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Rory counts Dean’s breaths on the phone. One, two, three, and he says something. She replies back. He laughs softly, and there’s another beat before he says something again. She replies, not fully paying attention to either of them. Behind her, Paris is a flurry of activity. Rory’s eyes keep getting dragged over to her, flashes of long, blonde hair whirling across the cramped floor of their hotel room.
Dean says something again. Rory responds without thought. This is nice. She enjoys this. She enjoys sitting in the chair, listening to Dean and his slow, unwinding laugh and his unhurried words. He talks like they have all the time in the world. And Rory would like that very much, to just always be in this little hotel room, watching Paris bounce off the walls like a pinball while Dean’s soft voice brings home to her.
“My plane gets in at three,” Rory informs, flipping the pen between her fingers. She has a notebook balanced on her thigh, Dean’s name written in the corner with nothing else. Her idea was to simply write down whatever thoughts she had while talking to Dean on the phone, and instead of saying those thoughts, just write them down on the paper and then come up with something else to actually say right now.
But she can’t concentrate on Dean with Paris speculating over the rate of growth concerning stress-induced back acne. This is a legitimate concern of Paris's, and it’s hilarious, because Paris never breaks out. It’s kind of impressive, really, how smooth Paris's skin always is. Rory’s jealous, for sure.
Rory wonders if it’s worth telling Paris this, that Rory envies her. Paris is finally nearing Rory’s chair, her fitted dress changing the square-like silhouette of the Chilton uniform Rory is used to.
“My plane gets in at six,” Dean says.
Rory almost tells Paris that she looks nice, turns around in her seat to tell her that, but Paris is in a fit, throwing scraps of clothing out of her bureau and onto her bed.
“That gives me three hours to look presentable,” Rory tells Dean.
“Red, purple, green — where the hell is it?” Paris mutters wildly, and then she’s off across the room again, her hair whipping over her shoulder, the scent of strawberries-and-cream in her wake.
“Perhaps I’ll go blonde,” Rory muses and wonders, briefly, if Paris is trying to find the right panties for her date.
“I strongly request that you don’t,” Dean says.
But no, Rory realizes with a hint of disappointment. It’s just a bunch of cardigans on Paris's bed. So not her designated panty drawer, like Rory had thought. That would’ve been funnier. Weird place for cardigans, though, the top drawer of her dresser. That seems more of a closet thing, doesn’t it?
She almost says as much to Dean, but he probably wouldn’t know what she was talking about, she’d have to slow down and explain just to capture the sheer chaos that is Paris, and then it would just be weird because she’d be talking about Paris's possible underwear locations to her boyfriend in front of the said Paris. Would that be weird? What even is the proper etiquette here, because Rory would like to think she’s reached a point in both her relationship with Dean and her friendship with Paris where she can feel comfortable to talk to the former about the latter’s underwear.
Dean says something again, something warm and nice and cozy like the bed Rory misses back home, and then Paris has stopped in her mad dash.
“Hey — hey! Stop being cute! I need help here!” Rory swings around in her chair to see Paris's arms lifted above her head, sweeping her hair into a ponytail.
“I have to go,” Rory says immediately. “Paris is having a meltdown.”
“Why?” And Dean’s voice is genuinely curious, which Rory likes. She likes it when others ask about Paris. He’s a good boyfriend to ask.
“She has a date tonight,” Rory answers, biting her tongue on a very funny joke about Paris treating the idea of dating someone with the same severity as a journalist entering an active battlefield.
Oh, she can tell him that in the letter!
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Paris scolds behind Rory.
Rory turns around again. Paris has her hands on her torso, her long fingers curving over her hips.
“How do you know he sounded surprised?” Rory asks, because there’s no way she can overhear soft-spoken Dean over the cacophony of panic in her mind. Or maybe she can. She’s Paris, after all. She’s always ahead.
