"Huh?" I had always been under the assumption that my mother had never tasted victory in the competition at all, but there was her name, in parentheses, in the same class as Miss Patty and Jerry Savoy, who had operated a tap school in the building next to Luke's for years until about '96 before he retired and moved down to New Mexico. I was under the assumption that my mom and Jerry shared a few dances together while Miss Patty took a rest break.
 
However, when I turned to the photos, I saw a picture of Patty and my mother, dancing together. My head was buried somewhere in the background of the picture, and since I remember nothing about my life except occasional flashes and scenes before my first day of kindergarten, it was natural that I never remembered the event, even fourteen years later. But there was my mom, being swung around by my then-ballet teacher, her skirt flaring out and around.

"But I thought she never won," I told myself, looking at the picture and realizing that even as an alternate, she did. Maybe that's why she wanted to win so bad, to win it with a full effort, and not as just an alternate...
 
"Your mother was a wonderful dancer, classically trained." A voice suddenly reached my ears, and I didn't know who it was. I got up from the chair and turned around, finding Miss Patty smiling at me.
 
"Oh, hi." I looked at Miss Patty with reverence. Even though I was never really a good student of hers because I didn't gain a good dance gene, she always has had a soft spot in her heart for me. "I was just looking at the albums from the past marathons."
 
I gave her the album where I had paged to, and it was opened to the picture of her dancing with my mother. "I uh, never knew that mother was part of a winning team. Also, that we had alternate dance partners in the marathon before."
 
"Kirk abused the privilege too much back in 1992, so we had to change the rules," she stated. "From then on, it was twenty-four hours with two people. We hated to do it, but there was no other way around it; we had to stop Kirk from winning too much."
 
"Oh." I was in a daze, knowing this new fact about my mother. "How long did you end up dancing with her altogether that year?"

Miss Patty counted down on her fingers as she tried to remember how much time she did. "About seven hours I'd say, Jerry was a little off through those mid-afternoon and early evening hours. Your mother saved us that year; the way she could swing was amazing." She looked at the picture closely. "She wasn't even in the contest when she came into the gym, just stopping by with you from the Inn to drop off some refreshments. No one invited her to the marathon because they figured she was just a single mother working at the inn, she wouldn't have time for it."
 
"When did she get invited in then?" I asked my eyes wide as I heard Patty tell me the story of how my mom helped her win the dance marathon.
 
I learned from her that I had been in Sookie's care that day while my mom worked at the Inn. By then she had been promoted to a desk clerk, a few steps below her current position of manager. That year she was coordinating food and drink for the event, and back then we were depending on the Inn for almost everything; she didn't even walk into Luke's for the first time until three years later. As Patty said, I was her entire world for the longest time and my mother rarely either went out on dates or set foot outside of the county as she worked herself ragged to give me a good living.
 
That day though, something changed. My mom looked forlornly towards the floor as the happy couples swept their way across the floor, and was getting the bug into her to want to participate. She hadn't danced for years, at least five because of my coming into the picture a few days after she turned sixteen (at least in embryonic form), and had been withdrawn since then, taking a 'sister doing it for herself' attitude.
 
"I went up to her during a break," Miss Patty continued, "and asked her what the matter was. Your mom was looking at the floor with this devastated look in her eyes, like she wanted to be there too." She noticed me start to feel a little guilty and set a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry dear, she wasn't blaming you at all, you were and still are her life. Your mom wanted some kind of break from her job, and Jerry needed to put his feet on ice a little longer than usual. She told me 'I never got to go to my prom, and they seem to be having a lot of fun'. I asked her why she didn't join, and--"
 
"She had too much pride to admit that she was lonely and didn't feel like putting her fun over that of mine," I finished, sighing. I hated that for the longest time, even though she never admitted it, Lorelai swore off men because she was afraid of falling for one and putting my needs in a swift decline.
 
"Yes, you could say that. Anyways, there was a bellboy who was helping her out with snacks and drinks, so I figured that I might give her a little fun. So I offered her my hand and asked if she'd like to be my alternate. Your mother was quite stubborn, and it took about five minutes to convince her that Mia wouldn't be mad if she shrugged off her responsibility for a little while."
 
"So, you danced with her."
 
"More like she danced with me dear, your mother could really cut up a rug back then!" Miss Patty laughed heartily, and she pointed out my head in the photo. "You and Sookie came in during the third hour she was my alternate, and were both rooting us on. Jerry was glad to give up the spotlight a bit, and she really turned some men's heads. They were surprised to see a woman like me dance with another without a second thought. When she finally wanted to stop, it was hard, because in all the years I was a participant, she was my best partner."
 
I bit my lip, nervous to ask a question to the older Latina woman. But needing confirmation, I asked anyways. "So no one objected to you and my mom dancing? I mean usually its stubborn boy/girl, and if it is a woman with a woman, usually they're related so it's OK."
 
"There was one woman in the audience who barked at us that we were living in sin." Instead of a look of shame however, Miss Patty just grinned widely. "Of course, she was part of a one-woman crusade to ban spirits and dancing from the two altogether, so no one really listened to her."
 
"But why hasn't Mom mentioned all this to me? I mean I just found out now from one picture in one photo album, and I was always under the impression that she had never come close to the goal."
 
"Because of her pride, she wants to win it all with 100% completion. She appreciated me crediting her with at least a 1/3 of the victory, but she said it wasn't enough. She would have done it again the next year, but then was when she tried to start working for a house. She never came back until you turned eleven to the marathon, and everything about 1988 was forgotten by most of the townspeople."
 
I was still numb from the revelation that my mom had danced with another woman. Sure, I know her and Miss Patty would remain nothing but friends, but that she was so fancy free about it and didn't feel any guilt, at least according to Patty, piqued my interest. I'l definitely have to bring up this hidden tidbit of information she's been keeping from me when she comes back from Nashville Sunday night.
 
Right then though, my focus was on the fact I found myself wanting to confide in Patty about my interest in Paris. She was a very maternal figure in my life, almost as close to me in the early years as Grandma currently is. She was the first one I brought Dean up to so he could get a job in town, and somehow had always been a comforting figure in my life.
 
Patty also, has been a little wild. She's always shared these awe-inspiring tales of her times in south Florida and Cuba and of the risky dances she had done, along with the interesting people she met along the way. Before then, I was afraid to tell anyone about my self-confirmed status.
 
However, Miss Patty started drawing it out of me slowly, and in her own way. With her hand on my shoulder, she pulled up the other chair next to me and tried to let me know she was feeling bad for me.
 
"Rory," she started, "I heard about you and Dean at the diner Tuesday night. I'm sorry he won't be sweeping you off your feet tomorrow during the dance."
 
I felt numb. She had spread the gossip as soon as she knew of course, but minimized it unlike she usually did. "I'm OK actually," I told her. "I wasn't in love with him anymore, the flame was dead. It's just that...I don't know." I stopped, afraid to come right out with it. I wanted to be careful, and be evasive with my confession.
 
"Just what child?" Patty then brought up the suspicions that had been building inside of her. "You can tell me."
 
"Well," I started, my voice shaky and nervous. "I was looking through those books, trying to find out if there has been anyone in the contest who has been..." I stopped and wandered off. The 'G' word was at the tip of my tongue. I wanted to ease myself into confession though, or have a way to get off the topic in case she got uncomfortable. "If they're from out of town. Not a citizen."
 
"Ooh, plenty of people. Not the obvious tourists mind you, but yes, we've allowed non-Hollow residents in." She smiled at me with her bright pink lipstick and got down to my level. "Why, do you have a partner yet?"
 
"Actually, yes. I asked them yesterday." I played evasive, trying not to admit who was sharing my dance card.
 
"This person said yes?"
 
"Mm-hmm. Actually, the person is from my school, Chilton. Truth be told, I didn't know if the invitation would be accepted, but in the end, it was." Good job so far, I thought to myself. Remain evasive, use the unisexual terms to your advantage.
 
"Have I seen this person before?" Patty asked. "I really liked the chemistry I saw in the studio between you and that boy, what was his name? DuBlaye, DuMaurrier, DuGrey--"
 
Please don't bring him up again! My mind jumped in, panicked. "No, no, it's not him, and I never liked him, sorry to say." I then sighed, sucked it all up, and admitted whom I was taking. "Actually..." I stopped for a moment, wanting to back out for a beat. I figured however that I had gotten this far, might as well finish it off."...It's a her. I should've let you know first since you're a judge and all, I didn't know if it was disallowed with the rules, I should've read them--"
 
"Of course it is," Patty told me, reassuring me. "Why did you think it wasn't?"
 
"Because I was looking at the book and didn't see any unrelated girl/girl couples instead of you and my mom, and I was afraid that's because the judges made an exception." Why was I acting like such a wreck towards Miss Patty? I couldn't figure it out for the life of me, and thought that aversion would work well. I was becoming somewhat unbalanced, and losing my courage to confide in anyone. Maybe this is all a mistake, I should take back my invitation, Paris isn't ready for the eyes of the town focused on just the two of us. I could already see the results of that; a friendship-ending argument, and a life full of never-minds and what-could-have-beens.
 
Miss Patty though, seemed to catch on to what I was trying to bring across, even if my words didn't say it.
 
"Rory, dear?" she asked, a voice filled with neutrality instead of judgment. "Why are you panicking over her being here?"
 
"Because," I said, choking back my emotions. "The thing is, well, uh...you know some of your stories from down in Miami, where you said that you felt as equal to the men as you did women?"
 
She nodded yes towards me, telling me to go on. "Well, if I were to tell you why I invited this girl, would you be able to keep it a secret? I'm sort of not ready to reveal it to anyone yet."
 
"I can." she told me, without argument.
 
"Okay, well you remember that girl who rented this place out last year for the rehearsals? The short blonde girl with the temper?"
 
The older woman laughed for a bit. "How could I forget, she was one of the more unique customers I've had to deal with."
 
"Well, she's the one," I started. "I asked her to go..." I looked down towards my fingers, trying to distract myself from everything I was trying to say. I could've left then, but I think that Miss Patty was starting to get a basic idea from the vague clues I was dropping.
 
"Hon, do you like this girl?"
 
"Of course I do, I wouldn't have asked her otherwise."
 
"You think she's pretty, right?"

I was starting to ease up a little then; Miss Patty seemed to not want to press too hard for an answer. "She's more than that to me. Honestly, I think she's beautiful."
 
"Let's start using her name," she admonished, trying to take me out of my vagueness. "Paris is beautiful to you?"
 
"Yes, Paris is," I admitted. "I just want to give her a good time you know? Usually none of the men notice her at all, and she used to be a great dancer when she was younger."
 
"There's more to this than giving her fun, isn't there?" She turned around and smiled at me. "When Dean first came around, you felt tingles, right?"
 
"Yes."
 
"How about with Paris? Do you miss her when she's not anywhere near you?"
 
Miss her? That was an understatement, considering I didn't want her to leave lately and I was using most of my night and weekend minutes just talking to her on the phone. "With Paris," I told Patty slowly, "it's much more than tingles with her. I feel my heart beat speed just looking at any notes she gives me, tracing her handwriting with my finger. Whenever I see her entry on my cellphone, or her name in my AIM buddy list, I get butterflies in my stomach, a longing that I just want to push down. I haven't felt that with Dean for at least five months, ever since I left to join her in Washington for the summer. We touch," I started tearing up, but smiling, "and I feel sparks shoot up my spine, even from something as simple as exchanging a writing instrument and shaking her hand. Even when we're angry at each other, I can't help but think that our arguments are hollow in any way, we put all our effort into him."
 
I felt Patty's index finger up on my chin, and she brought my face up so I could make eye contact with her. "So why do you feel like you should change your mind about having her dance with you?"
 
I sighed. "Because, this is a small town, everybody knows my name, my actions, my feelings at any time. The moment you found out I was done with Dean, the news was spread. It scares me to think that I don't like boys any more sometimes. I'm thinking of nothing but Paris and how I've started trusting her with so much, and that this town is so conservative..." My mind was reeling around the fact I had just admitted my sexual orientation to Patty, and I was saying much more than I ever thought I would. Her as a confidante was kind of scary.
 
"Come here, stand up dear." She took my hand, got me up from my chair, and gave me a motherly hug of comfort as she reassured me. "Rory, do you remember the legend of the founding of this town?"
 
She released me, and I remembered right off the top of my head the story. "Two lovers, separated by those who didn't believe they were meant to be together."
 
"That's right."
 
"In the end however," I recalled. "They ran away from their homes, and with only a band of stars and their love guiding them, they found each other where the trail of stars ended, approximately where the gazebo was today. They laid eyes on each other, and fate guided the rest of their lives."
 
"See? Science and mores might be against you Rory, but if you know in your heart that you were meant to love that other woman, why stop fate?"
 
"But what about her mother, society in general and Hartford? There's so much going against her, and they'll be angry at me for pursuing this, and I don't even know how she feels. I'm honestly getting scared, I mean we're considered golden children..."
 
"You know if it's meant to be already," she reminded me, which I did. Paris and Rory, Rory and Paris, Paris and I, all of those combinations sounded so right in my head. "Some people in this town and in your school are going to be against you two, but sometimes, love isn't as clean-cut as it should be. It's a complicated, puzzling maze of a mess at times. But if you know in your heart that this girl, this Paris, is meant to be your soulmate, don't miss out and go for it. I promise you, by tomorrow night, you will know if you've done right for yourself. Life might be against you, but love wins in the end."
 
"Love always wins," I completed. It was starting to feel right once again, everything making sense. I like Paris, maybe even love her, and for Miss Patty to compare us to the Legend of Stars Hollow, it put things in a whole new perspective.
 
I was ready to put my entire life on the line to make it known to Paris that I was meant to have a place in her heart, and that I would reserved a place in mine if she returned those feelings for me. In just the period of three days, things had turned upside-down and inside-out, and destiny's wheels were starting to spin. It had always been there, from the day we first met at Chilton. When she introduced herself, even though she was in the mode of bringing me down, she still touched me in order to make it known she'd be there in my life whether I liked it or not, her arm brushed against mine, and I felt a spark right then and there. Then a couple months later, when I went to that college fair and she made it clear to that her Harvard dreams would still be on, whether I'd be there or not, it was starting to become clear. Paris was sticking by me, whether we liked each other or not.
 
Now, we were two years removed from there, and I was sitting in the same dance studio where I had my first brush with the trouble with relationships when Dean and I fell asleep on the mats after the Winter Formal, hours removed from the first time I thought of Paris as cute, but in a way not associated usually with another girl.
 
I'm still scared of what's going to happen once I say the words 'I'm a lesbian' to my mother, my father, my grandparents, the townspeople, my fellow Chilton peers. But there's one thing I learned with Patty telling me it was fine despite not saying outright that I was gay. I didn't need to; she knew it without my mentioning it. No matter what, there would be at least one person on my side, trying to defend me, and she let me know that by saying if I ever had to introduce Paris at a town meeting or an event, she would defend me.
 
We finished talking about the marathon, her going into more detail about my mom dancing in '88. She crossed her fingers with mine and swore that she would keep my secret, and would not reveal it to anyone. I could see it in her eyes; I was the girl who had grown up living and breathing Stars Hollow, and was now coming into my own as a young woman, deciding my destiny. We hugged, and she brushed off my thanks for being a kind ear by telling me to make sure Paris was ready to go from hell and back in order for us to win that trophy, together. Even though she was a judge, because the marathon is a timed contest I wouldn't be influencing her in any way. This was just a talk, girl to girl, where I was able to come out to someone and not be talked down to. Miss Patty is a kind old soul, and despite her reputation as the town gossip, I had found myself trusting her with my secret. So I left the studio a few minutes later, a weight lifted off of my soul from revelation, and ready to face anyone who might object to a choice of dance partner, or if the stars align like they did for those two who created the Legend of Stars Hollow, my soulmate.
 
I practiced my moves for the rest of the day, did my homework, and then ended the early night by placing a call up to my father in Boston. I let him know where his ex-girlfriend was and that I was doing fine. He was a mess though. Sherrie had started developing pains after doing too much at the Halloween party, and two days after she fainted in her office, her doctor ordered her on a 24/7 bed rest regimen for the remainder of the pregnancy. That meant my poor dad became a glorified servant and tried to help her out as much as possible, but still got yelled at so much because she was stuck in bed 'no thanks to his magic sperm', as he described her saying on a day she wasn't feeling too hot. Maybe you'll finally be responsible now, I thought to myself, the responsibility of a new life was going to give my dad a new chance at life, and hopefully he wouldn't screw it up. Of course, I thanked God because my mother and I wouldn't have to race up the 93 to participate in a baby shower she had planned with next weekend with her work friends. Yes, I'll love my baby sister, but not enough to participate before her birth in a karaoke competition. No, I'm not kidding, Sherrie had a video singing machine she was intending to foist on all of the shower guests. It was enough to make me cry since I have absolutely no musical talent whatsoever.
 
When I crawled beneath my covers at seven, usually a time I'd be eating at the grandparent's house, I had high hopes that I'd have one of those nights of sleep where you go to bed, and your mind plays this cool trick on you so that when you wake up in the morning you think that only a few seconds have passed by, which makes the time flash by so much faster. The tea I drank to get myself to sleep worked wonders, and when I woke up this morning, I was up like a light and refreshed in a way I never had been before.
 
I know whatever I do in order to mute the excitement of Paris in my arms for so long a time will be for naught, no matter what, so I took my shower, threw on some sweatpants and a t-shirt, and ate a hearty breakfast of pancakes and eggs (bless you Luke for opening up at 4:30am just this once!) before I back home to get ready. On my way there Mom called, talking to me in an irritating Southern accent as she joked about hooking up with a country singer named Dill. Somehow she was having fun despite all the PowerPoint presentations, boring product demos and confabs going on through Nashville's convention center, but was still looking forward to coming home to Connecticut. Even though I had all this time alone to myself, I miss her so much too. The only really good thing that's come out of her leaving for the weekend was the open for Paris to dance with me today, but I may have been able to pull that off with her still here.
 
I got back into my house and got ready for the dance, sliding on the red polka-dotted dress I had picked up from the town's vintage shop and finding that I fit the garment so perfectly. The curves of the fabric flattered my slim form, and I was imagining Paris' fingers sliding down my back as I zipped it up in the back, my hands shaky and clammy from a case of nerves. I applied just enough makeup to last the entire day, since I'll probably touch myself up when the 6pm break comes along. I curl my hair into a classy coif, and slip a pink rose into it in order to give it just that perfect period touch that I'm looking to impress Paris with.
 
One thing I want her to notice and not vocalize though is my choice of underwear. Normally I'd go conservative, but since this is what might be considered a first date in the regular dating world, I decided to go fancy with my choice. A special thin peach strapless bra, combined with matching cotton panties I can barely feel beneath my dress. God, I hope she likes the lengths I've gone to impress her, because after six, the ball is in her court. I've extended the invitation to her for my love, and Paris should be fighting to make the most of it.
 
Finally, it's time to leave. I walk out into the cool, clear early morning of the early day, the moon still over the town. I can see the stars over the haze of the streetlights, and I seem to come up with a theory as I walk towards downtown. There's a trail, I wondered to myself. The stars are in a line between here and the distant skyline of Hartford.
 
Fate? Coincidence? I'm not sure, to tell you the truth.
 
I check my watch, reading 5:40am, and watch as the residents of the town make their way to the gym. Some of the citizens are staying at home of course, because they're sane.
 
I guess that makes me insane for participating in this 'wacky' tradition. But you know what? In the end, if I can make a good case to Paris that she should be mine, it won't be wacky, but very romantic. It's like a dream come true from a modern day story book. We dance around our feelings for a long time, then one day, we both realize how much we have in common. That despite things that might seem to doom our relationship, we'll persevere and live through the ups and downs. Maybe, just maybe Paris and I can survive all of this adversity long enough to have a long and fulfilling relationship, and God willing, maybe get to the point where both of us complain to each other about our first grey hairs.
 
Paris is going to look beautiful in my eyes, even if she's wearing a freakin' potato sack, and I know she's going to dance divinely, even if her humility causes her to say she really isn't all that good. Right now, I can even say I'm feeling the tingles on my lower back where her fingers will be resting as we dance the day and night away, 6am can't come soon enough.
 
I arrive at the school, and notice the line of couples in front of the doors leading into the gymnasium. The hallway is crowded with about eighty other people. There's still some doubts in my mind that this might work, because the competition this year seems to be much thicker than ever, there's probably some Harfordians and maybe even a New Yorker somewhere in that crowd.

I then see this one graceful woman, who looks to be about 24, with her guy, practicing her spins and dance steps. An image takes root within my mind of Paris doing that too, her slender fingers intertwined with mine and her secret smile directed towards me as the skirt of my dress rises up in the air, and I do a 720º spin, two revolutions around on my slightly high heels. Then she abruptly stops me, and with my back turned, she dips me down low, my back braced up against her hand. My hair tickles the floor, and her face is moving closer towards mine, so close I can feel her breath. My dream self prepares to close the distance as I imagine the man and woman I watch to be Paris and myself...

"Couple number 34, please separate and save that kind of dancing for the floor!" Uggh, there goes Taylor with his megaphone, trying to keep all the dancing clean and the contest fair. He's watched a few too many reports on channel 61 about the new craze that's sweeping the nation, only not, called freak dancing. I certainly have never seen it at a Chilton dance; no one will pull it off here because it's anachronistically wrong. I could easily see Paris pulling away from me to admonish a couple if they even tried to bring the Macarena into this 1940s themed dance...

It's now I realize the eyes of the judges (Miss Patty excepting) are going to be on all the male/female couples, and away from Paris and I. Basically, because no one has known Paris enough and I've never proven myself on the floor, we might be the dark horses in the competition, coming from almost nowhere to win.

Kirk is looking towards me with his newest partner, and I can't help but think how shocked he'll be once he sees that with my partner, he'll have some real competition going on. I smile towards him, hiding the fact that I'm currently thinking about a wild move where Paris slides me between her skirt so I get an eyeful of what she has under her dress, then turns around, grabs my hand and meets me on the other side to resume the dance anew. Maybe Kirk's brain will see that, overload from all those lesbianic thoughts that suddenly infiltrate his head, and just faint on the floor with no provocation, causing him to have to leave the competition.

Hmm, I think my strategy is starting to form, and hopefully Paris will be a willing participant in helping us both to victory. Taylor's never going to know what hit him this year once we take that floor in fifteen minutes...

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To be continued...

End of story author's note - I'm going to ask for song requests you'd like to see Paris and Rory dance to in chapter seven. Remember, it has to be appropriate to the time period and it has to be something that would have meaning to their future relationship. Any calls for booty dancing hip-hop of course, will be rejected ;). Please make your request within a constructive review of the story, or if you have a suggestion list longer than one song, email it to me at [email protected]. You may or may not see your request (it depends on how the chapter flow goes), but I want you to have at least a little say in how this story goes. Thank you :)!

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Seven | Connecting the Dots, Step by Step
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, alternating POVs between Paris and Rory throughout the chapter.
Inspired by: They Shoot Gilmores, Don't They?, now with 100% less Dean/Jess/Rory love triangles from hell and 97.5% more Paris/Rory heat!
Rating: R (just profanity in this chapter, it's more PG than R, but the next double chapter set will be back to R in no time).
Disclaimer: After 143,000 words of text for this fic, you'd think by now I'd own them? If I was paid at a $1 a word Paris and Rory would be mine in no time, but thus, Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions, Hofflund-Polone, and Warner Bros. Television are the proud owners of them, not I. If anyone wants to help me out though, my Paypal account address is...just kidding ;)! I write for fun and non-profit, so I expect nothing in return but your reviews and criticism. All songs mentioned in the chapter belong to their respective artists, products by their companies, and any mentions of real streets in Connecticut are thanks to Microsoft Streets & Trips 2004.
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, Realm of the Shadow, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Author's Notes: Finally, after two months, I've finished this chapter (breathes sigh of relief)! I never thought I'd finish and I found it tough going for awhile, but after much encouragement driving me towards the goal of the later chapters, this is finally completed.
 
Once again, thanks to my kind girls, Raven and Cinn for their excellent job on betaing me once again. Also, thanks to whatever kind soul of an operator at BellSouth or Verizon told Cinn about a plan where she could get cheap internet access without having to give it up and having to get her fix at the library every now and then. Bless you!
 
Vix, without you and your many astute observations about subtext, I wouldn't know where I'd be, thanks for the fun IM'ing sessions I look forward to every night when I get home from work. Thanks also to Christina for her support with this fic.
 
To those of you who sent song suggestions with your reviews, thanks for the response. I was able to write most of this without song becoming a large part of the story, but I'll mention a few in passing. I just wanted to get a good idea, and you all helped me majorly with this since I probably couldn't DJ to save my life.
 
Finally, warning #8 ff.net readers; This is still femslash, and will remain so until the end. If you don't like the idea of two girls dancing together, then doing more than that, don't read the story.

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Paris' POV, 6:10am
 
I arrived in the makeshift parking lot of Stars Hollow High School around 5:45am, guiding my Jag effortlessly around the traffic cones and over the curb as I passed the fence surrounding the field and a couple volunteers guiding me towards my space with orange safety sticks. Since Stars Hollow is basically what the board of education would usually call a 'walking and school bus district', there had never been a need for a big parking lot, there was just enough asphalt for the faculty and the few students with their own cars to pull onto. But with the dance marathon, there were some relatives of town citizens coming in along with spectators, so they opened up the athletic field in back for parking.
 
Where at Chilton I'm thankful that I have a close spot near the door thanks to my position, my poor car that morning was going to be stuck among the Civics, Escorts, Sonatas and Envoys of the world. I was guided slowly to my space by the safety stick people, driving behind a brown pickup I swore had to be used to haul pig waste at one time. I kept myself calm though, listening to the 40s channel on my XM radio and trying to get into a time warp mood where it was 1943 and I was driving in a smooth and classy Studebaker roadster instead.
 
Of course, this being Stars Hollow, no one cared if I drove into the place in a 1978 Dodge Aspen, so my parking space, instead of on solid asphalt, ended up on the fringe of the baseball diamond's infield. When I stepped out, the heel of my shoe had to dodge the socket hole where second base would usually rest, and I stepped right onto hard, compacted dirt.
 
I was thinking seriously about complaining about my space to the attendant, but then I remembered who I was here for; Rory, who would probably admonish me if I went back to my sophomore year behavior and whined about 'small-town yokels', and that her town was very comparable to some places in North Dakota long left behind by the young. It really wasn't that bad of a town; I've just been so used to the cosmopolitan urban atmosphere where I've been raised. Summers in the Hamptons, winter breaks down in Florida, and spring vacations spent up in my daddy's brownstone close to Harvard where I built up my relationships with the school's faculty and admissions staff. This was just another interesting stop on the journey that has been my life.
 
I had on my jacket over my dress so those who were walking towards the building with me couldn't comment, and they were regarding me with little interest. Most of them were in the same 40's garb, with a few teens and adults here and there being anachronistic and in modern dresses and slacks. There was even one boy who thought that James Dean may have perfected his look on December 31st of 1949 and was trying to pass it off as correct for the time period. I wanted to call a few of those people out, but that might have been a little rude, considering I wasn't even related to anyone in this town.
 
When I walked into the small high school, I could start to feel my anticipation build up for what was to happen. The hallways were small, lockers perfectly lined up, clusters of 35 broken up by the occasional classroom or closet door, followed by 35 more lockers. The look of the building definitely said 'Hollywood small-town high school' all over, down to the ornate ceilings above with the old style frosted glass light fixtures hanging from the rafters.
 
I saw a sign directing all of us towards check-in and coat check, and had the information Rory had sent me last night about it in a text message on my cell phone. We were couple #131 according to the contest order, so I lined up with everyone else and waited patiently to check in, the foyer in front of the gymnasium packed with people.
 
I searched around the room, and squinted my eyes out towards the front courtyard of the school looking for Rory through the doors, but I couldn't seem to place her, since she wasn't the only one wearing a red polka-dotted dress. I'd count at least forty others in that building wearing something close to it, and as I moved up in line, hoped she was there. I couldn't shout her name out because the others in line were having casual conversation, probably drowning my voice out.
 
After about five minutes, I came to the front of the line, and grabbed my fine-point Parker ballpoint pen out of my purse after I took off my jacket and handed it to a man collecting coats. An older woman with curly blonde hair sat at the table, crossing off names on a list and handing out number tags to the contestants. Spectators were being herded into the other doors directed towards the bleachers, while us contestants were coming in from the right and onto the dance floor.
 
"Last name and number sugar?" the woman asked me, having sort of a beatnik-ish tone of voice.
 
"Gellar, #131."
 
She looked down on the sheet, marked off like a voter's registers with each page cut at the edge so she could easily thumb to the first letter of each name. The lady thumbed to the G sheet, and then ran her finger through the list until she saw G-E-L. "Is that L-E-R or L-A-R at the end?"
 
"With an A," I told her, getting a little antsy. So little time to prepare, and hopefully I'd be able to locate Rory's angelic face somewhere within the crowd. I stretched out my neck, looking for her as the lady at the table confirmed my information.
 
Then she noticed my distracted state, and asked what was up. "Are you looking for your dance partner?"
 
I nodded towards her as she handed me the clipboard so I could sign next to my name. "Yeah, she said she would meet me here--"
 
The woman became wide-eyed as realization hit her. "Wait, blonde, brown-eyed, little short, funny name...that's you!"
 
I was puzzled for a moment, why was she describing me this way? "Uh, yeah, that's me I guess," I told her, mumbling.
 
"Rory's sitting in the bleachers waiting for you inside, she wanted you to know that 'cause she thought you might get lost here, being from Hartford and all." The lady smiled at me, and I couldn't help but thank Rory for thinking things out in advance.
 
She handed me my tag and a safety pin, numbered with 131 so I could hang it off the front of my dress. "Good luck dear," she told me, and I walked into the small, cozy gymnasium where I'd be sharing the next few hours of my life with the girl I liked. I thought it was sweet that Rory had gone up to the woman and asked if she could go in early just so I could find her, because in that crowd I may have never been able to. I know if I was at a charity ball and had to search for my date I may have never found them at all.
 
I walked in and was immediately in awe with the setting; this gym had been untouched by time or renovation, something out of Hoosiers. There were ropes of balloons hanging above the dance floor, in all colors of the rainbow, along with an older scoreboard hanging on a far side of the wall. There was a temporary digital scoreboard towards the end line on the far side of the gym that read '24:00:00', but it didn't distract from the décor of the setting at all.
 
I'm not going to bitch about a single anachronism here, this town's done their work, I thought to myself as I brought my gaze over to the bleachers to locate Rory.
 
It didn't take all that long, and the moment I saw her from across the room, she saw me and got up from her seat as she talked to a guy at the refreshments table, sipping from a foam cup. I knew from first sight that was Luke, the diner owner she was talking to, and of course, she was drinking coffee.
 
There was twenty feet between us on that first look, but I'll just say this; even if that had been the first time I had ever met Rory and laid eyes on her, I would've been just as needy for her as I was in that moment, falling in love on first sight.
 
My mouth started watering as I took in the dress she was wearing. It was hardly what anyone in this modern age would call sexy, but the way she looked in it just made me want to sweep her off her feet right away. The red fabric was bright, and gave off this warm aura that I wanted to bask in. There was but a little skin exposed on her front, but that would help cool down my hormones a little.
 
It looked as vintage as the dress I was wearing, but what she was wearing, she could've just come back from a dressmaker's shop in Hartford circa 1943 in a time machine. It fit her slim figure perfectly, like a glove, and I was drawn down to her legs immediately. The skirt fell just a little below her knees, but I could tell that it would flare out and spin whenever we tried something daring.
 
My heart was beating so fast; it was then I came back to reality. I was going to dance with her, for such a long time. This wasn't just any other dance, where if I got bored I could take a break and recharge at the punch bowl as Brady McHotguy boasted about how wonderful he was and wore out the letter 'I' so much it fainted and begged for mercy from being used so much. I'd only have twenty minute breaks here and there to cool my heels, and then right back into the frying pan and the fire.
 
What if I fell down that first minute and got us disqualified right off the bat? If we bumped another couple as we danced and started a rivalry we really didn't want, or danced so much we eventually fainted and ended up in the hospital? What if I couldn't keep my hands off her, and in a sudden movement I moved in too close...
 
"Paris?"
 
I was jolted out of those thoughts as Rory came closer to me, holding another foam cup of something. I looked up at her and shook the negative thoughts of the event out of my head as our eyes met.
 
God, I was right a year ago when I told her she was comparable to a Disney princess; she looked like birds really dressed her. Her hair had a rose decoration the same color as mine was, a light pink, as if karma was trying to nudge us together. I noticed her fingernails were sort of a cherry red, making my uncolored yet polished nails seem pale in comparison. She was smiling at me, a little bleary just as everyone else was from being up at such an early hour.
 
"Hi Rory," I told her as she gave me a nice once-over of my dress and I did the same. Her eyes raked over my frame, failing as I hoped to find a thing out of place or bringing down my beauty high, and then she told me that I looked really, really nice. I blushed and I told her that she was certainly no slouch in the beauty department either, there was a lot of nervous conversation going on to start out the morning.
 
She then handed over the other foam cup she held to me after we got over our nerves. She sipped from her cup, and I had a perverted thought about really wanting to be the lip of that cup. I swear I was giving her that same look Ally did towards Georgia as the other woman sipped the foam head of her cappuccino...
 
Thankfully before I could get into Charlie-Brown-eyeing-the-little-redheaded-girl mode or lick my lips, Rory decided to let me know what she gave me. "Uh, I didn't know if you'd drink coffee if it didn't have soy milk because Luke had to make enough to serve the entire competition, so he also made up a large pot of wintergreen tea. Is that OK, I can get you something else--"
 
My mouth thankful for any kind of fluid that didn't have Evian on the label (I think I drank my body weight in the stuff that day and a half before), I sipped the hot concoction, my nose basking in the sweet scent of the drink, and the relaxing vapors of the steam. It felt really good going down, and with the contained caffeine within, I could tell that recharging my synapses throughout the day with Luke's wintergreen tea was something I might have to start repeating every weekday.
 
After I gulped the tea down, I stopped Rory's ramble, smiling at her. "No, no, this stuff right here?" I pointed at the cup, followed by my stomach. "Hits the spot, that'll wake me up, though I did sleep from about six on until four this morning."
 
"I'm glad." She seemed relieved, playing a doting girl to my temperamental nature. "We have to go see the nurse for a quick physical, just something very routine to make sure we're both tip-top, she doesn't want to have any surprises befalling her."
 
"Turn my head and cough, walk a few steps, make sure I'm not carrying a benign form of the plague kind of exam?" I asked, and Rory shook her head.
 
"Come on, the line's building up," she told me, and took my hand so that we could get in the line. Thankfully the exam was thorough, yet brief and there was no use of a stethoscope, because if she had found my heart racing from the adrenaline rush of the event and being so close to Rory I might have been sitting in the bleachers just watching.
 
After finishing the exam, we went back over to the refreshments table, where Luke was standing sentry over the food and beverages. I told him that I loved his wintergreen tea (he poured me another cup as we chatted), and we settled those differences that arose in the heat of the Oppenhemier pursuit.
 
"I didn't really mean to assert that you ran a brothel," I told the guy, who would make a perfect model for a paper towel wrapping. "I just was a little intense that day, and for that I'm sorry Mr. Danes."
 
"Hey, its fine Paris, I've been called a lot worse by some citizens in this town, but the way you put it to me, and then Jess coming in and trying to push my buttons..."
 
"Yeah, he's a troublemaker. But from what I heard he's finally cooperating with you, Rory's been keeping me clued in..." Rory came over just then after retrieving her own number and safety pin pair. "...And here she is now."
 
"Hey, you two patched things up pretty quickly," she said as she handed me the piece of paper and pin.
 
"All it took was the wintergreen tea." Luke and I said our goodbyes, and my mind was able to focus on the reason she handed me her dance marathon number. "What's up?"
 
"Pin me please," she said with her innocent smirk. "I tried it myself, but I can't reach that far around my back."
 
Rory turned around, and somehow I kept my fingers unshaken enough to not jab the point of the pin through her skin as I threaded it through the paper of the number and the material of her dress. "There you go," I told her as I snapped the safety pin to place. Rory then turned around to face me, and asked me if she could pin my number to my dress.
 
Noticing that I had absolutely no material in back except towards the bottom of my spinal column, her pinning a number would be a little too close to home. I shuddered as my mind created that scenario, and with the only other option being pinning it to my front, I decided it was probably best to forgo the safety pin entirely, along with any help from Rory. Instead, there was thankfully a roll of black electrical tape on the judge's table. So I brought the number below my breasts and went to town, taping the number on somehow without Rory's help. I think I saw her frown a bit at losing possible contact with my bustline, but that was all forgotten as Taylor, overzealous with his use of the megaphone, called all the contestants out to the floor for the five-minute call.
 
"That's us," she said cheerfully, as she took my right into her left and we got onto the dance floor, ready to scope out the competition. I was in the mode I had been in so many times before with Rory; know thy enemy, and don't play into thy enemy's weakness.
 
Thy enemy that day for both of us; Kirk Gleason. Usually known as the town's bachelor, nerd, all-around geek, if it's a derogatory term for a nervous man like him, I could say it. But once he got on that dance floor, Rory had told me, that façade disappeared, and he turned into this dancing machine that would make Michael Flatley run away crying towards the woman who had borne him. He had won the competition for eight years straight, and this year was going for number nine. His dance partner was in it for the cup and the glory, and they were usually a professional who was on his team for the same reason some second-stringer from the La Crosse team of the CBA begged for a Lakers contract; to win. Rory told me that every year once the last couple was knocked out of the competition, he'd take the trophy around the gym floor to the strains of the love theme to Rocky.
 
Rory and I headed towards center court, and my eyes immediately met with Kirk's, a stern gaze that was telling him I wasn't here just for a little fun, I was here to win. I could care less about the whatever the prize package was, and Rory could keep the trophy, but I wanted to leave that floor in approximately twenty-four hours and three minutes declared the champion along with her.
 
Though of course the number one reason, that I wanted close contact with her for so long was shallow. Wasn't about to let Kirk know that though.
 
"Hey," he started, trying to get right into his mode of intimidation. "Good luck to you two."
 
Yeah, nice try there Gleason, I don't play nice. "Whatever," I said, brushing him off. "I have a feeling you'll be seeing Rory and I on this floor into the witching hours."
 
"Until you break a heel," he told us offside, reminding us both of how Lorelai lost her footing the last three years and stumbled to the ground in agony around the nine o'clock point. Rory didn't take the comment well and grimaced at him. I had to keep her calm, so I decided to move away from him.
 
"Trust me, we're different. Even if we have to ditch our shoes we'll still be here to stop your streak," she told him as we walked away and towards the judge's stand. I couldn't hear his response to her witty retort, but he was just a distraction.

I set a hand on her shoulder, trying to get her in the zone, so to speak. "Don't listen to him Gilmore, he's just bitter because he's never been able to parlay his titles into any kind of meaningful relationship." I smirked at her, and hoped she'd catch onto my very obvious and screaming hint that I hoped this day would turn into a lot more at the end. Rory laughed, and we settled down, preparing for the beginning of this whole ordeal.
 
A volunteer handed out yellow cards to all of us, and Taylor let us know the rules for those who needed a refresher course, but that I had down from the moment I accepted Rory's invitation. We had to stay moving and touching throughout, which meant there wasn't going to be any tossing your partner in the air allowed, or any other kind of wild move you'd see in Strictly Ballroom. The breaks would happen whenever Taylor sounded the scoreboard horn, lasting twenty minutes each, allowing us to recover. I could also take one individual ten minute break if I gave up my yellow card, kind of like a strategic last-laps pit stop in an auto race if we could keep it up into the late hours. That meant Rory and I were going to have to keep close eyes on each other's health and let the other know that it was time to yellow card out for a break.
 
With a minute to go, Rory and I met, exchanging direct eye contact and setting her hands in mine. She trusted me with her fate, in her town, at that moment. The last thing I wanted to do that day was be a major disappointment and stumble. God, I could already see the image of myself tripping on the volleyball pole socket in the gym floor and stumbling on my ass as the horn of doom sounded, Rory helping me up but not looking at me as I left town in shame.
 
My blood was flowing through my body so fast I could feel it in my veins, and despite not a smidgen of physical activity yet, my sweat glands were stirred up. I had prepared for that however, knowing I didn't have any material on the side to catch any drops, so I had to use a high-powered anti-perspirant. What wasn't helping however was Rory's proximity to me. It wasn't even six o'clock, and just the simple touch of her hands, they were getting me aroused. I felt stiff, nervous, and strange. What if this isn't right, I thought to myself as Rory's crystal pupils raked over my form, getting a sense of my curves and where to set her arms. Her fingers were bare, rubbing up against the ring on my right non-writing hand I received from my paternal Aunt Ingrid for my bat mitzvah.
 
She drew my attention, taking my focus off my worries for a moment. If she knew what I wanted to do at that moment, which didn't involve dancing with her, at least in the literal and academic sense, but in a bedroom definition, I swore she would've probably freaked. Thankfully my mind didn't telegraph anything, as she gave me a reassuring smile, bringing her left hand up and running a finger in my hair and along the petals of the flower in it.
 
"You ready for this Paris?" she said in a hushed voice as Taylor finished reading off a list of sponsors for the event. "Last chance to back out, you don't have to do this." Rory's voice wasn't in a mood of protestation, rather in a challenging tone. She then brought her hand down from my scalp, a finger lingering against the halter strap near my neck in a way that almost made me moan. She then brought the hand down my arm and back into my hand, leaving behind a building swath of goosebumps rising up from each millimeter of skin she touched, making the small hairs I had along the top rise. Her words worked alchemy in my ears and her breath tickled my nose, getting me back into the hyperfocus I had maintained since I asked Francisca to help me with an outfit choice Thursday night. A perfectly blended mix of triple-striped AquaFresh toothpaste combined with two cups of coffee was what I sensed in that one slight sniff of her breath as the minty taste of her went into my nose.
 
I swallowed down a last gulp of my wintergreen tea that I was swirling around my mouth to coat it so I could stay as hydrated as possible before the noon break, handing the cup off to a volunteer to toss. My lovesick side may not have been ready to go, but my empathy was. I wanted to help Rory win this, for her mother, for the town, and in a small way, for myself. Six years removed from my last recital on the stage of the Southington Civic Auditorium, taken out of my element so fast by my mother and pushed into a lonely existence devoid of all the fun I had in my early childhood. The only thing that came out of that so far was a need for Harvard so I could flee her influence, an aborted crush on a former friend and tormenter, and a rivalry that hopefully after this day, would turn into something more, maybe even love.
 
Rory wanted this. I wanted this. That was all that mattered in the end, no one else did.
 
I gripped her wrist tightly, looking right into her eyes, a confident smirk settling on my lips as I saw Taylor finish his announcement and prepare to depress the button on the scoreboard's control panel signaling the beginning of this ordeal.
 
"Oh yeah," I told her, my voice not wavering. "I'm ready, it's time to swing."
 
She smiled, relieved that I was ready to go. We took our place in the layout of the couples, our 131 number putting us towards the top of the east key lane of the basketball layout, right on the curve of the three-point line. In a way, this whole ordeal was going to be like a miracle shot from three-quarters of the court away, 185 couples, Kirk and his partner between Rory, I, and victory. Hopefully we could sink this shot at the title.
 
Holding our hands together, we both counted down with the crowd from ten to one that first horn signaling the beginning. It felt like ten minutes, but once Taylor yelled the words "And...GO!", then tapped his finger on that scoreboard horn button, things were under way. Right away one couple left, there just to continue a streak of 'appearances' at the dance marathon. It may have been just 30 seconds, but nonetheless it counted on the record.
 
We both got right to work, discovering that we were quite in sync with what we had both rehearsed for the last couple of days in our own individual homes. The first hour seemed to flow by in a fast adrenaline rush, Rory's hand imprints hot against my sides as we danced...well, the morning away. A time where I'd usually be in my pajamas cursing the state of 'educational' television as I found instead Trading Spaces reruns or some crap show on channel 30 about a haunted high school that looked awfully small to be one in actuality, was instead spent with my hands against her elbows, spinning around the hardwood gym floor, both of the skirts of our dresses spinning in the air as we danced to the sounds of remastered Benny Goodman Band music, recalling a simpler time where...sadly, Chilton was all-female and very exclusive, you had to be part of a select group of Hartford elite to even be considered for a slot in the school. If Rory and I lived back then, we would never meet, since her mother probably would have had to give her away after birth and been sent to a convent in shame for having an illegitimate child, and Rory would be stuck in the vicious circle of the foster system.
 
God bless you Gloria Steinham, for I now have a new and sobering appreciation for the women's liberation movement. Back to hopefully many more minutes of dancing with the girl of my dreams...
 
Rory's POV, 6:05am
 
When I got up this morning, I had expected Paris to be dressed to the nines, far from her normal demeanor because of the period dress we pretty much had to adhere to. There was a part of me honestly that was scared however, that she wouldn't take it as seriously as I thought she was, and she'd either come in a dress that looked like it came from the forties, but was bought off the shelf at Vera Wang the day before. I was also under the impression that she might get lost trying to find her way towards me, so I had Babbette ask her to come right into the gym and find me in there instead of waiting out in the front foyer near the ticket window hopeful Par would recognize me in the red sea of white polka dots.
 
Once I got into the gym, I marveled at how beautiful the place was done up, each year the students manage to outdo the class from the year before who decorate the gym. The student council at Stars Hollow High worked deep into the night, leaving at one before everything was period and perfect. From the small touches, like the free throw lane on the basketball floor taped up and filled in so the key would resemble how it was when the school opened in 1941, to the checkerboard tablecloths at the refreshments table, and the nurse in 40's garb, candy-striped apron and all, not to mention the strings of balloons hanging from the rafters, everything was perfect. The digital time clock at the west end of the gym could easily be forgotten since I had on an antique watch passed down through my grandma's side of the family over the years substituting on my left wrist for the old Dean bracelet, now passing through Old Lyme on its way into the Long Island Sound, I'd just check that and with my superb time-telling skills, easily deduce how much time I had left.
 
I was getting nervous as I went to the judge's table after retrieving a cup of water from Luke in order to balance out my thirst with caffeine. Since I revealed my feelings to Patty yesterday, I was brainstorming what I wanted to do if Paris and I survived the twenty-four hours and managed to beat Kirk. There was no way in hell I was going to skip hand in hand with her parading the trophy around the sidelines of the gym floor to the strains of Gonna Fly Now. If we were to win, the celebration would be on my terms; calm and collected, thankful, and probably worn out. I clutched the jewel case I took out of the pocket of my dress and looked over towards Miss Patty, distracted by a very young blonde boy who was unaware that the older woman was looking at him like a strawberry creamsicle.
 
"Patty, I need a favor," I told her, and she kind of looked forlorn as I distracted her from the guy and looked towards me, but just for a moment, before she drew her attention towards me and appraised my dress.
 
"My Rory, you clean up very well. I think you're going to make all the guys jealous today!" She laughed, and thankfully we were both far enough away so that no one could hear what we were saying.
 
"Yeah, too bad I'm not partnering up with them," I said, before getting honest. "I'm kind of scared though, what if she's not into it?"
 
"Child, did you not say yesterday that she'd be good, why doubt it now?"
 
"But Kirk looks like tough competition this year, again." I rolled my eyes as both of us looked towards him, showboating with his redheaded partner as he threw her four feet in the air then caught her with arms right at the top of her back and rear.
 
"Don't stress yourself, we're not grading on style, but endurance. Between you and I though," she whispered into my ear. "I'd watch out for Taylor, he has a couple dirty tricks up his sleeve to thin out the crowd."
 
"Such a masochist that guy," I joked, and we both laughed as I handed Patty my CD. "If miraculously Par and I get to 5:57, play track ten for me please, it's a milestone song for both of us. I promise you right now I won't do a victory lap, by then the only thing I'll have in mind is getting to bed."

"Of course, Rory dear." She took the CD and scanned the back cover until she found what track ten was. "I agree, that is a very nice song choice."
 
"Thanks, wish me luck, this is for my mom, who couldn't be here today to try to topple Kirk, and Paris, who really needs a day of fun." I smiled at her, and she smiled back at me.
 
"I'll be rooting for you silently," and then she said goodbye and went back towards the judges' stand. I finished my cup of water, and went back to Luke's table to pour myself a hot cup of joe. We had a quick chat, and I warned him about who my partner was. At first he was surprised, but then I assured him that Paris wasn't going to be attitudinal in the way she was that day she came to town in order to milk the Rory Curtain for all it was worth for the Oppenheimer prize.
 
Because he had to use one of those large Bunn tanks to provide the entire community coffee, he didn't have all the tools to customize it so I couldn't get Paris her usual hazelnut with soy milk. However, I did notice another tank off to the side...
 
"Luke, what's with the other tank, extra coffee?"
 
"Actually," he said in his sarcastic but softie-type way, "Not everyone likes coffee as much as you and your mother do, some can't even take the stuff. Thus, I made up some wintergreen tea."
 
I thought to myself for a moment, wondering if Paris wouldn't mind that as a substitute for coffee since soy milk wasn't available. She had made it clear she loathed non-dairy creamer ("It never dissolves in the cup just right" she told me once), and Luke had those little mini-thimble packs of half-and-half in a bowl that would do a number on her stomach. I had a thought then and there of how her mouth would taste if she would drink wintergreen tea. I became lost in my thoughts for a moment as I basked in a hopeful future thought of her kissing me, the inside of her mouth tasting of a mix of tea and her beloved vanilla Velamints. I actually shut my eyes and went with it until I felt a strong hand shake my shoulder.
 
Luke had thankfully distracted me from the thought, and I quickly brushed off my inattentiveness due to a lack of sleep. I asked him for a big foam cup of tea, and he complied, handing me the cup, and then I sat down to continue a conversation where he talked about how he missed Lorelai's usual six dollar a day coffee habit. I'm sure he misses the company too, I thought to myself as I sipped the coffee as slow as I could so the effects would be spread through the six hours I'd be separated from it and dancing with Paris instead.
 
I was looking at my watch impatiently. 5:50am, it read back to me. I started to panic a little, wondering where Paris was. I knew she had to park in back by the baseball diamond and that she'd have a long line to deal with before she checked in with Babbette, but it wasn't supposed to take that long, was it? She said she'd meet me there, 5:45 sharp, with bells on. I even gave her all the information she needed so that she wouldn't run into any problems.
 
I started internalizing my worst fears into my mind; those which would bring us back to the enemies track. What if she thought I was joking and I didn't actually want to go, or she panicked herself and didn't want to attend? Maybe her mother found out and was sealing Paris in her room Rapunzel-style, her hair not long enough for me to climb...
 
OK, getting a little weird with the Rapunzel comparison there, but in my mind, anything was a possibility. She could've even accepted then decided to stand me up as revenge for what I did to her by trying to get her and Tristan to go out. Yes, I saw a mental picture of her cackling evilly at her desk, finally getting her just desserts at my expense.
 
I kept talking to Luke, trying to drown those thoughts out...
 
And then finally, Paris was twenty feet from me, looking around just as awed at the decorations as I was. She walked in, her head craning up towards the middle of the ceiling towards the frame the balloons were strung up around and the period-specific decorations throughout the gymnasium.
 
I squinted my eyes a little to get a clearer look at her through the dimmed light of the room, and felt my heart swell with pride, want, and desire. She was definitely in this for the long run.
 
She started coming closer, and I was able to start making out what she was wearing. It was a beautiful black dress, decorated all over with a pattern of red cherry tomatoes, only hammering home the theme of our first connection to each other; the salads. Never changing, the only thing I can say with certainty was routine in the time we knew each other.
 
What wasn't routine however, was how much skin she was showing off. As she came closer and closer, I kept my attention off of her, trying to keep my eyes appraised on a Rosie the Riveter poster off to a far corner. My face was looking towards there, but my eyes, fully on Paris.
 
The dress showed off her best attributes, her long legs, perfect-for-me stomach, and the breasts only she could have and somehow get a full rein on. It was a halter and the only thing my inner vixen was thinking was Man, it's gonna be hard to keep from undoing that back tie for 24 hours, ain't it Gilmore? I was right about her getting revenge on me; It was just a lot more sexual and unknowing than I expected. I swear to God she made me look like I was in the Order of St. Agnes, it's as if she was going to milk all this time so close together for all it was worth. My mouth watered and I was lost to comment.
 
She had no bra on; her best attribute was out there for me to ogle shamelessly and without any guilt, I almost flushed red, knowing she probably did this on purpose to either rile me up or to give me a bigger case of nerves. She was but ten feet from me, and there I was, my eyes hardly looking at her face at all, but down at her deep cleavage, at least five inches from the top until her dress' neckline flared back up again towards the other halter strap.
 
Paris then turned around in a twirl, giving me a look at her back, the dress plunging at least to the mid-lower section of it. Since she had a little more weight on her than I did I couldn't make out the curvature of her spine, but that was but a small nag, since the skin was nice and dark. Then my eyes finally drifted up towards her proud and broad shoulderblades, which had probably taken a beating over the years from having so much on them, clothes, backpack straps, emotional baggage. It was sort of a sign to me saying that with all the weight of her halter dress on her neck and nothing on her shoulders, Paris was sending me the message that she was free for the day; 'I'm completely yours'. I started smiling then as my gaze went up to her head and face; There was little makeup covering her usually flawless features because of the length of time she'd be with me, and just a smidge of red lipstick.
 
Her hair was elegantly done up, free from a ponytail, and every strand curled over, with a rose that matched mine in the left side. God, every date with Dean he threw whatever he had on, and when he helped me come out to society (debutauntally, not in the gay sense of course), even then the rental tuxedo screamed that he'd rather be tuning a car than dancing uncomfortably. But Paris Gellar, she never does things halfway, not even for social events. The only other time I recall her wearing a dress besides when I helped her with the Tristan situation and the Winter Formal was that long black dress she wore for my Hartford 16th birthday party, and even though she was there by force rather by choice, I still thought she looked very nice, unlike the rest of the girls there who were looking good just so they could get a guy they could take to bed that night.
 
That's what I admire about Paris; she'll always be her own woman, on her own terms, no matter how her mother might try to influence everything about her. I saw the beginnings of what I think is a rebellion that night she crawled in my window and apologized, and though I knew she had to lie to get here (thank goodness for the always handy 'Going-to-Boston' excuse when it comes to Mrs. Gellar), she's trying to be herself finally. Still neurotic, a little grating on my nerves at times and ready at will to provoke me into an argument, but Paris is proving herself to be as far from the girl I first met two years ago as can be.
 
She then found my attention, and I said her name, almost in shock and making sure this was the same girl I shared a desk with in two classes, indeed it was.
 
"Uhhh, you look very, very nice, I'm surprised, yeah," I said nervously, letting my mind speak for me. "I mean I didn't expect you in that dress, not at all, I mean you're usually very shy about wearing something like that and I thought..." I mentally slapped myself, trying to regain my words. "Anyways, not the point, you're looking beautiful today."
 
And you wonder why only Dean found you datable, my conscious rubbed in as she sort of laughed nervously, and I tried to regain my center. I was scared that she was going to call me Mary, but there was never anything to worry about.
 
"The birds got up early this morning and helped you out, didn't they?" Apparently she still recalled the conversation we had when she convinced me to become her VP, and I blushed as she complimented me. "Very nice dress and period-appropriate attire, makeup and demeanor Gilmore, I compliment you for going as full-tilt with this as you should have." Surprisingly yes, in Gellar's world that would be considered a compliment, so I smiled back at her.
 
"Thank you." I then gave her another silent once-over, my mind making heads and tails that this girl, no, woman was going to be my dance partner for the next hopefully twenty-fours. We both seemed to be giving each other attention, staring at each other. Then when I put the rim of my coffee cup to my lips to take a quick sip, her gaze moved from my eyes right down to my mouth. I gave her the foam cup of tea in order to see if that would draw her attention off. She clasped the cup in her hands half-heartedly, concentrating her eyes on my lips, maybe giving herself a few ideas. The slow seduction was continuing to work its magic, and it was almost as if I was back in her room Tuesday morning asking her to warm me up. If she only knew how much I wanted to feel her lips against mine instead of that Styrofoam.
 
Still, I had to keep her attention on the dance ahead, so I drew her attention from me and onto the tea. I let her know that Luke couldn't get soy milk, so that would have to do for a caffeine fix. I thought she wouldn't be enthusiastic about the substitution, but she sipped the tea anyways and found it very much to her liking. So much that we had to stop at Luke's table again after a quick nurse's exam to make sure we were fit enough for the next 24 hours, so she could pour herself another cup of the stuff, which helped her cause with Luke. Paris complimented his brewing skills and apologized for being too intense that late January day earlier in the year we stopped at the diner and she accused him of being a house of ill repute. Luke took it cool and easy-going, leaving me relieved that I could cross out one con on the small list I still maintain and plan to update tomorrow with anything I can find out about her.
 
Next part of the plan; more innocent touching. I had Paris pin my number on the back of my dress, and enjoyed the small little sparks her fingertips sent up my spine as she worked the dress material into the safety pin and slid it through. I felt her rub against the hook of my bra for a bit, and had to think about one of Dean's lamer makeout sessions in order to keep my legs steady. Geeze, what that girl does to me sometimes...
 
Unfortunately I didn't get to share the opportunity with her to pin the number to her own person. Due to her choice of dress, she couldn't pin it to her back, and I had a large feeling that she wouldn't let me dare pin the number on the only other place it could be pinned, below her breasts. So I had to imagine that instead as I watched her anti-climatically tape the number to the front of her dress instead, my body very disappointed and having to make do with another longing look down at her cleavage in her distracted state. This was about the time I started recalling all those lessons in basic science that what comes up, must come down eventually when it comes to gravity. I hope Paris tied the back in a very tight knot, because knowing her gravitational pull, I might be seeing more than her cleavage by say, hour number twenty.
 
"Alright everyone, five minutes to go, please head to your numbered positions on the dance floor, you'll find a taped 'X' with a Dyno label marking your number below your feet. You must stay on that spot unless Patty or I tell you to move for an elimination game or you make it into the final hours..." There was Taylor, blathering on and on about the rules of the marathon, so I took Paris' hand into mine and we took our place on the floor, a few spots down from Kirk. He was already looking at us with disgust, not about the concept of two girls dancing, but because he seemed to remember Paris back from her dancing days. Kirk had seen her when she was nine and had thought since she was a Harfordian, would never set foot in Stars Hollow to try to take his title. Paris had never met Kirk, but she regarded him as she did me the first time I stepped beneath the gargoyles two years ago, an enemy combatant.
 
Her eyes turned cold, as did his as they stared each other down like they were about to duel in the town square. Kirk's partner also had a stern look on her face, and I stared her down. Small, meek, thin as a rail, the redhead he was dancing with had all the makings of a professional dancer, without the charisma of one. I wanted one of them to stomp one another's feet so Paris and I could take this.
 
Kirk attacked Paris' heels, which I easily took as an attack on Lorelai the last few years. My eyes darted towards him as Paris defended me and told him we'd be bringing home the trophy this year. Poor little Rocky against Apollo Creed, I thought to myself with a mirthful smirk, thinking that this year would turn out a lot different. We both regarded the nervous man with caution, and she started giving him a steely gaze, screaming 'bring it on' towards him. They moved a little closer and I thought that was about the time I had to get them separated, feelings of loathing for his streak or not. She moved away herself though, and told him we would win barefoot if we had to. I laughed, but in the back of my mind knew that she was dead serious about the threat. If Paris had to, she'd find any one of Kirk's weaknesses and manipulate them into bringing us closer to victory circle.
 
As we saw the volunteer hand out the emergency yellow cards, she reminded me that Kirk's wins had never led to any kind of relationship for him, not even a groupie. She said this in a way I took as that after we won, we wouldn't drift off out of each other's lives and be able to enjoy the victory...and maybe even a little more than that. I laughed at her as Taylor went into TMI detail about the uses of the yellow cards that would give you a ten minute break if you held it up, describing an example where someone ate a few too many cold cuts and had a sudden urge to throw up on their partner's shoulder. I took my attention away from that, and looked at the girl I was about to hold in my arms for such a long time.
 
She stared at Taylor as he went on with his words, taking them in carefully and leaving me to gaze at her beauty. Honestly, not in my most romantic dreams did I think she could look that sexy, or sizzling in that dress. I mean to have less than 40 hours to not only practice, but put together a look, find a nice dress and the few embellishments she had on (no earrings or other jewelry to go with her look besides her birthstone Jewish star, a small ring on her right hand, and the pink rose in her hair), for another girl in her shoes, it may have been overwhelming. For Paris though, it was a challenge she relished to meet full on. When she came into that room, whatever she did to shine in my eyes, I could tell that it was all worth it. The idea for her to dance with me may have been nutty and off-center when I came up with it, but moment by moment I was under the impression that in the end it might all be worth it.
 
Taylor finished his speech and the countdown towards the last minute started, Paris' gaze shifting over from the community and towards me. Her deep browns looked into mine, and I eased my hands into hers, saying in a way that I trusted her. I found her to be sort of uneasy with the prospect, scared that I would be disappointed if we didn't get further in the contest. I saw the same scared little girl that she was around her mother; afraid of disappointment, cursed if the word 'lose' or any of its variations entered anywhere near her vocabulary. Her father never intended for her to be miserable in her own skin, but her mother wanted her to take Vince Lombardi's many axioms about how defeat was the worst thing in the world and never forget them. I hated Sharon for making her stone hard and impenetrable. Paris was going to have fun today, come hell or high water, and I was going to make her forget that this was a dance contest. Hopefully all this time would lead to revelations and surprises from her.
 
I rubbed reassuringly against her knuckles, getting to know more those same hands and fingers that I dreamed of every night. The slimness of them in my own palms was in stark contrast to Dean's thick, chunky fingers and hands, worn and scratched from all that auto work he did when he wasn't around me. The recollection of his scent, a mix of Skin Bracer and a harsher industrial equivalent of Lava soap used to make me swoon. Now all it did was bring Paris' scent to the forefront.
 
It was, light, much lighter. Orchids, vanilla and still a little bit of lingering incense-cedar wafting from her fingers, telling me she did at least a little homework with her pencil before she left. Dean was harsh-scented, yet kind to me, while Paris had a light scent, yet was harsh emotionally most of the time around me.
 
Only, she was starting to show humanity when I was around her, small touches that gave me hints and peeks at what lay beneath those layers Paris used to protect herself. She had put those shields up around her that one day in the shower and kept them strong the three days we were at odds again. But once she thought about it and came over to my house to lay with me in bed and confess, she dropped them and confided in me that she thought she wasn't beautiful. In her eyes, she was homely, dull, and not much to look at. She'd be a workaholic, content with her name in the newspapers and no one to come home to at night except a beagle and maybe a droopy fern once she got out of college. Before I started to push her, she seemed content to be an old maid.
 
I'm not going to let that happen though. These romantic feelings I have for her are too much to bear, and she had to know that in my eyes, there wasn't a more beautiful girl I knew in the world. So in a challenging yet kind voice, I asked her if she was sure she wanted to do this for me. I'd bow out of the dance and find a new way to get Paris' attention if she didn't want to do this, but I decided to swing her around to my side. I moved my left hand up into her curled hair, running my fingers through it in a reassuring way. It was as smooth in my hands as the tail of a horse, and my fingers raked over the petals of her rose.
 
I kept prodding her on as I brought it down to her shoulder, running my index finger seductively against one of her dress straps. I could see her eyes wander down as I slipped the tip of the fingernail against the material, scratching beneath. It was meant as a little warm up, and just maybe a little revenge for her behavior on Tuesday afternoon in the car. She coughed out a little breath, and I took it out and ran my hand the rest of the way down her arm. I told her she could back out if she wanted to, and as I clasped my hand into hers and Taylor finished his speech about who was sponsoring the event, I saw her smile at me, putting on her true game face as he had us go to our spots.
 
Then she told me she was ready to go with this all, even if the length turned out to be twenty-four hours. She had a confidence in her voice I never had heard before, even in our toughest debates with Hillside Academy. She was truly ready for this all, ready to go, and the swagger in her words when she told me that it was time to swing...that confidence created a tingle in my throat and stomach as her fingers twined around mine after we set ourselves up in our own little spot on the floor.
 
I gulped, and for a moment thought to myself, What have I gotten myself into? There Paris was, the girl of my dreams, looking drop-dead gorgeous in a vintage black dress that made her look so hot, and then mousy me, standing in front of her in something conservative. Her gaze was locked onto mine and raked over my slim footprint. I felt so unsettled, suddenly coming to the realization that I wasn't taking in realism for once, instead I had been thinking of an ideal when I came up with this whole idea.
 
For God's sakes, I flunked ballet, badly, and never proved myself to dance in much more than tepid middle school dances and that one Formal! Who was my partner? Only a dance champion coming out of a six-year retirement suddenly after I begged and pleaded with her to be my partner!
 
What was I thinking, in what world did I think that I would be able to go on for so long? That I would be a good dancer and that...
 
I stopped my self-ramble as Taylor started the countdown, and Paris brought me closer and flush towards her, taking my hands one more time as we looked towards the judge's table. She was confident, assured, and trying to bring me into that same state of mind. Just forget everyone else Gilmore, she seemed to be transmitting to my mind with her eyes. I'll be here to keep you on your feet all day and night.
 
Remind me next time if I have access to a time machine and can go through with seducing Paris again, that a game of Truth and Dare would be less strenuous than having her participate with me in a dance marathon. Thank you.
 
Anyways, Taylor sounded the horn, and I started finding my footing, right away surprisingly. All those web pages and books seemed to work from the get-go, and Paris went with what I was doing, letting me lead as she got re-used to dancing with someone besides herself. I kept a tight grip on her hands and we concentrated on getting our bodies moving, rather than getting right into competition with Kirk. The strains of the music started, and I got right into it, casting aside my fears and letting Paris guide me through those first few minutes.
 
Babette and Morey did their usual minute of dancing they do every year and dropped right out, saying they were exhausted and left the floor, causing Taylor to roll his eyes for not taking the dance seriously enough. I smiled at them and told them goodbye, then got back to the matter at hand. Only five minutes in and Kirk was getting a little cocky with his dance moves, so it was better for Paris and I to stay unaffected and just dance normally for the first few hours.
 
I'm still a little unsure of how close Paris will actually get to me today, and hopefully we can have some kind of meaningful conversation in the heat of competition. We certainly can't go this long without talking, and I need all the talking opportunities I can find since there's this little nagging fact that only five minutes in, I'm already yearning to be closer to her and feel a little...we'll say distracted. She's looking up at me through the haze of the Benny Goodman music, and I feel like any moment I'd want to drag her off the floor and--
 
Yeah, Rory, you're here to dance, and slowly seduce. Besides, it's too early in the morning to do something like that...
 
Paris' POV, 10:15am
 
Taylor and Miss Patty were easy on us in those first four hours, not doing anything to crazy to push couples out. The 2'x2' box we were in worked well, and I focused more on winning than I did of luring Rory further. Any odd touch would freak her out and cause her concentration to be shot, so I kept my hands on an even keel. No wandering, keeping them either at the sides just below her bra line, or if it was a little wilder, on her lower arms and elbows. She seemed to stay conservative with her movements too, not ready to be brave and set a hand on the bare expanse of skin on my back until a little later.
 
Admittedly, not everything was going rosy or perfect, at least if you were looking in from the outside. There was the occasional dirty looked doled our way from the odd couple or two, and some of the teens made fun of us, thinking that we were so desperate to get in the competition that we'd join together because we're dateless losers who couldn't get a guy to save our lives. Probably the same group of peers who made Rory beg to get out of the more pronounced cliquish and less bookish natures of the students who attended this school, and into Chilton. Kirk was trying to throw us off early by sweeping his dance partner off her feet and trying to get us to separate so Rory and I would be horned out of the competition. We rolled our eyes at him and did our own little spin move, a little more conservative so we could keep the harder stuff confined to whenever the judges directed us to go further or storing our energy past the sixteenth hour.
 
I wasn't ready to release Rory anyhow; she was going to be stuck with me no matter what. Eventually around nine I found an opening, and was finally able to place my hands against the small of her back. I had never been that close to her before; and I could feel her settle in against my palms. She made a sudden jerking motion as my fingernails scraped against the fabric of her dress, so I tried to release and move my hands back up.
 
"Uhhh, sorry, that feels like a nice place to settle your hands," she ranted out nervously. "You don't have to move them Paris."
 
"Are you sure," I wondered, truthfully. "This is pretty close and I don't know how Dean danced last year so I just want to keep your nerves calmed."
 
Her gaze moved away from the judge's stand and back towards me as she saw another record being spun. There was a sad, forlorn look in them, and it was then I knew I had hit something within, bringing back up her ex. I slowed down a little, the new song being a slower waltz that threw six fast moving couples for a curve and caused them to separate. Not three seconds later was the horn sounded anew. "That's it for 68, 115, 78, 154, 87 and 24, please clear the floor," Miss Patty projected through the sound system as the disappointed groans of those couples and the crowd filled the gym.
 
Maybe she was regretting breaking up with Dean was what I thought as she looked towards me, our feet moving in time with the music. Yes, I hated him, but that didn't mean the moment she broke up with him she developed the same loathsome feelings for him. For all I knew they were still good friends having fun together.
 
"I'm sorry," I told her, hoping that if I said something uncouth I could recover from that. "I didn't mean to bring him up--"
 
"No, it's OK, I knew it was going to come up," she conceded. "By 11:01 you'll already have outlasted him, but I've already had more fun today than I did last year. He was never really into the whole idea because I took him away from some important body welding time on the car he built me, I think he did this more out of obligation than to try to win."
 
"I won't talk about him again, I promise," I told her, moving my hands up so we could get more into the song and the dance. "He's been gone from your life four days and that's a very short time to let someone completely go. I know when Tristan left both of us it took me at least a month to recover from the fact that he was gone."
 
"Yes, but there's a difference. You had feelings for him that went truly unrequited, so to come into school one day and see another student taking his old locker, that confirmed to you things would never be the same. You at least knew him as a friend for the longest time, so you knew what made him tick, and even though he was pulled away from you so roughly, you had background with him, knew what he liked and didn't. With Dean though," she stopped for a moment, sighing as we turned around in the thinning field of dancers. "I never got a chance to really know him as just a friend. One day he was there, helping me with my stuff, and two months later I was kissing him in the market, before that sneaking around here and there so that I could see him since Lorelai wasn't receptive to him. He took me by surprise, being the first guy who was attracted to me, and from there..." she trailed off, trying to get lost in the song, not wanting to dwell on those memories of the past.
 
We continued dancing through the quiet strains of the Viennese waltz, my mind trying to connect with Rory's to decode what she wanted to say. I wasn't ready to say much either, because she touched on what I had with Tristan before the project debacle. It was true that I was very devastated that he had to leave and I was angry with him for fucking up things so royally, but still, thirteen years of friendly history cancels out about ten weeks of him being a total asshole in my mind. I may have thought in the past that what he did in order to use me as a pawn to get to Rory was awful, but I still like the boy. He will come back from North Carolina one day a changed man, or maybe stay down there and take that second chance he's been given and try to become someone who will be his own man, free from the constraints of the DuGrey legacy and Hartford tradition.
 
I was being truthful to myself however, about the turning point of my feelings that night. From then on, Rory did become my world, despite appearances to the contrary. Tristan was the only hurdle between a lasting friendship between us, and I had by then resigned myself to the fact Rory and I will be locked in a battle for valedictorian that's going to be decided by thousandths of a grade point, a very small margin. My burgeoning feelings for her have also changed another important facet of my life, and that is I hope that Harvard accepts both of us. Even if I never admit to her, it would be devastating next August to not be able to find her on that campus anywhere, having to settle for her grandparent's true wishes to attend Yale. I told her once that Harvard had a big campus, that even in our competition, we'd never see each other those four years in Cambridge.
 
Even if I couldn't say what I actually thought of her though, not having Rory at Harvard would leave a large void within me that I would struggle to fill if she didn't go. We had both gone through the rehearsal rigors for the interviews with admissions we'd have next month up in Boston, being very nervous about our responses. I actually wanted to slug the pompous idiot 'expert' at the seminar who had suggested with a snort that Hilary Clinton was overused on college applications when she asked. She might as well have been a single woman seeing as her husband hit on anything within a 1,000 foot radius until he finally got caught with Lewinsky.
 
I brought my focus back towards the girl I liked, seeming sort of sad in my arms. I hated that I put that look on her face bringing up the 'D' word, so I moved my hands back down towards her hands and smiled.
 
"Hey," I told her. "Dean was your first, your only for a long time, and the first boy who took an interest in you. I'll give him that; he was smart to try to take you off the market first chance he got." She softly laughed, and I continued on. "But you weren't going to be the love story of a lifetime, that was always apparent, so don't feel ashamed for yourself, taking the first opportunity you could to break it off. I never pegged you for the type to break it off with him that way, but if you felt it was better to cut it off with him completely for now, it was probably for the best."
 
"But what if he was, the love story of my life I mean?" She paused and bit her lip, and I almost stepped on her shoe in the shock of my attempt to end the questioning of Dean failing. I regained footing, and as the slow strains of the song continued, I had to be quick on my feet to think up an answer.
 
It seemed like she wanted to challenge me, hear my true feelings on what I thought of their relationship. I had seen them only a few times in action, the worst of course being that heart-straining makeout session he finagled her into as I watched from a second floor window the end of sophomore year. Our friendship went down in flames from another Tristan misunderstanding, and in a scenario that could only come from the pen of a Hollywood screenwriter, he pulled up in the front drive in his Hicksville Edition Ford Ranger to win her love. Of course she couldn't say no to a grand gesture like that, and I watched them below as they kissed, reunited again even though the jerk didn't deserve it.
 
There was a part of me that wanted to yellow card out of the question, get some space so I could regain my composure and talk my way out of it. But Rory seemed to await my response, like she would if Lorelai was in the same position I was. She probably didn't have much of a chance to talk to her mother about the sudden breakup in detail after she got home Tuesday night; since Lorelai was in Nashville she was leaning on me more for advice. Why not her best friend?
 
I deflected that off onto her. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable asking Lane this?"
 
Rory knew what she was doing, the answer already rehearsed. "She likes Dean though, that's the problem, she has to see him every day in school so she's not impartial to my position, and Mrs. Kim thinks he's a fine guy for me. Everyone's still in love with him except for me and my mother, Luke too. The town thinks of him as this cute boy I'm letting go. Though--"
 
I decided to give her the advice she really needed, not anything reprocessed through the town's gossip circle. "OK, you really want to know what I thought about Dean? Because I can't sprinkle my opinion with NutraSweet and mute it."
 
"Go ahead," she said as the music reached the bridge, and she pushed me close to her, moving her hands down to below my bra line and pushing me closer so I could hear her without some random townie catching the gossip and staring a circle where it would end with 'purple monkey dishwasher' suffixed to the end of what I said.
 
Took me a bit to find the words though. Her fingernails scraped against my spinal column as she found her bearings, and I had to move my hands to the same spot to bring her closer together. Really, a large distraction to keep your wits about when you hope that seam you're feeling against the heel of your palms isn't Rory's panty line. I kept my retort relatively intact however.
 
"Honestly, you've always deserved a lot better, I'd see him and thought he never deserved you. At first he went along with you, reading, being responsible and all those other cute things, but after awhile, you never talked about him all that much anymore at lunch. You'd tell me how the progress on the car was going and that you were still together, but once Jess came into town all you could talk about was how he was misreading your signals towards him and getting jealous. Heck, I'm surprised he was as muted as he was when he found out Jess accidentally crashed your car."
 
I ran my fingers against her back, trying to soothe out any anger she might have towards me. "I was always uncomfortable around him, especially when we did the project at Miss Patty's, I remember how much you really didn't want him there because of the tension you had with Tristan. The last thing I wanted going into the play was Tristan having a black eye, so I actually brought a canister of pepper spray every day Dean watched the rehearsals. I was not only afraid for Tristan, but in a way, for you." I felt weird being that honest with Rory, telling her the last thing I wanted was for her to get hurt. But also, knowing about the kiss at Madeline's party, I knew that Rory might try to be honest with Dean about what happened eventually. Dean's anger issues would still come into play, no matter that him and Rory weren't together during the kiss and there was good reason for both of them to keep it secret.
 
My blood still chills at the threat at the 2000 Winter Formal he made towards Tristan for eyeing Rory. Rory and I may not have gotten along then, but I'd never wish a guy who threatened physical violence on her or someone she knew, ever. I already had to deal with someone abusive in my life in my early years, my mother. I don't talk about it to anyone unless I can really trust them, because it was so wrenching. There was some physical abuse, the occasional open-handed slap on the face or hand and spanking behind my father's back (Daddy was always an advocate of timeouts and talking anger and feelings out, he always spared the rod), but most of it was emotional. Ever since Francisca and my father found out when I was ten it had gone down, but since the divorce, the rate of put downs from my mother was increasing again, though still not to the point it was in my early teens.
 
So in a way, I was scared for her, besides the obvious jealousy I had when she was with him. Which is another reason I'm scared to admit to her, if Dean finds out he's not going to be pleased that I honed into his 'territory'. I only hope if he finds out about this dance marathon arrangement he'll take it as platonic and not misread the signals.
 
I looked towards Rory, afraid that my opinion of Dean had changed hers of mine. But instead, I saw understanding in her eyes. She saw what I did though mine and understood what my position was. I wasn't going to tell her I thought she deserved someone much smarter than him, but I have a suspicion that his intelligence was a card in play as she broke up with him.
 
"It's OK Par," she said to me soothingly, "You're right, he never really was the one for me. I think really, I just took up with him because he was there, ready to love me, but I never could return the feelings. Even when I told him I loved him the last day of school, that was spur of the moment, there was just so much going on--"
 
I decided to cut her off because I got what I wanted, that she knew my point of view on Dean. We could always deal with the insider information at a later time, preferably without 600 other people surrounding us on the gym floor and sitting in the bleachers.
 
"Thank you, that's fine for now." I said it a little abruptly, but she knows when I try to end a talk, so she understood.
 
Rory nodded, somewhat relieved that she didn't have to go further with explanations. "You're welcome." We then brought our focus back on the reason we were on that floor, and started dancing anew...
 
Rory's POV, 7:38pm
 
Is it possible to think that the old Victorian mold of dating is very outdated these days? Because that's how I've always felt around Dean whenever we have gone out. It was always like a template that was created in 1875; all you had to do was replace 'night at the opera' with 'movie', and 'dinner at a restaurant' with 'McDonald's', update the clothing and change the mode of transportation from a horse and buggy to a car, and you had my nights with Dean. Except for the anniversary dinners (which as the months wore on became few and far between, he completely forgot about our 15-monther in September), he never did anything wild or out of place to try to win my love further than he did with what was expected. Add the fact that he created a scene at every dance we went to, and you wonder why I kept in the template all the time.
 
Let me tell you, it's only six and a half hours in, and I already feel like I've busted through and torn up the boring template that defined my love life for so long. I don't know how I've done it, but my legs are still solid, and I have a big smile on my face as Paris and I continue to surprise everyone in this little event. I can tell she's having fun too, and we're both enjoying coming together for this, she's putting all of her effort into doing her best for not only her, but also me.
 
God, not to be sappy here, but the reality of her fingers twined against my back, and my hands resting just a half-foot above the plunge in the back of her dress, it's so much better than the fantasy I had of this all the moment I broke up with Dean and this whole idea sparked itself in my brain. She's surprised me so much with what she learned ten years ago, and she's as graceful as a high-society girl can be. However, you can tell that somewhere inside of her lurks someone who loathes her own richie template, yearning to be free of it. There was this one set where we had to samba for a bit for example. The beat was going strong and I was going with what I had memorized from the webpage I read, going exactly with what the steps entailed and keeping with the white and black steps from the diagram. She seemed to know the steps too, and we kept up the dance in the memorized manner I was used to.
 
Then, all the sudden, the music swelled, and she released her grip on my right hand, then tightened onto my left. She forced me into this amazing spin move that seemed to deplete my oxygen for a bit, and my heart swelled as I felt myself twirl with her fingertips against mine. It wasn't something dizzying that went beyond a 270° revolution, but as her right hand caught my back, it was then I knew she was going to be my partner for a long time, smiling at me as I caught my breath.
 
It hasn't been all rosy, however. There are some people in the crowd, just as I suspected that are in shock that I, the town's golden girl, decided to invite another girl to dance with her instead of any of the other guys sitting in the bleachers in that gym, or even Chilton. There was this one boy, Carl Neufeldt, who is a total pig and used to make fun of my lack of a love life back in eighth grade, taunting me daily as I sat at my lonely table with Lane in the cafeteria with my Walkman and book. He always found any opportunity to make fun of me and called me a name I hate even more than Tristan's euphemism for me, 'Spinster'. Him and his friends kept pointing at us and making slurs about my sexual status. Paris was only too happy to use the opportunity to rub my neck and reassure me that they're a bunch of jackasses and that compared to Duncan and Bowman, they were only bush league.
 
I was barely focusing on the crowd however, to tell you the truth. They were like all the other tables in the dining hall at lunch; jumbled background noise I could care less about. Instead, as Taylor took things easy on us in these first few hours, Paris and I did something I never thought we would.
 
We talked about things beyond academics. Not that we didn't before, but Paris hadn't used the card I gave her to really talk about her life with no restrictions since I gave it her the Sunday morning we shared my bed. She was comfortable enough around me to bring up Dean, and though she thought she was getting a little too close to home by mentioning him in a bad light, I wanted to hear from her, what she thought of him without the pressure of keeping up appearances.
 
Hearing her say that she was scared of him last year during the play project, and that she was afraid he would harm Tristan and I...I had something drop in my throat as she said that. She sounded so grave, serious, affected by it, that even in that heated part of our relationship between truces, she was concerned about me. So concerned she wasn't gunshy about facing down a boy that had 100 pounds and a foot on her so that he knew damned well I wasn't a piece of property to be traded around between guys. Her admission was chivalristic in a way, and coming from her, showed that even in our worst times, she can't stand to see me out of her life.
 
I know how defensive Paris gets too well; it took a lot to push through her walls in order to get her more over these last few months. As I dance with her, I can feel them ease slowly away, and this...I can't help but define Par this way, but she's an older woman in a young girl's body. Her mother has defined her life, no matter how much she tries to pull away, and she's seen so much more than I ever have in my eighteen years, for sure. My mother got me away from the social pressures of Hartford and raised me to be a kind and smart girl. Paris however, she's had to live in the shadow of Hartford, and even worse, her mother. I've thought so many negative things about that woman, and I've never shared them because I was afraid she would be come defensive and try to explain away her mother's behavior with an essay-ish speech.
 
I'll get Paris alone in a room one day, and let her air out anything about her mother to me. For now though, I feel much more comfortable with talking to her about things that are light and don't cause that much controversy. That means staying away from the topic of Tristan and wondering if she still carries a flame for him. It's funny, the moment he left us a year ago, he seemed to fall out of our lives completely, and we've barely talked about him at all. Louise brings him up occasionally, but both of our gazes involuntarily darken upon impact of the first syllable of his name, and she shirks back in her chair, afraid to say any anymore.
 
I have to have closure about the topic though. It bugs me that she might still be thinking about him, harboring those old feelings and keeping them close to her sleeve. When I thought about her pros and cons two weeks ago, truth be told, he never entered my mind, but he certainly has here, with a vengeance.
 
Now though, there's this dark cloud of doubt over my seduction of her. I eased off a little, feeling as if I was getting too close to her heart. Paris can break like a toothpick and if I mentioned him, what would be her reaction? We were dancing together, in each other's arms, and that was something I wasn't ready to lose so quickly. Her fingers twined against my back, and I felt like I fit within her short form perfectly.
 
As the hours wore on and the contestants thinned out (don't ask Paris or I how we managed to stay in), the music went from stubborn all-40s to filter into 50s rock and a little 80s music inspired by 50s rock. Miss Patty had somehow convinced Taylor that playing his records over and over again would wear the crowd out, so he decided to appease her and open up the playlist a little more. That meant we got to dance along to a few modern hits, which kept us on our toes. Just as we were getting used to that Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy song, Paris and I had to switch gears and move onto grooving to some more calm ballads, like you'd hear in those Love Story-type movies from the 60s.
 
The hours wore on, and though we had a couple of breaks at noon and 6pm, I could tell that she was starting to buckle under the pressure. Paris was feeling sort of woozy at times, and I had to scream for a volunteer to deliver me a cup of water so I could splash it in her face and shock her back into the competition. We were also losing ahold of trying to avoid the tough questions.
 
See, after she asked me about Dean and whether we were back together and saw how unhinged I got, I was afraid to bring up the topic of the boy we fought over for the year he was in both our sights. Tristan remained a very little broached topic between both of us, and when I've tried, she tries to bring me right back into something else.
 
An example of that; During a quiet night in Washington in the dorm room we had a conversation out of boredom (it was that or watching the Orioles game on TV, and we both could care less about baseball). We were doing fine, talking about our childhoods without getting too deep within the angst of our individual situations; Paris with her genius starting to shine through and her parents fighting about her potential, and I with starting school and having the stigma going in of being a product of a teenaged mother. We went around those topics and talked about our happiest moments and funniest stories, just having a fun time all along.
 
Then I remembered the time she told me about the kiss on a dare Tristan gave her sometime in eighth grade when we chatted somewhat sort-of friendly at the Bangles concert. I thought it might be fun to compare our first kisses, so I told her about mine with Dean and how I thought it was wonderful back then. All the time of course, looking at her own pink lips and wondering how a first kiss with a girl might feel like. She laughed at how I stole a box of Argo accidentally fleeing from the scene and the comedy of errors that resulted from trying to hide it.
 
She likes hearing about it, I thought to myself. So when I finished telling my story, I eased right in.
 
"So Par, how did the kiss with Tristan come about?" Neutral, unaffected, at a high point, I thought it would work out well. But remember the conference room fight? It was a little less brutal than that.
 
She got this white look, and opened her mouth wide, struggling to come up with something to say, or avoid my query. Her lip sort of trembled, and it was then I knew I hit a sore spot.
 
"Uhhh, I need to run to 7-Eleven, we're awfully low on soda and gum," she mumbled as she abruptly got up from the bed, looking for her jacket.
 