“Because I’m a genius, Rory,” Paris retorts, standing in the middle of their room with her hair down again. Now that she’s closer to the light, Rory can make out the faintest tinge of red in her locks. Paris, a strawberry blonde. Who would have thought?
Paris drops her arms with a loud clap against her legs. “I have deep and powerful clairvoyant abilities,” she continues, nodding her head rapidly so that her hair falls over her shoulders, framing the delicate silver necklace above her breast. But her eyes are fierce and irritated, and Rory remembers that despite the bliss granted earlier by her debate victory, Paris has a habit of talking to you like you’re a very stupid child when she’s snapped. Which is the norm for Paris, honestly, with her recent bout of sanity being the true cause for concern.
“Oh, boy,” Rory says, more because well-timed condescension works best to quell Paris's rising venom than out of real dread.
“For example!” Paris commences, “I can instantly deduce that when someone hears the name, ‘Paris,’ in the same sentence with the word, ‘date’ — jaws will drop. Confused looks will cover faces. Words like, ‘How?’ and ‘Why?’ and ‘Quick, Bob, get the children in the minivan because the world is obviously coming to an end’ will immediately fly out of people’s mouths!”
Dean’s steady breaths have all but been drowned out by the increasingly loud and hurried words spilling out of Paris. “I have to go,” Rory repeats.
“You sure it’s safe?” Dean asks, and it’s a joke, Rory thinks, but it reminds her of Jess and how everyone thinks she’s in danger from standing too close to passionate people. Like they’re radiating life and she might catch it.
“I’ll be fine,” Rory answers. “I’ll see you Friday.”
“See you Friday. I love you.”
Paris hits the desk or something and when Rory looks over, her hair has gotten somehow crazier in the last minute and her hair face is red in anger. “That’s it! I’m shaving my head!” she declares.
Something like panic, maybe some shared psychosis thing from Prolonged Paris Exposure, strikes Rory’s heart and she leaps from her seat, throwing Dean a quick “gotta go” before hanging up and covering the distance between them.
“Okay, Paris,” Rory starts out firmly, and then consciously softens her voice, “you have got to calm down. ”
Paris is busying herself with trying to tie a ponytail so punishingly tight that it would put 13th-century Flagellants to shame. “I had a black sweater and now it’s gone,” Paris rushes out, and Rory wishes she could temporarily be inside Paris's head just to make sure that Paris is aware that no lives are at stake over her wardrobe for a date she couldn’t be bothered to stop stuffing her face with a sandwich for when accepting.
“I’m not just talking about right now. In general, you need to calm down.” Rory does her best to inject some authority in her voice. Maybe like their teacher. Max — Mr. Medina, Rory corrects herself — was always good at getting Paris to show up with his magically “we come in peace, Paris Geller” voice.
No such luck here, unfortunately, Rory’s powers to calm remain quite unmagical.
“He’s almost here!” Paris insists, having finally wrangled her hair into submission. “I’m not dressed, my makeup’s not done, and I haven’t gone through the Zagat yet to pick a restaurant!”
Rory has to give it to her, that’s a lot to do in a very short amount of time. This may be one of those rare moments where Paris is genuinely underprepared and not just indiscriminately anxious. Although still, she could win awards for the sheer height of this mountain she’s managed to build from one humble molehill.
“Why don’t you just let him pick out the restaurant?” This is the easiest problem to fix. And besides, he asked her out, he should have to know. The asker-outer is the one responsible for the first date itinerary.
Unfortunately, Paris's brows only crumple further down her nose, which Rory has the passing thought is quite straight and elegant. What is Paris, a prize horse? Who likes noses? Should Rory be thinking about noses more, if this is going to be a thing for her?
“What if he doesn’t have a Zagat?” Paris asks, and Rory is almost certain he doesn’t have one because Rory wasn’t aware of the critical existence of the Zagat until her and Paris shacked up together. Or, no, that’s the wrong phrase. That’s something grandma would say about a couple she didn’t like.