"But it's ten o'clock at night, you don't know what's out there--" I said, ceding that the talk was done, but still concerned for her welfare.
 
"I have pepper spray!" she snapped out, and before I could stop her, she was out the door and gone, leaving me there alone. Once again, Tristan put the brakes on getting to each other more, and it took a couple more days of 'I'm sorry's and 'Let's just have some fun's before I got back into Paris' good graces again.
 
It was now about 7:30 on the dance floor, and I could hear her start to complain, mumbling about what a bad DJ Taylor was and how sore her feet were. My casual shoes seemed to be working fine, but she had miscalculated on her shoe choice, going with slightly high red heels she thought could make it 24 hours, but didn't even get through hour fourteen.
 
I tried to start soothing her, massaging her back with my hands as we danced, dancing closer to her, talking her through the history of the marathon and other things. I even started an impromptu mind-meeting session, going over from memory the notes in my head for one of our classes, because we both had premonitions that Mr. Mercurio was planning to spring a three-page popper on us first thing Monday morning to keep those of us slogging through War and Peace on our toes. Nothing seemed to work however, and her muscles tightened in my grasp.
 
"Rory," she groaned, fingers tight on my wrist. "Are you feeling tired yet?" This despite at least three cups of heavily caffeinated wintergreen tea going through her system at the time.
 
"No, not at all," I said with a smile. "Why, are you ready to give up and let Kirk win?" My streak of mischief was intended to bring Paris around, and once again, wake her up.
 
"Of course not, I'm just not used to being in a situation like this on a Saturday. Usually, I'm snoozing my way through temple because my rabbi is so dull." She laughed wryly, and I couldn't help but do the same.
 
"Father Daniels can be that way too, only it's on a Sunday," I commented back. "But at least it's good cardiovascular activity."
 
As I said that, her hands moved down to where my love handles would be if I wasn't already slim, and suddenly her mood seemed to brighten considerably. She got this dreamy little smile on her face, and Paris went into this sudden mode I never saw her in before.
 
"There are other wonderful ways to work out the heart," she reminded me, her voice cooing...I never thought she could coo, she was Miss Monotone all the time. "Some of them very sacrilegious in execution."
 
It was then the music changed over to the beat of a tango, just the kind of opening I had been looking for. However, Kirk and his partner had beat everyone to center court and started their exhibition, and Paris' sudden words stunned me too much to help draw us both into that same showcase position. Which was all good and well, since we moved to a far corner while everyone hooted and hollered at the 'sure thing' couple of the tournament. Better to be the dark horses and just win on good old-fashioned endurance than trying to overimpress.
 
"I didn't think you had it in you Gellar, go you with the Bible references!" I laughed and brought her closer.
 
"I have a million of 'em." She seemed to be getting more comfortable, and though she was still a little grumpy, she wasn't ready to take off my head.
 
Though a few moments later, I'd be regretting bringing that up.
 
"Figures, being around Tristan and all," I said offhand, thinking that the conversation would remain relaxed. However, once I said his name, she seemed shocked again and things were starting to resemble the same thing that happened when I tried to bring him up in Washington, she was horrified.
 
"Damn it, Tristan isn't that bad," she said to me firmly. "I don't care if you hate him, he was in my life for twelve years and we depended on each other, he was more than the frat boy he was around you!"
 
"I didn't say anything mean about him, I'm sorry--" I started panicking as I felt her grip on my waist fade.
 
"Save it, please, I don't want to talk about him." She gritted her teeth, and it was then I knew I hit a trouble spot, just like her mother.
 
"But you asked me about Dean earlier and I thought that it would be fine to talk about Tristan, we've barely talked about him since he left!" The music was blaring over the system, covering up our argument, or lack of it after she brought her dancing down to a slow shimmy, only a couple fingers in my hand.
 
She's not going to run away, please God, no! I wasn't even thinking of the dance; I hated when Paris averted something I brought up.
 
"I want my yellow card!" She told me firmly, without hesitation. "Get it out of your pocket Gilmore, I need some air!"
 
"But you'll need that for later, for an emergency..." I tried reasoning with her, but she was firm.
 
"I need some space, ten minutes away might calm me down." I looked into her eyes, and she pleaded with me for the card. She seemed to be angry, but yet, sad. Her doey eyes were forlorn, and I could tell through them that she still cared for Tristan, even a year after.
 
After a little hesitiation, I handed her the card, and we danced towards the judge's stand to hand it to Taylor. I could get my own ten minute sit from it, and maybe she was right, we needed some space.
 
"Ten minutes Taylor, I have to use the restroom and massage my feet," she yelled at him, and he nodded as he took the piece of paper and called me over to the sidelines. We walked towards the bleachers, and I held her hand tight, wondering if this was the last time Paris and I would be so close together. I sat down, and let her go, but before I did, I looked into her eyes, giving her a face that told her that whenever she was ready to let go, I would be there for her, open to any conversation.
 
She looked down, and I pleaded with her to use the ten minutes wisely. "Paris," I said, numb. "You'll be back, right?" Something right out of a novel.
 
Paris stared at me, and I thought I saw the beginning of a tear form. I might have been seeing things though, because I was focusing on her words more. "I can't promise anything Rory. If I'm not," her voice was strained and cracked, "I'm sorry."
 
And then, she left me, sitting alone on these bleachers. I watched her walk away from me and towards the front doors of the gym, unreadable through the swell of the dancing crowd, still about 100 couples strong. The door opened, and as she walked out, fate was the only thing guiding both of us again.
 
I brought my gaze to my hands, only minutes before held by the blonde girl. I can remember from memory her slim fingers wrapped around mine, and I feel a sense of disappointment swell over me.
 
I've failed her, and myself. She still has a large space in her heart for Tristan, and there's nothing I can ever do to overcome that. I've started to feel like I've misread every signal over the last month, and that I'll be stuck never letting these feelings out. I don't hate Tristan, but he's not my kind of lover. Too aggressive and cocky, and with an attitude that makes me sour. Paris can be acidic, but when she's nice...
 
Damn it, she can be really nice. As I sit here watching the minutes tick away, I can only hope I see her walk back through those doors at the end of the gym at 7:47pm and 23 seconds so she knows I didn't mean a thing bringing Tristan up except wanting some meaningful conversation...
 
Paris' POV, 7:52pm
 
My mother has from the age of three always to not show your hand, any sign of weakness when you run into a spot of trouble, no matter how things may turn out in the end. Sometimes the advice has turned out to be sterling, no skin off my hide and I didn't fold under the pressure, a few of my younger meetings with Francine Jarvis in the schoolyard of Chilton Country Day showed that I was the strong one coming out of it all.
 
Running out of that gymnasium a few minutes ago, however, that was a huge fucking bluff. I didn't have a good hand to make a big deal out of Rory bringing up the boy who's caused so much bad blood between us, Tristan. There was no reason at all to pull out my yellow card and take ten minutes away from her, or worse...forfeiting. Just thinking that in my mind, it's a curse word, it has the same venom to my brain as a few other choice words in the English vocabulary.
 
Paris Gellar was forfeiting her chance to romance and woo Rory Gilmore. She was forfeiting that gaggle of tingles from Rory's fingertips that was running through her system like Millstone Nuclear in the heart of the dog days of summer because she's a chicken.
 
She also ran all the way out of the gym and into the nearest empty restroom to start sniffling before anyone could see her at her weakest point in the seduction.
 
That's right, I cried. It wasn't that much, just a few shed tears, but as I shut that door, I let myself cry because I knew from the moment Rory handed me that yellow card, I was wrong, heartbreakingly wrong about her intentions. If it was clear my sense of humor had been darkened and frayed by years under the influence of Sharon Gellar, there's Exhibit A for you right there; me taking Rory's joke the worst way I could.
 
I could never admit defeat though; as my mother says, 'Gellars never admit defeat'.
 
Yeah, this coming from a bottle blonde and former secretary named Sharon Martinez-DeBartolo from a working class clan in Uniondale, New York, and who moved to Hartford in her teens thanks to her mother striking it lucky with one of the males of Hartford society. She became a Gellar only through marriage with my father, and the only thing she does is file her nails all day while sending money to her retired parents in Florida. Alimony's been a pain in my father's ass, and it takes almost Colombian-quality smuggling techniques to even get a gift from him through the Manor, Mother, and into my bedroom. Take the money and run, but wreck the daughter's hard-earned stuff, that's been my mom's attitude since the divorce went through.
 
Funny I never heard the defeat line from my father. Probably because he fought tooth and nail for any shred of reputation he could wring out of Mother before he had to give up.
 
But she's right; I wasn't going to admit defeat about getting that far in the dance marathon. When it came to the goal of gaining Rory's love through it though...I felt ready to cry uncle and give up.
 
I looked at myself in front of the sink in the mirror, wondering how I could've gone from carefree to bitch faster than my Porsche on a straight Iowa farmroad. She was just joking about Tristan and his habit of calling her Mary. Why did I take it so personally? What triggered within me to lash out at her like that and tell Rory to shut up and not bring him up again.
 
Truth be told, I miss him terribly, every day. He made my life interesting, a presence in it just about every day since I was three and we met in preschool. I grew to love him since he was the main dependable boy in my life. I couldn't help it that by the time I turned 13 and discovered the opposite sex, he became an obsession on par with that of my academics.
 
Yes, everyday I don't see him at locker 1832, since he left last November, my heart has been hollow in a certain place. But I can tell you with certainty that place is where only friendly feelings lurk, the place where that one special other in your life, that first, lived for a long time. Then one day, it's yanked out without warning because two inept jackasses convince that first special other it would be fun to commit burglary.
 
But you know what? Rory's taken the place entirely where his love used to be. Absence, instead of making my heart grow fonder of DuGrey, drew me closer to my former enemy, and vice-president, and I feel a connection with her I never have with Tristan. Her kindness, loyalty, trust and her spirit, Rory could have given up on me the second I told her to get away from me after she broke the ice...literally with her flying body into my castle project. But she stayed persistent, and even through force and many, many threats to bring her down, she still finds something to like about me. Something that was enough to get me in this farmtown gym and participate in a glorified hoedown with her.
 
Yet I still fumble the opportunity. Here, you wonder why my psychiatrist billed double when I was in therapy after the parental shit went down, Melfi and Soprano don't have anything on Dr. Judy Birnbaum and me!
 
I stood there, looking at what I had become in that mirror. I was supposed to be making her numb with desire, help her forget her worries, and instead I was in front of a mirror, watching myself cry and ruin my makeup somewhat in that hot little number that was turning many heads, including a certain brunette's.
 
"Why do you always screw things up?" I whispered to my mirror image. I said some things, admonishing myself for my behavior and giving MirrorParis a dressing down on par with some drill sergeants. "Who the hell are you, you have a girl ready to break down in that gym from your cop out, and all you can think to do is throw yourself a pity party? Come on, this isn't what the usual Paris would do, she would be on that floor heating things up, and kissing the everlasting life out of her!"
 
My conscience decided it was perfect time to chime in. OK Par, you're just going to walk out on Rory without any explanation about how Tristan still sort of effects you, but only as a friend? Come on, you can't get out of here, you might as well wear a hood on Monday and run chickenshit away from her each time she asks for an explanation. You love her, you think nothing of her! If it wasn't for your more reserved side, you would've screamed 'YES!' after she asked you on Wednesday from the top of Travelers Tower! For the smartest fucking girl in all of Central Connecticut you sure don't have a clue when it comes to earning love...
 
"But I do," I cried to myself, "I do like her, maybe even love her. I like Rory Gilmore goddamn it!" I felt at my weakest, crying into that mirror with an audience of just myself, knowing that the security of that restroom might have kept that secret. "But I don't know if can deal with it. This town, my social class, Chilton, Harvard, most of all my family what would they say? What would Rory say if I even insinuated I might have more than friendly feelings for her?"
 
"Dear, you won't know until you get the courage to rise up and go through with telling her that."
 
"I know, but..." Wait, that didn't sound like my dialogue, spoken or thought in my brain. That wasn't even my tone of voice. My eyes were transfixed to the mirror image, and it took a two-inch movement of my pupils to the left before I knew that there was another member of the audience. An older Latina woman of about 55 stood behind me in my gaze...
 
"Ms. LaCosta?" I stayed focused in the mirror, every part of my body paralyzed in fear. The woman who had saved my academic hide last year in renting out the hall to me for the project, and who was currently judging this competition, had come in unnoticed as I ranted on to myself about my state with Rory.
 
She knew everything; Miss Patty knew my secret, and the shame that was following me around just by keeping it to myself. Oh God, no! I thought in a panic, there was no way I could just shrug it all off as a joke or some kind of idiotic Method acting exercise. I was out in her eyes, confessing my want for Rory to a bathroom mirror, and unwittingly, her.
 
"Hello Paris," she started, seemingly unaffected. "I just came in here to ask what the matter was; you ran out of the gym awfully quickly."
 
I wanted to tell her that Rory said something wrong and I reacted the wrong way, but my acidic self put up my usual walls. "What do you care, I don't even live here, you have no reason to be concerned about me. I'm fine."
 
I saw her come closer towards me in the mirror, her flowery robe and bright dress apparent in the light, along with her face, worn by many a South Florida season. "You left Rory in the gym awfully worried and it seemed so abrupt, so it seemed natural for me to come in and try to soothe you."
 
"Well you can't," I said bitterly. "I suppose I should leave before you hop on your cell phone and spread the fact I have feelings for your golden daughter that go beyond those of a Midol ad scenario throughout the entire ZIP code. If you want a photo for the trashy story you'll have printed about me in the Gazette I'll go into my glove box and retrieve one." A little bitter, don't you think?
 
Where if this was Hartford she may have gone through with not only that spoken threat, but created an entire past untrue sexual history, instead Ms. LaCosta came even closer. She was still smiling, and it was unsettling. My mouth dropped as I realized her proximity to me. Instead of slapping me like the insolent young woman I was acting like though, she put her hands on my shoulders.
 
"Turn around dear," she asked.
 
"No, I don't have to Ms. LaCosta," I stated firmly. Maybe she'd go away if I didn't face her eye to eye.
 
However, she stayed stubborn. "You have that right in this nation, along with the right to pursue your form of happiness. When I landed at Ismoralda in '65 on a raft from Cardenas that was the one thing I came to America for; to be happy. If you feel happy with Rory, no one can tell you otherwise, and I'm certainly not going to because it is your life Paris."
 
I sighed, she wasn't going to be mean to me and fight my fire with fire, I had to concede she'd shoot down my brimstone with rainbows. "But I'm not supposed to be this way, and I'm sure that if I was back in the actual 40's, you sure wouldn't be as open to this as you are now. You've heard too much, and I'm honestly unsure if I can trust you with what was uttered to this mirror."
 
"You're right," she accepted, "you don't know if I'll go out there, get on the microphone and shout out that scenario of dread planted within your mind right now." She then turned me around, finally. "You also don't know though that I see through your bitter front, and inside, I see someone inside who resembles a raven-haired young mother who came here in October of 1985 with a one year-old in tow, looking to flee from her confining life and creating a new and free life for that toddler and her. That same girl kept her child a secret from everyone in this town except I and the owner of the Inn for at least three months, because she came to me looking for some kind of job, any job that would keep her and a child from having to move to a tenement garden in Hartford in shame."

I then brought my gaze up towards Ms. LaCosta, never realizing until then that despite the seemingly unconnected threads of Lorelai's first year in Stars Hollow and my current state, we had many parallels. "This girl was smart as a whip, could have easily gotten into any college she wanted to, and hid her secret life from her parents as long as she could. When everything went down, she gave it all up, the money, the guarantees, the high life, to become a maid in a small-town inn. She was ashamed of it at first, scared to show everyone that she was doing this as more than a Christmas-saving job, but as a lifeline for her and her child. But then, eventually she knew she had to come out and state that she was a teenager with a daughter. That day was Christmas 1985, and though she went into that town holiday party thinking she'd be run out with a pitchfork for bringing her child around and taking the few gifts that Mia and I gave her, you know who told her she was a bad role model?"
 
"Who?" I responded, albeit knowing the ending already.
 
"If they did we either didn't hear them or never were there to condemn her." She smiled into the mirror and ran her fingers through my scalp. "Hon, this town has seen so much over the years, marriages, deaths and scandals, the occasional crime that draws the news crews out to tell us small towns are going down the tubes. But I can tell you right now, that if Rory is more than a friend to you, you shouldn't stop yourself from telling her that just because other external factors stop you."
 
"How much did you hear by the way?" I finally wondered.
 
"Just enough," she told me. "But enough to tell me that you want her in your life, even if she might reject you. You came here just for her dear, didn't you?"
 
I nodded. "I was surprised when she asked me to be here since I haven't really danced in six years, and the fact that well...I'm wearing a dress, same as her." I finally started calming down, became less uptight and was able to laugh at myself.
 
"Yet look at you." She had me turn back around in the mirror and look at myself. "You look wonderful, you've managed to stay on your feet for at least 13½ hours and until just a few minutes ago, you were giddy with excitement, what happened?"
 
"Tristan did," I said bitterly. "You know, that boy who came in and out of the play last year? She mentioned him in jest and I went ballistic, throwing my yellow card at Taylor and fleeing."
 
"The fine specimen of male?" Ms. LaCosta got this look of astonishment on her face; sort of a eureka moment. "If I was forty years younger, he would be on my shopping list!"
 
There went my red face again; the lady sure knows how to call the guys. "For a long time I felt that way too, that he was the only one meant for me. Then he got into trouble just before the play, ended up in military school in North Carolina, and then..." I wandered off as she finished off my sentence.
 
"Thoughts of yours wandered towards thinking of 'my golden daughter', as you stated, as more of a friend."
 
"Took me a while, but by the time we got back to Connecticut in August, I was stuck thinking of her romantically." How I could be so candid and trusting with Ms. LaCosta I don't know, but I could feel this aura around her that she had seen it all, heard it all, maybe done it all. Hey, she lived on South Beach for God's sake, wouldn't put it past the woman. "I'm just very, very scared, treading lightly, afraid that someone's going to find out and that's it, Rory's not going to want to be around me anymore." My lashes lowered as I looked down at the sink. "Honestly, every time I've tried to push her away, eventually I beg her back into my life. Every instance for some inexplicable reason, she puts up with me and draws herself back into the mess that I am, she must have a sadomasochistic streak in her to have handled me for this long."
 
"You have a true friend then," she said to me, noticing my halter tie loosening and retightening the knot. "She's stuck with you even when other girls may have shunned you. Something's nagging her to stay with you; maybe you have a connection to each other that's even tighter than that of twin siblings. Whatever it is though, even if she doesn't think of you in the way you think about her, I can see Rory continue to support you and be a good friend. She's bad at making enemies, and has some awkward problems making good friends. It's clear that you, my dear, are a very abnormal exception to that rule. For whatever you do, no matter how much you grate at her last nerve, you pull towards her, and she in turn does the same towards you."
 
"So I'm not abnormal?" I asked.
 
"No, but you need to unwind that spring a little, get a little more daring on the floor, let her know that you mean business. I have to admit that I've tired of her drama with Dean and Jess, they were part of a template that seems copied from bad drama. You on the other hand..." She finished my knot, and with my frown slowly inching towards an upwards curve, "...will be a challenge to watch, stealing those glances, trying to wring something out of the innocent. I'm not about to tell anyone because I want this little secret of yours to age to a fine vintage, and I just have this small little feeling in the back of my mind that maybe she's bored with the opposite sex. And if things come to fruition, you'll be surprised at how well this town might take things. Because if they don't, I'm not going to stay silent and leave you to fight alone."
 
"Honest?" I was still a little unsure, until she turned me around and offered me her hand to shake.
 
"An oral contract, that I, Miss Patty, will be there for you if you're ever in doubt, or you just need a second ear offered for an opinion."
 
I felt like by doing this, I might be entering into some wacky tradition that I might be called on to return a favor for someday. Then though, it was just something woman-to-woman, a covenant that I could continue with my secret for as long as I needed to without any pressure. For all anyone knew, I did really have sore feet and needed to use the bathroom.
 
Alright, so after all that wintergreen tea the second part was needed, but my feet were fine, though I was cursing my choice of heels. Halfway through, they did hurt like heck, you can see now why I'm a loafers girl outside of school.
 
So I asked her for one favor before I decided that yes, I was ready to explain my sudden mood swing to Rory and get back to creaming Kirk's ass.
 
"Ms. LaCosta?"
 
"It's Miss Patty, we've had a close conversation and I've never been comfortable with the formal titles."
 
"Fine, Miss Patty," I corrected myself. "You won't tell Rory we talked, right? If she were to find out that I was talking about her this way...I don't think I could face her." I offered out my hand, and she proffered it.
 
"You have a deal hon. I wouldn't even think of sharing this because it's something that's very iffy to spread." We smiled at our understanding with each other, and though I swore I saw in her eyes she knew something that I didn't, I wasn't going to call her on it.
 
I thanked her, and after checking my watch and realizing that it read 7:46:23, I had to get back into the gym, and fast with only one minute exactly left.
 
"I have to go," I told her. "My girl...she's waiting for me out on the floor." I smiled funny, and nervously looked at Miss Patty. She just had her own funny smile on her face. "What?" I asked, wondering the reason as I walked backwards.
 
"You might want to pay attention Par. You're about to crash into--"
 
Just then, I felt my ass and head bump up against the doorpost, giving me a jolt and a nice bruise on top of my skull. I cried in pain for a bit, and she completed her sentence.
 
"--The door." She gritted her teeth as the minute started ticking down. "Better just start running," she then observed.
 
Of course, that led my gaze to my shoes, and the dress I was wearing, braless. "In this getup?"
 
Patty laughed at me and then jolted me back to the situation I was facing. "Unless you want to stay here, forfeit and see Kirk take home the trophy." My eyes immediately widened, that was definitely something I didn't want Rory subject to, again!
 
"I'm gone, bye!" I opened up the door, and thankful all that unneeded weight was off my shoulders again, booked it all the way in those painful shoes 450 feet from the east wing girl's room and back into the gymnasium, where that damned stubborn Taylor was standing at the table with his stopwatch at hand, salivating at getting to use his 'Airhorn of Elmination' on me.
 
Well not so fast there, buster. Rory was sitting on the table, anxious for my return and looking forlornly out at the crowd. I was thirteen seconds away from ruining her night. If that didn't swell my heart to double its usual spiritual size, the sexy little pout on her face pretty much sealed the deal that I had to make it back over.
 
I dodged couples in mid-swing or move, 'Pardon me' and 'excuse me sir, madam'ing my way through the dance floor. Still so close, yet so far away, I could hear a clock ticking in my head. 9, 8, 7, 6...
 
I had to resort to drastic measures to get back into the competition. I yelled out her name over the blare of the music, and in the snap of a finger, she was up like a light, turning her frown upside down and all that other romantic jazz. Making a long ten-second story short, we met back at our spot with one second to spare, and I placed my hand right on her back, dipped her low to the ground, then grabbed her hand and spun her right back against me, causing a very dramatic re-entry into this whole thing. She looked into my eyes, with a smile, and sighed happily.
 
"I'm back, I'm sorry, and I'm ready to talk," I told her, as we heard Taylor voice out his frustration over the PA system.
 
"Damn it, you got in under the wire Miss Gellar!" he yelled at me as Rory and I found our footing. "I was getting so excited and you had to go ruin my fun, why did I--"
 
Andrew, the owner of the local bookstore tapped him on his shoulder. "Taylor, you're supposed to be impartial and encouraging! Don't say anything else or else I'm taking over the mic and horns."
 
Rory and I laughed as we saw him put Taylor in his place, and after that, the world around us turned foggy as she spoke for the first time since I left her.
 
"Hey, you'd get here eventually," she told me. "But I understand where you were coming from there Par, I'm sorry if I brought up too much, too fast." She rubbed her free hand on my shoulder, and I quickly felt any tension left within fading.
 
"It's OK, we were keeping this in way too long. Tristan doesn't deserve to be ignored even though he screwed up, and though he was your personal pain in the ass and my swoon buddy, he made everything interesting." I sighed as she started listening. "Look, I didn't mean to go off on you, but since we're getting so close to each other, I suppose there are some things I should let you know about, clear the air about a few things."

"Well...alright," she uttered, somewhat nervously. There was something about her tone of voice that was cluing me in that Rory was expecting the worst out of what I had to say. That meant I had to use caring words and emphasis on what I was about to confess. We danced in each other's arms as she started to lean against me and lend her ear to me.
 
"First of all, if you think I'm still mooning over Tristan as that prince who will someday come on noble steed and bring me back to his newly acquired kingdom of Raleigh-Durham in a year or so, I'm not, Ror. I stopped thinking of him as more than a friend at least more than a year ago and God forbid if he ever came back I don't have plans to rekindle anything that isn't there. There's no point continuing to delude myself further since the date you sent us out on sophomore year made it painfully clear that we were incompatible romantically."
 
Rory smiled as she heard me say that, and dare I say looked more relieved than surprised. But that was nothing compared to the heated curve I was about to throw towards her. You don't have to, my conscience told me, but I knew that if I wanted to spark this relationship, I had to be completely honest with her. My hand against her back for support, I confessed to Rory that certain detail which happened two weeks before the date.
 
"By the way, do you remember that party you went to at Madeline's house the night after you broke up with Dean the first time? Where you did more recreational reading than dancing and your friend Lane met Henry?"

"Yeah," she told me, "that was a fun party..." Rory seemed to bite her lip, cluing me into her second sense about what I was about to say.
 
"No Gilmore, it wasn't fun, for you or I. I would've rather been elsewhere honing my vocabulary instead of monitoring Orangina, and the only reason you were there was to think about something else besides Dean, all that loud music would hopefully scramble your senses. Tristan wasn't having a hot time either, what with Summer playing with his heart like a toy. Both of you were having problems of the heart, and you somehow came together in the piano room, where after a rash of thefts of precious antiques from previous parties and some broken glass bells from Mrs. Lynn's tourism bell collection, Madeline and her mother decided to install a wireless security camera, which was hidden in a replica tin sitting on the bookshelf."
 
She didn't stop dancing, didn't stop me from going on. Rory just nodded and licked around her lips to recoat them in a nervous manner. "Okay..."
 
"As I was saying, you two were hurting, at a party neither of you wanted to be at in retrospect. You wanted to be at home with a pint of Häagen-Dazs watching Thelma and Louise while you recounted to Lorelai how much you wanted to cut off circulation to Dean's pelvis, while Tristan...well we both know where Tristan wanted to be. So you find yourselves in the same room together, both of you hurt, and numb. On the surface having what looked to be a healthy serving of sexual tension on par with several series on a certain young woman-targeting television network which shall remain nameless, you still loathed him, he still had an insatiable crush on you. However, you dropped your barriers enough to have an awkward conversation about science class or another class, I don't remember. All I know is that Madeline came up to me one day asking if I might want to see something on a videotape that had a perfect view of that piano and the surrounding room. She didn't say what was on it, just that it would give me ammunition."
 
I could see her lip get sort of shaky, and her body tighten in my grasp. So far I had done well setting things up, now I just had to go through with the rest of the story and hope Rory still respected me. "Go on," she beckoned with a very shaky and strained voice.

I told her all about what was on the tape, and about how I reacted to what was on it. At first she had this look of fear to her and it seemed like in my arms, she was turning white. Rory was scared, and I tried to make her understand that there was nothing on that tape that was a surprise to me. I knew Tristan liked her, she didn't, and in the end once I got to the climax of the film, the kiss, that I didn't feel a thing. I was emotionally numbed and shocked from what I saw, but there was no anger that I ever felt. I kept trying to make it clear to her that the only two people who were at fault that night, were not in that room. Dean and Summer were both idiots for letting good love pass them by, and she seemed to understand I didn't hold any bitterness for her or Tristan at all.
 
As I finished describing what I had seen on the tape, I felt Rory relax in my grasp, and saw her color return to her face. I was thankful that she was taking such a revelation so well, and I had poured my heart out to her in such a way that made me feel like I could trust her with a confidant with my own secrets. I tried my best to make sure that this revelation was the final straw that told her she could trust me with anything she held close to her heart, including secrets, and I would not tell them to anyone.
 
Finishing what I had to say, Rory asked the important question I had been expecting about the cassette. "Uh, where is this tape you watched now?"

"Oh, it's currently probably eating the ozone layer above New York City since I burned it in my home incinerator in front of Madeline and Louise while I scolded them that if details about your kiss with Tristan ever got out, they'd be getting some natural blue eyeshadow courtesy of my fist." I laughed and she finally let out an easy breath. "There isn't a copy floating out there at all, only the five of us know what happened in that piano room--"
 
"Along with my mother," she added. "I kind of panicked about whether he'd spill about the kiss during the play scenario so I asked her if I should let Dean know. She told me to keep my mouth shut."
 
"As well Lorelai should, I didn't need my Romeo carted out to Hartford General with double broken kneecaps. But honestly, I kinda had fun seeing you squirm as he hinted about the kiss. He didn't tell me about it, but I knew what he was talking about the entire time. I did make him Romeo in a last gasp at saving him from falling deeper with Duncan and Bowman, but it didn't work, so I'm sorry for that too."
 
"What about the date though? You said you handled our kiss just fine, but the setup went too far." She was nervous on that topic, and had totally called me on that. So I answered her in the most honest way possible.
 
"That did bruise my pride, but back then I thought you'd be gone by the end of the year and I'd never have to see you again. I'm really sorry for telling you that I hated you for setting me up on the date, because although I seemed happy coming back into the classroom the morning after..." I hesitated for a beat, reading her eyes as we swayed across the floor. Her blues were warm, caring, understanding completely. "He wanted you Rory, not me. It was a noble attempt to try to make my dream of dating him come true, but there were no sparks during dinner, and the movie was spent going over some class notes in my head rather than gauging the exact moment he'd stretch his arm across my back and place his hand on my shoulder. The kiss at the end of the night was just as dull, I didn't feel a thing, a swoon, or a drying of my mouth, nor any urge to invite him in under the pretense of coffee and offer myself to him. Everything I did to you after that, until we went onto our second friends track? I was trying to find a spark with Tristan again, a reason to try to find something to hate about you."
 
Then, I closed my eyes and came the closest today to admitting what I really felt for her, running my hands against the bottom knuckles on each of her hands. I could hear her breath shallow up, the air around us start to stiffen. The sounds of a song from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack played over the loudspeakers, and what minutes ago may have been another end to a friendship, turned out to end well in my favor, it finally felt nice to get everything out about what I had thought of Tristan over the last year.
 
By this point, my voice had started breaking, and I felt myself swoon as I pushed the idea of Rory and I together further in our intimate dancing circle. "Rory, if you hadn't been here for me, to stop me from going bat crazy over an A- grade or these wacky Franklin ideas I come up with that are bad in actuality, or going along with me to become my vice president and just listened to my mother all the time instead of my heart and gut feelings, I wouldn't be happy at all. I look at who I was in September two years ago, and I can't believe how much of a bitch I was to you, no one ever offered to help me with something they screwed up, be it a project or an assignment, because they were too scared to even broach the question. You asked anyways, and I refused. Even after all that and trying to shut you out cold, you stay with me. You could've become a Puff all alone, but you demanded that I get in with you or else you wouldn't join at all. Finally, you love to tease me about being so high-strung and obsessed with tests, being good natured about it and telling me to ease up. In the end though, no matter what I've done--" This point in the conversation would be about where I lost all composure, and softly cried, blinking back tears that were going to come anyway. "You still like me. I'm still your friend and you're my best friend. And for that, I'm forever grateful to have you in my life, Rory Gilmore." With that, I collapsed onto her shoulder, and just cried like I never did before, joyful tears that expressed how thankful I was for that small-town brunette right then and there.
 
Thank God no one really saw it and we were buried deep in the crowd, a slow dance was the perfect time to just let it all out. Her hand was rubbing my upper back, and I heard her soothing voice, telling me everything was going to be OK and that it was fine to cry. I let myself go, letting two years of torn emotions, broken and reformed loyalties and misunderstandings formerly buried, bubble to the surface. I had been honest with her about Tristan, and in turn she understood. There was no second-guessing, no questioning, just a smile and a reassuring shoulder to cry on. We both kept our feet moving, and when I looked towards the judge's stand, I saw Ms. LaCosta in her chair. She was smiling at me, and her confidence in Rory forgiving me and listening to my side of the story was right on target.
 
There's still about ten hours of this literal song and dance to go, and I'm in it for the long haul now. If I had to do it again, use my yellow card to gain a little space and perspective, I wouldn't change a thing. Because even in my worst moments, Rory's loyalty to me is unwavering, and through this night that fact is becoming crystal clear.
 
All I need now is more clarity on whether she likes me further than she lets on...
 
7:59pm, Rory's POV
 
I remember when I had those feelings for Jess before I kissed him at Sookie's wedding, how conflicted and disloyal I felt to not only my mother for ditching her graduation to see him, but how crappy it must've been to Dean that I was going behind his back to pursue something with him. I look back on that now and think of myself as crazy for doing that, skipping school and jeopardizing everything just so I could risk my life to see that boy. It was crazy back then, and it still is now.
 
But an infatuation was guiding me, that maybe, just maybe I wanted Jess instead of Dean. His brown eyes, rebellious demeanor and his dislike of authority was the reverse of the way I led my life, and I found myself in bed sometimes thinking about him and how he would do things. That's why I went down there, love doing something funny to my system and making me think that for one day, I just needed to be in his gaze and see if he felt the same for me. Jess caused things to happen within me Dean never stirred, and I became a cat, curious as to what was on the end of that string dangled before me.
 
Once I kissed him though, I felt...what should have been happiness and fulfillment from obtaining my goal of kissing Jess, but instead turned out to be far from that. A sense of nothing took over my body in front of that pond on the Inn grounds, and from there, I realized a conclusion my brain had arrived at nine months before, but I refused to believe.
 
Jess and I; like Mac and DOS, we'd never work together. I had the bright outlook on things, the many open windows leading to different programs and images along with the bright colored cabinet holding my thoughts and dreams. Jess ended up being the C-prompt; an empty shell who was stubborn, always needed to be told what to do, and with thought processes that could use a few more megs of memory, he'd always stay in that leather jacket, a 'beige box' if you will. He never expanded his horizons, always expecting to be bailed out of trouble. He was always unchanging, sour, and unreliable; pretty soon he'd break and lose it all. The kiss got my attention alright; and it screamed out in a blue screen 'Danger! Danger! Turn back now, you might be in for a world of hurt if you go beyond this.'
 
So as I comfort Paris, what term could I use to describe her in an electronic device sort of way? And how the heck did I get on this mind track in the first place? Oh well, I got it now; she's like a cell phone; at first she seemed to have only one purpose in talking, that is in living out her dream of attending Harvard. As the years go on though, she loses the extraneous weight and pressure that came with the first mobile phones, and every six months she gets a new feature. Let's just say that when I came to school two years ago, she was the basic model that did little more than was supposed to. Now with me in her corner, she's developing new features, like actual emotions, thoughts and feelings, able to have empathy for others and communicate her feelings in more ways than she ever though possible. Use the cell phone analogy with text messaging, a camera in the handset, instant messaging and that chirpy walkie-talky thing you find on some of them, and it fits perfectly.

Enough of that though. My point is, Paris is really surprising me tonight. She runs away by using her yellow card and for ten minutes I'm stuck in the bleachers, praying she'll come back. In the meantime Jess and Shane had come over to check up on me before they left on a date to see some band in a grungy New Haven dance hall. They both looked very nice, and as more days go by, I can't help but think I made the right decision in letting Jess go. He's pleased with Shane and starting to occasionally smile, while the wild blonde seems to have reined herself in around Jess, who carries on the proud Danes monosyllablotic tradition. I talk to them for a bit, trying not to mention where my date was. I got into some quick music conversation with them before they had to go, and I appreciate that I can be myself around Jess without having any romantic feelings interfere anymore.
 
I watched the clock on the scoreboard nervously, counting the minutes before Paris and I were called out. She was talking a long time in there, and I saw Taylor almost salivate at getting to throw us, couple #131 out of the event. There was only so much I could do, so I could only hope she was straightening herself out.
 
By the time 7:46:53 hit, I gave up hope. There were less than thirty seconds to go, and even she had no way of making it from the bathrooms at the far end of the gym wing and back into my arms in that small amount of time. Not with her shoes and body type, I thought to myself as the lighted number switched from 6 to 7. 13:47:23 was good enough for 56th place; at least we'd get in the top 60...
 
Never count Paris Gellar out until zero hour though. Ten seconds later, I heard a rough shove of the gym door, and saw a flash of black, blonde and red tomato rush through it and into the room again. My eyes widened at the sudden tornado and her rough, yet formal shoving through the crowd to get to me.
 
Down to seven seconds, and I finally heard her confirm who she was.

"RORY?!"
 
Her voice was rough and strained, I couldn't stand there and hope she came to me; we had to come each other. So desperate to keep myself in the game, I ran through the crowd, counting down the seconds in my head. 16, 17, 18, 19...

We were headed for a collision course at the 131 'X' on the floor as the end digits on the board lit up and changed to 20. Three seconds, fifteen feet between us, a lump in my throat forming. The skirt of my dress was rising in the air, and I'm sure quite a few contestants got a quick glance of the back of my legs as I stretched out my arm, I could hear the click of the electric circuitry of the wall board in my mind as that end digit went to 1...
 
My right hand was taken by her long and svelte left, time seemed to stand still as we locked eyes again.
 
Click, 21 becomes 22.
 
I felt her slide towards the tape mark, and my back fall towards the gym floor as she shoved me down a little. Paris had something planned as I felt her body move close to mine. She stretched me out, causing me to spin about 450° and then bringing me back towards her, only to overshoot on purpose, where I found out her right arm was ready to brace my back. She caught me, and I found myself with quite the eyeful of her cleavage...
 
Click, 22 becomes 23...
 
Her smile matched mine; we were again Paris and Rory, dance partners. She brought me back up and into a regular kind of dance as we didn't hear the expected 'Airhorn of Elimination', but a disappointed Taylor instead cursing out Paris for making it on time.
 
We both laughed at this, and as she explained that yes, she was sorry and she didn't mean to turn Tristan into an issue again, I didn't expect much more than that, just an apology and a resumption of the dance.
 
Once again however, she surprised me, and just like that, she admitted what my heart had been hoping for since those first days this summer we spent straddling the Mason/Dixon line in that Howard University dorm room. Tristan was just a friend, always going to be just a friend to her, and she had no intentions of resparking the crush again. My heart was relieved and relaxed...
 
Until she admitted that the kiss I shared with him? She knew about it from the day after the dance, thanks to Madeline's spying...I mean security system, which had a hidden camera placed on a high shelf in the room somewhere, directed dead center at the piano bench. From there, I expected her to lecture me about my stupidity and why I'd be so weak and do something like that, along with the inevitable 'you knew I wanted him too, I don't care if your hearts were broken, I have first dibs' speech.
 
Paris relieved me though; she knew I didn't go in there hoping to seduce Tristan, that I was just trying to forget about what happened with Dean the night before and that my mind wasn't all there, I was looking for comfort. She knew I didn't enjoy the kiss and the feelings that came with it, so I tried to reassure her by telling my side of the story before she stopped me and told me she knew exactly what I'd say, and she was right.
 
I felt relieved to say the least, along with a growing respect for her. She didn't use the tape for blackmail material, and refused to use it to bring me down, rather she'd compete against me for her grade rather than win by a knockout blow. Coming from a girl I associated from day one with bringing me down, Paris' sportsmanship when it came to our grades was another thing I had learned about her that day.
 
We kept talking about Tristan for a bit, asking why she still had a problem with the date with Tristan I set her up on, yet burned the tape. Of course, the crush won out, for awhile at least. As DuGrey started on his downward spiral, her heart, filled with his love previously, was being wrung out.
 
But when she admitted that during that date, she didn't feel a damned thing for him at all, even in a deep kiss, I didn't know what to say. I wanted to celebrate that fact, but doing that would be rude and idiotic. My mind wrapped itself around an image of Paris and Tristan at her door kissing, watching her from a third person point of view and seeing Paris remaining unresponsive to Tristan's apparently 'magic mouth'.
 
She had never felt sparks for Tristan when they kissed. To Paris, the swirling in her stomach, shaky mouth, loss of all rational thought and feeling, heightened senses in her fingertips, that sudden response to stand on one foot and lean in closer...that was still an alien feeling to her. She was admitting as much to me, and for her to say she felt nothing for the boy she chased for years and years, I realized something.
 
I had experienced all of that when it came to Dean. She was wise beyond her years when it came to book learnin' and the mannerisms she acquired by being a part of Hartford society. When it came to love however, she was still a relative novice. What advice I had told her when it came to that date with Jamie was light and might as well have been a mulligan. She had never experienced real love, hell, Paris had never even been kissed.
 
I mean sure she had been kissed, technically. But not a real kiss. The kind of kiss that makes you crumble to the ground, lose your breath, yearn for more. As she talked about the way the date with Tristan really went, I had this long look at her full lips as we danced, my lashes lowered so she wouldn't clue into my gaze. My yearning to show her how to kiss started to build up, and though I wouldn't do it in such a public place, things became even more clear besides the crush I was holding for her mind, body, and heart.
 
I wanted to show her how to really love, not just infatuation. If two years with Dean has taught me something, it's what mistakes not to make in the course of a relationship and how to keep the flame burning. There were times I stayed with him only because of a sudden sweet gesture he made, but I don't want to have to depend on those when I pursue this. When she's around, like right now, just her presence changes my thought processes from far from normal. I compete to not only complete a goal I set for myself, to facilitate Lorelai's wishes, but to gain Paris' respect.
 
There was a part of me that knew Paris wasn't brain-dead when it came to showing love; but it wasn't her forte, and while she'd excel in a few places, most of her idea of romance was a large question mark. A part of me feels that my role is changing from seducer to teacher, and Paris' is going from seductee to the student.
 
God, Rory Gilmore, the Sapphic Love Instructor? Imagine if I put that on my business card later in life!
 
As I thought of this, the conversation seemed to be fading, and Paris seemed ready to break down in my arms. As she said she was thankful I was in her life, tears started falling and her grip started to fade, so I propped her back up and had her rest her head against my shoulder. Paris started crying, and moments later, I found my hand on her back, massaging it as I tried to help her let out all her tears. Thankfully she had rubbed off her eye makeup during the six o'clock break so she wouldn't have dark streaks down her cheeks, so anyone who looked in would think we were just dancing close.
 
There were a few couples around us looking at me funny for letting her lean against my shoulder, but an eyeroll and a shift towards a far corner of the gym remedied that so I could ease Paris back into a calm mood in relative quiet.
 
I soothed her with words, my voice taking on a maternal treble. "It's OK Par, it's fine," I told her, trying to resume the conversation stopped from her breaking down. "It's good to get this out, I'm not mad at you at all and don't think of you as weak. You're a very tough girl and I'm just as thankful for you in my life."
 
"Really?" she said through a sob. "This isn't a fib, you're not using this as an opportunity to try to find my Achilles, my weaknesses?"
 
"I wouldn't lie," I told her honestly. "You don't know how nervous I was after you left on the date, hoping you'd get those cues right and ease off the index cards, and I was hoping that Tristan would see you as more than a classmate for the first time. I enjoyed helping you get ready, and the reason I helped you was because I felt extreme guilt over the kiss. I mean I had good luck with Henry and Lane, so I thought I could work the same magic with you and Tristan." Her chin felt so soft against my shoulder, and the dark corner of the gym, still visible to Taylor, made our surroundings somewhat romantic. The gym lights around the periphery of the gym floor were turned off with only the middle bank of lights on, spotlighting tracks on each side of the gym. We were behind one of the riggings, so very little of the light came towards us.
 
I swayed her back and forth, giving her a little more of a break to calm her down. With Unchained Melody playing, the scene felt romantic. I kept telling her softly things were OK and I was relieved she knew about the piano room kiss, not thinking of the boy who used to be in between us at all as I had her wrap her arms around my back as I did the same. My fingers were in line with the plunge of her dress, and she found the courage again to place her hands in line with my waist. It took a few more moments for her to take her head off my shoulder, but once she did...
 
My breath caught, and I was overtaken with her beauty. Her expressive browns glistened from the cry and little light flowing into her pupils, and they were wide, looking into mine and forming this moment I'm not about to forget anytime soon. Her lips glistened in the little light, and her skin was subdued. I just loved how her mixed heritage of German and Spaniard genes, along with her Jewish heritage came together to form such a beautiful girl. She has the Germanic features in her nose and mouth, the full lips, nose and subdued ears, but her mother's Spanish ancestry was good for at least one thing; her skin is so smooth and perfect, so dark. I admit, I love it when Paris tans, because her body is made for it and she doesn't burn easily. Madeline and Louise have admitted as such; they tan at a booth and still have much envy for Par's simple beauty regimen and how she can go from pink to olive in but a few half-hour sessions.
 
I can't help but look at her; my mouth dries as the slow guitar and violin from the current tune pick up at the bridge. She's looking at me with this look of longing I've never placed before, and she mouths out a thank you for my caring words and action. It feels like 'the moment', the time to slowly go in and bring her closer.
 
I do, pushing her closer towards me as she does the same, we're becoming drawn to each other again, the magnetism that's given me the cues before off the chart as her breasts press against my chest, and I can feel her abdomen deflating and inflating against mine. We're so close, in dimmed light, her face perfect.
 
"You look beautiful tonight, Paris," I whisper to her, my lips plump and needing. I struggle to regain my breath; it's almost as if I needed her kiss to go on further.
 
She nodded back at me, her own mouth opening. I haven't felt this way before, this is so right. I don't want to rush into this, I just want the moment to carry itself, because I want this to be perfect. Fireworks, oohs, ahhs, a swooning soundtrack in the background.
 
"Sometimes you're very peculiar Gilmore," she tells me in her seductive monotonic murmur, as her nails play with the material on the back of my dress. "I have to admit however, when I'm with you, I do feel the way you say I am." Her face moves closer and closer, the moment is so perfect despite there being ten hours left and my surprise if we win possibly being ruined if I go through with it.
 
I wanted it, I wanted it so bad I could almost feel orchids digging into my back, her perfume getting to me and making me remember back to Mr. Medina's marriage proposal. Only instead of daisies, I visualize Paris and I in the middle of the Inn lobby, bunches and bunches of purple, pink and yellow orchids all over the place. I prepare to bring her into the kiss slowly, my tongue against the ridge of my lower lip, she didn't seem scared to move closer and closer.
 
I could hear her breath, heartbeat, the flow of her blood through my system as we continued to sway. We were but mere centimeters from each other, the moment was perfect, nothing had to be acknowledged and we were about to breach that bold white 'friends and lovers' line that shouldn't be crossed unless we both thought it was the time, the place, and the moment to do so...
 
Then just as I was about to close that last distance, I found my new arch-enemy at 7:57:15pm in Taylor Doose, and his need to torture us until the cows come home. All the sudden, the loud scoreboard horn went off, and where moments before I would have been claiming Paris as more than a dance partner, the moment that fucking horn went off, she jumped about four feet backwards in the other direction.
 
"Oh, now what?!" I complained as she yelled "For the love of God!" towards Taylor as I got a quick grasp on her left hand to not only keep her from falling down, but keep us in the contest. The moment was lost, and though I wanted to shed tears, I couldn't because I had just helped Paris settle down, I didn't need to go through her having to take care of me.
 
Besides, it was time for the one thing every year I dreaded...
 
"Ladies and gentlemen, get into a single file line along the basketball sideline behind the red tape, it's time for the Runaround!" Crap on a cracker, how in good conscience could he do this right after Unchained Melody and my almost-kissing Paris?!
 
"Runaround, what's that, what's a runaround? Rory, I need to know, please tell me, does it involve sudden death?!" The poor guy had made Paris panic like a chicken in the yard right after it has its head cut off, and as we raced to join the building crowd at the red line, I quickly ran it down for her.
 
"He promised us all he wouldn't do this again this year, but basically he has us run around the gym for five minutes in a game where all the couples dance around to one of those bad school square dancing record songs. If we don't make it past the red line when the horn sounds we're out of the contest, I'm so sorry, and I would've warned you if I knew he would've sprung it on us!" I held her hand tightly for dear life as we got behind Kirk and his partner, and Paris wasn't above holding back her feelings.
 
"What a prick!" she shot out. "I thought I liked him, but you're right Rory, he's an old anal freak."
 
Kirk looked towards us and tried to defend his former employer 7-10 times over, I forget the exact number. "Hey, that anal freak hired me when he didn't have to and he organizes this marathon every year young lady, so show some respect--"
 
The anger over not kissing Paris at a brim point, I cut Kirk off before he goaded Paris into a shoving match. "Whatever, put a sock in it Gleason, you're gonna be here late anyways so what do you have to complain about, we're trying to beat you!"
 
Thankfully this shut Kirk up, and we heard the needle drop as Taylor prepared to start the runaround. A horrible and awful song came out of the speakers, the kind you find buried way down below in the record racks at the Bethesda store because no one knows who composed or played the song because they were embarrassed to play it for infamy in the first place.
 
"Everyone, ready on your marks...get set...and go!"
 
So that's where Paris and I are now, in the middle of the crowd trying to stay on our feet as we both try to will time faster so this whole stupid ordeal ends. At least I'm doing it with her and still in the game, and in retrospect, kissing her in a public venue, be it in a dark corner of the gym, was better stopped in the long run than if we had gone through with it. If I do it in privacy later though, we'd be able to talk it out rather than have some awkward things go down in the aftermath. Paris is struggling to stay on her feet, and she's hopped on one foot for a bit, then the other so she could take off her shoes and chuck them towards the bleachers since they were hurting her feet, she wasn't prepared for this at all. Thankfully there's no rule against barefoot dancing, so the only thing I'll have to worry about for the rest of the night is not stepping on them. I only hope she respects me in the morning if we get through this all.
 
Speaking of which, if we do get past 4am, there's now way she's going to drive home to Hartford in her car, I will not let her go drowsy and with sore feet. This of course, sets up interesting possibilities for Sunday morning into the afternoon, keeping her in Stars Hollow. Looks like I have some more motivation to keep her in the game...

Paris' POV, 1:40am

I've always hated the slumber parties that Mads and Louise throw occasionally, and after a begging session and an impassioned plea to Sharon to force me to go, I ended up attending. Yes, I like my friends and I'd wear the bridesmaid dresses for both of them, even if it will end up being multiple times (And in wedding announcements, Louise Shelby Grant, followed by multiple other surnames we can't possibly fit in this article, 65, of Hartford married her 17th beau this Saturday afternoon...), but I hate slumber parties because they've never done any slumbering at all. They'd keep me up and by the time Monday rolls around, I have a heavy sleep hangover that can only be cured with a triple-shot espresso with a few drops of Jolt cola to spike the caffeine grammage to a triple-digit level.
 
I don't take well to routine being interrupted. I usually go to bed every night except Saturday at 11:20pm or earlier, right after the channel 3 weather segment on their 11pm newscast (Wiseass sportscasters and water-skiing squirrels insult my intelligence). On Saturday I get a little wild and stay up until 12:45am, just before the last two skits of Saturday Night Live start and kill the rest of the show. By midnight on Saturday my eyelids are heavy, begging to be rested, and it takes pure adrenaline to keep my eyes on my computer screen as I put the last completing touches on my schoolwork, and in the background the wonderful comedienne Tina Fey sparkles in her Weekend Update segment.
 
As I was saying though, something out of the ordinary, and my sleeping schedule takes a few days to readjust. After a Madeline/Louise slumber party, I fall right into my bed when I get home and sleep until my mother yanks me out of bed and forces me to accompany her to whatever social ego-stroke she's found to hobnob with the Hartford elite, where she hopes my interest in a boy gets piqued and I set up a date with one of them.
 
Never has happened of course, you should know that from Vance Beardsley II's four-year sojourn to get into my pants. Of course, the odds that it will happen are pretty slim right now, considering I outright admitted my infatuation with Rory suddenly to Ms. LaCosta a few hours ago.
 
I'm still feeling wide-awake tonight though, completely aware of my surroundings. It's as if karma is again at work trying to make me see how important Rory is in my life, keeping my eyes wide open. It could have something to do with having to dance barefoot though, since I chucked my shoes off into the bleachers during that Roundabout thing Taylor roped us into. Rory and I came within moments of being eliminated at the end of it and only by widely striding across the line with my feet before that infernal horn went off again and 52 couples behind the line got taken out of the competition, did we stay in. Please tell me what I saw in respecting Taylor Doose the few other times I visited the town. I thought he was a good authority figure, but nineteen hours into a contest he's warding over, he's become a pain in my side.
 
Rory however...is single-handedly keeping me sane. I would've left long ago if someone like Brad was my dancing partner because we're always at each other's throats, and not in that David/Maddie Moonlighting unresolved sexual tension way either; I just don't like him. There was a part of me who thought I'd be inexperienced and wouldn't make it through the evening, but there I was, still on my toes, relatively awake.
 
I was also still spinning from almost giving into temptation and kissing Rory before the horn went off for Roundabout. We were both in this dim corner of the gym, and after I finished crying myself out from admitting she was so important to me, I found myself looking at her and finding the right moment to silently let her know my feelings. I thought she looked at me the same way, as I felt my body attract against hers. Her slim form against mine, hands lower against each other than any point in the endeavor; everything about the scene was perfect and I could feel her ease into me, until Taylor's horn shook me back into reality with a huge shock in my system. I jumped back abruptly from her, and though I really, really wanted the kiss, maybe it's better to wait.
 
For one thing, it was in a gym packed with people, and for another, I don't know how she feels. If I kissed her then, she might be embarrassed and run away. Or worse, I'd end up her newest Georgia Porgie, making her bawl as past memories came to mind and she fled from my grasp. Every first kiss it seems with her, she runs away, confusing the heck out of the recipient, and it takes a bit to make sure that the kiss was for better or worse.
 
I have a feeling I'll kiss horribly, so I better not. I want her to stay with me, and if she doesn't want to kiss me, I'll have to accept that. So I just try to get out any information through the dance I can push out of her, and in turn, she probes me for more answers to my mystery, my life, what makes me tick. The artificial barriers we've kept up around each other, the distrust in the past that can be compared to the epic battle of AT&T vs. MCI to keep things secret so one doesn't get an unknowing leg up on the other, those are gone as the night goes on, and we find more space with every half hour to spread our dancing out on the floor. At 7pm, we were still stuck in our intimate box above the three point curve. At 1am, we have almost the entire east free throw circle to ourselves. In the last hour the town's ambulance crew has been bouncing back and forth between the town clinic off Constellation Circle on the north side of town and the high school as several couples couldn't take the stress anymore and fainted to the ground below. A few did it gracefully, but more often than not a hard thump would be heard as a head, nose, or rump hit the hardwood and Ms. LaCosta asked out the paramedics once again to bring them to the clinic and treat them for exhaustion and/or dehydration.
 
The thing with Rory and I however, we conserved our energy and didn't try to do too much, only going for the risky moves when Kirk was trying to hard to impress the crowd. In the meantime, we kept on dancing with the pace of the music conservatively as we kept talking and talking to make the hours go faster. It felt so wonderful, and the Tristan topic opened up a whole avenue of possibilities.
 
"Who really was your first kiss?" I asked her, and though she tried to play coy and avoid the question, eventually she relented and told me that back in third grade, a boy in her class named Ty Verona had a huge crush on her, and it was Valentine's Day. Her box, being the class smartie, had enough valentines, but not enough to be considered a big haul.
 
"Ty was different though," she remembered. "He made this homemade card with elbow macaroni, lace borders, practiced cursive, and multiple layers of construction paper, for a boy his age it was well put together and he did it all by myself. So I thanked him after school, and because I was in a giving mood, I decided why not, I'll kiss him."
 
"Was it a nice introduction into the world of boys?"
 
"He wanted to only give me the valentine, not anything more. I kissed his cheek, and he ran away screaming 'Gilmore just kissed me, ewwwwww, yucky!' I tried to apologize, but I guess since I got what he wanted wrong, he decided he didn't like me anymore. It wasn't really a kiss to remember, but a nice and funny memory." Her eyes darted towards me, and I became the deer in the headlights. "I have a feeling your first kiss wasn't Tristan though, you never said he was Gellar."
 
"Yes I did, I--" A few moments later, I remembered that I had never said that. "I guess I didn't." I rolled my eyes and prepared for my humiliation. "I'm warning you now, you laugh and after this is over I'll be wearing a Stop and Shop bag on my head to school Monday morning."
 
"I will not," she insisted. "Can't be any worse than my story."
 
"It's awkward though."
 
She smiled at me. "I felt awkward telling my story, so go ahead and spill, you have a fellow weirdo dancing here."
 
"Fine," I said, sighing and relaying the details of my first kiss. "A boy I used to know, Clarence Norwood was playing doctor with me when we were five at my home. We were good friends back then and were, let's just say curious about how things ticked. He had the stethoscope, I was the patient, and well...you know how patients are dressed with doctors."
 
"So a nightgown?" She answered. I nodded back.
 
"Care Bears, I had a phase where I liked those infernal toys back then." I rolled my eyes and continued. "We were in my playroom, and he was asking if I was hurting somewhere, so I said I had a painful tooth. My first teeth were starting to come in and push out the baby teeth, so I was raking it in with the tooth fairy. Instead of playing dentist though, he asked me if it really hurt. I said yes it did, and then he told me, 'My mom kisses boo-boos and it makes me feel better'."
 
"A few days earlier I had seen a movie on television with French kissing, so I was interested in how it felt, which is why I said my tooth hurt. Moments later, he was bending down, and I told him to rub my sore tooth with his tongue. So he did that, we started kissing..."
 
"Even back in your younger days you were smart, suckering a boy into Frenching you." She laughed, and I finished the story.
 
"We did that for a couple of minutes, and it felt really good. At least until Mrs. Norwood came in and saw her son on top of me, his hand on my leg trying to brace himself and my cries of 'More please Clarence, cure my pain!'. You can only imagine how it looked to Mrs. Norwood, and after tearing Clarence off of me, she lectured him and told him not to copy his 'lecherous daddy'. I cried that I started it and we were just playing doctor, but she had none of it. After that, I never saw the boy again and got grounded by Mother for three weeks. Figures that I'd get the only boy I really ever kissed in trouble and lose him."
 
"Paris, you little harlot!" she said to me, a bright beaming smile and hearty laugh coming from in-between those lips. "I can see it now, a little you in pigtails...'Clarence, my toof hurts, kiss the pain away and make it feel better!'." She went into hysterics, and I had to admit, though I was flushing a beet red shade after sharing that tale, it felt good to do that. "Oh my God, that story just made my year...and I just thought of a new nickname for you."
 
"Four year-old whore?" I thought aloud.
 
"No, Par-Bear, because you like the Care Bears, and Bear rhymes with Par, and it rolls off the tongue so nice." About this point I wanted to be in a hole somewhere because my respected and beautiful name was turned into a rhyme on par with that of a nursery rhyme. I mean Par-Bear? My first thought was of utter disgust with the name, it sounded like something Puff Daddy came up with for his newest discovery to add to his stable of rappers, it sounded so dumb coming from other voices in my mind.
 
Leave it to my imagination to turn a joke from Rory into a quick flash of something that made me remember why I was in this damned gym in the first place. Us, together in her bed, talking like a couple of girls in love in very subdued voices, her hand playing with my hair as she told me "You're my Par-Bear." Then me closing the distance, saying something really romantic and wouldn't be caught saying at my locker to her between classes, with the thought degenerating into something dirty in a rapid space of time.
 
Oh dear, I thought to myself, she found a pet name for me. Rory was the only one I'd let call me Par in the first place, and I was probably an exception to cutting her name from 'Lorelai the Third' to 'Rory', all the way down to 'Ror'. I couldn't come up with anything to rhyme with that just then, but where a few weeks ago I might have thought of something else to quash the thought, I thought her naming was very cute. God, I'm turning into a lovesick sap, I think I need to read a little Machiavelli later to balance things back out!
 
"I guess I'm flattered," I told her, looking both ways to make sure no one heard her use of the name. She had this smirk on her face that was turning me into jelly, but I had to stay a little firm. "But just keep that name confined to the both of us in a room alone, will you? I'd like to keep the Le Pitbull thing going in the newspaper office."
 
"Consider it done." She rested her hand against my back, and leaned into my shoulder a bit, yawning lightly. "What time is it again?"
 
"About 10 minutes after one."
 
"I thought it was later, like around 3:30, I knew I should've taken advantage of that last break and refueled." Her eyes seemed a little heavy, and from what I remembered from the midnight break, she didn't really do that much except stretch out her feet and ate a sandwich from Mrs. Kim's food booth, along with me. Not a good decision in hindsight and we should've eaten the hot beef sandwiches offered by Gypsy instead. Mrs. Kim's food was the very definition of roughage, 'egg' salad sandwiches not actually made with actual eggs, but the egg yellow substitute that comes in milk cartons and doesn't actually taste all that eggy. Rory and I ate it though, desperate for any sustenance we wouldn't find in a glaze-coated doughnut.
 
Then I remembered what she didn't have on that break...
 
"Wait, you forgot to have coffee?"
 
"After midnight it's counterproductive to drink, and in my experience caffeine does strange things to my tummy at night." She blushed adorably, and felt kind of bad for her.
 
"You're going to be up with me late though, and if you did get sick you still have your yellow card."
 
"True, I guess I didn't really think much about things except feet sore, belly needing food." Rory then yawned a little deeper, and her eyes weren't wide and bright like they usually were, instead worn out, with the dim gymnasium lighting and her biological clock getting to her. She's probably stayed up late with Lorelai many times, but at least then she was on a couch not expecting any physical activity. Here though, tiredness would be deadly.
 
With our position on the free throw line, and 13 couples still in, the focus from the crowd was less on us, and more on the experienced dancers in the room. After a 22/20 couple found their shoelaces untied and took a tumble together, that left Rory and I, a young 18 and older 17 respectively, the youngest two still on the floor. Taylor wasn't keeping an eye on both of us, preferring his pony in Kirk and his partner to cross the line, along with two other duos he hoped would at least place and show.
 
Rory was looking pretty tired, and I was getting unsure she'd be able to make it without some help. The yellow card was still in her pocket, but I told her earlier to keep it until at least 4:30 so we could get a good awake shot at winning it all since I thought Kirk would pull his out at 3:30, and his partner shortly thereafter.
 
My concern for this hour though was getting her through the hump in hour nineteen, where most metabolisms usually give out and succumb to slumber. I made it just fine through consuming nothing but high-carb foods from the deli platter and dessert tray in the break at 6pm, but Rory without Luke's hamburgers and chili fries is like taking away whatever illegal bodybuilding substance Jason Giambi uses to pound baseballs into the right-field seats at the Stadium; it put her at a competitive weakness. All that cheese and Angus beef usually keeps her charged up into late, but without her usual dinner, Rory was sluggish and tired.
 
I looked at her, she seemed resigned to the fact she'd slump down soon and come to eye level with my cleavage a couple feet down my body. She hummed the song playing to herself to try to keep her brain stirring, but that wasn't doing much at all either. Hey eyes struggled to stay open, synapses misfiring and wanting to give into sleep.
 
She did look lovely though. I looked down at her as she settled against my sternum, struggling to keep herself bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I remembered back those few weeks before when I drove to her house to apologize, and ended up sleeping with her in bed; I watched her for ten minutes as she closed her eyes and fell into REM. She looked so precious, innocent, a girl uncaring about what her life has been. She smiles in her sleep and occasionally tosses and turns towards the cold side of the pillow, her brown hair spread all over. Of course, her being Rory she never snores, but instead softly exhales and inhales as her brain winds it's activity down for a few hours. It was then I realized how much I wanted that scene to be repeated in the future, for a few minutes later I settled against her and fell asleep without worries or fears inside of me.
 
"Rory?" I asked softly, and she immediately tried opening her eyes wide.
 
"Honestly, I wasn't falling asleep, I promise." She was in a panic and tried to hide it, but I wouldn't accept her excuse. So I brought her closer to my right shoulder, threading my fingers through her locks and soothing her like she had me in Russian Novels.
 
"Shhhh, it's OK, I'll keep you propped up, go ahead and catch a couple of winks," I gently said, trying to ease her against me. Her voice was a little tired, but still full of thoughts.
 
"But I can't fall asleep, I'll lose..."
 
"If Taylor comes by I'll rub my hand against your side to wake you up, and if you really start to nod off I'll do something a little more extreme." Oh yes Par, signal that you really want her to fall asleep so that the only way to make her more awake than coffee through an IV is to squeeze your hand around the area of her rear.
 
Not that all this time spent getting to know her back has tempted me to get ahold of her ass. I promise you I've never thought about that in one of my dreams of her, honest.
 
Alright...maybe a little, in the heat of the moment I think of her backside and how it would feel cradled in my hands, but now I said too much so back on topic, she brought her retreating gaze up. Though she has four inches on me, her head is at my level, meaning that she must be hurting a little in her back from bending down.
 
"Really?" She smiled up at me, the word coming out a little lustful, at least to my ears. I brushed that off as just her voice being tired and her being unable to control the treble and pitch of it.
 
"Yeah, promise, I'll keep your feet moving."
 
Then she said something to me that, if I hadn't been having a hard crush on her for the last year, still would have turned my stone heart soft.
 
Her lashes lowered, and she settled a little lower against the top of my bosom. Gripping hard against my upper back, she let me sway her into the music.
 
"Thanks," she moaned out. "I like it when you're being gentle; it shows that you have a true heart under all this stuff Par."
 
Shortly after that, she closed her eyes, left any way I might have to answer her in the air, and I started soothing her into a temporary slumber. I was numbed by her words before she closed her eyes that she thought of me as maternal. I never could picture myself that way though, what with the crappy job my mother's done on me. This is one of the reasons I numbed myself around boys; I can't handle the pressures of sex to begin with, and knowing its true purpose, to procreate, scares me to death. When I was twelve, I tried to babysit for a neighbor, but after two gigs I gave it up after being overwhelmed. The child I took care of was under a more casual style of parenting, and bringing in the daughter of someone who rode her child hard, wasn't a good idea. I tried being stern and tough, and ended up feeling like I was mean instead, making the poor boy cry when I asked him to eat his veggies, otherwise I'd take away his Game Boy and not let him watch Pokemon for a punishment. I gave in and let him eat only a little, but all that confirmed to me is Sharon got damned lucky I didn't become an out-of-control teenage girl; another kid may have rebelled very early from her influence.
 
That she is my mother makes me scared to have a child. What if I become my mother, treat my kid as if their only purpose is to claim prestige for our bloodline or live out things in my childhood I couldn't do? For the longest time I cared about no one but myself, my grades, maintaining the Gellar legacy, and hoping nothing would get in my way.
 
It's funny how in the space of 26 months you go from that to longing for the love of a girl you were convinced was to be seen as an enemy. Rory was the reverse of what I am; a girl who cares, doesn't hog the glory, loves her parents and her town, and doesn't throw a tantrum when things don't go her way, picking herself right up and hoping for the best next time.
 
Yes, I'm not including the day she went off on me during the Shakespeare test in that description. If you slept in a chair with a tabletop as your pillow, overslept, found a deer deciding to go all Pamplona on your bumper at a four-way stop, then found you didn't make it in time for the test, you wouldn't exactly be flowers and sunshine either, would ya? After multiple iterations of that story, and finally seeing for myself antler marks in the door of her mom's Jeep, I believe her, why would she make up a lie so elaborate in the first place? Besides in retrospect, looking disheveled, tired and sort of annoyed, along with her yelling at me after I quipped she was a loser...sometimes I egg her on just so I can get another lovely dose of that sexy attitude the fair Miss Gilmore doles out occasionally.
 
She's laying against my chest right now, and to all the world she's just breathing into it, taking in each and every note of the romantic song as the late night minutes go by. The temperature outside is unknown, but I assume that it's getting below 45° since the loud boom of the heating system just kicked in over us on the ceiling above, blowing warm air below. Her arms are hooked against mine to keep herself braced, hands just below the bottom of the exposed back of my dress. I'm looking down at Rory, nuzzling against the soft rayon material and think to myself how lucky I am that I've gotten so far in so little time. She looks so beautiful, at ease with herself, trusting my fate in my accommodating hands. I run a hand through her hair around where her hairband comes together, the brown strands like silk. It's losing a bit of the curliness it had through the day and most of the night and returning to its naturally smooth texture, however the rose she came with, stem buried deep so it doesn't fall out, is sticking in there stubbornly.
 
I feel the rise and fall of air in her diaphragm against my other hand, currently on her back. The music is soft, the atmosphere easy going, and everyone would kill Taylor if he tried the Roundabout so late in the evening. Taylor is giving me a suspicious look, but I've hidden Rory's face and kept her feet shuffling enough to throw him off. Meanwhile Kirk and his partner continue to try to impress despite the fact it is a timed competition, and everyone in the crowd (all 55 of them, come on, it's 1:20 in the morning, who could sit through 24 hours of a dance marathon? Paint-drying has more drama than this!) still looks at them as if they're going to win the whole thing.
 
If there's overtime for this and we aren't out by six, Rory and I are still going to be in this. Hopefully she's getting a few minutes of good rest, enough to last her until 4:30am and our break. For this moment though, I'm humming along to a song from the late 90's being played since Ms. LaCosta has decided to take over the music stand and spin the tunes. The chorus of the songs seems appropriate, I remember it as being by Nina Gordon and being a slight hit a few years ago on the radio. It's such a soft song, and the lyrics describe how I feel dead center in my heart...
 
Gleaming in the dark sea,
I'm as light as air,
floating there breathlessly,
 
When the dream dissolves I,
open up my eyes,
I realize,
 
That everything is shoreless sea,
A weightlessness is passing over me...
 
It doesn't feel like I'm in a public school's gymnasium anymore, sharing the same floor as the basketball teams and required gym class kickball games. There's just myself, dancing to the beat as Rory nuzzles deeper into my neck. All I can see around us is darkness, almost a scene out of those movies where the only light in the room is a small spotlight highlighting the both of us on the floor. She's so beautiful, and I can't help but mouth the chorus of Tonight, and the Rest of My Life to myself.
 
I feel so light,
this is all I want to feel tonight,
 
I feel so light,
tonight and the rest of my life...
 
There's only four hours and forty minutes to the end, but I could stay like this forever, being Rory's personal pillow. If only she knew what everything she's done in the last few weeks has been do to me, what thoughts I've had of her and I.
 
I can feel it in my bones; we're no longer friends anymore, in that normal sense that's defined by Webster's Dictionary as 'one attached to another by respect or affection'. No, this is going beyond that, into something unknown, a space between that and confidant. Fights no longer break us up for long periods of time, and a sense of absence overtakes us both when we stray away from each other. Rory's uneasiness around me before, which kept her from taking what we have away from the brick and limestone walls of Chilton Academy, is long disappeared, never to come back.
 
Tonight I've learned something about myself; if there was a choice between Harvard and Rory, I'd choose her, every time. There are no doubts about that, and as the song says, soothing Rory is something I want to do not only tonight, but for as long as I live.
 
Hopefully Rory knows that...
 
Rory's POV, 5:54am
 
It's funny how you can remember those important moments in your life where things you knew were dependable, suddenly they've either changed for the better, or for the worst. In my life so far, it's small things, like the moment I read in the newspaper that ABC decided to pull My So-Called Life because of low ratings, leaving those entire plot holes open forever. The summer day in 1998 I taught the team I had been rooting for since my mother bought a small kid's jersey for me, the Hartford Whalers, were moving to North Carolina. A girl in my sixth grade class had been diagnosed with leukemia a year before, causing the entire town to dedicate an entire festival to her so they could send her up to Farber in Boston and hope she'd be able to get into remission enough to resume her life.
 
Some of them are just wacky, like when Taylor thought putting in a traffic light was a good idea. The crosswalk sign for dummies, along with the defective timer and no real need for a stoplamp days later, so that when he pulled it out things were back to normal. Those few days it was in though, Stars Hollow was agog with this weird talk about how a traffic light would turn our nice little town into the next Bloomington, Minnesota, complete with replica of the Mall of America and international airport. Funny how technology, even from the early part of the 20th century can change a town all the way in 2001.
 
I think the memory of this town, at least for the year 2002, will be the dance marathon where the unthinkable happened.
 
Pigs and penguins are currently flying outside on the town square, the devil himself is trying to warm up the underworld since the temperature suddenly plunged, and there's this weird sense of change in the air of my little corner of the world. I can hear Howard Cosell's call in my head, changed around a little to fit this event where we just went through the shock of our lives.
 
"Down goes Gleason! Down goes Mondrawski! They're both down on the ground separated and in a state of utter shock, the gym is under a state of pandemonium right now. I can't believe, what I just saw!"
 
It's unbelievable; seven minutes ago, Paris and I were on the floor, trying to outstep the hell out of Kirk and his dance partner, Carrie Mondrawski. Things had become even more heated between the four of us after the 4:30am break Paris and I yellow-carded into. Within about a half hour the third to last couple was off the floor under the strict orders of the nurse, leaving Paris and I, along with Kirk and Carrie as the last two couples standing on the floor. Within moments, things became more heated.
 
Miss Patty took herself out of the DJ booth, leaving Taylor free to play his 'last hour' mix disc, a platter filled with some of the toughest dance moves and songs he could come up with and honed over the years from many of Kirk's wins. Each year was tougher on the tootsies, each dance a complex number of steps and beats that had to be timed just right so that you didn't get the thumb. After the comfy resting up against Paris I took for about a half hour a few hours before, we got right back to business, trying to keep our endurance and adrenaline high, and errors low. She found her way back into her shoes during my yellow card break, and from there focused on keeping things right.
 
Her experience started to shine through in this last hour as I saw her turn from her normal mild-mannered and academic self, into the dancing equivalent of a rowing instructor. "1, 2, 3, 4, and left 2, 3, 4, come on Gilmore, follow my lead, don't stray from the script!" was her rallying cry, as Taylor found songs that were faster, full of sudden shifts in tempo and could throw off even the most professional dancer, which Carrie just happened to be. She and Kirk stayed in the game as we watched them navigate the slippery slope, trying to keep the focus on things.
 
The first 22:50? Child's play compared to what we had to deal with after 4:50am. Swings, complicated steps, loops, all were in play as Paris tried to keep my head in the game. I found my skirt spinning around like it hadn't before then, while her modus operandi seemed to try to keep her chest reined in. I made sure to help her retie the knot in back so it wouldn't suddenly fall out mid-move, something that made me tingle from the movement, yet I had to keep my game face on so I tried to make sure that it didn't show.
 
Secret's protection was quickly fading as 23:15 on the clock hit and we both started sweating like we never did before. Paris' face was coated in perspiration, which dripped relentlessly from her forehead, and made keeping a good grip against her side a challenge because her underarms were doing the same thing. I wish I could say I was glow-free, but in the stress of swings and moves that made my heart pump blood like it never could I ended up with my own sheen of sweat. Our hair was all soaked up and heavy against our heads, so as a consequence I had her pull out my hair tie, leaving what was curly hair when I came in the gym so many hours before slowly going straight right before Paris' eyes.

Kirk and his partner kept trying to outdo us and go off-script, as he tossed Carrie in the air and caught her on the fly with an arm just in time, the crowd still there applauding wildly with each new attempt to usurp our 'slow and steady wins the race' style of dancing. By about 5:20, the fur started to fly, along with the trash talking.
 
"Looks like you and your partner are too chicken," Carrie yelled towards Paris. "C'mon blondie, what's stopping you from making your gal fly?"
 
Paris somehow reined herself in from that crude blondie insult, gritting her teeth and going on. "I don't want her to fly, we're in this to win, not impress a select few town individuals. Didn't you get the memo; I was a state dance champion back in my day."
 
"Says the woman dancing with the offspring of two left-foot Gilmore!" Kirk shot back. "Guess we can't blame the heels this time, just Rory's complete lack of any dancing experience. Face it Paris, she's coasting along on your long gone glory days!"
 
My eyes widened; I was no glory hog, all I was hoping for was a little bonding time with Par! That she was good back when she was ten helped my choice in making her the Astaire to my Rogers, but it certainly wasn't the only factor in play, very low on my list. Before she could say anything, I jumped in.
 
"At least I'm not paying my partner cash to dance; without the green you'd be solo Kirk!" I stopped the thought, letting it hang in the air. It would've been bad form to take the talking into territory where I called Carrie a glorified escort, plus she didn't seem the type to be like that.
 
"Hey, if you were offered $1,000 for showing up, you'd do it!" Carrie let me know of that.
 
"My father makes $1,000 just walking into a room," Paris piped in, "and his skills won't go away if he say...breaks an ankle." Ouch, score a point for Par on that one; way to wound the girl's pride! She smirked at Carrie, who looked as if she wanted to invent a move with Kirk that would be right at home in the WWE by tossing his body at us while holding on to him.
 
"Leave the nice lady alone," Kirk whined, "she's done nothing to you two!"
 
"Except to keep us from winning," I told him. "You win this every year, can't you let someone else take the title for once? You're like the Lakers of competitive small-town dancing, some of us don't like you sucking the drama out every single year!"
 
The argument went on for a few minutes over the blare of the music, until Miss Patty finally felt that Kirk was egging us on enough and told him and Carrie to move back to their side of the line while we stayed on ours. The music continued to speed up in tempo, and Paris at times felt like this was a very tough challenge for her.
 
"Rory, next time you ask me what's harder, a brain-scrambling admissions test or a 24-hour dance marathon, remind me that at least the admissions test only challenges the mental rather than physical fitness." Her face was beet red and she looked to be in the first stages of exhaustion. She seemed to be burning off any calories from the tea and food and any minute, I felt she would collapse. However, the nurse was keeping an eye on everyone and hadn't found a reason to declare her medically unfit to continue.
 
The crowd became a blur; there weren't many left and most of them were random people in the town I didn't know that well at all; some outsider kids looking for a different after-midnight place to hang out at besides the Route 70 IHOP, older citizens who want to recall the good old days, a couple of writers and photographers from out of town newspapers looking for an odd story to fill a couple pages in their accent sections. It was a real cross-section of oddities sitting in the crowd, with very few recognizable people I knew mixed in. No Lane though (she went to bed after selling her last non-egg sandwich at 11:30), and thankfully no sign of Dean, or his buddies. This time he was the one trying to avoid me after Jess' threats and the finality of my speech breaking off the relationship. I'm thankful for that because with Paris scared for me around him, I didn't want to have to face him so soon, and especially when I'm trying to sort out my loving feelings for the girl in my arms.
 
I started thinking about Paris' physical condition, and in the rush of wanting her to be my dance partner, happened to forget one important detail; what would she do after the dance?
 
Being 5:30am, I couldn't fathom sending her back home in her car. She looked ready to fall asleep any minute from her screwed-up biological clock, shoulders slumped, her small body weighing a lot in my arms and that burden directed down towards me. Though she kept a tough façade, it was obvious sleep was fighting her for attention.
 
"Par, are you staying here in town after the competition?" I asked, my voice tired.
 
Her answer, ten minutes removed from the bicker-down with Kirk and Carrie, was slurred and made her sound more Rocky after ten rounds than intelligent private schoolgirl.
 
"No, I figure we'll celebrate, and then I'll hop in my car and go home."
 
"You sure you're fit to drive?"
 
"Of course, I'll live. The roads are empty enough anyways."
 
That wasn't a good enough excuse for me to back off. She was clearly tired, and I couldn't live if I ended up taking a panicked call from Louise asking why the hell she was watching footage of a maroon Jaguar crushed as if it was an accordion into the back of an SUV on channel 8's Sunday morning news, the blue 'HVD BND' letters of her license plate in the shot's foreground. That, and her Boston trip excuse might not hold water if her mother happened to come home from San Diego earlier than expected and found her daughter in a vintage ball gown.
 
Most importantly, the sense of dread that came with Paris coming into Stars Hollow has long disappeared, the crush I have for her moving into the stage where you can't stand the weekends and weeknights you spend away from the object of your affection. This dance has been a close bonding experience, and I would be thankful if she'd be able to spend a few more hours with me...
 
Even if we were sharing a bed, asleep. The off-the-cuff sleepover we had in February, she found herself on the couch and woke up a grumpy Gus, not being used to sleeping on such a thin surface with only a throw pillow to rest her head on. A few weeks ago though, my small bed was just enough and led to a surprisingly peaceful sharing of the bed between Paris and I.
 
"I don't want you on the road back to Hartford, you can stay with me," I suggest aloud. "You've been up for at least 25 hours straight, most truck drivers would have their heads on a platter for keeping themselves up that long since they have to sleep every twelve hours. Par, you'd be insane to think you're OK enough to drive."
 
This led of course, to another problem altogether, which was surprising coming from the girl always prepared for any scenario of dread.
 
"I'd like to, but there's a problem. There was a small part of me that didn't think we'd get this far, and I didn't expect this invitation, so I didn't bring anything to sleep in."

If the pleasure center of my brain wasn't overcharged with all those hours dancing with Paris before, it was on red alert after she told me that. I expected her to at least have something in the back of her car to wear, thinking of almost any scenario that might happen. Hell, if there was a chemical explosion a few miles out of town, she might offer me a gas mask.

No, I didn't forget what she was wearing. Or to be fair, the lack thereof that wasn't on her person. No bra beneath, the only other thing besides the essentials of dress and undies she was wearing was her jacket before she came in.
 
Oh God! my conscience butted in. She'll have to sleep in the nude, and after all this touching and my hormones on overdrive. I took myself out of my thoughts for a bit, and the look on that mug of hers brought me right back in. Damn it, there she goes with her little serene smile that haunts those dreams I don't share with anyone, keep yourself together Gilmore!
 
I think she was realizing the ramifications of my offer as she got that look where you knew she was about to come up with a plan. My mind felt dizzy, wishing to connect with her ESP-style to figure out what she was coming up with.
 
"Rory, I couldn't do that to you, I'd be imposing," she told me in a caring way. "You need a day off after dedicating yourself to this dance for the last few days--"
 
Get her back! My mind was screaming, mixing in with a heated image of Paris and I on my bed as I helped her untie the back of her dress, then her doing the same with the zipper in my back. Mind you, trying to think of unzipping Dean's fly in a dream once freaked the everlasting daylights out of me, but the very idea of Paris and I, in a bed together after an event like this, I felt ready to ask Taylor to play a tango and for myself to submit to her, willing to do anything.
 
Once again, my mother is the moral center in my life, and the very thought of doing things too fast, in my own house where I couldn't even fathom even kissing a boy unless it was on the porch, made me reel back 180° from the thoughts enflamed.
 
"Actually it'll be fine, I'm sure my mom won't mind if I borrowed you some pajamas, honest. I just care that you get home safe and sound, and driving home at this point wouldn't be an Einstein-class decision by any means. We're both tired and ready to plop, so we'll agree to disagree and you'll just stay over."
 
"But my--"
 
"Your car will be fine Par." I knew what she'd be asking and went through the statistics all over again. "It's Sunday and they do plan this in advance so that parking is for two days, not just until six this morning. If they did that, there would be so many crashes pulling back onto Roscoe Street from the field caused by sleep deprivation."
 
"So whenever I get up to go home and walk back here," she asked, trying to wrap herself around this concept. "My Jag is still going to be near second base, untouched, clean as a whistle and ready to be driven home?"
 
Paris, oh Paris, I thought to myself. I just want to slap you silly sometimes. This isn't Hartford, where everyone ignores the wailing of your car alarm because in the end, it probably went off just 'cause some guy brushed the bumper on the way into work. There's only two ways in to the heart of town; north and south, and you can depend on a few souls to see that a short blonde girl isn't speeding back north towards the capital city, no one here could steal your car if they tried.
 
Still, I didn't want to start a silly argument over the fate of her automobile. A compromise was needed instead.
 
"Tell you what; I'll ask Miss Patty if she'll bring by the car to my house, she lives only a couple blocks away and doesn't mind walking."
 
"I don't know." Paris seemed a little iffy about the prospect of her wheels in the hands of someone she didn't know.
 
"Par, she's fine, trust me. She was my field trip bus driver from first to fourth grades, and we went in some pretty bad weather to the pumpkin farm, New York, Providence, wherever we had to go. She's still sharp on the road and I assure you that your car won't have one single scratch on it after pulls onto the front drive."
 
She still seemed a little unsure about this whole thing I came up with on the spur of the moment to keep her home. We were still dancing vigorously, the music sort of loud, her mind probably wrapped around the ramifications of accepting an invitation to my house, wearing clothes that weren't hers and probably sharing a bed with me.
 
It was time to get a little devilish, not to mention adventurous. My right hand was perched just above that unsaid line near the plunge of her dress, a few inches where I felt that telltale bump that no one had ever breached I'm sure.

"I'm sure I can trust Ms. LaCosta," she went on, "but my mother is going to expect me home, I have to figure out how to tell her that Boston was fine and I found a good sorority--"
 
I slid a couple fingers down the small of her back, letting the nails graze against the smooth skin contained. I gauged with the heel of my hand where the rayon material ended and rounded those fingers around her back. Already, her thought processes were falling apart from that simple action.
 
"...Because, well, you know Rory, it's important to..." She beated for a moment, trying to find her words again. "You know how important the Puffs were, so finding the right house in Cambridge is important."
 
As she rattled on with her talk about housing, I looked up at her and innocently smirked, just as I found the exact tip of the end of her dress plunge. My fingertip probed around it, teasing between sliding beneath the dress or not.
 
"Oh yes, I know how important housing is, those dorms are really, really small." Another topic to my advantage. "If we shared a dorm room there, we'd almost have beds separated by only mere feet, maybe even on top of each other, a bunk arrangement. Thus, it's your best interest, as a fifth generation Harvard attendee, to procure the best housing situation you can find. The right sorority will guide you through the rest of your life, get you into that cushy metro editor's slot at the Times, won't it?"
 
I could see her throat swallow in my gaze, I was thankful to Taylor for letting up on the music a little bit. "Uh, yes," she spat out as my fingernail slid against the lining of the plunge. "You hit the nail right on the head, sorority connections...very important."
 
"See, you already know enough about it to spin a false yarn that you were in Boston by memory," I said, my voice getting more slow and seductive. "Would you rather spend this day getting home after that long drive, your feet sore, eyes red and worn, warring over what to tell your mother?"
 
I slid in the other three forefingers into the plunge, and felt the soft skin hidden beneath that dress in my grasp. Paris coughed out, probably in shock as I kept the sway and the charade going, that my hand was falling into the back of her halter from the effects of sleep.
 
"Or Par, would you rather walk the few blocks back to my home, where I'll provide you with pajamas, a nice warm place to sleep without the threat of your mother going on some insane tirade about how much that guy she met at Mohegan Sun pleases her, and best of all, some nice company to go with it?" I licked around my lips with my tongue, turning on the charm to eleven.
 
My fingers drifted a little lower, her heartbeat speeding up in my grasp. She never knew how to really love before, and it's my goal to show her how it's done. A couple inches here and there as I went forward with my explanation about why she should stay, along with a promise that she could even look over my class notes while she was over, which I protected like the Coca-Cola recipe, for a couple classes she wanted to get a leg up on. She never usually asked for them, and we had an unspoken accord that my notes were for my eyes only, and in turn, I wouldn't look at hers.
 
"Come on Paris, please?" Flattery hadn't made her move, maybe begging would.
 
Just to make sure though, I found the hand in the back of her dress just brushing up against the waistband of her panties. I didn't intend to go further, just enough to tease her, clue her in.
 
"Oh, fine," she gasped out, oxygen seeming to having problems flowing into her mouth. "I'll stay here, if only so you don't have to worry about me driving." Mission accomplished, I slipped my hand out, but still feeling a little on top of the world, kept it right there above the fabric of her dress.
 
"Thank you," I said simply. "Now don't we have a dance marathon to win here? Kirk's looking a little off-center, isn't he?"
 
We both looked towards him, still going with his wild dance moves with Carrie, in stark contrast to my closer style with Paris. If only he realized how silly he looked with that professional dancer. I shook my head, while Paris laughed softly.
 
"I think we can take 'em. They can't go on forever, can they?" We resumed the contest, and for twenty minutes, it seemed like those two just might go forever. The music sped up once again and there was the distinct possibility that all four of us could go into overtime. Paris was still tired, but able to dance unwinded. Everything seemed to be smoothing out towards one of those dance-offs where the first to miss a part of a choreographed step would be a loser. We went on, pushing and pulling into each other, continuing to clock-watch nervously. It was a contrast in styles, and I couldn't tell you honestly who might win the whole shebang around 5:30am. Kirk and Carrie both looked exhausted, but not ready to give up the fight. I felt my heart tighten up with each new move, the web site-taught dancing long gone and both of us improvising on a moment's notice. The crowd started coming back into the gym after napping for a bit, if you could call it a crowd. It was less of a throng, more of a light scattering across the seats. Oh, what I do for the pride of the town, a large trophy that'll barely fit on our mantle, a cash prize of $100 for each partner, and a gift certificate sampler courtesy of the town's chamber of commerce. Thank God Paris didn't ask about the prize package, she'd be insulted by how little they give us for lasting so long.
 
Which at exactly 5:47am, we learned were now the proud owners of. We honestly thought Kirk would beat us, Paris and I wore at our breaking points, hair soaked, legs like jelly, minds worn from figuring out the appropriate dance for each song. It was one of those 'let's swing for the boys' songs, and Paris and I were at a weak point since she never got into that aspect of swing dance. Carrie and Kirk had practiced this dance each day for the last week, to this same song. We figured it was a walk in the park for them, and as we twirled around the floor to stay alive, we were prepared for overtime with Kirk and his pro dance partner.
 
Right at the end of the song, however, was where Kirk's dream of another title was quashed. He had to twirl his partner away from him in a 360°, then twirl her back towards him until his free hand rested against her back. This was something I had dreamed about doing with Paris, and did in a slightly easier 180° variation about five times through the course of the contest. Seemed really easy, didn't it?
 
He got the first part right, but the rest shall live in the infamy of our town's archives. Kirk, instead of staying in the place where he had been dancing for most of the night, decided to pull off the move in the most slippery and dead part of the hardwood floor.
 
'The Spot', as the Minutemen basketball and volleyball teams called it, was legendary in bringing down the best players of both sports down on their feet, at least twice in the 80's one player on the Minutewomen basketball team ended up sprawled and with a strained ankle. No one in this town can forget the regional championship of '77, where Jake Vaughn, who was on his way to a guaranteed spot with UConn, ended up slipping on that same spot, which was missed by the waxer the day before because The Spot is depressed at least ½" from the surface of the floor. He fell to the ground in a crumple, shattering his Achilles and ankle at the same time with a hollow thud, along with the town's state championship title hopes. Since then the custodians took card to manually wax The Spot, and every gym teacher lectures us to be careful around it in action.
 
The Spot ended up claiming a couple a victims this morning.
 
Kirk prepared to twirl Carrie back, and then without warning, like Tuesday noon when Paris got up from her seat too fast and slipped in that slick spot on the classroom floor, his shoes were in The Spot. Pulling Carrie back shocked his body, and within moments, he found himself trying to keep his balance. His shoes started to separate, and both Paris and I happened to witness the whole incident. His shoes slipped around a little bit, and he found his feet farther and farther as he tried to keep his steadiness.
 
Dealing with that, and a returning partner, proved to be his undoing. Carrie came back towards him at a good clip, her momentum unable to come to a dead spot. I can pinpoint the exact moment where the crowd went from cheering, to absolute dead silence as the svelte redhead's body hurtled towards Kirk. He slipped again, outstretched his arms, nothing worked. Paris and I kept dancing, unable to decide fate because the decision to go on was now fully in Kirk's hands. If he steadied himself, and finished the move, it would be a morale killer, the crowd would want Kirk and Carrie to win. If not, that was the end. The situation could go either way, and I hoped he could get his footing.
 
The left foot was up in the air, and his right was slipping now. Carrie was only inches away from him, starting to scream his name. Everyone's eyes were on him to keep that right foot planted on the ground, somehow...
 
I could hear the slip the moment that other foot left the ground. From there, gravity completed its ugly game, playing out the scene where Kirk fell to the ground, hard on his butt, as Carrie found her grip on the hand of her partner fade. Her body in motion, with no force there to stop it, the twirl continued unabated, from a 360°, into a 450°, until the momentum ran out, and with a hard tug, she found her contact with Kirk, gone. She fell to the hardwood outside The Spot ready to crumple to the hardwood, giving up and bracing her shoulder with her hand. Kirk and she were looking eye to eye, and if you saw the scene closely, you could see the reaction to the end wasn't positive.
 
They were separated, on the ground, and not dancing. The three rules of dance marathon had been broken, like a sports dynasty. Paris and I continued dancing, making sure if some outside force had interfered, that if we weren't dancing, would be disqualified. She was in just as much shock as I am, so the only thing we could do was take our minds off.
 
Ten seconds later however, Taylor got a ruling from a volunteer ref watching Kirk and Carrie in their square. The young man gave the thumbs down, and with Taylor shaking his head in sadness, prepared to announce the unthinkable result of the 43rd Annual Stars Hollow Dance Marathon.
 
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said gravely, as if he was reading the bulletin denoting the death of a president. "Couple number 67, Kirk Gleason and Carrie Mondrawski aren't making contact with each other, dancing on their feet, and have fallen to the ground. This means that they are out of the competition for failing to stay on their feet."
 
The words I never expected to hear at all in my lifetime were next to be spoken. "That means only couple 131, Rory Gilmore and Paris Gellar, are the only two who remain. They have continuously danced, except for mandated breaks, for the entire time. With a time of 23 hours, 48 minutes and 7 seconds, they are the winners of this year's Dance Marathon, congratulations girls."
 
I could've fainted right there on the floor. Somehow, I, Lorelai Leigh Gilmore, the girl that sports and proper physical fitness forgot, had won the town's most coveted competition, fair and square. That trophy, sitting on the judge's table currently, would soon become my property, for me to treasure.
 
Then I looked towards Paris, still dancing in a trance. No, it's not mine, I told myself. It's ours. Paris and I won this. Without her I was rowing a canoe with only one paddle. She deserves this as much as I do.

For the first time in a few days, dancing went right back into the dusty memory banks, and the mega-watt smile and attitude I have when I earn something was out there for the world to see. I didn't let go of Paris, just stopped, expecting her to also stop.
 
Maybe she went deaf all the sudden, because she was still swaying to the music being faded out. I think she has that syndrome she had when the moderator announced we won the debate against Hillside, since she was still in hyperfocus mode.
 
"Paris?" I asked her.
 
"You're not supposed to stop Gilmore, we have to win this." Yeah, hyperfocus mode. Oh dear.
 
"We won, you can stop now, this is the end. Kirk fell down, he's knocked out."
 
Still nothing from her, she was still trying to get back into the song.
 
I hated to do it, but there was only one way to let her know it was all over...
 
I pinched her side. No, wait, I didn't, it was more along the small of her back, though come to think about it where I pinched her was much lower than that...
 
OK, fine, I pinched her right on the ass! Not so far in it would be noticeable, but enough to say "Hello, out of la-la land here!" Yes, I took her case of space-head as another good opportunity to clue her into my desire for her, and yes if I had to do this all over again I'd probably take the same course of action.
 
"PARIS!!"
 
She had this funny, yet sort of pissed look, ready to chew me out.
 
"What the hell is wrong, why did you--"
 
So I put on my best happy face, and gave her a refresher course on what happened moments before.
 
"Uh, we won, it's not a dream. Those two really are down on the ground, and the contest is over."
 
She did a take, then another, making it a triple moments later. She went for four, looking at me, then the fallen competitors. It was as if that moment was a dream in her head; that fall didn't happen in her view at all, everything was still normal. After the fifth take, the realization dawned on her.
 
"So we're the winners?" she asked, puzzled. "That's it, no more dancing, Kirk's streak is dead, and we've broken it? You're sure about this?"
 
"Yup," I said proudly. "And it's all thanks to you Paris. Without you here, I may have been sitting in those bleachers over there for hours and hours."
 
She was in a state of shock and excitement, all at the same time. Her smile widened as she realized it was over, relieved and pleased with her performance. She still couldn't believe it; winning a heated competition with someone she regarded from our first meeting as the enemy.
 
"We won," she said, repeating it again. "We won, we're the champions." Her grip on my hands tightened, wrapping herself around the fact. "Oh my God, I've never had to work so hard before for a victory, and here we are, it's at the crest of dawn, well not even since astronomical sunrise isn't for another 43 minutes at 6:32, so it's still technically nighttime here, so why would I say it's almost dawn when it isn't, I mean come on, it's not dawn unless it's sunrise." She looked at me, then blushed. "I think I'm acting a little rambly, aren't I?"
 
"But your point was?"

She quirked one of her eyebrows up, making it look like I was asking her the stupidest question in the world. "The point is, we won Rory."
 
"Exactly."
 
"You know how I feel right now?"
 
"How?"
 
She pulled me towards the bleachers, and fainted right onto the wood seat, bringing me down with her. "I never want to do this again as long as I live. There has to be a better form of female bonding than killing my feet from the inside out by doing nothing but dancing for at least 23 hours."
 
"But you're happy we won, right?" I tried to clarify.
 
Paris nodded affirmatively, and smiled. "Of course, in the end it was worth it. This means we can retire from the dance marathon undefeated."
 
"Good, because I think already after all of this," I took off my shoes and let my toes stretch out for the first time in what seemed to be at least a week. "I won't be defending the title next year. I got what I wanted out of today, you had a fun time, and we'll be getting a nice shiny trophy to symbolize that fact."
 
"How about a bar of Johnson's foot soap instead? That seems a much more appropriate symbol." she moaned, anguished in pain. Her feet had taken much of the abuse between the both of us, I wouldn't be surprised if she would swear at her saddle shoes before she left for school on Monday.
 
"It's part of the gift basket," I told her. Just then, our competitors interrupted our conversation. Kirk was still wincing from losing the contest, while Carrie seemed to try to avoid any eye contact with anyone in the gym. Not that anyone outside of here knew what she did down in New York.
 
"Paris, Rory." He acknowledged both of us, not sounding very sour. We looked up at Kirk, and prepared for a tantrum. None ever came.
 
"I'd like to thank you two for being very worthy competitors, you both beat me fair and square. Though I won't be having a new trophy from 2002 to join the other eight residing in my case, also known as a corner of my bedroom, this was the finest effort by far someone put up against me. Everyone else tried the professional route through the years, but despite that, my partner and I for the year still won before 5am. I didn't know Paris beyond her role as your tormentor and that interviewer when I added the Curtain to the video store, along with that glance at you in competition in your younger years, and have to admit to you ma'am that your element of surprise kept things interesting this year. When I fell minutes ago, I was disappointed we wouldn't be dancing overtime, all four of us, but somehow, you two managed to win a hard-fought battle. I congratulate you," he pointed at both of us, "Rory Gilmore, Paris Gellar." He then bowed, which gave Paris this 'what the hell did I get myself into here' look on her face, as I laughed and thanked him back.
 
"Carrie, anything to say to the champions?" He ceded the floor to her, thinking she'd thank us too. Apparently, she came from the dance school where a defeat ended your career.
 
"Yeah; bite me. You said this was a guaranteed victory Gleason, instead my ass is creamed by two high-schoolers with novice experience, what the hell..." Kirk turned away, wanting to flee his partner. "Where do you think you're going mister, you have a lot of explaining to do, what's my daddy going to think when he hears that I lost in some barn dance in the middle of nowhere--"

Kirk covered his ears, ignoring Carrie as we both recuperated and talked about how we felt after such a wonderful and cathartic victory. The Gilmore dance monkey was off my back, Paris was even closer to me than before and most of all, I had made much progress trying to build a relationship with her.
 
There was only one thing to do before we went back to my house and recuperated from this day filled with twists and turns...
 
The last dance. I just hope everything goes off without a hitch...
 
Paris' POV, 5:58am
 
I'm still in shock over this. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that on my first try, with a little rust on my shoulders from being inactive in dance for a little less than seven years, that in an endurance competition with a girl I used to regard with scorn, but now who I only want to love, we survived and won the whole shebang. Usually the afterglow from a victory wears off from me after a few hours, since I usually knew coming in I'd win no matter what.
 
This win's gonna stay with me for quite a bit longer though. I had to work my ass off to get this far, and there were a few times through the day I was absolutely convinced that was it, and I'd give up. That drama around 7:30 with the mention of Tristan almost killed Rory's hopes for victory, and had I turned away at that time, I might have been in my bed, trying to create a distracting dream from the harsh reality of leaving her behind at the moment she really needed me.
 
Thank God for Ms. Lacosta though. Without her encouragement and empowering responses to my fears, there's no doubt that I would have pushed my feelings permanently away from my heart and went back to hardly regarding Rory, partly in shame because I didn't try to go for the goal, and the other part as a sheltering mechanism. I didn't want her to know how much Tristan got to me.
 
Twenty minutes later, after being told to get out there and let her know he was nothing but a memory, Rory and I got so close to closing that gulf between us and having our first kiss. She looked like she'd give in to me, and I was prepared to submit to her. Things got in the way, but after that, things were a lot less draining on me. We talked about everything under the moon, gave each other those boosts we so desperately needed in those late hours, and she got her revenge on me, her fingers finding their way beneath the plunge of my dress, just as I did with the hemline of her skirt in the car Tuesday afternoon.
 
Let me tell you, her touch alone on my bare skin almost made me overheat, then faint. Rory may seem to be this mousy innocent girl who you think is the perfect angel that never gets adventurous. You would be dead wrong about that stereotype, Louise's whack-a-mole flirting style is tame compared to Rory's subtle touching, mooning looks with those enchanting eyes, and the nervous mannerisms she uses to distract me from the fact her index finger is running against the exact top of the waistband of my panties. She kept sliding her hands up and down my body all night, there is now not an inch on my back that has not gone untouched by the fair Lorelai Leigh.
 
We went into this dance as competitors, hoping to have a little fun and getting to know each other more through the intimate closeness we'd share. But tonight...pardon me, this morning (What do you call the time between 5 and 7am anyways, really? You can't call it twilight because that's reserved for dusk. Whatever...), we're leaving Minutemen Gymnasium champions.
 
I still can't believe it. We're both girls who abhor physical activity, and who don't take well to the spotlight at all. We were both inexperienced, and in all honesty I was better at solo dance than I ever was with a partner. I also had this nagging sense that I was there to fill a role, be where Dean or Lorelai might have been if Ms. Gilmore wasn't currently in Music City, or Dean if he hadn't overreacted about how Jess helped Rory squelch the sprinklers.
 
Then she reassured me about that by instead of saying I, that we won the competition, together as a team. We both contributed 50% to our efforts, and that exact mix of fiery want to win, respect and admiration for the traditions of the past, and not going Namath going in, being overcocky and saying we were guaranteed to win, that helped us towards victory. I wasn't in this for the prizes, the glory or trying to use this as an excuse for an ego-trip. I'm just trying to be the best friend I can be to Rory, wanting to be there for her, trying to earn her respect and admiration.
 
In time though, I hope this has taken another big step towards earning her love. She's still playing coy and elusive, hinting at feelings here and there, but not saying outright that she wants me. Come on though, it's obvious; we're getting closer and closer to each other, on a collision course towards something that's scary to me, something I've never known in my life. I'm scared shitless that I could be wrong.
 
But my gut is telling me to enjoy the ride and that the best is yet to come.
 
Rory and I get up in the awards staging area at the far end of the gym, with a small crowd gathering around us, including a few competitors who got up from their cots in the hallway to watch the awards ceremony. We sat in a couple of wooden chairs set up at the end of the stage, waiting for our shot in the spotlight as Taylor hands out the more minor ribbons and awards that go with the final minutes. Best sportsmanship does go to Kirk, who though talks some good trash in the heat of competition, admitted at the end that even though he fell, we fought a good fight with him. He wasn't taking the trophy home with him this year, but unlike some certain professional athletes, he admitted he was human in the dance world.
 
It felt good to sit for an extended period for the first time in hours, and I felt relaxed as Rory and I watched the awards being handed out. Wildest move, funniest elimination, goofiest costume, all of them were out there to be won, a great way to end the night.
 
I did start to nod off a little bit towards the middle of the ceremony, thinking about the day ahead for me. Which meant a lot of sleep, but not in my own bed. Rory kept insisting I walk over to her house and sleep there, because I thought I'd just leave after we stopped dancing. I could drive home to Hartford, I kept insisting, but she got all maternal on me, and maybe a little...domineering. That's when she started sliding that pesky hand of hers under my dress.
 
Which then froze my mind into her being dominating in other areas. Bedroom areas to be exact. I lost all my thoughts and despite my pointing out all the arguments I could against staying with her, she eventually made me relent and I'll stay with her after we leave. I mean I shared a bed with her only three weeks ago, what can happen? It's just two girls sharing a bed together, innocent as can be.
 
Except that one of them has a fierce crush on the other. What happens if my sleep talking just happens to flare up again? I tape recorded myself in slumber a couple weeks ago just for kicks, then had to blush and bring out the cassette eraser because my talking was...off-color to put it kindly. Amazing how profane I can get when sleep overtakes me, not to mention sexually charged.
 
But that's something for another time. Rory tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention.
 
"Par? That's us." She smiled at me, and I looked up towards the end of the trophy table, where the 4½' marvel that is the trophy stands proud, the base with a gold plate, awaiting the carving of our respective names into it.
 
"I still can't believe it," I said to her, as if the whole thing hadn't hit us yet. "We won." We got up together and walked to the other side of the stage, both barefoot because no sane winner would keep their dancing shoes on even through the ceremony.
 
Then, as we came to the X where we had to stand, she took my hand and wrapped it in mine. We both shared a silent look, her gaze unreadable to me, yet could I see a little bit of longing in her eyes? I don't know, but it is almost 6am, so she could be laughing at my tiredness for all I know.
 
We sat off to the side as Taylor, from what I heard, gave the same speech as he did every year. You know, the kind of civic can-do speech that can easily be cut-and-pasted together. Just replace 'wonderfully talented dancer from New York, along with the can-do man who will do it all' with 'a disciplined hard working girl from the richest part of Hartford, along with the girl we all know, love, and pray will make us in Stars Hollow proud one day', and you basically have what Taylor said to the crowd. There was a scattering of clapping in the crowd, who were just waiting for us to say our own piece since it had to be a little different. There really wasn't that much to say with both of us, honestly. Because I didn't know most of these people I just thanked the organizers, Taylor and Ms. LaCosta for putting on a good event, and then smiled at Rory as I told her she was wonderful as my partner.
 
I think my short minute-long words killed the crowd, because they started surprisingly thinning out before Rory got to the stage. There weren't many left at all as Rory almost repeated verbatim my same speech, except a thanks to her mother who was still in Nashville and wasn't there to congratulate her quite yet. By the time she finished, only about 30 people were left in the gym, and in the background I could hear engines being started and tire squeals from the temporary parking lot out back. Taylor then introduced us both as the champions, and handed us the trophy.
 
Rory took the left side, I took the right. Here I was expecting a simple little cup, but this thing was huge. I guess it has 2 inches for every hour of the dance, because it was as tall as where my stomach was. We didn't dare lift it higher, afraid we'd break it, but I loved all the embellishments on it. There was a gold-flecked figure of a couple dancing on the top in the place resided usually by that little guy holding the ball or implement used for the particular sport the award was being given for. It was nice, but too much for such an event.
 
"Rory? Please don't take this the wrong way, but you can have this thing," I told her, grunting as we set it back down onto the table. "Even my mansion doesn't have a display case for something this big!"
 
Rory laughed, and then called over Ms. LaCosta, telling me to take a second and stay standing. They walked over to the other side of the room, and Rory whispered something into the older woman's ear. I also saw a CD jewel case in Ms. LaCosta's hand, but couldn't make out the titling or picture on the cover. They whispered to each other for a few moments, and I was unable to decode their conversation. What were they about to do?
 
Was she about to tell Rory my secret? Maybe give her a heads-up? I started getting nervous about what they were telling each other, and had a large fear that I was about to be outed.
 
After talking things out, Rory came back towards me.
 
"Hey Par?" she asked me, bringing my heartbeat into a hard thump. Oh God, she did tell Rory I liked her, what am I going to do?
 
There was only one thing I could do, and that was face the music. Timidly, I said "Yeah?" to her question, and prepared for a life without her...
 
"I hate to ask this after such a long day, but it's tradition for the winners to dance to a song of their choosing at the end. Would you care to dance with me?"
 
I sighed in the biggest relief of my life; Rory didn't know, she was just talking to Patty about the song she wanted to play during the last dance. She smiled, and I gave her my hand.
 
"As long as it isn't anything out of the grunge rock or rock-rap genres, yes, I'd be honored to." We walked out to center court beneath the painted minute man logo, as I took in the room around me.
 
The crowd was thinning, only 23 diehards still on the floor, as the banks of gym lights across the ceiling were turned off, leaving only the side lights along the sidelines aimed towards the circle in the middle. We stepped into the spotlight, hand and hand, and my curiosity was piqued as to which song she chose for us to dance to. Before everything was in either the hands of Taylor and Patty, we were at the whims of whatever they wanted to play. I looked up towards Rory, who looked even more beautiful than when I walked in the gym 24 hours before. Her makeup had long faded, her hair was out of its artificial curl and once again fell down her shoulders. She had taken the rose out after the end, as did I, but that did nothing to ruin her beauty.
 
Her lips, they were pink, ready to be kissed. But that was for another time. I was going to savor this moment for the rest of my life. Patty took the microphone and introduced our last dance.
 
"Usually, the winners in the past have done a few laps around the gym after the trophy presentation, and then did a last dance in the center of the floor. However, we all know how humble and quiet, even in victory, Rory is. So instead of the usual lapping the field to a song found on an arena rock album, she told me she wanted this song played, had she won. She says it's very special to her, and that it's a song that brings up the most beautiful memories, thoughts, and dreams she's ever had in her life. Congratulations again girls, and cherish this moment in the spotlight before the end of this year's annual dance marathon. Andrew, if you'll press play for me dear..."
 
I looked at Rory in my gaze, coming closer towards me. The way she looked to me was determined, as she brought a hand up to my face. She brushed a few stray hairs that were blocking my line of vision out of the way, running her fingers down my cheeks as if to communicate we shouldn't pay attention to anything else. There were no words needed, nor any need to communicate what I was thinking right then.
 
Andrew hit the CD player's play button, and the notes blared out of the speakers immediately told me what I was about to dance to. The song where everything started, where I had those first thoughts to the contrary, telling me that Rory was meant to be less of an enemy, more than a friend. The familiar and soothing recorded voice of Susannah Hoffs started giving me the moment I've always visualized in only dreams, but was now a sudden reality. Rory smiled and moved close to me, enveloping me with her arms, as I did the same. I fell into the moment as the lyrics started...
 
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling, do you feel my heart beating; Do you understand?
Do you feel the same, or am I only dreaming? Is this burning, an eternal flame?
 
I felt stinging goosebumps along my arms as the verse was sung, all my defenses against her fall as her hands rubbed the middle of my back. She may have had the same dream I did, because the moment in my mind was an exact xerox of this moment. Everything around us was fading away, my awareness for her on a high level. All this wooing, subtle flirting, the fleeting touches shared since the beginning of the school year, they were starting to come together in this moment that was making me melt in her arms.
 
I believe it's meant to be darling, I watch you when you're sleeping, you belong with me
Do you feel the same, or am I only dreaming? But is this burning, an eternal flame?
 
My eyes were heavy with sleep, as were hers, yet my senses were hyper, coursing through my veins at a rapid rate. She was so close to me, mere inches separating us, and I could take in the essence that was Rory Gilmore. She smells of vanilla, her skin soft and smooth like velvet. I closed my eyes, wallowing in these feelings. Her nails scraped against my back softly, and she mouthed the words of the song out, trying to keep herself in rhythm with the music. Opening my eyes back up, I recall that night in the theater in New York, where she caught me bobbing my head along to this same band. I wasn't even aware that I was, until she turned towards me and gave me this knowing smirk. That was the first time I dropped my boundaries around her, and though I firmed up seconds later, I felt a charge of excitement that she noticed that.
 
Say my name, sun shines through the rain, of all life so lonely
Then come and ease the pain, I don't want to lose this feeling...
 
God, it's so funny how life works out in mysterious ways. I swear to you if someone had come up to me a week ago, told me that Dean would be a part of Rory's dating past two days later, and that I would not only be thrown into the role of replacement for him, but win it all, I would have thought that was as crazy a prediction as President Bush resigning after having a torrid gay affair with his staffer; impossible and never to happen. Yet here I am, in Rory's arms, falling for her even deeper and more insatiable for her with each time she says my name. She makes me proud to have it, something Mother has never done in my seventeen years. Without her, I'd be the 'bitter little hag' she described me in during the heat of our argument in that conference room.
 
Whatever Rory's feelings for me, I feel like I'm the right place in her arms, on this floor, after a day of the most earned victory both of us have ever attained. Anyone can talk really fast and bend arguments back to squash a competitor's point to win a debate, or get that right mix of facts and entertainment packed into 24 pages of broadsheet print to be distributed to 1,250 fellow peers every week. But it takes so much more than that to win at a dance marathon like this. You need that right mix of physical prowness, mental planning, and most importantly, perfect chemistry with your partner. The first two might be perfect, but if you two fight like the Lockhorns, forget about it, you fucked yourself over. You need that right mix of 'I can't stand you sometimes, but yet, I can't stand to be away from you' in order to succeed.
 
If this entire day has foreshadowing, I can predict with utmost clarity, that Rory and I will be very close for years and years to come. And God willing, we'll be closer than friends. The cues are there, I just have to finish solving that Ovaltine decoder ring rebus that is Rory Gilmore, and whether she has her own eternal flame for my love...
 
Rory's POV, 5:59am
 
For the last five days, ever since that idea in my head that asked me to consider using this dance marathon as an opportunity to woo Paris further, I've felt like I've been on a roller coaster. There were times I wanted to change my mind, call her and say not to come on Saturday, and each time those I killed that thought by remembering how far we've come. In 10th grade if I'd asked her, she would have turned her back on me without an answer then walked away. Then there was the Tristan thing midway through, which only served to confuse me further into thinking that she still had a torch for him.
 
She didn't, and I was wrong. But I'd rather that she got all that anguish out rather than keep it bottled in. I know she has so much on her plate to deal with, and I hope that as I try to get closer to her, she tells me more.
 
I can tell with her in my arms now though, that the fears I thought she had before of us are fast disappearing. I saw her in the corner of my eye, with a glance of fear across her face as I took Miss Patty aside and made sure she knew my plans for the last dance. There was a fear in them that I want to read into more closely so I can find out what she was thinking. She kind of paused before I asked her to dance, probably thinking something other than what was in my mind.
 
That's not what's on my mind, however. We're both in center court, at the same time, together, swaying closely to a beautiful song that didn't have a particular memory to go with it until that night in New York when she stayed still as a statue, entranced with the meanings hidden in the notes.
 
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling, do you feel my heart beating; Do you understand?
Do you feel the same, or am I only dreaming? Is this burning, an eternal flame?
 
I love the swell of the music, the harmony, the feel of Paris against me as her nose nuzzles against my left ear, while I mouth the words silently. I never knew how right, how close this moment could be in my dream. It's so intimate, like I can feel the berber of my bedroom carpet below my feet, the door closed, Eternal Flame playing softly on my CD clock radio. Almost everything about this day I could imagine happening managed to come true, but it's far from over. We still have the ride home thanks to Miss Patty, because I sure wasn't about to carry that trophy seven blocks home while both of tried to keep each other propped up so we didn't fall asleep in the middle of Walnut Street.
 
Say my name, sun shines through the rain, of all life so lonely
Then come and ease the pain, I don't want to lose this feeling...
 
The song continues the two of us languishing in the spell. She's about as close as she can get to me without it being construed as sexual and Paris feels very warm. I run my fingertip along her pulse point; it's beating at a very rapid rate. I hear her softly moan, she's totally fallen for this song. The chorus starts, then she whispers softly in my ear.
 
"Ror?" The name is said with nothing but passion, and I feel goosebumps as her one-syllable nickname for me tickles me in just the right spot.
 
"Yes Par?"
 
"This was by far, the best day of my entire life. Thank you for inviting me to participate, along with the wonderful song choice."
 
"It's your favorite, isn't it?" I questioned her, rubbing along her spine.
 
"The best." I nod, and get back into the very slow, yet sensual last dance.
 
My flame for Paris, it was confirmed tonight, burns stronger than before, you can see the sparks a mile away. Today is the day, it just has to be. I'm going to make this sleepover the best nap Paris Gellar has ever had. No barriers are stopping us now, there's no one to interfere, and plenty of time to act.
 
The hard part, getting along with each other for an extended period of time, awake, is over. There's no need to make a list, gather facts, comparison shop or figure out anything. I like Paris with all I have. I just hope she feels the same, because this is no dream. She's my flame, and I'm not going to let anyone snuff her out anytime soon...

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To be continued...

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Eight | And Then Rory Kissed Me...
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, Paris POV
Inspired by: All my own ideas here. This is the morning, afternoon and evening after They Shoot Gilmores Don't They?, without the Jess/Rory plot rolling into motion.
Rating: R (swearing, sexual thoughts and actions, along with some innuendo)
Disclaimer: Yeah, that rumor that I own Rory and Paris instead of Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions, Hofflund-Polone, and Warner Bros. Television? Not true, though I wish it was so I could mangle the Rory/Dean situation into a horrible, horrible dream sequence that we've been roped into believing happened all summer, but instead in the first minutes of the premiere, we cut a scene where Rory wakes up with Paris in her arms, both of them in the master bedroom of an airy and romantic Italian highland villa, content, relaxed, happy and with no stress at all. References to products in this chapter belong to their respective copyright owners, and Hyacinth Bucket is a character from Keeping Up Appearances, a BBC production (you'll get why I disclaimed that later).
Summary: The day after the dance marathon, and things are revealed to Paris throughout the day, leading to the one thing she's anticipated most but never believed would happen, and more.
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, Realm of the Shadow, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Author's Notes: I'm still inspired to write this, and still have fun putting out a new chapter after all of these months of writing. I'm thankful to all those who write in with feedback and encourage me to keep going, and after the cliffhanger of a finale wasn’t sadly resolved with the hoped-for dream sequence I mentioned above, I can be content to be in my own little happy subtext world without Dean roping Rory into something almost no one wanted to happen.
 
Thanks to Raven and Cinn for again looking this over and keeping me sane, and Vix for some feedback on a couple scenes I was iffy about. For everyone reading and reviewing, I appreciate your words and encouragement.
 
As for you ff.net'ers, if you couldn't tell from the way this story has been heading, this is warning #9 that you might want to look at something else besides this if you want your Rory feeling her heart pitter-patter and heart swoon looking at a boy instead of Paris, or Paris giving a couple of eye bats with those warm browns towards a nice-looking and rebellious boy instead. Might I suggest either Whatever Tomorrow Brings and Then Came You by Jamie (username Mrs. Witter), or Thoughts by my awesome beta Cinn (username cinnamon-5575, with input from Jewls)? Trust me, these girls know how to write, and I'm honored to have been inspired further by them and the situations they put our brunette and blonde heroines in.
 
Finally, this is a plea any feedback, positive or negative. I want to know what you think of this and if I'm doing everything right. I love reading what you think, and although I really haven't had a need for review upon review, I just want to know how I'm doing, like those 1-800 numbers on the back of trucks asking if you're driving well or not. I'll appreciate any advice and words you can give me.

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I was tired out as Rory and I got out of the backseat of my car around 6:15, falling asleep for a bit during the ride Ms. LaCosta provided for us between the high school and the Gilmore residence. As Rory had said, Ms. LaCosta had no problem with taking us back home, and though I was still a little iffy, I handed her over the keys and we were there in no time. I found myself when Ms. LaCosta said we were there with my head against the window along with a little unexpected drool on my lower lip. I got my wits about me, and found Rory in a conversation with the woman about the marathon and how excited Lorelai was going to be coming home to the trophy she coveted for years and years sitting in her house and proudly won by her daughter and a 'good friend'.
 
I smiled a little at that mention of myself; it was very rare to use my name and those two words in the same sentence.
 
Ms. LaCosta pulled into the driveway and I had to apprise her of where the trunk pull was so Rory and I could take the trophy out of it. I had to shift around my emergency kits, school supplies and spare tire around to barely fit it in, but I ended up with just enough space.
 
"You two have a nice nap," the older woman told us as she handed back my keys. "You definitely deserve it after that effort."
 
"Thank you Miss Patty," Rory told her, and I said the same thing after telling her I was grateful for the ride. She left and walked towards her home a few blocks away.
 
I was barefoot again and threw my dancing shoes in the trunk, because I thankfully had the foresight to keep clean socks and a pair of old Sauconys in my trunk in that rare instance I ended up taking a hike for gas in an elegant evening gown.

I slipped those on before, and perched my emergency grooming kit beneath one of my arms before Rory and I grabbed the trophy, shut the trunk, and hauled it into the house, which even with no one home, had doors that remained unlocked.
 
We were both tired, schlepping up the front steps, swinging open the front door and hauling our poor bruised bodies into the Gilmore residence. There weren't many lights on and the first thing I felt when I stepped foot in the living room was wanting to find out how comfy that couch was. This even though that brown unmatchable piece of furniture gave me the worst sleep of my life the night I slept over on a whim ten months ago.
 
Sensing that I needed to take the weight off my feet, Rory told me to let go of the trophy and that she would find a place to put it so she could surprise Lorelai with it once she came back home from Nashville around 7:30 this evening. I smiled and was thankful as she tried to make me feel at home.
 
"You can uh, sit on the couch over there for now, I'm going to put this upstairs in Mom's bedroom, then get you something to sleep in. Is there anything you'd prefer to wear Par?"
 
I guess nothing but a scrap of red satin would be an unacceptable answer, I thought to myself. I do dress for bed if there's company, or if there's a shared arrangement, such as Rory and I in Washington. Usually however, I don't wear clothes to bed. I wear nightgowns before then, but only because my mother would think it unladylike to come out of the bedroom to lounge downstairs in a t-shirt and sweats. Once I say 'good evening' to her, walk into my room and lock the door for the night however, I shed the gown and sleep almost in the nude but for my panties because I like to sleep in a cold room, and my sheets and blankets are luxurious enough against my skin without another layer between them on my body.
 
Not to mention it makes things so much easier if I have an impure and erotic dream of Rory and end up waking in a pool of my own perspiration, not to mention dampened underwear. I'd just slip them off, retrieve another pair from my dresser (or not) and fall back asleep, content and smirking like I just had a long taste of the finest chocolate Switzerland ever produced.
 
I couldn't do that with Rory in the same room, however. Modesty prevailed, so I asked her for an t-shirt and some shorts to sleep in.
 
"I think my mom has something like that. I do need you to make a promise to me that you won't be pulling another Skippy with these clothes."
 
What's a Skippy, and what on earth is she talking about?
 
A quick mental recall from Rory remedied the confusion, though it was kind of a reality check of what we used to be. "Date with Tristan, skirt you borrowed from my mother, you later told me that it was your dog's bed after we got into another rough spot?"
 
Ahhh, of course. I nodded my head for a bit and cleared things up. "That was just a joke, honest, there was no Skippy. I couldn't have a dog if I wanted to, I have vicious allergies around them. I still actually have the skirt in my closet, but I never got around to returning it and after awhile it became a part of some of my social ensembles." I scratched at the armrest of the couch nervously, my nail digging around the embroidered pattern. "I can give it back if you like, sorry if Lorelai was mad about that."
 
"It's OK," she told me, seeming relieved. "She found another cute little black skirt a few days after on a trip to Short Hills, and truth be told it wasn't her most important article of clothing. Just as long as you took care of it well, I'm happy and my mom will too."
 
"Does that mean no promises need to be made?"
 
She smiled at me again as I did an unlady like thing and propped my socked feet on the surface of the coffee table. "I trust you with them just fine, as long as they're returned later." She headed upstairs, and left me alone for the first time in at least a few hours. I yawned to myself, took the remote from the coffee table and did a quick circuit of the cable system. 6:15 on a Sunday morning is hardly optimum viewing time, so I found myself looking at informercial upon informercial, along with Z-grade movies and on the broadcast channels, 'public service' shows produced in the TV station's broom closet with the budget equivalent of a pack of gum, and the talent to go with it. You'd think Hartford would be a bastion of intellectualism, but you couldn't tell that from the Newsmakers program, where they interviewed some environmental nutjob about an emissions plan that was sure to fail in committee in the first place, but no matter since it was a public policy show that would seal up their FCC license for another week.
 
I turned off the TV after that and decided to apprise and enlighten myself with what they had on their coffee table in regards to their magazine collection. Surprisingly it was pretty diverse. A couple Newsweeks and Nations here and there (Rory's), along with Hospitality Monthly, Foodservice Today, InStyle, Entertainment Weekly and several People-style magazines (Lorelai's). My fear that Lorelai's teenager in a 34 year-old's body meant I'd see a couple gossip rags and maybe a Tiger Beat in there was never realized thankfully. I flipped through the hotel magazine and just let myself get bored with the latest dish in reservation-taking systems and room service supplies, along with a very droll article about customer service during a large convention or gathering.
 
However, despite that I couldn't take my mind off Rory, and how she'd behave me through the day. Did she have something planned for me, or was this just a friendly gesture, her offering me a place to sleep without having to worry about becoming narcoleptic on the roads? I looked around the room, finding myself taking in the room I had only been in twice so far since I got to know her. Once in a panic over my low grade of an A-, and the other time cluttered up with clothes and trash bags at least halfway up the walls because of the town's rummage sale. It was so nice being in that room...not too big, nor was it too small. Just right.
 
Which then led me to thoughts of Rory's bed. I didn't know yet if she'd have me sleep on the couch again or go upstairs and sleep on her mom's bed, but I couldn't get that night a few weeks ago out of my head. How she stopped me from getting up and sneaking out the window and told me to slip out of my shoes and get comfy. Once she said that and calmed my fears about my mother finding out, I was under her spell, and I had to go through with sleeping with her.
 
I think about things from her point of view that night. Did she pretend to fall asleep, then when I did, look at me when I went into dreamland? Were there thoughts in her mind of getting closer to me? If I had turned down her invitation, what would have happened? My mind keeps puzzling all that, though it's barely troubled by her past at all. No guy has ever shared her bed, much less her heart fully and truly. The question of Rory being a single woman was opened, and I was trying to figure out how I'd be a part of that equation.
 
Before I could get too into it though, Rory came down the stairs and after getting my attention, tossed a light blue flannel shirt, along with some black shorts in my direction. "Catch!" she said towards me...
 
Just a little too late as the articles of clothing smacked me in the face. I had to laugh, and I put them in my hand as I got up from the couch and asked her where I could change.
 
"The bathroom is over there," she said, and pointed in the direction where it was, just off the other side of the kitchen. I thanked her and prepared to change, when karma again bit me in the ass with yet another opportunity.
 
"Wait," she said, softly. "Before you go, do you think you could unzip me?" As the sentence went on, her voice seemed to go from normal to sort of a soft flirt once again, the kind I heard whenever Rory met Dean in the front drive at Chilton. "I'm not double jointed and had to take about ten minutes to zip this up yesterday."
 
My inner vixen was almost giddy with excitement, and told me so by deciding to cloud all rational thought to my brain. My rational side tried to shout over it that this was something girls did for other girls all the time, however the thought of getting a nice long gander at Rory's naked back and the freckling spread throughout was causing me to feel a little lightheaded.
 
Thankfully I found a little advantage myself that would hopefully bring the brunette into the same unhinged state I was in at that time.
 
So with a smile, I said I'd do the same thing as long as she helped me untie my halter knot in back.
 
"Of course!" Rory seemed a little too eager to do that, but it was a yes, no matter what the tone of the answer. She turned around and brought her hair to her front so I had full access to the pull that kept her in that dress. My heart started quickening its beats as I brought my right hand towards the zipper. I could hear her breathing become sort of shallow as I brought myself closer towards her and rested my free hand on her shoulder. I started to part the teeth, my mind bringing the moment into sort of slow motion as the wide expanse of red fabric speckled with white parted in the path filled by that zipper, replaced with creamy pink skin, speckled with dark spots I had familiarized myself with days before in my bedroom.
 
I bit my lip, nerves building as I unzipped Rory slowly, finding oxygen to be a lacking resource at the time. With every centimeter of exposed skin, I became more entranced than I did the centimeter before that with Rory. The shoulders of the garment started to fall a little as slack built up below, giving me an unobstructed view of her soft and feminine shoulders. There was no bra strap hiding them at all, and my dream memory built up an even more elaborate view of her nude state that hadn't been built up by my fleeting and passing glances at her nude form in the Chilton showers.

My nails scraped against her spinal column as I retreated down her body, I could feel her react to that with what seemed to be a tight, yet stifled moan. And when I reached her bra line, discovering the fabric that almost matched her skin tone exactly, I just about lost it. I was starting to feel aroused doing this, like I wanted to stop there and despite not having her permission, stretching the two solitary hooks holding her breasts in towards each other and unsnap it. Though it was plain, the bra befits her simple personality rather well.
 
I looked down at the point I was at zipping her out to where it ended. Usually a guy would stop at the bra and not go further. But I saw that the teeth trailed all the way down to about three inches below her panty line. She wasn't pulling away, nor was she doing anything to suggest that I was being too forward. I unzipped, lingering my eyes over each inch of newly exposed virgin skin. I felt clenching down below and my face warm as I got ever closer to Rory's personal Maginot line.
 
When I felt the bump of her waistband, I prepared to stop, ready to hear Rory thank me and tell me that was enough. So I stopped for about two seconds expecting that. Instead, I received an eerie silence and a sort of huff from her to tell me that I was not done.

I felt a sense of relief come over me then, and a trust build between Rory and I. My mouth was drying, my heart pumping double the blood, and there was nothing stopping me. I closed the distance between the zipper and the end, my fingers resting against her ass with more cream cotton exposed. I lingered the touch a little, trying to make it feel like an accidental brush with the heel of my palm.
 
As I finished, I brushed my finger up her column one more time seductively as I brought myself up from a sort of crouching position, that expanse of naked skin getting to me in the worst way possible. That simple act made me want Rory even more. Memorizing her back was no longer enough; I just wanted to take the shoulders and sleeves of that dress and bring them down her arms until the entire item was sliding off down her thighs in a quick blink of the eye, until it landed in an elegant red pool around her ankles.
 
I felt myself flush as my fingers departed from her skin, unbelieving that I was looking at her in this way, as more than a classmate. She turned around and smiled, leaving me thankful she was keeping the dress on but probably disappointing my hormones.
 
"Now let me undo you," Rory told me rather softly. "Turn around." I was thankful she didn't ask to do me first, with that damned halter and nothing beneath it I would've had to hold the bodice against my chest before I went into the bathroom to change. Unzipping Rory would have been a little harder had I done that.
 
I sat down on a hassock so she could work the tight knot it was in. Immediately, I felt my breathing shorten upon her fingertips running through my hair so she could get at the knot hidden beneath it all. I shut my eyes, and let myself get lost in the exhilaration as she found it and started working out those knots. Her fingers up against the top of my neck felt absolutely heavenly, and I was lost in that feeling, the sensual dance being renewed once again. I felt her breath against the back of my shoulder as she grunted with effort to undo the knot.
 
"I think you tied this a little too tight Par," she said through her teeth. Apparently the insurance knot Ms. LaCosta made was quite tight, a little more than Dean's so called 'permanent knot' from the bracelet I easily defeated thanks to a lipstick knife. I couldn't let Rory know this however, so I lied and claimed I made a second tighter knot myself during the midnight break.
 
She kept trying to work that first know open, but the back of the dress wasn't being cooperative to her. Tugging, pulling, trying to work it with her fingers, all ended up with her damning the knot and wanting to go for the scissors. I knew she wouldn't though; the vintage nature of the dress prevents it from being altered, even if it's only a ¼" wide and 16" long piece of lace. Fran would be sure to let me know that for the rest of my life by not letting borrow anything from her ever again if I had the lace cut.
 
Rory was stubborn, still trying to work the knot out without much luck. I was getting somewhat impatient; in the time I sat on that footstool I wanted to change into those comfy clothes and go through my grooming routine. I was just about ready to take a large risk and work my dress the wrong way up my body to slide out of it.
 
I said I was about to, but that never happened. Rory had enough of letting her fingers try to work out the knot, and as I thought she was about ready to give up and I felt my hair slide back onto the middle of my neck, I found something else tugging snarl at the bind. At first I thought nothing of it, Rory could be trying to work it out with the sharpened end of a pencil...
 
Only I could feel a small and abrupt rush of air spread out from the back of my neck and around the bottom of my scalp. Her fingers came back a bit after that, but there was still a heavy sense of vanilla perfume rushing up my nose. I shut my eyes, not trying to confirm that what was happening, actually was.
 
Oh God, I thought to myself, Rory's breath as close to the nape of my neck as possible without a kiss being initiated. I could feel her trying to tug at the not with her teeth, and slowly working it out with the combination of her teeth and fingers. The knot started to ease out a little, but the way her mouth on my neck like that felt...was almost like a slow and teasing kiss. I felt everything on my back goosebump, and thought being lost each time her lips touched my skin.
 
I shut my eyes, and yelped a little when she accidentally nipped the skin going in for another attempt to loosen the knot. However, she didn't say anything and stayed strangely quiet for the next couple minutes as she slowly, and agonizingly yanked the bunny out of its hole or however you might describe a tight loop of a knot being loosened. Her lips seemed to linger for a bit against the heated skin after finishing, and there wasn't anything in the world I wanted to ruin the moment.
 
"Sorry about that," she said, sort of shaky to me as she scooched up and got back into a comfy position since the first knot I made that day would be a lot easier. "I just needed to, uh, get that knot out, it was pretty stubborn. You might want to remember that next time you put on a dress like this."
 
My response? Sort of not very intelligent. "Uh, I will. You really know how to let a knot out Ror."
 
Alright, so it was beyond stupid, but Rory's lips seemed to have that effect of sucking my bearings dry. Just as long as she doesn't try it again in a life and death situation, I should be alright for the next time I end up making a strange error in dressing like that. 

With the tightened knot gone, that left the knot I made, which naturally was slipping out. That one was much easier to undo without much lingering touches on Rory's part, and after another few moments, I felt the weight of my chest suddenly shift down as the strings fluttered down from my shoulders back down to my chest.
 
A hanging silence hovered over the air for a bit after that. She brought her other hand up and massaged my back as she had a second sense that the stress of the halter against the back of my neck made it and my shoulders sore, considering how much weight they had to hold. I basked in the tremors her hands sent through my neck and down my body, thinking about how close I was eleven hours before to kissing her, and in turn, her movement towards me. God, how much I wanted Rory made me ache so much with desire for her. I didn't want to move, didn't care for anything else. These small pockets of silence help me out when it comes to gauging what she feels for me.
 
Finally, I had to go, my arm was getting sore from holding the bodice of the dress against myself. I grabbed the clothes and went into the bathroom, locking the door, and then quickly changed into the shirt and shorts, not letting my eyes linger at my heated form more than they needed to. I carefully folded up the dress and put it into the empty side pocket of my emergency bag, and then proceeded to brush my teeth and my hair, and then wash my face. I was so sleepy and slogged through the tasks, but still managed to take a long look at myself in the mirror.

I was far from the girl who left Rory in devastation the last time I stared at myself in the mirror those few hours before. I felt happier, much more at ease and comfortable in my own skin, and most of all, confident. I felt so relaxed, the barriers of our friendship unstrained anymore by past history or socioeconomic concerns. I was still just a bit scared about my feelings for her, wondering if today I would capitulate to my feelings for Rory.
 
If so, she picked a fine outfit for me to do it in. I buttoned the flannel up to the second to last button, maybe give her a few ideas, but mainly because I wanted to still feel a cool breeze on my skin. She'd have to strain in to see my cleavage, but to give her at least a little hint, a provocation...that's what I was intending to do.
 
The shorts were buried beneath the shirt, making it look like I was just sleeping in the shirt. They were comfy enough and were sort of loose on my body, pretty much the effect expected. After all I don't have as much in back as Ms. Gilmore does, she bought them to flatter her own charms.
 
No, I'm not also in love with Lorelai if that's what you're trying to take out of this. For a woman her age though, she does look quite nice, even Louise, Miss Fickle herself has this sort of little thing for her that kind of weirds me out. Then again, my friends have been acting out of character lately. Madeline for example, seems fixated on Brad Langford lately, so much she's been turning down dates with Blue Demon football players left and right. They're in the playoffs, big men on campus, and my raven-haired ditz of a friend is telling them no so she can fawn over a guy who has more than a normal interest in computers, robots and taxidermy! My friends are changing, along with my allegiances. Rory has become the very definition of a best friend, but I just want to keep that shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, she might have feelings for me, that she might be gay.
 
I was hoping for the best, to at least come out of that house unscathed when I left later in the day. But by the time I finished my bathroom chores, sleep was finally getting to me in the worst way, and my fucked up biological clocked needed some winding. Time to get to bed Par, I thought to myself as I put my grooming stuff back in the bag and left the bathroom, preparing to sleep on that cursed couch.

Why? I was under the impression that after 25 hours together, Rory would want a break from me, which is all good and well because of my naturally uncompromising nature. Those weeks before when I was in her bed it was just to talk, there weren't romantic possibilities floating in the air, what with my choice of wearing a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt that did nothing to flatter me. There was more tension in the air then, an angry tension from our argument the night before that.
 
So I was prepared to wrap myself in the afghan hanging of the back of the sofa, two rooms keeping us both separated and letting us get the rest we so deserved after all that dancing. The throw pillow would be fine for my head and I could get used to that couch eventually.
 
I was sitting down on the couch and about to get into a vertical sleeping position, when I heard a door shut in the kitchen, and Rory ran into the living room.
 
Now before I get into the details of what she said and what happened next, the only thing on my mind was sleep, honest. But if the girl you love comes out the way she did, you might want to change that definition of sleep to the other kind.
 
I was caught, literally as she came into the room, changed out of her dress and into her pajamas. Usually this would mean something that resembled the Nick and Nora brand, with monkeys and bananas patterned all over the blue or pink fabric. That's about the only thing I remember positively about the Puffs initiation; her looking cute in her birthday cake pajamas.
 
I think she's been choosing her nightwear a lot more differently than before though. She was still in a shirt and pants mind you, not wearing a merry widow or some kind of thin barely-there lingerie. But the way she looked this morning, it's going to stay with me for a long time.
 
Her hair was straightened out, and she was wearing blue scrub-style sleep pants, the kind with the drawstring. They looked light and airy on her legs, and made them look longer than if she was in her regular pajama pants. It was on top I really noticed a change though.
 
She was in a tank top, but not like the kind she wore when I brushed her hair. It had spaghetti-style straps, and the neck plunged just a little lower than the Tuesday shirt. It was a ribbed cotton shirt, and flattered what she has in front so damned well, like her chest. I found myself looking at her and trying to hold back my impulse to drool at her look. The hem of the top wouldn't easily be able to tucked into her underwear either, since it stopped just short of her belly button. It seemed like the top was two sizes smaller than her number, but the effect it had on me...if she was trying to get my attention, Rory can read my mind well! After having to use my imagination all day to think about what she was wearing under that nice little dress, it could finally get a rest.
 
Rory knew my weakness; a her in tight and flattering clothing. Clothing that showed off her small breasts very well. I swear the neck of that shirt was so low that if she bent down, I'd be looking at more than just her freckling, there would be her pink and rosy buds, lurking beneath the white cotton. I could see her nipples puckered beneath the shirt, and they were well aroused.
 
God, if I ever find out Rory was letting her fingers do the walking up down her thighs while I was changing, the damned things that could do to me!
 
I still found myself trying to lie down, but Rory took the blanket from me before I could start to try to cuddle up.
 
"Nope, no couch for you Par," she said, smirking and seeming a little more awake than she should be. "I know how you hate sleeping on it, and Mom would freak if you slept in her bed. Why don't you sleep with me?"
 
Because, I don't want to just sleep with you Ror, I want to-- Before my inner pervert could misconstrue that statement into something embarrassing, I wrapped myself around this new development, that she wanted me in her bed again. The space between us would be very little, and the temptation would be very high to bring her closer to me.
 
You’ve already slept with her in that bed, I was reminded by my memory, not to mention you shared a room with her for at least ten weeks. That much was true. But I then reminded myself that there was a chaperone monitoring everyone in the dorm building at any one time, one posted in each wing. Even if my feelings were running hot for Rory back then, there was no way I was going to take the risk of trying to lure her in. That first moan between us, Mr. Van Andel would burst in, and we’d be questioned so fast about our intentions that it wouldn’t be funny.
 
I was still unsure about things, and if she was falling for me like I was falling for her. But my mind was worn along with my body. There wasn’t much choice in the matter; Rory’s bed was decently comfortable, and as for the couch, there are some nice plastic chairs at the airport I’d rather sleep on than that.
 
I sighed, looking up at Rory, expectant of my answer. Then, just as fast as I had doubts, I cast them aside. “I would love to share a bed with you again Gilmore.”
 
“Great.” Her acknowledgement, which should have been an exclamation, instead came in a loud yawn. She stretched her arms out, causing her top to rise up her stomach and expose a little more skin. I was finding my mind track again interrupted by a fantasy of getting that shirt off her the rest of the way thanks to my hands, raking my palms over her breasts slowly on purpose, then bringing them back down to her side, getting her closer towards me as we backed into the door of her bedroom, and then...
 
I already said something of that sort moments before, didn't I? Me and my one-track mind, there's a horny teenage boy here screaming to get out somewhere. Not to beat a dead horse, but once again my eyes glazed over with lustful thoughts of my classmate and soon to be bed partner as I got up numbly and after she shut off the lights and locked the doors and windows in the house (no use keeping them open if you're wiling away a Sunday sleeping), headed into her bedroom with her.
 
"Oh, by the way Par."
 
"Yeah?"
 
She passed in front of me and entered her room. "Flannel does suit you well; you look very nice." She smiled, and I found myself brushing off her compliment with a quick one of my own. However, instead of a 'you look nice' plain kind of accolade, I went off on a tangent about her tank top and how hot she looked wearing it. I mumbled through most of the words, looking at my feet as I started fearing my chances with her were about to end because I was gushing about a shirt she probably wore many times before. My inner vixen was starting to leech into real life, and after I told her she had a very trim stomach, I was afraid that was it; my feelings for her would be somewhat vocalized and she'd freak out about what I was telling her.
 
Imagine my surprise when, as she bit her lip and her body language communicated that she was somewhat nervous, when she again complimented me.
 
"Well, I could say a few things about you too. I uh, kind of have a thing for your legs."
 
"Huh?" I was puzzled, since I always thought they were my worst feature. My short stature guaranteed I wouldn't have the curves of a Beyonce Knowles, with her thick thighs, nor did I have that tall type of supermodel stature because I was tiny. I swear that when puberty hit those inches I should've gained in height went straight to my breasts instead to build up the cup size. I brushed off the compliment, trying to distract her. "They're just legs, I use them to walk and they serve their purpose. Nothing really special about them."
 
"That may be true," she started to say as we sat down on the side of her bed, "but they make up at least a third of your height, you can't help but notice them. Especially when you're wearing those corduroy pants that fit snug and tight. As for when you wear a dress or a skirt..."
 
Rory trailed off and brought her eyes lower from my face down to my legs. I saw her hand move towards me, and before I knew it, her hand was just above my knee, resting on my bared right thigh. Honestly, she had done this before, many times. Like when I needed to be calmed down or something, or she placed something like a newspaper or a book on my lap.
 
In those instances however, I wasn't wearing shorts that were cut to within a few inches of my apex. Also, I was in a scholastic state of mind. Not to mention, Rory wasn't just setting her hand down and leaving it there; she was rubbing her hand up and down slowly between the cap of my knee and just below the hem of the short leg.
 
She bit at her lip as her fingers scraped my leg, and I had to keep in a moan as she explained why. "You...just have nice legs. I mean it's apparent you take good care of yourself even if you try to come of as plain and unconcerned with your beauty." Her nerves were a little high as she took off her slippers, keeping the heel of her hand on my leg. "I swear, I haven't ever seen you wear hose because you're just so naturally smooth."
 
Is Rory trying to kill me with kindness? Her hand, sure enough was still on my smooth legs, seemingly doing a spur of the moment biology experiment to try to find that stray exposed root or missed hair that stood out like a sore thumb. Little did she know that every inch had been well-covered, and I was smooth as my birthday, albeit with a little help from Mother Nature and a smart combination of scientists and botanists.
 
"Geeze!" Her reaction to how I felt was as if she just discovered the microwave oven and it's panorama of uses. "No hair at all, nothing. Were you born this way, not to grow very much hair?"
 
It was time to give her a little peek into my 'beauty' regimen, what little of it there was to be found. "Well, I do have a dirty little secret; when I tan, I also ask for a leg waxing. Hurts like hell, but it leaves me free from the drudgery of using a razor. That was more at Fran's suggestion though, she took me one day to this spa down in Old Saybrook, when I had an in-service day back in ninth grade as kind of a recharge. I decided to get the works, and though I didn't take well to the pedicure, manicure, or facial mask, the wax was well worth the pain. I've been doing it monthly ever since and the hair is coming less and less with each treatment."
 
Rory's interest in finding out if what I told her was true ended up being high, so she took an even more obvious opportunity to rub my thigh. "God, that does feel nice."
 
"Like them?" I kept my voice at an even keel, despite my distracted state.
 
"Yeah, it's too expensive for me, but so worth it with you." Her eyes were directed at my lap, and I could hear her breath shorten. "I mean it Par, you do have nice legs."

I thanked her as she moved the hand higher and higher, by then it was almost at the hem of the shorts. She seemed a little nervous about going above that line, but I just let her go ahead and linger, delighting in her soft touch. I thought in my mind about her continuing her ministrations, moving them beneath my shorts as our collective oxygen supply deepened as we drew closer, Rory's smooth fingertips along the side of my panties. I could see her get a sort of wide-eyed look as she pushes a finger beneath, and finds out first hand just how high that I have myself waxed and stripped of hair, something I started doing the month before when I started thinking she was getting my signals.
 
However, my body was thinking sleep, thus the only thing her hand rubbing my leg did was relax me further. I yawned a bit again, and started to feel the weight of my eyelids become greater...
 
"You know, I think we should get to bed." She let go of her grip on my leg, the heat from her hand going right back with her, and got up so she could crawl onto her side of the mattress. "What time do you have to be back at the Manor anyways?"

There was about thirty seconds of an awkward pause hanging as I felt a hot spark in my leg where she had just touched me moments before. Getting my bearings back, I told her I'd probably be expected home about 8pm.
 
"Is your mother getting home at that time from San Diego?"
 
I sighed. "Knowing Mother she'll probably stumble in drunk with that louse she calls a boyfriend she met at Mohegan Sun around one in the morning, then they'll pass out on the sofa in the guest house since the staff can barely tolerate her sober in the Manor. They always send her to the guest house so that I'm not disturbed in rest, Daddy made that clear in their service contract, that she cannot impede my education progress through her transgressions."
 
"So when you get home..." I could tell she could read my mind, figuring out the answer without much else said, so I finished her line.
 
"Finishing touches on homework."
 
Rory smirked, I was in the affirmative. "I thought so, I have to prepare for the 'surprise' pop quiz Mercurio's sure to throw us in Russian Novels tomorrow."
 
I rolled my eyes at the mention of Chilton's worst-prepared instructor, whose entire curriculum and syllabus is posted on a Chilton student's website that is pretty much the same since a paper copy was made of it back in 1988. "That guy is so predictable; he's never changed his curriculum since the coup in 1990, and then all he did there was change all the 'Soviet' and 'Soviet Union' references within his notes to 'Russian' and 'Russia'. But the class helps our grade, so I suppose..."
 
We got into bed together and talked about school for a while, trying to lull ourselves to sleep with conversation sure to put us in slumber. It was a little chilly in the room so I took a few more inches of blankets, but Rory didn't seem to mind. I took a pillow, she took another, and after a little more talk about the pop quiz, I asked her if I could turn off the lamp on her nightstand.
 
"Sure, you must be tuckered out," she said to me as I stretched my arm over to the lamp and turned the switch off. "Need anything else?"
 
"I'm fine." I looked at Gilmore in the slight darkness of the room, light stopped by her window's drawn shades. She just looked so at ease, so happy and comfortable with me being there with her to win the dance title, just after convincing me a trip on the road back to Hartford would be hazardous to my health. It was then saw how lucky I was that she was there for me, no matter what I put her through. Rory would always have my back, defending me even when others try to create slander and libel against my character. She's never given up on me either. For all that we've been through, this weekend has been one of the best ways ever to finally take us out of the antagonism that used to define us.
 
"Sleep well, Paris." I said the same thing to her, and it took her only a little time to fall asleep, so that by 6:45am she was out and her brain was winding down activity after such a grueling day. I followed her into dreamland shortly thereafter, but only after giving myself an alternate answer to Rory's question where she asked if I needed anything more.
 
I have everything I ever wanted right here, I thought to myself, my left hand trembling at the closeness to her own right hand as I took a long glance at the girl I've fallen for so far, eyes closed, hair messy in front of her face, and her chest rising up and down as soft puffs of breath emanated from between her beautiful and puckered lips. A nice comfy bed, good company, a warm and caring body near me to keep me from being chilled, a kind girl I willingly shared the stage for. Rory, I have it all right here, in you. I wish you'd know that, but I'd rather be your friend than be your enemy, or nothing at all. If you're ready though, I want to see a sign of some kind, be it today, be it sometime this year. I'll wait entire scores of years just to hear whether you love me or not, but I'd rather know, sooner than later.
 
I was almost fading into unconsciousness, but before I did, I placed the tips of my forefingers against my lips, making a soft smacking sound with my mouth. I then brought the kissed fingers up against Rory's left cheek, sharing the soft gesture with her. I tucked the loose strands of hair on her face back into her ear, and she looked so serene, quiet, as if nothing has changed her at all from the day she stepped into our school, where others might have crumbled under the pressure and become competitive and bitchy. I then smiled and brought the fingers back. Wishing her one more whispered good night, I then within moments fell into the sleep I so rightfully deserved for myself.
 
Sleep in itself, that should have in theory been giving me dreams pumped sexually to an extreme level, were by definition tame compared to my current sexually charged tracks, and seemed to be more about an instant replay of the dance marathon more building a new scenario. Kirk's hijinks, my issues that remained with Tristan, and those last few close hours with Rory were recalled, but didn't change all that much from that of reality.
 
The last dance in the dream was odd though, with Rory and I doing a tango. A very steamy tango, I'd have to say, what with my reckless disregard in the dream for the reverence and history of the marathon as I slid my hands up her thighs, brought her towards a side wall of the gym, then hiked up the skirt of her dress as she moaned for me to give her what she wanted; gratification. The dream shifted focus between my view and hers as we ditched the competition and kissed our way into the bathroom, where I ended up doing uncouth things to my current bedmate against the same sink I had cried my tears of confession to Ms. LaCosta the night before. It was raw, untamed and very passionate, so much that when it abruptly ended with her about to reciprocate on me...
 
I found myself awake in the bed. No soreness, but a sudden awakening from the rigors of REM sleep. First thing I checked was the alarm clock on the night table, which read just after 11:40am. Then I turned around.
 
Where I found the back of Rory's head facing me, her hair tickling my nose. I also found my body pressed up against hers, more in some places than others. My midsection was pressed hard against her ass, my chest right up against her back, an arm loosely wrapped around her stomach. I could literally feel the rise and fall of her back against my front. Though I couldn't feel my left leg at all. I wondered why, so I tried to shake it, but then I found it was trapped beneath Rory. My right leg was fine in the physical and mental sense.
 
The sexual sense however, was off the charts and going haywire, for I found it wrapped around her two slim gams. My body was very close, and I was feeling overheated, because apparently in rest, I was luring Rory into a spoon position. I stared sweating in fear; afraid that the sleeping girl next to me was going to awake discovering this predicament and lay into me despite the accidental nature of the spooning.
 
I was lying in that position completely still, afraid any movement would disturb Rory from her own sleep. I did have good reason, for the combination of a heavy flannel shirt, nothing beneath, and the ribbed cotton of the back of Rory's shirt put my breasts in an extremely scratchy position. The fabric of the flannel was right up against them, so that each time I shifted in any direction, my nipples stiffened even more. With no layer between the shirt like a bra, I felt it, and damn, it felt really nice. But the fact I was in this compromising pose, and Rory was far from ready to become more intimate than two friends can be, that seemed to desensitize me just a little.
 
Rory should have been up by then, preparing to lecture me about unlady-like behavior, maybe even accuse me of impropriety. So I tried to move the hands and push my leg out from beneath her. However, this only caused her to shift even closer.
 
I tugged at the leg pinned beneath her, having to slowly ease her weight off of it so that she wouldn't be aware that anything went on, even though I slept and fell into this compromising position. I let her go from my grasp, taking back my legs and arms, and lay straight in the bed, wiggling my way from beneath her thigh. It took a little bit of time, along with some luck, but after a few minutes of coaxing, I was free once again, leaving her undisturbed.
 
I turned around in the bed so that next time an unconscious spoon attempt would throw me to the floor, and looked at an old tourism poster of Prague on the wall, analyzing the colors, the blending and what building was being advertised as representing the Czech capital in the poster. Keeping my thoughts away from Rory as much as I possibly could, I fell asleep again, only this time the rest was so deep, I didn't dream at all, which was good. I would've probably headed into another sleep talking mirage if I kept lingering on that spooning of Rory without her knowledge.

---

When I woke up again hours later, I found that warmness against my side that had lulled me to sleep hours before had disappeared. I arose from my laying position and sat against the headboard, looking to the left and finding the side of the bed Rory slept on to be empty. The room was still darkened by the shades, so I had no way to be able to tell what time it was unless I checked the clock.
 
Truth was, I was well rested. Much more rested than I usually was in my own bed, in my own house. Usually I have to deal with the stress of my mother possibly having some kind of bipolar incident and trying to barge in my locked door, or some nosy staff member with ill will on their mind trying to find out my secrets. I could relax around Rory, be a little more at ease; I was showing as such with the way I slept, despite my panic about the close sleeping arrangement.
 
I looked towards the clock, and found it to be reading quarter after three. Just over eight hours, not bad, I thought. My brain didn't feel clouded and I felt my biological clock return back to normal, forgetting I had been up at least six hours past the regular Sunday morning bedtime I maintained.

I got up and sat down on the bed, finding myself familiarizing myself again with the small bedroom she maintained off the kitchen the Gilmores rarely, if ever used. Good thing too, since the oven seemed like an ancient antique, I swear that a designer would have a challenge trying to create the perfect kitchen for those two. They ate at Luke's just about every day, partook of delivered foods when they didn't, and fueled themselves on caffeine all the time. I swear Rory's only brush with vegetables comes on the school's lunch salad.
 
I yawned and wiped the sleep out of my eyes, then got up from the bed and felt the plush berber of Rory's carpet beneath my feet. I hadn't slept until three in the afternoon in so long that I forgot the last time I did; I'm such a creature of routine. Mother would have my head if she ever found out I slept this long, and probably do even worse things when she learned that I wasn't sleeping alone and thinking sexual thoughts about another girl, whose bed I happened to be sharing.
 
There wasn't much to do at home, so I could spend most of the rest of the day relaxing with Rory if I wanted to. Awake, I got up from the bed, and opened up Rory's bedroom door so we could talk about the dance and whatever assignments we hadn't finished yet since they were still more than a month due and our final graded projects for the semester before the exams.
 
Leave it to Gilmore to again, surprise the ever-lasting heck out of me.
 
There, sitting out on the kitchen table, was a lunch of a hot turkey hoagie, a bag of onion-flavored Sun Chips, and what looked to be a foam cup of wintergreen tea. Right next to that plate, the Sunday editions of The Hartford Courant and New York Times, ready to be read, just waiting for me to be read and have the news, features and opinions scrutinized and filtered through my brain.
 
That Rory was so observant of my routine and meals in the first place, that told me something. I loved eating turkey, and whenever the ala carte line was out of salad that's what I would choose, along with the Sun Chips. She also knew that I'm an avid reader of the Sunday papers and in my normal Sunday morning routine, find it the perfect accompaniment to my watching Meet the Press and Face the Nation, followed by reading all the meaty sections to one of the Sunday morning jazz and classical shows on the radio. It was too late for that part of the routine now, but at least she gave me what I wanted that she could control.

I smiled as I looked over the spread at my place at the table, swimming in the fact that I could sit at the Gilmore table in my pajamas and eat in relative peace without Mother bugging me about proper dress, table manners, and basic decorum. That was another thing that was drawing me towards Rory's arms, that eating to her was for its intended purpose; to have fun with food and have some nice casual socialization during the meal. I didn't have to worry about insulting a well-paid chef by not eating an appetizer or side dish, nor did I have to think of something witty to say in order to keep a conversation that was dulling the senses of all the guests going. It was just lunch, plain and simple.
 
After a trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my hands, I felt hungry after at least fifteen hours without a good filling meal, and at least a day since I had something resembling what normal people would call dinner. I tackled the turkey hoagie eagerly, feeling like I was in heaven as I took in the tastes of the meats, cheeses, vegetables and the oil slathered onto the bun. With the wintergreen tea, it tasted wonderful, along with the bag of chips.
 
I called her name out towards the living room that I was up after she didn't come out to greet me, but she seemed to be elsewhere so I didn't hear anything back in the affirmative. Not that I was disappointed about that, it gave me a little time with myself to recharge my batteries.

After getting about a ¼ through both the sandwich and bag of chips, I started reading the front page of the Courant, where there wasn't much to read about besides another fight between Rowland and the House over the state's budget, plus a feature on how professional sports teams keep spurning Hartford despite all we've tried to offer. I could care less about the debate over building a stadium downtown and just wanted some raw numbers on business and economic development in Central Connecticut. All so boring, all driving me towards thinking of Rory a lot more than I usually did. Where she was, what she was doing, and wondering if she had forgotten about me. I felt so bored, I just wanted to talk with her, not wait until she came back and pass the time between now and then by reading a newspaper I wasn't feeling particularly attentive towards.
 
I turned the pages of the paper, but wasn't paying attention throughout the mean because my mind was so distracted with all these thoughts of Rory so close, my encouragement and my returning an interest by almost kissing her last night and sliding the zipper open as slow as I could without any notice. Even my daily dose of the serialized comic strip For Better or for Worse (the first thing I read everyday even if the words 'WAR DECLARED' are in 96-point type on the front page) wasn't enough to take me off from what I was thinking. I needed some kind of sign to know what she was feeling for me, if she did. The first thing I took out of her invitation to the dance was that she had a slight interest, but not enough to say for sure she wanted to be more than my friend, for all I knew she asked me only because of my strategic skills in regards to gauging the others in the room, and combining those with my dancing talent. I read through the Courant (advertising inserts, TV section and any accent sections set off to the side right after I opened up the paper), but didn't have the willpower to go through the Times today. I was no mood for reading, which was much too odd for my mind to wrap itself around.
 
That's because it's Rory you want to read, it told me instead. I had moved over to the living room ten minutes later and sat down on the couch, discovering Rory's texts, notebooks and tangerine iBook sitting on the coffee table sort of spread out all over. The computer was closed with the schoolbooks stacked on it, while the notebooks were spread throughout the table. I couldn't help but laugh to myself about this; even towards the end of a three-day weekend where all her work was done by Thursday evening so she could focus on the marathon, Rory still had to review, just like I did. I still didn't know where she was, but at least I'd be able to read what she noted for my sixth period Advanced Economics class. She took it in first period, so her notes had a much more fresh feel to them than what I did, using a mix of muddled longhand and lecture audio recorded via an MP3 device I picked up when Daddy brought it home to me as a present from his trip to the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas back in January. I'll write clear when I have to, but usually I write fast and barely dot my I's or cross my T's. The last thing I want to see is some unscrupulous student steal my very specific observations, decode them and post them to a website for all to read. I sipped the cup of tea as I read through what she had noted in first period, memorizing it and sending it to the memory banks in my head.
 
I did this with all of the classes Rory and I shared, thankful for her permission to look at her notes. I fell in love all over again at the way she could be so specific about things, yet simplify them for the layman at the same time. A complicated formula about why the Mexican peso and Italian lire were so high numerically against the American dollar was reduced to a simple mathematical formula using a pack of gum, a bottle of Coke, and the price of the Apple iPod as good examples to show how the prices worked. It made me realize that she was always one to pay close attention to her work, and that she'll blow away all comers when she goes to Harvard's journalism school. She might want to be an international television correspondent, but I could actually see Rory writing investigative pieces for national magazines and newspapers just as well, maybe even a cushy staff position at the International Herald-Tribune out of Paris. Really, she's that good, I admit it.
 
It took me about a half hour to read through most of those notes, noshing on my sandwich and tea throughout as I took a blank piece of paper so I could get a basic table of contents so I could combine what I learned from Rory's notes with mine, a compare and contrast if you will.
 
It was then that I got into the notes for Russian Novels, the class Rory and I loathed with a passion more than Communism. Say what you will about Lenin, but at least he seemed to suck the boring inspiration out of many Russian authors while he ruled and in turn, saved a lot of children throughout the world the need to have to analyze a 1,700 page novel on the Bolshevik Revolution and how it applied to a nuclear family in the Russian state of Evenki (read; not very much at all, they just had to get used to saying president instead of czar, yet it took 300 pages of needless exposition to get this through to the characters). I opened up the notebook and set about seeing if I missed something. Not very much here at all, she seems to have it covered as little as possible, I thought to myself as I paged through the pages upon pages of blank lined paper, unable to find her familiar script on it.
 
"Oh well, I guess we'll have to study together," I told myself as I gave up towards the back of the book, and prepared to head out of the house to retrieve a pair of sweatpants I kept in the car in case I happened to get a flat tire on the way to a formal party in January. I tossed the light blue notebook back on top of the coffee table and was about to turn away...
 
When I found out my life was about to change in such a short time.
 
The notebook hit the table on the side of its spine, and as it fell onto the surface, opened up towards the last page. I was surprised to say the least, and thought I had discovered a new goldmine of more notes that Rory had taken in her spare time. I thought nothing of what the writing on the paper was, so curious, I picked up the notebook again and turned the back cardboard page onto the cover so I could again start to take notes.
 
What was on that page made the contents look a little cut and dry. The page was divided into two by a darkly scribbled line of lead down the middle, and atop in the title area, pro and con were written in capital print. However, the con side was completely empty, with the pro column filled completely down to the end line. I started reading through these to myself, finding nothing that seemed odd about what was listed. It seemed like it could've come out of Anna Karenina, with there nothing being mentioned except 'She...' starting each line. I went through the listing, trying to recall moments in the book that resembled 'she has so much courage', 'she knows how to have fun when prodded on, 'she looks lovely in a cute dress', 'she has an attitude about not giving up that inspires me so much, and pushes me to improve myself to shine in her eyes', and a lot more than that. I kept reading through this little list, nothing raising a red flag to me.
 
I paged back one and still didn't find any cons listed, despite the format from the first page being kept for the next two pages. I thought they were academic notes, and though they didn't seem to match up with the attitude Anna kept in the book, it seemed like Rory could connect them to her from what she wrote. Once I reached the middle of page two however, things were starting to match up out of order. I didn't understand why she would write that the character 'was there for me when she didn't have to be, helping me in a low moment,' nor was there an understanding about why Anna Karenina 'gave me a drive home to remember'. Hold on a moment here, I reminded myself, knowing I was correct, the book was first published as a couple chapters in a national Russian newspaper in 1875. The first practical automobile didn't hit the road until at least twenty years later. Really, this doesn't match up...About that time the lure of finding a red correction pencil to correct Rory's notes was starting to bite me pretty hard.
 
I kept going up and up the list, trying find anything to connect her Anna notes to what she wrote. But how could I when she was writing nonsense like 'her shirt is so warm and soothing', 'she's starting to warm to the idea of becoming closer,' not to mention 'the way my mother is my best friend, she seems to be the same with her nanny. What a great woman she is'.
 
"Did I miss the non-existent nanny bonding chapter in that book or was I asleep through it?" I grumbled to myself, moving on to page three, where more notes were listed that started with 'she'. She this, she that, shouldn't Rory have said something about Leo Tolstoy himself by now? Her reasons continued on, 'I love the way she rolls her eyes when she's annoyed, and 'that secret smile she has for me drives me crazy'. There seemed to be a pattern developing as I scanned up the page. It still wasn't making much sense to me at all, this talking about a her and a she in such reverence. There was nothing in these notes I could take back home with me, and seemed to be the worst formed comments about a book that I had ever found. I went through the two pages before the third, trying to connect them to literature somehow, anyhow. Maybe she wasn't talking about Anna Karenina, maybe these are for a chick-lit novel, something Helen Fielding would write. I sighed, about ready to give up on all these notes and their tangibility.
 
About then, I turned the page over, and found the page below #3 empty of any notes. There was nothing there at all, and going through the book as I got up and threw the waste materials and bags from lunch into the trash can in the kitchen, I walked back into Rory's room and sat on the bed. I brought my eyes over to the right page and was about to start scanning down the page...
 
I found my eyes drawing towards the deep black title, scribbled in pencil. The title was like something you'd find in a thesis, or a clinical study of some sort. There was something different about this than the usual or status quo that got my attention.
 
Namely, that I was the subject of the title.
 
"The Pros and Cons of Romancing Paris Gellar," I read aloud to myself, crossing my legs and not yet realizing the impact of what Rory had titled these notes. I repeated the name, trying to figure out if I was seeing things. Once, twice, three times. The letters didn't change at all, still saying that this was a pro and con list about seducing me.
 
Romancing Paris Gellar, who would be...This couldn't be true, that was not what this was titled. This was a pro and con list, plain and simple, something you did along the lines of Harvard vs. Yale, Men vs. Women, Yankees vs. Red Sox, Upper vs. Middle Class. Surely she had not used this common form of comparison to try to construct an argument about how I should be complimented or damned for my behavior. The tilt was supposed to be far from this result, with the cons filling at least seven pages plus, accompanied by scathing criticisms about my attitude. There were not supposed to be only eight reasons for me that didn't endear me to her, one of them being that I need to examine a question being asked longer when it comes to my personal life so that I didn't overreact to said query.
 
This wasn't me Rory was talking about and listing in such a straightforward form, it couldn't have been...however most of the first page was filled with 'Paris does' this, or 'Paris would' that. As I read through the text below the subject's line, something was starting to spark inside of me, that she was rattling off things.
 
There were things along the con side, a pen mark crossing out a con that I hated Luke because of my first impression of him. Another scribbled out line told of how I wasn't in love with the town of Stars Hollow, then one more about how she thought I wouldn't accept her invitation to the marathon because she thought it might be beneath me. All those were scribbled out.
 
It became clear that there were a couple on that con side that were unlikely to change. One involving the roller coaster track our friendship is on. But the other stuck out like a sore thumb.
 
She thought that if she admitted she liked me, I would reject her and break her heart. That she liked me, and I would say no.
 
Let that settle in your thoughts for a moment. The fact I've been thinking about no one else but her for the last four months, and in a smaller way since last year, that I wanted to be more than Rory Gilmore's best friend, but to be her lover. That she was saying she liked me. What reason would I ever find to reject her advances?
 
Of course she had told me that many times before in a non-interested sense, also that she respected me. But combined with the context of the title, and that sentence...
 
It was then my eyes drew towards the first column of the pro side of the list. A line that had been changed many times, and was now lurking just below the list title. I could see that the eraser had been used many times there, and the words replacing it were above the line.
 
At first the sentence had been I respect her. That was scribbled out and replaced with what seemed to used to read like, and that word was erased again, to be replaced with a multi-word entry fit in barely within that word space, wish I could have.
 
Now in my eyes, the sentence took form, what she wanted. The lead was fresh and sharp on the page, denoting that indeed, she had rewritten this line only hours before.
 
Instead of reading I respect her, the line reads I want her*. Naturally the asterisk seemed to tell me a footnote was down below, so I hurriedly scrolled through the text on the lined page.
 
There, on the bottom in very small print below an entry where she commended my maturity over the hemline issue, I found where the asterisk reference lead down to. My eyes scrolled the entry...
 
*I want her so badly, much more than I ever wanted Dean. I wanted to kiss her last night on the dance floor, and I want to kiss her even more than anyone else I've known in my entire life. I want her to be mine.

Before that moment, I felt as if everything I had done over the last three months was a futile chase for the love of this girl, this young woman who I thought wouldn't reciprocate these same feelings I held in the time we were friends, ever. This could not possibly be the same Rory who had only in August a love triangle that resembled a soap opera, Jess the rebel and Dean the dependable both yearning for her love as I held a lesbian crush on her that made Bianca Montgomery from All My Children seem like she had absolutely no drama in her life. An infatuation that since the embryonic stages, thought would remain solitary, a fleeting fantasy that would eventually fade away eventually when I found that special guy in my live to make lusting for Rory like my Care Bears fascination back in 1988; a fad, or fleeting lust. It would never be known, I could keep it secret, never reveal that I preferred the fairer sex when it came to falling in love, not to mention that fairer sex had to be 5'7" and brown-haired, with eyes that disorient me because of the way they enchant, a face a mother and anyone else who comes her way can love, and a coffee addiction that made several drug dependencies seem tame and easy to shrug off cold turkey.
 
She wants to be mine. Rory wants me. The thought was shaking in my mind that she wanted me, and not only that, to press her lips against mine, the basketcase who almost brought her down to her knees sophomore year. The girl who had given me the finest neck massages I could ever know, and the best damned times socially I could ever have. A girl I had shared a shower with, and instead of avoiding the question, admitted that she liked my chest. Rory, who shared a loathing of my own mother and the society she drags along with her. She has fought so much to prove that she can follow my lead step by step, no matter how I might try to throw her off.
 
I read through the list again, and it read like an exact chronology of each and every careful inch towards moving from respecting me, to just plain want. From that date with Jamie from Princeton in August where she wanted to celebrate with me instead of playing yenta for us, to the entire hemline issue, where I found out she was so serious about saying she liked my legs with her own shallow support of the issue. I moved on into October, where she thought I looked quite hot being muddy and sweat-ridden on the field hockey pitch. Then how she wanted good conversation when we chatted in that shower and I misinterpreted her intentions. How she felt I was mature three days and an overnight later for sucking up my pride and apologizing for what I said, and then again, shared her bed.
 
Things were coming together as if they were lining up in a shooting gallery. Events over these last few months were turned into a long, slow, tortuous seduction that she knew she was pulling off and not cluing me into. The entries on the pro list kept on turning up the heat, and I was surprised to read of her admitting to her list that my presence in her dream state causes her to have a kind of dream I never associated her with. Not much on specifics, but you could probably take 'When I dream of her, I wake wanting to taste her in my mouth' as far from innocent.
 
I could tell I was getting into this week once I reached the second-to-last page in the list again. Entries which formerly were muted, instead turned into ways to say that she loved my touch against her leg, how she felt throwing Dean's bracelet into the broad waters of the Connecticut with me as a witness, that 'she was adorable telling me she'd dance with me'. The list went on and on, cons long forgotten and pros leaching across the scribbled middle line because she was running out of room.
 
My mouth was wide open, my eyes were opened, and my hormones were flaring out of control as I got to the end, freshly written entries about the dance marathon filling the last lines of the notebook, until 'she thinks dancing to Eternal Flame was an excellent way to end the night' ended it all.
 
Oh my God. That was the only thought it my mind as I shut the book and set it to my side, in utter shock that the signals I had been reading over the last few weeks, brushing aside as just seeing things, were in fact Rory trying to signal her interest in me.
 
In me, the girl who's so rough and abrasive I could have a sandpaper grit number tattooed on my ass. Why in the world would this blue-eyed beauty, who had all she wanted, the grades, the devotion of the town, not to mention the caveman of a boyfriend, want me as her girlfriend. Why in the first place would she pretty much admit to her pro and con list that she never felt true sparks for men at all?
 
She's the golden girl of this town; supposed to have the glowing career as CNN correspondent, make the Gilmore bloodline happy, have the 2 beautiful kids named in some variation of Lorelai or a male equivalent, with the perfect husband to go with her long drawn up plans. Meanwhile I'm just here having all sorts of satisfaction and pleasing issues. I want to make everyone happy, not go off track from my own long drawn up plan.
 
Things were starting to clear up, yet at the same time complicate themselves. How could I face her knowing she wanted me? Why would she want me in the first place, was I a pity case to her?
 
Judging from the list, pity wasn't even in the cards. Obsession was more the apt term to use for what she wrote in that book. I just sat there numb, my fingers winding against the spine of the notebook, trying to picture what I had been quite vividly in my dreams for the last year.
 
Rory Gilmore wanted me. Wanted me as more of a friend, but in the way I had been dreaming of every night, leaving damp pillowcases, bed sheets and late night calls from Fran upstairs of 'Are you OK minha menina?' in the wake.

Hours before I had spooned into her in my unconscious and reeled back upon finding out that I did, thinking it was something wrong to do. Now I was thinking in my mind, which seemed to be in a mindset usually associated with hurricane planning efforts, that she liked it.
 
She tried to move in against me on purpose. She would've allowed me to spoon into her. I was huffing in and out, oxygen becoming a precious commodity. I had trouble wrapping my mind around this. This, thing that Rory had for me, that I could never seem to read. None of her gifts from Dean were anywhere to be found at all, the bracelet long gone...
 
"Tuesday set things in motion," I said to myself, looking at the blue notebook. "Without the sprinklers or Dean's pigheadishness, I wouldn't have been here right now, she wanted me to warm her up. Rory wanted me to take off her bracelet, sort of saying 'I trust you Paris' towards me. She took the initiative towards me when she needed a dance partner and didn't give a second thought towards Jess or the many other guys in town who fawned over her..."
 
"Par? Have you seen my RN notes, are you up?"

As I tried to analyze my chances with Rory to death, I suddenly heard that sweet voice that made me go weak coming into the kitchen. Apparently she was back from wherever she went and had noticed one of her notebooks had gone missing.
 
The notebook was in my hand, clutched in a death-grip, the smudges of my fingerprints from running it through the print all over the pages. I gasped in horror, like I was afraid she was going to find out about her dark secret. She probably doesn't share any actual feelings for you, I thought to myself, trying to cover up the lust I had with denial once again.
 
"Paris?" She called my name again, her voice seeming to sort of strain. I figured I couldn't just escape out the window and flee with her notes, so I got up from the bed and walked out of the room, showing my face to her.
 
I had the notebook by the end of the spiral, trying to decide whether to let her know I knew about the list. I put on a face of indifference, trying to clue her in that I did not know a thing. I figured she might want to tell me first.
 
If ever, my cynical conscience nagged. I came out of the room, to the sight of Rory in that same tank top she wore to bed, only on the bottom, blue jeans trimmed to her slim figure instead of the pajama pants.
 
Without much aplomb I handed over the notebook and asked where she had been. She told me she had been up after one in order to get a bite to eat and called into Joe's for some subs and food, explaining how the food had appeared on the kitchen table when I got up, also asking the guy from Joe's to pick up those Sunday newspapers.
 
"When I finished my lunch though, I was still kind of tired, so I wanted to get a couple more hours of rest. But you looked to be so comfortable in my bed alone, I didn't want to disturb you. Instead of crawling back into my bed and waking you up, I slept upstairs in my mom's room for the last two hours."
 
"Oh, OK." I was happy to hear she hadn't left the house, but kind of distracted. Oh dear, that exposed belly, why God, why did you have to make her look even more sexy than she usually does? Why was I thinking those thoughts about her, I was more intelligent than this. For the love of Pete...
 
"You OK?" She seemed concerned about my lack of wordplay. I was keeping myself on short sentences; scared I'd say the wrong thing. "I know it was shocking winning the dance marathon, but..."
 
Somehow after this we sat at the kitchen table, and had a conversation about the dance, and how my feet still seemed sore from the endeavor. I tried not to look at her, but couldn't help it because the soft vanilla perfume she wore the day before was still barely detectable around her neck. Her luscious and slender neck, which was fully exposed for me to take in. We were separated by four feet, so there were no temptations to befall me.

But oh God, still no bra to be found, and the height of the Gilmore kitchen table was lower than most I was familiar with. She made an animated point about what Kirk and Carrie did wrong in their performance, and to tell you the truth, I wasn't listening. My eyes were drawn towards her chest, and as her hands waved around, her breasts seemed to sort of bounce. Not bouncing like an exotic dancer mind you, but with the thinness of those straps holding the barely-there shirt on her, I was imagining that after a couple more sharp movements of her arms up and down, the strap on one of the sides would break from the stitch holding it together, fluttering down and giving me more of a view of Rory than I expected. My thoughts continued to drive towards impureness at a good clip, my eyes wishing the Gilmores spent extra for a glassed-top table so I could get a good look at her legs. Ever since she shunned the hose I can't help but gape at them out of the corner of my eye when I'm driving her home. Not as smooth as mine are, but they still felt good in my hands.
 
The conversation almost seemed to be an afterthought as I realized as I was doing to Rory with my glances in her direction, she was doing the same to me. I was wearing a big flannel shirt, but it still exposed alot of skin in the front from being unbuttoned. As I said something about Mrs. Kim's unegged sandwiches, her baby blues seemed to cut a laser line down from the bottom of my chin, her mouth opening in amazement as I bent down a bit. She was staring at me so blatantly, but once I noticed the movement of her pupils...She switched right back to booksmart innocent Lorelai Leigh, with not a smutty or lesbianic thought in her body.
 
It seemed like we were doing a dance once again; only this time we were sitting down and had three feet of an oak-walnut mix separating us. She'd look, I'd look. Occasionally my bared toes would find her ankle and brush up against it, and then within the space of a couple minutes I found one of her feet, nails painted bright red and signifying the legend that underneath that ingénue façade she kept at school there was a bad girl lurking within her, against the bottom portion of my shin. It took all I had not to pray that damned foot would happen to find its way between my legs and end up against the red wine-colored silk of my already dampened panties.
 
My breath shortened and I felt like my heart would take leave of my chest. I just looked at her with so much want I wanted to throw that table into a corner and show her that I knew what she had in the back of that notebook currently in the center of the table. She had set it right back down and we went right back to talking, so I was wondering why if she needed her notes so bad, she wasn't getting to work.
 
I was scared to come right out with what I had read in the book, and to let her know that. There was just this nagging feeling in the back of my head that she would take that as an invasion of her privacy and never speak to me again, and I wouldn't want to lose her friendship in that sort of abrupt way. We kept up the nervous chat throughout the remainder of the afternoon as the sunlight in the living room started to fade out and become overtaken with twilight.
 
We had moved to the living room after I finished my bag of chips, and I had made sure to bring the notebook with me, her attention to it lost. I felt myself shake with each look she directed towards me, and I felt guilty, like I was reading about the dark lesbian-crush holding side that Rory had never shown.
 
She stretched out across the couch in a laying position as I sat in the chair with my hands having a death grip on the blue notebook. I had never been so scared to bring up something in my life, and I debated with my conscience whether to let her know what I felt. My stomach was somersaulting from the girl two feet away from me, curled up in an afghan and making my mouth dry at how much I could imagine a scene of both of us under that blanket in the future...
 
I was ready to burst out my feelings for her right then and there. But I didn't need a scared Rory on my hands, God forbid I have a repeat of Dean's first 'I love you' scene where she scurries away from me in shock. Just ease your way into it Gellar, I told myself. Just think of it as flirting that doesn't end because you don't want to reveal anything.
 
"Ror?" I started out. I smiled at her and tried to ease her into a conversation by asking if she was interested in any men lately. This would give me a good clue into her intentions, as I was sure her breakup with Dean wasn't something abrupt.
 
"Not really, with all these tests and quizzes there's really not much time to find time to date." Considering Rory had strung along Caveman for two years and kept her GPA above four despite, her quote seemed like a bullshit excuse.
 
"I mean is there any guy out there you've had an inkling about?"
 
"Nope, not really. Every other girl's fawning over the guys on the football team, but I can't stand them. As for the other boys in Chilton..." she faked a yawn. "Boring seems a proper term to describe them."
 
"Really, not one guy?" Now I felt I was on the right track. "What about Brad?" Yeah, like she'd want him, but it would cut any tension that was in the questioning.
 
"With the way Madeline moons over him, she has dibs on him. Besides, he's not really my type by any means."
 
"So you've noticed the looks she's been giving him?"
 
"Looks? Par, when we came out of fifth period on Thursday she stumbled over a trash can looking at Brad with googly eyes! Plus have you noticed how many times he passes our lunch table on Maddy's side every day, I'm thinking some brushing of the shoulder with his hand is involved there."
 
"Uh, not really, to be honest," I answered. Really, Madeline and Brad's dance had gone unnoticed to my eyes, considering Rory's close proximity to myself everyday from 12:10 to 12:45pm at the lunch table. Nothing could take me out of the catatonic state of eating and occasional staring I was in at that time of day, not even if those two unknowing lovebirds took everything off and mated right on the table, I'd probably still be mooning over Rory.
 
"There was that one boy in Lane's band you told me about yesterday, Dave Rygalski? From the way you describe him he sounds perfect."
 
"Yeah, for Lane. He's also not my type, I don't usually have a thing for musicians." Again with the mystery surrounding her. "He seems dead set on her anyways, I can tell by the way he's trying to impress Mrs. Kim by playing the Jesus card."
 
"Impression through religion; sounds like Kim has herself a keeper." We both laughed for a bit, and I asked her again if she was interested in anyone, just to make sure. She nodded vigorously a no to this, but I did notice she seemed a little distracted by something, namely the wide expanse of skin along my neck.
 
I was starting to get even more butterflies fluttering through my belly than I did when I discovered the list. There was a building sense that I had to tell her, and though I wanted to tell her after about a week of rehearsal of going through the motions, maybe invite her out to dinner, there was no better opportunity then that moment to my mind. It was blunt, usually unforgiving, and took no prisoners as I would suddenly say something to throw a competitor off track.
 
Leave it to my unbalanced self, with Sharon's chromosomes floating around inside, to just lay everything out on the table.
 
I called for her attention, and she probably expected me to bring something up like a school subject.
 
"Rory?"
 
"Hmm?" She was still cheerful and at ease.
 
"You know how I said that I wasn't interested in Tristan romantically anymore last night, even if he were to come back?"
 
A nod. "Yeah, I remember."
 
"Then did you notice why I didn't really take to Jamie like you thought I would back in Washington?"
 
Another nod. "Yes, I'm sorry you didn't match up well--"
 
I interrupted her, and made my way over to the couch, asking her to move over and continuing to hold the notebook. She seemed a little nervous about why I was dragging it along like a teddy bear, and I prepared for the worst.
 
"Well, there's sort of a reason those things didn't end up working out in the end, especially with Jamie." My mouth was drying as I watched Rory and her body language start to tighten, which took me out of the element of the conversation.
 
I remember thinking there that I couldn't do it, admit that I was the way I was. I looked into Rory's eyes, nervous about what to say. So many parts of me were telling me to back out of this and just lie through my teeth. The portion of myself against this was already formulating something involving a kissing booth at the Winter Formal with both of us as the paid prostitutes...ahem, receivers of $1 kisses for the entire night, hopeful I'd find a spark with one of the guys in Chilton.
 
No matter what I tried to think though, I couldn't lie to Rory. There was no way in hell I was going to keep the fact that I feel electricity, not just mere sparks, when she's near. Another reasoning is that even if it's just a hand to her hand, my day isn't complete with at least one instance where we touch each other. In years and years with Tristan I never felt anything close to wanting to touch him to fill a void.
 
Once I'd admit to her, she wouldn't be just an innocent girl I lusted after. She would know that I was interested in her, and she could construe the reading of my notes as an invasion of her privacy. It might be just a phase to her even if I did admit and within days she'd be pining for a new boy coming into Chilton, just like those twists that happen in teen dramas all the time...
 
Lo and behold, the boy would take her away from me and I'd be forced to relive the images of Rory kissing someone other than me. If Unknown New Guy got her, I wouldn't have her, and that next relationship she might have just might be the one where she decides it's time to truly rid herself of the Mary label she's held since her first day.
 
You could be that one Paris. There was that same voice who challenged me in screaming my like for her aloud in the bathroom the day before, just as Ms. LaCosta came into the room. She thinks of you as a challenge, and if you were to share this want for her, that might set up more possibilities. You know you use the small bits of anger she displays as a guide to her emotions, and that part of her along with the innocent tease...you wouldn't keep your hands off her.
 
My face started flushing red, it was always tough imagining a wanting Rory when she was right in front of me, looking at me wide-eyed and asking me what was wrong for not saying more.
 
She took my hand, threading her fingers between mine and telling me that whatever was on my mind, I could tell her.

I sucked all the willpower I could, took a deep breath and spread it through my lungs, and just went full tilt after putting on a strong face betraying my emotions.
 
"I need you to keep this in complete confidence Gilmore," I told her, sternly. "I've only trusted this to Fran so far, and she's kept what I have to tell you to herself for so long I'm surprised she's been this resilient. If you do find yourself uncomfortable with this, please just go to your room without any vocalized judgment, I'll leave quietly."
 
A pause, then a soft OK from her. I had already thought about this long enough, and with her hand in mine, I didn't want to essay my coming out, summarizing it like a review from People seemed to be the best course of action. Another deep breath, and here it went...
 
"I, I...uhh, well you see..." So much for copying Ellen's simple declaration that 'Yep, I'm gay', because those words weren't coming. I found myself iced and not able to spit it out, afraid of the impact of the words on the girl in front of me. It seemed like I'd never be able to say it, and I'd fall back on the 'set me up with a guy excuse'.
 
In the paralyzed state I fell into however, what I couldn't say with my words, could easily be vocalized with my body. I found my other hand taking Rory's free one, and her concentration seemed shaken. She was putting on the same strong front as I was, and inching a little closer to me on the sofa.
 
"Whatever it is, it's OK," she said with a soothing voice, her jeaned leg almost seeming to press up against my bare one. She released her grip on one of my hands, and started moving it up my arm, leaving goosebumps in the wake. I saw something in her eyes I had only seen precious few times within.
 
Determination.
 
Her hand moved up and up the flannel of the shirt, but to me it seemed like a layer of heavy cotton wasn't between her fingers and my skin. She seemed to suck her lips back into her mouth, and though my eyes were concentrating on those deep blues of hers, I could feel all my senses going off.
 
Her soft, angelic face wasn't like it ever had been before, so close to mine as that hand brushed against my shoulder. Her eyes were moving closer and closer towards mine, and I couldn't help but feel a shudder.
 
I weakly tried to ask what her motives were with a strained out "Rory?", and felt like my brain state was reverting back to infancy as I lost all thought. Her index finger in my hand ran against the curve of my lifeline. I looked down, the intimacy of the gesture becoming clear as I clung to the blue book as if she would find out about what I was going to tell her involving my sexuality.
 
My fear was unfounded as the distance between us, which seemed to have been inches, turned into centimeters. Rory was so close to me that I could smell a sweet mix of that same Aqua Fresh she always brushed with, combined with the taste of a toffee vanilla cup of coffee.
 
One last chance to vocalize, let this blue-eyed, small town girl know that I'm interested...
 
"Um, never mind actually." I thought I was confessing, but I was freezing up on her instead as I didn't tell her a thing. I was looking at her with all the reverence I could muster, and instead of stating that simple two or three word declaration, I was shying away, turning myself stone cold once again.
 
I expected Rory to back off, move onto awkward banter revolving around the topic 'So how 'bout those Blue Demons?'. Not like I know how they were doing, I was too focused Friday night on preparing to wow Rory to the dance marathon title rather than chilling my fingers off in the bleachers of Archauer Stadium hoping the football team would get into the CIAC playoffs and keep circ numbers up for the next two weeks.
 
I didn't look at her, staring down at my hands like a little girl lost. I knew how Rory felt, and how I felt for her, but she probably would consider the relationship an experiment instead of taking it seriously. She was her mother's daughter after all, and said mother bounces between so many guys in a year you can tell she still hasn't found that a única in the 18 years since she was sixteen.
 
She kept her hand in mine however, and said my name to bring my attention back towards her. Rory was in no mood to have me back off, and made that clear with her firm tone of voice.
 
"Paris, no." I brought my gaze up towards her, and found her eyes take on that stern unflinching look that was but second nature to me. "If it's serious enough that you'd want to keep it secret from everyone else, I want to know. I promise I won't tell anybody, because that's what friends do."
 
But this friend is about to shatter your entire view of her, I mused to myself with my heart picking up its rhythm. I remained stubborn and told her it was something small that didn't need to be microanalyzed.
 
"I don't care if you're about to tell me you slept with Jamie and you're pregnant with his child, I want to know what's bothering you!" She was still firm, and what she said just about shocked me.
 
I flared red and immediately denied that I wouldn't have bedded that boring dullard if I was Indecent Proposal'ed by him with a large cash payment involving a suitcase to do so.
 
"Well thank God for that." She kind of smirked at me, running that finger through my lifeline. I felt my forehead coat with a layer of perspiration and my face flush. Everything wanted me to yell that I was a lesbian, but I didn't want to. My heart needed to remain shielded from the eventual torrent of vitriol that was sure to come from her if I admitted my feelings. "You know me though, whatever it is I'm a lousy gossip, so I won't spread this through the school, promise."
 
It was then explained to her that she would never understand my confession, and that it was too wrenching to let out. I couldn't let her know that I wanted her hopes and wishes in that notebook to come true because that would be weak.
 
"You don't think I'd understand?" Rory's voice picked up a little. "You don't think that I would ever understand your little problem. For crissakes Paris, I've lived a life that I would love to give you myself, yet I'd love to be able to edit out certain parts, like the first three years where my mother, fresh out of her sophomore year at Hillside was shamed out of Hartford and the lives of my grandparents because she didn't take the trip to Planned Parenthood like all good little pregnant Hartford upper-crust teenage girls do!"
 
She stood up, and in a way that made me want to keep notes on how she'd ad-lib in a debate, continued. "You know what my first address after I turned one was? There wasn't one because my mom raised me until after my terrible twos in a garden shed at the Inn, next to the pond! It was heated, it had a TV, a bed, a couch, and a bassinet, but not much else. Then we went from apartment to apartment over the next seven years in and around Stars Hollow, as Lorelai worked 14 hour days at the Independence trying to earn just enough so we could buy this nice house in a nice neighborhood and I wouldn't have to ever worry again about having to explain to my few friends why I lived upstairs from a bookstore! Those friends abandoned me once junior high started once they learned in sex ed that teenage pregnancy was something to be ashamed of, and that despite my mother getting her own house at the age of 27, she wasn't to be looked at as a good role model. That when I learned that Lane was a true friend and would never, ever judge me for what I am and what I've come from. I had no friends except her though seventh until tenth grades, you know how that felt?"
 
Oh God, I was making her break down; this wasn't a Rory I was familiar with, being human and infallible. "One of the reasons I kept putting in an application for Chilton year after year was that everyone at Hollow Jr. High and the high school always made me feel that no matter what I did, no matter how much I kept my grades up, I wasn't to be spoken to, I was the child of shame. Yeah, the older people in this town I grew up around think I'm the best thing to ever happen to this hamlet, but the schools here are as cutthroat, if not more, than Chilton ever could be, kids are so ass-backwards in this town when it comes to tolerance. So I did the schoolwork as hard as I could, poured my energy into everything, kept myself up through their taunts, just so I could have a shot at going to your school. And when I was able to attain it, I was relieved, so damned happy I could escape that school and stop being so shy and withdrawn. But when my mom learned she'd never had enough for tuition, she went kicking and screaming back to her parents, desperate for any help. I wouldn't want to have to ever be in her shoes, hoping for the best and the least contact possible with those two whose wishes she defied for so long."
 
She slid back onto the couch and held my hand tight, continuing to vent, and I was powerless to stop her. She poured out two years of frustration of who I was and how she's been trying to figure out how I can have such a kind heart at some times, but most of the times act like such an iron bitch to her and everyone else. She told me it was fine to do it to fellow Chiltonians; they were just as bad, if not worse than those in Stars Hollow towards her. She kept asking about why I'm so vexing when it comes to our friendship. God, just seeing Rory in this condition was wearing on me. I understood Rory the Scholar, Rory the Golden Child just fine. But as I know too well, it's hard keeping up a façade for such a long period of time, and there was still facets of her that not even her mother, and in turn best friend, has no idea about.
 
"You don't know how much I hold in at times Paris," Rory said to me as our eyes met again. "When I broke up with Dean on Tuesday night, there was so much I wanted to say and call him on, he was never the right one for me. I mean I kept this thing up for two years that we had, and I did love him for a time. But really, since the play a year ago, I stayed with him more out of the necessity of saying 'I have a boyfriend' rather than being unhitched." She crimped her forehead and seemed frustrated as she inhaled and exhaled deeply for a bit. "I never, ever took a risk with him, and my mind kept trying to think of ways to say I want more from Dean. I just could never feel comfortable around him and his life, and to be honest, I never could picture lasting through college with that guy when I couldn't even think about him watching me from the spectator's section at graduation."
 
Her hand wrapped around mine tighter as I tried to reassure her that things would work out, and holding my tongue, told her that she'd find Mr. Right eventually.
 
I thought the talk would move on to droller subjects after I said that, and that we'd move on from the topic not brought up yet about my sexual orientation.
 
Well color me pink and call me Piggly Wiggly, because that wasn't how things ended up at all. She looked up at me, eyes wide, as her other hand moved towards the one I was using to hold the notebook. There was that determined look on her face, along with a bit of caution in her features and tightened body language.
 
Rory spoke softly, trying to slowly bring back up the discussion.
 
"I understand there's probably a Mr. Right for me out there somewhere, and at Chilton, a Mr. Right Now." A smile and a laugh for both of us for the nervous joke. "The problem is..." She took the notebook from my somewhat loosened grip, set it in her lap, then took my left arm by the wrist. "What if wanted a Miss Right?"
 
She didn't say that to me, did she? That was my reaction as I found myself strangely surrounded by her words.
 
"A Miss Right?" I repeated for her, numbed.
 
"Yes, a Miss Right," Rory parroted back. "Over the last few months, I have fallen out of love with Dean, but at the same time, found myself in a strange predicament where my dreams revolved around another woman rather than him. After a few more of those, and trying to compare and contrast this seemingly unnatural feeling, I connected the dots, crossed the T's, and weighed all the evidence of my relationship with Dean with that of my past encounters with guys. Looking at all that, I realized there was no spark to Dean and I, and in turn I never found myself drawn to boys in general."
 
Trying to stay in denial mode that I was that 'another woman', I tried to keep the debate strong. "But Jess, you were interested in him for awhile, I mean you skipped school that one day to be in Manhattan just to see him after the accident."
 
"There was lust there Par, but never love. When I kissed him at the wedding, there was nothing there, no urge to go further than that. He's more than a friend to me, but just in the male best friend sense. There's too much there with him to deal with and I'm not going to pursue a relationship with him just because I had a couple of sex dreams with him."
 
I was nervous as I asked her to confirm her sexuality, with her hand still in mine, and making me anxious and jumpy as all get out.
 
"Well, that's the problem. I think I am...that, but maybe I can still find a spark with a guy." She flailed her other hand out and widened her eyes. "What if it's just a phase, and I'm just thinking this way because I figure I can't keep a boy in my life, so why don't I rope in a girl and see how that goes. I mean I haven't shared this with anybody, and I'm scared as hell because I'm expected to be the pride of Stars Hollow and make 'em proud. The older people in this town revere me, and what happens if I let them know that they'll have to lock up their daughters instead of their sons, and I'm not this supposedly innocent girl, because I have so many corrupted thoughts floating around in my head, and oh God..."
 
She was starting to go on a babbling track that was starting to make her seem unhinged, and I was saddened to see that my refusal to let her know my secret was doing this to her. In this blur was the fact that she was saying she was gay herself. My mouth was drying and words weren't coming out because I didn't have any idea how to tell her that I was in the same predicament, at least the way she was. Her hand seemed to be permanently bonded to mine, and I saw her start to cry.
 
I don't want to see her sad, I thought to myself. My heart was breaking for her; only hours before we were celebrating a well-earned victory. Now we were both on that couch, in the same boat, with about 95% confirmation on my end that it was me she had been thinking about me in those dreams she was having. It was that other 5%, the worry that she was thinking of another girl altogether that was getting to me.
 
It was time to get blunt and stop letting emotions cloud things up. I felt the beating of her heart in her wrist, like Rory was running on adrenaline. My throat tightened as I said her name and she brought her attention back up, wiping the tears from her eyes with her fingers.
 
"Yeah?"
 
"These dreams you mentioned..." My voice wavered, but somehow stayed on track. "Was I that other woman? Have you been uh, thinking of me in more the terms of a lover than just a good friend?"
 
There, it was all out on the table for her to analyze. I was putting my heart in the pot and hoping that the gamble would be worth it. She looked into my eyes for a moment, trying to gather a smile, but failing to as she expected the worst from me. She sort of blushed and then bit her lip as her voice took on a soft timbre.
 
"Paris," she told me. "You've been carrying around the RN notebook for the last forty-five minutes. I know your mind and how it ticks, your curiosity is something I like about you." She then let me know she put it on the bottom on purpose and hoped that I'd look at it. "I started that list all the way back in the beginning of October, and it's far outpaced what I've ever liked about Dean. I kept denying and denying my feelings, and I started feeling this way heavily when we shared the Howard dorm through the summer. But it first took root so long ago last year in a very small way..." Rory wandered off, and I was left in a stunned state.
 
She had just told me that she was thinking about me in a way unlike what I thought she did for at least a year. That I had been reading her feelings perfectly for the last three months, was starting to bring me into a euphoria I could've never believed I was feeling.
 
I kept putting the words 'Rory' and 'gay' together in so many ways in my mind as I felt my heart pound. I had many pictures of how I'd come out in my mind, and some of her doing the same thing, but this situation, this reality was so much different. This was us, the comfortable blank silences, our minds filling those blanks with opinions and hope. This wasn't something that could be rehearsed, because it was so raw and from the heart.
 
My eyes locked with hers one more time, and I felt so many conflicting feelings float through. Do I tell her and go through with it, letting her know that I feel the same? Or do I brush off her interest with a 'no thank you', remaining in my own personal hell having to watch love pass me by once again and hope there's another Rory Gilmore out there for me?
 
But there wasn't a chance I'd ever find her mind twin anywhere in this world. The nervous mannerisms, unique coffee addiction, tendency to ramble, along with her unique model-like looks in that body, I knew I'd never find such a combination of wit and beauty anywhere else, excepting 132 Cherry Lane in Stars Hollow, Connecticut.
 
My mind set things right before I could relent. You're not going to turn this down, right? I know you're a little afraid of things right now, like reactions and getting used to calling Rory 'honey' instead of 'bane of my existence', but this is so right, you know it. Just look at her right now, those eyes raking you up and down like she wants nothing but your lips on hers. Then take a look at what you're doing, between all these moves to keep it all in, almost drooling mentally at her attire and body.
 
Which was true, I still was looking at her with lust through her confession. That Rory was willing to take my heart and explained things so rationally, gave me much more reason to fall for her. She wasn't just in it for the curiosity; she actually thought of me as in tune with her, understanding how she ticked.
 
"So," she mumbled out, again looking down at her hands. "Never tell me I'd never know how it feels to be you. I want to know what you wanted to tell me, and even if it's something negative, I'll see it through your viewpoint. This is a give and take friendship we have Par, and I just gave the confession that I think of you as more than a friend. I just hope you don't shut me out now that I said that."
 
More tears and sobbing from her after that, I couldn't handle seeing Rory like this. I had to admit what I felt for her to keep any more pain from befalling her.
 
"Ror," I said calmly. She looked up as I brought my hand out of hers and moved it across the bare freckled skin of her arm. She looked at me with what seemed to be a mix of loss, hope, innocence and lust, her blue eyes widened at my touch, mouth parted open.
 
We were at the line, ready to breach it with my next words.
 
"You just knocked me over with a anvil, because since last year," I paused to wet my throat with a sip of tea. "I've felt the same way for you. Rory, I like you, in that romantic sense."
 
I felt Rory stiffen immediately, sort of in shock and going into Willow Rosenberg mode, where speech was slow to come and much stuttering ensued. "R-r-really? You, uh, do like me err, like that?"
 
That caused me to laugh, and I let her know that I had read every page of that pro and con list, surprised as hell, yet elated, like I'd received a G4 Mac with a 30" monitor and 60GB iPod for a Hanukkah gift from my father, that this was the best news I had ever read.
 
It was time to confess; yet I wanted to keep some things secret so we could have talking points later, so I didn't let her know the first hints of the crush came at the Bangles concert or a few other things. I told her how much being the emergency Romeo had affected me, and that there were so many times I wanted to admit but events in both of our lives interfered. I told her how I never even considered anyone else to be my VP and that the summer in Washington to me was meant to find out if I could handle living with her day in and day out, and in turn that she might. I found it to be a success, and she told me the affirmative, though letting me know that sometimes the sleep talking was a little odd but in an endearing way.
 
When I got to the night where I went out with Jamie from Princeton, I let her know that I had no desire of continuing the relationship from the moment we greeted each other, that I was thinking of her the whole night and had the sense I was cheating on her despite no vocalization of our feelings. Rory tried to assure me that she thought she was doing the right thing, but I couldn't be mad at her for the setup. I took it as a last gasp at falling for a boy, and the results of the experiment; a dismal failure. She then told me she felt so alone that night, unable to think of anything else while she kept her like for me hidden and tried to use the setup and ensuing date to gag her feelings for another girl.
 
I admitted to being pleased with her wardrobe modification after the hemline issue passed and that I enjoy every brush, touch and sly move to get my attention, and I want more, much more than that.
 
"When I'm around you, I can't handle myself, academics are second to you," I implored her. "The moment I hung up the phone Tuesday morning, I went from 'I can't wait to tackle that AE test', to 'I can't wait to see Rory'. That's what you do to me Gilmore, and though I try to push away, you've done all you could to show that you'll pull me back in. I like your tenacity and your courage to pursue this further, and this morning when we won..." I wandered off again as she moved closer to me, her hand resting on my thigh. My breath seemed to quickened, but I continued on anyways "When we won, there was a sense of accomplishment that even with all our issues, we can come together and go through something that in the minds of others, might seem amateur. I felt good last night winning, and I loved it even more that I won with you at my side."
 
Everything seemed to come together after that. Rory and I became comfortable with the idea that we were attracted to each other as we talked on and on about things such as the field hockey match and the boat trip in Baltimore where she said she may have admitted had Jamie not arrived on the scene.
 
When she said that, I thought about how I may have reacted then. Probably because of how public it was, it would've been ugly because we really didn't know each other in the way we've been for the last three months. Sure, I would've been happy, but back in July we would have acted on lust instead of an actual foundation for a relationship. There was no bedrock there; the bond we shared was still tenuous, like the cinder block anchors of a mobile home in the eye of a hurricane. We had to know each other more, become comfortable with inching out of our comfort zones before Rory and I could even start thinking of a relationship.
 
I know it in my heart; a relationship in Washington would've been a catastrophe, an experiment gone wrong. No matter what storybook allusions I held in those eight weeks, admission of my feelings at the foot of the Jefferson Memorial or hers on the Inner Harbor ferry would have ended up in disaster. She was still with Dean; I was still undecided on my feelings.
 
And that left another question on the tip of my tongue. Did she break up with him, for me?
 
Simple question asked, simple answer said. With a small smile, she confirmed a suspicion that I had been thinking of since she asked me to the marathon.
 
"The opportunity presented itself at the diner, and before I could talk myself out of it with my usually large guilt complex, I broke up with him. I didn't even plan to ask you to the dance marathon before then, but once I got home, things started to fall into place."
 
I smiled back at her. "Just to make sure of one more thing. The sprinklers, that was totally unplanned, I mean that wasn't part of you trying to tease me more, right?"
 
She shook her head no and grinned. "That, my friend, was a happy accident." We were unconsciously moving closer to each other, and both feeling like the tension that had wound around the conversation was gone. I was feeling sort of flirtatious, so I decided to correct her.
 
"Don't you mean girlfriend?" I said, curling my finger across the pulse point of her neck. We were both smiling like those sappy couples you see in TV commercials, and I felt that way. She took it a little seriously, as she should, but still was playful.
 
"Is that what you want Par?" She was smiling at me, and though usually I'd analyze a life decision like that until I was blue in the face, remembering that first entry in the pro/con list, there wasn't any need for second-guessing.
 
I want her, the list said in her cursive.
 
I want her, my mind was telling me, Mother, my fellow students, friends and family be damned.
 
I told her that yes, I wanted things to be that way.
 
"You're sure?" she cautioned. "Because once you and I pursue this, nothing is going to be the same again. I just want to make sure you know what you're getting into by getting into a relationship like this."
 
Rory had a valid point; I had to make sure that this is what I wanted. I wasn't just, as with a guy dipping a toe in the water and running far if things didn't work out. This was my friend--no, my best friend that I was pursuing. As she said in her notes there's a chance I could break her heart or fall for someone else, male or female if things didn't work out between us. Combine that with the volatile past we had, then what happens if one of us finds some jealousy issues and tries to make too much out of it. We'll fight, and the next time it might not be with anything but wordplay.
 
I looked at her for what would later be the last time as just my 'friend'. Her hand was intertwined between my fingers, and her face was about 8" away from mine, her lips glistening in the sunlight filtering in from the windows. Her eyes were opened wide, and when I brought my gaze down, her chest was looking very delectable to me. She was curled up in the corner of the couch as if she was ready to read a good book. That is, if she held one; the only thing she was reading with her eyes was the realization that things were changing between us, and that I wanted to be a willing participant.
 
Go for it, my conscience implored. You want to show Sharon that you can face up to a challenge; this is a high five on the difficulty scale! Sure, you like her, but to keep a relationship with a former enemy so long, you're going to need more than luck to get this right.
 
I brought my free hand up to her face, finding a couple of stray hairs hovering above her eyes that bugged a little. I used my fingertips to brush sensually against her cheek, and then started to descend towards her in expectation.
 
"100% sure of this Ror. If you knew how I thought about you over the last few months, you might faint from an overload." I smiled at her and her face lit up like a fully lit set of menorah candles, eyes widened and following that hand on her face from below her cheek and towards her right.
 
"Well, uh..." distraction again was working in my favor, fragmenting her words. "I bet my dreams match up pretty well, considering all of what I told you and how it affected me." That elicited a laugh from me, and I was curious a little bit, I felt my face flare up in embarrassment.
 
"What am I like in these dreams?" Unconsciously, I didn't even know that Rory was moving closer to me and coming out of her little hovel on the couch as I slid further down the sofa from her.
 
"The usual," she told me, the sensuality no longer covered up as it had before by nervous hiding. "You're dominant, assertive, very territorial..." I was jarred by the left arm of the sofa hitting my upper back. Strange how Rory is somewhat the same in my dreams, but in a more soft approach than I thought I was in hers. "However, you're still very sweet, concerned and dare I might add..." she brought down her voice to a soft whisper and her arms started to wrap around my back. "...cute."
 
Stop making me blush, stop making me blush...Pleas to myself to keep things calm weren't working well and I started to feel like such a sap. I told Rory that I don't do cute, never have, and never will.
 
"You are right now though, and I'm not afraid to see it. Yesterday you looked cute; two days before you also looked cute, and right now you're too cute for any words." The way Rory was looking at me; like a very tender steak. I started feeling warm and on edge, as if any sudden movements would bring us into a passionate embrace of my doing.
 
"Thanks, I guess." Her mouth was now mere inches from mine, and my breathing reflex seemed to lose its ability to combine the task of speaking with bringing oxygen to my lungs. "You're the same, always. I might even, uh, fathom to say..." Another stilted deep breath. "...you look hot right now Rory." God, look at me there, talking like I was describing the cute lead singer of the next great band. That is if that singer happened to resemble Sheryl Crow. See, even shallow with my secret crushes on women here!
 
"Hot?" She questioned with a uncharacteristic smirk. "I'll take that as a compliment then, along with perhaps--"
 
She started closing that distance between us, the countdown in my head down to single-digit inches. Six inches, five inches, four... My mind seemed to turn off and the only thing keeping me from flatlining into a coma was my hormones.
 
"Yeah," I barely gasped out as my hands nested within her hair. "That would be nice."
 
...Three to get ready, two for the show, one last chance to close your heart. Rory's hand touched my cheek; I did the same for her. Her blue eyes sparkled in my gaze, and she must have thought my pupils were crackling with a fire not even Tristan could start.
 
"It would be nice," was the last thing she said before the inch became fractions, those fractions became smaller fractions, then decimal points going from tenths to hundredths to thousandths, all the way down to millionths as my year-long pursuit to make her know that I wanted her ended.
 
0.00" is equal to Rory kissing me, and though I could describe it in droll and completely silent terms, I'm going to be girly here and say that, wow, it took my breath away. It was a soft kiss, something that started fairly benign. Being the unprepared portion of the couple I just went with what she wanted, her soft lips against mine and trying to imitate what she was initiating with me.
 
Within moments however, that shy and reserved girl that usually defines Rory seemed to drift from her body, and she started gripping at the side of my neck, wanting to heat up the kiss. I also did the same on my end and tried to keep up with her, afraid somehow that I was going to fuck it up. There was nothing to fear though; as her actions with her mouth indicated that she wanted more than just 'smack-smack' pecks. I easily agreed to her wishes and it didn't take long for those soft pecks ended up long, insistent open-mouthed kisses.
 
Mind you I wasn't ready to bring it up to frenching, and Rory's body language indicated she wasn't either. This was us proving how we wanted this relationship to start. We couldn't go into this with 100% lust, we still had to have our wits about and make sure that one or the other wanted this or that. Though it took me a bit, I finally recalled the advice I had read on a website that I wrote in shorthand onto an index card for that date with Tristan about how to kiss goodnight. I used that, and though for a different purpose, as in saying hello to my girlfriend named Rory, it seemed to work. I found my head against the armrest of the sofa, Rory above me and her legs across mine, doing well to stay out of a sexual position.
 
We said barely anything through this first kiss; just enough to say whether we liked what we were doing to each other or not. I was more focused on things going haywire with my senses. I could smell nothing but Rory and her light flowery body wash scent mixed with faded vanilla, and heard nothing but the insistent pounding of my pulse in my ears, along with the sounds of kissing and our shifts on the couch. She was still kissing me with vigor, and I was starting to reciprocate with all the passion I've had in reserve for so long.
 
My hands in her hair, keeping her soothed, I just kept myself on her lips, trying to keep this thing between us heated up. Our noses touched a couple times, and everything about this situation, it seemed right.
 
After months of want, weeks of sly flirting, days of want, hours of close contact, and minutes of desire, things had finally come to a head, with the result being both of us having this kiss on her couch. Never in my dreams could I have thought this moment would end up this way.
 
I was surprised with how aggressive Rory was since I expected her to be sort of vanilla and plain when it came to passion. She was far from that, giving me some teasing hints of what to expect from a relationship with the occasional lip-nip and her body weight atop of mine. It was wonderful, some of it was so dizzying I forget details, and I felt like I would lose all my breath; whatever kisses she ever gave Dean, they had very little passion compared to this one.
 
I felt myself beyond aroused, trying to be careful that she didn't sense my nerves and the fact my legs were tightly crossed. I panted for breath with each chance I got, Rory's arms wrapped around my back, seemingly not ready to let me go. I felt so underdressed, for only the shirt was in the way. My face was flushed to a dark crimson and my lips were numb from the kiss, I couldn't dare imagine what would happen if the kiss continued on from what it was. Rory's legs were a little too close for comfort, and feeling her chest against mine, though I would have loved to heat up the kiss, she needed a slow build-up. I wasn't just going to leap into bed with her, and she was probably thinking the same thing towards me.
 
So with more hesitation than I had turning in my Harvard application, I pushed her back gently. I made sure to smile, reassuring Rory that her courageous move to be the one to initiate was for the best. She pushed over to the other side of the sofa, our gazes never retreating as I looked over the results of my side of the kiss.
 
Her hair was sort of disheveled from my fingers' tendency to have something to do since I'm a rabid multi-tasker even in the throes of passion, and her face was a dark pink, dampened from perspiration dripping down her forehead caused by our closeness. She was just sitting there, smiling and breathing heavily, and all I could think to myself was, I did this, I caused her to lose her bearings. I smiled, still nervous and sort of on edge. My longtime dream had just come true, and I didn't want to ruin it.
 
Despite the fact I seemed to get everything out, there were still a rabble of butterflies floating around my belly. Did I do it right? was the question to myself as I tried to gauge Rory's reaction to that first kiss. I analyzed it in my head, the timing, technique, whether I should've done a flick of my tongue against my teeth in or to tease her a little, also whether I tasted fine, because the mint of the tea may have been a little overpowering.
 
"That, that was really nice." All the thinking in the world couldn't stop that first reaction from coming out of my mouth, in a nervous stammer. "Geeze Gilmore, that was, wow--" From there I started a ramble that would make me feel right at home over at the Institute of Living. Looking back at my reaction, I really need to improve not only my kissing description skills, but also my conversational skills in general. I was flighty and prone to getting off-point, asking her things such as if I kissed too wet or had too much pressure against her lips, even if my nose was too big to nuzzle.
 
"Paris, calm down." She set her hand in mine. "I liked the kiss, and the way you kiss, it was just right, and because it was you, it felt nice." She looked at me in a way that was reassuring, and sided closer to me. "As long as you won't start talking to me using index cards from now on, things are starting off pretty well."
 
I had to laugh at that; only I would go into a date armed with more questions than Art Fleming and Allen Ludden combined together. "So I was...fine? I didn't seem like an amateur when I kissed, because you know, Dean and you together, you got pretty heated at times--"
 
Before I could get out another word, she interrupted me. "Never as heated as that. Trust me, you're a good kisser, I should be recovering from that for days." She gave me that smile that weakens my defenses and I couldn't help but agree internally.
 
However I was feeling my inner vixen come out to play, and I was a willing participant. So I slid one of my hands across her face, and put on the most seductive smile I could imagine.
 
"Actually," I let her know, using a soft and seductive, yet firm treble to lure her in. "I could hypothesize that the kiss was good. However Gilmore, I'd just like to make sure this isn't a fluke and that it was a pretty nice kiss."
 
I shifted closer to her on the couch as my index finger traced the extent of the hairline on the back of her neck. A sensitive spot I was thinking since the scalp seems to have plenty of nerve endings to give her more funny feelings in the pit of her stomach, not to mention make Rory feel like her gray matter dripped out of her ear from the elicited feelings.
 
I heard her moan just a bit, then bring up her composure again as she noticed I was watching her. I came closer and closer as she slitted her eyes and puckered her lips together.
 
"Mm-hmm, the results of the first kiss were inconclusive." Rory's blues met my browns, and she was giving me that secret 'I like you smile' one more time. "We need to conduct some further testing in a closed lab environment, like this living room, for instance." Her words elicited a very uncharacteristic laugh from me before I moved in for the kill, telling her we'd be one of the oddest gay couples in history with the way we flirted.
 
"I guess that means I'm Oscar then? You're the one who's always organized while my locker's a mess--" I cut her off with a quick peck on her lower lip, and decided to give her a taste of her own medicine.
 
"I hate to say this Gilmore, but you better let your mouth get occupied with something else." We kissed again, and she moaned into my mouth as I did a little nipping motion with my teeth on her lower lip. "And don't call me Felix, 'cause the older men? They just plain creep me out, if I ever get it in my head to date one, you may shoot me at four paces." I then kissed Rory Gilmore breathless with all I had, leaving her speechless but for a forced out 'duly noted' in-between breaths. I could tell when her eyes closed shut and she tried to shuffle back away from my body things were really starting to come together for the both of us.

---

The rest of the day was happily uneventful, and though we finally had to separate off the couch after about an hour of slow meandering conversation about what this was going to do for everyone that we knew (and OK, maybe a little more kissing), Rory and I were far from in a panic. There was a certain calmness about her as she let me know that she thought long and hard about the reaction people would have to all of this. Everything on both our ends had seemed to come together to form this thing we have. My sly physical flirting and her using the English language and events to shift the momentum this way like the field hockey unit and the dance marathon, along with our conversations that seemed to take a more soft tone over the last few weeks, everything had come together almost perfectly. Some things were unplanned (Dean being let go and the fight in the conference room), but all these events, they had solidified our bond and were helping to spark this relationship that I never thought would be possible at this rate.
 
Time ended up passing way too fast, and before I could fathom it, 2½ hours had passed, and I had received a phone call from Francisca wondering where I was since she was a little worried. I took it in the kitchen and with Rory watching explained that I had caught a nap at Rory's and there was more to the story, but I'd have to tell her later. I smiled, finally able to not look one way or another to make sure Rory didn't hear anything that would prejudice her. I swear since those kisses happened we never took our eyes each other through the afternoon, but for trips to the bathroom and my changing into a pair of sweatpants I had in my car since the temperature was in the low 40s and there was a small threat of flurries in the evening.

After assuring Fran I'd be home soon, I ended the call and looked at Rory with an apologetic look.
 
"It's uh, 6:50," I told her, trying to justify the time. "I'd better get home, because I have some spare editing work for the Franklin I put off for the weekend." I played with the cuff on my buttoned flannel, looking nervous to Rory, and both of us were in a mood where separation was the last thing we wanted to happen. We were in the slow burn, honeymoon phase and I wanted to find out more about how Rory came to the conclusion she wanted me. However, there's plenty of time for that in the days and weeks to come; it's not as if we were at the end of Casablanca and I had to take off for points unknown.
 
"Yeah, I have about an hour before my mom comes home, the house could stand for a clean-up." Rory smiled as we both looked around the living room at what five days alone had done to this household. Pizza boxes and takeout bags piled in a corner, some of the pillows were either on the ground and astray, and there was still a blanket spread out on the ground from Rory practicing the nights and day before the marathon.
 
"Well at least you can proudly say you didn't have to resort to cooking at any time," I told her as we walked out into the front foyer. "I just hope Lorelai loves the surprise you're springing on her." I gave her a look upon realizing something. "You are going to tell her that I was your partner, right?"
 
She nodded and said that I would get a nice long boast about how much ass we kicked on that gym floor together, which left me relieved. Why would I have anything to fear in the first place, it was common knowledge we won already.
 
I was still worried about something else as I leaned back against the front French doors and I prepared to let her go after 37 hours with her in my arms' length.
 
"Ror," I said nervously. "I'm a hundred percent sure I want to try a relationship with you, I just want to make sure that from earlier, when you said this might be a phase, were you being truthful?" I looked into her eyes, expecting to see her scared and trying to explain things. But she's thought about this a lot, which much I'm sure of, because she was sliding her hand into mine and trying to keep me reassured.
 
"If it's a phase, it's a phase," she answered truthfully. "But we have to take a risk here, there's an attraction between us, and from what we talked about this afternoon, we can't sweep this under the rug. We can't give up on this because it looks bad to Hartford society, and if it does, we'll support each other." She looked up at me, giving me an easy smile. "I really do like you Par, and everything I wrote down in that notebook is the complete truth, I've felt more of a pull towards you than I ever did with either Dean or Jess, and I must be into sadism to have lasted this long trying to get in your good graces."
 
Man, she had a pretty nice point there; how many times did I belittle her, only to have her bounce back up towards me like a jack-in-the-box. So many times I could've lost her, but each time she stayed attached in the name of friendship and competition. I have to admit, she's managed to stretch the very definition of loyalty to its absolute limit.
 
I made eye contact with her, and after thinking over her words, let Rory know that I felt the absolute same way about her, and that I'll do anything to keep her, even though I'll have to keep this entire secret for now. I don't feel comfortable having to deny all that's happened today and in the last five days besides the dance marathon, but I want to get to know Rory through the old-fashioned courting dance, and the only way that can happen is if we keep this hush-hush.
 
She was being shy, I was being shy, yet I didn't want to leave.
 
"Thanks Paris, for everything this weekend," she said to me. "You went above and beyond what I was hoping would happen these last two days, and I'm relieved I don't have to hold back things anymore."
 
"You're welcome," I said as I found myself drawing closer involuntarily. I didn't know why, but my hormones must feel like they've been released from a stronghold I kept them in for so long. I don't feel shy and self-conscious around her anymore, so I felt comfortable taking her by the hand. "I never want to do the whole-day dancing gig again, but this being your girlfriend? I'm dedicated to you now, so if you need to call me, you know the number and the email." I smiled towards her, and Rory seemed to sigh as we both leaned in at the same time another soft, warm and longing kiss. I was glad not to be wearing any lip makeup, for the feeling of Rory's lips on mine is something I want to get very used to. By the time the kiss ended, we were both flush, and smiling like idiots. Idiots in the first stages of love, but one time I don't take that word as an insult.
 
"I'll see you tomorrow when you get to school," she told me in a voice that seemed a little too cheery for a goodbye, "otherwise I'll contact you somehow tonight after Lorelai and I are all talked out."
 
"I'm not going to be up at 12:30 in the morning," I joked, and Rory rolled her eyes and said my name in that 'I can't take you sometimes, but I'll take you anyways despite' tone.
 
Just then, I got this flash in my mind of Rory waiting at the town bus stop across from the town square, Dean no longer there to see her off for the day and seemingly alone in her Walkman-soundtracked world, watching the world pass by her as she sipped from the foam cup of Luke's finest. I could tell from her attitude on Tuesday that she was starting to loathe the bus, and in conversation during the dance, let me know that the driver was a real jackass to her when she rang the chime at my corner. There was also the guy who sat in front of Rory who leered at her like she was jailbait. Not to mention she's still pissed two months later because cuts in the CT Transit budget means she has to do a loop through North Hartford that's miles from her final destination of Chilton because they're too stingy for a dedicated route between the southern part of the county and south Hartford.
 
I also thought back to Tuesday where I was able to have her in the front seat on the way into class. It was a lot less lonely driving south towards the school, and though we were both in a rush that morning, imagining the half-hour of bonding and deepening our relationship I could have with her, Rory's mood in the morning could improve if I extended my ride offer to the morning. I thought about the extra cost and maintenance of another 35 miles a day on the Jag to myself, and found it to be a small price to pay despite the extra fuel. Driving her myself would also take the worries of depending on the whims of the bus driver to find out when my now-girlfriend would get in. Before, I barely trusted them with her safety. Now though, I couldn't fathom her taking that bumpy and wearing trip to Chilton on a bus each day.
 
Not to mention the brownie points I'd score with the elder Gilmores. Lorelai wouldn't cringe at seeing the $40 she had to give Rory for a monthly bus pass put to much better use (or to pay for some of my gas), while Emily, her grandmother would be overjoyed to see her granddaughter finally getting along well with a classmate well enough to get a lift to school from her each morning. Never mind that said classmate has completely shallow intentions for giving her grandchild a lift to school.

I let her know this new plan I had, and of course, she started trying to shy away from my plans immediately.
 
"I couldn't do that to you, your entire morning routine would have to be changed, you'd have to get up earlier than you do now," she argued. "What about your servants and Fran, they're not going to be happy about having to get up early, and your car in the winter! The road into town here isn't exactly friendly in driving snow..." Aww, I just like it when she gets all rambly and tries to stop me from spoiling her.

So I shut her up again with another slow lingering kiss, which I'll have to take in mind from now on as a good strategy to use to beat her when we mock debate. I broke it up and explained that I could go to bed at 10:20, an hour earlier from now on, and that the servants are already up and awake by 4:30am, long before my then-current wakeup time of 6:15am. Fran would be cool with everything, and if the roads didn't seem to cooperate, Rory forgot that I have a Range Rover in the garage I drive in the snow that has a high center of gravity and snow tires that wouldn't get stuck, even on the two-laner that goes into the Hollow.
 
"Oh yeah, you're rich, of course you'd have an SUV just in case." She laughed nervously towards me. "Are you sure it's not a hassle? You're very kind for offering, but--"
 
Time to get into strict authoritarian mode about then. "I'll be here Ror, and I will drag you off the bus if you try to get on it! I want that extra half-hour alone with you so much, so just take the rides, I'm not going to take a no for an answer."
 
"Fine." She sighed. "Just don't be late and watch out for the bumper-attacking deer on the way down." I grasped the doorknob, we both headed out of the house, and we walked down from the porch, to the gravel driveway my car was sitting on. It was a dawdling kind of seeing-off, both of us just taking in the silence of the early evening as I took my keyring out of my pocketbook and deactivated the alarm system. We both looked left and right, hoping we were truly alone. The seemingly limitless time we had before was gone; it was time to leave her for the rest of the night.
 
Rory held her arms close to her chest because of the cold weather. The tank top seemed to be a bad idea out there, but my mind still found something positive about it, namely her chilled breasts aroused by the cold. I kept my eyes on the car so I wouldn't be caught looking at her so blatantly...
 
OK, I did look, twice. Hey, you'd do it too if your girl didn't dress well for the weather. She didn't seem to notice, though she gave me a knowing look as I went into the car and started up the engine. Before that point, saying goodbye to Rory was something that was inevitable. After this Sunday though, I can never say goodbye to her again without feeling sort of melancholy.
 
I brought the window down, and she bent down to my eye level.
 
"Thanks again for the wonderful weekend, I'll try to get a smaller replica trophy from the town shop as soon as I can for you." She smiled, and I couldn't help but do it too. Knowing that this was Stars Hollow and the neighbors next door could be watching from beneath their blinds, I gave Rory one last kiss, in a friendly way on her cheek that wouldn't arouse suspicion.
 
"I won you hon." I let her know, turning into a full-scale sap. "No trophy or ribbon has the same significance as being able to say that you Rory, are mine." It was unexpected and something I never expected to tell anyone in my lifetime, but with Rory, I can let my guard down with her.
 
"And I'm yours Par," she let me know once more. "Until tomorrow," she started to back away from the car. "Goodnight, and I hope things go well for us tomorrow."
 
"Me too Rory, goodnight." With one more longing look, I watched Rory walk towards her porch in the rear-view mirror, as I reveled in the fact that girl, she was mine.
 
I feel...content, I thought to myself as I turned on the radio to one of the all-news radio stations out of New York to catch up with current events. It was mere background noise however, for I was still wrapping myself around Rory sharing the same feelings that I had for her. Suffice to say, the shock won't go away for days, and I'm sure when I awake at 5:30 tomorrow morning, there's going to be a pinch on my arm to confirm this fact, that we're both smitten with each other in such a deep way.
 
I pulled out of the driveway and onto Cherry Lane, leaving this weekend of November 9th and 10th, 2002 for history to decode. Rory's figure seemed to shrink in the rear view mirror with each new foot of road, the strain on my heart from missing her already starting to take root. When I reached the intersection of Cherry and Peach, which went towards the square, the small glow of her porch's light was all that was left of the view. I flicked on my right turn signal, stopped for as long as the law required me to, and turned right, back towards Hartford and an existence I'm not sure I want anymore.
 
Things are going to change from hereon out for both of us, I know this and Rory probably has this front and center in her mind. Over the next few months we're going to learn who are our true friends, that accept us for all we are. There's going to be people we'll find out can't stand the sight of two girls holding hands intimately, or worse, want us to 'renounce' our gaiety and try to cure Rory and I of this 'sickness'. I haven't read my friends or most of my family yet; right now it's about 50-50 that Madeline and Louise would accept us for who we are; Louise has some morals in her somewhere I'm sure.
 
My paternal (read; Jewish) side is going to be that way too, so really, I'm more afraid of my mother and anyone else on her side I share genes with, because they won't take well to this. If Sharon keeps ignoring me now in my asexual and fiery bookworm guise, what's to say she'll put a curtain of silence over me if she finds out I like a girl, and even worse, a frugal and non-rich girl from Podunk who comes from a woman she loathes? It's something I'm dreading, but thankfully thanks to Mohegan Man, will remain an open question for a long time to come; two weeks at the least. I'll only see her for five minutes after school each day, and then it's off with her on another whirlwind adventure to yet another boat dealer's lot in southeast Connecticut. She has this newfound obsession with yachting since Mohegan introduced her to it a few days. God, I hope Mohegan Man has all the piloting and captaining skills of the star character in some bad 90's flick I saw once on overnight TBS, Captain Ron. A flying leap off the starboard side might do Mother's mental fitness some good for once.
 
The ride home was silent the rest of the way, save for the catching up on the news and those thoughts, and I pulled into the garage next to the Manor about 8:15pm. I took the dress out of my emergency grooming bag and was thankful to find it unwrinkled and still in mint and vintage condition. Fran trusted me with this heirloom of her mother's, so I took all the precautions I could to make sure she received it back the way I found it. God, I love her. Without Francisca, I'd be such a sour girl and yearning in desperation for any kind of attention. She's kept me sane throughout the process of wooing Rory, and without her advice, I would've ruined things between Rory and I months ago.
 
When I came into the kitchen and went through the first floor towards the grand stairway up to the second floor, I found the house empty, but for a butler dusting a dining room china cabinet and the maid bringing up some wash and spreading a lily-white tablecloth across the dining room table. I was able to go upstairs without so much as a 'hello', since Mother has seemed to taken employment advice from Rory's grandmother and fires staff she controls whenever they don't meet her standards, which means often. I swear, that neat freak and etiquette Nazi, Hyacinth Bucket from that Britcom would tell Sharon her turnover is beyond crazy. But as I've said in the past, as long as she never touches any of the staff members hired by Daddy, especially Francisca, I could care less if a convicted felon was making my breakfast or cleaning my shower.
 
It felt so weird coming into that house wearing Lorelai's shorts beneath my pants, and her flannel instead of my usual high-quality wardrobe, and as I stepped on the second floor landing from the stairs, suddenly everything around me seemed too large for me. The large windows along the sides of the hallway, 8 foot tall paintings of my ancestors and the high double doors all down the hallway, this mansion, Gellar Manor, has been where I grew up for seventeen years.
 
After experiencing the cramped, yet cozy environs of the Gilmore house for twelve hours, things seemed too large to me. Although I keep a small bedroom of 15' x 18' (by upper-class Hartford standards), I could probably live comfortably in a middle class-house's bedroom just fine. My bed is the largest thing that I own, and I've taken advantage of the DVD and digital media era by turning my desktop computer into a do-all, radio, TV, stereo system and all around media system in addition to my schoolwork and web work. Everything I have in ones and zeroes is backed up four times over, with two of the backups offsite at Chilton and in a hard drive I safe deposit in my bank. My wardrobe is small, making my walk-in closet almost a sleeping-in closet. The only thing I could say clutters up are books, magazines and paperwork, and that I have meticulously filed downstairs in the library.
 
It's odd, I'm so lucky to have been born into a wealthy family. I have a room any girl would dream of, with lots of blank wall to hang limitless pictures of Justin Timberlake, Usher, and the other male effigies of this lifeless media generation. I could have a large vanity on one side of the room that could easily fit the entire makeup department of Bloomie's in with space to spare, and enough room in the closet for more than 1,500 pairs of shoes, giving Imelda Marcos a run for her money.
 
Thing is though, I'm simple. I live simple. The walls are bare, save for hanging art and the corkboard above my desk, along with embellishments my mother insisted on making and I didn't turn down, sadly keeping her from a nervous breakdown and a trip to the sanatorium. I don't care to get into those, but mostly they involve a mural on one wall that's supposed to look like a blue sky with clouds, but ended up having the appearance of an incomplete drywall project with the 'clouds' horribly done and the sky blue far from the correct portion of the spectrum; it's more dark blue.
 
About the only abnormal thing in the room is a mini-fridge in a corner off to the side with diet soda and cold ice tea on hand, and I only purchased that so I could stay out of Sharon's hair for as many hours in the day as I can. With the private bathroom and some smart shortcuts, I could survive at least a year without seeing my mother if I ever felt compelled to shut her out completely.
 
Ahh, the private bathroom. With a $10,000 Kohler shower unit in one corner with about 15 separate showering and massage settings including a waterfall, and a massaging bathtub in the other, along with a large sink, I'm lucky in that regard. I can bathe in absolute privacy without fearing anyone barging in or worrying about running out of hot water since each bathroom has it's own hot water heater. That was my first stop after getting into my bedroom, as I quickly disrobed and kicked off the underwear I had been in for almost two days. It was a very enjoyable showering session, and though I didn't partake any kind of fantasy situation with Rory while I cleaned off the sweat, tears and dirt that built up from the dance marathon and the stay with Rory, it warmed me to know that I didn't have to be afraid to from this point on. Rory made it clear I was in her fantasies, so her having marquee billing in mine would not cause me to feel guilt anymore.
 
The time seemed to pass quickly after I got out of the shower. I changed into light silk pajamas, colored a baby pink, and sat down at my G4 Mac to catch up on the news about Chilton I missed over the weekend. That's where I learned to my chagrin thanks to a good recap article by Davidson Banfield, my #1 sportswriter that Chilton's football team was dealt a heartbreaking loss to Seth Thomas Intermediate in their regional final playoff game Friday night, 40-38. No one in that entire stadium though that STI's placekicker would hit a last-second 55-yard field goal with the wind blowing into him since his personal best before that was 36, but his foot was strong enough to force the ball between the goalposts, leaving the Blue Demons, the Demonette cheer squad and all the students and alumni wearing Chilton blue stunned and leaving Archauer Stadium wrenching that their season ended so anti-climactically. It was sad to read, and I couldn't bear to edit the article, since Dave articulated what the average Chiltonian had felt the moment the ref's arms raised in the air signifying the successful try. It's going to be a down-in-the-dumps day in the halls tomorrow, I know that already.
 
The other teams from the school had won their matches/games though, numbing the pain of the football loss somewhat, and some scholarships were given out, so though there would be no boost from a state semifinal edition of the Franklin, I'd still be able to get together a nice edition to put out.
 
Of course, with Rory's help. I smiled to myself, thinking of how interesting brainstorm sessions would be after tonight. Why do I have a feeling that this is going to be like an office romance? Things will be done eventually, but only after plenty of groping, sweet nothings and snuck kisses in the broom closet. I share two big student group responsibilities with her, so to have my partner also happen to be my debate compatriot, student VP and assistant editor for the paper; I'll have to be careful to make sure that we both are on the same page. It used to be a hot-button issue would just cause some disagreement between us; being in a relationship with her now could be a traumatic blow to how things are going. I have to stay opinionated, but also won't be able to alienate or bully Rory into agreeing with me anymore.
 
Though I could always start a hot make-out session with her if all else fails and blow her mind into going with my agenda. Noted for the future...
 
I eventually caught up on Chilton news and with Madeline and Louise over the phone and instant messaging respectively, telling them I'd tell them about my weekend tomorrow. I want to get a good story formed so that I can keep in the excitement of the dance while blurring out the intimacies of Rory and I and how we're not just friends anymore. I hate to keep them in the dark for now, but I have to come out of the closet cautiously, lest it ruin my rep at school and in the social circles, not to mention Rory would be thrown to the lions with the kids finding out 'Mary' isn't all she seems.
 
There was one person I could trust with the news however; I went upstairs to Fran's quarters and knocked on her door, holding the vintage dress on a hanger and sort of nervous; this was the only woman who knew my interest in a certain girl, and I was hoping I had done her proud.
 
"Fran, hello?" I said nervously after she told me to come in, as she tended to a sewing project for a grandchild with a birthday coming up. She turned around and gave me a once-over as I handed her the dress.
 
"Minha menina, how was it," she asked with a smile which warmed my heart. We shared a hug, and sat down at her materials table. I had a smile a mile wide as Francisca hung the dress in the closet and I told her what had happened in a simple way.
 
"We won the competition," I started. "It was tenuous at times and there was a point where Tristan came up and I took it the wrong way, but after that, things seemed to get more comfortable and..." after that I summarized the dance the best I could from memory, which was filled with so many of them I felt like there was an overload. I let her know about all that touching and conversation, along with competing and Kirk and Carrie. Strangely, I can still recall the taste (or lack thereof) of Mrs. Kim's eggless egg salad. There was never a time before that I was more excited to gush about a victory like this, usually I keep reserved and bottle up my enthusiasm. When I got to the part were Rory had to take me out of a hyperfocused state to let me know Kirk and Carrie had fallen, I had Fran laughing and happy for me, and then trying to hold back tears as I described like a storyteller the Eternal Flame dance, and how content I felt in Rory's arms.
 
"So what happened after? You didn't come back here, so I'd right that you were over at Mistress Gilmore's home?"
 
I nodded. "She said it would keep from falling asleep on the way back home."

"I see." She shook her head knowingly, and gave me an unnerving look.
 
"What? That's what she told me and Rory was right, I would've fallen asleep on the way up."
 
"Henrico was on call, you forget dear. Even if Rory had to bring your sleeping body out to the town car, he still would have picked you up and brought Bryant down with him, who would have driven your Jaguar home..."
 
...Which I had remembered from Fran's last-second rundown Saturday morning of how I could get home had I ended up the way I did, my drivers Henrico and Bryant being on my beck and call to take me anywhere if I needed to, ready to be dispatched. All my bases had been covered, and as I had been trying to explain this backup plan to Rory, she had taken the initiative to bring me into distracting conversation and pushing one of her hands beneath the plunge of my dress, thus fogging my mind with sorority nonsense and hoping her hand wouldn't distract me further. By the time I had said yes to sleeping with her, Henrico and Bryant were forgotten and the only thing on my mind was winning the contest and her admiration.
 
I blushed red, telling a little white lie that I forgot and was sleepy instead of that Rory was screwing with my mind so she could put this entire chain of events in motion, and hoped Fran would understand that I didn't mean to worry the guys by not letting them know I made other plans.
 
"No, they were fine and happy to get some sleep, the GPS showed you were at the Gilmore home so they assumed you were sleeping over there. Nothing to fear, you're not in trouble." Fran smiled at me and I sighed in relief, thankful that the dealer installed a constant GPS beacon in my car that they could monitor on the computer in the garage just in case a nutjob tried to carjack me and think he could lose the cops. "How did that go, were you a good guest?"
 
I told her about the day, which was uneventful before I woke up, save for the spoon, which I kept out along with the unzipping. Once I got into the afternoon though, I seemed sort of uneasy, fearing I'd say the wrong thing and trigger something in Francisca. She accepts me, but there are times I think she's scared about my well-being. I explained about the lunch and studying Rory's notes, but started to fade my voice out once I arrived at the point of the Russian Novels notebook.
 
"Paris, what's wrong?" Fran's voice conveyed concern towards me, but before then, it had been to her, an unattainable crush to me, something I would never have. It wasn't an illusion anymore, and if I told her, she might try to talk me out of it.
 
Still, she knew me better than my mother ever could. She was the one to watch my first steps, listen to my first words (Fra-noo, proving here I wasn't exactly reciting Keats at 10 months), and who has seen me grow up from a child into the woman I am now. She was basically my mother in all but name and blood, and what Fran thinks, that influences me.
 
Her warm, timeworn eyes looked into mine, and I knew that whatever her reaction was, she still loved me, no matter what. Our bond is something you can find only rarely, and even Rory understands that. She even told me while we talked she wasn't afraid of my nanny; she was someone who sort of reminded her of Miss Patty, her defacto grandmother figure until her and Emily reconciled in the funding of her Chilton education.
 
I smiled towards Fran, and told her the truth as simply as I could. "I found Rory had been keeping a list of things she liked about me, a romantic list of things. Some of what has happened over the last couple months, she did that on purpose, to tell me she was interested. When I found that evidence, and told her not with my words, but with my eyes and my body language that I knew, she latched on and told me that she liked me-liked me in that way. We talked a little, and after trying to make heads and tails of this, we figured out that somehow in this weird way, Rory and I had good compatibility." I laughed nervously, and tried to gauge Fran's reaction to this news.

She was stunned a little, but soon recovered and asked me something important.
 
"Did you and Rory kiss?"
 
There was no hiding the rush of feelings flowing through my bloodstream; for even now as I think about this, I still feel dizzy from each time my lips touched hers. I could feel myself blushing as I admitted I indeed locked lips with her at quite a few times after 4:30pm.
 
"This weekend for me was just exactly what Rory and I needed," I confessed. "When I danced with her, and we were up on that stage holding that trophy together, that told me that we need each other, no matter what. We might both disagree at times and get a little bitchy when we're pissed at each other for what might be a little thing, but we both have soft sides for each other, and I'm her impetus to strive to be better, whether it be at school or in her eyes. In turn, she thinks the same thing; that's our competitive fuel, and somewhere in the middle, it ended up becoming passion. You saw me that weekend after we fought at school Fran; I was a wreck without her." About this point, I started trying to hold back tears as Fran told me I wasn't my same ferocious self. "God, I'm so glad you talked me into this dance, because I haven't felt so happy since before I went out with Tristan, only this time though, I know the feelings aren't one sided."
 
I then got up, met Fran in the middle of the room, and had a mother-daughter-like hug together as she assured me in Portuguese that she blessed Rory and I, that she had hoped that the weekend ended up this way, with Rory as my girlfriend. I felt wonderful confessing that Rory was my world and I was going to do my damndest to make this all work. Fran promised me she would run interference with Sharon, but then she cautioned me.
 
"You're going to have to tell her one day dear, and it will end up more soon than later. I know it's going to hurt her, but she's your mother despite." I bowed my head, thinking of Mother and how she'd react. In my mind, it's going to be horrible, and I can already sense that almost seven years of frustration and anger against her will be released as I tell her I'm gay.
 
You're going to disappoint her, my rational side reasoned, and sadly, it's most likely correct. I'm already leery and scared of her iron rule over my life, and can only imagine what kinds of things she has in mind. She's never wanted me to associate with Rory, and that was the only reason I used anger to defend against her push for friendship. I love Rory, though I'm not ready to tell her that because it takes time to say those three words to each other.
 
"I will tell her, but not for the next month probably," I said to my nanny. "We're in the experimental phase, and I want everything to go right." Fran looked at me, and nodded her head in understanding.
 
"It will, I promise you." She rubbed circles counter-clockwise around the top of my hand in a soothing motion. "Now after a night like that, it is time to sleep, you need to refresh and recharge, you look like you've had a long day."
 
"A long day, but also a good day." Both of us smiled, and I hugged her one last time tightly before I left her quarters. "Obrigado (thank you) Francisca."
 
"Quando caro, eu te amo, boa noite. (Anytime dear, I love you, good night)" I returned the love, and left her quarters, walking back to my bedroom feeling much more lighter than I did when I left this home at five in the morning on Saturday.
 
That brings me to where I am at this moment, laying in bed beneath layers of heavy blankets, an old dog-eared romance novel in my grasp, the literary equivalent of junk food. The story doesn't have my attention however, because as I lay here, I keep flashing back in my mind those intimate moments of interest Rory shared with me through the last two days. Those close touches, her hands against my back, as we guided each other to the slow beat of the music. I close my eyes and set the book down, my mind thinking of her undressing me and undoing Ms. LaCosta's tight knot. Teeth nip against those sensitive hairs beneath the rope of my Jewish star necklace, her lips soft against my nape as her hands run all over my back.
 
I feel a knot tighten up beneath as I imagine Rory at first undoing the knots, then her nervous voice in my ears, confessing her love for me. The name Lorelei (spelled with an 'e' in actuality instead of an 'a') comes from a Germanic legend about a sea siren on the banks of the Rhine, and though I only know her by her nickname of Rory, the name that's listed on her birth certificate, the meaning of it is fitting her behavior around me perfectly. I think of her undoing the knot, then having me turn around, where she whispers my name softly, then brushes her lips against mine softly. I let the front of the halter dress go, take her into my arms, and tell her how much she means to me as I cradle her ass into my hands, and while both of us softly kiss and tease, back her through the kitchen and into the bedroom, where we fall onto the bed in a heap, both of us starting to find our faces messed up with desire and want. I can still taste against her lips the familiar bitter tang of her own personal addiction, a hint of vanilla and brown sugar seeping in from the gloss against her lips.
 
My eyes tighten closed, and I find myself glad to have rid myself of the matching pajama pants I wore upstairs as I slide a hand up my thigh, the skin beneath the heel seeming to overheat with each thought of my favorite brunette as I think of myself trying to shrug the red dress she cut a rug in off her slim body. I moan Rory's name softly into the chilly air of my bedroom and my hand meets the bare skin of my side above the waistband of my panties. I feel ready to slide in a finger beneath the leg and spark a fantasy sure to cool my hormones and at the same time expend that last energy I have that's keeping me awake and fall asleep in a soothing ecstasy--
 
And now what is that tone that just jarred me out? Oh, it's just my iBook, which in a stroke of relaxing genius is within arms' length of my bed on the left side. I have it set to tone whenever I have an email from a good friend or Harvard (Hey, they could admit me at 12:01am tomorrow morning, you never know. Now that would be the ultimate great day!). I feel so comfortable in the position I'm in, but I never receive an email on a Sunday night.
 
That is unless there's some Franklin trouble. Oh dear, I better look at it. Thankful that the only wire that's connecting it is the AC adaptor plug, I grab it from its resting place and open the lid, expecting the worst as I Open-Apple+E into my email client and watch the messages filter into my main mail account, set up through the cable company. A few pieces of junk filter in, along with one of Louise's famous forwards I'll never read. I'm about ready to attribute this tone to a false-negative that snuck past my spam filter.
 
Wait...I gasp out as I see that name that now will turn me into a sap each time I see it or hear it. I smile a little as I double click on the message, and let the words spill onto my screen;
 
From: [email protected] (Rory Gilmore)
To: [email protected] (Paris Gellar)
Subject: Good Night
 
Par,
 
I'm here in my room, trying to think of what to say while my mom runs to the video store for candy and movies (a school night yes, but it's been five days and we've missed each other so much, time to bond) and before I get to tell her that you and I are the dance marathon champions, when my mind and my heart are still numbed because of what happened this afternoon. I'm still stunned, but don't worry, in a good way. I mean there have been first kisses I've shared, but Dean and Jess were never on the same page with me. That you've been thinking of me this way for at least the last five or six months, it made the kisses even better in hindsight. I promise you I have no regrets about this, and even though we'll have to go incognito on being together for now until we come up with a telling plan, I want to be closer to you, no matter the cost.
 
Also, I'm sort of looking back on our first two years when we were at odds, and though it may not seem like it, all that fighting brought us closer. I could be thinking a little too forward about this, but after all that fighting, I feel like we can survive anything. We're both fighters Par, and we've both shown that so much. Though we've never resorted to fists, our words are strong and they fly fast, and with both of us in a romantic relationship like this, we can overcome anything, I think. You kiss like you fight; strong and never wavering...lol.
 
I also think that if we fight, making up will be sort of...passionate. Though I'm not thinking we'll be like that just yet, I have to admit that after I fought with you in the conference room, my mom made this observation to me as I ranted on the way to Grandma's that I was talking about you like we were already sparring partners, and not in the boxing sense. I'm not saying that I want to fight again just for that positive side effect, far from it (God, I hope not). It's just that even when you're pissed off at me, and I'm wanting to tear out all your hair in one swift motion from your scalp because you're pushing my buttons, well let's just say that the 'I want her so bad even though she's poking me and drawing blood with a pointy stick' button is big, red and blinking compared to the smaller keys I could push.
 
I kept everything back from you for so long, afraid of what you would think of me wanting you, I don't exactly scream out lesbian from the way I act. But there was always something about you Par. From that first day you told me not to forget that you owned Chilton, I wanted to figure you out, find out what made you tick, be the way you are. That's why I kept trying to stay in your good graces; you were interested in me even if you did loathe me, you paid attention to me when others in Chilton weren't. Over time that because a curiosity, and then a mission, until I finally realized, I think I want you. I don't know if it's going to be the relationship of a lifetime, but I'm bored with guys. I'm done being auctioned off and fought over like a talented ball player or something of that sort. I want to have a relationship on my own terms, without having to worry about going too far or fucking up because I let passion get in the way. I'm not interested in guys anymore; I don't think I ever was, and had Dean never introduced himself to me at SHH, I don't know if we'd be at this point Par, becoming partners, or even in the deepest part of a relationship. Things may have been different, but I do know if things have happened like they did and I had a second chance at making changes, I wouldn't change this one bit.
 
We're perfect together, in sync, simpatico. Maybe we're even soulmates. I'm going to convince you, that falling for me is the best risk you ever decided to take. I like you as not only one of my best friends, but you know how it feels to be under all this pressure. I'm not scared of anything, and I hope you're not either, because from this night forward, you're my girlfriend, and I'm committed to you. Never, ever doubt that, for those sparks we share are real as can be.
 
I'd like to write more Par, but I just heard Lorelai barging into the house with bags in her hand and she's making a rather loud cowboy yelp that's really distracting...oh God, not another cowboy phase, I swear sometimes I should be running the Inn and my mom should be at Chilton :-p. Gonna end this message, and I'll see you outside Luke's tomorrow at 7am sharp, I thought it over and you'll be my ride to and from school from now on, I'm sending my Ralph Kramden-like driver to the moon permanently (or at least passengerless at the Stars Hollow stop). Let me know if you want anything for the trouble and I'll have it ready. Sweet dreams honey.
 
Ror
 
P.S. - Uh, just in case you thought about this, the kiss? To me, a good sign I didn't cry or run, because I was thinking about that all day, thank God I didn't. Take that as a sign that I'm ready for this, because I sure wasn't ready for Dean or Jess!
 
I look over her message, feeling even sicker for her with each and every word. She's putting a smile on my face and I'm sure she's sitting with Lorelai in the living room right now, listening to her mother describe an Elvis Presley haunt, while at the same time, thinking of me in bed, reading this and getting emotional over it. Yep, I'm a wreck as I read her kind words and what basically reads like a mission statement, that I'm coming into a not just a relationship, but a 24/7 commitment with her. It's something I've been ready for since last year, and it's finally true.
 
Her line about getting aroused after the fight? I smirk a little. Though I was a wreck myself afterwards, she had seemed to already forgive me for my overreaction, and was wound up from it? I didn't know that I was that good! My breathing shortens, and I have to get a thought of pushing her against the rail of a blackboard in the heat of an argument out of my mind.
 
It's clear from her thought out words though, that she's ready for this; the pressure and problems that come with having a relationship with another girl. She's not going to care what others think, as long as I make her happy, all is well with us, and I'm going to stone myself into trying to keep her as happy as she possibly can be. I write a reply just as long to her quickly, depending on the auto-correction for once in my client to get through the message. I respond to her point about anger becoming lust, and maybe love succulently, and let her know I feel that I have the same feeling about us; we're right for each other, no matter how much we might seem like an odd couple. I confess a few more things, and feel pleased as punch that she'll let me drive her to school.
 
Finally, hearing that she didn't cry because the kiss seemed so right, that was such a cute thing to include in the message. My worries about her crying and running were high, but once she got deep into it, I knew she was planted on the couch and upon my lips until she was out of oxygen. I'm on top of the world as I click the send icon, and close the laptop shortly thereafter feeling as if nothing can go wrong with this relationship. Now we just have to build a strong relationship on top of good kissing. It's a challenge, but I feel like we both can overcome it and any others that get in our way.
 
I'm about ready for bed now, my eyes seem heavy with sleep, so I undo the silk pajama top and throw it off to the side as I settle myself in beneath the covers. Before I do however, I reach out and open the drawer in my nightstand, pulling out something that I've been hiding whenever Mother or Rory have been in the room before. In a smooth dark maple frame, a 4x6 of Rory and I smiling towards the camera, both of us standing in front of the Supreme Court. A 16 year-old aspiring politico from northern Kentucky was also at the same time honing his photography hobby during the Washington trip, and told us to stand and pose together in front of the tall and broad steps of the heart of the nation's judicial branch so he could test out his abilities. Because his camera was digital, at that luncheon Jamie asked me out, he handed out printouts of the pictures he took to everyone who wanted them. He only had one of our pose, but Rory didn't mind if I wanted it.
 
The day after Rory and I arrived back home, I put it in a frame, and would take it out of the drawer whenever I felt I missed Rory. The picture was wonderful, a shot where we were both smiling widely and looking towards the camera, both of us happy in that moment in time. I can still remember the boy asking us to smile, and her arm at my side, cradling me and bringing my body towards her. Her blue eyes seem to sparkle in the picture, and those dimples she displays during a wide grin make me weak. It was just one picture, one small picture.
 
But what was in it encapsulates all the hopes and dreams I have of her. I look at this photograph of us, this window to the start of what changed this relationship we have from a rivalry to infatuation. I don't have any idea yet if I'll be looking back with her ten years from now at this same picture in a photo album and saying 'remember that summer of 2002 in Washington, and then the autumn we fell in love? It's just wow, I can't believe it's been that long, almost like that was a few days ago.' All I know is that with the distance between our homes, I do miss her next to me, her warm body against mine as we sleep together in bed. It's already a feeling I want to have back, but I know that for now, it's going to be a rare event.
 
What I can do is look wide-eyed at her picture, and smile at the fact that all that was hidden in our minds when it was taken, the crushes, hopes and longing looks we were giving each other and now know for sure we were each doing, it's now out in the open. I kiss the glass above Rory's face softly and wish her goodnight, as I set it back onto the nightstand, where it will now have a prominent and permanent place and not be hidden again, and in all likelihood since I end up on my right side when I wake up, she'll be the first thing I see every morning.
 
For now though, I have an appointment with her in my dreams. What she told me today, and what she did is so fresh in my mind that I shouldn't see a problem falling asleep. One last look at her picture, and I can imagine her lips drifting higher from my neck, Rory wrapping her arms around my midsection possessively, then her teeth nipping at the outer shell of my right ear, whispering heated innuendos and obvious flirting to have me slip out of my dress and slide one of my hands against her thigh, drifting up her pale skin slowly and with agony...

---

To be continued...

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Nine | And Then Paris Kissed Me...
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, Rory POV
Spoilers: This takes place the day after my modified I Can't Get Started, where Rory won the dance marathon with Paris, and Jess and Dean were nowhere to be found.
Rating: R (swearing, sexual thoughts and actions, along with some innuendo)
Disclaimer: All I want for Christmas is Paris...uh, no, ewww. not you Ms. Hilton. If I wanted genital herpes I'd have called you, now shoo, go make another sex tape or awful album or whatever a useless heiress like you does! As I was trying to say, all I want for Christmas is Paris Gellar and Rory together. In my way however is Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions, Hofflund-Polone and Warner Bros. Television, so looks like that wish won't come true. Doesn't mean I can't do it here in fic though (maniacal grin).
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, Realm of the Shadow, femslash.net, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Summary: Rory uses both her head and her heart to tell Paris how she really feels for her, and uses her feminine wiles to lure the blonde into her arms.
Author's Notes: It took me three months to write this, and I apologize for making you all wait, because some real life things (aka the boss at work putting the kibosh on extra-curricular writing) got in my way, so now I have to write overnights and during the day with distractions. I'm starting to deal though, so hopefully chapter ten will come out a little faster than this one.
 
The usual thanks to Raven and Cinn for taking time out of their busy schedules to beta this for me. Thanks to Brian and The Raven (who wrote a great Lily Rush/Lorelai Cold Case/GG crossover I highly recommend, just look for it under her name in the GG section of RotS) for their email encouragement, and those at GGSlash who keep begging me for an update.
 
Because this never gets old, for the tenth time; If you're on ff.net and haven't figured out by now that Rory and Paris are about to become a lesbian couple and you aren't into that kind of thing? Click out and read one of the many Java Junkie, Trory or Lit fics available, there's plenty there. Though don't click on the really dark stuff where Rory attacks Paris about Asher, she's so above that. Just a couple of notes for you ff.net'ers too; please let me know if words in the narrative get cut off or entire lines suddenly disappear and lead off into the next sentence without resolution. FF.net's filtering software monkeys with it, taking out anything resembling a web address or a stretched out word, even if it isn't. I'm going through to change things before I upload, but if anything's funny even after my last once-over, leave me a review so I can fix it.
 
Also, just advance warning that after this chapter as the story heats up, the versions posted to ff.net will be edited to conform to site TOS and content standards (i.e. no IM chats, which I plan on including in future chapters). I recommend the sites above listed in my archive permissions if you want the unedited version of the story.
 
I had an all encompassing holiday greeting in this space, but seeing as this is coming out closer to King Day than Kwanzaa, I hope all your celebrations went well and that you all have a very happy new year!

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I was feeling as high as a cloud as Paris and I slid in the backseat of her Jaguar, with Miss Patty being our personal chauffeur for the short ride between the high school's baseball diamond and my home a ½ mile from the town center. Paris was somewhat coherent as she buckled her seatbelt, but as soon as that task was done, her head was against the window and she seemed to be out like a light quickly for the ten-minute drive home. I could tell just by looking at her that the dance marathon took a lot of her, and beforehand as we waited for Miss Patty, she had leaned against me, so I had kept her steady for most of the next fifteen minutes between the last dance and that point.
 
Miss Patty started the luxury car's engine, and after a delay of a few minutes as we navigated the gummed up works of the parking lot with the rest of those leaving the school, we were on the road, leaving my worn eyes to try to gauge the slumbering girl to my left.
 
Paris was relaxed, the dim light of the upcoming dawn casting a soft glow on her face, her lips out and puckered, tempting me so much. Her legs were crossed together, and though her positioning was far from what could be called sexy, it was definitely very serene. I was glad to see her in such a human state, and I smiled as I looked at my compatriot and Miss Patty turned the car onto Town Square Circle.
 
I stayed like that for the next few minutes, contemplating what my invitation to Paris to spend time at my house post-dance entailed. There was a feeling on my end when I made the invitation that there was a plan B floating around Paris' brain somewhere about how she would get home, and though I don't know what that might have been, I'm pleased that my words and seductive actions talked her out of it. Now, the weekend was truly ours; I could catch her off-guard, unprepared to deal with a Sunday in my presence, and get even closer to confession. The best thing about what I was planning in my head from 5:30am on was that I had home-field advantage. The usual distractions and any interference were out of play, for I had the house to myself for at least the next thirteen hours. No one was about to stop by to congratulate, nor was Mom anywhere to be found to give me any second thoughts about my feelings for Paris.
 
Maybe it would end with confession, or maybe not. All I knew then was that I couldn't screw it up. Those ideas floating in my head to seduce Paris would put anything Tristan DuGrey ever planned for the both of us and the rest of his little black book to shame.
 
I looked at her in sleep as I told Miss Patty how excited I was that Kirk had been finally knocked from the top rung and that I won. I couldn't gauge her reaction since she was driving, but she was already gushing about how excited Mom would be to see that trophy in her own house and how I had won it, "I'm sure she'll be very proud of you dear," she said to me. It was more a conversation to fill the silence (Paris' stereo system was too complicated for Miss Patty to figure out and I had very novice experience working it around), and to keep my mind off the fact so much tanned skin along the neckline of Paris' dress was in my eyesight with her unable to call me on my lustful staring. Of course finding out that the backseat of her XJ8 had more than enough room to accommodate two bodies laying down on the leather bench was causing my daydreams to drift towards a more sexual way than I was used to. I could visualize the picture of myself above Paris on the seat clear as day, causing a blush to flare up my face as I looked at her. The conversation with Miss Patty was tiring and sort of white noise over those sexual thoughts of mine, helping cool down my body from the effects of twenty-four hour close dancing with the girl next to me.
 
Patty went on and on about Kirk's streak and I kept the conversation up lightly through the circle and towards Peach Lane as I felt my eyes start to lose the battle to keep awake. My body felt tight in the formerly loose dress that I had worn to lure Paris in. Twenty-four hours of close contact with her had rearranged my hormones, and though I was wearing something smooth beneath the red fabric, the strapless bra was digging against my side and probably leaving quite the red welt beneath. I had my long coat on beneath the dress since the temperature was chilly outside and Patty didn't turn on the heat, but it wasn't very long before the conversation was fading out and Paris was waking up again after the car hit the bump between the smoothly paved Peach Street and the older and thin asphalt path that was the road to my house, Cherry Lane.
 
We were both tired and about on par with a Resident Evil zombie wanting brains in our lack of enthusiasm as we got out of the car after Miss Patty pulled up into the gravel drive, and I helped Paris with her overnight bag and the trophy. Patty seemed to eye us both with a look of 'I know something you don't Rory', but I wasn't about to ask her about this sense she had right in front of Paris. I don't know, but Patty's look as we both got out of the car just unnerved me.
 
She said goodbye to both of us, and I waved back as Par mumbled out a tired "Bye!" as she stepped out of those high heels that irked her through the evening, and slipped into an old worn pair of running shoes, sitting on the bumper as she put them on and somehow maneuvered her emergency bag beneath her free arm and held onto it for dear life. I guess I was right from my earlier observation; this girl is prepared for almost every situation that can be thrown at her while she drives.
 
Then we both took a side of the marathon trophy and lifted it out of the trunk, balancing ourselves carefully as I did my best to dodge the chunks of gravel in the driveway until we found the grass and the walkway up to the porch. Paris wasn't complaining about having to help out with the effort, and even with that bag in her arm, got the door open so that we could both work the four-foot edifice of our victory through the front door.
 
I looked at Paris, and she seemed ready to trip on her ankles; she was that worn down.
 
"Where do you want me to put this?" she asked me, "I can help you bring it upstairs--"
 
"No, no, don't even think of it," I told her as I bent down and had her follow my cue to set the trophy down in the front hall. "You've done so much already, all I wanted to do is get this thing in the house. I'll worry about it in a bit; Mom's going to be really shocked when she sees where I put this." I already had the picture in my head of Lorelai bringing her luggage upstairs after I told her my weekend was fine, and then finding that one thing she coveted in her bedroom. I could hear the happy scream and her asking me whether there were hidden cameras in the headboard and all those other things she'd say when she found out I won the competition.
 
The trophy was mine and Paris', that's all that mattered. But there was a much more important and critical plan spinning in my head this morning; which was to prove to Paris that I needed her as more than a friend, or a dance partner. My mind was already spinning with thoughts of how to pull this all off when she asked me where her weary head could rest.
 
Also, the nagging question of her sleepwear was still in the air. As much as I wouldn't have minded her sleeping in her dress, I could see a red mark along the back of her neck where the halter was when I looked at her in the car, so she wouldn't have slept comfortably in it at all. The inner vixen in me also was really, really hoping that she'd refuse my request to bring her something of my mom's to wear, but the odds of her sleeping nude in my house were pretty slim. Paris is a modest girl to begin with from the way she dresses, so I wouldn't expect her to not be the same when it came to sleepwear. I told her to lie on the couch and that I'd bring up the trophy while I looked for something to wear for her, and I asked what she'd prefer.
 
She thought for a moment as she flopped down on the sofa, then gave me an answer. "Whatever, a shirt and some shorts, I usually like to sleep in something cool and billowy." Paris smiled, and I told her that I knew Lorelai had something like that. I made a joke about her past history of borrowing clothes from me, but in a light way. She didn't overreact about it thankfully, and after talking to her for a bit, figured she might want to do a little relaxing.
 
After watching her get a little comfy in the couch, I grabbed the trophy from the front hall, went upstairs and into my mom's room, setting the trophy down near the door and looking for something in her dresser that would fit Paris just fine. There was a debate going on through my mind about what I wanted her to sleep in; you really can't do sexy with shorts and an undefined shirt, but I'd be trying to do my best to counterbalance 'unknowingly sexy' with 'practical'. My brain might have been exhausted from doing nothing for 24 hours but go over Fred Astaire's footsteps, yet it still had enough charged juice to figure out how I'd try to draw Paris out of her protective shell and hopefully, into my arms. I couldn't bottle everything back up again; like a moth to a flame I wanted to know for sure if she thought the same of me as I was her.
 
It took me a few moments, but after a little crude matching up and mental picture comparing, I came up with a loose pair of black shorts and a blue flannel shirt as the perfect combination for Paris to sleep in. It would be comfortable to her, and at the same time bare just a smidge more skin than she usually cared to. It seemed like the perfect outfit, and before I could spend too much time letting myself wallow in thoughts of her, I folded the clothes together and closed the dresser drawers, trying to figure out my next move.
 
I tossed Paris her clothes over the railing as I walked down the stairs, but didn't warn her fast enough as the articles hit her in the side of her face.
 
"Rory, please, more warning next time," she admonished, turning around and then smiling at me. "You should know by now I've always been the first casualty in dodgeball since I can't pay attention in that game enough to save my life."
 
"Just keeping you on your toes Gellar," I let her know. She laughed, and I was able to glance once again at that serene smile she seems to only bring out in my presence. Then she placed the clothes down on her lap and looked at the shorts and flannel shirt, making sure they'd be up to her standards. Something I was expecting, I told myself; no matter how plain she might seem, Paris is still of a rich pedigree so she expects that in her pajamas.
 
She looked at my mom's clothes one more time, and then relieved me by telling me that they'd do just fine. "Nothing I'd be embarrassed to run out in if the house caught fire," she let me know, thus bringing that dark, wry sense of humor she has to the forefront.
 
"Where is the bathroom so I can change out of this?" she asked, pointing to her dress, still on her like a second skin and causing my mouth to water.
 
"Other side of the kitchen," I let her know, and pointed out the way, as I tried to keep my hormones in check. As she got up after thanking me for finding her last-minute PJs to wear and made her way past me in the middle of the living room, I found my eyes involuntarily drawing towards her slender back. In another situation, say with Lane or even Madeline, it would've been just a quick glance, then my attention wandering back to another subject.
 
With Paris though, any unexpected opportunity for staring, I ended up taking. Her hair was down to the middle of her back, which left at least the lower 2/3 of it and the naked skin over it exposed to me. I licked my lips as a flash came into my mind of her undressing in the bathroom; the tie in the back of her neck holding it against her dress unfurling in front of my mind image down as the black material fell into a heap at her ankles. However, my eyes were much higher than the heap and leapt right back towards the middle of her torso.
 
I then realized that I was letting a golden opportunity slip right through my fingers, unnoticed. Paris was going to change into those bedclothes, and there I'd be on the other side of the bathroom door, unable to get another close and intimate opportunity to look at this girl I had an insatiable crush on.
 
Where was this take-charge side of me these last two years? I mused to myself, wondering why I had never even dared think this way at all with Dean. I had never seen him more than shirtless, nor took advantage of any opportunity that was offered to disrobe him. I keep thinking about Dean and I through our relationship, and not once did I see lust enter the equation between us. He always thought I was pretty or beautiful, while I thought he was handsome. There has never been a thought of jumping him or having erotic thoughts of him floating around my mind, and that sense of I want him never was in play. Not just because of my mom, but the pheromonal connection wasn't there. He was a guy, and liked me. The more I think about it, the more it's clear that I went into that whole thing totally unprepared and hoping for a spark that never came, like the only reason I was attracted to him was that he was this odd groupie who hung around me all the time and thought of me as more than 'that quiet girl with a new paperback in tow everyday'.
 
With Paris though, it's like my sex senses got a power boost. I look at her, even in close study, and I just want to set my hand down somewhere on her and have any kind of contact, be it sexual or non-sexual. I stood in that living room, prepared to head to my room to change in my own pajamas, when again, my mind has another flash. This time though, it's reverse angle, with Paris' fingers trailing down my spinal column as she helps to unzip my dress. Those fingers, calloused from a pencil grip every weekday and the 75 wpm clatter of each of her fingertips against the keyboard at her Franklin desk, run against my middle, and I can feel it already.
 
My mind relays the fact it took me at least five minutes to maneuver my way into the dress yesterday morning, three of those spent unsuccessfully gripping the zipper and getting it up from my butt, then turning it around so I could zip it up in the front without much of a problem. Finally, I used that last minute to maneuver the zipper side from the front to back it so it's the correct way and I don't look like I'm about ten years removed from the Kris Kross 'wearing clothes backwards' fad that never made sense to anyone. So now if I tried to take it off, I'd tear the fragile fabric if I just lifted it over my head, and my sore body would grimace in pain if I tried to unzip myself.
 
That left me one more choice; help on the zipper from a second party.
 
Guess who happened to be the only person in the room who could help me unzip?
 
I smirked inside; This is going to be quite fun, my inner dialogue told me. Then it also told me that I should stop saying 'quite' in my head, because it sounded odd.
 
My mind somewhat distracted, I called out Paris to stop and help me unzip, explaining exactly why her help would be much appreciated. Those thoughts of helping her out with her own halter knot mixed in with my plea, and I ended up having my voice softer than intended. I was trying to be careful about not leading on too much with my feelings, and I was a little timid that she was starting to catch on to my feelings for her.
 
Still, whatever the tone of my voice, it ended up working.
 
"Uh, alright, I guess," she said, kind of nervous. "I could use a helping hand myself with my dress knot; that is if you don't mind. You don't have to and I can probably get it myself--"
 
Before she could ramble more, I responded that I could do it with a enthusiastic tone I usually left for an aced test or won game at a carnival. Paris didn't seem to notice this sudden jubilation thankfully, and before I knew it, I had turned around and stood with my back to her.
 
Suddenly, I felt then like I was layered for a trip back up Mt. Everest, and that I needed that dress off and soon. Her thumb and forefinger gripped the metal pull on the slider, seemingly a little shaky. A light touch of the tip of one of her nails, and I was lost in delirium.
 
I looked straight ahead towards the fireplace, trying to find a focal point to distract me from the feelings being aroused from Paris' simple brush of her fingers against my back. Just unzipping, just unzipping, honestly. Nothing sexual to be taken out of this...
 
At that point her left hand braced my shoulder, and it became more than unzipping to me. Just that one touch alone sent a colony of butterflies through my stomach, because I knew that right there, she'd figure out for sure I was wearing a strapless bra. I brought the hair along my back up to the front, and relaxed my body to hasten the zipping process further.
 
My concentration was at first focused on the shaded front window, looking at the dull beige shade and light yellow curtains shielding the window from the view of anyone who happened by. I found all my senses tightening up as Paris' hand moved down the middle of my spinal column, not fast and swift, instead, she took her time.
 
I could hear her exhalations waver a bit as I felt cool air sweep up the skin bared, and bit my lip to keep any sudden noises stifled and my feelings unsaid. Down and down Paris worked, as I felt the dress loosen up quite a bit in the front with each new portion of slack. My mind spun with a thought of turning around and shrugging off the dress, a sudden move to catch her off guard and see if my intuition of things was correct.
 
Thankfully, just her unzipping my dress was erotic. The moment felt like, along with the room surrounding me, with the dim light coming from that cursed monkey lamp (which I edit out of any dreams and fantasies I might have; animal lamps don't exactly scream sexy atmosphere) and her warm breath against the back of my neck, it was a romantic air in that room. She was close, but not too close; enough to tell me this is a sample and that if I want more she'll have to know about it. Paris' soft orchid perfume was behind me and wafted between each side of my neck and into my nostrils, making me want to turn around...
 
She reached the middle of my back, exposing my bra. She's come close to seeing this much of my skin exposed but had never ventured any lower. Paris paused, and for a short bit I feel her smoothing the zipper line from the nape down to the bra line, her curved index finger and thumb running along both sides of the zipper and across my skin.
 
"Just so the zipper doesn't snag," was the reasoning she gives me; that has to be a lamer excuse than 'I need to wash my hair tonight so I can't go out with you'. Zippers are rigid, never fail, and there's not a lot of material along the track to make it snag. No matter though, for my eyes shut and I feel a warm sensation run from my stomach and up to my cheeks. She unzipped beyond the bottom of my bra and continued, and I feel even more exposed than I ever have before. I feel as if my legs are going to topple in on themselves at the first opportunity and figure out that standing while unzipped wasn't the way to go. Her left hand moves down to the middle of my back and rests against it, rubbing it like she's trying to reassure me.
 
What are you doing to me Par? I told myself, as with each inch, I feel like I never wanted to leave this spot and wished the zipper was longer than the three feet plus length it actually was. I did end up gasping out a moan I thought was undetectable; Paris had found one of those sensitive spots where I couldn't help but react somehow. I hoped she didn't detect it, and thankfully she didn't.
 
My eyes stayed shut as she reached the dip of the small, where she continued to torture me with her feather-light touches and raspy breathing. Her hand was getting ever closer to that line not even Dean had crossed in our dancing, and my only thoughts weren't innocent by far. My heartbeat thumped in my chest, and I stood still and took a slow glance down my body. Looking down at myself vertically, Paris was again doing the same thing her damned perfect fingernails did Tuesday morning. In twenty-four hours of activity, I never felt modest about my small chest. Now I hoped that when I turned to help her out she wouldn't notice each of my hardened nipples peeking up through three layers of thin foam, cream cotton, and red rayon. My body was flushing, and as her slow unzipping seemed to reach my pantyline, it felt so tight and wound up I had to somehow not only even my breathing, but find the inside of each of my palms interesting, for I wanted to hook one or both my pointer fingers along the side of my hem, and slowly slide one of those hands up the skirt of the dress.
 
I felt so alluring, and Paris didn't know it at all. For all she knew she was either unzipping my dress and not thinking anything more than platonically about it, or she was trying to send me to an early grave with her torture. I didn't expect this at all and Paris was playing with an entire box of matches with the way her fingers stayed within that stubborn 2" width along my spine. My body tried to remain still, try not to show how much her touch was affecting me. Still my hands trembled and my heart was pounding, with my legs feeling like they'd give out.
 
That was nothing compared to when she reached the near end and stopped for a moment right at the waistband of my underwear. I had expected her to continue, for Paris doesn't do anything half-heartedly. When took her hand off the zipper abruptly, I felt jarred suddenly. I could feel her stare, and somehow I thought I'd heard her thoughts spinning around. My mind was projecting a thought in her voice; This is too much too fast, I better reel back.
 
I didn't though; I wanted her to finish and have something to remember me by. I groaned, and my eyes slitted as I tried to communicate she had my permission. For this may have been my seduction, but I still had things to gauge. If she finished and closed in those last four inches to the stop of the zipper, that would give me a huge clue to her intentions.
 
If she didn't though, I would back off my advances, that simple. Just like if I had told Dean to stop massaging because I wasn't ready.
 
There was no need to fret though, for my groan of 'you aren't done Par' was enough to tell her to continue. I felt her hand brush up against my rear and finish the job, wallowing in that seemingly accidental touch and feeling shudders of pleasure up my spine. Her fingers lingered for quite a bit and then she started up from the crouch she was in to travel down my body, the fingernails of one of her hands gliding effortlessly up my middle slowly, seemingly for an eternity. The hair along my arms stood on end and I involuntarily exhaled a deep breath as they departed from my body.
 
Now I know why the art of the tease is of such importance in the charged and more sexual type of literature. I've read so many scenes in so many years from so many books of seduction and the after effects, up to and including sex. At first when I got access to some of those books when I moved to junior high, being a curious red-blooded twelve year-old girl, I paged right to the sexual parts and read the scenes. However, they've never really had the effect on me a nice slow tease can do, and I started paying much more attention to the scenes before the actions, because the flirting did so much more for me than the actual activity. The shirt coming off, the brushing of the hair, maybe a hand running along the side of a woman as her lover feels her up through her slip; it's something you need in order to write a great American novel. Sex is all well and good, but in the end, it's just the dessert to end a great meal. Without the appetizer of the flirting and that main course of seduction, you're starved for much more than you actually got.
 
I let myself relax for a bit to calm so that when I turned around, Paris wouldn't see my beyond flustered and aroused state and think that something was up for me. It took a few spins of my mind around the 'never in a million years' portion to cleanse out what I was feeling. Yeah, seducing Dean in front of my mom as she watched really helped settle me down.
 
I had her walk towards a hassock in the room to try to keep her steady, then sit her down on it so I could undo her knot in the back. My mind immediately reasoned that since she had a knot in a backless halter dress rather than a long zipper, thing would be a lot less charged in this part of the changing, and leagues easier.
 
What I didn't expect was that Paris studied her knot instruction in Girl Scouts a little too closely. I heard her say 'thank you' and sigh happily as I brought her hair up to her front and undid her first loose knots, and then find myself in an odd roadblock situation.
 
I looked at the nape of her neck, trying to trace how I could undo the second and much tighter bind, which was forming a bundle of deep red-colored skin where it came together. My eyes appraised it, however the tomato-onion pattern made trying to find the end and beginning a muddled mess. I tugged it hard, hoping to entice the entire thing loose. It didn't budge in any way.
 
I worked a fingernail to where I thought I'd find the beginning. It still strained to come apart and I was finding it to be stubborn. Pulling only seemed to make it worse, and working my finger between Paris' neck and the knot seemed not to do much at all except aggravate her when I tugged and found her body fall towards me from it. Sure, of course I relished this opportunity of my fingers against a very sensitive spot on the back of her neck, but that knot just didn't want to come apart. I complained about her tight knot; and I could've sworn that her dress would stay on with that first knot she made before leaving Hartford.
 
"My apologies Gilmore," she droned. "I felt like I was going to fall out of this if I didn't add another knot, so I made another one and tied it tighter than usual." A reasonable response, but words wouldn't get her out of that dress any faster.
 
I continued to try to work her dress open, to no avail for at least five minutes. I could feel her body start to overheat, and my eyes weigh with sleep. I had to get this done pretty quick, otherwise we'd both be finding ourselves sleeping in positions that make my kitchen table chair sleep before the Shakespeare exam look like a luxurious shiatsu massage.
 
Working it wasn't doing anything, and nails in the knot weren't either. I was about ready to stop and give up from the frustration of not getting it out. For a moment, I gritted my teeth, mad that I couldn't do this one simple thing I promised to Paris. My plan to give Paris seductive touching was down the Bemis and would end up failing.
 
My teeth were together, and I looked at that knot, when my mind melded a connection with those two simple things. My teeth; that knot. A very tight knot that wasn't coming apart, and my teeth, which had much more grip and power than I'd ever have in my hands.
 
Hmm...I pondered this to myself, looking at Paris' very bare back and trying to cloud out any uncouth thoughts of her, and then at the knot. It seemed to make sense that when all else fails, you use your teeth, be it in opening a drink bottle or ripping open a rather tough bag of snack chips. It was far from ladylike and using teeth to work something open was always meant as a last resort.
 
I was at my wit's end here though. The knot wasn't coming apart, and feeling around for the beginning slack of it, then tugging it open with my teeth seemed like a good solution, and an even better idea.
 
That's when the emergency alert in my mind went off.
 
Lorelai Leigh, don't forget whose knot that is!! Oh yeah, it was Paris' dress. And her back. And her neck.
 
Yes, I was seriously considering biting the back of the neck of the girl I was lusting for, and licking my lips like I was about to gnaw into a tender rack of ribs.
 
Now if this was the old me, in the days of Dean, I would've stopped right there and told Paris to undo her own dress, because I wouldn't do that. It could be taken as dirty and sexual and she'd overreact, I just would know it. She could wriggle out of the dress I'm sure and I'd be off the hook.
 
But this is me almost six days removed from the end of my heterosexuality. I was no longer the doting girlfriend of one Dean Forrester; I'm the newly gay Rory, trying to show Paris that I'd rather she not end up with a dullard trust fund boy from Glastonbury to warm her up at night. To her, she might have a stuck halter dress. But to me, that black cotton tasted like sweet opportunity.
 
I looked at her tanned neck, saying a silent prayer that she would think this was all innocent. It was better not to tell her plan B before I bit in, lest she freak out. The element of surprise would ease her mind, so I went in and softly nipped at where the knot could be undone.
 
Already I felt as if I'd lose control, because my breath rushed from my mouth. I started working the loop and it started to loosen a bit; my intuition was right. Temptation was high to suckle the area around the halter and bring my tongue against her skin. I wanted to so much, but for the sake of Paris and my own thoughts, I relented. She could feel the rush of my breath against her skin and I could see her shake a little. My plan was working; she was becoming lost to the world around her.
 
The knot was finally starting to cooperate, and I worked the wettened fabric with my fingers to unloosen it, taking my mouth away for a bit. Still needed a little bit more slack, so I went in again to try and bite in at the knot.

That second time wasn't a charm though, for instead of biting cloth, I got a small patch of skin right between my choppers. The bite wasn't that hard, but still enough to make her moan just a smidge, then...
 
"Ror! Ow!" She yelped in a high tone of voice as I bit down, not as rough as I expected. She actually seemed a little calm about it, and her voice seemed to be a little wavering. Still, she didn't move, just reeled back for a couple seconds to reach back and rub down my bite mark, then slid back into her previous sitting position. I took this as an 'OK' sign and finished doing my best to unknot her dress.
 
My mini-bite was distracting however; my mind was trying to stir me into thinking that it was a way of asserting ownership of Paris' heart, no matter that it was accidental. The remnants of her perfume, sprayed along her neck were also getting into me, for it was certain I couldn't avoid it with the inches between my nose and her skin. The lingering smell of her shampoo, along with that orchid scent sprayed along her neck, I was finding my blood stirred from the intimate contact with her. Geeze, not now, what if she turns around, is what was in my mind in order to scold myself from letting the sweet mixture of her favorite scents and the natural smell of her skin disrupt bloodflow. No matter that I wanted much more of this, did I ever need more it. I wanted to do a lot more than unknot Paris, but I had to stick to plan. Either I did it slowly or I would end up scaring her or having to back off because I edged against a comfort zone and she'd start to realize I wasn't doing this accidentally, or being this close to gauge the knot.
 
My mouth and hands worked to make it release, and after a couple of minutes, I had worked the stubborn one open enough to unfurl it, and was finally left with just that one pithy tie she did early last morning. I apologized to her for what I had to do, and she was a little shaken, but thankful that I had done what I had to do to help her out of her dress.
 
The last knot was the absolute easiest, and within ten seconds, Paris was free from the dress, as I threw the thin cords over to her front so she could head off to the bathroom and let the dress slide off the rest of the way. Before then though, I saw that both sides of her back, especially where the dress was over, were red from the imprints of the fabric edging. I wanted her to relax and make her descent into dreamland easier, so I massaged her back softly, along her shoulders, rubbing in and out from the tip of her shoulder blades back to the nape of her neck. Paris seemed to sigh, and this sort of belated thank you for her warming me up on Tuesday was well-deserved by her after a tough dance marathon win, not to mention how much she's made the breakup with Dean that much more soothing.
 
Dean would never do these things to spoil me, because he never wants to push himself further. He takes the minimum classes in high school and after encouraging him to take more English classes last year, only to find more auto/mechanical lessons on his schedule after only a few days, I pretty much gave up on the idea of 'first love forever' right then and there. He was a good first love, but my wildest fairy tale dreams never consisted of I, as the unhappily married Rory Forrester, having his grimy self sit on the couch and whine about cars and the people who ask him to fix them until kingdom come. How could I be happy when the only guy in my future was not only someone I didn't love, but who didn't mind that his old TV isn't not only not ready for cable, much less color? If he's not going to strive for a goal and let me help him, screw it. I didn't need Dean before I went to Chilton, and I certainly don't need him now.

I looked at Paris after I finished and before she went into the bathroom to change into the pajamas, and though a little tired, she was still smiling at me, happy that things between us were far from strained. God, I liked being the pursuer of her feelings, because it's so much more satisfying knowing that it was I who was doing this to her.
 
I watched Paris go into the bathroom, then headed to my room and shut my door, desperately wanting out of the unzipped dress and the lingerie beneath. Things certainly couldn't get any better; Paris was sleeping in my house, and I was getting steeled to tell her that I thought of her as more as a friend. Looks like an occasion for the purple sheep pajamas, I thought to myself as I straightened my hair in the mirror and prepared to retrieve that pajama shirt and the matching bottoms from my dresser.
 
"Hold on," I whispered to myself, thinking aloud. "That might be all fine and good for a regular sleepover, but you have Paris in that bathroom probably thinking about how wonderful those lips on her neck were."
 
I was in my bedroom, almost completely naked but a fresh pair of undies, and about to play into that cute image I was trying to shrug off so I could show Par that I could do more than look demure. She had also seen me in regular PJs already, and they didn't do much to flatter my figure or tease. On top of that, the entire plan was to repeat her sleeping in my bed like she did a few weeks ago, but with some kerosene thrown on the fire. I'd barely feel her in bed if I wore purple flannel, and that would silently scream to her that maybe I'm not interested, that this is friendly and our undressing wasn't meant to be anything but normal.
 
Trouble was, I wanted her. My body definitely showed that too, what with my breasts looking even more sexually alluring to me by the day with each new look in the mirror. They were aroused from the unzipping, and when I rubbed my stomach, then along the bottom, I felt like moaning from my self-contact, shutting my eyes and imagining that Paris had brought her touch from the small of my back and then around. I also felt a very nagging itch between the trunk of my legs from all those steps during the dance, along with the feelings I had of her. I ran a hand along the cotton of my panties, and though it wasn't wet, I still felt very sensitive down there because I almost wanted to get off when her hands were along my back. If she was a slow dresser, I would've given myself a quick frig, but there wasn't time to consider. Also in this case, giving myself pleasure could backfire and actually have kept me awake if I had, so waiting to release my tension was the best thing to do.
 
"You have to play into that," I told myself, "think of that in the way you dress." Those thoughts brought me back to Tuesday and the sprinklers, along with laundry day forcing me to improvise quick. My uniform preparation slipped that day, and though I expected it to be a disaster, the sprinklers and lack of underclothes ended with one of the most sexually satisfying days I'd ever had, and finally getting the weight off my back that was Dean. I smiled, recalling those hovering brown eyes Paris gave me as she slid her backpack onto her shoulder, turned around, and found her fellow classmate with her own shirt held in that girl's hands, her mood going from angry and pissed off down to wanting some friendly bonding, and that girl wearing a tank top that left very little to the imagination.
 
She loved it, and I loved that attention so much, along with the dirty ideas I formed. That scene you occasionally see in a bad sex drama of the woman looking over herself in the mirror and confidently stating to herself that 'I'd do me'? That was me in the Chilton darkroom at lunch, begging for Paris to get me off as my hands got to really know how alluring a girl I could really be.
 
I want her to want me, was the line in my head. Then that Cheap Trick tune played in my head, which thankfully I decided not to sing into my hairbrush as that would only make Paris question my mental state. I found myself thinking that a ribbed white top in the top drawer of my vanity with very thin spaghetti straps that I usually reserve for a 100° day when I'd rather be naked would be the perfect top for seduction. I took it out, and slipped it on, expecting it to look out of place on my body for an early November morning as sleepwear.
 
It was far from the case, and only convinced me further that I should occasionally stray from my usual wardrobe. Not only did it flatter me very well, but it was just as warm as if I would've worn the lamb PJs. I looked pretty nice, and Paris would definitely think the same was what I thought.
 
I considered going bottomless and just sleeping in that and my panties, but again, I want to seduce her, not rush things too fast; her mind could overheat. I took a pair of blue scrub pants from my drawer I usually match up with an oversized t-shirt. It did a little to elongate my legs and make them longer, but not really too much; I meant it to be a red herring to show I might be spicing myself up a smidge, but that I still try and dress conservatively.
 
With another quick look at myself, I determined that it was time to get out there and ramp up my flirting, for I still had a few things in mind to make my intentions known. "She ain't gonna know what hit her," I told myself with confidence into the mirror, as I heard her come out of the bathroom and walk back into the living room.
 
"It's time." One more look in the mirror, and it was time to go into action. I waited a few beats, then opened up my door and readied myself for the sight of Paris Gellar in something that though dowdy, was still infinitely much more alluring and sexy to wear than a frumpy nightgown that made her look like she was carrying septuplets instead of a junior in high school looking to get important life connections from a secret society.
 
I came out and saw Paris preparing for bed as if she was the inconvenient guest she may have been in February, but certainly wasn't this morning. I know she loathed sleeping on the couch and kept hearing about it days after that night she impromptly swept into my house to ask me for help, and ended up staying the night. She slept in her regular clothes, yes, so she was a bit uncomfy. Still, she's used to sleeping on a $2,000 mattress every night so it was a shock to her system to sleep on a piece of furniture she wasn't used to.
 
This was a sleepover after all in the rawest sense of the word; she just wasn't some far off relative from Kansas who I offered the couch to out of obligation. This was a girl who was quickly becoming my best friend, and maybe if I played my cards right, my future lover. My body was already overcharged beyond belief, and I yearned for her close to me, for Paris' presence around me was keeping me single-handedly grounded.
 
No way was I going to just say goodnight and walk back to my room; I had to take action. So I swept into the room, and before she could get comfy enough to not justify moving from the couch, I took the blanket right from her hand and told her that I wouldn't allow her to sleep on the cursed couch. I looked her down sternly and also let her know not to bother heading upstairs to Mom's room because she wouldn't ever allow someone else to sleep in her bed (though I don't know for sure).
 
This was a side that I was unfamiliar with myself, taking charge of the situation and though with some numbing, pretty much demanded Paris sleep with me in my bed. I tossed the colorful afghan onto the chair and just looked at Paris, lost in her thoughts and pretty much shaken by what I did.
 
I liked it though, being the one who was in control for once. Paris always had the upper hand, and through these last few months I had to get the permission, silent or said, to rub her back in class, help her out with the date with Jamie in Washington, and asking her to be my dance partner. Most everything was her reaction to my action.
 
Here though, she had absolutely no choice. I wasn't going to let her sleepy self out of this house, nor would I allow her to stay up so long she'd eventually nod off on the couch and fall asleep in a sitting position. It was my bed, my house, my rules. I wouldn't push if she said no to sleeping in my bed, but I conveyed with my emotions and face that I'd be gravely disappointed if she turned down another wonderful bonding opportunity.
 
With the way she looked in my mom's clothes though, I was praying she'd say yes to my invitation. She was lying there on that couch, her feet barely reaching the other side of the sofa because of her short stature, and I wished right then and there I could telegraph that picture in my mind to a printer. Paris just has this classical and timeless beauty about her, from her long legs and up to her beautiful and anger-worn face. When she's pissed I can't help but think that beneath those rolled eyes, gritted teeth and furrowed forehead, there's a soft girl in there, yearning to be loved but never finding the right one to share those feelings with. When I look at her, I don't just see that enraged girl with a superhuman interest in her academic studies; I see Paris, the hopeless romantic, going from Marie Curie trying to discover with her husband more of the properties of radioactive materials, to just another girl who has a heart waiting to be filled.
 
Two years later I still can't get out of my mind her look at Tristan as he tried to flirt his agenda into her; that nervous look and the loss of words as she sunk from 5'3" to 3'5" in the space of thirty seconds against her locker. Why Tristan would be more interested in me, or Summer is still a mystery to me. Paris revered him, and I still hear those sad words, where she called herself a loser and undeserving of my help the day after the date, comparing herself to a charity case.
 
She never has been that to me, not for one minute. Her life might be sad and her skills in high society unused, but she's just another girl competing to be #1, just like I am. Thing is, Paris should be more than that; she should be respected, revered, and given all the attention she deserves so much. She's far from perfect and even-keeled, but despite that, I love her for it.
 
That nervous little Jewish girl has found her way into my heart, and for that I had to show her just how much. It was time for the next phase of the plan after about a minute of pondering and a little bit of "Well, should I?" and "But the bed--", when she let me know, though with some hesitation that she'd take my invitation of sharing a bed.
 
YES! THANK YOU! I cried out in my mind, and with her eyes seeming to take the same direction as mine (in that she was staring at me in a rather unnerving way), she got up from the couch, and I felt another bout of yawning coming on. I stretched myself out, and she seemed to stop in her tracks, for even with shut eyes, I couldn't hear her move towards the bedroom. I could sense her eyes on me, moving up from my face and down to the middle of my body, where I felt cool air against my belly.
 
It wouldn't be wrong to say she was on edge, but she was nervous a little as I went around the bottom floor of the house and locked every window and door in sight, the better to reassure her that I could understand her nervous look towards the usually unlocked door before we moved towards the kitchen.
 
I was pretty much on pins and needles as she came into my room, feeling like I had to lighten the mood. Being a little dominant was putting her senses on red alert, and I had to help calm her way into slumber because her mind had to be filled with thoughts of failing tests left and right Monday due to the dance.
 
She was on an edge, seeming distracted by the unfamiliar atmosphere that was my room to her. She had been in there before, but not like this; in a mood for study or at six in the morning where her mind wasn't on the atmosphere and furnishings.
 
Paris wasn't comfortable; she was scared to come in, feeling like she was a needless distraction to what should be a time to recuperate with sleep rather than a socialization opportunity. She looked at me, then immediately darted her gaze to the floor below moments later.
 
The best way to warm her up was to compliment how she looked, which I loved. I stopped her in the door frame and told her she was looking lovely.
 
"I do?" she questioned. "I wouldn't normally sleep in this stuff."
 
"It's a nice change," I assured her, "you look wonderful Paris, honestly. The shirt is nice and loose, and the shorts fit you well."
 
"I guess I do." She seemed flustered, yet went on, her gaze shared by me and the carpeting as she eased herself from the threshold of my door and into the bedroom. "I don't look as nice as you though, that top looks like it fits like a glove."
 
Nothing to be taken sexually, was the instant analysis from my mind as I brushed off the compliment. After finding some more words, Paris continued on, and well, let's say that Dean had never been as complimentary about my clothing as Paris was a few hours ago.
 
"I mean it Gilmore, you're like a perfect fashion plate, anything you buy, it fits well, especially that top. I mean obviously I could never pull off that look since I have a surplus of...breastage." She smiled shyly, and it took all I had to hold off a laugh at the expense of a fellow NHS'er using that last word. "You can do shy and elusive so well; you don't have much in your financial coffers, yet you stretch your wardrobe so well. When you put together that outfit I dated Tristan in, your attention to detail was certainly amazing. I could never spend a million dollars and look as simply cute as you would in a tank and scrubs. How do you do it Rory, I mean..."
 
Yep, she was nervous alright. Her hands darted around her body and she seemed to try to throw attention towards me that was unneeded. Her eyes weren't looking into mine and her face seemed to flush a deep red. That's what I like about catching Paris suddenly with these compliments; her plainness and modesty make her use a defensive mechanism to try to bounce off the praise and throw it back the other way.

She continued on, listing a laundry list of my attributes, trying to think of any way to keep my attention away from her as a pesky guest and keep it on me. "I don't get how you manage to stay so slim and svelte either, because I eat light and filling, yet I still end up with a new pound at least a month. Then there's you, looking all slim and trim as you eat anything you want, and make me feel so cursed. Sure my chest is memorable, but what else is there really on me that some person could say would turn their head?"
 
Here she was commenting on my tummy, which though sounding academic and dry, was enough to send a chill up through me. She had looked at me in some way carnally through that hour, I could tell that with her nervous voicing on the subject. Again Paris was fretting and winding herself up nervously, and here I was, with my eyes on her legs.
 
They look so smooth, I was thinking to myself. How would they feel though? I was starting to be curious; not only did I need to settle Paris into bed; there was an urgent need to put my hand in the tiger cage, and see what would happen if I ventured physical touching above the usually friendly line I was maintaining. I had another reason beyond personal gratification to test things out; the track of her rant suggested that before long, suffrage, anorexia, and Calvin Klein underwear models and their heroin chic look of the mid 90s would end up being brought up, things would become ugly and I'd have to defend every size three and under woman in the world. I'm afraid to say that I wasn't exactly in the mood for that.
 
I had to calm her down, and touching her seemed to be the only thing in mind. So when she finally settled down enough, I blurted out that as a girl, I envied her legs.
 
At first this seemed to surprise her, and that avalanche of negative body image given to her by her mother again came to the forefront. Paris denied my compliment and tried to shrug it off immediately, trying to blunt it under more blame for what she thinks is a cursed body.
 
What I wanted to say was that she was voluptuous, but I went for a calming move, an attempt to reassure her and slowly ease my way in. I sat her down on the bed and made the point of using my eyes to convey what my words were also doing. Paris wasn't going to squirm out of this one, and I made sure to let her know that her legs were a very important feature on her.
 
I set my hand down on her knee; nothing freaky to be taken out of it instead of trying to make her understand. My palm rested against her cap and I intentionally stopped speaking in order to gauge what her reflexes might be if I started inching it up her thigh. Thing is a day of bottled up sexual tension does a lot to you and screws with your usual thought processes, and I was hardly thinking chastely. My look communicated it all to her, that I wanted more to tell her she had a great set of gams. I rubbed up and down the middle of her leg, trying to make it look friendly. I was all on edge, trying to keep myself in control, and it took me but a few moments but to recall that I was in the same boat just a few days ago in the front seat of her car on the way home. Talk about karma, for her touch which edged mere inches from where no one has dared was now being returned by me in kind.
 
My nails scraped against the thick skin as I shifted my hand up a little, trying to find any kind of sign of hair on her legs. Even with the best razor that Target offered, I've been still stuck with slight stubble on my legs (another reason for the hosiery at school before I ditched them), and thinking of how Paris' simple beauty somehow resulted in her having a smooth sheen. I commented on this, and she seemed not to have any words about the topic. Her eyes followed my hands, and her mouth was kind of tight, as if she did feel something from my touch. Not calling her on it, I moved my hand higher up her right thigh. My heart beat even faster, and I felt like I was really having some guts, feeling up my peer superior like this! Paris permitted this, and it puzzled me that she would let me be this daring.
 
I dug in my touch a little, basking in the newfound knowledge that she was smooth as silk, not a root to be found at all. My mind wasn't under control, and before I knew it I was telling Paris in no uncertain terms that I was shocked at her smoothness. Thankfully she was starting to have a sense of ease come to her, and with a little laugh at how I was acting, told me that it had been a freshman year perk she had gotten one day, and liked so much that she couldn't bear not to be bare. It was sort of natural for her to take up some kind of beauty treatment, I have to admit. Madeline and Louise, despite her many denials are influences on her style, and though she doesn't take to their hair and makeup regimens, she takes care of herself just as well otherwise. I enjoyed hearing her tell me about how a spa perk became as natural as brushing her teeth, and had to admire whomever helps her out with this job. Whoever does this for her, she must really trust since the waxer seemed to have gone pretty high.
 
That thought was where I almost lost my bearings. I was almost quiet as my imagination took the inopportune time to ponder that exact question of how high did she go. Freaked me out in the least; at the most, that thought was turning me on as I directed my vision so my eyes to Paris would look as if they were staring innocently at her legs, but around the periphery, the focus was on her lamp. I had this flash of her and I together in that bed, sliding my hand higher until I feel that lace fringe where my hands should be far away from. I bit down on the flesh in my mouth so I wouldn't let an erotic noise out, feeling myself tighten at the mere mention within of how she was...how do I put this within a vague term...patterned, trimmed, stripped?
 
Not that I've tried it myself mind you, well, too much. Once you hear about it though, you can't help but think how it might be, or how it might feel. Feeling up her legs then, it was only natural for my thought track to drift towards the dirty side, and I admit I've had dreams where I thought of how au naturel she was, as I dreamed of kissing down from her neck, down to her belly, until I find my eyes where a sliver of silk usually would be, which in this image, isn't there. I've never focused on what was below her abdomen in real life since her wardrobe is built to minimize sexual interest from anyone, but the dreams, and now the reality that she's damned smooth, would it really surprise me to see nothing but a thin blonde line down if we ever got to the point of sexual intimacy, much less finding our feelings reciprocated?
 
For a moment, I was having second thoughts of choosing the flannel and shorts for her; with an oversized t-shirt I'd have had a good excuse to trail higher and attribute my wayward fingers to an accident if they ended up high enough towards the inner portion of that thigh. I scratched a little deeper, hearing her sort of inhale sharply, but not so much she was reeling back. I kept my gaze locked, that vixenish imagination of mine running away with all these thoughts of taking the simple touch from a bookworm's inquiry, to a lover's wanting for more. I couldn't help it; looking at Paris out of her element, it was something that was causing the feelings for her I had kept inside to start leeching out slowly. The flushed heat I felt in my cheeks was giving me a clue that I needed to reel back from the edge a bit.
 
You're blushing, I reminded myself, better stop before she notices. Leave it to me to take what should be a soothing kind of motion and misdirect it into something dirty like that. How can I think of her like that all the time and feel absolutely little guilt because I think about how good her legs feel, but want to bring that hand up higher than where I had it.
 
Because she's beautiful, is what I simply thought in response. Nothing less than that, Paris is the perfect girl for me. She might be a little unbalanced, and yes, very kooky at times, but that just adds to the package of what makes her that one girl I have my eye on. Her arms, her legs, her eyes, hell her everything. I want to know her in and out, but to do that I have to be slow and cautious, and at that moment, just imagining her the way I did, it kept me riled up, yet the slow burn of the seduction kept me grounded.
 
I wish in my mind that I could've done a little more flirting with her at ease with me, however, that wasn't to be with the clock reading 6:40am, and her body ready to start resting her up against her will. No doubt about it that both of us were tired and sore, and the healing powers of sleep were needed far more than any kind of sexual gratification my worn mind was begging for.
 
I told her this and let go of her leg, causing her to freeze up for a bit so I could set the alarm to a proper must-wake-up time. She seemed to pause and act desperate for my touch again after I asked when she had to be back home.
 
After a bit of a pause, Paris let me know she had a lot of time to get home, and that her mother, per usual was putting her own needs far from that of Paris'. It saddens me that she might have to call some jet-setting card counter her future stepfather because Sharon regards her in the same way as one of Emily's maids. For God's sake, she's Paris' mother! I can never understand how a woman like her could win custody of her when she hasn't made any kind of contribution to her daughter's life in the time I've known her. It hurts me to hear Paris talk of her this way, yet she's not at fault. She's done almost every damned thing she can possibly do to win her mother's love, and it's never going to happen. It's Sharon's fault that Paris has to yearn for attention, and then become defensive about a close friendship, lest it ruin a delicate college connection no one but her cares about.
 
For now however I'm only thinking of things as they are; her mother is her own person and I have to respect what she thinks about me, whatever that might be. I can't do much about the future, this I know; I can only guide my present.
 
I see that it hurts her to talk about her mother, so I distract her into a conversation about Mr. Mercurio and his predictable tendencies. Nothing's a surprise with him and we both rant on about how his class would never change. If it wasn't for our lucky seating assignments Paris and I might have long ago told our counselors to fuck the English seal on our diplomas and study-halled the remainder of the semester. We crawled into bed together, her taking the left towards an exterior wall, and I using my eminent domain to sleep on the right near my heating vent.
 
Not that she needs to be close to the register; I'll be keeping her warm! There went my inner vixen again, running around and causing general chaos to my brain before I fell asleep. I made sure to keep my body as close to the edge of the mattress as possible so we didn't end up bumping into each other a lot in sleep. Though I was going to try to keep this chaste, the occasional Paris hand brush or soft puff of breath against the nape of my neck would be far from an annoying side effect. Just the fact she was in the same bed, safe and warm, ready to fall asleep was of enough comfort to me, even if I never said a word of the feelings I had for her.
 
After turning off the lamp for her, I asked her if she needed anything else, and told me she was fine as I took one last look at her before sleep overtook me in the dimmed light of the bedroom, with the sunrise barely peeking over the skies of Connecticut.
 
If nothing else, all that we had gone through over the last five days proved that there was a very strong friendship under that banter and arguing that we shared, and have won an endurance contest with nothing but our hearts and a heap of prayers and luck. I'm lucky to have you Par, I let her know, unsaid as her sleepy brown eyes penetrated my gaze one last time as she settled her side of the covers against her, and the pillow she was using against her head. You're the most I need, and you're my drive to be the best. If it wasn't for you and your pushiness these last two years I'd still be stuck in that high school I loathed going to before Chilton, and far off Harvard's radar. I wouldn't be able to make my mother and grandparents proud of me for winning the impossible contest without you in my arms. Forget about me letting you go anytime soon Par; this time I'm going to be the buggy little pest eager to pick something with you, the tables are turned. Thing is I'm not looking for a fight; it's your love that I want. Hopefully I get to say something today about it, but if I don't, you will know eventually. The only thing I can really do now is pray that you feel the same with me.
 
After that, it took but a couple minutes for me to fall into REM, and into some of the most restful sleep I've ever experienced. It felt slow and meandering, like my worn synapses had been plugged into the outlet and were recharging, I could really feel it in my dreams. They were of Paris, and the two of them were far from nightmares. One of them a fairy-tale like dream of her being my Princess Charming, dislodging the poisoned apple from my throat with her kiss as somehow I tied our past Shakespeare project with the storyline of Snow White. Funny, I always pictured myself as more of a Goldilocks honestly, especially if the bears happened to leave behind a cache of caffeine. Which then leads to Mama and Papa Bear being Mom and Luke, Baby Bear as Kirk, and my feeling like someone snuck some LSD into my Sleepytime Tea. Just don't ask, my dreamworld is odd enough as it is having to think of Kirk whining about someone sitting in his chair while he wears bear ears, much less him as my biological brother!
 
The second dream was a little more rooted in reality than the first; another one of those future moments images where we're sitting in a Harvard library and comparing notes, as both of us know we'd rather be doing something else back in our dorm room. My hands are on the book, but my eyes were elsewhere, staring at Paris from across the table and how a complicated essay on Prussia was vexing her. It was just...quiet and contemplative, at least at first. Towards the end, she noticed my staring and called me on it, as I failed to explain away the fact that her low-cut shirt was exposing a surplus of skin along her clavicle. Then after asking me why I'd want a study night when my mind was clearly on something else, she told me to gather my things and that we were on our way to the dorm for a romantic movie night. In the sense there was a romantic movie on our TV screen yes; however, we weren't watching it at all.
 
I guess this is what happens when you tire of being taken to Wonderland or the English countryside of Pride and Prejudiced as you grow up; the dreams become a lot more real, and so much more expressive of how you feel about your life. It felt nice to dream of something besides books or hopelessness with Dean, and to have the girl next to me who I have them about made those mirages so much more thoughtful and vivid.
 
I finally settled into a deep sleep after awhile, dreamless and quiet. The small space and Paris' body heat helped lull me off, and I couldn't help but feel much more comfortable than I usually was. Her soothing breathing near my ear, that occasional mumbling in her sleep about assignments, her hands against my stomach, her left leg below mine...
 
There was a sudden jolt as I felt something against my waist, and then something heavy against my back, and suddenly, I was sort of awake, but not much awake since I was only in the fourth hour of rest. I looked at my alarm clock, reading 11:04am, and thought for a moment that I'd overslept again. I was in my regular Sunday state of mind, and thought that it was funny Mom hadn't woken me to get to the Inn by 11:30 for my usual Sunday job; helping out in the dining room, checking some room book math and licking and stamping envelopes in lieu of Michel's day off. It didn't give me much money, but it was enough for me to eat healthy in the ala carte line for every lunch at the very least, plus I didn't have to pay taxes on it.
 
I opened my eyes to my surroundings, the drawn shades and darkened room around my bed, with Colonel Clucker standing sentry at my bedroom door. It felt sort of odd to me. Shouldn't I be more spread out and sleeping on my right side? I thought to myself, wondering why I was sleeping in a way I wasn't used to. My mind traveled back to that feeling against my waist and against my back, which felt so unfamiliar to me.

Still a little sleep-woozy, I brought my hand down from above the covers, and then beneath it, curious as to the feeling. I brought it beneath, running it down my side and against my breast, until I reached where the weight was.
 
That's when all of those pictures from Saturday came back to mind, and all that Paris and I had done. My fingertips touched that flannel, and everything came back to me.
 
My breathing suddenly picked up pace, and my eyes shut as I found out that without the limits of friendliness and angry tension surrounding us, Paris was acting adventurous. I could feel her lips against the back of my neck. Just a little bit, she was far from kissing me since I heard her breathing as if she was asleep; and she probably was too. I couldn't hear a noise from her at all as her arm rested against my belly as if she was trying to cuddle up.
 
I was in shock about how close she was to me in that bed, even though I shouldn't have been surprised because of how small my bed is with two sleepers. What I was in was the most awkward of positions you could ever get into with another person.
 
Paris, I thought, is spooning against me. She's right against my body, what on earth do I do? I was spinning because of how, despite the fact I wasn't looking towards her, compromising it must've looked. I woke up once with Dean next to me on the mats of Miss Patty's, but he was far from looking like we had just had a passionate dalliance. This was a lot different though.
 
It was just supposed to be close sleeping, and I didn't think anything more than the occasional touch would happen while we slept in the same bed. But I was in a spoon; one I couldn't get budge out of in any way, much less move. Her warm body was surrounding me on three sides, with her arm wrapped lightly across me. I could hear her breaths in my ear, and feel her exhalations against its outer shell.
 
I could also take in her scent, the mix of her orchid fragrance, the lilting aroma of her shampoo, which somehow seemed to be a seasonal scent, a mix of butterscotch and vanilla. Her body near mine was reassuring, and though the position she was in was compromising, I was too stuck, mentally and physically, to dare wake her up and ask her to move. What Paris didn't know in her sleep, wouldn't hurt her, was my reasoning. I was still feeling pretty tired and felt a few hours of sleep yet I could handle, and Paris spooning into me was helping me do it. Her bared legs were right against mine, warm and smooth, just as I had thought hours before. The flannel she wore was comfy against my skin, and her soft sleep was like a rhythm, soothing me with her soft sounds and occasional deep-throated stirring.
 
There wasn't any way to turn around without waking her, nor did I want to ruin this mental picture for myself. If she awoke this way and discovered her proximity to me, it would be for her to decode; she'd take offense if she realized I was the one waking her. Paris was like a heated blanket, a special treat to be enjoyed only on the coldest of days, a special feeling you want over and over again.
 
I wanted that. So, keeping as still as I could, I pushed up one of my shirt straps before it fell, looked over at my stuffed rooster, and counting in my head to myself by hundreds, decided there wasn't any reason to wake up at 11:15am. There was plenty of time for my plan of coercion to take root, and to feel Paris' blonde tresses against my back shoulder, it was enough, along with the tight and comfy sleeping arrangement to fall back into the land of Nod by 11:30am, just in time for my dreams of her to begin anew.

---

It was quarter after one when I awoke again, the sun bright in my window and in my gaze, so bright as to turn the darkness I usually see in my closed eyes into a dark red, forcing me awake despite my wish to use every minute I could possibly spend in bed until I could not sleep a minute more. My biology is a stubborn jackass however; never had I woken up at a time after two in the afternoon on a Sunday since by now I'd be heavily buried in either school or inn work, same as I had been every week since I was in third grade. Try as I might I couldn't force myself to sleep again, and with Paris tossing towards the other side and sliding out of her spoon I think an hour before, I only had a tenuous connection to her soothing sleep energy, not falling into the deep slumber I'd rather share, much less a nap. Reluctantly, at 1:20pm I started working myself out of the bed slowly, waking up reluctantly.
 
I didn't dare disturb Paris, not only out of fear about how she'd get up, but how this was probably the best sleep she had on a weekend for years. I know Paris, she's probably sacrificed many a lazy Saturday or Sunday for charity, extracurricular activities, synagological commitments, study meetings, and probably just days having to put up with her mother as she's dragged off to Talbot's or another dud of a clothing store against her will to receive more of that 'non-datable' attire that made her look homely and dull. She didn't have to be up or anywhere for the day, and she deserved the rest for all the hours and hard work she put in to prepare for the dance marathon.
 
My eyes took in her sleeping form, eyes closed, her head resting against two pillows, with her long mane of hair spread all over the fluffy item. The flannel shirt's sleeves were pushed up a bit from the cuffs, with her shorts riding up those legs I had lusted for hours before. In sleep, Paris looks so unaffected, natural, and plain beautiful. This state was where she could be herself, dream her own dreams, and never have to worry that her slumber would receive a failing grade. She smiles in her sleep, and I hear her mumble something I can't make out with the pillow in the way of her mouth; not that it was important to understand, since it was said in sleep and not with a lucid, conscious mind.
 
Just seeing her that way, resting, her brain in its proverbial charger, it makes her look lovely. Her smirk kills me each time I see it, and it's always a positive sign to see one place where her worries are washed away and she dreams of nothing but the best-case scenario. When I'd watch her sleep in Washington, her sleeping face was always a barometer of how the day would go. The deep frown meant she was worried about the itinerary; that would mean delays, cancellations, and being stood up by our House rep at his Capitol office. A smile always meant we were both going to have a great day filled with discovery, inspiration, and ideas to make the whole trip an experience not to forget and give us an extra credit head start on our progress reports.
 
The world would be well this afternoon; her smile was soft and caring, and I would be able to share it all with her. With one more look just to make sure her sleep was deep, I slipped out of the scrub pajama pants I wore to bed, and exchanged those with a tight pair of jeans especially bought for an occasion like this. Lane calls those blue pants 'The Jeans of Woo', while my mother goes with the more obvious and probably edited 'Do Me Jeans'. I had usually worn them around Dean when I wanted to clue him in at an event such as the town hayride or Valentine's Day, where I intended to warm up his libido by begging him with my words that kissing wasn't going to be the extent that I wanted to love him, that I wanted him to feel me up.
 
Sad thing for him is that he never did it; the most we ever did on February 14th was that he offered me an 85% discounted dented Cupid cake at the end of the Taylor's market business day, along with one of those grating audio greeting cards that played a love song with the equivalent of a $3 mini-keyboard circa 1990. He also gave me three roses, but yes, again on the discount, again the runts of the floral bunch, with bright spots on the petals. The romance of last year and the three month anniversary had disappeared, to be replaced with what seemed the Yankee Redneck equivalent of a romantic night out.
 
And no, I do not use that term as a compliment; joining the school hockey team isn't advancing your social status by any means if you're doing it for fun, and not a college scholarship to Colgate at the very least.
 
The more I think about it, the more I dread thinking of our past more and more. I was whipped by his charms, and with his handsomeness, thus my selling of all my J.R.R. Tolkien novels at Black, White, and Red All Over because his constant viewing of the first Lord of the Rings DVD as a 'date flick' became so grating as to turn me off from not only an entire trilogy of literature, but an entire genre at that. I'm only now realizing why both Tristan and Jess both loathed him; he was never enough to measure up to the pride my town had in me. Both of those boys challenged me somewhat, while Dean was safe and dependable, qualities that might be fine for the cocoonish existence I led in Stars Hollow, up until I went to Chilton.
 
Paris has an extended view of the world that I find myself drawing closer to each time I see her. I look at her as I pick up some of my texts and notebooks from my desks to have a quiet Sunday study session by myself, and think that with all that's been in our way, including the rivalry we shared, I'm lucky to know her for who she is, and not what she has to be. I give her a last smile as I slowly tiptoe my way out of my bedroom and past the loud creak in the threshold that's woken me whenever Mom steps on it accidentally when she checked in on me before she went to bed when I was younger. My hands loaded with books and mind with memories, I left Paris to sleep until she can't, and shut the door quietly, and head into the living room to wring all that dance stuff out of my head, and replace that information in my short-term memory with dull Russian novel facts that would definitely have no use in my life in the future.
 
I settled down on the couch and got to work, opening up the laptop and refreshing my mind with notes from a few subjects I thought I was getting rusty on. I tried my best to keep my mind on all things academic, burying my head in the textbook and even going as far as torturing myself through a particularly boring War and Peace chapter to take my mind off things, and Paris. Stop it, I tried to goad in my head, you're acting like someone else entirely, this is isn't you. You're supposed to be cramming to get into Harvard, you have to keep your mind off that girl! She's your competition, the one you have to beat, and to do that you must study your heart out, right now! So I went back to the texts and the notes, trying to get that extra edge on the girl sleeping in my room.
 
Trouble was, Paris might be my competition, but she was also the one plaguing my thoughts, I couldn't just up and drop her, or remain unaffected about the day that was passing. I was still spinning and head over heels infatuated with her, more at that point than I ever had before. She was forbidden to me, and we were never supposed to ever get to this point. Paris Gellar was supposed to be my life-long enemy and pain in the ass! What the hell happened to bring me to that point?
 
Five minutes later and a look in the back of the RN notebook gave me a reminder of why in the space of just five days, I went from thinking of Paris as a girl that I'd never have, to a woman that I needed to know if she was the way I was or not. Those four pages, scribbled in Dixon Ticonderoga #2 graphite gave me a glimpse into my psyche from October 3rd and on from there. A thin grey column on the left of many reasons to go with my gut, and then on the right, almost nothing. Six reasons that were excuses, ways that the old Rory wrote down in order to justify to herself that her idea of a lover wasn't blonde and brown-eyed, and didn't have a certain part. Only one made sense, the rejection I would feel for years if she said no, or worse; called me those same names Francie had used as an all-encompassing label for members of RTS, and then left in a huff of finality.
 
There was no doubt that I was gay; I knew that in my mind, and in my heart, that my best friendships may be with guys, but one girl, I long for her to give me more than a hand on the shoulder and reassuring words. Being married to a man I didn't love was where I didn't want to end up. At the same time, I didn't want to get involved with a woman that I didn't share a spark with either.
 
My scribbled handwriting, the notations along the margins, the paper skinned to within a very thin macro-inch with each erasure after a badly written pro or taken care of con, it was like a love letter in Excel spreadsheet form. Reason upon reason to kiss Paris and hope for more than that, at the end of column A sat the final solution, a declaration that would tell whoever read this that my goal was for Paris to realize that I saw more in what we had than just fiery banter; that within those fighting words was something more, a yearning to know her as more than a study buddy.
 
I wrote down a few more pros to complete the last page of the list in the back of the notebook, easily finding enough things about yesterday to finish off the list. After I finished adjusting a few of the past pros to fit more with my current opinions, I took one last look at the entire list, determined to make sure that without a doubt, I wanted this to happen; to tell Paris today that I find her attractive as more than a friend. The true purpose of a pro-con list is to tell you if you're making the right decision.
 
I didn't even need to get past the first page; just a mere flash of one of my Russian Novels massages, and a replay of that almost-kiss last night moments after she admitted she had fallen out of love with Tristan, is all that it took to help me make that final decision.
 
"She's going to know today," I told myself with so much confidence that I could match her stone-cold determination at every debate and quiz bowl we had participated in through the years. "I'm not going to let Paris leave this house until I tell her that I'm gay, and I feel a hard attraction to her. If it works out, great. But if it doesn't..." I looked down at myself, and thought of how she had been looking at me lately. There was still a chance this pull was one-sided on my part. Then again, she hasn't eyed up one guy at all since Tristan took off for North Carolina, unless those eyes were giving dirty looks to the ever-felonious Duncan and Bowman, who were both still attending Chilton due to large endowments by their individual fathers as 'apology gifts'.
 
Finally there was the matter that her sleep talking "Oh Rory, baby!" cry from that summer night in Washington still echoed through my brain 24/7. At the very least, she's had a sexual dream about me at minimum. That left figuring out if my body was her wonderland in slumber.
 
Uggh, John Mayer, out of my head, now! Why does Mom have to play that CD in the Jeep all the time?
 
Those doubts I had would have to remain, for now I had to build my case to show I wanted her, not just trying to clue her in. After finishing up refreshing on my notes, I stacked all my textbooks in one pile on top of my computer, and then spread the notebooks throughout the coffee table. She wouldn't look at the texts; Paris usually goes right for the notes. I put the notes she was going for first right in front, then her more dreaded subjects along the back, making sure that the Russian Novels book, and in turn my confessions, had a wide berth towards the right back corner. So she wouldn't miss that last hint, I slid the clip of a pen cap I had broken off between the first page in the back and the spiral, an unnoticeable bookmark that with her tired and groggy condition, she wouldn't think of seeing among the morass of metal wire and loose-leaf. I was smart enough to figure her frustration with the class, along with the lack of notes I made in the first place would probably keep her perturbed. When she gets frustrated she throws things sometimes, and a notebook wouldn't be an exception. So if she didn't look at the entire notebook the first time and find out that way, when she threw the book back down, it would open to the pro and con list.
 
The next step was to try to make her feel even more at home and comfortable here, and like a true guest. I thought back to a few weeks ago in my bed, when she had explained what she usually did when she awoke on a Sunday morning.
 
"I usually have Fran call out to this little sub place on Main that delivers," she explained to me. "I order the turkey; it's healthy enough and the way this place makes it, a very good sandwich, especially with those Sun Chips they sell along with it. The butler usually brings in the papers and I try to read them cover to cover, the Times and the Courant and if I'm in a good mood, add on the Boston Globe and the Herald for the 'cah-menahs' view, and the Providence Journal if it's one of those weeks when news breaks seemingly hourly. After I finish lunch, I get to work and study until my eyes blur."
 
"Heart through her stomach and reading habits," I told myself, counting through the remaining $20 of mad money Mom left me for the trip and comparing the prices on Joe's menu to make sure I had enough. My food and hers would come to $10 with a coupon from out of the Gazette that took $5 off a $15 order, and the papers were $6 together. Add $4 for the delivery driver's tip, I just had enough for everything.
 
"Anything will help right now," I said as I found the phone (how did it end up near the TV cabinet? I swear I hooked it on the charger before I left yesterday!) and dialed the #4 in memory, Joe's. Since it was mid third quarter for the Pats game, Joe was appreciative that someone would order something besides a Grande pizza or nine-foot Red October sandwich for a game party. I gave him my usual order of a medium works pizza and some cheese bread, then Paris' sub and chips choice, finishing out the order with a bottle of Coke and a cup of wintergreen tea (he uses the same supplier as Luke's so he gets the same kind of teas and other beverages).
 
"That's going to be $10.57 Rory, anything else?"
 
"Joe, could you do me a favor and have Brian stop at the newsstand and pick up the New York Times and the Courant please? I promise I'll pay him back and more when he gets here."
 
"Sure, anything for one of my favorite customers," he said to me. "Do you know when your ma is getting back, the guys here miss her orders and they're getting a little worried."
 
"Lorelai's getting back from Nashville tonight," I let him know. "I'll make sure to let her know you miss her buddy." We chatted a little bit more, and then he let me know it would be thirty minutes before they'd deliver.
 
I hung up with Joe shortly after that, and I spent the thirty minutes waiting for the food quietly doing the few dishes I used since Wednesday and remaking Mom's bed with the comforter and blankets I used to practice my dancing above in the living room. My mind was still completely on Paris, and I was wondering when she'd finally wake up and come out of my bedroom, along with what would be on her mind. Would she even realize that she spooned into me while she slept, and call me on all these signals I was sending her way? I was hoping for the best-case scenario; that she wouldn't wake up and I could sneak up to Mom's room and get the surprise ready, hopeful she'd stumble onto my pro and con list and find her curiosity piqued from it.
 
Half an hour later, Brian the delivery driver knocked on the door, indeed holding my pizza, Paris' sandwich and side of chips, and those two large Sunday papers in his hands. I gave him the twenty Mom left, along with a five that I planned to use for marathon refreshments but never had a chance to since Luke offered free coffee and Andrew free cold bottles of water. That, and Paris paid for most of the food for me, sort of chivalrous in retrospect but really not that much of a big deal.
 
After I ate a little bit of pizza and bread as I checked in on the football game's score and highlights, then put the leftovers in the fridge, it took me five minutes to set Paris up a place at the kitchen table. I piled the newspapers to her right on the edge, and then set out a plate with the sub unwrapped, chips opened up on the plate, in the bag, and the tea to her right. I wanted to make Paris at home and cozy as possible before things started going down, and remaining neutral seemed to be a good course of action.
 
I know in the end I'll score points with her though; showing I know her Sunday habit, even late, is an important step in letting her know I will pay attention, no matter how dreary and routine the item might be. That's what got me into trouble with Dean; I thought he was into books and music like I was at the beginning of the relationship, but it only took one viewing of Battlebots and the location of an extensive FHM collection in his bedroom when he wasn't looking that nosiree, that boy wasn't having a naughty dream of Clara Barton personally dressing his wounds.
 
But that was young and stupid Rory who was with Dean, for I'm now older and wiser, stewing in my mind over the last few months about how to approach the moment I let Paris know how I think of her. I took one last look at the kitchen table, and then out into the living room, where that blue spiral held the secret no one ever thought I, Lorelai Leigh Gilmore would ever have. The butterflies took effect in my stomach, and as I walked past the couch and onto the stairs, I knew the next time I hit that lower landing, Paris would never look at me the same way again.
 
I had finished dropping my hints; now every gesture and hint that was floating around the first floor of my house was ready to spring upon Paris to let her know that someone out there did love her. Please God, I prayed to myself silently, make this work. I'm not sure if you'd ever accept us, but if you make me feel these things for Paris, how can this be wrong? Those small doubts were setting in, and as I slipped into Mom's bedroom, shut the door, slid onto her bed and fell asleep for a short nap before I could make everything clear for her, I could only hope that Paris wouldn't turn her feelings around on me after finding out I was orientated towards her.
 
I did know one thing before I closed my eyes and let light sleep overtake me. It might not be the best decision, but it would in the end, be better to tell Paris everything, than keep my feelings for her hushed until death. That was the coward's way out, to not hurt or arouse a feeling in their subject. Our friendship was formed on conflict, and to not challenge one another was to say 'I don't care for you anymore, for I can spar better with someone else'.
 
There's never going to be another Paris Gellar though. This meant that for today, whether I liked it or not, it was up to me to prove without reasonable doubt that I felt we were meant to be more than friends.
 
"Zero hour," I made it clear to myself as I fell asleep atop my mom's bed. I was going to either lose the best friend I had made in more in a decade, or else find myself with one of the most loyal and hard-driven girls in all of the Tri-State as my new lover.

That friends line was going to be crossed and blurred out, even if it took tears and raw and untamed emotions to erase it forever from our collective memories.

---

I awoke again about 3:40pm, the hour long nap helping pass otherwise idle time that would have found me struggling to find something to do if I didn't decide to catch a few more Z's. I stretched my body out on the bed, feeling quite hot and wound up from these uncertain feelings and my nervousness at hoping Paris' finding out was more utter shock than disgusted revulsion. A part of me thought that Paris found the list, did not share those feelings, and was preparing to make my life hell again. I heard her voice in my mind, talking about me. "What a bookish dyke Gilmore is," she says in her voice, in my mind, to Louise. "Seriously Grant, are you surprised with the way she talked about Plath and Parker that she wished they were alive today? No wonder she never took to DuGrey, she wanted to munch on that oven-cooked mistress of prose!" Even in my worst nightmares, Paris' sarcasm is always sharp and on-target, which makes me fear what vile she has stored up if she wouldn't take well to the news.
 
Maybe she still doesn't know, my mind nagged. Impossible, because Paris would eventually wake, eat, and soak in my notes even harder than SpongeBob at a fraternity kegger with a beer-filled swimming pool. Routine was her companion and eventually nag her up, the less time she has for it, the worse she feels about it.

I grabbed a bottle of cherry Tums sitting on my mother's vanity and shook two out, dissolving them in my mouth to kill the patch of acid that was settling in my throat. I wasn't even downstairs and my heart felt like it was beating at sextet speed, my entire blood supply flowing through my entire system in less than a minute. I pushed my tank top down a little, feeling cold and a little more exposed than usual from the peek of my belly below the hemline.
 
You don't have to do this, my conscience reminded me one more time. There's still time to take back your preference for girls over boys and meet all of your expectations for life. Paris will always be there, as a friend, and nothing has to change.
 
I looked down at my hands, shaky as I shut the bedroom door and prepared for anything she has to say. I could take back everything, no questions asked. Paris still had no clear picture of what I felt with her, so there would be no risk in not telling her.
 
One more thought in my head before I went downstairs though, and it was about exactly that, no risk. It was also about expectations. The expected; the dictionary definition meaning the planned in advance, what would happen in probability. I was expected to be Chilton's valedictorian, the girl with a perfect 4.000 grade point average, with a few extra credit tenths thrown in for good measure. I expected to attend Harvard, the school I lust for like I do Paris. I expected to be the big-time journalist, the next Amanpour. That someday when I hit 50 and tired of traveling, I expected to be anchoring the evening news, like Walter Cronkite and Dan Rather before me, every weekday evening at 6:30pm from that building on West 57th. I was expected to bring glamour to Stars Hollow, make everyone I ever knew proud to associate to me, expected to work hard and never follow a second opinion my heart tried to use to overrule how I really felt.
 
I had many expectations of me. My whole life seemed to already be planned out for me, the Day-Timers up to October of 2084 lurking somewhere in a closet somewhere and already filled out with events, probably up to my death.
 
And that was the problem; I've expected myself into a corner where happiness is an extra-curricular activity. I fell for Dean when I was sixteen, right on schedule for a Hollywood movie. Found myself in a nutty love triangle a year later, again, Amy Heckerling couldn't have written a better time for that to happen. My life was planned, scheduled out and already in front of me, and already I was exceeding all my goals, but I was also dreading expectations.
 
Where would expectations ever get me? Where I wanted, of course, but if I kept following them to the letter, probably to a life with no excitement, or a thrill of what's coming up next. I don't want the expected, I just want to live my life the way I like.
 
Paris is a risk. A huge risk to my being, my façade, the way people look at my life. They've always seen the happy daughter and friend to all and the community, I'm living a fucking Norman Rockwell painting! No one could ever imagine that I, the brunette and blue-eyed wonder of their village, would ever think this way, of liking a girl like I do.
 
You know what though? I couldn't care less what anyone thought of what I was about to do. So I'm gay, big deal! It doesn't change my grades, or anyone's perception of me before I started having these feelings. Paris, no matter how many times in the past two years I wanted to think otherwise, is one of the most important people in my life.
 
"And I've fallen for her," I mouthed silently as to myself, with a smile on my face. I didn't let myself become bogged down in negative thoughts as I slowly made my way down the stairs, my fingers crossed and my heart swooning, hoping that the end result of the day wouldn't be an outright rejection, and not only that, a disassociation away from me because of how I felt for her.
 
I took in the surroundings of the living room, seeing that she wasn't there. The textbooks remained in place, but the notebooks had been moved somewhat. I headed towards the table and tried to find if she had taken the Russian Novels notes, or read them.
 
I pointed my finger and counted to myself how many notebooks were left behind. One, two, three, four, five, six...should be seven, let's count again. Seven, six, five, four, three, two...
 
No seven or one, and no Paris in the room. My eyes widened, trying to find the blue book, but it wasn't there on the table, it was gone. I started to get a little excited and hopeful that things were going according to my plans.
 
Just in case though, I checked the front door and out the window to make sure Paris was still in Stars Hollow, not running away from what was in that notebook. The door was still locked, and her car was still sitting on the gravel drive in front of the house. Since she hadn't called out my name when I came downstairs from the kitchen, that left one place in the house where she and the notebook could possibly be.
 
She had to be in my bedroom, no question. I steeled myself to any inquisition she might have about my feelings, and headed towards the kitchen, calling out her name to see if she was still up. I walked into the room, and at her place at the table, the plate was full of crumbs, the bags thrown out and the papers looking like they had been read. At least she wolfed her food down, I thought to myself, after eggless egg sandwiches anything seems like a four-course Thanksgiving dinner.
 
I heard silence from my bedroom, so again I called out her name. A little bit of non-response, but before I thought she left through the back door, she came out of my bedroom, looking just as adorable as she did before we went to bed. Her hair was a bit messy and eyes a little dimmed, but she was up and alert.
 
Although, she seemed to look as if she was a little bit in shock.
 
"Uhh, hello Gilmore." She looked down at the floor and at her feet, and I noticed the blue RN notebook being held loosely in her right hand by the spiral. She wasn't pale-faced shocked, but just in shock. If she found out anything, she wasn't saying anything about it because her face seemed unreadable. A cool tension was in the air, but it wasn't a tight tension, more easygoing and dull.
 
Her voice wavered as she handed me back the notebook and tried to spark up a conversation after I greeted her in return. "I suppose you'd want this back, these being your notes and all."
 
"Did you get what you wanted out of them?"
 
Paris seemed silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer. I used my finger to run down the spine where the pen cap had been stuck in to mark the pro/con list place. She gave me this funny smile, one I had never noticed before. "They helped."
 
She had to have read, I thought, since she was giving me this solid stare that was seemed like a rake of my form. She kind of seemed to flush, telling me she liked my notes, but not saying much besides that. I tried to read her emotions like a book, which wasn't helping; she was a clean slate, even face, even eyes, and an even non-signaling smile.
 
"I don't mind helping you out Par," I said, trying to keep her from monosyllabic speaking, "after all, important to keep us 1-2 gradewise, right?"
 
Paris nodded back, all the while knuckling a fist together nervously and using her fingernails to scrape dead skin from her palm. "You know it. Thanks a lot for lunch, I don't know how you remembered my routine so well."
 
"You're a guest, I'm here to serve." I smiled at her, trying to keep her at ease, but nothing seemed to work, Paris was speaking cautiously and slowly, not trying to arouse any suspicion. "As for the food, I was once the town Chutes and Ladders champion, I'd kick everyone's butt. Don't need that knowledge anymore, so I replaced it with your Sunday lunch choice." Yeah, my humor was tip-top today. I then told her about what I did when I got up and then called for the food, then after eating headed upstairs for another nap.
 
"I was starving and ready to raid the cupboards once I woke up, good perception Ror." She yawned and grabbed the half-full bag of chips off the table, munching on them as we sat down across from each other, and after prodding a bit to get her out of a three-words-a-sentence slump, engaged her in what turned out to be a fine conversation about the dance.
 
"My back still hurts from all that standing, I can't feel my feet, and I swear I don't remember the lyrics to any song unless it was from before 1949," she let me know. "I mean I woke up with a constant loop of Company B pounding in my head. That won't be good if I keep waking up with it pounding my head tomorrow morning." I thought she was doing a little bitching about the dance, but a signal, where she held up her hand before I could speak, gave me some relief. "Still, I haven't had that much fun since Spelling Bee week down in DC in '98, in competition that is."
 
"In competition?" I was confused a little by what seemed like a clarification, but she smiled back at me.
 
"Tell me you didn't forget the Bangles at the Pastorelli," Her memory was still clear about that night even a little less than two years later. "Remember, I really liked that band, Madeline and Louise caught at that beer bash, your drill sergeant mom embarrassing them in front of those not-so-hot guys? I still mean it when I say that was the most fun I ever had in one night, before last night of course."
 
"I'm shocked you still remember that, didn't we drag you there kicking and screaming?" I joked, laughing at the remembrance of Paris as we all tried to talk her into it.
 
She rolled her eyes up a little, munching on a chip and talking with her mouth somewhat full. "You're just lucky we still scored an A on that project. But I'm glad you did invite me to come, I'd love to do that again one of these days."
 
"Yeah, once we both can stand for more than three minutes without feeling like our shins are spears digging into our feet. I can't even keep myself up for two minutes before I feel fatigued from the pain. Thank God you're driving home and not walking." We both laughed as she recalled some more of the day before.
 
"I swear, that clock had to be so slow, like at about two when Lane came by to talk to us, I already thought it was 5:30, and then I looked at the readout, and just cringed because it was only two." She shook her head. "I didn't want to say anything and embarrass you, but it felt like hours upon hours since that gym lets in no daylight at all."
 
"It's just a whole other world when you dance," I said wistfully. "Time is infinite, you're one of a few participating and you're always fighting for your marathoning life out there."
 
"Or with Kirk and Carrie," she reminded.
 
"Think she's filing a lawsuit against the poor guy? Carrie thought she had a slam dunk, and crap, she got beat by two girls you're more likely to see at quiz bowl than Red Carpet Bowl." I asked her a question with honesty. "If they had pulled off that move Par, you think we would've taken the contest with more time?"
 
She seriously pondered the question for a moment, and while she did, her eyes seemed to wander down a bit. The table was high enough to go just above my belly, and the tank I wore was pretty obvious. Her foot brushed up against my ankle, bringing me out of my thoughts for just a moment as those bare toes hovered against the lower portion of my leg. I felt myself flush a little, but didn't feel very aroused from it because of the in-depth examination of the marathon.
 
"Honestly?" She brought her eyes up. "I think by 5:55 one of us would've found their energy supply at the F-line and fainted, either you or I. We really got a lucky break from Kirk's slip, because my feet were hurting, you were taking longer to keep up with me, and you saw me when the trophy was presented, I was right at the cusp of sleeping."
 
"You're not regretting staying now?" I nagged, deciding again to get some sweet revenge, and stretch my right foot against her shin. I saw an obvious dirty look directed my way, but I played coy and innocent as I took the offending extremity back.
 
"No Aunt Rory, I'm glad you forced me to stay behind," she said with a voice laced with sarcasm. "I got a victory and a nice brush up for my brain when we get back on Monday. Just one thing."
 
"What's that?"
 
"You feed me a fake egg salad sandwich again and I'll throttle ya into the next week, got it?" She laughed, and I again brushed me toes against her shin, this time she didn't notice.
 
"I'll remind Mrs. Kim that to not use to fruit of the earth and replacing it with a ConAgra chemically-created product could be a possible original sin." We just kept talking for awhile, her seemingly in a wonderful mood from her long sleep, and I was still on top of the world from so many highs, not to mention the blatant looks I was directing her way. Paris really did look quite fetching in that shirt, and with the slumber fog long gone from six in the morning, I could take her in through the natural daylight, what little there was left, of how she looked. Her tanned skin contrasted with the blue plaid, with two buttons down undone, leaving my mouth watering with all those possibilities of seeing much more of her.
 
Even not having the view of those legs I coveted so because of the table, the whole outfit was enchanting. It was something that wasn't her, but yet, it was my own private fantasy to get her into these bedclothes; she made herself look cute, and dare I say it, a little butch-ish? Not that I would outright ever call her the 'b' word; she was still girly (she might deny it but she still likes those Care Bears I'm sure) and loathed sports and drinking unless it was a fine wine or well mixed bar drink. Her music tastes wavers between classical and modern, and she watches very little television unless it's something like Cosmos or Jazz or anything that was a limited PBS series/Ken Burns production once.
 
I don't feel like giving both of us a 'man/woman in the relationship' label so fast anyways since we're two smart girls, it doesn't matter. In the first place, my mental bed picture of her through the girls locker room and my staring is of her wearing fine lingerie, I doubt I'd ever find her in a JogBra and boring briefs. From talking to Mads and Louise in the past, their descriptions had always been of Par being girly herself. Plus the crush on Tristan? She was definitely trying to use every damned feminine wile she could to convince him 'Hey, hello? Yoo-hoo, I have big boobs, long hair and sexy legs too if you'd look under this potato sack of a blazer, just what you're looking for DuGrey, not to mention an IQ and WPM rate through the roof! I'm a woman too, what do I have to do, go Britney here?!' It still makes me mad at the guy; I was really trying to help her come out of her shell with the setup, and he didn't bite. In hindsight though, it helped things a lot; I got to know the real Paris while he fruitlessly tried to get into more than my good graces, and now he's scrubbing the concrete floor of a dorm in Tarheel country with a worn-out Oral-B.
 
I felt good, and Paris did too as we kept talking on and on for the next half-hour at the kitchen table. The notebook holding my secret was in-between the both of us like Jim Lehrer, keeping our conversation even and not as emotional as it had been lately. I continued to play innocent tease with her all throughout as she went on about peppermint tea (I tell you, Luke hooks more people on certain drinks than any multi-national cola company could ever do), and would look at me as her eyes appraised my breasts, sitting braless and sort of peeking against the white cotton. I'd fake a non-chalant look, yet on the inside I was really wishing she could make me come telepathically from her hovering stare; it was taking all I had to not notice, not slip a hand beneath the waist of my jeans, and not to blatantly dip down, stretch across the table and give her doey browns a downshot of that small cleavage I had, along with some nipple teasing. Tempted yes, but it was about the tease, not having her throw the chair off to the side, tip the table over, rush across and envelope me in a torrid kiss of passion and heavy lust, as she immediately goes for the ass...
 
What, you think my dreamworld is all fluffy Paris moments and sensual lovemaking here? I read the occasional bodice-busting erotic romance and have sort of a thing for 'take me now'-style sex. The occasional rough play keeps things heated up, I'm sure of it.
 
Back to where I was though. We talked for a little bit more at the table, and I really could feel things start to tighten up between us. We were both uneasy, wanting to bring up more, but both afraid. The distance, though not overwhelming, made me feel faraway and distant, unable to gauge or bring up the notebook. We both would look at it; I could tell she did see something within. The tension was palpable, and I wanted to tell her just how I felt.
 
Thing is, it was Paris' decision, not mine. It would be too easy, and then too jarring to bring up the confession myself, she had to say something about it.
 
We had to both be comfortable; the kitchen wasn't the place to do it at all. After she finished her last Sun Chip, we packed up and moved to the living room to talk more. I couldn't help but notice though that she had brought the notebook along with her. Again I didn't say anything, and after a bit of settling in, me on the couch and her sitting in the chair, we were right back in our talking groove.

Right away, she was looking at me with that mooning stare, making me nervous in my laying position. I was looking towards her in a position where she could easily seduce me.
 
Leave it to her to give me a nice jar though, back into the reality of what my life was before the sprinklers, the massage, and all that's happened this week.
 
"You know, Winter Formal's coming up next month. Biggest event of the semester, it's going to be interesting getting everything all ready to go," she mused.
 
"Is it already a month? Time sure is flying by this year," I told her. "One minute I'm sharing a dorm with you in Washington, the next it's November and the first snow is approaching."
 
"I was just curious Rory," she asked with a smirk, "anyone in mind for a date December 7th yet?"
 
That certainly brought me out of the girl-crush funk I was in. I told her I wasn't even thinking of anyone besides her, much less a guy seeing as I was five days removed from ending what I had with Dean. She kept pressing, and I let her know in no uncertain terms was any Chiltonian male getting the time of day from me. What I didn't add to that sentence; Not that I'm looking for a man of course, or anyone else except for you.
 
Still, Paris pushed on, mentioning Brad. Not my perfect ideal for a boyfriend, heh, which I let her know, while at the same time giving her the hint that Madeline has a hidden thing for the meek boy.
 
I got another hint of her interest in me when she said she didn't notice Madeline and Brad having a thing going on. The only time they associated closely was at lunch hour, and Paris, the perceptive girl she is, would have definitely noticed. Trouble was, she had a big case of amnesia when it came to that, not even knowing about those two. Looks like the lunch hour hinting is working well, I thought to myself, declaring victory on that front. I was distracting enough to take her out of the lunch gossip circle, that counts for something, doesn't it?
 
Next, she mentioned Dave, who I had been talking to her about for the last two weeks whenever I mentioned Lane. She thought I might have good chemistry with him just from my description of how he was and that I seemed to match better with him than Dean or Jess. It was an easy call to make, since I didn't see Dave anytime except for when the band practiced in the garage, plus I wasn't about to interfere with his wooing of Lane. He's doing very well with that, and once again, I'm not interested.
 
Damn it Paris, tell me something already!! She was driving me nuts with all this talk of boys and dates and dances; maybe it might go well if I just busted the conversation wide open and yelled out that I had homosexual tendencies towards her! It was infuriating to have to hear her talk about guys because really, I've only ever noticed two boys as more than friends. One is history, one is just a boy-friend. I didn't care about guys, I cared about her.
 
"You're sure?" she asked again, as if my long answer the first time didn't bring the point across. I nodded my head no again, taking time to eye up the dark and exposed skin along the line of the opened collar of the flannel shirt to try to send more signals her way.
 
Damn, she looked so good. If only she wasn't trying to push my buttons then, the way she sat in that chair brought out the animal in me. More denials though of what I felt for guys, and trying to keep my confession silent so that awkwardness wouldn't ensue. I kept my thoughts even and non-sexual, trying to keep the conversation warm.
 
This wasn't me anymore, Rory the girl who thought of guys. I wanted to tell her how I felt about her, that no boy made my mind spin like she could, that her challenging demeanor, which would be taken as intimidation by others, instead was a turn-on and another reason to be more than her friend. I just sat there, wondering if the clock would strike seven and I'd still be there as she gathers her things and leaves, still holding in that eight word sentence I'd rehearsed since Wednesday afternoon. 'I'm a lesbian Paris, and I like you.' Blunt, and to the point.
 
But it was still the wrong place and the wrong time to say that. I knew it, so I had to hold out and wait to bring those words to the forefront.
 
Thankfully the opportunity came sooner than later.
 
After joking about Dave's wooing of Lane via religion to satisfy Mrs. Kim, she turned serious, and brought up that topic I thought ended last night. Tristan was back in the picture, but this time as an example of what happens when you fall out of love. I nodded as I told her I remembered that part of the night.
 
She then brought up Jamie, the date in Washington that turned out to be a dud. She asked me if I remembered that. Of course I did, I was in the closet thinking of you as you came back to the dorm and relieved the stress of going out with that bore, in turn turned on from that and relieving my own stress.
 
Paris interrupted my real answer to that question, telling me she was about to explain why it didn't work out with Jamie. My ears piqued up, and my eyes were focused on her 100%.
 
"Please, move over, I want to be next to you." Her voice was firm and unwavering. I couldn't turn down the opportunity to comfort a friend because she was also sounding grave and serious at the same time. I got out of my reclining position, and gave her a bit of blanket as she huddled close to me on the sofa.
 
"There's sort of a reason those things didn't end up working out in the end," she said, and that brought my mind to so many situations far away from her admitting her liking of me. It could be anything, bad or good. Disease names, excuses, academic fraud, they all spun around in my head as she seemed to pause for a bit.
 
Then the dreaded 'P' word came up in my mind, the word that brought me into the world, my mother into Stars Hollow, and a 16 year strain between her, Emily and Richard. She had never been specific about saying if she slept with Jamie before she got back; that self session might not have been about me after all.
 
Paris, pregnant? My mind spun with the possibility she might be confiding in me about that. It would make sense, she's Hartford society and tops in her class, just like Lorelai was at Hillside in 1984. It was also almost three months since the trip, perfect timing for her to detect a change in her body and eating habits and then use an EPT stick to confirm if everything's been shifting because of that. I don't know her cycle, nor do I care to, but with her privacy, she'd probably kept a good front hiding the fact she wasn't having her period.
 
She let me know to keep things in complete confidence, not a good sign with her. She seemed scared and timid, and my mind was now losing hope that she shared an interest in me. Her eyes seemed sad, and that brought the pregnant/gay/diseased reasoning ratio I built in my head to even 33% figures. She can't have a baby with that boring guy! I cried out in my mind. Worse, Sharon's gonna fucking kill her before she can even have it, and all that talk about disappointment this and that! Grandma would accept one day, but Sharon? She wouldn't even give Paris a defense before she ruined her own daughter's life forever.
 
Her stare was dead serious. "What's wrong hon?" I told her, shaky with my voice. I never called her hon before, and it seemed to be something reassuring at the moment.
 
She told me that only Fran knew; this was definitely something that was about to be earth-shattering. She thought it might be a repulsive enough confide that I might reel back and ask her to leave.
 
I prayed silently that it wasn't a baby, because the girl in front of me had a very bright future ahead of her that could be ruined by a lame one-night stand. I did immediately put anything aside that I'd think bad of her for it. She's my friend despite, I'd support her if anything awful ever befell her, and it would be Judas-like to turn my back on a young mother when I was the product of one myself.
 
She tried to get it out, but words seem to fail Paris. I wasn't going to let her get out of this without telling me, and I made a move that could either be taken as flirty or concerned. Hovering over her in an almost-hug, trying to calm her down and help her form the words, I was her friend. She was scared, I knew that, because her body felt tight against mine. I wanted her to just say the words.
 
Again, she relented, trying to shy out. I had to get serious with her.
 
"Paris," I took her hand in mine; my sexual feelings were the last thing on my mind. "I won't tell anyone, cross my heart, now say something to me. What's wrong?"
 
"I, I can't, it's nothing," she mumbled shakily. I told her again it was OK, just spit it out.
 
"Really, it's nothing." Paris was now on the cusp of some serious breaking down. "Just something small, I can take care of it myself, just don't worry about it."
 
I had to, it was my job as her best friend. Knowing damned well that I could be opening up a huge can of worms, angst, and friendship strain, I went with my gut. I told her I didn't care, and about how I thought she was three months into pregnancy.
 
She stilled beneath me, and widened her eyes so much I saw more white than dark brown showing in her sockets. Her mouth opened in shock, and before I knew it...
 
...my theory was thank God, dead wrong.
 
"WHAT?!" She was seriously incensed by my accusation, and almost made me deaf in the process. "Rory, fuck no, I'm not pregnant, and Jamie doesn't have my virginity, I'm still safety-sealed, the most he got at the end of the night was a blown kiss, that's it! Why the hell would I bed that bore of a guy, I dated him your encouragement and because he thought it was a date when I didn't want to date him! I wouldn't have fucked him even if he offered me a million dollars in a suitcase and I can say with 100% certainty he's not making a love connection with me ever again!"
 
I breathed a huge sigh of relief! Now it was 50/50 she was either gay or had a form of cancer. "Sorry, sorry," I quickly begged for her forgiveness. "You said it was serious and I just think the first thing that comes to mind and it seemed like baby, three months, perfect timing--"
 
"Rory, calm down," she soothed sternly. "I'm on the pill, and I'm of the 'love before the first time' mindset, I'm not going to pop into bed with the first warm hard cock pointed my way, I promise you. I'm sexless, but I'm safe, you can relax. I understand it may have come off like I was about to say I'm knocked up, and I'm sorry about that."
 
"It's OK," I told her, and then thanked God aloud that Paris wasn't carrying a love child. I again asked what she was hiding, calming her down with a soothing rub of her hand, thinking with the baby rumor out of the way, she might just tell me without complications.
 
She shut her eyes, and breathed in deep, trying to find those reserves to tell. She was still too scared, too hidden, going back into the iron bitchiness that kept me out before.
 
"Never mind," she said. "Please, just back off, you really wouldn't understand. Once you hear what I have to say you're going to stop being benevolent and finally hate me just like I wish you did the first time we met. I just can't, it's too close to my heart and nothing you'd ever understand."
 
Just as I thought, she was falling back into her shell, the one her mother custom made in order to keep her from feeling or confiding in anyone. It made me not only sad, but pissed at Paris, despite what I felt for her. She sees me as sheltered from real life, was what I was thinking. I was basically being told that the way I thought of things was unlike her way of thinking. She was bitter poor little rich girl, and I was happy small town girl with nothing ever bad befalling my being. She looked at Lorelai and I, and saw nothing but happiness, that my life is sunshine.
 
I hated to make a scene, hated to give her a reality check on my past and why exactly I ever lightened her doorstep with my presence (reverse of darkness). But I had to shake some sense into her and let her know that whatever problem she faced here, it was probably very light compared to what I had gone through in my short time living.
 
I had never gone off on someone like I had before; I usually was a happy person, content with everything and brushing off anything bad. But things got to me over the years, things I was too afraid to vent out with Lane or even my mom. Certainly not Grandma or Grandpa. I don't know what led up to it, if it was the stress of holding in my coming out, that we were in the house with Lorelai nowhere to be found, that I found enough trust with Paris to just go off on her and tell her that yes, I understood her one small wrenching confession perfectly.
 
Try finding your first house to be an 8x8 cube on the campus of the town's inn as your mother prays her meager salary will keep you alive and that you don't catch the measles or head lice from that one dirty kid in class and kill the monthly budget for the next three months. Think about yourself trying to explain to your good friend Sandra, who you befriended in ballet class that you didn't live in a house, but a building downtown above the bookstore in cramped quarters, and that your room used to be a food pantry. Then imagine the month you lose eight of the friends, which include Sandra you've kept since kindergarten and except for loyal Lane, because some uppity Republican bitch of a sex ed teacher tells you that your 27 year-old mother, whom the town admires as a role model for all the citizens, was a fucking whore for not doing the right thing and aborting you or putting you on the adoption market when she was sweet sixteen, and that you're not to be admired for having a great brain that you sweep seventh grade with all A's. You end up with a table alone at lunch after that point, a CD walkman your only companion. "Just ignore them," the principal tells you, as you have to hear the tasteless jokes about how you should be knocked up even earlier by an 8th grader, 'just to keep that family consistent'. You can't ignore it, because it's your past, something you have to live with for the rest of your life, and the school won't stop it because they're too nice or stupid to do anything about this sick teasing!
 
Then bring yourself into the bitter and competitive high school environment, where those same misinformed hicks get right back to work through your freshman year. They come up with worse names, and you find yourself still getting all A+ grades, but after your mother goes upstairs to bed, looking at that Chilton application, crying your eyes out and hoping the Headmaster accepts you, and soon. You already know you'll hit the same teasing once you get into Chilton, but at least they have zero tolerance for that behavior. You wish, and wish, and wish, and then when you finally get in, your mother doesn't have enough to pay for the tuition, so she has to rebuild her relationship, a strained one, with your grandparents to get that money.
 
That was me, telling Paris my life wasn't all rosy and perfect. She thinks 'you'll never catch up, you'll never beat me' or 'I'll make this school a living hell for you' made me quake? I've heard so much worse than that, and even on the first day with her, she was still nicer than any other girl I met in the last five years. I basically was letting seven years of anger, piss and vitriol out at her, hoping she wouldn't find me less attractive with my confession.
 
"I don't have paternal grandparents Paris; they regard me as nothing but a 'humiliation'." I air-quoted that slur with bitterness. "A hu-mill-i-a-tion! Yes, imagine that, I'm an embarrassment to every fucking Hayden in Hartford except my own father, they don't care about me. You think I love that? It makes me just makes me want to...you know, God, I can't say it, but you know it's not pretty. Some groups in Chilton still hate me, no matter what, and the girls are no exception, they think I steal their thunder when I'm just being quiet and studying, and keeping the passed notes to myself so that their notice they'll be blowing some guy in the closet during free period won't ever see the light of day."
 
Paris stayed silent, listening to me, not commenting; I would've slugged myself by now for my candidness. But I saw it in her face; she understood that in the end I'm frustrated myself with life sometimes. I have things go wrong, and though my mom might be my best friend, I still have to bottle up at times, that not everything will be taken with that 'there, there, it's OK' kind of talking. This being gay will certainly be far from an exception.
 
I talked more about the rejection I felt with the Puffs and their placing the blame on me dissolving their group, and then I got to the woman of the moment. By then I was at tears, but I wasn't going to rip her as much as I did everyone else.
 
"Then there's you." I calmed down, and took her hand as I sat back down next to her, sending the signal that she wasn't one of those people who tried to rip apart my life. "The most vexing girl I've ever had the honor to know. The first time we met in that hallway, I knew from that moment I was going to be stuck with you for the rest of my life. I just had this small inkling, and not four hours later were we already having our first fight. I tumbled into you, and ruined a project, and boy were you stubborn about me not giving you assistance. But look who was at my doorstep a mere six months later fretting about how she'd dress for her dream guy."
 
I was making her squirm; the intended effect, because I was going to wriggle this confession out of her. "Par, face it, you've had more opportunities than Wile E. Coyote catching the Road Runner to disassociate with me, but no matter what, you always come crawling back. One moment you're calling me Farm Girl and telling the gossip mill the gory details of my mom and Medina doing more than meeting in the classroom, and then the next there I am, the only girl you see in all of Chilton that would even out your student body presidential ticket. You get all wound up and panicked about something, and there I am, ready to keep you grounded and down to earth."
 
She tried to apologize for her past behavior. "I apologize if I came off as too combative Rory--"
 
I stopped her, before she could try to say something in her defense. "Look, I'm not mad at you, at all, I never have been. Frustrated, yes. Annoyed? Oh, the times I made jokes about your robot-like demeanor to my mom after a tough day where you pestered the dickens out of me. Angered? Only when you've gotten personal, but you know how to keep it on the line and back off once you touch it. But really, in some odd manner, you are the most sane girl in that damned school. You're not obsessed with beauty, nor do you care about impressing any guys unless they're teachers. You're there to learn, and so am I, and both of us haven't let us get our heads too clouded with that crap."
 
She tried to counter with logic. "You're right though, at times I'm insane, a little too much. I get a jealous streak against you and take it overboard, thus alienating you and in turn, making me feel much more guilt for putting you through all this. Sometimes, honestly, I marvel that we haven't ended up throttling one another from our competition, you just have to take a look at the long transcripts I have with my therapist over my doubts with education."
 
"But at least you realize that insecurity, most others would bottle it up and work through it Par, when it would be revealed in a quad meltdown next year first semester." I smiled. "I respect and revere your ethic, and your mood swings make me only realize one thing." I tightened up the grip on her hand, and looked right down at the clasp it was in. "I'd rather have you than the most popular girl in the school. I can talk to you and never feel stupid, and I don't have to reduce concepts to such simplicity it loses a lot in the translation from smart to imbecile. You'll ask a question just to keep me on my toes, and I can't wait for what you have to say next after I answer. In the end, I know you can't bear to hurt me in any way. I'm not Louise, not Madeline, but the best friend you've always looked for, the one you wished you had for so long, and finally came along a couple years ago. One day I might get you as the Iron Bitch, and the next, you're back to being my secret Par-Bear."
 
She gave me an annoyed smirk when I used the new name on her again. "Rory, I swear you tell anyone that name--"
 
"Yeah, yeah, eternal damnation, fiery pits of hell, my lips are sealed." I smiled at her. "But you like it, don't you?"
 
"I do." She was hesitative, but despite her reservations didn't mind my new pet name for her.
 
"See, two years ago you were take-no-prisoners and never letting someone explain their motives, I couldn't find a reason to think 'yeah, I should be her friend'. But you want I want, just acceptance and respect. I will do that for you Gellar, taking you as you are, and then respecting that we're friends with a strong rivalry going. I can never hate you, because without you, I don't feel whole anymore. That dark sarcasm, the hovering presence, the yearning to compete with you, along with your beauty, it's unique, you can't find it anywhere else. If you aren't here, I crumble, just look at both of us three weeks ago in that bedroom; you used to hold a grudge until it made you physically sick, and I used to never care about your opinion. Now, I can't live without you."
 
Paris continued to look at me, focused in on me as I went on to tell her that things with Dean had taken a long, slow decline since last year, when a troublesome Tristan, who had zero shot at me, kept trying to make my eyes wander, but failed. The jealousy Dean had became a wall in our relationship, something I could never overcome and refused to deal with after a long period of time. It made me realize that dependable wasn't the way I wanted to live, with him not focused on keeping the flame strong, and instead depending on the fact I was loyal to him only. That one-sided thinking was dangerous, and now he's on the outside looking in.
 
My eyes wandered off, and they did find someone else I liked; Paris. Not anyone the studio audience on Love Connection would ever choose, but this is how I feel, that I want to love her. I feel challenged and respected around her, and hopefully more than that.
 
That is, if she could ever get to the point. Instead of the hoped for response and breakdown, she gave me the kind of comfort I expect from Lorelai.
 
"I don't know when you'll find that next one Rory," she told me, in a reassuring manner. "But I know that Mr. Right is out there somewhere, waiting for you when you're ready to fall back into a relationship."
 
I just poured my heart to her, and she gives me fortune cookie advice! One more time with the brush-off, and no resolution of what she had to confess. It was driving me crazy, and either she was getting off on seeing me all wound up, she never read the notebook, or she actually thought those notes in the back were for an actual Russian Novels assignment! This was getting beyond ridiculous, now it was just infuriating!
 
Fuck subtlety, I told myself with firm and stiff confidence, it's time to go in guns blazing. I've flirted with her for the last few months, and I'm done. It's time for action. The Mr. Right mention was just perfect for numbing this over-neurotic side interfering with her revelation.
 
I held her tight, looked dead in her pupils, and gave her the simplest explanation of my orientation ever, that I was after a Ms. Right. She gave me this numb look, and I could feel her shake when she tried to make sure her ears weren't clogged with wax and she was mishearing things.
 
Nope, was the gist of what I told her next. Dean was one of only two guys I ever noticed, and I gave her a slight hint that there was a female romantic lead in my dreams very often, many more than he ever appeared in. I gave her an idea that from my sexual awakening in sixth grade on until that day I met Dean, I barely thought about boys at all. I knew they were the key to keep life on Earth and I was supposed to be attracted to them, but I never built it up to that abnormal level you see with any foursome from one of those hot tub dating shows. I always associated more with girls than I really did boys, and would look at men as father figures rather than objects of lust.
 
She tried to fruitlessly bring up my skip day to Brooklyn to see Jess, and how I felt unbalanced around him. Easy enough to disprove my hormones were on the fritz that day and that I still have a 'what the hell I was thinking' mindset for what happened that made me miss Mom graduating from B-school. I admitted my fantasies with him, all three of them. So he's hot, was my thinking. That shouldn't be the only rationale for starting a new relationship, a deep sense of longing and want for the other person should be the mitigating factor.
 
Paris seemed in a tailspin of emotions, wanting to reel back, but something wasn't letting her. I could tell I just threw her a Clemens curveball with the admission of my feelings, and she was trying to balance her mind between making sure it was a real confession or it was just an attempt to shock her and get full attention.
 
"Y-y-you, you like women?" She said, her voice in a high register. "But you're Mary, Farmgirl, and the most innocent girl in school, uncorrupted. This is true, you feel nothing but friendship from men, but girls, you want more than friendship?" She looked down at her hands, and seemed ready to need an inhaler in mere moments. "You're saying to me, right now, that you are, your sexual tendencies are double-X?
 
Leave it to Paris, even in this most raw of moments to be academic. I laughed, keeping her calm. "Yup, that's what I'm saying here, I'm gay, here, queer and you'll have to get used to it, because I'm absolutely sure about this. I've been ignoring these feelings for a year, but I can't pretend anymore, because I feel more passionate about a girl when I think of her than I do a guy."
 
"You're not bisexual," she tried to clarify. "because I think you are--"
 
"Paris," I stated firmly, "I am a lesbian, no doubt about it. I'm not bi, nor do I have any current sexual attractions to any men besides usual shallow celebrity lust. I'm not going back."
 
She let the confession sink in for a bit, and I tried gauging her reaction, my fingers crossed she wouldn't run away. She was staying calm and neutral, holding back what she might have to say about how she felt about her closest friend feeling this way. It took two minutes of silence and some 'are you OK's to find out her opinion.
 
"God Gilmore, you know how to make it really rough for the Chiltonites to like you," she finally let out, thankfully more as jest than a statement of the general consensus of the student body. She uncharacteristically started to nervously play with her hair, curling it around her finger unsteadily. "This is...it's definitely a surprise I never expected to hear from you, not in a million years, that you're gay. You're Rory Gilmore for the love of Pete, the sluts in school would give their left breast to have the chasteness and Disney princess glow that surrounds you. I think of you and see 'most likely to succeed' in the yearbook, not...this."

"Paris," I questioned nervously. "I don't want you to think anything less of me just because of this. Please," I sniffled up a little, starting to become a little scared that this mini-rant would develop into a hate screed. "Say you don't hate me, that you won't stop being my friend."

The blonde sensed how uncomfortable and exposed I felt, and immediately brought me towards her, into a hug, her hand on my back as she tried to keep me calm. "I'm certainly not thinking that at all," she made clear to me. "Yes, it's jarring, I'll admit as much, but it's far from revolting. No matter how much I might seem to have some prejudices, I'm always going to be on the right side of causes, and this is no different."

She released me, and made it damned clear that she was far from turning her back on me. "I'm going to make this clear right now Rory, the only thing that has changed in your mind is that you're a skirt-chaser, that's all. You're still my competitive equal, the ying to my yang, and most of all, my best friend. That's never going to change, I swear on my father's life."
 
I still wasn't clear on how she felt for me; though I was relieved we were good, her secret was still out there, unknown. "That's all I needed to know, and I'm sorry I suddenly sprung it on you."
 
"It's fine." She got inquisitive right about this point. "So who's the object of these affections?"
 
"I can't say," I lied, wanting to keep the evasiveness up. "I don't know if she even knows, or would return them."
 
"So even though you're unsure if who you want is willing to like you, you still think you're gay?"
 
Paris looked at me as my mind wrapped around that, and just like that, without any rhyme or reason, I became unglued at the prospect, a little scared myself of what she would think. She was holding back on things as I told her I wasn't sure if 'this girl' would like me, the reactions of others since she was the first to know, then finally admitting that my dreams with 'this girl' were far from angelic.
 
I thought I was in control, but the pull of Paris so close to me was taking me out of this confident track I was gliding by on, and back into the meek and shaky girl I prayed I wouldn't become when I let her know my feelings for her. I can't even remember what I said to her after that point all these hours later, it's all a blur, feeling like my chances with her were slipping away. I'd have to be content with her being my friend and nothing else, was how I was starting to feel.
 
And then, without any provocation, I let loose the waterworks. My speech became unintelligible, and I found myself crying like I never had before, because I was driving right by Paris' confession, seemingly more concerned with mine. I felt miserable, like I was putting so much weight on her shoulders that she didn't deserve. I started thinking that maybe I should've told Mom first and had her talk me out of it, or stayed with Dean despite his accusations. The last few months were starting to feel like a waste of time, a blur that never should have been or even ever happened.
 
Still, Paris showed humanity in it all. Her eyes conveyed that she really felt for me, the decision I had made to make clear I liked girls. It wasn't a joke anymore, something that I could imagine as tawdry or fluffy as I liked; it was now a real, human tangible feeling that was out there. She felt the constriction of my heart, and though I didn't think it at the time, the tightness in my heart and my nervous energy as I looked downcast, shamed, awful for what I had done to her.
 
She didn't hug me, or say anything caring. All she could do is hand me the Puffs box and try to keep me sane.
 
That's what I thought at least she probably would've done in that situation. She looked at me, with this stare I never noticed before, a mix between her enigmatic smile and inquisitiveness. She moved towards me on the couch a little.
 
"Rory?"
 
I looked back up towards her, expecting her to bring me into a hug, or for her to offer to make some grilled cheese and chicken soup.

"Yeah?" I sniffed back tears, all of them remembrance that she had a secret she was still holding back currently on my mind's backburner.
 
She brought herself back into the conversation point blank with a simple inquiry; was she 'the other woman'? I couldn't tell if she knew beforehand, and didn't know if the pro/con list was known to her.
 
What I did see, was that her hand was still on the notebook, a fingernail slid right into the spot the list started. She had to know, she just had to, was no doubt about it. It was that abrupt questioning style that brought me out of my sadness, and at the very least I had to mention that notebook, so that if she truly did not know about the list, she could take a look and I could go over each one personally with her.
 
That's what I did, tell her that if she was smart enough, she'd know the list was about her, and her perception could have told her that. I confessed everything about the list, and how I was really feeling so much for her since we shared the dorm. It was all I could tell her for now; she'd have to push the rest out of me. I finished by telling her that my life is rough as anyone else's and I hope what I said before drove that home. I needed to know what she had to say in her reaction, even if it was 'I'm out of here you stupid dyke!'.
 
She took her time trying to form a reply, I could tell that the ending part of my confession was really affecting her, much more than a Chilton F or -0- grade would ever cause. She felt devastated, like her well-formed world, with the cute little small town sidekick and her own two lifelong friends was coming apart, and there was nothing she could do to stop the boulder's roll. She just sat next to me, breathing, not saying a word, keeping me on the tip of my toes with what she was about to tell me.
 
It seemed like forever, yet it was only three minutes before she said a word. What was she thinking in her own mind? Did my view of her immediately change in the aftermath of my words? Why was she just staring at me with a stilled jaw, reading my face like a book?
 
I was starting to feel like I was making the biggest mistake of my life, seducing Paris Gellar. I was brazen--no, downright predatory trying to pursue her, almost jealous of a boy she may have felt something for in Washington and trying to wish the date was an unqualified bomb. I didn't deserve her at all; I was like the Prairie View A&M of gay girls, trying to pursue someone that had Duke-quality skills and riches, what the fuck was I thinking?
 
Again, I started to bawl uncontrollably, thinking that she was about to hate me for the rest of my life.
 
She finally said my name, breaking the curtain of silence separating us from each other. I awaited my sentence like a prisoner, ready for her to fire and brimstone me away from her for the rest of my life. The worst fear was she was about to not only slur my orientation, but she was going to make sure and spread this new fact like wildfire through the halls of Chilton tomorrow morning.
 
Paris took her cup of wintergreen tea into her hand, with one of her hands brushing up against the side of my left arm. I gave her a hopeful look, and despite all the despair flowing through me, found myself a little light-headed from her touch against the small hairs on the extremity.
 
God, if you hear me now, please, make it short, blunt, and as easy as possible. I prayed to a deity everyone says is benevolent, but according to a few homophobes, probably hates my guts.
 
It was then I heard her speak those words, between sips of the foam cup of tea.
 
"I've felt the same way for you. Rory, I like you, in a romantic sense."
 
I was ready to sulk off to my room in shame, when the word 'like' hit my brain like the metaphorical anvil she described in the sentence before. "Like...like...like...like..."
 
No way! I couldn't believe it; she was just admitting she liked me. This had to be a practical joke, or as the cool kids call it, a 'punk' of some kind. My feelings were being returned? By Paris, the girl I liked. This couldn't have been true.
 
I looked up at the girl I liked, and saw her smile, a real honest-to-goodness smile, the kind she usually reserves for an 'Eureka!' moment during Franklin work. A smile that was telling me 'what I just said to you is the plain truth'.
 
I had to confirm it, just in case I missed a couple 'don'ts' in her saying she liked me. So again I asked, tense and wound up like a stretched belt.
 
"Ror," her voice was softer and kinder, and dare I say it, more soothing than it ever had been before. "Just a half-hour before, I was plopped down on your bed, reading the notes out of this notebook and thinking you were crazy as hell, because those notes, they didn't correspond to Anna Karenina at all. I read through what you wrote in the back, very confused, but then I turned to that first page, where you started the entire thing." She brought her hand back down into mine, while opening up the book to that first page. "As I saw each reason, my stomach did these handstands and I didn't know if I was reading something private, or what. All I knew was, these notes, they were far from friendly. I went back to page three, and looked again at those notes from Tuesday, where you felt this rush from going braless in my presence. It was then I remembered, Anna Karenina never wore a bra! I keep looking down, at the stuff about the fountain, how you felt in my shirt, the ride home from school that afternoon."
 
She turned to the fourth page, the start of the beginning, and read it to me. "Pro - She is now the only one who has a pull on my heart. Pro - He's history; I can finally ease up, and get a little daring." Damn, I loved how she says the word pro, so spiced up. "Pro - She cared enough to ask what happened to him. Pro - She cut off the bracelet for me, I'm finally free of the jealous bastard!"
 
"Two more things to mention, one on this page, one on the first." She looked down at the next reason on page four. "Pro - She's talented, beautiful, a great dancer, and she said yes to me. We're going to win this thing!!" She then turned back to page one, the topmost pro on the paper, one changed to fit the whims of my lust and love for her. "Pro - I want her, corrected six or seven times, followed by an asterisk which points to the fact you want me, and more." She looked me straight in the eye, and stated what she felt, candidly.
 
"I never thought you'd notice my subtle signs at all, but somehow, you did." She sighed. "Every one of those pros in that notebook, they are correct; I've been baiting you for the last few months, and hopeful you'd notice anything and respond in kind. I never expected to find this out in such a dry and academic form of sorting your feelings out, and I would've definitely written a few more things down on the con side, but Rory..." she played with my fingers, her voice slow and wanting. "I do want you. I have wanted you for at least the last five months, and even before that, I felt like I wanted to know you as more than a friend."
 
She looked down a little, and finally said those confirming words I was looking for. "I've only thought of one boy in my life, and that was Tristan, there was never anyone else. After he left, the thoughts started turning towards you, and before I knew it, there you were, in my mind all the time, in my daydreams, my sleep, and in spirit, pushing me to do more. Eventually those dreams became a little more risqué, until I found myself starting to flirt with you subtlety, and hoping against hope you'd notice." She looked back up, to my nervous smile.
 
"What does this mean then?" I asked her.
 
Let me just tell you now, Paris could make the ingredients listing of a shampoo bottle sound sexy, because when she said this, my mind got some nice hot flashes of her doing these things. "Considering I did some experimentation in my younger years with other girls at Jewish summer camp and enjoyed it despite it being merely clothed touching, the fact the sight of a man nude in a magazine repulses me, and the washboard look does nothing for me, I look at women with a lot more interest; not to mention that I find erotic stories on the internet and in books with two women much more intelligent and sexy than the guy/girl combo usually associated with romance. This, along with the overwhelming longing and want that I have for you, brings me to the final conclusion that yes, I have very strong lesbianic tendencies, and barely any heterosexuality to be found within my system."
 
I then smiled at her, and shook my head. "You know Par, 'I'm gay' would've sufficed." I then laughed as she rolled her eyes.
 
"Fine, I'm gay, there's the Cliff Notes version, you happy now?" Her voice was very light and not bitter at all.
 
"Oh, I'm more than happy," I told her honestly, feeling a large weight come off my shoulders. "Relieved, thankful, exhausted, I have a million terms I could use to tell you how I feel right now."
 
"All I feel right now is just good," she whispered. "Really, I've been feeling this way about you ever since I had to sub in as Romeo after Tristan ditched us. Back then I thought it would be just plain fleeting lust, my hormones adjusting to a love departing. It never went away, it stayed through the entire year, no matter how much I willed it to disappear. I figured out something was wrong when I reacted so violently to you not taking my invitation to celebrate the Hillside victory because you had to meet Sherrie; seriously, I had this 'spurned lover' thing in my head, even though you were far from being my lover."
 
"Thinking back, I thought it might be that," I mused. "But go on, I want to hear your side."
 
"There was me stopping by to have you tutor me, just an excuse to see you, and I guess you know now that the 'I want Jess so bad' excuse I made up in front of Dean was a big lie in itself." I nodded. "Once May hit and I was in that panic about a VP, I could only think of you, and hope that the summer went well enough in Washington. Which it did, we both still have our heads, and ten toes and fingers each and ran into nothing but the usual bed by the window fight, we tolerated each other well enough."
 
Paris went into detail about the summer, Jamie and the date she hated, so much that she tuned him out halfway through and couldn't wait to get home because he was such a dead guy to begin with. Then the start of the school year, and then letting me know that my begging for the hemlines turned out to be a good thing; she did ogle me, a good thing to hear from her. A little more on Tuesday morning and how she went crazy trying to accommodate me on such short notice and how nervous I was asking her to dance with me.
 
She then turned serious on me. "Still, nothing told me I had to go for this more than the field hockey match. If ever there was a sign that you saw me as more than a friend, it was that, you planned it out well Gilmore, pat yourself on the back. Just the way you carried yourself, the way you challenged me, and got me into the game, which is such a hard thing to do, it could've backfired. But you made it work, and I never had as much fun in school as I did that day. Or as much depression, right after I ran out on you in the shower and almost single-handedly killed everything with my silent treatment." Paris huffed out a breath, and came to a conclusion. "If I learned anything from those three nights without you and the awful argument we had, it was that I'm infallible and about as co-dependent on you being there for me as Barney Gumble is to the bottle. I was lost without you, and I couldn't focus. I had to make things up, and I'm glad I did, because it just proved that our friendship might be on shakier ground than Pisa at times, but it's still solid despite."

I completely agreed with what she had to say. "It was needed, that last conflict, call it a dress rehearsal," I rationalized. "And it helped you get some frustration out with your mother which I thought you really needed to get out. You don't need to blame yourself at all; it was floating in the air and someone would ask it eventually."
 
"Which meant it had to be you," she smiled a little. "I know she's going to be pissed when she finds out about all this, but I'm tired of not being my own person, it just gets to you after awhile. I feel so closed up around her, like I'm a Chinese dissident under her Mao-like rule." She frowned for a little bit. "I better not dwell on her right now, this is a good thing, right?"
 
I nodded back at her, and she gave that smile that makes me weak.
 
"I have one more thing to ask about the past before we start the future though."
 
"Go ahead, I'm an open book."
 
She seemed nervous a little. "Dean...uh, I know how much you loved him in the past. Did you decide that the overreaction to him finding out about Jess with you helping fix Dwight's sprinklers was the perfect break to dump him, and did you...you know, see it as the right time to bring things into motion? I mean, did you break up so you could have me, free and clear?"
 
I gave her a small little smile, and then gave her a quick rundown that said things fell into place, she danced with me yesterday, and here we were...
 
As her body moved closer to mine, and invisible boundary that was in the middle before that point, had disappeared with our confessions, since she was easing into my body, moving her hand up my arm and appraising my clothing choice. I'm thinking she took to it very well because her last question was about the sprinklers, and how they came into play. Was it accidental? It sure was, and I let her know that.
 
Her smile was getting closer to mine, and then she latched on to my calling her 'my friend' in that last sentence. Suddenly, she got all coy and flirty, a personality I had never seen in her before. Her nail scraped against the column of my neck, next to my pulse, and just as I thought this day couldn't get any more heated, Paris decides to 'I before E except after C' her way into my heart, by correcting one word for another.
 
Her voice was husky with want, and the humor was disappearing, as I realized her fingers below were curled around one of the belt loops of my jeans. Then, she whispered the correction, replacing 'friend' with that term of endearment I always wanted her to mention.
 
"Don't you mean girlfriend?"
 
My mind didn't spin into panic at all upon hearing this, since it was concentrating on the fact I felt a tightness below at her sudden dominance over the situation. I had control over the seduction, but the carrying out was about to become all hers. I tried to warn her that this was it, the point of no return. If she was about to do what I thought she was going to do, there was no going back from here. We would share a kiss and have been lovers once upon a time.
 
My body certainly was hoping she wouldn't take it back...her face hovered above mine, those brown eyes looking deeply into mine, and her hand rested possessively on my side, inching along the waistline of my jeans. She wasn't even aware she was playing with fire, and though she tried to distract with a brush of some stray hair from across my face as she gazed at me, I was all far gone. Already, this innocent, yet sexy positioning was beyond all my dreams.
 
Which she mentioned as she answered whether she was ready to take the first step. That my dreams were giving her overloads, it gave me a nice pink tint to know that I was warming her up on cold nights from a half-hour away. I could only wish to imagine what I was like in her imagination, and hoped the real me would live up to the marquee billing. Her orchid scent was getting to me, and her shirt, still undone in those two places, was hanging in front of my vision. I wanted to look in and have a peek of those breasts I've dreamed of kissing and nipping and cuddling up against, but my mind was more on her lips at the moment.
 
I gave her a little preview of how her dream self was. I made sure to note the dominance she displayed, and how commanding she would be, yet I noted how soft she was, and concerned with how her actions in bed were. I made sure to tell her she was cute in my dreams, then brought the compliment out into her real world self.
 
"Cute?" she gasped out. "I am far from cute, I'm downright homely, you don't have to say it."
 
She was turning as pink as a medium rare fillet, so I was going to insist as I looked Paris up and down, my mouth watering with the taste of a mix of wintergreen liquid and vanilla mints. Fucking lord, she was more than cute with that hair spread throughout the throw pillow, her eyes far gone and a hand brushing up against the side of her shirt. She seemed to flinch when my hair brushed up against her reddened cheeks, and I wanted to give her a kiss that would make that pithy one Tristan made seem like a crappy spin-the-bottle buss. I tell her again she's been cute for days upon days, and made her melt.
 
I must've hit the right spot, because just as I thought I couldn't see her as my new lover, she told me I looked both cute and hot.
 
Now Dean had always called me cute, but in that boring guy way that's like 'you're handsome' to them. The way Paris told me she thought the same, and then paused to catch her breath to give me the compliment that I was hot, it was something alien to me, Dean never thought of me as hot. My mom was hot to most young males, Sookie was hot to Jackson, Dave found Lane hot, and Madeline and Louise, to those two the word was almost used as much as 'hello' to them.
 
But lil' ol' me, hot? The way Par said it, with that monotonal husk, her lip bitten down to tease the hell out of me, and a hand up against my back, it did something to me. Oh my God, I just wanted to drag her into my bedroom and make her feel how fucking hot I was. And her eyes...her eyes, they took on this light, wanting shade of brown that screamed out 'these are my fuck me eyes'. They were usually studious and focused on one topic at a time, never wavering off track. Too feel them on me, appraising my form, aroused with want...I could feel my legs spread just from that one syllable. I felt my heart pound, and my modesty start to break down.
 
I just wanted her, right then and there. In a reduced form so I didn't scare the daylights out of her of course, but a kiss was still enough for me. I'm willing to wait as long as possible for her; she'll know when it's time to take the plunge.
 
I gave Par this sexy smile, and a slight hint as to what I wanted. I bent down closer and closer, telling her I was flattered by her use of the word hot, but that I was tired of playing games with her. I wanted her lips on mine, her hands in my hair, and to give her that knee-dropping kiss she had never, ever experienced before.
 
With the freedom of a lesbian relationship, I feel more daring. Much more is open to me, and I don't have to hold back as much. I made sure to show Paris this, that she wasn't falling for the old, boring, prudish Rory, who usually spent a couple minutes gargling Cool Mint Listerine once she got home to get the gross taste of Dean's too demanding tongue out of her mouth from his after-school 'kiss'. I took her face by each side, her giving her consent for the kiss to happen softly. She seemed to countdown silently, eyes closed, awaiting the reward of being loyal and unwavering about keeping me as a friend. Her face is soft, just as I imagine it, the softness of her cheeks soothing in my grasp. She threads her hands through my hair, and I can finally sniff her breath, up close and personal.
 
I couldn't wait anymore. I noted the time of 4:37 on the VCR's readout, my eyes taking one last look at the world as a Mary, the girl who never took a risk in a relationship and had a romantic life that would be a good cure for an insomniac in book form.
 
I met her soft lips in the middle, and it took mere milliseconds for jarring shocks to go through my body. My eyes focused on her that first second, both our pupils receding. I heard that first kiss, and the passion between us was so much.
 
The kiss was soft, not meant to do much more but to blow off a year and possibly plus' worth of steam. Still, it was outpacing any time Dean ever tried to shove his tongue down my esophagus, because I wanted this, truly wanted this so bad. I felt my eyes shut as I felt the suction of the kiss increase, then heard that first release and smacking as she moved away to catch some air.
 
She kissed me once again, trying to imitate what I did the first time. Sure, she was novice at it, but it didn't lessen the impact of this first kiss any less. I understand going in she's catching up on a lot of lost time, so I'll be more of a guide than her. Whatever the case, her first attempt at kissing was still on the mark, and sending shivers down through my back.
 
I felt like I was losing my breath, yet I wanted more. To make clear that this was no Mickey Mouse crush, far from a phase, that I was committed to this idea of an us.
 
I crushed my lips hard against her, my hands moving towards the nape of her neck and making her melt into the cushions of that couch she loathed so much. There was no protocol or template to what I was doing, it was all spur of the moment. She grunted out for breath, and I let her go for just a second so she could intake a little air before I started making out with her anew.
 
Her mouth felt just right, and her body felt perfect against mine, her short legs coming to an end at her feet, resting against my shins. Her eyes were closed and the only word she could find in her brain was "More..." stretched out, which brought to mind her humming deep and long against the sensitive tissue of my clit. Mmmmmm...I thought as I got a little bold and bit my teeth softly into the skin of her bottom lip. Paris shrieked aloud and just about scraped her fingernails down my back; by Jove, I think she liked it.
 
I brought her even closer, continuing to kiss her like we were a couple of young teenagers. I brought my hands down towards her bra line, and shifted a little so one of her legs fell in between mine. There wasn't any way I was going to give it up so fast, but bringing her into that position and moving my right leg between hers kind of gave her a hint. Her breathing picked up a heavy rhythm, and in my grasp she started to shake below me.
 
God, having that picture of her in my head of her eyes closed and body prone, ready and prepared for more as my mouth continued to tangle against hers, it's a first kiss I'll never, ever forget. In my eyes, all that tension had disappeared, though unlike what everyone would hope, I was still wanted her as my lover. Not a chance that anything I felt with her would disappear just because I finally got to have a hot torrid kiss with her.
 
Just as I felt like I was about to lose control, Paris' brain functions had rewired and she found just enough in her to make her hands push me back a little a separate from the kiss. I looked down at her, and she was smiling as her hands messed up my hair beyond any kind of redemption; apparently she has a habit of doing something else while doing the major thing. That didn't leave me disappointed, and made me wonder what kind of interesting things would happen during projects from now on.
 
She got up from the position she was in, and inched over a little so I could sit next to her on the couch, face to face. We were both so messed up, faces slick with perspiration and some stray drool, which made me grasp for the tissue box so I could hint she needs to curtail her saliva production a little. Still, it was very nice; I finally got to kiss Paris, the end result being the first time was beyond all my dreams and fantasies. I was just thankful we were both makeup-less; the last thing we needed were lipsticked collars and running mascara.
 
Both of us had to looked stunned and out of it, because we were only focused on one thing; each other. Her hand kept touching mine as we started to recover from the effects of that kiss. Especially Paris, for it didn't take long for her to start microanalyzing the kiss and everything surrounding the said buss.
 
Her reaction was stunned, very few words except for a very distracted her telling me it was very nice. Then she went on with her side of things.
 
"Was I good? Did I make you nervous? Was I sloppy, did I bite too hard on your lips, was it too wet? I have to know these things so I can improve, that was just OK I think." I shook my head as she continued. "I'm just wondering, is there anything I need to do so that I can get this right, I--"
 
I tightened my grip on her hand and got her to stop before she ever had the chance to Dr. Laura her way out of my good graces, so I sat her down and told her that she was beyond my expectations, everything worked so well. I joked about her first date with Tristan and the index cards, and that seemed to bring her into a sense of much more calm and ease.
 
What I expected next was for her to take a break from this influx of conversation and to sort her feelings out, to make sure everything would be fine before she left Stars Hollow. I also thought we were about to get down to some dual studying with all those books sitting on the coffee table.
 
However, it only took her a few more moments to realize that both she and I never got such a great opportunity to spend time all alone, with no one about to interrupt this intimacy that was starting to just form. No matter what, I'd be content.
 
She gave me this deep and mooning look, those 'kiss me' eyes again on display as this time, she pushed me towards the end of the couch and she used her left hand to brace against the coffee table. She moved up along my body, her hair falling down against the skin exposed from the low cut of my tank top. The fingers of her free right hand brushed against the nape of my neck, just near where days before her touch had almost made me faint from that slow and sensual back massage. Her index finger brushed in the middle of my hairline, and I could feel her stomach pressing against mine as Paris told me she wanted to kiss again, using those big academic words to turn me on.
 
My humor was lost, with the signals usually running to that portion of my mind detouring to create some of the lamest and dorkiest seduction lines ever. "Closed lab environment of the living room?" I actually told her that! Yet somehow, she found humor within the lame commenting, shaking her head at me with a wry smile.
 
"We're going to be a very odd gay couple, aren't we Gilmore?" I made the usual bad Oscar/Felix reference that had filled many blanks for the last thirty years, hoping she wouldn't groan at my temporary loss of wittiness.

She was smart though, and instead of letting me go on, shut me up with a very tender and mind-altering kiss, all the while telling me that I was the only one for her. The only thing I could do, and just the only damned thing I wanted was to gasp out that her remark of how she'd never go out with a guy, young or old again was noted, and then fall into what was very far than the kiss of a novice. As her hands slid down my shoulders and she laced a finger around the straps of my top, there was no need for anything else.
 
When she's not looking, I pinched myself; mainly because the way things with Dean were going, I didn't expect last Tuesday morning that five days later, Paris and I would not only be dance marathon champions, Dean would be a faded memory, and her teeth against my upper lip made me cry in both pain and pleasure at the same time.
 
I can't even think of how far we might go and that she could be even more caring and domineering than this; but I do anyways, and I shut my eyes and kiss Paris back with equal and hungry passion, it's making me anxious to find out where this thing is going.
 
I just hope it doesn't require a bigger bed in my room; it's fine for sleeping, but for making out, not so much...

---

We did eventually separate, and with our attractions known, found ourselves talking about the reality of Chilton and this town, and how they'd react. We were both nervous, yet we were calm, since no one had to know for at least awhile.
 
She told me about the history of homosexuality in Hartford society, which was very blunt and short since only in recent years did the city's upper class start to embrace the fact some of their heirs and heiresses were attracted to their own sex. "Even then though, the family members and staff hired by some rogue members are trying to find ways to disinherit them from any kind of trust. It's discrimination, but since it's a family member, you really can't do anything about it." This made me fear Chilton more, and her family, but she calmed me with a rational explanation of things.
 
"My mother is going to hate me for sure, but I think my father, he'll understand. Since he took over the reins of the family company after Grandpa Gellar died, he's opened up the lines of communication between the minority community and them, and he forced the board to put in specific language that if a person is found out gay, they cannot be fired unless the termination is justified. It's a very open workplace; everyone's accepting and the office bigots usually get the lonely middle cube if they even try to speak out."
 
"So you think you're fine?" I asked.
 
"Daddy loves me, I'm still his little girl; he's only ever wanted me to be happy." She smiled, and sighed. "He's always wanted to meet you one day, says that I should have more friends like you." She rubbed my hand, and asked about Emily and Richard, two people she respected.
 
"Honestly," I hesitated, "I'm not sure, I mean I was expected to be mom's validator and bring the family back to glory. They never say anything, very old line and centrist, so I don't know. I'm more fearful of my mom though, this is going to weird her out so much."
 
"Ror, she'll be fine, she's cool mom, remember? You have a close friend-like relationship, and she has enough of a heart to realize you're Rory, not 'her gay daughter'."

"I know, but if we work and we don't come out to her in a short period of time, that'll be the longest lie I've ever held onto in my life. She's going to be disappointed--"
 
"Hey," she told me, in the commanding tone. "It's justified, we're not ready to outright think we'll work. If she finds out, we'll tell her, but for now, just hold it in and we'll see if this pans out the way we both hope it does. Got it?"
 
I thought for a moment, and realized I didn't really have much of a choice in the matter.
 
"You're right, I guess." I settled up against her, and grabbed the remote to check in on the 6 o'clock local news. "I would hate having to ever make a decision between you and my mom however."
 
She gave me a sad look, and huffed. "I'm already building a defense to keep you if it ever gets that perilous. I refuse to lose you because of stubborn family or homophobia; I promise right now, we'll fight for each other." She turned around and offered her hand. "Do we have a handshake agreement on that?"
 
I took her hand and didn't take long to seal the deal. "Us against the world." With that firm declaration, we focused on the outside world for the first time in twelve hours, yet still found her cuddling against my shoulder as we watched the Sunday evening news, like clockwork and right on time. Something I hope is a habit we'll repeat many times together in the near future.

---

Eventually, all good things have to come to an end eventually, and my time with Paris was sadly, not an exception. When the reverie of Paris' cell phone in my bedroom rang and she read the caller ID as her nanny, I realized it was time to let go. I wanted her to stay with me so we could chat some more, but with Lorelai just landing up in Windsor, I found myself really missing my mom and wanting to make up for that five days of lost time with her. Paris seemed uneasy about leaving, but I assured her that I'd be fine, she could go home and get back into some comfy jammies and finish out her weekend.
 
My heart was already tugging with want as she packed up her things in my bedroom, but I know that for awhile it'll have to stay this way, a relationship separated by twenty miles of roads and a commandeering stubborn mule of a mother. Thank God I have her private room and cell phone number, along with her email address and screenname to chat with her whenever I feel lonely, because I'm already getting that sense my keyboard will be worn out by mid-December just chatting with her about anything and everything. This was the afternoon after we broke down and expressed how we felt; the boring talks about school subjects, science news, and inappropriate humor about Mr. Mercurio's never-changing curriculum. It would've put Dean to sleep in a minute, and Lorelai would ask for a translator. I could relate to Paris and never get bored however, and that's all I wanted, someone I could chat and love on my own level.
 
I struggled to say goodbye to her, and as I kissed her at the front door, wished she could stay. No doing however, and I could only count the hours until 8am, when I would next see her in class after another awful bus ride out to Hartford.
 
"About that," she told me. "You've expressed nothing but hate for public transportation lately. Now that we're, uh, closer, remember my rides offer from Tuesday?" I nodded in the affirmative. "If you wouldn't mind, I could come down here from now on and take you to school. The Jeep's on its last legs and the odds of you getting another car are pretty slim, and besides Ror, I could use the company."
 
"You're serious?" I thought she was playing me, that she was willing voluntarily to deal with Hartford traffic not only twice a day, like she did delivering me from Chilton back here, but in the morning.
 
"It's not a big deal, really. My car burns efficiently and receives excellent gas mileage, and Mother wouldn't notice an increase in the fuel bill. I wouldn't ask for more than the $10 you already give me a month, it's something I've wanted to offer to you for quite awhile."
 
I thought about the extra time in the morning spent with Paris and tried to play devil's advocate, noting the inconvenience of an earlier wake-up time and the mood swings of the weather, but before I got another word in trying to convince her I didn't want to be an inconvenience, that damned infuriating girl pushed me up against the doorpost and kissed me senseless, shushing my arguments with each kiss. After about another minute of a tangled embrace, she released me, and went on like nothing happened.
 
"If it snows, I have a Rover in the garage, it could get through the Ice Age if it decided to create a sequel. As for my sleep, I'm done with studying by nine and bored by ten, so it's not going to radically change my sked. Promise." Another knee-weakening smile; damn it, she's trying to use it to gain the upper hand.
 
Again, I refused, until finally, she told me I'd be there waiting for her at seven, or else she'd chase down the bus on the highway, screech in front of it and pull me off by the backpack strap.
 
For a moment I considered letting her do that because of her hotness in anger, but in the end a pissed-off Paris wasn't exactly an animal I was ready to deal with in a lover's sense quite yet. So I sighed and told her she could be my ride, which made her about as giddy as something like that could do.
 
I went outside to see her out, and walk her to her car, where she thanked me for the wonderful weekend and the dance marathon invitation. I was chilly, but just seeing her off in a chivalrous way warmed me up, along with her stare since I was smart enough to know that cold meant stiffened erectile tissue. Yeah, no jacket was good for once as I put my arms right below my chest, keeping the part where the front of my breasts could be seen. I gave her a knowing look as she said goodbye and rolled up the window, then she blew me a kiss (to keep the gossip mill down and make it look like friendly intentions), and I watched her pull out in reverse, onto Cherry Lane, and out of town back towards the Manor.
 
I watched her for that small minute as she drove down the road, until her vehicle made the Peach Street turn, leaving me alone for the next hour to clean up my half week-old messes before Mom arrived home at eight.
 
Despite my overly aroused body, I still mustered the energy for a quick vacuum and dust, and a straightening of my room before I took a shower to rub of the aromatic and visual elements of what Paris and I had done only hours before on the sofa. I kept the focus on a rote Latin quote I was memorizing for that class in sixth period tomorrow afternoon for extra credit, and did not dare focus on expending the energy that built through the day with each touch and brush my blonde classmate caused to keep the domino chain of lust tumbling. I stepped out and changed into a more mother-appropriate wardrobe of those same lamb jammies I turned down in the heat of the moment to give Paris a couple things to think about as she slept and spooned against me.
 
I rushed around the house, throwing my hair into a ponytail, gathering my books into my backpack and Febrezing the couch to remove any trace of more than innocent sitting from the offending furniture. I ordered out another couple of works pizzas and bread from Joe's from my Fez cash pot, trying to make Mom feel as welcome at home as she possibly could after days upon days of PowerPoint, hard sells, cramped quarters and missing me beyond belief. I checked the answering machine to see if she called while we slept, and she did indeed leave one message around 11:30, where she said "Hey hon, I'm coming home, love you!" before departing from Nashville Metro.

I finished spic n' spanning the house at about 7:58, just in time to sit down, grab a random book from my room shelves and curl up in the chair as I heard the airport shuttle van pull up in front of the house, just in time and another fine bit of timing since the pizza had come three minutes earlier. Despite how much Paris has become more a part of my life this weekend, my mother is still the one who truly needs me, and that I in turn she needs to be in my life.
 
If I knew something, Mom was going to be very tired and worn out. I heard her luggage hit the porch with a dead thud, pretty much denoting she was struggling to drag even her own body up those three steps. I opened up the door to her and her five bags, and she seemed so relieved to see me, at least that's the sense I got from her whining about what the last seven hours had done to her.
 
"Fritz, could you speed it up with the carry-on, my arms feel like they're going to unsocket here any second!" Mom looked at the shuttle driver, who was struggling to roll two bags towards the front porch.
 
"Geeze lady, what the heck you put in here, dead bodies? You went to Nashville miss, not Stonehenge."
 
"Hey, that's what happened when my only caffeine source for the last five day's been filter bags of that generic Torke crap from Wisconsin from that gross room carafe that was stained more than a cathedral window, and lukewarm Dr. Pepper, someone's gotta pay the price for my denial. You were a savior for at least stopping at a Dunkin' Donuts in Rocky Hill, it helped keep me sane and you alive." I shook my head and smiled, this is what happens when my mother is taken out of her comfort zone, otherwise known as 30 miles from her most frequented diner.
 
"Glad I could help," the older man responded gruffly. "You have a nice evening ma'am, and get some sleep."
 
Mom reached into the pocket of her jacket, and pulled out a five dollar bill for him. "Thanks sir. I know the gratuity was charged out already, but for that stop I owe you this at the very least. Keep the change." He took the money, and tipped his cap at my mother.

"Always a pleasure to serve." He dropped the carry-on into my hands, and after we both said goodbye, we both brought the heavy baggage into the front foyer.
 
My mom yawned aloud as the weight got to her, and started to rant about her trip home. "If I don't have another hotelier's convention to go to, it'll be too soon, and this day was infuriating! Can I ask you why none of the Bradley airlines have a direct flight out to Tennessee, please?"
 
"Well if you find me a country music scene in Hartford and New Haven, let them know."

My mom shook her head, tired and worn from what the last five days did to her. "I came home having to transfer flights in Detroit. Who, may I ask, had the splendid idea of thinking transferring flights in dreary and rainy Michigan, then to give me a middle seat since they decided to overbook the flight and give my original one to an uppity snob girl from LA. I tell you Rory, next time Mia begs me to head to the hotelier's convention, I'm thumbing my way out to Denver or Topeka or Timbuktu, whatever boring town the NIHA wants to send me out to next year. Anything not to repeat these days that were so boring I actually considered order a pay-per-view not meant for young eyes from the hotel--"
 
OK, had to stop her now. "And you complete that sentence Mom, you'll be paying therapy and Paxil bills on my behalf until your dying day." I smiled, and couldn't help but launch into her arms to feel the caring presence of the woman who borne me for the first time since Wednesday morning. "God, I missed you."

"Missed you too kiddo, Nashville couldn't be painted red without you to help me." Lorelai kissed my forehead softly, and dropped the three bags she was holding onto the foyer's floor, walking out into the living room and taking in our familiar surroundings. "I see you disappointed me; didn't I tell you that you could wreck the house and hold a beer bash while I was gone here? Sure, I'd ground you up until your fifth reincarnation as a bear cub, but what a way it would be to go."
 
"I sent out the invitations and no one came," I cried out with dramatic inflection and playing into her weird mindset. "Guess I shouldn't have mentioned the kegs were filled with Coors Cutter and I had non-alcoholic gelatin shots in the ad." She collapsed onto the couch, slipping off her high heels and grabbing the top pizza box from table to open it up and grab a slice.
 
"You may not know how to throw a party but you know how to keep your mom happy." She bit into the loaded slice and moaned at the taste with her mouth full. "See, this is why I can't leave the little box of a state we live in, the food here is digestible and delicious. Hotel room food, especially in the hovel those people put me in, is barely edible, space food would get a Emeril 'BAM!' much sooner than the Center City Wyndam's entire idea of a menu." She looked towards me expectantly. "I'm guessing since you still seem healthy and stout Luke's and Joe's treated you quite well." I nodded back in the affirmative that indeed I was spoiled rotten from their contributions.
 
Mom got up from the couch and took off her jacket, with the slice of pizza still in her hand. "How was your weekend anyways? Had to beat my exciting sales slides and marketing mantras I had to repeat with other members of the hotelier's association all weekend like a cult meeting."
 
"It was good, really, really good." I started putting my plans in motion to show just how good a weekend I have. "You know what would be even better though?"
 
"Hmm?"
 
"Comfy pajamas, some girl gab and two spoons inside a pint of cookie dough ice cream with a dark coffee chaser."
 
Her eyes lit up like headlights, and before I knew it, she was starting to make the beeline to her room. "Actual coffee that doesn't come in a small red bag, sugar-rushing food and gossip?"
 
I gave her the signal that said I was game. "Nashville was fun, right?" I gave Lorelai an evil grin.

She held up her hand in a stop gesture. "Lobotomies are fun, hearing at least five tone-deaf 'next Garth Brook/Faith Hills' a day between the hotel, the convention center and then the reverse makes me want to consider deafness as a new career option. We can talk tomorrow about the trip, right now we both need to reacquaint ourselves with each other." She rolled her eyes up and imitated a Valley Girl. "Like, you're Rorwenda, riggght? Didn't I so totally give birth to you, omigod, that gave me killer pounds to burn off--"
 
I pushed her towards the stairs, shooting a dirty look in her direction. "You, bedroom, now, no jokes."
 
"Yes dear." She faked a pout and slowly climbed the stairs up towards her bedroom, as I sat back in my chair awaiting her revelation of my dancing title. It took a little longer than I thought, but within sixty seconds I heard my name being called loudly from upstairs.
 
"Rory?!"
 
I played innocent and unknowing. "Mom, get your butt down here, I don't have all night to stay up." Then I turned around towards the stairwell to see her leaning over the railing of the second floor.
 
"You might not know anything about this, but what is a five foot trophy doing, sleeping in my bed?"
 
I smiled at her, choking laughter back from her reaction. "Well, if you must know..." I went upstairs and proceeded to give her all the details about the dance marathon she had missed from not being in town for the next seven days. She was shocked to hear that I had paired up with Paris and we had both won the competition as relative novices, but after awhile she started to become excited and happy for what I had done. I reminded her of her alternate title back in '87, and how that inspiration kept me from backing out. Needless to say, she was very proud of me and gave me a hug for finally attaining one of our combined goals. I felt a rush describing all those 24 hours we danced and spun across the floor; feeling the memories rush back through my head and that moment where we attained the victory, it was a tale I definitely wanted to share with everyone I could possibly know.
 
We kept talking and talking about the dance, until finally I arrived at a good opening to mention that I would be given a ride to school from now on by Paris. I was surprised that Mom didn't like the idea at first; she insisted that taking the bus to school was 'making a statement' about how unique I was rather than something I had to settle for. I tried to make her see that Paris became even closer to a friend this week, and that I now trusted she had no ill will to gag my academic standing at Chilton. Lorelai kept trying to swing me back onto the bus, but with each reminder of a past incident that irked the daylights out of me, I kept wearing down her resistance.
 
Finally, I had to make a point, so with her opinion seemingly unchanged, I ran downstairs into my room, retrieved my bus pass, and with her watching in the kitchen, tore it up, while making it clear I didn't want to take a bus ever again. I let her know about the pervert who stared at me Tuesday morning, the ass of a bus driver, and how awful I felt not getting to school when I really wanted to. She started to become a little sympathetic, but kept trying to play the 'Paris is a bitch card', no matter what I said. All I kept doing was to try to smash through her resistance.
 
After a small argument where she tried to compare my getting rides from Paris to Michel falling in love with her, I gave her the puppy dog eyes, trying to swing her towards my argument. She just had to, I was unhappy taking the bus to school anymore. I still remember the first day of school this year after the inaugural meeting of the Franklin staff (which I arrived ten minutes early to, much to Paris' chagrin, she wasn't going to pull that early time-late arrival trick on me again!). The time had fled by and before we knew it, the time was 4:55pm with the meeting just getting out...
 
I ran to my locker, in another building on the other side of campus and grabbed my backpack, having just enough time for a count to make sure all my subjects were there. It took me three minutes to get to the front entrance, by which time the bus was making the left turn into the front drive...
 
Then went right past me as I fruitlessly tried to catch it, going 25 and so disobeying the Chilton and city speed limits in order to rush by the routes. No one on the bus even waved to the driver to stop and wait for me to catch me, and I saw some of them looking dead on towards me. It turned right back onto the busy road it came, and I collapsed on the front drive's sidewalk, exhausted and frustrated that the bus drivers was such a dick.
 
"God damn it, I was out here, five on the dot! You've gotta be kidding me, fuck!" I growled to whom I thought was an audience of myself. The next bus was at six and God knows the first day of school took everything out of me. "Now what the hell can I do?"

Leave it to Paris to happen by the scene right as I cursed out our lord and savior for the concept of public transportation. She heard everything and tapped me on the shoulder, startling me right out of my skin.
 
"AHHHH!" I jerked up to find her staring down at me.
 
"Going nowhere Gilmore?" she deadpanned, sending a chill up my spine.
 
"I'm sorry I swore," I blurted out, "It's just that the bus didn't see me and--"
 
"They're fucking jerks protected by that mob they call a union to make themselves seem more sunny and friendly to the outside world, so you have the right to take missing their bus personally. As for how I feel about profanity, this might be a private school but after school hours, go ahead and give me the George Carlin Seven monologue for all I care." She shook her head at me and held out her hand to take my backpack. "Come on Gilmore, you can hitch a ride with me."

"No, I couldn't do that, I'll just call my mom," I told her, trying to beg off her charity.
 
"And wait until 5:30 for her to pull up?" We walked toward a bench next to the parking lot's entrance gate to the grounds, and sat down. "Look, you're second in command this year Gilmore in two respects at this institution, and I refuse to see you fret much more about whether that loser of a bus driver has a vendetta against you rather than the school's agenda, I'm not going to let you get distracted by it just so you can make an unorganized beeline out here, then pray the idiot knows enough that you're wanting his bus."
 
"I've taken the bus for two years Par, it's not that much of a problem--" I tried to excuse my commuting habits, but she was having none of it.
 
"You're still winded from running the equivalent of two football fields to catch a stupid bus! Last year you were just a reporter, which was fine; this year you're my co-editor and my brain trust in trying to stop Jarvis from staging her coup. Besides, that thing can't be conducive to reading from the herky-jerky movement and bumping that thing does on the local roads, does it?"
 
Oh, I couldn't forget the headaches and how sick I'd get the moment I'd hop off the bus from the diesel fumes and my unfocused eyes unable to read more than three pages on that hunk of junk.
 
"What are you suggesting then?" I asked.
 
"I'll ferry you home for $10 a month in my car, no questions asked. All you pay for is gas and I won't use the money for anything besides that. It'll give the Jag some healthy highway mileage that looks good when I eventually sell it, and you get a ride home that doesn't involve jam-covered kids and derelict temp workers while some freak in the side seat next to you eyes up those tighted gams and tries to turn you into the next Chandra Levy."
 
"Geeze, morbid much?" I responded.
 
An eyeroll, then her attention shifted back towards me. "Look, do you want the rides or not? The Jag has heated leather bucket seats, and judging from how much you can't wait to get into the library before school to sit on one of the overstuffed chairs you'd love sitting in it. I've been perceptive the plastic benches that pass off as comfortable seating on the bus, they're ruining your back."
 
She gave me this hovering little look that seemed to show that her intentions were all good, and that she really didn't want me to suffer any more indignity of chasing that damned thing throughout south Hartford. $10 was a very small price for an average of 22 rides home a month; I was paying $1.81 a trip by my calculations for the 22 times I month I used the $40 pass. Plus I couldn't beat the company of a girl my dreams were starting to think of as more than my competition and superior.
 
"Fine," I sighed and sealed the new agreement with a handshake. "You're sure you can do this? I'm not going to--"
 
"The only thing you're doing is keeping Mother out of my sight for an extra hour a day, so trust me, we both win in this arrangement." We started walking towards her car, and I gave her this look that was telling her she was the best for helping me out when she really didn't have to.
 
We all know what the rides led up to, right?
 
I gave her one last look, and though she hesitated, she didn't seem repulsed by the idea of the rides.
 
"Fine, Paris can be your new ride to school," she told me. "Just, keep the $40 for now, in case you fall into a bump again, I'm still getting used to this idea of Paris not your mortal enemy anymore."
 
I ignored her apprehension and hugged her. "Thanks so much Mom. I promise, this won't be something to regret."
 
After talking about the bus a little more, we moved the conversation into the living room and I caught her up with what little gossip had circulated through town since she was last here Wednesday morning. Not much to tell, except for Taylor getting another weird idea, opening up a whole foods corner in his market, but to kill any nutritional value that display in, there was a hot dog/sausage roller up in the front, making you salivate the moment you get in for a hot Italian sausage or three Vienna Beef franks. There was also the small argument between Mrs. Kim where the man wore a long coat into the store that tripped him, and as he went past a shelf with porcelain dolls, accidentally took down the entire unit. Mrs. Kim's 'you break, you buy' policy had been multiplies 70 times the usual rate and the man would end up paying at least $10,000 for the damage, leading to Miss Patty having to mediate the dispute between the two until Mrs. Kim eventually settled with him for $3,500 and ten hours of community service.
 
It was about nine before we both stopped talking about the dance and everything around all she missed. She also asked about how Dean was, which was the first time in five days I had really thought about him at all. She was shocked that I hadn't seen him, but to keep her in a cherry mood so she wouldn't cancel the trip just to protect my being, I left out details about the breakup fight. Now with her back, I went into detail about his problems with Jess and I in the same place, his jealous streak, and how pissed he was I asked for Jess' closer help than his that would make me miss the bus.
 
It was when I told her he called me a whore and tried one last time to beg my forgiveness that she felt sticking one of her high heels in a certain tailpipe position of his.
 
"You're not a whore kiddo, far from it. You kept your loyalty to him for as long as you could, but you couldn't take it anymore." She smiled and then gave me a compliment I had been yearning for having the longest time.
 
"You could've called and told me, but you were so mature about everything babe, not needing my help and taking charge of the situation. I am so proud of you for what you've done this entire week, building your friendship with Paris, asserting your destiny, and telling Dean you were sick of dealing with his crap." She gave me this look, and almost seemed on the verge of tears. "This is one of the reasons I went to Nashville; we have to learn how to be alone once in awhile, because face it, you're eighteen, and next year that room downstairs is going to be filled with echoes, not you. These next few months are the last that we're going to be this mother-daughter team, and I don't want to see you leaving for Cambridge next year calling me every night with worry."
 
I thought about how much in the last week, and in turn the last few months, I had gone from being content to the way I left my life, to finding out that I felt something for Paris. I could've ignored it and gone back to how I was, but I gripped the reins, held on and never let go of them, steering towards sparking a relationship with her.
 
Something I wouldn't trade for anything, I thought to myself, realizing how I was going from passive to active. For the first time, I feel free and unafraid of the future. Nothing's going to stop me from this, no matter how wrong society could view it.
 
I hugged Mom, getting emotional with her as she told me how proud she was of this odd, but fulfilling week. "Thank you," was my simple acknowledgement of her words, and after some more of that moment, we both realized that the time was flying by quickly. Friday night I talked to her before I went to bed, and we planned a movie-junk food fest for the moment she came home.

She went downstairs so she could change into more casual clothes so she could head out to the video store to pick up a movie. I wanted a quiet little love story, but she felt that after a few days in Nashville another movie might be more appropriate.
 
"Urban Cowboy? That's a good movie, and I can show you all the people I made fun of in Nashville. I counted more cowboy boots than Skechers, honest to Pete."
 
"No you didn't," I argued, "Nashville's like Hartford with accents, they have a river, we have a river. They have a beltway, we have a beltway. They're the state capital, and guess what, we also have a shiny dome where the governor and legislature meet!"
 
"OK, fine, there weren't that many cowboy boots," she conceded, "more on my fellow convention-goers than any actual residents." She went over the keyrack and retrieved her keys, looking towards me. "You want to come with the video store and the market, I could use some help."
 
I would've normally gone with, but there was something that after an hour and a half that I really needed to do. "You go on Mom, I still have a few assignments to do."
 
"Alright dear." She walked towards me and kissed me on the cheek. "No schoolwork after I come back though, you're mine until bedtime after that." I laughed, and we said goodbye, leaving me alone for about another half-hour.
 
In that hour and a half, I already felt myself missing Paris, and thinking I left a few questions open even after she left. I thought of calling her just to hear her voice, but she might be catching her mind up on schoolwork; disturbing her during a study session has been known to be lethal to that person who interrupted. IM would be annoying and I still had never gotten used to the concept of talking to a person that way except when trading Harvard notes and study advice, it was more an academic tool than fun to me.
 
That left me to plug in my Ethernet cable into the iBook and open up my mail program to sort out those unsaid things I wanted to tell her. I closed the bedroom door, hovered my fingers over the keyboard, and though it took a bit to gather my reserve, started to write an email to her. With the time to think like a real letter sent with postage, I had time to edit myself out and just state how I felt. I didn't try to go into the sexual parts, keeping that to a minimum as I kept in mine how hard it was for her to say she felt the same way. Going with how great the first kiss was compared to the sudden ones with Dean and Jess, and that we were on the same page for it all, that was a good way to start the letter.
 
I got to a point where I started describing her anger as a turn-on, and I started thinking about just that. Over the years, seeing her face redden and all of her energy towards putting me in my place, what would have been scary ended up turning sexy after a year or so. After that, I basically told her to get ready, because I was going to sweep her off her feet and make her never regret what she felt for me. The charades were over, the facades had crumbled. It was down to just us; two girls, who like each other. I wasn't going to lose her. We were always in touch and onto each other, and that bond would become stronger in each other's arms.
 
I felt like I wanted to share more than that, maybe get deeper into detail about things, but then I heard the door open and a loud "YEEEEEHAAAAAWWWWHHHH!!!" emanate from the front entrance.
 
Do you know another 34 year-old woman who would make that noise and then yell "Hey there cowgirl, I rounded me up a mechanical bull movie with my 10-foot licorice vine, and I got some sweet kettle corn for some delicious vittles! I suggest you get that hinder out here now so we can watch some hot John Travolta on bull action!"
 
I just shook my head and laughed as I started to close out the letter.  My mom might be nuts and could use a couple Ritalins at times, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Life is good, just very good. It's even better because I get to tell Paris in a postscript that my habit of kissing and running is mercifully dead, a wonderful sign that things are going to be much different with this relationship than what I had with both Dean, Jess, and of course that kiss with Tristan at the piano. Thank God she didn't keep it and burned the tape immediately after she got it; I don't need that on a hidden video show because frankly, that was one of my worst kisses.
 
I sent the email, and headed out to the couch to join Mom in watching Urban Cowboy and filling myself silly with sugar and coffee, all the while finding myself more drawn to the female lead than Travolta, like I had for most movies lately. A lot of actresses have a freaky resemblance to Paris, and I find myself at times daydreaming of us acting out those scenes together. The movie was good, and Mom seemed happy to spill her own gossip, so we talked and talked through the entire movie until the credits started to roll at midnight, and we both came to an agreement we were both up too long. After watching Siskel and Ebert to make fun of the bad films they reviewed, we both headed off to bed, exhausted from our individual weekends and looking forward to the week ahead.

I crawled into bed, and that's where I am now, looking over the stories filed over the weekend by the Franklin writers and uploaded to the newspaper's intranet. Most of them are good; a few of them could use a red pencil. I turned to the sports section and felt bad for not supporting the Blue Demons Friday night because of their tough last-second loss to Seth Thomas. I don't usually care about football, but Paris was going to be down that she wouldn't be able to plan a state championship edition in order to wow the high school journalism association. I saw her plans Thursday afternoon and they looked amazing. Now they'll just stay in a dusty folder somewhere on the server, hoping that a future editor can dig them out the next time the football team goes to state.
 
I finish checking the stories, marking those I feel need revisions in the 'corrections box' next to each one so Paris can give them a once-over herself. I'm about to close out the computer for the night...
 
Where as I'm about to click on the shutdown command, the email icon on my Dock shows one message unread in my DSL email account. I've only given that out to those I trust, which means Mom, Lane, Grandma and Grandpa, Madeline and Louise, and of course, you-know-who. I never see a message at midnight, so I'm curious. I open up AppleMail to retrieve the message, hoping it could wait to be read until later today.
 
The blue bar comes up to tell me that it's ready to be read, and I look at my table of contents window.
 
Paris (Comcast Acct.)             RE: Goodnight               Sent at 10:27pm, Sunday November 10
 
I didn't expect a reply so fast, or none at all, but this makes me curious to what she has to say. Oh God, I hope she's not taking everything back. Nervously I click on the line and let the message open up in a new window, and look over what she has to say. My stomach is nervous and I'm seriously smiling huge as I look over her reply...
 
From: [email protected] (Paris E. Gellar)
To: [email protected] (Rory's DSL)
Subject: RE: Goodnight
 
Rory,
 
I didn't expect to hear from you so soon after I left, but it's definitely a welcome surprise to see that you took the time and effort to write to me before you left the computer for the night. Usually I don't expect email so late, but this was certainly nice to read this before I fell asleep. I'll stay up a little longer because I don't want to leave this unanswered. For future reference however, you can call my cell; I made a custom ring to know if it was you or not, and no one will be the wiser. Then again, writing is the most romantic form of communication; I'm thinking about how this would look in my longhand rather than the default Apple font, and was substituting your writing in for the words in your letter.
 
I'm getting off-point, aren't I? Enough about my graphology analysis, it's time to get a few things off my chest about the day that has just passed. Really, what we just shared, it's beyond words, I had a hell of a time mulling it all over with Nanny and what this all meant, but she was very supportive of it all and she's thankful I finally got what I felt for you out. That's why she was so accommodating of you when stopped by Tuesday, she knew how I felt about you. I had to tell someone, and I hope you don't feel bad about it.
 
First point, about how you thought our fighting eventually turned from combative to Tracy/Hepburnish banter over the last two years. I would try to deny your hypothesis, but would have a hard time arguing about the facts. When we use those words, things do heat up. We tighten, get combative, and our bodies start to react to our stances as passion rather than wanting to assault each other physically. Your word play is second-to-none Ror, and I'm just amazed at how top shelf your wit is. When we have a conversation, I already start to tense up, knowing seeing you angry and ready to defend your cause, it's going to weaken me, no matter what I do to dull the effects.
 
I also will admit here to looking at you both in the heat of the matter, and instead of striving to back you into a corner to make my point, instead I want to push you towards there, to just tell you how hot you look and God, I just want to kiss you. Would you believe that's what I was thinking once you said a couple weeks ago in the conference room that with my attitude, you wouldn't have your way with me? Sorry if I'm being too forward, but the way I was thinking when we were talking about 'fuck this and fuck that', let's say for argument's sake that our proximity to each other, how close we were. I wanted you on that table. I'm not afraid to admit it; you know as much as anyone how blunt I am. Of course I'll hold back for you, but I will be truthful right now, my dream image of you isn't of you being Strawberry Shortcake by any means, it's very raw and passionate. I know that as we get into this I'll start toning down what I think of you in my head and assimilate the real you as my lover. Expectations are dangerous, so I will turn down my fantasies to a manageable level now that I know for sure you like me, as more than a friend, and much more than an enemy.
 
This last year has been the toughest for me, seeing you so close, yet so far from my grasp, from what I wanted. The many times I made a move to try to be close, be it with the little things or just being in the right place at the right time (Bracebridge Dinner, the study sleepover, that damned night you had to meet Sherrie when I just wanted to celebrate with you after the debate), I took every opportunity to try to get closer to you. I've felt more for girls more than I ever did men; honestly, Tristan was the right boy at the right time for me. But I have no actor I idolize, who I dream about having a sexual relationship with. Even in my younger years, I was more curious of those like me more than I was with the boys. Then as I grew up I disassociated from the regular female peer groups because of my advanced brain; Barbies were an image to be loathed, jewelry is decoration, a waste, that music telling me I'd be Jordan Knight's or All 4 One's only lover was bullshit. They didn't want me, they just wanted my $16 and the profits from the ancillary merchandise, so they could smoke a few joints with that cash. See where the cynic I am today came from? My idol was Marie Curie, my bookshelves loaded with so many experiences of men and women in love. I read more of the women and how they felt, and found them more fascinating than men. Eventually, Tristan fell out of the way, leaving you to project that idea towards me of the perfect girl I wanted, and I knew it from that point; I wanted you, and you only.
 
You should know by now that when I write down a goal, I intend to not only fulfill it, but then exceed the expected. You have been number one for months, from the day I asked you to be my VP. God willing, I'm not going to keep being the nervous girl you saw me as tonight. I hate coming off unprepared, so be ready for me to assert more control tomorrow. I wish I could just close the distance between us right now and be together, in that bed again. That was the best sleep I've had in years, and it's all thanks to you.
 
I'm still amazed we won the marathon too, that proved we were an unstoppable combo. I felt great guiding you, like I was needed, and I'm looking for a story idea in there somewhere (Of course; you think I'm letting this journalistic gold slip out of my pan hon? I already see the article and maybe even a book deal out of this!), and I did feel like I proved so much out there. I've fallen for dancing all over again, and though I'm too old and uncoordinated to get back into it professionally without giving up Harvard, it's something that I have in mind as something fun we can do together.
 
With a time limit of course. No more dances longer than three hours, my feet beg of you! Although if you want to sway me as close as you did yesterday, I certainly wouldn't have an issue with that.
 
I'm glad to see you're over Dean too, and that you left him before you pursued me at a 100%. The opportunity was sudden, but you didn't love him anymore, better to end it now than to have waited longer when you felt strongly for someone else. With certainty, I would have told you if you came up to me and asked me to spark a relationship, yet still was the girlfriend of Dean, I would have said no and rejected those advances, for I refuse to be a side dish, something to be ashamed of. I need a loyal love, not an uncertain one. No matter what I think of him, the least he deserved was to know you didn't feel for him like you did a couple years ago. Thank you for that, it gives me confidence this will work out.
 
OK, I'm seeing on my clock that a half hour has passed since I started writing, and I've cut and added so much to this letter that any more editing and I'll lose the original point of what I wanted to say in response. Besides, I'm getting near to my new bedtime, so I suppose I should click send before I end up sending a line of non-sensical text from my nose hitting the keyboard, too exhausted to stay up and write more. So I will end this letter to you Rory, pleased that I'll be able to be your morning ride from this point now (and the $10 will still suffice, really, you forget how I live?). Do you think it would be too much to fake the bus driver out at the stop and wait like you used to, then the moment he opens the door, run across the street towards my car, jump in, and flip up a middle digit toward that jackass?
 
The idea is open, but I doubt you'd take to it. Still, fun to imagine.
 
I better wrap this up before I ramble on all night then. I'll see you tomorrow morning; maybe I'll come into town early and stop in at the diner, I'll decide when I get in there. I like that Luke guy a little more but I'm still a little wary of his health code compliance, but I'm sure he's fine now. Go back to your cowgirl of a mom, you miss each other and I don't want to be in the way of that. I'll talk to you later, you sleep well now.
 
Sincerely,
Par
 
P.S. - So I was a good kisser, hmm, far from a 'Georgia' Porgie? Not that I had a lot of practice, I just used your guiding me on that couch and hoped and prayed all those sappy movies and books with kissing in them I trained on worked out well, my fingers were crossed the entire damned time! Thank goodness I also had experience from summer camp a few years back, and that you didn't cry. I'd feel awful otherwise.
 
P.S. to the P.S. - Damn it, I promised myself I'd never ever do this in a romantic letter of any kind, but it just feels incomplete without these marks, I'm trying to make you smile before you go to bed, and 'Sincerely' is something you say to your college advisor, not your lover! You should know what they mean already, so just know that I mean each and every one of them.
 
-XOXOXOX Rory-
 
I like how that looks; that's how I'll sign off my letters to you from now on. Unless it's serious, then I have to go with basic letter-writing protocol...Alright, hitting send before I start an entirely new letter! Good night.
 
I finish reading the letter, basking in the length of what Paris has said in response. I swear she puts her hearts into a subject and never lets go, since my scroll bar along the right side was so thin I could barely see it. Not that I mind of course, Paris' wordplay is an attraction that pulls me closer to her, especially if it takes a few pages to all print out. I sit here, read it and react as her words fill my brain.
 
Her point about changing text to handwriting is well taken, as I've said in the past I think hers is beautiful, so I think about her instead of sitting at her desk typing and retyping, writing out her note with an expensive Mont Blanc pen, making no mistakes and just receiving the response after a week where it was stuck in the mail system.
 
I look over what she's said about her past opportunities to woo me failing. Now I'm under the state of mind that fate happens for a reason, and for Paris, it had to happen over and over before she could finally receive the end result. I would never know what might have happened if Sherrie would have waited another day to meet me, freeing Paris and I up to celebrate the debate. Neither can I predict the outcome of that February sleepover had the boys never stopped by. What those delays that got in her way did give me, was more time to decide whether this infatuation was for real, or a simple phase of girl-lust that would melt away eventually. If those opportunities had opened up, who knows what may have happened?
 
I grin as I read that my being pissed off turns her on. I've always had a feeling that was the case; she tries to move closer and counterpoint whenever things get vicious. I would be right to probably say that if our arguments weren't being done while she wore the Chilton uniform or her usual turtleneck/cords combo, that I would see that she was far from angry, that in theory, her breath would pick up, her heartbeat would speed up, and her body would be in such a state of disillusionment that I can't help but notice that her sexual self is torn between the good little girl guise, and the rebel that lurks deep within. I still think of that argument from time to time, and imagine her after I flee stomping off to her car, driving off to some desolate parking spot far from anyone (or a police officer for that matter), and then just blowing off that stress with a fervent session of getting herself off...
 
How can she make me think of her like that at a time like this? God, I never did this with Dean, thinking about how he thought of me! Again, this is where my thoughts usually drift off towards the more sane habits of girls. We're elegant and I can get more into the romantic image of Paris in her seat, moaning my name as she nears her climax. With Dean, I just couldn't, I don't know. I get the sense he probably dreamed of me sexually and got off just fine, but I never did to him because I felt guilty. Not to mention with my mother just a floor above, it killed any thoughts of that happening. Add to that how males get sexually aroused and what happens when that arousal ends, it doesn't paint a very pretty picture with his...stuff all over me. We need not get into details here.
 
I read towards the end of her letter, happy she thought well of the entire day and the events we shared. Somehow, her first postscript is just very girlish and shy. She feels odd that she kisses well, yet it gives her a thrill that I crumbled in her arms, which I truly did do.
 
Her second one shows off that side I'm trying to bring out, the Paris who's in love and doesn't care she's a sap showering me with virtual kisses and hugs. I grin as I finish reading the letter, then I save it out to a file, putting it in a password protected folder no one can access unless they know the phrase that pays.
 
Geeze, it's already 12:15 in the morning? I've had a lot to take in today, so I close my laptop and put it off to the side as I prepare to go to sleep, ready for the first full day that Paris and I are a couple, albeit one hidden from the general public. I feel my heart swell and my body heat as I bring the blankets close to me, realizing that Paris' scent is still all over these bedcovers, especially on the pillow she rested her head on.
 
She smells so good, and I wish that she was here, sleeping next to me, her fingers along my waist like how I woke up at 11:00am. I think of those feelings her cuddling elicited inside, along with how just about naked I was in that tight tank combined with those pants so thin, I felt like I wasn't wearing them at all.
 
I'm breathing heavily right now, recalling her words and uneasiness about the situation, along with when she called me hot, her weight bearing against mine as she brought me in for that second kiss. My heart is speeding up, and suddenly, all these uneasy thoughts of giving myself pleasure thinking of Paris, thoughts I had gagged all two years with Dean, they're stronger than they ever had been. I've felt her up close, memorized each and every crevice, curve and dip along her back, felt her breasts against mine, over these last 44 hours with her.
 
I look up at the tiling of my ceiling, trying to distract myself from what my inner vixen is suggesting. You know you want to, it implores, heightening Paris' fragrance inside of my nostrils, and reminding me of the sweet taste of her mouth as her lips locked against mine. I try to toss towards one side, which makes the fantasy roll along even more. There's nothing separating me from touching my breast except the purple flannel cloth, which rubs against the erectile tissue of my areole. My eyes tighten closed and I hold back a moan as the sensation runs through my body.
 
OK, you're going to stop right now. Don't forget you have to be up at six, I remind myself to bring myself back into reality. Yeah, 5½ hours of sleep, I can still get that, just settle down...
 
"You look hot right now Rory." There's that voice again from earlier this afternoon, that sentence that made me wet, telling me the words that confirmed she thinks of me as more than a friend. OK, stop again, Dean, Dean, Dean, let's think of Dean making out with that guy who plays Clark Kent on Smallville, hell, let's make it a three-way with Lex Luthor and watch as both of them would rather eat Brussels sprouts than have an orgy with my ex-boyfriend, that'll work...
 
Or not, crap! My hand is moving between the hem of my pajama shirt and the waistband, thinking of Paris' slender fingers playing with the flat skin between the two clothing articles, that secret smile in my gaze as she plays with the tie and starts to undo the knot of the pants, a sort of sweet revenge for my little knot torture with the tomato dress. That sexual buildup from the last two days seems to have reached a zenith, and I think no matter how I try to ignore it and go to sleep, it's not going to be satisfied until I take care of it.
 
I sigh, Paris' aroma and voice overtaking me as I give into my vixen, shirk the covers off to the side, and I spread my legs, giving in no matter how much I want to say no. Suddenly these pajamas feel like too much on my person, so now I'm undoing the shirt to expose myself, my voice whispered as a hand brushes against my breast, and I look down my body in the darkness, that exposed inch of blue floral patterned waistband from below my pants making me moan as I start slowly teasing myself into thinking Paris is sharing the bed and doing these things to me.
 
I'm smiling to myself, my mind taking off towards her bedroom and wondering if she partook in herself and one of those dreams where I'm the star before she went to bed. Or even better, a sleep-talking dream, which would normally be a psychological anomaly, but with those old eighty year-old walls covering up whom she was thinking about, warming me even further.
 
Tomorrow's going to be an interesting day, seeing if the flirting we've done in class backs off, or becomes even hotter, yet hidden in school, because I know I'll be moving my massage strokes towards her bra line tomorrow, no question. I wonder if we'll kiss before school, if she'll brush her thigh against mine during life sciences, if she spends the day with her mind focused on how to rile me up in Latin.
 
For now though, there's only one thing I want to focus on, and that's dreaming of myself unbuttoning her shirt as she pushes down mine, and then after awhile, asking my permission to move lower. God, she's so beautiful, so untamed, very sexual. This relationship is going to be interesting, and as I brush a couple fingers against the fringe of my waistband, I think of how I got to this point in time, with her finally my girl. The tease has been a hell of a lot of fun, but there's nothing that compares to launching into the relationship. Things can only get hotter, and much more interesting from here. I only can hope I won't get burned too badly from this...

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To be continued...

Chapter Text

Title: Longing With a Cherry Tomato on Top | Chapter Ten | Paris and Rory, Leaping Out of the Gate! 
Author: Nate
Pairing: Paris/Rory, alternating POVs between Paris and Rory throughout the chapter. Also, the beginnings of allusions towards Madeline/Brad.
Spoilers: Nothing as far as actual show plot, but this would be the Longing version of Let the Games Begin, without the start of the Jess/Rory relationship or Luke's fretting over everything.
Rating: R (swearing, tame sexual actions and dreams, innuendo, indirect homophobia, and light alcohol usage)
Disclaimer: Dorothy Parker Drank Here Productions and Hofflund-Polone run the show and Warner Bros. Television profits from that. Even if Rory's character is ruined and Tristan II...er, I mean Logan ruins the image of our two favorite girls together. Did I mention that Liza Weil is still a regular cast member, not supposed to be playing the second coming of Laverne DeFazio and have wacky antics and pratfalls like getting drunk off punch? Seriously people, use her better next season, even if she does sing an adorable I'm Walking on Sunshine.
Archiving: GilmoreGirlsSlash, Realm of the Shadow, RalSt, femslash.net, aff.net and ff.net. Anywhere else ask first.
Summary: Paris and Rory start their new relationship off beneath the noses of the Chiltonians and the Hollowites, and find ways throughout the school and at home to keep their flame strong.
Author's Notes: Another three months, another 40,000 words, hopefully I did a great job because this chapter was very improv. I have the ideas for everything else in the story, but Raven wanted me to add something in-between the realization And Then She Kissed Me... chapters and their first movements deeper into their love, thus this is what ended up happening. I ended up dealing with at least two aborted plotlines, a dead computer in March, the new computer that replaced it crashing after just five weeks of use, and some of the worst episodes of GG ever while I wrote this chapter. Really people, is there anyone demanding more scenes of Taylor out there?
 
My usual betas Raven and Cinn were unable to read for this chapter because of things happening in their real lives, so please keep them in your thoughts. They did still receive the chapter in advance however because of their help over the last months in making my story the best that it could be. Hopefully things return to normal for the both of them soon and they'll be able to beta for me again in the very near future.
 
In their place, Erin Griffin was my beta, and I thank her for taking over the daunting duties on such short notice. Thanks so much for the once-over!
 
Thanks to Brian and The Raven for their encouragement, and Amy on GGSlash for the nice chats, which I really enjoy when my plots get stuck. I recommend you read her Coalescence series currently on the site, the picture she sets up of a disabled Paris being nursed back to health by Rory is truly wonderful.
 
I'd also like to wish Liza a happy 28th birthday on Sunday, June 5th! Thanks for another great year of Paris' trials and tribulations, and my fingers are really crossed that you'll be back on the show next year, it certainly wouldn't be the same without you or Paris :)!
 
Finally, thanks to Lexar for their USB flash JumpDrive Sport that keeps this story backed up almost everyday; without it I may have lost everything I wrote between March 28th and May 7th. Fanfic writers, USB drives are the best thing ever, and having the almost-latest copy of Longing on one after a hard drive failure really saved my butt here. Throw out your floppies and buy one today, they really come in handy!
 
And to those reading on ff.net, the 10th time should be a charm in telling you that Paris and Rory will be getting more physical in this chapter, so if you don't like, don't read. Please also keep in mind that I accept any criticism, and if you have a question, let me know in a review please.

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Paris' POV, Monday, 7:00pm
 
"OK Par, you can do this, just stay calm. Day after, first day of the rest of your life, this is going to be easy. She doesn't regret this, so don't think she does."
 
That was what I was telling myself this morning as I passed the white sign welcoming me back into the village of Stars Hollow, home of the 2002 state champion Minutemen in Division 4 hockey. I was tightly belted into my seat, looking at the clock reading 6:55; I still had five minutes to go before I pulled up in front of that diner that was the favorite haunt of my classmate and vice president.
 
Not to mention my new girlfriend. I remember getting up this morning and going through my normal routine, all the time thinking about the small things I could do to tell Rory that what I said in that email to her last night before bedtime (and uh, my 'thinking' about her) was true; that I was going to do my damndest to keep her interest in me piqued. I took a couple extra minutes brushing my hair, making sure it was totally smooth and had a golden sheen to it. Another couple minutes spent in the shower and at the vanity, putting on a slight shade of lipcolor, and then one more stop inside the closet. Again, I tried to make myself feel a little more sexy by putting on a bra and panty set that was thinner than usual, along with a bra that lifted instead of flattened for once; a nice lacy light pink set that would feel very nice beneath my clothes. I smiled as I looked myself over, content in my appearance. I couldn't look any better in the uniform, and as I buttoned up the school sweater over the oxford blouse, for the first time it seemed in years, I felt the shirt give tight against my bosom.
 
Now that, that is the look of a girl in love! My inner vixen projected inside. Finally, thanks to Rory's help and her heated flirting the day before, I felt both confident and sexy. I already noticed a change in my mannerisms this morning as I went through my morning routine. I had always been excited to go to school before that, but kept it bottled up under the guise of being stone cold serious about my education. Other than the academic side of school however, I always loathed the socializing part of Chilton. Having to play babysitter to those in the Franklin of lower IQ, and help those same simpletons get out of high school without having to study a word, it wasn't fun for me. Hell, I'd probably rather be home-schooled, that way I get 100% of my education without all the empty calories of Chilton cliques and classes, or the broom closet interludes.
 
But then, I wouldn't have Rory at all, and that's a thought I don't want to have to think ever again.
 
6:25am I left my bedroom, and snuck downstairs, hoping to dodge Mother's line of questioning about my choice of bra for the day. I didn't let her know about my new schedule, so I hoped the 'stranger in your own house' routine would continue strong.
 
"Miss Gellar, Paris..." I heard some whispering from a corner of the great room as I hit the bottom landing of the grand staircase. I walked towards the sound of the voice, and found our newest night maid, Roberta, dusting some shelves and looking both ways warily. I went over towards her and asked why she called out my name.
 
"It's safe, she never came home last night."  She may have been new, but Roberta knew going in from the fellow housekeepers from her service that Sharon was a bitch to all the help, and that I usually tried to avoid her as best as I could.
 
"Not home? Where is she?" I asked, and then rolled my eyes because I already knew the answer. "Mohegan Man's arms?"
 
She nodded her head. "Called at two in the morning to have me let you know she's staying in San Diego until tomorrow afternoon, apparently the airline refused to board her and her boyfriend because they were drunk and belligerent towards the staff at the Lindbergh United counter, and she really sounded smashed."
 
I sighed, thankful that I wouldn't have to reface Mother for another day. "Thanks, tell her the usual if she calls, I miss her and Boston was great..."
 
"Got it, you have a great day Miss Gellar." I thought about giving Rory two rides to and from school, and Mother stuck in California, and already felt like Monday the 11th would be just as good a day in my life as Sunday the 10th. I smiled wide at Roberta, and thanked her.
 
"It's off to a great start." I headed towards the garage, dumped my messenger bag in the backseat, and pulled out the Manor gate at 6:30am. Right on schedule; life was good.
 
I found traffic going southbound on the Cross relatively light since most everyone heads inbound into Hartford, and with the radio tuned to a light classical station, found the ride, though slow because of how much I was anticipating picking up Rory and taking her to school, seemed to pass by. Probably had more to do with the guiding speed of 73 everyone else was doing, though truthfully, my speedometer display read 81 for most of the last portion of the trip.
 
I pulled off the route 26 exit around 6:50, and found myself at the familiar rooster statue a few minutes later, winding around the square's traffic circle a couple times before I found a nice place near the bus stop to pick up Rory across from Luke's diner. I slid into the parking spot lines gracefully, idled the car to park, and then looked across the street towards the former hardware store building on the corner with the wide picture windows painted with the establishment's name in yellow paint.
 
I wondered to myself if I should go into the diner, but decided against it because I wouldn't purchase anything inside. I was too nervous anyways; I thought I was still regarded as 'that crazy schoolgirl from Hartford' because of the Oppenheimer story, and somehow I doubt that opinion changed even with my zero negative words about the town all Saturday and Sunday when I was here. I also feel guilty if I go into a store and not buy an item; I didn't need anything at Luke's except Rory, thus I didn't have to go in.
 
Still, I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, looking into the diner's windows and finding Rory and Lorelai kibitzing with Luke about something. Even from that far away she looked nice; her hair was in a braided ponytail and she seemed to be in a nice mood, as was I. She smiled up at Luke, as she stacked her empty dishes and her orange juice glass atop each other. Luke then handed her a couple of foam cups. Probably both filled with coffee, she's crazy for the stuff, I assumed. I stared at her for two minutes through the window, unnoticed by everyone who happened by my spot. She moved towards the counter, put those cups down, reaching into her backpack to pull out her purse, and in turn some paper currency and handed it to him. He nodded, seemed to thank her, and just after, she was leaving the diner, looking both ways right out to probably locate my car.
 
My car might blend in a little because of its maroon color, but not so much that Rory didn't find it. She found me just by looking in my direction, and just her blue eyes from afar staring right back at me made my heart palpitate out of rhythm. She ran across the street when there was a break in the traffic, and came around to the passenger's side door as I clicked open the lock to let her in.
 
Effortlessly, she opened the door and slid into her seat, which after about 55-60 rides was set up to her own specifications. She smiled at me as she threw her backpack into the backseat, and gave me a look that told me she was excited about this new arrangement that we were sharing.
 
She greeted me with a good morning, and I told her the same as she set the foam cups in the cupholders on the console.
 
"I bought you some tea, I figured that you might want some as a perk-up to wake you up," she then told me. To say the least, I felt flattered that she was thinking about me. "Wintergreen, of course."
 
I smiled funny at her. "You didn't have to Gilmore, but thanks." I wasn't looking directly at her, trying to keep my gaze on the road in front of me as I shifted into drive, sure that the town's eyes were all directed towards me. So much for my email declaration that I wouldn't be nervous.
 
I pulled slowly onto the road, and could feel Rory's hand on the armrest console between us, brushing against the side of my skirt. I turned on the road out of town and took a sip of the tea, the ride so far seeming a bit more silent than I thought it would be. When we reached the guidance sign for the exit onto the Cross, I finally looked at Rory for the first time since we left town.
 
Whether to bring up the fact we were now secretly betrothed to each other was going through my mind, as I tried to think up a way to broach up conversation. This is one of the things I hate about relationships, you lose that natural bond the two of you had before you became involved. Though it was only officially our fourteenth hour, I analyzed the situation. Just the very idea of a relationship was alien to me, I had never been through it with a boy before, not counting a boy in sixth-grade Jewish summer camp, but back then I didn't know all that much about love. Now here I was in the same car with Rory, I didn't know what to do.
 
Thankfully my mouth decided to think for my head for at least once in my life, saving me from the awkward first morning kiss I wanted to get just right.
 
"Do we want to lead with the football loss, or go positive with the volleyball win? I was looking at Davidson's article last night and Jenna Smith's commentary, along with the pics of the field goal attempt, I think we can get a good page one out of it." I was happy to be back to talking to one of the things that bonded Rory and I comfortably together, The Franklin.

She turned and looked at me, arguing her side. "I took a look at Davidson's article too, it's a strong piece," she told me. "I made a few notations for editing, and I saw the front page in my mind. What I think we could do is have an inset of the team within two columns, and on the bottom, show the Chilton stands reaction to the field goal passing through the uprights."
 
"Agony might not sell Gilmore," I argued back. "I think we need to go look-ahead on this one instead of showing the pain of the student body. The Demons were one game away from the playoffs with a second-year coach, if we did a sub below the headline saying something like 'Coach Staley proud of progress, already looking towards '03', that would make the student stop, look at the article, and think that our writers felt the pain just as bad as they did, but they know the team is progressing. They look at Davidson's piece and think that he's a true insider, with an ear to the team. That sells more copies, makes Davidson strive to work harder during basketball and baseball seasons to impress, and in turn, solidifies us as having a strong stable of storytellers."
 
I felt Rory focusing her thoughts for a bit, trying to come up with a reply. Her gut instinct is something I really like, because although she might seem mousy, she wants to see the paper succeed in the end. "That's a good idea, but don't forget that people are going to save this in their attics years from now." There she goes with her small-town nostalgia bent, was what I was thinking as she went on about how it might be better to show the crowd reaction, while mixing in the optimist's view of the next season on that front page. "We're seniors; in the end 2003-04's team doesn't represent our class."
 
"Yeah, but they will represent the frosh, sophs and juniors of this year, along with the Eighthers at Country Day, I don't want to leave them out."
 
"Darn it, I hate it when you're right." She pouted for a bit and thought a little more, looking ever so adorable while she remembered that one of the points of the paper's mission statement was to remain neutral and represent the entire student body, not just the seniors. "Uhhh, hmmm...What if we put the crowd shot on top right, wrapped around Davidson's story with your headline-subline combo to instill that hope, then we put a horizontal line in the middle of the page? Below that, we tell Jenna to rewrite her commentary to focus on the Blue Demon's progress this year, we go back to the upset at Hillside and in the photo space, show Wes Albertson's reaction to throwing that touchdown in with a second left to win the game?" She scribbles a dummy layout on a page in her notebook representing the front page, and I glance at it out of the corner of my eye, thankful the traffic merging onto the Cross is light. "That way, in the end, on the same page the senior class will be able to look back on this page for years to come, while at the same time it makes everyone hope for greater things next season. You see where I'm going with this, a mix of nostalgia and a look towards a better season for the underclassmen--"
 
"Which might help this edition circ as well as the regional spotlight of last week." I could see it in my head, Rory's idea was perfect. She might not have the official title of co-editor, but she might as well be with these brainstorming sessions we have in the car after school. I smiled, and decided I would take our mixed idea seriously. "First thing this afternoon I'll plug it into PageMaker and see if it looks well; I'll stop Jenna in Philosophy in second and tell her to do a quick rewrite, and we'll see what we got. It's obvious we have to do the front page on the game. We'll move Erica's former cover on society Thanksgivings to the left tease and keep it as the middle foldout, and we'll be all set." I didn't even need PageMaker to see the results, because the layout in my mind looked perfect.
 
"I like that Par," she told me. "Erica's gonna be a little mad she didn't get more than a cover mention, but she'll recover."
 
I smiled, and relaxed into my seat a bit as now the cover layout was clear. Only 21 other pages to go. "She'll be fine."
 
Then just before I could react, Rory thanked me, stretched over the seat, and kissed me lightly on the cheek, surprising the Dickens out of me. I wasn't up to highway speeds yet, but felt my grip loosen on the steering wheel just a little bit and the car waver.
 
It wasn't much of a kiss, a lot less deep than the first one we shared last evening. Despite that though, it still had that emotional wallop that hearing Rory come out stirred within me. My heart thudded against my chest, and it took me a couple of puffs to recover my breath as I pulled off the road and onto the emergency shoulder.
 
Damn, I knew I should've kissed her when she got in the car, I have privacy windows for crissakes! But the windshield is still clear; someone might have seen. Blood rushed to my face, and there was a bit of me who was pissed off at her for interfering with my driving. Everyone knows for instance my phone is off when I'm in the car, don't dare try to call me.
 
I couldn't help but smile though. Rory was giving me that smile she had just after our first kiss, silly and carefree. In the end too, I really liked the kiss.
 
"I forgot to wish you a good morning. God, I wanted to do that since before we left town." She's giddy at surprising me, and I felt like to admonish her for her sly move for thinking up a front page as an excuse to kiss me wasn't anything I wanted to do. The momentum of the car stopped, and I could finally look at her without the threat of a drift into the median and certain death.
 
I was still hyperventilating a little, and controlled my first reaction to yell at her about it. "Don't ever do that again, you know how fast I drive." I kept myself calm as I looked at her sternly, and somewhat lovelorn. "Why didn't you just say you wanted to kiss me in the first place?"

"I didn't know when to bring it up," she admitted. "I couldn't do it in town, and since you didn't come in the diner this morning where I was planning on directing myself into the restroom so you would follow and we could have a good morning kiss, I just thought I'd take the first opportunity that came along, and God, I was stupid." She looked down at herself, cursing her timing. "This is tougher than I thought, I mean there you are looking all cute right in front of me, and I don't know when to make the first move."
 
"In the diner?" I questioned aloud. I didn't even know the diner had a bathroom.
 
She nodded back. "Yeah, I was waiting in there for you to come in. I don't know how many times I looked out the window this morning."
 
"I guess I should stop being so stubborn then," I admitted, feeling sort of down for disappointing my girl. "I just feel like I have to buy something when I go into a place, call it Emily Post syndrome."
 
"When I buy you the tea Paris," she told me, smiling and moving her hand into mine, "that's the signal that you can go in. It's an extra $1.50, nothing that's sending me to debtor's prison. I like you, and that means you can come into my world whenever you feel."

"But your mom--" I just have the feeling that Lorelai is thinking my offer of a morning ride as leading Rory down that evil path into the world of the entitled. Rory moved in to assure me.
 
"She's fine with it. I want you to be more Annie Hall and less Woody Allen here, please."
 
I rolled my eyes at the mention of my mental state, and then realized something out loud. Remember here, I have an IQ figure in the higher echelon of the 160's. "I missed a chance to kiss you in Luke's?" I felt like I had a hot pink shirt with an upturned arrow pointing up from the sentence reading 'I'm with stupid' on.
 
"Luke's girls room, but nonetheless, Luke's." I shook my head, feeling pretty dumb as she reassured me that it wasn't an emotional wallop that would bring her down for the rest of her life. "If you're worried about how sanitary it is, it's cleaned three times a day."
 
I smiled funnily, this twist of fate irking me to no end. "Yes, but at least it would've been private. I don't understand your madness, but next time you have something planned like that, I have text messaging in my phone, a simple ':-* me in Luke's bathroom' missive (and yes, I actually spoke the words 'kiss symbol colon-dash-asterisk' in that sentence; don't look at me like that!) would've sufficed in getting me in there." I caressed her hand, looking at her with all the love for her I had. "If I promised you that I'll actually come in tomorrow morning, uhh, could I kiss you here, now? Please?" Oh yeah, I'm not about to ghostwrite the next #1 Harlequin bodice-ripper here. I felt again like a nervous little Jewish girl.
 
That is, until Rory parted her lips open and ran her hand up my side slowly until it was against my warmed and probably red right cheek. She moved in closer and I could sense the mix of cinnamon toast, cool mint Scope and Eight O'Clock on her breath. "Cross your heart you'll come in tomorrow?" Her voice hushed, and I couldn't help but think that overnight she seemed even more alluring to me.
 
"I'll be there." I nodded back at her, looking at the morning rush passing by us northbound. I caressed her palm with my pointer, noticing that she hadn't put on her tie yet, leaving one button open and bare freckled skin leading into her oxford shirt. I squinted my eyes, trying to think of something dry and academic, something that wouldn't lead to me trying to replicate the work of Alfred Kinsey in those two bucket seats.
 
"Good." She gave me her shy smirk, and then broached the last of the distance between us to give me that good morning kiss floating around our collective brains since the moment we awoke. The spark hadn't faded at all like I expected; our connection was just as strong as our lips met and I moved my free hand up to massage her neck. I felt like I was high on something as I decided to take the lead and deepen it a little, unbuckling my safety belt and bringing myself closer towards her side, so much I felt myself shift onto the console piece separating us.
 
My body hummed, and I already felt like all my senses were picking up. I flitted the tip of my tongue against her lower lip, pulling it back in because I wasn't ready to go that deep. It was much more of a teasing buss than the kisses from the last evening. It seemed like we were kissing for such a long time, when in reality it was only thirty seconds here, a separation for breath, and then another thirty seconds.
 
Her hands moved down towards my sweater and fisted material on each side; no iron could've prevented the shirt below from wrinkling. We kept back and forthing nothings about each other and how the emails and sweet dreams were much appreciated and how well we both kissed.
 
We separated only when a loud semi, obviously breaking the 'no truck' rule on the Cross, honked its horn and shocked the fuck out of both of us. We broke the kiss, but not the contact, figuring the traffic wasn't looking at two girls making out in a car off to the side of the road. I slid back into my seat, slowly easing Rory out of my grasp, finding it hard to bring my attention back to scholastic matters.
 
"Mile 67," she said to herself. I didn't know why she said that so I asked her the reasoning to repeat the portion of road we were on.
 
"It's a good mile." She smiled at me, trying to straighten her sweater. "Mile 67 is a good mile because we had our first good morning kiss here. I like this mile."
 
I gave her an odd look, but had to find it endearing. After all, this is the same girl who along with her mother names small household appliances, like her pencil sharpener Anais. I couldn't help but agree with her, because if the road we were on was a small country lane, with the trees along the sides of the road in the last stages of shedding their leaves for the season, it would be a beautiful scene. I nodded back, and recovered to gather my bearings back to accelerate the car back onto the road, rebuckling up my belt.
 
Before I did though, Rory had to make me swoon just one more time.
 
"I like that you ditched the flak jacket by the way." She laughed nervously, and I knew exactly what she was talking about. "You look much more beautiful, more...feminine. Not that you weren't before, but now, even more nice. Yeah." She ran a hand through her hair, giving me this funny smile. "God, I must sound like a perv, I didn't mean to."
 
"Rory, it's OK," I reassured. "You don't. I sort of did it for you, something subtle only you'd clue in on. Everyone else doesn't care, you know?"

"Oh, right." She looked at the clock, and then smiled. "7:15, we better get going before we end up in trouble." Our comfortable banter remained even after I pulled back on the road, and I spent the rest of the commute up north trying to help Rory get past Mr. Mercurio's pop quiz that was sure to befall us fourth period. It wasn't a good challenging test day, so it was going to end up just a general school day.
 
When we arrived in the lot and pulled into my space, I immediately noticed that Madeline and Louise were awaiting me at the front door, most likely to confront why my cell phone wasn't on until eight last evening. I had turned it off and not let them know my weekend plans so I could go either way with how I wanted to say I spent my weekend; up in Boston if things didn't go very well at all, or mentioning the dance marathon with a very explicit warning to keep everything down low because the less I was the gossip subject, the better.
 
I noticed their surprised looks when Rory opened up the passenger's side door, backpack in tow and ready to go.
 
"Oh...good morning Rory." My dark-haired friend was surprised to see her so early and not coming off the bus.
 
"Morning," Rory greeted her with a smile. "Did you and Louise have a good weekend?"
 
Louise interjected her way into the conversation. "Good as in the middle linebacker drowned his sorrows for losing the game within my walls, or good as in general?" Rory soured her lips, and Madeline nervously laughed as both mine and Rory's eyes drifted her way.
 
"Hey, I studied this weekend, honest. My stepmom's going to take away my Rover privileges if I don't score at least an 1,250 on the SAT's." She looked nervously around the crowd. "You know how much I love my car, I don't want to have to drive around in my dad's old Catera."
 
The four of us walked into the building, blue spirit posters and a 'GO BLUE DEMONS!' banner in the gymnasium foyer, reminding us of what everyone had been looking forward to only three days ago. "Good weekend, but where were you Gel?" Louise asked me. "I had a tough quotient to figure out, and the homework helpline seemed to be shut down."

I thought for a moment about lying, but I wanted to tell someone outside of Stars Hollow about what Rory and I had done Saturday.
 
So I spilled, telling Louise the reason I wasn't on the phone was because I was dancing all day and all night.
 
"Dance marathon?" Louise was astonished by the very concept of this idea, and that six years after my prime, I agreed to go with Rory. "What did your mom have to say about it?"
 
"Nothing, and if you and you," I pointed at Madeline and Louise, "value your individual lives, you won't say anything to her either."
 
"Lips are sealed," Madeline told me, making a zipping motion. "Hey, did you know that your mom's new beau was on the World Series of Poker? He was tenth last year--"
 
"I don't think Paris really cares about that, right?" Rory surprised me by butting into one of Madeline's off-kilter observations and trying to defend me. I nodded and just shrugged. "So about this dance marathon you two, please don't say anything to anyone, but both of us did win the whole enchilada. Don't ask us how, and please don't ask how we came into school without sore feet."
 
"Won?" Louise questioned. "How long was it, like eight or nine hours?"
 
"Your time frame is currently in Antarctica and chilly, add some more time." I just wanted to move on from the topic, but as we walked down the hallway, it was hard to admit, but it's nicer to talk to friends when you have more to say about your weekend than you studied all through it.
 
"Eighteen hours. That's the time limit on your bra, right?"
 
I was taking a sip of my tea just then, and almost choked upon hearing Madeline's guess. I tried to hold back my first impulse to blush and then admit that breast support wasn't in play for the entirety of my weekend. I found my voice again after gasping out the liquid from my lungs, where it wasn't supposed to go.
 
"It was 6-6, Saturday morning to Sunday morning, give or take 11 minutes." Thank goodness for Rory noticing my discomfort and trying to veer the topic away from where it was. They were astonished that both of us stuck together for that long.
 
"Still, you two together, dancing, voluntarily for any amount of time," Louise gestured at both of us. "Never in a million years."
 
A million years pass by quickly when it's just two days, I thought to myself, feeling that this achievement's afterglow was still warm a day after the event took place. My two lifelong friends were amazed as we both went into an edited account of how well everything went, not mentioning that Rory now knew she was being watched by the camera when she kissed Tristan. I pretty much let Rory tell the story since she knew more about the history of the event than I did, along with the rivalries.
 
After stopping at our bank of lockers to get our schoolbooks, Louise left when she saw her guy of the week in the hallway moping around, still down about losing to Seth Thomas. Madeline hung with both of us, and asked why I was ferrying Rory to school. It took us a few moments to struggle for an answer, but we finally came up with Rory losing her bus pass and since she paid cash, she couldn't get CT Transit to give her a new one since they didn't have proof of a cancelled check or card transaction. A good way to shrug off any questioning about the arrangement until at least December 1st.

"That's cool, the bus is icky and filled with creepazoids anyways." Her attention seemed to shift somewhere else, and before I could figure out why Mads had to run, she told us she had to leave. "Sorry guys, I uh, have to go." She left us behind, and I just had to wonder if Rory's theory that she was flirting with Brad in secret was correct.
 
Both of us continued conversating about academics as we came into Advanced Economics, trying to get back into our catatonic states of mind about school where nothing else was a distraction but the instructor's words and the props they used to teach us the lesson. Rory sat in front while I sat in back.
 
"So, we're here. In class. Our first class." She looked at the familiar surroundings, which now after this close weekend, seemed alien to her. She seemed a little nervous as she sat down at her seat and I stood near her desk. We were both going to be distracted with each other, that was a foregone conclusion; however the seating chart Mr. Silvestri created was sort of a help to my hormones, since we were on a slant where a misdirection towards looking at Rory would be noticed and I would be asked to pay attention.
 
I smiled at her, finding my voice uncharacteristically shaky. "I'll be back, behind you. Still in the same room."
 
"Mm-hmm. Hopefully Silvestri's explanation of economic indicators keeps us distracted."
 
"Yeah." I held out my hand, and with few students in class, touched Rory's palm lightly as I separated from her, a sly way to state how I felt about her without anyone catching on. We said our goodbyes, and I moved to my seat in the back, watching the students walk in and getting out my texts and instruments to lay them out in the order I always did. Text at left, notebook at right, pencil up above, bag draped over the chair. My routine of sitting had never changed, and that comfortable feeling, despite the presence of my new love to my diagonal right five rows down, eased me back into the world of learning as my watch and the bell intersected at 8:05:00am to bring me back into my comfortable world.
 
Strangely, though I thought about Rory for those forty-five minutes and what she was thinking, in Mr. Silvestri's field of vision, my eyes never directed away from the front blackboard as my left hand gripped my Dixon and decoded Mr. Silvestri's words into my form of note-taking.
 
Still, my mind wasn't 100% on the class. When he'd turn around to write on the board, my gaze would drift northeast towards Rory's seat in the front, and watch her, taking notes studiously and without distraction. Her focus was on school, and I couldn't help but stare as her eyes drifted left-right as Silvestri moved towards the center, and then the right board, the chalk he held revealing formulas that I had to memorize over and over in my head.
 
This is why I respect Rory, because she's at Chilton to soak in everything like it's new and exciting. So much was revealed to me last night when she broke down in front of me and told me that she felt unchallenged in Stars Hollow, and scarleted because the students only saw her as the kid of that teenaged mother, not as their future valedictorian. She's quiet and shy, and because of last night, I now know why.
 
I'm glad that Rory and I went through the path we did in order to come to what we have now. Without her in my life, I might be complacent right now, acting lazy with my grades and just coasting through the year without much to stop me. Both of us give each other speed bumps, and in turn, we also challenge to strive to be better, for our sakes. It was months ago I stopped working for my grades to please Mother, now it's to prove to myself I can be the best.
 
If it proves to be Rory atop the mountain however, I will be gracious in defeat, no matter how much it might pain me.

---

Rory and I went our separate directions for our second period classes, leaving me undistracted and at attention through that class. I felt my usual persona of cool, calm and collected come back, and it passed by quickly.
 
However, spending all that time up in the clouds Saturday, Sunday and this morning blinded my brain, because I had forgotten that this week was another phy ed week for third period. That 45 minutes at 10 in the morning on alternating weeks, was the bane of my existence. Not that I'm saying I don't get exercise at all. Living in the Manor, with a room Daddy converted from an upstairs den into a room filled with all the latest equipment, I try to work out at least once a week, and summer tennis and golf at my country club helps keep me fit as I easily beat Madeline and Louise in those games.
 
It's just I don't play well with a group. And boy do I hate having to change clothes. As I've said before I usually find the most private place to change and hope that no one in the locker room sees me. Today's game was volleyball though, and though our feet were still a bit sore, Rory and I sucked it up and on the same team, tried our best to help them win.
 
Unlike the field hockey match she used to lure me in a few weeks ago however, we didn't do so well this time. Most everytime the ball didn't make it past the net when I or she served, and during one try, Rory missed the ball entirely. Everyone laughed, and well, even though she's my girl...I kind of chuckled too. She gave me a dirty look, but since we share a hate for sports, somehow she understood it was more of a 'I'm sorry you suck and I feel miserable for you, but you still look cute trying' laugh than one belittling her.
 
Rory did try her best to win though, and looked pretty nice doing it. I still remember clearly how hot she looked as she came at me in competition trying to dislodge the ball from my hockey stick, and though she's not an athlete, she looks damned good in her gym shorts and t-shirt. The shirt she wears is tight against her, and when she was going in for a volley or a spike, I couldn't help but feel sidetracked by her body. If the heat of competition is good for one thing it's that everyone's too distracted trying to pay attention to the game, leaving me with plenty of time to give heated looks towards my girlfriend. During one point, she jumped up in the air to try a spike, and oh dear...her shirt would become untucked and I'd get a nice look at that flat stomach my hands caressed last night as we cuddled during the news. Needless to say, I was finding myself flushed red from something besides physical activity.
 
Somehow, we both got through the game, and after having to take ribbing from all the girls about how awful we were, I headed back into the girl's locker room to shower and change. This time I managed to time myself so that I ended up in the shower first, got my quick sprtiz and shampoo in, then ducked out before Rory could see me in just a towel, or less.
 
I changed back into my uniform and thought I would be able to get out of there scot-free, without having to see Rory after she came out of the shower. She's changed by now, I thought to myself, confidently. She hates gym like I do, Rory can't wait to get outta this class.
 
I took my messenger bag out of my locker and put the combination lock back on the hasp. I was ready to leave, trying to dodge out before I'd get stuck with my new girlfriend in a less-than-fully-clothed situation...
 
"Paris." I felt a finger tap the back of my shoulder, and that familiar light tone in my ears. My breath stilled as I confirmed who it was with a calling out of her name.
 
She responded that it was her, and for a moment, I seemed to temporarily lose that important information in my mind to remind me that I was now romantically involved with her. I also went on the assumption she was trying to get my attention fully clothed.
 
I need to really learn that all that assumptions do is get me in trouble. For when I turned around, Rory wasn't clothed.
 
Oh shit, look away, look away! I felt myself firm up, a bit thankful she was in bra and panties, but nonetheless it triggered the effect of dragging my mind, then focused on the 'surprise' Russian Novels pop quiz, right down into the gutter.
 
I didn't look away like my mind scolded me to, instead my gaze remained firm. She was mismatched, wearing a white cotton bra and a pair of floral print panties colored purple, reminding me of her station in life as a small town girl who could care less if she was matching Victoria's Secret with Hanes Her Way. I felt my breath quicken because I was startled at the sudden picture presented in front of me, and struggled to hold back several reactions; one to lash out at Rory for startling me in this state of undress, and the other to push her against the lockers and ravish her senseless.
 
I asked her what she wanted, all the while holding my gaze with her and holding back the temptation to note her Dover-shaded skin looked particularly alluring from the skylights above us that were installed to lessen the dungeon-like feel of the eighty year-old room.
 
"Ms. Stuart stopped me before I left because she wanted to ask who was covering girl's basketball for the Franklin this year. I told her I didn't know, and she gave me this list to give to you of suggested candidates she'd like to cover their beat." She handed me that list, and looked down. "She delayed me a little, so could you let Mr. Mercurio know that I'll be a little late getting into class?"
 
I pocketed the list in the side pocket of my messenger bag without a glance, and frowned. "She does this every year Gilmore, and thinks that we have a bias for covering the men's varsity, so she wants someone who won't criticize her coaching style. If you see her, let her know it's going to be Ella Walsh, same as last year. If she doesn't like her, tell her we can just as easily ignore the lady Demon beat this year. We only have six pages for sports and only so many sports to cover, so if Ms. Stuart wants better coverage, she needs to whip those girls into shape. Otherwise they're going below hockey, plain and simple."
 
She looked at me as I made my Tony Kornheiser-like point, and understood where I was coming from. "I won't see her again today, but I'll slip a note into her mailbox about it." Rory looked up at me, and smiled nervously. "I should probably get dressed before you rebuke me for wasting your time with this and being late for class, sorry about that." About then she covered up her chest, seeming to remember her modesty finally. "I'll uh, be going now."
 
I looked around the locker alcove to see if there was anyone watching us in this odd conversation. I felt like I was going to burst and Rory shifted her bare feet on the cool tile floor, her nervous energy obvious. Somehow I had to let her know that this wasn't something I didn't exactly hate.
 
I was getting used to exchanging those conspirital smiles between us, previously used to belittle those who tried and failed to rise to our GPAs, but now to denote this relationship we were somehow keeping away from the always busy social circle of Hartford.
 
"This wasn't a waste of time, rest assured. It's fine that you came to me with this." I let her know, coding my words. "Just try to match next time, uniformity with everything and anything, you know better." I was trying to keep the surface tension that's defined us for the last three years going in the eyes of our fellow peers if they happened upon us. "Please be on time." One odd look on Rory's face later, I left her behind to puzzle that tension-filled talk, all the while wishing that we shared a study hall instead of a mind-draining class like Russian Novels the next period.

A few minutes later I was at my seat, after telling Mr. Mercurio that Rory might be late. Just as predicted, under a bunch of paperwork that 115 question 'pop quiz' sat, ready to startle absolutely no one. After Rory came in and he sprung the test on all of us, the curses of exams became known to what both of us shared. We had to keep our eyes on the paper at all times, and the instructor walked the aisles, precluding her from being able to flirt with me from behind. "No talking, no moving, no sharing anything with a seat mate," Mercurio bellowed, as the cursed curriculum kept us from in-class reading because some of my classmates, dumbasses they are and rightfully so in that crap class, struggled through the quiz throughout the whole period, precluding Rory from doing much more than an occasional brush of her finger against my back.
 
This had been the period I had been looking forward to since I awoke this morning. Now it was turning into a soul-sucking and pressure building period of time. Since I finished off the quiz within twenty minutes, I was left twenty-five minutes alone to myself without anything to do since this idiot has a rule that we cannot do schoolwork or organize if we had free time in the class. About the only thing Mercurio lets us do is catch up on reading, and since I didn't have a modicum of interest in reliving more of Tolstoy's dragging Peace, I was left alone with my mind, sensing that Rory was having an actual struggle with the quiz and trying to remember what I had told her in the car that morning.
 
The time dragged, my mind agonized because the girl behind me thought of me as more than a friend and to all the world I still had to remain an iron bitch towards her inside Chilton. Somehow I started to feel as if this was a bad idea, this loving for Rory, because we had so much to go against us. You have thirty miles, two communities, an entire school, and two families with the most austere reputation in all of Connecticut's capital between you, I thought to myself. Have you even thought about how everyone else is going to react to you two involved?
 
No doubt that was myself being analytical about everything. I stared towards the state flag hanging in the corner, my mind needing a non-blank focal point to look at so I wouldn't be driven insane, per the advice of Dr. Birnbaum. For the first time since my breakdown in the Stars Hollow High bathroom, I thought about the reactions of Mother and my father, and of my extended family, not to mention those of the Chilton faculty and those at Harvard I had known for at years.
 
Somehow within all this mess in my brain, I started getting this feeling that I was acting selfish. Here I was, falling for Rory Gilmore head over heels, and I wasn't giving one thought to how anyone else would think about it. Doubts started to overtake me, as I thought about the impact of this relationship. Harvard was going to be definitely affected, my interactions with other girls would end up having to change to pre-empt a jealousy streak from Rory just in case I started to unknowingly flirt, and I would feel an extreme amount of guilt if I had to date a boy on Mother's behest to keep up appearances.
 
I started to sweat in my seat, my stomach rumbling and acid starting to rise up my esophagus. I was being someone I was not, passionate and willing to put aside anything and everything just for the love of a girl. My mind was supposed to have a Terminator focus on Cambridge, not a girl from the sticks. I felt scared for how I was thinking, but I couldn't help it, because once one doubt set in, and then another, and then another. Madeline and Louise laughing at both of us, telling us we were both so desperate we could only find solace in each other. Charleston finding it 'a troubling development in your high school career Miss Gellar. The reputation of this school will take a hit if we send a gay valedictorian to Harvard, wouldn't Vassar suit you instead?'
                                                                                                                                          
Then I thought about my baby; my paper. The Franklin has 74 years and 10 months of tradition, and in one move, it could all be taken away from me. Those rumblings at the country club about my evasiveness with the guys and my disinterest in dating, that I was a 'butch bitch in a plaid skirt'. But my mind stayed on The Franklin, and what would happen if Rory and I came out. No doubt a rival undergrounder would be formed right away, bite into circ and my writers and workers would be discredited, or worse. The image came to my mind of that homophobic hate-mongering Dr. Falwell, finding his ire with the harmless Teletubbies gone, focusing all his hate and vitriol on an innocent school newspaper editor, accusing me of advancing a gay agenda when the only agenda I had was to produce a damned good read every week from September to June.
 
I was starting to panic, my mouth drying out and my breath quickening with doubt. I felt like crying, and here I was in front of Rory, doubting my love for her, feeling guilty for my feelings. I remembered feeling this way only once in my life, when I was in fifth grade and bombed a simple math test. I dreaded bringing home the paper, marked with a C-, and so I didn't, for three days. After all that guilt built up for keeping the result from Mother, I became physically sick and ended up in the hospital for two days (over a weekend of course, so I kept my perfect attendance streak going) from exhaustion. When she found out, despite what I went through, she grounded me for a week.
 
That was how I felt this morning, though to a much lesser extent. My stomach lurched, and a wave of dizzying nausea overcame me. I hyperventilated in my seat, and without Rory's hand in my hair or along my neck, I never felt the sense of calm I usually did in Russian Novels. Maybe it was the mix of a wrong food in there somewhere, or else my body wasn't feeling all in the subject matter. Before I knew it though, I was rising up in my seat, raising my hand, crying out aloud in anguish to Mr. Mercurio for what was a rare mid-class pass to the restroom.
 
"Miss Gellar," he called, his high academic tone grating me like scraping fingernails on bare sheetrock, "You have ten minutes until the bell, and surely you can wait--"
 
I held back a shocked breath as I made an excuse on the fly. "I forgot to take some medication before this class, for my lactose intolerance." I acted panicked. "I always have to take it at maximum a half hour before, otherwise I cannot have dairy. I apologize sir, but I want to partake of the special whipped pumpkin pie today."
 
"Fine." He barely acknowledged me as he scratched the pertinent details on the yellow slip of paper, and without looking back, I fled out of the classroom, and then the few hundred feet to the nearest ladies room, which I was thankful was empty as I threw up in the handicapped toilet, my stomach emptying its contents of the morning and releasing a tight knot of unease. I hated having to flee from that classroom, but at least the quiz was finished, and since everyone knew my imposition to dairy, my dignity remained intact.
 
I didn't want to go back into that classroom though, with all these thoughts spinning around in my mind. I thought it was right, that I was putting everything below Rory and fucking up the rest of my life. I sat down on the seat after flushing and cleaning my face up, wishing the world would just go away and leave me in peace. I was convinced I could never be happy, that I wasn't supposed to be that way. The goal in my life was to continue the Gellar legacy until I gave birth myself and then just step aside, nothing else.
 
I wasn't feeling feverish, just stressed, and I spent those last seven minutes of the period thinking about what happened the night before, and that I may be giving Rory the dishonor of an awful relationship to come, her being the long-suffering Alice to my Ralph, even though I had never gotten into a physical fight in my life. I'm but a burden, were the words of wisdom floating around my head, a chaotic and disorderly island in a sea of calm. A life spent following my Palm, instead of my heart was the intended path for me to go, and my mother was going to stubbornly make me realize that, gay or not.
 
Minutes later, I heard the bell ring. I get ready to duck out of the building and towards my car for an off-campus lunch, hoping that the time away from it might give me some clarity.
 
However, within seconds, I heard the bathroom door open and a clattering of saddle shoes rushing into the room, along with a quickened shutting of the pneumatic unit that closes the door.
 
Immediately I knew it was Rory, since she was asking from near the sinks if I was in the bathroom. I call her out in response, shirking down in the stall.
 
"You rushed out of there awfully fast," Rory told me, calm and collected.
 
I peeked through the slit in the stall door, the familiar 5"7' form and intense blue eyes clear in the 3cm space between the door and the partition. "I'm OK Rory, just go to lunch," I called out. "I guess the tea didn't agree with the toast."
 
She didn't laugh at my humor, instead, calling for me to come out again. "No one's going to come in here, just, you're never sick, and I could tell. Please come out of there."
 
I couldn't avoid her, nor keep her from lunch, forever, so with hesitation I unlatched the stall lock and opened the door slowly.
 
Once I came out, Rory's concern with my welfare was quite obvious, and she seemed to hate seeing me in this condition. I tried to explain I just had a bad food reaction as she handed me my messenger bag, but she wasn't budging.
 
"Franklin office, right now, we need to talk." She was starting to take charge; making it known that in this relationship we were on even footing.
 
"But lunch--" I tried to argue, but she came back in that unique Gilmore way of hers.
 
"Obviously it's not an issue right now, come on." Her simple eloquence stunned me silent, and I could only follow her down the hallway towards the newspaper office.
 
Once in there, she had me sit down in my chair at the editor's desk, and sat down on the edge, looking at me with all she had. She seemed pained, and sad for me as I looked up at her like I was caught with a hand in the cookie jar. My mind was still spinning with that negativity, and I was afraid of bringing my gaze up.
 
"Are you alright Par?" Rory asked me, her voice trying to soothe me. "I tried to go after you just after you left, but Mercurio bitched at me about bathroom breaks being one at a time, so I had to stay in my seat until class ended."
 
"It's alright, I'm good," I lied. "My stomach just had a lurch, nothing awful happened."
 
"Your posture looked tight and still, there is something going on in your mind." She sighed, and slid off the desk, bringing a chair from the layout table over so that she could sit at my eye level. She sat down and began anew. "I know your brain, sometimes it gets overwhelmed, things happen where you get stressed and it shows on the outside." She lowered her lashes and took my right hand into her left. "You're starting to have second thoughts, aren't you?"
 
I reeled back a little, freaked that despite not looking back at her all period, she could see transparently into how I was feeling. "Of course not, no, I'm good. That's me, cool as a cucumber." My voice was betraying the inflection I wanted in my head, and I could tell that I was starting to show that yes, I was worried as hell about everything.
 
"You like me right? In the way that I do you?"
 
"No question that I do Gilmore," I said with 100% honesty.
 
"Good." She smiled, and slid a finger into the cuff of my blouse and against my wrist. "Then stop worrying about the little things that might get in your way. I could tell that was stress that was making you puke, and you were getting into overanalyization mode, realizing the reality is more daunting than the fantasy." I felt stiff, and she placed another finger on the wrist, using both fingers to rub it in circles. "That's what you were thinking, right?"
 
I couldn't lie to Rory, because with her my face is an open book. I just didn't realize that my body language was either. "Maybe a little. Just a smidge." Trying to minimize the trauma wasn't doing any good at all, so I went full tilt after a bit of thought. "It's fanatical to think of Jerry Falwell finding out about us, and trying to force me out of the paper because I'm gay, right? I mean I earned my place as editor, so how could he throw me out?"
 
Rory shook her head at me, letting out a little laugh. "Maybe a little crazy, and besides, he has bigger fish to fry."
 
"Probably," I admitted.
 
I looked down at my shoes for a bit, before Rory put her hand against my chin and had me look back up at her.
 
"You're not the only one, so don't feel like you're alone here." She heaved a breath, and then told me what her train of thought was for all of fourth period, what was unpictured in my line of vision.
 
What Rory told me sobered me a little; she had been struggling with the test not for a lack of knowledge about the material, but because she thought everyone could see that her and I were no longer enemies, and more than friends. She went on about feeling Kenneth the Russian Novel nut behind her, like he was watching her every move since being the class suckup he was done in five minutes.
 
"My mind, it just drifted towards this other place, where I was picturing everyone in my life starting to despise me for this. It's like my mind is trying to overrule my gut, and trying to reassert that I need to be attracted to a guy, like Dean." She frowned at this revelation. "But I'm sick of Dean, I don't want him anymore. It's like, he was safe and unexciting, did all the right things and made the right remark at the right time. I was just in this world where everyone is looking at both of us with heightened awareness, our every move and action. They weren't being kind about our relationship either, they wanted to tear us apart."
 
She looked down at her free left hand, still bared from the bracelet and replaced with that watch she wore during the dance marathon. "I think about all the months it took to get to this point, and it's just getting into me that where we are, it's not a dream anymore. We're together. And frankly, I'm scared to death that we're going to be so insecure and shifty, we're not going to be into it."
 
I admitted some of those same doubts to her, like the thought of us losing Harvard, the possible shunning by high society and our own families, and the doubt I feel when I think about how sometimes I don't deserve her. I didn't mince or edit like I usually did to sound cultured and above it all, I felt raw spilling all this out to her. It's strange that I'm doing this in the only place in this entire school where I feel safe, private, and secure, in the office. No one else besides the relevant faculty members and Rory has a key for this room, where we usually spend hours and hours devoted to our publishing craft. The one thing that really bonded us, those long nights spent in this room, watching each other scrutinize pages of loose-leaf for grammar and spelling errors, draft layouts reconfiguring headlines and text...looking at Rory as she tries to scrutinize the red marks on an article I proofread for her, her scowl at decoding why exactly I corrected her and wasn't giving any hints as to what was wrong. It's these little things that turned the little spark of attraction I had for her into a full flame of want.
 
We both admitted that we thought about much more than those lovey-dovey girl in love items we noted last night as we solidified our attraction. Both of us were nervous and didn't want this to go wrong, and hoping no one found out before we intended them to. The last thing we that we wanted was to be out when we weren't ready to be out.

"We're going to be OK," she told me, confident yet soft. "I'm going to make sure of that, and especially in Stars Hollow, Miss Patty. I didn't mean to forget to tell you this, but I needed to get it out to someone, and when I was out to lunch Friday at the dance studio, she was there, I was bursting, and I needed to know if she thought it was OK to have you be my dance partner. Honestly, we were the first girl-girl unrelated couple in years, and I just wanted to make sure...and well, she got it out of me that I wanted to not only dance with you, but 'dance' with you." She stuck her hands in the air to quote.
 
For a moment, I was stiff as Rory let me know that indeed, the reason she handed Ms. LaCosta the Bangles CD case before the marathon, was that she did know that Rory was attracted to me. That somehow she got it out of her, and she was able to tell someone.
 
That meant only one thing; I smiled as I learned about this, wondering why things sometimes end up so fucked up between us, but in these right moments of clarity and total lucidness, everything gets all sitcom-tied-up in the end. I started laughing, upon realizing Ms. LaCosta's view of things above my shoulder.
 
"What are you laughing at?" Rory's face turned quizzical on me. "Did I say something odd, funny, wrong?"
 
I shook my head, keeping my smile as I let her know about all those missing ten minutes Saturday night. I honestly didn't see that Ms. LaCosta knew about everything already, but the first sign should have been that she was the only one to enter that bathroom during the break and she was immediately trying to get me back on the floor and back into Rory's arms. It's funny, I couldn't have seen the woman who spread the most gossip in Rory's town to be the only one in that entire municipality to know about us. Though there's a small part of my mind that's afraid she'll blab, I can trust her as much as I do Fran.
 
"So wait, she's the one that got you back into the dance?" Rory asked. "What would I have done without her, I mean God, we came so close to losing not only the contest, but the entire weekend, and what we had." She started to frown, worrying about what never did happen.
 
I got up, took her hand into mine, and brought her in for a hug, previously something I would've never done, but was something that was called for here. I shushed her fears, trying to let her know that it was OK to think that way, but not dwell on it. "Sssshhh, don't worry about it Gilmore, everything worked out." The scent of her hair was soothing my own fears that cropped up only minutes before. "We're together, and we're fine, right? You don't have any doubts about the present and the future, just of the past and all those times we just missed out."
 
Rory looked up at me, and nodded her head, moving her hands lower down my back to tighten the hug. I rested my chin against her shoulder, the hollow of her neck seeming to fit my head perfectly. The moment we were having was soft and intimate, and known to only us, thanks to the drawn shades towards the courtyard window. I didn't want to leave her behind, and she just stayed in my arms for a couple minutes, trying to cut through my firmness by letting me know I felt nice in a hug. She thankfully decided not to broach the Par-Bear nickname, despite how the hug seemed.
 
We eventually released, kissing on the lips and thankful that we had privacy somewhere in Chilton.
 
"I apologize if I fled out," I told Rory as we decided that we were ready for lunch, but we'd settle for some yogurt tubes, fruit cocktail cups and some canned Diet Cokes from the office mini-fridge to keep our stomachs settled and our drama out of Chilton's sight. "I just felt those doubts, and they manifested the way they did. When I get nervous my system isn't used to it, and well, I throw up." I didn't laugh, but Rory saw the humor was there.
 
"When do you see Dr. Birmbaum next?" she then asked, unexpectedly. I gulped a little, because though I tell my psychiatrist everything, the lesbian subject, I hadn't brought up with her because we were more focused on worry over my schoolwork and future than other portions of my mental health. I said to Rory that my next appointment was in two weeks from Wednesday afternoon.
 
"I'm sure you won't share everything with me, so at least talk to her about this, maybe she can suggest a technique or some extra meditations to calm your nerves. I just want you to be OK hon." She smiled, and I couldn't refuse a promise to Ror, I never have.
 
"I'll sit down with her and let her know, from what her theories and politics are she's a left-centrist, and since she's on Daddy's payroll and not Sharon's, she'll keep everything secret, patient-client confidentiality notwithstanding." We spent the rest of lunch proofing stories and plugging in layouts, deciding to go with a somewhat similar one to Rory's original idea, changed around a little to fit in the table of contents in the corner and a late bottom banner ad buy. There was just something about working with her at lunch today that put me more at ease, that this was truly our own time to spend, with no one in Chilton about to find us.
 
She talked about a new novel she had dug up a few days before at her town's bookstore and tried to gauge how I felt about the writing, while I tried to push the idea of audiobooks, be they on tape or iPod on her. "It's better to just hear the book read on the way to an event, and you don't have to worry about the wrong voice speaking the book," I argued. "I also hate it when I'm in a good read and then I repeat reading a line over and over again from a distracting keeping me stuck on that line."
 
"But the smell of books, you can't beat that." Rory fought back with her own side of the argument. "Anyone can press a CD or record a tape to shuttle it out to the stores with some general dull-voiced guy reading it. With a book though, it's the author's work completely. The formatting, font type, paper used, the cover, and lastly, the voice you create for the character in your head. It reflects how the author wants you to see this world they're creating."
 
"I know, but I like it aural." I stopped to make my point, and forgot to remember the other form of the word I just pronounced.
 
Rory gasped at my answer, shocked and widening her mouth into an O. "You mean aural as in hearing it, I hope."
 
My mind reprocessed the sentence and realized how it could've sounded in another form. I put my hand up to my mouth, blushing because of what I said.
 
Being myself though, I dug myself into an even deeper hole. "Of course, aural as in 'to hear' of course. That doesn't mean I don't like...the other thing. Not that I've ever had it or given it to someone else, I'm sure it's fine and very wonderful, and..." I wandered off as I noticed Rory's smile widen and her looking at me like I was crazy. I stared her down and tried to get serious. "Hey, you're the one who latched onto my vocal miscue, don't be putting these words in my mouth, you know what I meant!"
 
She giggled, drawing closer to me and both of us backing towards a wall along the side near the darkroom. "I knew what you meant." The side of Rory that only Dean had ever saw was coming out, and I felt myself wanting to lose control as my mind thought over those words and brought up those images of myself...well I don't have to spell it out here. Suddenly I felt like I was back in sophomore year, Tristan shamelessly flirting with me to get what he wanted, usually some notes or a paper done. Only Rory knew what she wanted; me.
 
"Well, why...why run with it if you knew my meaning?" I nervously asked as the space between us became less and less.
 
Rory's confidence was strong, and I saw the resolve I had in her eyes as she moved her right hand against my cheek, and talked in a hushed tone towards me.
 
"Because, it's nice seeing you off-guard, and you were asking for it."
 
I argued back that I didn't ask, but the mini-fight of banter was short-lived once she moved in for a soft kiss. I returned it, and though we only kissed for a bit, the love within it was perfectly expressed.
 
"I'd like to do more than that, but if someone walks in on us, wouldn't look good." She felt sorry for not bringing it further as we separated, but it wasn't something I was about to argue at all. The big problem with a school like Chilton is privacy has to be earned with anonymity and grades, not assumed. Since we were academic loners our space was respected, but at any moment a wayward underclassman could walk into an intimate moment, and moments later, the illusion of being alone was gone, everyone would look at us. Look at what happened when I spread the gossip about Lorelai and Mr. Medina; I turned a quiet parent's day lunch into a torrent of noise and bluster.
 
I was just glad to share an intimate moment with her in the school. After a worried talk about someone watching us, both Rory and I decided to self-police ourselves and kill the temptation we'd have to do anything within Chilton. As we looked at the clock and saw the end-of-lunch bell was approaching, we finished the proofing and made a rule for ourselves; no kissing in Chilton, period. Nothing blown, implied or written down on paper that said we were kissing. We had privacy today, but it could always go away in the snap of a finger, both of us afraid of an intimate moment being walked in and intentions being misconstrued by others.
 
"What about after-school though? If we have a brain-mash session once Ms. Peters leaves?" Rory wanted to create a loophole to the rule within moments of us shaking hands on the agreement. "If there's no one near the office, is it OK?"
 
I shook my head, thinking I never would've thought of you as sex-starved Gilmore. I didn't tell her that, but said we should just take it a little at a time; if it was during a week with an off day, maybe I'd do it, but you never know with the Chilton custodial staff if they'd come in, see us and then blab or not.

We were comfortable, and I left the room a little lighter. The doubts I have still linger a bit, but not as badly as if I kept them in.
 
The only problem I have with Rory right now is that I want more from her than to kiss her. I want to share her bed, and love her in the way I've seen in my dreams and wandering thoughts of her. I know I can't try anything right now, lest I scare her and myself also. In the baseball analogy I'm not even out of the batter's box yet, since I'm watching the ball drift along the foul line and hoping it stays straight along. Baby steps Par, don't rush it, that's the guiding mantra in my head.
 
The day finished out swiftly and without much more tension between the both of us, though the Life Sciences class where we shared a table was a fight with my brain and my heart to stay on topic and in focus. I wanted to be more than her table buddy, but for the safety of both of us, I stayed separated from her, thankfully because of lab work that brought Madeline and Louise to us in a group project. They have something called 'gay radar' (at least that's what I think it might be called, I've heard it reduced to the one word 'gaydar' in some media), and sometimes they come off as having stronger signals than Hartford's weather office. No need to take a risk of brushing my ankle against hers with both of them in our sight, and I have to keep the old façade up when I'm dealing with them for an entire class period.
 
Once we got back into the Franklin afterschool, Rory and I were in work mode, and it showed in how we carried ourselves. We were able to control any mooning we had over each other, and I was completely focused on explaining the front page and story choices to the staff, who were taking everything pretty much like I thought. That is the news staff quarreled with sports and Erica was indeed pissed at Jenna and Davidson for pushing her into a tease. I did my best to calm her down from her 'column stealers' tirade, and compromised with her by pushing the syndicate piece tease atop the right side of the masthead out and giving her a better descrip along the entire masthead. She's not happy with me, but at least I didn't lose her entirely.
 
The ride back to Stars Hollow was also calm with Rory, probably because we needed time alone to ourselves to gather and think about how we're going to go further with this. The time we're spending is good, but sometimes we don't need to fill the time with conversation because we're comfortable enough not to have to spill silent space with unfocused monologues. We talked, but mostly about the newspaper and more student government business that was put aside for the entire weekend. Our working relationship needed to be recharged, and I had to figure out some way to keep Francie at arms length and away from any important decisions. Her motives are very suspicious lately, and this new sorority that's being allegedly formed with her as the figurehead within the shadows is intriguing to me, though not in a positive way. After that last experience with the Puffs, I'm not ready to join one anytime soon. The forced camaraderie and excitement over something inane like a makeover or some event that's allegedly for a charity but just a front to fund them, that's not my idea of fun. A night at the table doing schoolwork, pondering the unsolvable puzzle some eccentric is offering $10,000 to the one person who can solve it, sticking to the NewsHour no matter how many bloggers think that the evening news is an anachronistic tradition soon to go the way of the hand-cranked car. I'm quite happy to live that way.
 
Rory understands me so much. On the way home we also had this conversation not about our relationship, but something no one will ever understand as fun. We talked about long Scrabble words and how we could work in the Q, X and Z pieces onto a blue or pink square to score high point totals, for instance. She's always felt like she could beat someone in the game, but the trouble is that most Hollowites would never dare take her on in a challenge because her brain has almost the entirety of both the Webster's New World and the Merriam-Webster Collegiate dictionaries memorized. I tell her I'm willing to play her one day, and she smiles and gets excited over being challenged in that. She almost had an orgasmic squeal over it, I swear!
 
We stopped at the town line and shared our goodbye kiss, knowing there was no way in hell we'd be able to get away with it in town without someone watching us. I hated to leave her behind, but Mother left a voice mail on the home phone letting me know she was jetting in at nine, so with a lot of apprehension, I said goodbye to Rory at the foot of her home's stoop, but not before I felt this calm I never had before.
 
I look over my homework now here at my desk, and the day that just passed puts a smile on my face. We both had worst of times, and then best of times, but we came through the day unscarred and unregretful about what we're doing. My mind might be buried in Rory at times, but it still knows I have to go to Harvard, so I can let anything, even my love for her, get in my way.
 
There's just something in my head nagging at me yet. It's fun darting looks and notes between each other in class, but despite how much I loathe the very idea of dating, I want to go out with Rory, and soon. I mean sure, technically the dance marathon could be considered our first 'date' in a pre-meditated way, a part of the plan Rory used to tell me she wanted me as her girlfriend. Certainly, I'm not datable to begin with; the flat date with Jamie in Washington hammered home that idea. Then of course Tristan, with the damned index cards.
 
But I want to try and go out with Rory, see how we would work in a public setting. This time each of us knows how we feel about each other, so things will certainly go a lot better than when someone's pining over the other, and that other is looking at their watch waiting for bedtime to finally come because they're so bored. Our conversations so far have to stick to surface issues because of time and school. I want to go deeper with her, get to know the Rory behind those blue eyes, see her for who she is. And in turn, I feel ready for her to know me more, hear my secrets, know my life as I know it.
 
You might think 'But it's only one day, you need some more time to think about this Paris.' That might be, but I've been denying how I feel about her for a year and a half, shoving that yearning of to the side off to the side and resigned to the fact she'd never see me that way, no matter what I did. I've been ready for Rory for months, preparing myself, steeling myself for the inconceivable, that we’d be together like this.
 
I know I'm ready for her, completely for a first date. I have the generic dinner and a movie date planned out, several restaurants in the Zagat circled, and hitting up CTNow and Rotten Tomatoes for movie reviews, times and ability to sneak a kiss in with your squeeze when things get sort of dull. I have everything planned in my head, from pulling up in her driveway until the last kiss goodnight, with everything else in-between.
 
The only problem; the performance of the asking her out. I don't know how to do it; my Sadie Hawkins ask-out towards Tristan freshman year pretty much consisted of me looking like an open-mouthed goat trying to get the words 'Will you dance with me, please' out, and failing once he eyed some mousy-looking redhead and fled away from me as fast as he could.
 
I have to think about this ask-out carefully as possible. Rory wants to go out with me, I know it. She likes me. No denying that.
 
Trouble is, am I a great dating companion, or the first girl on Elimidate to be dumped because she kept her shirt on and stayed away from the whipped cream orgy? I don't want to bore her to tears, so I better not take her to an extremely uppity restaurant where $100 for a meal is considered value pricing. Nor should Cosmos be considered material to 'get busy' to (my mind, it hurts it to think that in my head!).
 
This is going to be tougher than I thought; I knew romance would be tough to figure out, but this is challenging.
 
Then again, I'd rather be planning out how to ask Rory out than still fretting that she likes me or not. It's a good kind of worry to have, that's for sure. Rory, what I do to please you...

---

Rory's POV, Wednesday, 6:30pm
 
I've always thought of myself of being in control of all the aspects of my life, from the day I started becoming conscious about life when I was four and started to think for myself rather than out of control, weighing the consequences and my actions before I did something. Whether it be with school, life, or socially, my mind didn't wander from task one, no matter what.
 
It was the same with sleep. Sure I had the occasional nightmare or fairy tale princess dream like all good little girls have, but usually my dreams always involved two subjects, the events of the day, or me living the book I just read. I dreamt I was Alice, Cinderella, Goldilocks, Ramona Quimby, whatever. I even had sexual confusion and dreamed of myself as the title boy in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory once, and other guys in stories. I fell into the role well though, and no one got freaked out my voice was a little higher than usual or that my hair seemed a little long.
 
My dreams have advanced in the last few years once I matured into the world of dating. Dean started permeating them, followed by Jess, and the drama I had in the triangle I didn't want to be in with either of them. Usually they'd be me trying to make a choice between them and figuring things out; and then the 'dates' I went on with them seemed right out of the Vaseline-smeared scenes of some 80's guy and gal combo running in a field or kissing, or looking at a lake as the announcer tells us all that 'The Lovin' 70's has all your favorite songs, all sung by the original artists, and it can be yours for $17.95 cassette, or $23.95 for two CDs. Operators are standing by, call now!'
 
Yeah, I need to stop watching bad late night movies on USA, I know. Thankfully those ads haven't made their way into my current dream repertoire.
 
Then again, my dreams of Paris and I would be considered too hot for a channel you don't need a descrambler to watch; the kind that are without commercials or FCC restrictions.
 
The one I had this morning of her was kind of strange. I thought back to the time when we had the picnic basket auction, where Jess bid on my sad attempt at emulating Martha Stewart and I ended up spending the afternoon with him instead of Dean, bonding with him a little.
 
My mind decided to muck the image up a little, with everything that happened beforehand still going on, up until the point Jess made his eighty dollar bid. Also, I'm continuing the secret romance with Paris I had started with that dream about the night of the Bracebridge Dinner from last week...
 
I'm pretty much resigned to the fact that I'll be spending the afternoon with a guy I'm not really interested in, and will piss off my current boyfriend who has a problem being outwitted by someone else with guts. The boys are fighting and bickering about my bid price like I'm a cow at the slaughter with the choicest cut of beef ever available. I'm rolling my eyes at the entire situation and bored; this wasn't how I wanted to spend my day.
 
Dean has given up on bidding for me, leaving Jess' bid the high one. I looked at my boyfriend, whose eyes were enraged with anger directed towards my new friend, who was doing this probably as a joke to push all his buttons. No way did he have the $80; if he did, he sure cut some good selling bargains with Andrew for his old volumes at the bookstore.
 
"Going once," Taylor bellowed out, as I looked down at the ground, ready to be the ref again and stopping Jess and Dean from tearing each other apart limb for limb.
 
"Going twice..." My feet looked really interesting, maybe I could fake a fainting spell and skip the basket lunch for at least a day...
 
"STOP!!" I heard a voice scream out from the back of the crowd, attention was drawn towards it by everyone in the square.
 
"I'm offering $750 for her basket!" My eyes drew up, and I craned my neck towards the back to see who was giving out this ridiculous bid for me.
 
My eyes took in the back of the square, and buried towards the deep, deep back of the crowd, a blonde girl stood in front of her car, her mouth formed like a megaphone to shout out her words. The car was a dark red color and the girl's dress was a greenish colored pair of corduroy pants and a tan colored leather jacket.
 
It couldn't have been her, could it? How would she have known where I was, she didn't really come out all this way, right?
 
Taylor was too flabbergasted to take this bid as actually real, as the crowd murmured back and forth between each other. "Young lady, if this is your idea of a joke, it's not funny. This is real money going to fix a real bridge, and you must bid seriously. This basket's retail value--"
 
The girl spoke up, her rich and cultured tone cutting through Taylor's scold like a knife. "Mr. Doose, I assure you that my bid is a hundred percent real; you can take a counterfeit pen to my seven Benjamins and one Grant and be assured that this is real money." The crowd parted around her, and she made her way to the front. "So again, I'd like to repeat my $750 bid for one Rory Gilmore's basket." She smiled at him deviously. Her resolve was stubborn, and everyone looked towards her shocked. My basket contained but a sandwich in a baggie with a store-bought doughnut; to buy it at that price would more than cover the cost for tools and materials for the bridge at the very least.
 
Taylor took the money from the girl, and got a marker out from his pocket to confirm the crispness and legality of the cash, as Dean looked on, his mouth stilled and balling his fists up in annoyance. Jess, about ready to win me for the afternoon, could've shown indignation at being outbid by $670, but just watching my boyfriend's face turn red and ready to wring someone's neck was even better than his original plan to mess with Stars Hollow tradition. Taylor examined each bill closely after he marked it, holding it up towards the sun to find the plastic thread embedded in each note.
 
After a couple minutes, Taylor got the crowd's attention again, clearing his throat.
 
"Well, I've checked over this girl's money, and it's definitely real...what is your name again, I forgot it from when you were at the Bracebridge Dinner."
 
"It's Paris; now c'mon Merlin, chop-chop, get this over with. I want to have lunch and I'm sure most of the town here doesn't want this thing to leech into suppertime."

She directed a steely gaze towards me, those deep eyes of hers bringing me back into how I was feeling about her, torn between these two guys after me, and this uneasy, but passionate alliance the both of us shared when we could find a chance, an empty classroom or an unsupervised cloakroom during some boring parties Grandma made me go to. I felt my heart flutter up, and tried to keep my best 'Sorry Dean but you can't stop a force of nature when it wants to bulldoze through' look on my face as Taylor, feeling embarrassed about being talked down to by a 17 year-old girl, started the 'once, twice' spiel anew.
 
Jess wasn't about to top Paris' bid, not only because he didn't have the money to do it, but the mere torrent of teasing sure to come Dean's way Monday morning at school for being outbid by a girl was going to be a hell of a lot of fun, and he didn't have to lift a finger either.
 
Dean could only watch shell-shocked as my secret girl claimed my basket for 3/4 of a grand, and I was relieved to find myself out of another attempt by Jess to flirt me out of my pants. Both of us looked at each other with a smile which no one noticed, and after she made the deal final, she came over towards me, avoiding the hovering stare from Dean that said she might be smart, but he was the one making me happy.
 
Maybe with his gifts, he was making me happy. But as for my bedroom needs, no contest...
 
The dream moves forward a little, past some of the car ride up north towards Hartford. Paris has been silent throughout the ride, except to tell me that she bid because she noticed the basket auction was listed in a society newsletter Mrs. Gellar gets, an obvious attempt to sucker some richie out of some money in order to support the bridge building fund. She said she thought about it all night after she got home on Friday, and finally decided to bite the bullet and bid big to have a basket lunch with me. "I knew $750 would be out of reach for anyone," was her theory.
 
"$200 would have worked too," I corrected. "Dean's check averages $175 every two weeks."
 
She nodded, seeming uninterested in Dean's cash flow and keeping a hand on my jeaned thigh as the Ridgewood exit towards her house approached. "I honestly wanted to help out with the bridge, everyone in your town tolerated me well enough a few weeks ago, and I feel like I owe you something for the cracks about it being a farm town and out in the middle of nowhere. It's kind of a cute town, I have to admit."
 
That makes me smile; and in turn, a little flirty to boot. "With a cute girl living in it?" I smiled and try to unnerve Paris a little, maybe rile up her uneven libido.
 
"It's a possibility," she murmured a bit. "She might not be the next Martha Stewart, but she comes close to toppling Rebecca Kohls."
 
"The garden lady," I remembered. "I'm more partial to Katie Brown from Lifetime and A&E, she's under the radar and I have a thing for her as she talks about decorating tabletops with grass for a dinner party."
 
Paris shook her head. "The point is, I missed you because we were too buried in debate prep over the last week." We both were sexually frustrated over the last week because we had to take on one of those tough Greenwich prep schools and really know our stuff, killing all our couple-ly moments for the week that just followed. Somehow we took a narrow victory against them in a fiery argument over affirmative action. Paris said my humanizing some of the article subjects I used through my research won it for us. "I just wanted to make up for being my 'eyes on the prize' self, and..." she started to blush, still feeling shy about getting girly with me. "Putting my bedroom eyes on the back burner."
 
She slid her hand a little further up my thigh, and I was trying to keep myself under control. My body felt relaxed from her soothing rubbing, my mind far from all things academic and community. "I'm sorry too. All those nights upping my WPM and honing my cards, it took so much out of me. Then Dean getting jealous of Jess, the exams a couple weeks ago, we haven't been able to spend that time together, in the way I'd like to. Sometimes I want to run away from responsibility, from life, and you've been that for me lately..." I wandered off my track as I stiffened with want. Paris had unbuttoned her coat, revealing a dark green sweater that seemed to fit her tight. I felt weakened by my resolve to keep my hands off her. I mean we still had a couple miles to her house, I couldn't just jump her while she was driving.
 
All of the sudden, she started to laugh to herself, thinking out loud about something. "It's funny Ror, you know. We've been having this clandestine relationship going for two months and we've been able to keep it under wraps. Yet to have you, I just had to pay $750 for an afternoon of your time. If I mentioned my intentions for you to anyone, I'd be in the Stars Hollow hoosegow."
 
I was having this mixed feeling come over me as she said that. One side of my brain was feeling kind of skittish, since without the basket in the middle, I'd be considered a 'lady of the night'. Funny thought, isn't it, of me bending over into a guy's car window on Sunset and asking how he liked it and how much.
 
That thought was pushed out by the building arousal within me. Two weeks without so much as a kiss with her, not even a love note snuck through a vent in my locker. She just gave away so much money for an afternoon with me, the girl who put on this innocent façade around everyone she knew. I felt her hand shift again, closing in from the middle of my thigh, and a little closer to the heat I felt at the juncture between my legs.
 
"Oh God," I said, not holding back. "Paris, if you're talking about what I think you are, you'd better shift this thing into the next gear, quick!"
 
"Settle down Rory," she teasingly nagged at me, her pointer taking a detour along the bottom of my zipper fly. "No one's home. Mother is in Montreal, something about how she likes guys with French-Canadian accents. Meanwhile against his will, Daddy's stuck trying to talk some Pfizer exec in LA into a partnership in a statin drug." That finger moved up a little again, brushing up against the pull of the zipper. "I can tell you're eager, and that because of the amount I spent, that you might have performance anxiety."
 
God, she's going into her dark persona, the Paris I know and quiver in fear of, while at the same time, trying to bite down the urge to leave a deep mark on her neck. I say meekly I don't have an issue with how much she spent.
 
"Just don't want you to get nervous is all." I look at the map screen on the center console, there's one last mile north on Mountain to go. "It seems a little illicit though, I the rich girl claiming your company for the day for such a high price. Looking at you in class, knowing that beneath the oxford shirt and the left strap of your bra, I've marked you as my own. I haven't been able to claim you lately, and now for the right price, I've reclaimed you, knowing I'll always have your love." I feel the pull of my zipper as she brings it down, the privacy windows hiding her actions to the world. The exposed lilac-colored cotton that makes up my panties dampened with want as she scrapes a couple of fingernails against the fabric.
 
"I've paid good money for this lunch with you, and..." The car comes to a smooth stop at a stop sign, and she stretches over to me, brushing her full lips against the lower lobe of my left ear, then nuzzling her nose against the top of the outer shell. "I hope to eat from your basket shortly." The fingers she has almost inside my pants go deeper in the gap created by the undone zipper, and I cringe my eyes as a warm feeling overtakes me and spreads from my center.
 
I slowly let out a breath, then a soft moan at her bastardization of wordplay. The basket is all but forgotten in the back seat and my ears are focused on the Jag's robotic voice stating that the turn onto Auer Farm is coming up. "Geeze Par..." is all I can get out as her promise to partake fills my mind. "You must be starved." Yes, even in my dreams, my flirting is sort of dorky.
 
"I can't serve myself all the time." The sentence is soft, and I'm thankful her garage has a door right into the kitchen, because I don't want anyone to see exactly how hot I am for her. I strip my jacket off in the car, feeling wound up and like every layer I wear is too hot. I want her, and soon. She keeps a hand against my inner thigh as she makes the last turn. I can't wait to see the dark brown limestone front and iron gate of her house. "We're almost there; you can stop gripping the door armrest so tight. I don't want you to rip the leather or break the door." I give her a dirty look as I stop the death grip on the rest, seeing the imprint of my hand within the light leather.
 
I feel impatient, so I stretch over towards the driver sun visor and depress the remote button that opens the gate, then in tandem the garage door remote so Paris doesn't have to slow down going down the driveway towards her house. My body is hypersensitive, and my heart thuds at a heavy rate. My sweater feels tight, and I fidget to make sure the seatbelt is dead center, not brushing against my breasts and sensitizing them further. She rolls her eyes towards me, but knows that my impatience is just winding me up a little further. I can feel how hot I am, the surprise of such an unexpected taking of me driving me crazy. A boring night of reading, reviewing and fending off Jess or Dean trying to steal my second base had disappeared, turning into another surreptitious encounter with a girlfriend I wanted to shout to the world I was in love with, but would keep appearances up so that our academic rivalry remained strong.
 
We entered through the gate, my hands jumpy, with my vision seeming to blur and focus on those fingers near my core. The 500 foot drive into the garage passed by quicker than I thought, as I saw the light of the day fade into the mercury lights along the ceiling of the large garage at the right side of the mansion.
 
My heart hammers as I realize I'm about to go through with another tryst with the girl who swore she'd make my life a living hell the first time we met in the hall. She's right of course; it's hell having your mind flash a glimpse of one of your meetings for less than innocent purposes over the last two months and knowing that the girl who put planted it there is so close, yet so far away.
 
I breathe in and out as the car stops in line with the back wall. I look at Paris, her eyes drawing away from the view in front of the windshield. She was looking at me with all the lust that she had within her, starting to herself feel the rush of whisking me away from town so unexpectedly. Paris undid her seatbelt, and got out of the car at the same time as I did. I stared her down nervously, trying to anticipate her next move with me.
 
I felt so exposed, with my jeans pushed down my hips a little and the zipper undone. We both stood still for a moment, my eyes drifting over to the brick wall along the left side of the garage. Old red brick remained on the wall over there, the garage being a post-war addition onto the house and built in the same style as the Manor to blend right in with the eighty year-old structure. My gaze drifted over towards the wooden door, the entrance into the kitchen.
 
Slowly I made my way towards her, going around the car. She stayed still and silent, looking at my movements like I was the white queen piece trying to capture my black counterpart. "Paris," I uttered quietly. "I guess I should thank you for what you did--"
 
I was talking as I turned the corner and came into Paris' arms length. Immediately she stretches her hand out and grabs me near the elbow tightly, tugging me towards her. Her small body hides her underlying strength as the physically dominating one in our relationship. She pulls me towards the kitchen door, and then backs me hard into it as I hear a boom in the hard mahogany wood, my ass bumping against the panel divider in the middle.
 
My throat tightens as Paris moves closer again towards me, brushing her hand against my cheek slow and seductively, a torture that with her naturally shaded full lips within line-of-sight, turned me on so much. I felt the first anticipations of sex coming on, the heightened senses, and my every skin cell tingling with even a quick brush of a wrinkle of clothing against my body.
 
"Don't thank me for that," are her slow seductive words as she pushes into me, getting a rise on tiptoe so we could be eye-to-eye, mouth-to-mouth. "Thank me for what I'm about to do for you." Her left hand is back near my apex, the index finger sliding in the space between the buttonhole and the metal fly. She moves slowly, then opens her mouth, closing in on my upper lip.
 
I felt her hot breath against the top of my mouth, her teeth nipping softly at the soft flesh. She wettened it slick, trying to push my buttons. The overly studious side of myself wanted to regain control, but I didn't want anything to replace that feeling.
 
She unbuttoned my jeans and tried to push them off. It was just then I reminded her of where we were.
 
"We should...get in the...house." She kept kissing me as I tried to get the words out. "Concrete floor; it's not very sexy."

Paris moved back a little and took in her surroundings. Nope, not romantic unless you're into that 'doing a gearhead' fantasy, and I had enough of that with Dean! "My bedroom?"
 
"I don't know if we'll make it," I told her, the large floor plan of the house killing that idea. I drifted my vision a little to the right, to find her hand resting on the doorknob.
 
"You're right," she agreed, her voice becoming a whisper again. "We're not even going to make it to the dining room table from the way you're wound up." Her hand slid into my panties and along my pussy, making me hiss and hyperventilate as shocks of pleasure went through my body.
 
She opened the door into the kitchen, both of us stumbling messes as we navigated Sharon's attempt to assert herself as queen of the castle and worm her way into a HGTV spotlight kitchen show. Stainless steel everything, clean sparkling tiles along the backsplash, a nice breakfast nook for her social clubs to meet and look at the garden Sharon 'tended'...
 
My eyes drifted towards the booth, chairs and table in the corner of the room, with a bright window filtering in light and offering and an awesome view of the estate's backyard. I was distracted with trying to work Paris out of her sweater as we made progress through the room. I kissed up from her chin, forcing my way into her mouth to let her know exactly how much I missed her over the last few weeks.
 
I found my feet directing towards the nook corner. I tried to push Paris towards that way, but she was moving towards the door into the dining room. I had to stop her, because my mind was taking a hot drift towards using that breakfast nook for...it doesn't have to be spelt out, does it?
 
"Par," I caught my breath as she pushed my jeans lower. "I can't move any further, let's go in the corner." She shook her head and tried to be analytical.
 
"Sharon will kill me if she finds out--"
 
I silenced her by yanking her sweater off, pushing her against the center island, and roughly shoving up her turtleneck to expose her bra. I scraped my teeth against the aroused nipple beneath her right cup, and got out of her that familiar moan that haunted me since our first time. "I'm going to die if you don't do anything with me right there, and right now. Who gives a damn what your mother says; that's what your servants are here for, to clean up after the mess you leave!"
 
Paris bit her lip and looked over at the nook, the mahogany table looking so damned enticing for her to do her dirty work. She heaved in and out as my hand lingered at her belly, edging around her bellybutton, and down the middle of her body until I reached the waist of her corduroys.
 
She stared at me, hungry and panting. "I shouldn't," she denied again. "As much as I'd like to..."
 
I smiled at her deviously, keeping my hands possessively at her waist. "So you're saying that the next time you come home on Monday, you still want to look at that corner as where your mother sits with her equally empty-head crew of society chums, not as another room we christened under her nose?" I pushed her closer to the nook, my gaze direct at her, focused on my eyes. "You're a woman of action; you don't back down, no matter the odds. My intuition is telling me that you want me to lie on that table, strip me down to nothing, and then fuck me until I can't take it anymore." I gave her a stern and heated gaze, trying to rile her up.
 
It took about 30 more seconds of convincing her the end of the world wasn't near if she had me in her breakfast nook, and she took one more nervous glance around the room. I stood there patiently, pants half-done and smiling at my shirtless lover, hoping she'd make the right choice.
 
Her decision didn't take long. Suddenly, she lunged towards me, backing me right into the table, covered with the classic red-white checkered tablecloth and filled in the middle with salt, pepper and spice shakers, a napkin rack, and a kitschy cow-creamer dispenser. She swept all that stuff off to the side, along with the cloth with her outstretched arm, pinning me between the table and her. I hyperventilated, those deep eyes of her focused on myself, and nothing else.
 
The stuff fell to the side in a heap, the shakers and the creamer falling to the tile floor without any protection and breaking into shards and torrents of glass and ceramic upon impact. No matter that we weren't paying attention; I lay down on the table as she pulled off my shoes and yanked the jeans off my legs in a flash. I took off my v-neck sweater and threw it to the side, leaving me in underwear and ready and willing for anything she was about to do. Paris moved parallel to me, starting to kiss down my body slowly from my lips with a deep, soft, and starved kiss, all the way down my neck, through the little cleavage that I had, her lips journeying downward through my midsection.
 
She unclasps my front hook bra, works it off me, exposing one breast at a time and kissing around each of my puckered nipples. The cold air against my chest is chilly, and does nothing but arouse me further. The blue article is dispensed of within a few moments of her undoing, and I can't help but stimulate myself as she moves lower down my body. I run one hand along my body, while the other runs along the opening of my panties to tease my clit and slicken my pussy for what is sure to be a tension-killing fuck sure to relax me enough to make me forget the boys fighting over me and how much I want this girl above me.
 
Closer and closer she moves, a lioness on the prowl. Down to my belly, she lingers the kisses slower and slower. I beg of her to hasten her movements lower, but there's nothing doing. She nags me to be patient and I can't think that she's enjoying seeing that dark spot of arousal build in front of my opening on the cotton. I know I smell good; but dammit, I also so feel so fucking good.
 
I keep begging and begging for her, that tongue of hers licking against the lacy waistband of my undies. Paris always knows how to torture me, and she's doing such an awesome job.
 
She looks up at me across my naked form. "You're beautiful as always," she lets me know. "It's a pity I have to share you with Deano." She moves her hands to the sides of my panties, pushes the article down my thighs, again slow, again spreading out my orgasmic bliss so that she makes me feel like I've left my body once I come. She slides them off once she reaches my feet, and non-chalantly lets them fall to the floor in a heap.
 
At that point, I'm just a naked girl on the Gellar breakfast table, about to be worshipped by a girl who respects me and has my heart. Paris rises up, smiles towards me, and I prepare to spread myself open to accommodate her.
 
"Rory, are you ready?" She asks, her concern being my comfort and being pleased. Her eyes reflect the admiration she has for me, and I nod, giving her permission to move in and bring me to bliss.
 
I feel her move between my legs, her hot exhalations already stiffening my clit into action...
 
"Rory?" she asks again. I start to feel myself quake quite a bit as I acknowledge her question.
 
Again, she says my name as a question. Her mouth isn't any closer to my trunk...what the hell?!

I acknowledge again, she says my name as a question. "Rory? Rory? Rory?"
 
"WHAT?!" I'm becoming irritated with her constant name-dropping.
 
"Rory?" OK, that's it, I can't take this anymore, I have to shut her up and tell her that everything's fine.
 
"I'M RIGHT HERE!" I grit out through my teeth, impatiently.
 
Now if you notice, the dream went from heated to irritating within the space of a minute. You want to wonder why? Was it Tristan or Dean entering stage left and asking to join in? Did the maid come in and notice us? Did Sharon walk in with groceries?
 
"Rory, wake up, Rory..."
 
Nope, it was Paris' voice morphing into that of my mom's, her hand shaking my back, trying to rouse me awake out of bed.
 
"RORY!" I hear Mom picking up her tone. "Come back to reality here kiddo!"
 
It was then I realized that Mom usually isn't the one to wake me up. I open my eyes a little to take a look at my alarm clock, trying to focus on the glowing numbers through the haze of sleep.
 
A few moments later, I start to realize what time it is, once I see a 6 shape at the far end of the display...
 
I mumble out a "What?" to Mom, and try to turn back into bed...
 
"Rory, it's 6:40, get up otherwise I'm pouring cold water on your head!"
 
6:40, 6:40...I try to recall the meaning of the time in my head...
 
Holy shit! I was still in bed with an hour-twenty-five to go before school; 6:40 is the time I'm usually sipping my morning blend and eating my cinnamon toast at Luke's.
 
I rose out of bed like a bat out of hell, already attentive. "SIX!! FORTY?! It's six freakin' forty?! Please tell me this is a dream!"
 
Lorelai told I was in reality alright; by pinching my arm at the wrist! "We're behind Sleeping Beauty, really badly."
 
"Ouch!" I reeled back my arm as she moved away from the side of my bed. "No, this can't be right, the alarm is set for 5:30, it's just early..." I wandered off, looking at the clock once again, reading the cursed 20 to seven time. "It's 6:40!"
 
"I think we've established the time more than a NewsRadio 88 anchor on speed here, get up!" My mom was being extra snarky this morning, and this certainly wasn't helping.
 
I was already grumpy, and finding out your alarm backup was asleep on the job only makes your mood worse. "What time did you get up?"
 
"6:30," Mom said.
 
"But what about the fuzzy clock, don't you set that for 5:30?" I asked. She shook her head at me and explained the fuzzy clock had no working battery for at least three weeks, thus she was depending on my biological clock's punctuality as her wake-up call.
 
"Why didn't you put a new battery in it?" I asked, trying to stay calm. "We have extra batteries in the junk drawer, why didn't you look there?"
 
"Because, you still tick when I throw you against the floor," she reasoned. "Fuzzy clock breaks, fuzzy clock's alarm is annoying, fuzzy clock--"
 
"Fuzzy clock needs a AAA battery in it because I'm not having this happen again!"
 
"Well look who got up from the wrong side of the bed," Mom joked. That only soured my mood even further with her. "Wait, you're not even out of bed yet, but you're grumpy, so technically--"
 
"Paris is gonna kill me, that's what she's going to do," I reasoned out loud, getting out of bed by throwing the blankets towards my nagging mother. "I promised to meet her at Luke's at 6:55, non-negotiable. Now she's gonna drive away without me, and probably she'll be mad all day because I ditched her."
 
"Rory--"
 
"I have to get in the shower. I need to catch up and pray that I can get everything done in the next ten minutes... " I stopped at my dresser for only enough time to make sure my underwear and socks matched (Paris' little lecture at me Monday about matching in the locker room had made me really self-conscious about that) and that my uniform was pressed and clean. I couldn't even hear Mom as she tried to stop me. In her voice's place was that firm voice of Par's like a drill sergeant pushing me to the limits and demanding I do fifty pushups.
 
I slammed the bathroom door hard, slipped out of my pajamas and hopped into the shower, turning the water on hot straight-out and almost burning myself in the process. My mind was still spinning from the dream that made me oversleep; Paris drawing in closer, about to touch the tip of her tongue against my clit...
 
And Mom woke me up from it! I washed my hair, starting to feel embarrassed that my mom had to wake me from a sex dream! I flushed cherry red, thinking about what may have happened if it had been twenty minutes later and I'd be near the climax...the guilt of seeing that would probably give both of us a heart attack.
 
I stood there in the shower, doing my usual routine of shampoo, conditioner and body wash, wishing I was feeling normal and staid. Instead my mind was heated from the images that just went through my brain. I wanted to stop and relax and finish out the dream so much, even if I had to create the rest in a daydream. Thinking about Paris like that, as a sexual aggressor who used a town event to get into my pants. God, my dreams were never this depraved when Dean was mine.
 
I felt myself warm from more than the shower spray as I thought back to the exact moment when I was so rudely interrupted by my mom's hand shaking me awake. It had lasted through an hour of an alarm I wasn't sure went off or not, and I was wet when I got out of bed. The muscles in the back of my neck were tight, my heart beating just from the very idea that I was dreaming of Paris seducing me like that.
 
I wanted to do more than take a shower, so badly. I felt knotting all over and a certain uncertainty that I didn't finish what I started, my whole morning was incomplete. I gulped everything down however, and focused on the time rather than my needs as I rushed through the bathroom tasks and slid into my uniform a few minutes later, continuing my morning routine, no matter that my body was telling me to do more than smell the coffee.
 
Coffee...my thoughts were distracted by that as I ran out into the kitchen, the microwave clock confirming the time.
 
6:57, it read. If I wasn't dead before, I should start my last will and testament, because Paris was going to be here any minute to bitch me out about time management and my incompetent alarm clock. I headed into my room panicky, with an undone tie hanging around my neck, my shirt tucked on one side and not the other, and askew socks...
 
"Fourteen minutes, I'm impressed Gilmore. I would've figured you a seventeen minute shower girl." And apparently, a certain blonde girl is sitting on my bed, taking in the décor of my bedroom, and smiling at me like I was the biggest dork in all of human kind.
 
I was panting and in a rush to get to the town square in the next ten minutes, and my reason for getting there, Paris, was sitting on my bed, holding a cup in her hands and her messenger bag draped over her shoulder. Suffice to say I was shocked; how did she know? Why was she in my room, and not waiting for me outside.
 
"What are you doing--" I tried asking her and making excuses for my lateness that didn't involve her and I...together in dreamland.
 
She stood up from her spot on the bed, came towards me, and smiled. "While you were rushing to get into the shower, your mom was trying to yell at you to call me and have me stop here at the house instead of the diner. Since the combination of you showering with a cell phone to your ear might prove to be fatal, she used your phone to call me just as I was getting into town and let me know you slept in this morning."

"Oh." I could only see myself as a mouse, small and meek. In my rush to be on time, a simple detour to my phone and her directory entry would've brought her to the house instead of me running towards the town center on pure adrenaline. Stupid, I chastised within my mind.

Paris moved towards me, her nervous energy getting to me. She felt as awkward about the situation as I did, looking towards the window.
 
She played with the edge of the cuff of her sweater as she went on. "I didn't know if we had time or not to stop at Luke's, so I stopped there and ask for a couple take-out cups. This one is yours. I gave the other cup to your mom." I was handed the cup of warm joe, but she kept her attempt at banter up. "I hope one creamer and a pinch of sugar was fine, that's what Luke told me you usually took."
 
I sipped it for a jolt and to make sure it tasted fine. Indeed it was perfect as usual. "Good memory," I said softly, my mind thinking more about Paris instead of coffee, and how she was looking at me. I must've looked the part of a mess with how I dressed, buttoned and covered, but not straightened out. I felt out of it, awkward. Why were we suddenly not so verbal, looking at each other the way we have the last two days but not saying anything?
 
I sat the cup on the dresser, feeling embarrassed about my state of dress out of the shower. I needed to straighten myself out first, think about Paris' romantic interlude second. "How was the drive down?" I asked nervously.
 
"Good. Non-eventful, my car isn't scratched, no rain, another postcard autumn day in the land of nutmeg." I started to tuck the blouse in my skirt, a silent version of throat-clearing trying to communicate I needed privacy. "Did you look over that proposal from the Armory about a rental increase for the Winter Formal?"
 
I nodded back, looking Paris over. She looked the same as the last four days I've seen her. Still smart, beautiful, driven, that hidden sexuality only I truly knew and was trying to bring out sort of subdued after a cooled day yesterday, no thanks to Mr. Mercurio deciding that our Russian Novels class was 'the worst he ever tested' through that one pop quiz, and forcing us to start War and Peace over again for no reason except he's a top-par asshole.
 
I told her rushed I had read the report, feeling her eyes on me with each move I made. My suggestion was to halve their asking price of $3,500 with our usual yearly $2,500 bid that sufficed for twenty years. We both knew the state guard was using the building for military activities again and to show support for them the price increase was necessary. My mind was more concerned with her staring however. My blouse was unbuttoned down two places and a head gesture to show her out of the room wasn't working.
 
As I went on about the proposal, she moved towards me, invading my arms length in that assertive Paris-like way I've pretty much become used to over the last couple years. "Fine, we'll try to ask them for $3,000 rent. What's on my mind right now however is you." Her voice was firm, yet the dominating message within the statement was expressed clearly. "How, if you have a 5:30 wakeup time, did you end up just hopping out of the shower now? I checked your alarm clock, it has a loud alert and works just fine, so you can't tell me you slept through an hour of that, or seven nine-minute snooze periods."
 
"I don't even know if my alarm went off," I responded honestly. "It was 6:40, Mom shakes me awake, I curse a little in my head and I'm off for the shower." I shook a little as she moved closer towards me.
 
"Look, it's OK, sometimes we oversleep, at least I knew before I got mad at you about it. Which I wouldn't have unless you decided to go Sandra Dee on me overnight and shirk all responsibility altogether."

"OK, good, I'm glad you said that." I tittered softly, my sarcasm synapses apparently on holiday. "I don't look good in leather anyways."
 
"You know," Paris brought her voice down to a whisper. "Lorelai had to run to the neighbor's for a few minutes."

"Babbette and Morey's?" I was getting annoyed that my compressed routine was getting sidelined. "But she usually doesn't go out there in the mornings to talk..." I felt her move closer, seemingly in an attempt to pin me towards a wall.
 
"Rory, connect the dots." I felt my rear bump the wall farthest from the window. "If we weren't the way we are now, you really think I'd be in your room, much less your house? I'd be waiting in the car honking the horn every minute, waiting for you to come out." She curled the corners of her lips up, lowering her voice a little more. "Lorelai kind of played an Ed Belfour role because it was odd to those two my car pulled up here at this time of morning, and right now she's trying to make sure they know I have permission to come here. They were about to play twenty questions with me, where are you from, what kind of music you like, how many pets, those kinds of things. Lorelai saw me, ran out from the porch towards me, took her coffee and played interference as I walked into the house and waited for you."
 
"So wait," I tried to clear my head. "They tried to intercept you, but..." I felt a cool hand plant against my side, and I knew just what Paris was doing with me.
 
"Twelve years of meet-and-greets have trained me well, avoidance is key. I'll talk to them one day, but once 6:55 comes, you're my charge. That means doing anything and everything to get to this point." Her left thumb lifted the hem of the blouse, the untucked side, to gain access to the waist of my skirt. "In plain English, that means I want what we've both wanted in these last two days."
 
My lungs staggered, and I struggled to breathe normally as I awaited another of those blood-rushing kisses I was fast getting used to. Still, my mind tried to setup a punchline. "Proper Chilton uniform protocol?"
 
She laughed smally, wrapping an arm around the small of my back. "You can fix it in the car Gilmore."
 
"What about breakfast?"
 
She pointed to the breast pocket of her blouse. "Grabbed a pack of raspberry. Just eat it over a napkin and throw the pop tart wrapper in the ashtray after you unwrap; I'll make an exception about eating in the car just this one time."
 
My excuses for putting off the morning kiss were fast running out. "I haven't gargled yet--"
 
She put a finger to my lips, and brushed a slick wet clump of hair back to behind my ear. "Just suck on an Altoid." I laughed a little, those words so familiar from a year ago when she was my last-minute Romeo.
 
"I'm not in the mood to, right now at least." I felt kind of geeky, but that feeling went away as Paris closed the distance between us and softly kissed me on the lips, her hands resting at my sides, her focus on me and nothing else. I brought myself into the atmosphere of the buss, starting to feel the exciting rush of kissing the girl I liked with my mother only next door, less than a hundred feet away keeping the nosy neighbors at bay. As we kissed, my mind spun with whether I should tell Paris the real reason I overslept, since I felt sexually charged right about there.
 
It was interesting to say the least, keeping one eye on her and trying to make sure we both had enough space so that if we heard my mom's footsteps approaching towards the kitchen we could separate in moments. It was a kiss that lasted a minute, one that made me feel relieved. We broke, both flushed, thankful no one had seen us. I felt a thrill at sneaking a morning kiss with my lover for once, trying to keep a smile off my face because Paris didn't get mad at me about oversleeping.
 
"That was...nice," I stumbled out, feeling light as I brought myself towards the nightstand and the hot coffee for a sip. "I should oversleep more often if that's the way you're going to say good morning to me." I smirked towards her as she flopped back down on my bed and rolled her eyes.
 
"Next time it's cold water in a bucket, whether you're awake or not." Always amazing how her sarcasm dial can go from 3 to 11 in less than ten seconds. "We better get the lead out, I only allowed ten minutes of extra time out of town and last night's sleet made the trip down a little sluggish."
 
I sighed towards her and shook my head, knowing that even if the end of the world was nigh at 8:06am, Paris would still go to school and be sucked up to whichever afterlife destination she believes in stuck to her desk.
 
We've pretty much fallen into a routine once I straighten myself out and get into the car. It's nice to see that some things have changed, but our discussions in-car seem to stay the same and within that academic banter that only could turn on the two of us. I discuss what I read, and make sure that what I've noted myself matches her version of events, but not too closely so that a higher-up might think we're cheating. She's also interested in what I've been studying lately, picking up some more journalism classes for my last Chilton semester so that I can get a good headstart on my college credits. Of course she has hers already, but she thinks I'm on a good track nonetheless.
 
The radio isn't even turned on anymore, nor do I take out my Walkman and try to block out things anymore when I'm in the Jag. How could I possibly concentrate on the latest news and traffic when I'm too busy staring at the blonde next to me blatantly and unhidden? I never thought of myself as a gawkier when it came to love, probably because of the lack of a physical attraction for Dean. Yes he was cute, and the hair did something for me, it made him look younger. But he was big and gangly, and imagining what I wanted to do with him was always a balancing act between fantasy and reality, with the only solution seeming to deny Dean's height and bringing him to my eye level instead.
 
I don't do that with Paris though. I watch her slip into the car next to me, sliding her key into the ignition, and she looks beautiful. Her eyes concentrate on the road no matter what I say, her hands almost staying still on the steering wheel except when she has to stop. When she's in her seat, Paris is more relaxed behind the wheel than she ever will be anywhere else. When she extended the invitation for me to ride home, the reason I felt skittish about her giving me a ride was because her car is really her castle. She maintains it religiously, even for a little knock in the engine (One deep study session evening between us earlier in the year was spent in the lobby of a Jiffy Lube while her oil was changed), and by entering it, it was another step to say that I was really becoming her best friend.

I feel like I want her to keep on trusting me, and I hope she continues to do that now that I'm her lover. I'm nervous now that I'm not just looking at her and wishing I could be in her arms. But if the last three days, especially today, are an indication of how our relationship will go, I think we'll last quite a long time.
 
Maybe even 'lifers', as Louise described how close I was to Dean in happier days.
 
I should probably clarify that. I meant in my younger, more clueless, and in denial days.
 
Just as long as Paris is in the driver's seat, I'd stay by her side, better or worse.

---

"So I'm thinking that Gregory Smith of Everwood is cute, don't you agree Madeline?" Louise says.
 
It's another Wednesday lunch at the table I share with Madeline, Louise and Paris, where I'm convinced day by day that the lime Jell-O is neither lime, gelatin, or flavorful. We still sit next to each other, and this is about as close to her I'll get in school publicly with everyone around. Paris picks at her meatloaf with the plastic fork, having long polished off her regular salad. I don't even bother with the meat, going ala carte with a chicken sandwich, the salad, and an oatmeal cookie in place.
 
Madeline seems distant lately, her eyes drifting left and right as she takes in conversation and tries to wring wittiness out of it. "Everwood? What's that?"
 
Now this is a shock, Madeline not watching a show filled with a new hunk. Paris even has to look up and comment. "The sugary-sweet product of a Dawson's Creek writer featuring the lead of the mediocre Substitute sequels as a father fleeing the ghost of his dead wife in Manhattan by moving himself and his rugrats to a town she probably coasted by once and thought was pretty from the interstate wayside. It follows the Christian Right rhetoric and community theater troupe of 7th Heaven. Tell me you haven't at least heard of it."
 
Again, Madeline isn't in denial, shaking her head. "Sorry, I've been elsewhere on the dial Monday nights."
 
"Where else, there's nothing else worthwhile on TV that night," Louise argued. "At least eye-candy wise. No offense to The American Experience you two, just not my bag unless there's a JFK profile."
 
Pigeonholing us into our PBS geekiness, Paris quickly strikes back. "None taken, Marilyn Monroe reincarnated." Louise then sticks out her tongue towards her and calls Paris a know-it-all. Both Par and Lou are so used to their mental catfighting it's almost as natural to them as breathing. They'll still be friends to the end, but one of them will probably leave a last retort in their entry on the funeral visitation log.
 
"Guys, focus here," I implore, trying to bring the conversation back Madeline's way. "Something wrong Mads?"
 
She smiled shyly, trying to draw focus away from herself. "I'm good," she smiles fine to reassure us. "After the last season of the Creek I'm not ready to take up new poster boys. I just want...plot, you know, and I'm not getting it lately. So I've taken to watching other stuff on TV. If it involves science and geeky stuff, so be it."
 
Louise interrupts her. "Hot and geeky science hunks?" she intones with her husky 'sex' voice.
 
"You forget I watched Mr. Wizard all the time when I was a kid," she said wearily. "All that stuff was cool, and you can only watch fashion shows on Style so many times before it becomes boring."
 
I nodded at Paris for confirmation of this fact, surprised as she confirmed Madeline's science interest. "The house staff had to keep baking powder and soda on hand on the off chance she saw something she wanted to replicate on her own."
 
Madeline speaks up, and our attention is drawn back towards her. "My favorite," she lifts a hand up, "was that tornado in a bottle thing, with that thing you screwed in the middle between two two-liter bottles. You'd put water in a bottle, screw in the top and then the other, and whoooosh, we're not in Kansas anymore!" She gets giddy at describing this, very animated. "All the fire stuff was cool too, but Daddy never let me do that because he didn't want me to get burned."
 
"Would you still be interested in science?" I queried Madeline.
 
"It's still my best class," she reminded me. "Not many dateworthy guys, not much stuff to do otherwise, so I listen and pay attention."

"You have to remind me of this everyday." Louise butts into the conversation unannounced. "If it was up to me the only chemistry I'd be studying is a soap hunk's perspiration and how to clone the DNA contained for my very own willing and able copy..."
 
I wasn't listening to Louise bitch about class, my eyes following Madeline's as she found her concentration jar towards the middle aisle of the dining hall towards a trash can. Her features stilled and became neutral as her stare went from across the table and she moved her head a couple of inches towards her left. I notice she straightened her sweater out and ran a couple fingers through her hair, and I can't figure out why for a bit. I sense some nervous energy, her eyes drifting towards a group of three boys turned around, their backs towards us.
 
She takes a sip from her chocolate milk and clears her throat as they turn around and head towards us and an empty table past us a ways. She gulps it down and the boys turn around.
 
The signals that Madeline is swooning are really starting to come on strong to me as a bystander, as Brad and two of his buddies from the Robotics and Computer Sciences class walk towards us and Madeline. Instantly there's a connection between Brad and Maddie, and I watch them make eye contact from across the room for but a moment. She pushes in her chair as a sign of courtesy, and they come closer towards us. Louise's ramble has moved onto the latest All My Children developments.
 
"Madeline, thank you." Brad speaks in that tremble he only has when he's in Paris' line of vision, and he acknowledges all of us. "Rory, Louise..." he trails off as I see Paris give him that focused death glare. "P-p-aris."
 
"Uhh, you're welcome Brad." Madeline is never shy around boys, which is another sign of what she wants. "Good meatloaf today, isn't it?" Nervous and neutral is how she was speaking to him.
 
Brad looks down at his tray as he tries to squeeze lengthwise since Louise won't move her chair for him. "Hopefully." Brad directs a funny smile her way, Louise rolling her eyes up at him and his two friends.
 
"Let's go Langford, we don't have all day," she snipes, pulling her chair in so they can get through. Madeline stills, shocked at how her friend is talking to Brad. They move through the aisle as Madeline looks on towards Brad, then relaxes as the distance between them increases and they sit at their own table. Everything goes back to normal, as Paris finds her salad more interesting than what just went on.
 
"Louise." Madeline asks for her attention sternly, her voice taking an uncharacteristic firmness. "Why do you have to be so mean to him, he just wanted to get through."
 
"There's plenty of other aisles in this room, he could've used one of those." Louise says matter-of-factly.
 
"This one's closer to his table."
 
"So, I don't want that buffalo stuffer anywhere near me. Anyone who calls playing a video game fun with chodes online isn't worth the time and effort to acknowledge."
 
Madeline feels hurt from Louise's words, and Paris and I watch as they start to fight. "He just said hi to us, that's no reason to tear the poor boy's head off."
 
"It's plenty of reason, face it, he's hopelessly uncool." Louise points and Madeline's eyebrows scrunch down in anger. "Why any girl would be interested in him..."
 
I notice Paris take in everything Louise is saying, and although her and Brad don't get along, she doesn't outright hate him. She's told me this before, that she needs someone to occasionally make fun of, but really she wants to encourage him to be a little less geeky and gain a little confidence. Listening to Louise, I can tell she's had enough.
 
She firmly interrupts Lou with that tone that still scares me, even now. "Grant, back off. He's Brad, not the token louse from an 80's fraternity movie. He has good points and bad points, and frankly if a girl likes him, more power to her."
 
Our blonde friend is of course thrown for a loop; she'll never win this argument. "But he's such a geek--"
 
"Yet you associate with both of us." she reminds, her face neutral as she points towards me. "Retract the claws and pick on some two-bit soap actress instead. That is, unless you hate Rory and I for being smart ourselves. Lest you also forget that you carry a 3.50 GPA and keep up with Rory and I somehow."
 
"Paris, I just hate the guy. He's so meek and annoying, and has no backbone."
 
"I like Brad too," I say, trying to form a majority. "So if you want to make fun of him, do it on your own time."
 
"But--" Louise was stumbling over her words and losing her cause to make fun of him. "He's a---" She threw her hands around trying to justify her teasing, then gave up knowing that none of us backed her up. "Fine, I won't make fun of Richie Cunningham over there anymore, you all win!"
 
"LOUISE!" Madeline gritted her teeth at her, annoyed at the Ron Howard comparison. "No more."
 
"Yeah, yeah, I'm done. God, if you weren't just like me I'd think you had a crush on the guy." Louise isn't looking at Madeline as she's saying this, and thank goodness, because her eyes just widen in surprise, she whimpers, and then blushes at the very insinuation of her infatuated with Brad.
 
Paris and I sneak a look towards each other, Madeline's face revealing all. She doesn't notice us, just focusing on hiding her secret longing. "Of course not, why would I ever want a boy like him. I'd rather have...a stallion in the sack, of course." Not very convincing Lynn, not at all. Louise doesn't notice her inflection fade, and within moments they go back to looking at their lunch.
 
Meanwhile I can go back to what my thoughts were previously. School is starting to feel a lot more different now that Paris is mine. I looked forward to going to school before we finally acknowledged there was something here that's between us. Not only for the educational aspects, but so that I could stare for hours on end at the vexing blonde that took on the role of my girlcrush for months and months. I could now look at her for free, unnoticed, without any repercussions or suspicions by her that I was noticing her in more as more than my editor and leader.
 
I feel my heart pound in my chest whenever I'm near her, my nerves on high alert. Then, at that lunch table, I felt my stomach twist around because she was so close to me. Above the table, we looked like we had plenty of space between us. The thing about appearances, however, was that they can be deceiving.
 
You've probably figured out I wasn't saying much through that discussion. I would've loved to defend Brad more than I did and irked on both Madeline and Paris some more because of what Louise was saying about him, the boy didn't deserve her grief because she wasn't able to able to attract the attention of her cornerback guy for the last couple of days.
 
My mind was in the conversation, sure, I heard just about everything that happened and my attention was trained on trying to figure out if Madeline and Brad were interacting more than in that awkward talk about meatloaf.
 
But just try to keep all of your attention on a matter when that damned girl you really like has her hand along the side of your skirt, getting her flirt on without saying one word. Then just try to think of a way to unwind your way out of something romantic beneath the table.
 
That's right, while Paris brought down Louise's bravado at defending her teasing of Brad, at the same time beneath the table, her right foot was bared and out of her shoe, and rubbing up against my bared ankle. Today I was wearing ped socks that end just above the ankle. I took a quick glance below the table as Madeline was talking to Brad with Louise's attention on them, noticing that there was something brushing against my left shin.
 
My first thought was an apple had rolled from another table and ended up at my feet. That was unlikely since the tables were pretty big and it would take a lot for one to roll off the huge surfaces. Paris hadn't tried anything funny Tuesday and was trying to maintain the 'no kissing at school' rule we agreed to, which I thought would kill any kind of sexual vibe at school that we could share. I guess when you've been on the sidelines of love for as long as Paris has, there's some built-up energy that's been in her for years yearning to get out.
 
Her hand wasn't actually on my thigh, rather she was brushing it above the fabric of the skirt with her pinkie finger, appearing on the outside to anyone else to be innocent. But it wasn't. I feel my breath deepen and my blood rush down with the slight caresses of her fingertip against my side. Never had I thought of Paris being the type to be a physical flirter. I had a hint of that last week with the car incident, but I'm starting to learn from her that this light touch to her is just as sensual as sharing a kiss with her. I started thinking then about how nice it was that she was left-handed and able to keep her right hand otherwise occupied with me when we sat together.
 
I felt a thrill at getting away with this kind of contact in school with our friends watching, both of them clueless that we're a couple. Paris' toes brushed along the ridge of the opening of my shoe, along my ankle. I hold back a shudder, looking dead-on at Madeline and Louise without any emotion except that the chicken sandwich was quite tasty. That Paris does this without a word, focusing more on her class work in her head and the meatloaf in front of her than the fact she's driving me crazy beneath the table, it's strange that it all comes back to the flirting that we did to each other over the last year. I heave a breath, wanting more contact with her, but knowing I won't get it unless there's a sudden fire drill and an opportunity to flee elsewhere in the school.
 
I keep denting into my salad, those damned smooth legs of hers teasing me and teasing me. It's been about ten minutes, and Louise's guy came by to whisk her away God knows where for a quickie. The wait for the lunch bell is torturous as I open up a book and Paris takes her Palm organizer out of her bag to update her assignments. Madeline rests her elbow on the table and props her chin on her hand, uninterested in anything except looking towards Brad's table. I fork a tomato and a few greens, then slather it in some dressing, starting to munch on it. My face looks more interested in looking as if its chewing food rather than having shortened breath from Paris' foot against the back of my leg.
 
Daydreaming, my mind was drifting off from school as Paris continued her erotic torture unabated. It thought about how wound up I was after the basket dream, how I felt unfulfilled and so turned on with Par in my room, but didn't act because of the pesky 'mom 100 feet away at Babbette and Morey's' factor. I really wanted to tell her about the dream and her role in it while she drove to school, but I'm still trying to gauge how much she wants to hear about me away from Chilton. Also after how she reacted when I kissed her Monday morning suddenly on the road, I didn't want her swerving off an overpass hearing about us defiling Sharon's breakfast nook.
                                                                                              
The time passed slowly, but soon it was 12:45, and after finishing my chapter the bell rang and Paris' foot left my side. She slid it back into her shoe and I ate the last of my salad, filled from the meal. I got up and felt a little dizzy from my legs seeming to be jelly-like from Par's machinations through the meal.
 
Madeline got up from her seat and gathered her stuff, shaking her head. "See you two in seventh, I gotta go wake up Louise from her afterglow." I laughed as Paris rolled her eyes, and we both said goodbye.
 
We cleared our places at the table and threw our trash in the can, starting to walk out of the dining hall close together. She was giving me this funny look out of the corner of my eye for some reason, this little smile that was getting to me and making me wonder. We left the hall and went out into the courtyard, heading towards our lockers.
 
Suddenly she took my hand, and yanked me away from the walkway around the fountain towards a patch of bushes in a corner after she looked both ways and saw no one near us.
 
I asked her what was up, but she didn't answer me right away, just giving me this hovering and nervous look before we headed into the small grove and I was able to ask her what was up.
 
"Did I do something wrong?" I asked nervously. "You're smiling like The Joker, Jack Nicholson version here at me. What is with you today, you're all happy and caressing..."
 
I was about to start one of my patented unfocused rambles, when I found a finger coming towards my face. She kept quiet until her index finger was against the left side and ridge of my upper lip.
 
"You might want to blot more next time, that dressing's been irking me for about five minutes." She rubbed her finger slowly and seductively against my face, obviously cluing me into the fact that I had ranch dressing on my lip I forgot to wipe off when I was finished, being occupied by other things. She moved the finger against my cheek, gathering up the remainders of my meal while at the same time sensitizing my body and most likely, causing me to be antsy through the two periods until Life Sciences I wouldn't be sharing with her. Moaning, she pursed her lips out and drew the finger back towards herself.

Wide-eyed, I took in the sight of Paris Gellar, who days before I wouldn't associate with the word 'sensual', teasing me with her actions and the few words she mustered as my vision took in her fingertip with a small dollop of ranch dressing resting on the tip. What is she about to do? I could only form basic thought as what I thought she'd do with it, actually happened.
 
She stuck out her tongue and licked the dressing from her finger, my eyes wide and my libido doing backflips. All the while Paris was giving me that secret smile she directs only towards me, and I stilled my breathing at this erotic sight. She was tasting me, only not. She finally closed her mouth and let the taste settle on her palate, her face turning from sensual to satisfied, closing her eyes taking in the familiar tang of the ranch dressing, mixed with the saltiness of my skin.
 
I will not kiss her, I will not kiss her, I will not kiss her!! No kissing at Chilton!! My mind kept replaying my Ground Rule #1 for this new thing with Par as she kept looking so damned irresistible and the entire lunch spun through the filter of my brain. I felt like I'd collapse in on myself if I walked. She heaved out a breath, starting to open up her eyes and recover from the little scene she just spun. God, even though we're together now, she's still a little troublemaker who gets off on seeing me all annoyed and out of breath.
 
Paris smiled towards me, and as I settled my heart down, she just kept that hovering look still.
 
"I've always wanted to do that," she says matter-of-factly. "It's a big pet peeve of mine, how could you be so forgetful today Gilmore?"
 
Sure, blame the girl with a fogged-up mind caused by your one-sided footsie game! I knew she was baiting me, but all the same that soft monotone had that know-it-all spin that still sort of annoys me a little. No matter though, the way she was looking at me all flushed and unsteady, with a fast-beating heart. I never thought of her as full of surprises, but right now I'm just glad that there is no fantasy anymore. Everything is reality.
 
Everything, including what I said in reaction to what she just did. I brushed some stray hair back and stumbled through. "You finally got your revenge on me, some of that dressing on the lips during lunch was on purpose, you know that?" I clasped my hand in hers, enjoying the privacy we had.
 
Paris nodded and tittered nervously. "I know that now, but there was an inkling and a hope that you were goading on my libido." She looked down at the ground, then back towards me. "You enjoyed that lunch, right? Because I can reel back--"
 
"Please don't!!" I cried out, a little panicked. "Uh, what I meant is really, really liked what you did, it's nice." I shuffled my foot around a little, nervous I wouldn't get to class on time. "I never knew that you had that kind of thing in you, you know? It's secret and nice and..."
 
She brushed my knuckle, then let go of it as we got ready to separate until 7th period. "No need to elaborate, the point is made." She hesitated, and helped direct us out of the bushes. "I just want to be nice, you know? I have so much lost ground to make up for, and I want to be perfect, get everything right, not fail you. I don't want you to go back to hating me, you know?"
 
I decided to leave and separate from her, leaving her with words that were sure to kill the worries she might have had about getting everything with us right.
 
"Oh, trust me Par, I can't hate you anymore. But..." I lowered my voice a bit and gave her a hovering once-over. "Revenge on what you did to me at lunch today sure will be sweet." I let the sentence hang, and left her behind and still where she stood as she watched me walk towards the Ambrose building and my next class. My hope was that she would know what I was getting at, and leave her salivating for more when it comes to me. What we have, it's like a board game. I have to plot out my next move carefully around Paris' grand gestures, while at the same time trying to accommodate what she wants. I walk down the hall towards my locker with a spring in my step, and I'm looking forward to lunch for more than the salad for now on.
 
I'm going to keep Paris as mine, whether it takes a fight or not. Hopefully not a fight, more like a passionate argument, I'd rather have it start that way than to fight her. Just the thrill of this relationship beneath the noses of everyone we both know is quite enough for me.
 
I just have to start remembering to do a loose tie on my shoes from now on; you never know when an opportunity could come up again to plant my 'revenge' towards her...

---

It's my last period of class, number seven, Life Sciences. Usually a class I don't direct full attention towards because my scientific mind does very well and the external reading I do outside of science classes helps in lessening how much dependence I have on the textbooks during assignments and tests. With Paris sitting next to me, the class becomes all that more distracting. Though the stools we sit at are wobbly, I love the table in front of us and our seating in the back. The table is covered at the front, and no one unless they walk into the classroom can see what we're both doing. Dr. Eure, the teacher, is also a nice lady, far from the image I was expecting of a rough teacher like Popular's Ms. Glass character, who lives and dies on taunting her students.
 
Since it's our last period, we also have the easier and more relaxing class, and that shows in my fellow peers. She doesn't enforce uniform rules in this period as strictly as most of the other teachers, so the guys in front of me have unknotted ties and popped collars, while the girls untuck their shirts to prepare early for dismissal. Paris ruffles at this habit, but she accepts some things can't change, like that. I keep my uniform tucked, clean and straight just to appease her.
 
I keep my feet on the bottom rail of the chair, keeping any temptations of doing something with Paris to myself. She's concentrated hard in her notes, the pages and pages of information in her thin compressed left-hand cursive seemingly unreadable to everyone but her, though I'm making progress in decoding her language when I need to borrow them. The class info is filled out in the corner of the sheet fully, a habit she'll never break.
 
As Dr. Eure goes on about mitochondria, I find myself trying to find a way to talk to Paris about this morning's dream now, rather than when we're on the road or in the Franklin, since talking in the newspaper office after everyone leaves doesn't guarantee privacy. I knew what Dr. Eure was talking about already, so I didn't need to note, and I'm sure Paris didn't either. There was something inside of me that wanted to tell her about the dream, just how would I go about it?
 
I looked at the notebook in front of me, and towards Paris. Since I'm a righty and she's a lefty, there was open space between our sides of the table so that we could come a little closer towards the center without suspicion. I looked towards the lectern; Dr. Eure was reading from her syllabus, unnoticing our corner of the room.
 
Passing notes is something I do in class occasionally, but not often. I looked at my book and Par's, and had a brainstorm. If we could have a conversation through our notebooks and without words, we'd look like we'd take notes to everyone else, but between us, shared a private talk within that same class. It was a foolproof method of talking to my girlfriend, without the actual talking!
 
I'm going to make this work, was what I determined, try to talk to her and keep everything down-low. The worst thing that could happen is that she wouldn't budge from her notes and say no to my offer. It would be like a crude form of instant messaging was the way I thought, talking and then chatting back. It was perfect.
 
With one last glance, I wrote down a missive on the second top line of my paper.
 
Par, want to talk a little? I have to tell you something about this morning. Come a little closer if you'd like.
 
I pushed my pad towards her, and tapped her hand to have her read slyly. She drew her attention away from her notes, and looked at what I read. Since her note page was full, she was able to turn to a blank piece herself. She held up her hand a little, in a way that wouldn't draw attention, then wrote down her response, then directed me to look towards her notebook so I could read.
 
I could, just as long as I don't get caught, I know this stuff fine. Anything specific?
 
She was into it already, what a lucky break. I thought she might not jump on, but she's fully into my idea. Again, I write more text into my notebook.
 
Remember how I overslept, and you couldn't figure out why?
 
We start to get into a pattern. She looks, writes, then after I hear her scribbling die down, I look at her writing and prepare to respond with what I have. I read her thought.
 
I figured your alarm clock was set wrong, you've never been late to class except that one time during the Shakespeare exam.
 
Shaking my head, I write down that it wasn't wrong, and that I slept through the alarm because of a dream.
 
What kind? She writes. A nightmare?
 
Her eyes catch me smiling as I dispel her guess.
 
Remember the basket auction from last year where Jess paid a lot of money for my company for an afternoon? How could she not, I remember her reaction to the whole thing when she sighed and said "Your town is beyond weird, are you sure Rod Serling isn't your mayor?", then just laughed a little at the absurdist and quaint notion of the basket auction.
 
She thought for a moment to recall that time, then wrote back right away.
 
You had a dream about Jess? I thought that you liked me. The writing was a little dark, rushed and panicked, which I kind of expected. It's always a first reaction to reassert what we have already, so with the same speed, I soothed her by writing that no, it wasn't about Jess, that he was in the dream, but not the main focus.
 
Back to her notebook. Oh, sorry, she writes, her eyes focused on the lectern when she sees Ms. Eure angles towards our side of the room to make a point. We stop writing to take in some facts, and it takes a couple minutes to go through what she's lecturing us through.
 
When she finishes and directs us towards some textbook reading, both Paris and I open our books and page to the subject, while putting our notebooks on top of the unread page. The back and forth begins again as she wants details about the dream. Never had I done this, told anyone the details of a dream like this. Of course I had to lie around my mom this morning to avoid the mortification of my reason for sleeping longer than usual.
 
I had a dream about you. There, simply stated.
 
She looks at my curling script, her eyes then drifting upward to read my face. I glance down a little, feeling shy and a little self-conscious about my flirting plan. It's somehow fitting that a couple of years ago if I had tried to get her attention with my writing, she would've crumpled up the paper, like she did over the project I broke. But she's game about this note-passing session.
 
She writes back, smiling. What kind of dream?
 
You outbid Jess for the basket, got Dean mad at you, and shocked me with how much you'd pay for my company for an afternoon, I let her know.
 
She shook her head, blushing at the very idea that she'd buy my basket. Did I get my money's worth Gilmore? I have a discriminating taste for how I spend my wealth you know.
 
Wow, that took me aback, the structure of her words. I shake a little, and she gives me an look as my bottom lip lowers. I flirt back with some shaky cursive;
 
You almost were able to use that discriminating taste on me; however my mother shook me awake before you could...God, I think you know what happened in this dream, you're not stupid! I was starting to get in over my head, I thought I was going to be cute with this flirting via pen, but I was being outplayed by Paris' curious nature!
 
Her right hand brushes up against my left as her pencil asks the next question. Where did I have you? And yes, I'm not stupid, you wouldn't even be bringing this up if it was just us two skipping across Bushnell Park with psychedelic sixties music in the background.
 
I snorted a little laughter out at that because I actually had that dream in the last cynical days before I dumped Dean last week. Of course the climax was Paris telling him off and both of us kissing in the rain or something (I forget specifics), but however it ended it was hot.
 
Dr. Eure looked towards our direction to trace where the sudden noise was coming from. "Miss Gilmore, are you OK? Something funny about cell division you'd like to share with the class?"
 
I looked up, a little embarrassed; I have to be more careful in the future. "Um, no Doctor, ma'am. I just saw a word in a funny place as I paged through the book, gonad I think it was." I never knew how to cover my ass well when the teacher's looking at me wrong. "It won't happen again." I shied down on my stool, praying the attention would go back to the front lectern with a few of my peers in front laughing at my uttering of the juvenile word.
 
"Please make sure it doesn't, this is a serious class. Miss Gellar understands how important this class is, right?"
 
"I do ma'am," she responds off-hand, like her response is breathing.
 
"Alright then. So back to page 174..."
 
Everyone goes back to reading, except for the both of us, faking reading and continuing to write. I write down the exact details of her wooing track, from her $750 bid, the drive down, and up to the point I beg of her to take me in her mother's perfect Better Homes and Gardens-ready breakfast nook. I avoid the details of her undressing me, no need to elaborate upon that since her mind can fill in those blanks.
 
It's a long, meandering six paragraph entry, and when I finish, my hand has a wicked case of writer's cramp when I shove the book towards her to read. I've done journal entries on and off through the years because I'm not comfortable archiving my life in something anyone can get at. It's strange to me, confessing a dream of want to my girlfriend, when this description is as ribald as I ever have gotten on paper.
 
She looks it over, her face showing what I was expecting, a mix of emotions at her persona within my mind in REM state. She keeps her pinkie against the heel of my left hand, teasing me and sending a shudder up my arm, her eyes focused on the script in front of her. It seems like an eternity as she takes in all the details, her breathing the only thing I focus on. It goes from steady and staid...then shaken and huffed...two minutes later and when she finishes reading, it's shallow, slow, trying to take in all I've just written.
 
I look at the class, still in thought about the current subject at hand, and then towards the blonde sitting next to me, her legs crossed and making hay of my description. I know I've gotten to her when I find her adjusting the collar on her blouse, the tight collar button and tie a hindrance to cool air against her lower neck.
 
Still, she wrote, her left hand gripping the yellow Dixon, wearing the graphite down like she was making out her last will. I read as she writes, her words stating so much that her voice couldn't say in the space of that science classroom.

Dear God there Ror, I knew you had dreams about me that were a little involved. I didn't know that you could dream that passionately though. Wow, it's scary; you taking my intensity and channeling that from my bookish self into someone so raw and...sexual. I have to admit, I like how you dream, because that's how I want to come off one day. That is, if you'd like to. In the future of course, not right now, not that I wouldn't want to get involved with you in such an untamed way...
 
I grip her hand, encircling my index finger around her ring finger, to calm her down and have her focus her writing more. The move seems to kill her ramble. In a way it's one of those sly moves that we're comfortable with doing to keep ourselves hidden, but let us still have that couple connection we've had lately.
 
I have to be honest with you, she writes. I asked what made you oversleep this morning, and I'm glad you lied. Because if you hadn't... She pauses, her eyes burning into mine, ...I may have ended my perfect attendance streak this morning from ravishing you senseless in the back of the car. I knew there was something up from your blush and panic getting out of the shower, there was a feeling there. I just want to take things slow, but this want of you is consuming me so badly.
 
I let her write on, feeling myself stiffen with each of her romantic words. Walking into Luke's yesterday morning, the anticipation building when I saw you at your table with Lorelai, waiting for me with the tea, the minutes it took of conversation with you and your mom until you finally gave the signal you needed the restroom. How I found myself needing the bathroom at the same time and following you, locking the door, and then you dragging me by the hand towards the stall, where you pushed me against the partition and kissed me senseless. I'd been awaiting that since the moment I got up, like a light. The routine was automatic, the want for you driving me through the morning until that moment you took my hand into yours, whispered your hope that I was having a good morning, my ultra-bad soft-core porn-like response of 'it is now', and then you kissed me. You, kissing me in your favorite place in the whole wide world. It was that moment I realized that my dream did come true. That you like me as more than a friend.
 
Last night, I'm sitting at the dinner table as my mom bitches out the help again over how their table-setting skills are lax, that her food is too dry; never mind the fact that her glass to the side is filled with a fifth helping of rum and Tab, the most disgusting drink I've ever had the displeasure to mix (trust me, it smells like paint thinner, never drink it). She asks me how my day was; and I tell her good. She asks why, and my mind struggles to think up something to cover up the fact that for the first time since mid-seventh grade, I have to lie to her, because the schoolwork wasn't the most exciting part of my day in school.
 
I make up something about the challenging curriculum of AE, how it's vexing me, yet I'm acing everything Mr. Silvestri's tossing my way. In reality, it's that moment before lunch in Russian Novels when the bell rings and I'm melting in my seat from how relaxing your hands feel against the back of my neck, those fingers of yours through my hair comparable to the hairbrush I use every morning, slowly easing your way from beneath the rope of my necklace. You pull them away to gather your books, but before you do, you get my attention by saying my full name aloud. Your sweet voice has my undivided attention, and as everyone is distracted with the business of getting to lunch, you bring your mouth close to my ear, to whisper a secret. I have no idea what's about to be said, but I figure something mundane.
 
"Par?" You question, as I'm focused on nothing uncouth. "Pink and pink, I match today, promise." You drift away, turn to face me, and smile. "Hungry?" you ask, reminding me of our next destination of the dining hall. Your whisper distracts me from the thought of food; instead focusing on mentally undressing you and sating that hunger in a way not appropriate for a Chilton setting. You're lucky that I have this reserved persona to me, the kind that doesn't take those words and try to act in the middle of a classroom to confirm that indeed, you did match, and that I'm starved for your touch. Still I lie to Mother, go on about economics, how much I want to ace the upcoming exam he's been hinting on giving out, while the same time getting that rush in my head that you took what seemed like an awful and hidden flirt on my end the day before, then turned the tables on me to let me know that what I'd say to you would eventually come back to haunt me.
 
I took that little moment of the day to bed with me last night, and thought about it as I drifted off, smiling my way to sleep. It was such a little and inconsequential moment in that entire day, along with the day before when I noted you weren't matching. But you're like me Rory, you notice the little things. You see how I am, and you've started this relationship slow and steady, like a turtle. Yet you tantalize. I'm happy I do that to you too, that this longing for me built up so much, that whatever we have now, it's strong and we can't deny it to each other anymore.
 
Thank you for thinking of me like that, no matter if it was unconscious in sleep or not. I might not be the most self-confident girl in the room (and you can tell), but right now I feel like the most revered and respected, by you.
 
It takes two pages and seven paragraphs to respond to what she thought of my dream, but whether she took an entire notebook to do that or just those first two sentences in her first paragraph, how she thinks about me, and how that moment at the end of Russian Novels, something rash and unexpected, led her day to go from draggy and regular, to something good. Honest, the matching thing just came to me out of the blue, I was just trying to keep her on her toes. It makes me smile to think that seven little words define a day like that.
 
I look at her; she's shaking a cramp out of her left hand, gripping the cool metal faucet next to her that pours into the basin next to her that's used for experiments to cool the pain down. Her eyes look into mine, and there's a slight smile, unnoticed by anyone else. I link my index finger with hers, a gesture hidden by the messenger bag in front of us to everyone else.
 
We both feel everything has been said, and that we can talk more later on. I write down one last line in my notebook to close the conversation, and state how I feel about her description simply.
 
Thank you for warming up to me hon. I knew one day you'd finally give up on the 'school a living hell' line of thinking; I wore you down, didn't I?
 
She gives me a dirty look, and ends all talk with her own comeback.
 
I'm still making it hell as we speak; right now you just want to flee to the bathroom, don't you?
 
Paris smirked, and I shook my head, knowing she was teasing, but at the same time, knew my truth. The particle board that made up the seat beneath me was magnifying the 'itch' that's now become my new constant companion. After this hot 'instant letter' session, all I did want to do was take this to the broom closet Louise-style.
 
I pushed the feeling down though, and both of us brought our attention back to where it should've been, the lesson being presented. I'm just happy to have a push to go to school everyday now besides the 'I want to get into Harvard' reason that brought me here in the first place. Paris is such a good girlfriend, and to get to know this hidden and secret side of her, it's something I'm starting really treasure and hold close to my heart. There's nothing better than being next to the one you like, and asserting that away from the wary eyes of the gossip circle.
 
What I find funny is that we did this in Life Sciences class, which can also be called biology. We certainly learned a little about each other's biology today...
 
And that joke thudded. Fine, done with the class subject cracks, they're not funny, you can stop with that cringing look already, I see it on your face! Geeze, you try to lighten the mood...

---

The student government meeting later in the day was pretty good. Most of the students were able to air their business, and seemed to notice that Paris lended more of an open ear than she had in the past. I like seeing her happier and less tight when it comes to government business. With my relaxing techniques and the tension between us gone, Paris and I had one of our best meetings yet, and everyone was able to accept the higher bid when she told them "They give our lives, even if we might disagree with the views the government has for military action. $500 out of the student treasury surely isn't a strain on fundraising, and keeping our dance loyalties at the Armory rather than paying so much extra for a fancy hotel name on a dance card is better in the end. Hotels can get another event in place of ours; the military deserves the extra support." The only two to nay the vote were of course Lemon and Francie, so the 10-2 vote to keep the Winter Formal at the Armory was pretty much unanimous. We also put on the docket next week the move to keep the Valentine's Day dance there, much to that evil red-head's dismay.
 
She made sure to let me know that when she confronted me in the bathroom after the meeting adjourned, backing me into a corner of the room. "I thought you were going to vote for the Capitol Hilton," she nagged at me in a harsh voice.
 
I shook my head at her. "It's tradition to have it in the Armory, and the statistics from the other schools in the area that use the Hilton for their dances show lax supervision of the kids and the hotel taking advantage of kids there by hiking up room prices if they don't feel like going home. Francie, the graphs don't lie, the Armory is a better location for the students than going through downtown Hartford traffic."
 
"Traditions can be changed," she spat back. "Frankly, I'd rather have prestige than another boring dance."
 
"Spirit Club puts a lot into the decorations at the Formal in the Armory, much more than paid union help at a hotel. There isn't a need to move the Formal, so just don't." I wasn't getting anywhere with Francie, but it was worth a shot.
 
"If I wanted gay decorations I'd recruit someone on Christopher Street to help me out." I stood frozen as what should've been unconnected to the club Francie was trying to eradicate was brought into this fight we were having. "I don't care if a fucking Picasso is in that Spirit Club, a few of them are Rainbow Triangles and they don't belong in that club. The last place I'd want to be is hanging a balloon line on a ladder with some lezbo looking up my skirt!"
 
Wow, I was speechless. Somehow, Francine Jarvis has managed to make an even more homophobic slur than the last time she met with me. Just cold shock that she'd describe someone like me in such a hateful manner. No wonder Paris warned me it was going to be tough for both of us to come out at Chilton, with girls like her on top, no boy or girl would want to suffer at the hands of the populars like Francie.
 
"That was uncalled for!" I said firmly. "They help the school, and they do more good than they ever will harm."
 
"There is nothing about them that is good. They're abominations against God, and just because they can't get their sad little selves laid from the opposite sex in this school doesn't mean they should screw each other's ugly little bodies out of desperation."
 
Never had I found myself more pissed off at a single individual than at that exact moment. Jarvis had her teeth bared in a wide smile, her stance defensive, words like cutting knives. I thanked God no one was around to hear these hateful words, as they stirred something inside that I couldn't help; content for this right-wing bitch coasting by on Daddy's political clout as a top man in the Legislature and bitter because even he couldn't save her precious Puffs.
 
"Funny how that also describes you, minus the girl interest," I responded snidely. "You're like the Ann Coulter of this school; you look cute, but no guy wants to share a bed with you because of what comes out of that hateful mouth of yours." If she was going to keep up with these barbs against the Rainbow Triangles, she was going to find herself with a black eye pretty soon.
 
"Like your words have any effect on me, Virgin." Scowling, she slid her bag on her shoulder and started out of the bathroom. "You will keep me happy Gilmore, count on that. If you don't change your vote in the next month when I bring up the elimination of Fag Club, count on these last five months of Chilton to be trying on your mental state thanks to my girls. Just watch, I have conduits into the gossip circle, and when December 18th rolls around, you'll see a 12-0 vote against RTS. You can't deny the will of the people, and when my girls give details of what's what with that club to the general student population, there will be no choice but to vote yes to deny funding." Then just to get in one last shot, she blew a bubble of gum and snapped it real loud towards my ear. "Hope you have a nice evening, Gilm-whore." She walked out the bathroom with stiff resounding steps, leaving me yet another tape of hateful barbs, more anger at her now that I am in an actual same-sex relationship, and a determination to figure out how to save RTS without Paris and I being exposed before we were ready.
 
It's the start of something I'd love to tell someone about, but I can't. I don't want Paris to look at me in a hateful way again, and being in this arrangement to give Francie an occasional yea vote was hard enough. To see her, as just a girl plotting to destroy a student group made me feel like I was in a tangled string, finding it tough to get out. I stood by the sink with two fingers to my temples, feeling stressed at this attack on my new lifestyle. I just wanted to love Paris, but I never expected Francie to make things tough on us by eliminating a social club.
 
"Fuck," I mumbled into the mirror. I wasn't giving up on Par, and I certainly wasn't ready to let RTS be remembered only in the Aurora on page 237, above a picture of the Arbor Club. I have to figure out a way to keep them alive, not only for this year, but for future generations, so the new leader of Francie's guild won't be able to deny funding to them, no matter what they did.
 
Francie didn't get Paris, nor I at that Puffs initiation; I'll be damned if she's going to take out her inconsequential feud with both of us out on 27 kids who only mean to help and raise awareness, not disgust fellow students. Hopefully by the time my class of 2003 graduates in June, the tables will turn and Francie will be the one facing the music. Because I could never forgive myself if I was able to save them but could do nothing but stand by the sidelines as cruel parliamentary action undid everything good they ever did. Paris wouldn't vote no uninfluenced, I know that. But she would change her mind if there was force or a groundswell from the students to oppose funding, that or she was afraid of controversy, so she would have to quell it with a yes vote.
 
Student government is exhausting and wearing at times, but I'd rather be fighting at Paris' side to further her harmless agenda than having to see Francie get her way and leave everyone who doesn't agree with her out in the shadows. And without becoming Par's vice president, the events of the summer that brought me towards realizing my feelings for her would have never happened.
 
I left the bathroom, putting behind the drama of politics as usual until the next week. My feeling is that Francie picked December 18th to make a statement and discredit our government before the winter recess, and with the holidays approaching the religious feelings would influence the vote towards her. Hopefully this next month would give me time to figure things out.
 
I'm sitting at Luke's right now across from my mother, trying to figure out where I want things to go with Paris from here. Today was a great day for me, coming up with better ways for the both of us to flirt in such a secret way. Mom keeps asking why I overslept, but there's no damned way she's ever going to learn the truth from me about that! She keeps joking about me being Sleeping Beauty, but I'm barely listening as I glide a fry across a smooth red pool of ketchup, thinking again about how much I hate the distance between North Hartford and Stars Hollow. I don't want to think about Paris right now, I just want to relax and unwind from my stressful school day. But my memory just wants to replay the events over and over again.
 
It was so much easier when Dean was my boyfriend, where the temptation was killed because of the separate towns we had schools in, and the fact we came together afterschool at the bus stop. My world has been turned upside down though; my lover is there all through school, but nowhere to be found after 5:30pm except under her screenname PGellar167 or at (860) 246-0808. God, I want to see her so much more, and I want us away from the eyes and ears of the region, that way I can finally show off my uninhibited feelings for her without having to peek over her shoulder every kiss to make sure a wary eye isn't in on our scene.
 
I want to go out on a real date with her. I don't care where, I don't care when, and I could care less if it was just to a Barnes and Noble. I just want to be out with Paris, be able to hold her hand without having to use a prop to hide it. I want her to be all chivalrous and caring, pulling out my chair and telling me 'the world is your oyster Gilmore, pick what you want from the menu'. Not that I'm discounting the dance at all, that's how we finally took the tentative steps towards this to begin with. Some way, I want Paris to take me out on a night on the town without any repercussions. Also, without boundaries or time constraints; every time I think of her now I can't help but feel a swoon in my heart at a mere mention of her name, or even one little thought. I go past Connecticut Public Television and see the familiar outline of the Eiffel Tower during a travelogue program. I numb, and I drop the remote. dazedly, I watch the show with eyes glazed over and Sunday afternoon rushing through my mind again. I can't help the dry mouth and smile I get when someone mentions her, be it Jess or Mom.
 
"Rory? Hon?" My mom waves her hand in front of my face to rouse me back into the real world. "You OK there? You've been dipping that fry over a minute at least."
 
I look down at my plate; my finger is dripping with ketchup, along with the ruined potato. Dang it, I can't eat that now. I drop the fry and get out a napkin to wipe my fingertips.
 
"Oh, uh, I'm sorry." I shake my head and blot the ketchup off my fingers.
 
"Are you alright there, you seem lost in thought. Did you get a bad grade today?" My mom's concern is definitely noted and understandable since my focus is less on school lately. I shake my head and reassure her with another white lie.
 
"I'm alright Mom, just a slow and wearing day that would never end." Perfect cover Ror. "Just trying to figure out in my mind what's important for midterms and what isn't." That seems to satisfy her and she goes back to her daily game of bugging and poking Luke as I keep thinking here about my dating situation.
 
Sure it's going to be awkward if we get to the first date, what one isn't? My lead-off line in asking Dean for a date to the Winter Formal was about chicken and Paris was toting a deck of index cards for Tristan, so we're both certifiable when it comes to this kind of thing. My dates usually consisted of movies at the bookshop, while Paris had to make do with dull parties and awful conversation. Certainly both of us have very little experience with the 'so what's this and this like' kind of small talk that you use dates for in order to make sure you're compatible and a perfect match.
 
I think that's OK though. Awkwardness is a good way to keep us both at ease, and since we're together the pressure is less on things like kissing or flirting through the night. I don't know if it's going to be me or Paris fielding the first ask-out, but whoever does it between the both of us, we're going to have a unique first date. There's the slight possibility that the dating world might not be for us and we'll realize that it might not work between us. If it doesn't, I'll deal with it through humility. But I see that happening only in terms of fractions of a percentage point. There's a connection here between the both of us, and we have to do our share in taking it from a tenuous bond wrapped around like a loaf of bread's twist tie, into a ship's anchor chain.
 
With that, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket to notify me of a text message. I take it from my watch pocket, and read the screen to see what was sent. I smile when I read who sent it to me, and what's contained.
 
Ror,
 
Good day today,
Thur should be even better.
Talked to Mother,
she'll be gone till 9 tomorrow night...meeting.
Manor study session; Y/N?
 
Par
 
I smile a little; she's inviting me to study at the Manor tomorrow so we can spend some time alone together under the cover of a study session. Knowing Paris it will be a study session, but with those open five hours and no Franklin or government meetings in sight, there's plenty of time for couple-ish things for us to do.
 
"Mom," I ask. "Paris says I should come over and we should study together at her house tomorrow night." I hide my excitement behind the weary 'I'd rather be watching drywall mud settle' voice that used to define how I felt about time spent with Paris outside of Chilton. "Can I go over there once we get out of Chilton?"
 
"Knock yourself out kiddo, I can do a girl's night with Sookie then." She smiles at me, seeming to be happy with the closeness I'm having with Par. "Just as long as you check in at seven."
 
"No problem," I say as I message Paris back immediately, internally giddy.
 
Par,
 
Y to that, Mom said it was cool.
Agreed on good day, I miss you a lot.
Hope you have a good rest of the night.
 
Later,
Ror
 
I send the reply, happy I have an excuse to have some time with her alone. I think that the conversation is over, but Paris sends one last missive before I put away my cell phone.
 
Ror,
 
Miss you too, a lot. Rt 91
feels like US1 from ME to FL without you here.
 
A million miles, but I feel so close to you despite.
 
Par
 
I hold back my emotions reading her truncated text, which no one else who doesn't have extensive knowledge of America's highway system would understand. Thirty minutes between us, but with everything between us, I might as well be in Key West, Florida, with her unhappy in Fort Kent, Maine.
 
There's no way I ever felt this way with Dean, even when he was writing to me in Washington from Winnetka. Him I could handle missing with how our relationship was, but this...so much different. I put away my phone, the internal clock in my head setting an alarm for 3:35pm and the half-hour after that when Paris and I are in the cavernous surroundings of Gellar Manor with only her nanny and a few other staff members with their eyes on us.
 
No one near her room, a second floor bedroom, Mrs. Gellar at a meeting...oh dear, something tells me that tomorrow is going to be very interesting. I sense that any allusions to innocent studying will be gone by the time I call Mom to check in tomorrow...

---

Paris' POV, Thursday, 8:45pm

I love the taste of forty-eight year-old wine so much. The flavors, the sugars, the way the red alcohol swirls within the glass and the way it goes from your mouth and straight to the pleasure center of your brain as the liquid slides down your throat. It's not as sweet as I expected it to be, but after two and a half glasses of this $1,725 bottle of Petrus Merlot, it's natural to feel a nice light feeling from all the fermentation it's gone through, along with the intoxicants flowing through my bloodstream. I mean to survive the Cold War, the rise and fall of the USSR, the suburbanization of American and survive several economic growth periods and not be opened, that's something.
 
What it's celebrating however, may have never been fathomed by the person who corked the bottle in Bordeaux all those years ago, much less accepted back then. They probably also didn't expect that the wine would be drunk by two girls mad for each other, or that it would end up in the end as my liquid courage to take the next step in this relationship.
 
I remember bringing the bottle out of the mini-fridge I keep drinks in, and wine glasses out of my desk after I changed out of my uniform and into a loose sweatshirt with relaxed jeans. Rory sat on the bed wondering what the significance of it was, and how it seemed to be an emblem of our love/hate relationship. I lent her the bottle to look at, and her eyes widened as she took in all that the wine represented.
 
"I stole that bottle from the wine cellar ten months ago, almost to this day," I told her. "After you had to get to know Sherrie I wasn't sure that I would ever be able to open it, but I didn't bring it back downstairs because I figured that there's always a flicker of hope out there in anything." I slid next to her in my bed, the large cloud of a mattress I slept on for years for the first time seeming small, intimate, and most of all, perfect.
 
"I'd keep looking at it each time I thought about you, and I even brought it with me to Washington, where I hid it in the space between the top of my mattress and the headboard. It's not the recommended way to store it by any means, but just having it with me gave me that slight bit of hope that someday, you would reciprocate."
 
"So this," she mumbled, pointing at the label, "this wine kept you from shying away from your feelings?" I nodded yes, my hand twined in hers. "And you never thought of opening it at all, you never gave up hope."
 
"I may have thought it was fruitless at times Ror, but I was never going to give up." I brought down my voice a little. "This bottle wouldn't be opened until the day we had each other, and now, it's finally going to be sipped from." I rose up in the bed, taking back the bottle from Rory and reaching for the corkscrew next to my alarm clock and the Supreme Court picture, which Rory was touched to see at my bedside. "Do you want any?"
 
She thought for a moment, afraid of the trouble she was going to get in, and the uncertain fear that she might do something she might regret. "Sharon won't miss this bottle? What about getting home?"
 
"Trust me when I say she couldn't tell the difference between this and Two Buck Chuck with her drunken view of the world; she probably thinks she chugged it down months and months ago." I then explained the alternative. "I can have Henrico drive you home, feign tiredness to stay off the road. Any impairment on the road is unacceptable."
 
"Fine with me," she mumbled. "It looks like a very nice bottle, and I wouldn't want it to go to waste after all this time you've kept it." I uncorked the bottle in front of her and had her hand me one of the glasses to pour it in. We were far from heavy drinkers, but she didn't seem to mind that I poured it up to 3/4 of the way up the glass for both of us as we sat next to each other on the bed, looking at not only each other, but the liquid.
 
"You want to toast?" she asked. "It's only natural in a situation like this."
 
"That it is." I smiled, and we brought the glasses back in order to solidify the toast with a hard clanking of the glasses together. "To us, and many, many more of these times, together. Another goodbye to the past, and hello to this future." The foreshadowing to a week ago, when Rory dropped the bracelet into the river, was obvious in what I said, as I intended.
 
Her eyes met mine mid-stream. "To us." Our glasses met at the middle, and then to symbolize the togetherness, I brought my glass to her mouth for her to sip, and my mouth to her glass as our arms crossed together and we sipped from the glasses slowly, our gazes locked in and unwavering. The taste was a little bitter, but that was to be expected from such an old drink. After a little bit of swilling around my mouth the full body of flavor came out, and both of us noted how wonderful it was that this moment could finally happen.
 
We did study, sure; that was the exact reason I needed Rory there with me to begin with. The conversation flowed as heavy as the open bottle of wine however, and within an hour, all academic allusions that we were having all but disappeared when the second glasses for each of us were gone, leaving both of us just a little soused up but not too hard. Both of us were still coherent and aware, enough that Rory remembered to call Lorelai and check in with her at seven o'clock, just like she asked.
 
Rory seemed to talk about everything her mind could catch, going from a Lonely Planet-like dream travelogue of the Alps region, over to her latest reads, to the latest news and her opinions on things, including her opposition of Iraqi war action without hard picture proof. Her opinion matched mine so well, and though I was ready to fight her vocally with a drunk voice, there was no need to. My mind, despite its muddled state managed to come up with many things to talk about; I even felt comfortable telling her about my family and confiding in her how much I hoped that Mohegan Man's yacht would be eaten by a shark in the waters off San Diego. Boy did that receive a loud yelp from Rory!
 
"I don't think sharks like chickens from the sea!" She pounded on the bed. "What does your mom see in him?"
 
"About nine inches, and eight numbers separated into groups of three with a dollar sign on the end," I commented, my usual reserved filter of conversation removed in the company of my girlfriend. "She has a history of bad dating choices, and this would be her fifth this year."
 
"He looks like a white-collar fucking Captain Ron," Rory noted. "Has he done the whole 'I want to be your friend honey' spiel on you yet?"
 
I laughed. "If he does I'll introduce him to my friend Mr. Taser, God bless money and power." She knew I was serious about owning a stun gun, which I don't carry unless I'm in the bad part of a city. Martial arts come in handy better in lighter situations and less crime-ridden portions of the world. "I've gotten used to the fact that I'll hate anyone my mom brings home, and if she wants to fuck up her life, go on right ahead."
 
"That-that is good thinking." The wine was dizzying, and her blue eyes were looking straight into mine as we lay in bed at each other's sides. "To hell with your mom, I hope she's having a blast at Lame-O Club or wherever she is."
 
I shook my head towards her. "OK, you're an awful drunk Gilmore." I smiled at her, feeling the dizzying spell of the wine myself.

About that moment I was cursing my choice of a tank top over the sweatshirt, for the body heat and blankets between us made me remove that first heavier layer of clothing. I only wore the article as underwear so I wasn't stuck wearing a bra, but my abundance of cleavage is crystal clear when I'm laying down on a bed and Rory's eyes are trailed down the line into my shirt.
 
"I'm glad I know you," she mumbled, as she brought herself closer and wrapped her arms around my waist. "I'm a little buzzed, but I think even without the alcohol talking here, you'd still look as cute as you do right now." Rory's quick change wardrobe after school consisted of track pants and one of those strange slogan shirts I don't know why are popular, but no matter since Rory looks very nice wearing the blue tee; as long as she's next to me, I could care less about dress.
 
"Thanks, I guess." It's still hard for me to take a compliment to heart, no matter how true it might be. The insecurities of being Paris Gellar are still here as they've always been, but the brunette across from me is doing her best to cut down all that I think about myself.
 
"Don't guess, know that you are Par." She rolls me onto my back and hovers above me, her legs locking with mine. "You're very pretty," she whispers softly. "Warm and soft too, like a pillow." She moves in close, brushes her hand against my forehead. "Not the wine talking either. When you wrapped around me while we slept on Sunday I felt so relaxed and calm, your arm at my side."
 
Hearing that the spoon wasn't in vain Sunday morning, I smiled. "I thought you were going to freak out, I didn't mean to wrap around so close." Her face moves closer to mine, and she nuzzles her nose against my cheek. Every hair on my arm is stiff and up from such sexually intimate contact, and her ankle against mine feels so good, even better then when I nudged her beneath the table yesterday.
 
"I didn't freak out. As a matter of fact I tried to encourage you closer."
 
"Like you are now?" I note, my voice going through caring timbres I never thought possible.
 
"Perhaps." She lines up to kiss me slowly, a couple of her right fingers twining into a belt loop on my jeans. The lilting and surprising touch so close makes me shift around a little. "What on earth would I do without that intenseness that you bring into my life, Par-Bear?" It's romantic, and somehow I'm getting used to the pet nickname she's giving for me, even though my first aural reaction is like nails on a slate to that.
 
"I'm just focused, not intense," I try to correct her as she brushes her lips at the corner of my mouth. The smell of light alcohol on our breath gets into my system, and the night is turning out so much better than planned.
 
"You do the work and have the passion that can only be done by three Chilton valedictorians, you're very intense. Not that it's a bad thing by any means..." She looked around the room and back down at me. "...especially when you look like this above me."
 
I felt myself stiffen, her compliment soothing me so much. "Thank you," I murmur softly. "For not only seeing me in this light, but staying a pest all these years, always wanting my friendship no matter what. God knows where I'd be right now if we didn't keep being pushed together by all these outside forces."
 
Her long brown hair tickles my nose, and nothing but intense crystalline blue is within my vision, Rory's cool blue eyes captivating me so much. She flushes against me, her angelic features and those freckles, now unhidden by makeup, reassuring me that going for this was the right choice. "I never wanted to lose you; what you think about me is just as high an opinion as anyone in my family's, be it Grandpa, Grandma, Lane, or my mother. What you say holds weight in my world, and I never want you to forget that."
 
She slides her hands up into my hair, and without any extra words having to be said, for the first time ever, I was able to kiss someone on my bed as she closed the distance and kissed me softly and long. I don't even know where the kiss started or ended, for my memory seems to disappear whenever Rory and I come together like that. Her mouth is so soft, her rhythm well-practiced from the two years she spent with Caveman. Not that there's any thought about her ex, I'm just glad to have someone with experience helping me into the everyday peculiarities of the American relationship.
 
I'm just lost in her for minutes and minutes, the both of us just reveling in our company. By the time we separate for modesty's sake, it's almost about 8pm, and our tops are wrinkled from all the contact and pushing we did in the bed. It's just the both of us, focusing on each other, the world a blur to the both of us besides the webstream of classical music coming from my computer so I would have another focal point for my ears besides the rustling of the blankets.
 
Rory looks at me a bit after I settle down, her eyes wide towards me, and the time to ask her is just moments away. I have the entire first date planned out, a basic romantic night out away from Hartford, and without any kind of elaborate plan. Plain and simple seems to be the way to win her over, and with the little alcohol we've had, I feel we're still both coherent enough to understand what we're getting into here.
 
"Ror?" I raise my voice and ask her to sit up. She finds herself curious, and she crossed her legs Indian-style, throwing the yarn afghan my paternal Nana made for me over her shoulders to warm up a little. "There's something I meant to ask you tonight, but I can't find the words to state them." I fumble around with the hem of my tank top.
 
"Shoot, and take your time, I'm not going anywhere." Her smile reassured me a little. I really didn't have a rehearsed 'I want to go out with you' speech, so I was just going to take it in my own comfortable way and see where it leads. I started, trying to keep calm.
 
"OK, you know I like you, right?" She nods, mentioning we wouldn't have been necking in my bed for an hour if I didn't. "Well, let's say for argument's sake that I know I want to be with you, definitely. The thing is we're still keeping everything secret, so we can't be seen anywhere in public without a wary eye catching sight of us. They're going to tell everyone and our intimacy disappears like a cloud of smoke. Same thing in Stars Hollow, that Kirk guy isn't exactly the best at keeping secrets, and he seems to be almost everywhere."
 
"Well his workload is usually five jobs, so I'm required to bump into him at least once a day."
 
"Anyways, not that this night hasn't been fun, or the last four days in school, I'm treasuring each of those days." Geeze I ramble like a madwoman, why don't I ever simplify questions? "But there's just this need inside that I want to go...go out with you. Like, date you and stuff. You know, like dinner, dancing, a movie, that kind of thing?" I felt truly nervous as I tried to close the deal with her listening intently. "What I guess I'm trying to ask is...will you go out with me tomorrow night, on a real date?"
 
I expected her to light up and be happy, say yes without much thought. Instead, she frowned a little and tried to let me down easy. "I can't, sorry. Tomorrow night--"
 
Without hesitation I interrupted her answer, trying to shield my soul from being torn apart. "I understand then, I guess we're not ready quite yet, or you're not. I mean I am, but obviously you're several steps ahead of where I'd like to be."
 
"Par--" Rory tried to speak up, so I stopped her again.
 
"Look it's fine, I guess I was never datable material to begin with." The Self-Loathing Express was leaving the station at a fast clip. "I mean I wouldn't expect you after four days to drop everything and be all 'Yes, I want to go out with you', things are going too fast."
 
"Listen, hon--" My voice was starting to raise and the burn of being turned down was starting to amplify as Rory moved to reassure me.
 
"I jumped the gun with playing with your foot yesterday, didn't I?! I knew there was something up with that, and you weren't doing anything to reciprocate!" I saw Rory become frustrated with being unable to get a word out, her brows scrunched and seemingly feeling emotional at cutting myself down. "I guess it's my fault, I shouldn't have--"
 
"PARIS!!" Rory screamed my name real loud, causing my thoughts about the ask-out to evaporate. She was still smirking at me despite the accusations I was throwing towards myself, and before I could react, she took my hand into her.
 
"Yeah?" Her stern tone killed any response from me whatsoever.
 
"If you would stop and listen to me before you jumped to conclusions, you'd remember that Friday night is never going to be a good night for me when it comes to dating. It's always going to be Friday night dinners with Grandpa and Grandma. If I don't go they don't pay for Chilton, and I don't see you anymore." Her hand slowly moved up my arm. "Now I know we really wouldn't want that, would we?"

You really need to let people finish their sentences, I immediately thought to myself, it's not always going to be the end of the world when they say no! Absolutely mortified, I felt like a bitch for jumping on Rory like that.
 
"No," I answered. "Chilton without you would be...like the Red Sox moving to Minot, North Dakota out of spite, cruel and awful to deal with. I'm sorry, I should've known there was a sane reason for you to turn me down like that."
 
"I'm not though."
 
"But you said no to dating me--"
 
Rory cleared up what she really meant. "I want to go out with you Par, I'm glad you got the guts to go through with asking me out. Just please tell me you have Saturday penned in as a rain day, because if I could, I'd get out of my Friday night dinner, but I don't see Grandma ever letting me out of it."
 
"Actually, I have plans for Saturday night, so no to that day also." I said sadly. "I have to wash my hair, repaint my room, paint my toenails, launder illegal Colombian drug money, finally make peace with Mother..." It was fun watching Rory go from forlorn to annoyed as my bullshitting and baiting her went from sane to completely impossible. She pushed towards me in the bed as my serious and staid tone of voice started to crack.
 
"Paris," she growled.
 
"I'm not done, I forgot to mention my job as a bar mitzvah entertainer, my I Got You Babe absolutely slays the boy who becomes the man of the hour..." She gets daring, pushes me down, as my smile just starts to slay her.
 
"Are you going to stop?" Rory asked, giving me that look that told me to shut up. I saw her fingers at the ready, wiggling in the air to signal that if I didn't shut up, I'd be in for a world of pleas--...I mean hurt. She wouldn't possible try that, I thought.
 
"Make me," I stated firmly. Why the hell was I suddenly so playful and coy, trying to bait Rory on. Two years ago I wouldn't have dare done anything like this, hell, a smile out of me would've been a She's All That-like challenge to anyone!
 
"You want it?" she asks firmly.
 
"To finish off the night I'm going to play Monopoly with Bill Gates, using real money and real buildings!!" I knew what she was about to do, and that triggered off yet another wave of romantic horseplay. She pushes the shirt above my stomach, shaking her head.
 
"Such a pity you didn't listen to me Gellar, for now I'm going to have to do this." She then did something none of my friends ever dared to, much less my parents at all; she tickled me!
 
The silly contact was shocking, considering the last time anyone had tickled me was my old friend Clarence's little 'doctor visit' with me so long ago. With puberty and hormones now in play however, this was a lot different than I expected. She just jumped right on top of me and played around, and I couldn't refuse her because I was too damned mindspun to even try to push her away.
 
"Stop, please...I'm sorry I mean, oh God, will you not do that Rory?" I was trying with my words to get her to stop, but the words were buffered with laughter and coughing in-between from the wonderful contact she was forcing upon me. I never thought of myself as particularly sensitive, but apparently I have plenty of nerve endings in my stomach. She kept tickling me as I tried to grab at her in an attempt to stop. All that ended up doing was give me a fistful of t-shirt I kept tugging at.
 
"Someone beneath me is very ticklish, isn't she?" she theorizes, using her free hand to ball one of mine into a fist and nullifying any attempt to use my self-defense training to get out of the situation. Though really it was weak self-defense, because I was becoming complacent to that. Her hands felt so good against my belly, no matter how reeling and foreign the feeling was.
 
"I'll never do this again if you stop right now, I promise!!" I cried out with laughter blending into my voice, to no avail. She continued, and my hand gripped at the collar of her t-shirt in an attempt to have her level off the touching. I thought that the material was strong enough to withstand what we were doing, that my strength really wasn't that much in the middle of her having a tickle battle with me.
 
The sound of a loud tear after a tightened yank, then Rory's loud "WHOA!" as I started to see more white floral print bra than blue t-shirt, showed that my wanton side had more control at that exact moment than my inhibitions. I didn't mean to tear at her clothes obviously, it was totally supposed to be innocent. I shut my eyes, ashamed in front of her to have behaved in this manner, and turned away so she wouldn't see the violent hot blush I felt my face taking on.
 
I felt like I just ruined everything, giving into what I felt and going too far with the tickle game by shredding her t-shirt into shambles. I wasn't in control of my body, but I could've thought things out better, like blocking her tickling hand instead of trying to pull at her, resulting in what happened.
 
"I'm sorry," I rushed out, still facing away from her. "I didn't mean to tear off your shirt like that. If you don't want to go on that date, trust me, I'll completely understand why, because I blew it." My stomach felt like jelly from the tickling, the top still ridden up from static cling.
 
It had to be all over, Rory was a prude and wouldn't take kindly to what I had just done, I just knew it. Never mind if it was completely accidental, that is something you don't do for quite awhile in a relationship. Say about ten years into marriage, your significant other has a mistress and you need a last-gasp spark to keep them, so you resort to tearing off shirts and underwear to be 'the aggressive one'. No doubt about it, I fucked up everything, and Rory was going to end this silly 'being gay with me' experiment after I freaked her out with this forcefulness.
 
I braced for her to tell me that we were through, for the string of rebukes and accusations that I was taking advantage of her.
 
She wraps her arms around me, and settles down against my back to envelope me in a hug, bringing down my shirt to preserve my modesty. Just when I think things are going to go bad, I realize something.
 
I can feel that shirt is off and she's just in her bra, and her mouth is tickling against my left ear. Her breath is deep and shallow, and her actions suggest she's far from angry at me. She settles her chin against my shoulder, and when I expect her to rip my head off...
 
"Well I know we're definitely on for Saturday night now, aren't we hon?" Her voice is at that same 'warm me up' purr from last week, and I feel myself stiffen when her hand rubs against my stomach. I widen my eyes, convinced this is a figment of my imagination.
 
"Saturday night?" I mumble, my voice seeming to retract into a whisper. "But I tore up your shirt, you should be mad at me Gilmore, that must've cost you a lot..."
 
She kisses the lobe of my ear, leaning closer against me. "You worry too much about my money, trust me, it's OK. That's what fooling around does, kills your inhibitions and make you do things you never expected. Just relax Par, you did nothing wrong."
 
I moaned from all this sudden comfort and the effect that it had on me, and the relief I felt that this isn't the end was immense. "So you're OK with...that?"
 
"I'm just thinking at least you get under my shirt, Dean didn't even try! C'mon, turn around, I'm not mad and I'm not mortified here."
 
She releases to let me turn around to face her, and though I shrug away at first, I bite the bullet and eventually view the efforts of what wrath I had wrought with Rory. To say I was shocked at how wild I can get with a few glasses of wine in my system along with this strong yearning for Ror was an understatement. I saw the shirt, torn and hanging from the bedpost, the frayed fabric from the collar down the middle, looking worse for the wear. I couldn't believe I did that.
 
My vision then drifted over to Rory, sitting on the other side of the bed, her eyes trained on me, her sitting position strange. I wasn't used to seeing her except for dreams without a shirt on, so to have her on my bed with just her bra on was a sight for me to behold. All that freckling, that wide path of cleavage she had between each breast, and her thin yet healthy build defining the slim curves she has, from the blades of her shoulders to her waistline, where I could see her wide bellybutton. My mouth dried up and I had no words for how beautiful she was, with her smile and her blue eyes sparkling the glare from the nightstand lamp next to her.
 
I can't help but want her more after that, telling me that my aggressiveness was a turn-on rather than something to reel back from. She beckoned me closer, asking me again what my backup plans were just in case tomorrow night fell through.
 
"I really have nothing on Saturday, I put all of my plans into Friday night." I slid a finger through my hair, thinking for a moment. "But I'm sure with a few calls I can fix everything to go out with you on Saturday night. That is...if you do still want to date me."
 
She smiled at me, and moved closer to me again. "What time should I be ready?" she asked, and I felt my heart grow a little bigger when I heard that. Also that I was there to either accept or ask for a date, I wasn't going to have an incident like that with Jamie happen to me ever again, this definitely has my full attention!
 
I feel peaceful again, the tight unease gone from Rory's acceptance. I look towards her and smile. "You told me once that a Gilmore dating rule is to always be a little late, right?" She nodded as both of us came closer again for another cuddling session. "Since we're going up to Springfield for this date, (God I love saying that word!) I'd say 5:45 theoretically, but in reality you'll be out at 6 o'clock."
 
"Um, in this case we better both be ready at six. We don't anyone to think this is a date, right?" Rory's worries were well-founded, I had to make this out to be more of a friendly outing between us than a date for appearance's sake.
 
"Think up an excuse by tomorrow afternoon then, we'll need it for Sharon and then for your mom so our stories don't conflict." I was going to use school to my romantic advantage for once. "Say, we make up something about a Franklin article on something we already know in Springfield and can do research online, and then say we decided not to do the story once we realized it wasn't compelling."
 
"The last thing I want to do is violate any journalistic standards, so that works," Rory agreed. "I'll try to build it up then. I'll mention it to Mom before dinner tomorrow night, and she'll have to let me go. You're vicious when irked after all." She looks towards the ripped shirt, then winks back at me, causing me to gasp.
 
"Rory..." I whined. "Just borrow a damn sweatshirt from my closet, I didn't mean to do that! I swear you're going to hold this over my head---"
 
"And you're right about that." She sided up against me, and I moved my hands towards her lower back, reveling in the feel of her smooth bared skin. "Delicious wine, good company, a passionate dalliance, and probably a guaranteed 98% grade, what more can a girl ask for in her partner?" She smiles and gives me a light kiss as I stare at her, feeling for once that my middle name of Eusatchia has brought me good fortune, as it's defined.
 
"Just a few more minutes with you?" I asked hopefully, the clock at 8:10 and Rory having to leave in twenty minutes so Sharon wouldn't catch her here.
 
"That can definitely can be arranged." She nuzzled her nose against mine, and drew closer, as we spent the rest of the time we had with no words between us. I'm such a damned sap for acting and feeling this way around Rory, but I can't help it, she brings out my lighter side the way she does and I don't have a problem with how I'm coming off now. I just think about her now, and my heart races as the truth races through my head.
 
You're dating Rory Gilmore, Paris. Dating her. You never thought it would happen, but she likes you in this same way. Enjoy this and don't let go, because she really is your other half. Without her, you're just half the woman, with the passion for school, but no passion for life. I'm pragmatic about how this is all going to go, but I can't deny it anymore; I can't go without Ror. She keeps me sane, and I keep her from losing her mind in turn.
 
I'm dating Rory Gilmore, I think again. I'm going to get this date right without Madeline or Louise's help, even if it kills me. Looks like Fran is giving more help when it comes to choosing an outfit to wear. Then again, this is one problem I don't mind having...

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Rory's POV, Thursday. 11:00pm

I'm going out with Paris Gellar. That's still going through my mind as I get ready for bed in a daze, after spending a night at the Manor with her that definitely outpaces any time I ever had to spend at the Forresters. Unless I brought earplugs to tune out Clara and her friend's orgasm-like screams in their room over whatever was playing on Radio Disney ("Oh my God, Aaron Carter is soooooooooooo hawt!!" she'd scream, and I can feel Lane shed a tear for the slow death of rock!), Dean and I would never make out as his house. Not that I'd want to, considering his idea of romantic atmosphere was swiping a candle from his mom's sewing room and putting it on top of his TV which was so old it couldn't even have a Pong video game system plugged or modern cable TV.
 
Paris has a much different room however, it's more tuned to be a comfortable place to be in love, despite how obsessive with academics it's dweller is. It's Spartan and plain, the antithesis of how you expect a wealthy heiress to be. Her only comfort is her bed, but that's good enough for the both of us. Just laying there in that room, sharing a bottle of wine, good conversation, and rolling around in it with her, that's all I needed. I had a fun night, and the wine she had, showing she's been hoping for this moment since February, was one of the sweetest gestures I've ever experienced, making the tiramisu of the three-month anniversary seem quaint by comparison.
 
I liked that she also took the lead in asking me out, and calmed down once I reminded her that she couldn't take me out on a Friday. Watching her push my buttons irked me as intended, and when I decided to get some revenge by engaging her in a tickle fight, she started grabbing at my t-shirt. The aggressiveness didn't surprise me; this was a battle of our wits gone physical for the first time ever, but since it was meant to be playful in nature, I was happy to go along with it all.

When she tore off my shirt as I tickled her though...something just went through me that never had before, pure desire for her. She was so apologetic about everything being the girl she is, but in truth, I didn't mind it at all, which is why I tried to flirt and keep her at ease through everything that happened after that. I could've taken offense to everything, but I thought her mannerisms and her thoughts that she had destroyed any chance at me for Saturday, it's something that keeps me aware that I'm the teacher, with her the student. I have the two years of dating experience, along with knowing what to expect. Her dates have been pretty much dull society affairs, so I have to keep that in mind, no matter how much she keeps driving me crazy in and out of school.
 
She gave one of her Harvard sweatshirts to wear home so I wouldn't have to explain my shredded shirt at all, and as her driver Henrico drove me home in the Gellar town car, I kept thinking about how the date with her on Saturday night will be. Obviously she's not going grand with her plans happening in up north in Massachusetts, which I certainly don't mind at all. I thought there was a small chance she might take me to New York, but the distance and our general unease about heading back down there alone pretty much stops that idea dead. The bus trip back up north after I visited Jess and the boys that Madeline and Louise ran away with at the Bangles concert are incidents I don't care to repeat, and two girls, during nighttime in New York? We both might as well wear 'Human ATM Machine, Please Rob Me!' t-shirts. I haven't been to Springfield all that much except for some runs to the outlet malls there with Mom, but it seems like a nice no-pressure place to have a date.
 
The guilt of lying through my teeth to Mom also is starting to heavily take root inside. When she saw that I came home with Paris' driver, she wondered what was up, so I went with what Paris said for me to tell her, that she was too tired to drive.
 
"I thought she didn't sleep," she joked, making me roll my eyes. Then she saw the sweatshirt I was wearing. "And that's definitely her sweatshirt, what happened?"
 
"I left the spare one I was going to bring over at school," I said, knowing well that it wasn't in the condition to be worn anymore. After some talking and catching up, I was finally able to get in my room, study, and get ready for bed.
 
So far, everything is a mixed bag when it comes to falling for a girl like Paris. Everything between us is passionate, but you keep looking over your shoulder to make sure that no one is watching you interact with her too closely. The hiding is awful, and both of us are ashamed that we have to hide something so right, because everyone else regards it as wrong in their eyes. I can see the pastor and the rabbi when they find out ready to condemn me for thinking this way, and all the townspeople wondering where their innocent little girl went.
 
As far as I know, I never left. The only thing happening is that I'm maturing and taking better control of things. I refuse to be complacent in my life and end up in trouble somewhere down the road because I didn't do anything with an opportunity presented to me, and took the easy way out. Some people don't see me as strong, instead their view of me is that I'm going through the motions and living out a wish fulfillment so my mother would end up with a proud life because of me, nary having to lift a finger.
 
I refuse to let them get their way. I can only think for myself in the end, no matter what is thrown my way, so I have to fight my own battles. I know going in that being Paris' girlfriend is going to be something unique. I'm inheriting into a relationship with a girl who second-guesses herself all the time if something isn't on the Harvard track, and who in the past regarded love as something she'll never have, or want. A girl who over the years has been taught to panic over an A- grade, yet has to take a verbal beating each day from her mother, who wants her to go beyond Einstein, long past Edison, no matter that the girl would probably burn out way before the point of those two geniuses.
 
Paris needs to be a normal girl, with normal worries. Without me there she goes into a tailspin and feels lost anywhere but in the glare of her LCD monitor or a good book. I need to provide her a steady peg to lean on, be the sympathetic ear to her, and let her know that no matter what, I'll always be there for her.
 
That is my determination. Saturday must go well for the both of us, it just has to. I lie in bed wearing Paris' sweatshirt, which buries me in crimson fleece, and think about her at home, hurriedly on the phone to whomever she's calling to make this date perfect, demanding the best damned customer service money can buy. She's such a perfectionist, so I hope that the waiters of South Central Massachusetts are ready for their most demanding customer ever. Just thinking about that here makes me laugh.
 
The most important thing about all of is though, is that for the first time in at least a year, I'm looking forward to going out on a date. It's not out of obligation, but the fact that we both want to do this. We have fun together, and this closeness we're starting to share is starting to manifest itself in more than a romantic way. Tonight we made out, sure, but most of the evening, we just talked about nothing in particular. Always a good sign if the person you like is also becoming your best friend.
 
Another thing I'll have to address one of these days, trying to balance out how much time I spend with Lane with that of Paris. She's been too busy with Dave and the band to really touch base with me lately, which is a relief and makes me relax a little. But once things start to settle, I have to start balancing that out, especially considering that I have no idea how Lane would feel about my being a lesbian.
 
It's a worry, I won't lie. For now though, things between Paris and I are still secret, and we're unafraid of anything that might get in our way. I hope things go well on Saturday night with her, and that maybe we can make some more progress with each other. The pace is a little faster than expected, but at least I'm finally getting somewhere with someone that I like...

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To be continued...