“Well then, he’ll wing it.”
Cohabiting? Yikes. Roomed? Yeah, that’s what it is. Bunked. Even better. She wishes her mom were here to discuss this terminology with.
“‘Wing it’?” Paris demands. Rory nods, and this sets Paris off. Damn. “How come other girls get planned out dinners?” she asks, and Rory would point out that she may actually be getting a planned-out dinner, that Rory has no idea Jamie’s degree of Zagatness or general knowledge of the city they’ve been in for months, but there is no stopping a speeding train.
“Roses, candy, rose petals thrown on the floor — and I get ‘wing it’!” Paris exclaims.
Rory shoots for an optimistic smile and says, “Well, you don’t know that you’ve got ‘wing it.’” And who gets rose petals on the first date? Should Rory be getting rose petals? Probably not, she’s not really a rose petals girl, although apparently Paris is, and Rory does wish her the best in this quest for de-limbed flowers. Paris deserves them.
“No, I do, I’ve got ‘wing it,’” says Paris. She looks down at the ground then. “I can’t do this.”
“What?” Rory asks, because there’s a lot at the moment that Paris seems like she can’t do. Reading the Zagat, for example.
“Date,” is what Paris says instead, however. “I can’t date ,” she repeats, heavy weight falling on the last word. “I’m not genetically set up for it.”
And there’s the resigned self-hatred that always gets Rory to care in the end, because even though Paris isn’t much of a puppy, Rory still gets no pleasure in kicking her.
Rory’s brows pinch. Correction: she gets no pleasure in seeing Paris kick herself. That’s just wrong, after all, and totally in defiance of the checks and balances overachievers like Paris need. “Not true,” Rory gently assures, because if Paris does all the kicking, there will be none of her left when it’s Rory’s turn. How will she ever be able to put Paris back in her place if all she can think of is the time Paris cancelled her first and only date when he was right outside the door so she could cry into many different colored cardigans?
Paris leans forward with her eyes bugging out as if she can impress upon Rory, through proximity, the scientific veracity of undateable genes. “I get no pleasure out off the prospect or the preparation. I’m covered in hives. I’ve showered four times and for what? Some guy who doesn’t even have the brains to buy a Zagat so we don’t wind up in a restaurant that’s REALLY just a front for a cocaine-laundering ring?”
Paris's speech begins over-enunciated and gradually picks up speed until it’s just a slur of sounds vaguely Germanic in origin. There’s no way Rory is calming her down at this point. It’s time for action. They are now women of action. Rory rests both her palms on Paris's shoulder and pushes her down so that Paris's butt lands at the edge of her bed.
“Sit,” she orders and heads to the desk. She gathers Paris's open makeup kit while behind her, Paris rambles on.
“It’s a dare. He was dared to take me out.” And Paris's tone implies she thinks she’s onto something. “I bet Trent Lott was behind this.”
Rory sits down on the small bed beside Paris. “Trent Lott did not dare Jamie to take you out,” Rory says without inflection, having now acquired a solution to implement that doesn’t require cycling through tones until she finds the Magical Medina one that compels Paris to hold all her questions till the end.
When Rory twists around, eyeshadow and brush in hand, Paris is fully turned into her, legs crossed and hands on the small space between their laps.
“Close,” Rory instructs, and Paris does without argument, an instant flutter of eyes. On command, her face smooths out, making herself a canvas for Rory. And Rory, for her part, doesn’t linger in the scant air between their faces, doesn’t think about how she never imagined Paris would trust her enough with her face or do something just because Rory said to.
Rory chooses a light lavender color to tie the pink roses of her dress with the black lace lining her shoulders and chest.
“Jamie likes you, and he asked you out because he likes you. Now look up.”
Again, just like that, Paris's eyes flutter open to stare at the ceiling. They’re a deep, dark brown that Jamie might even find soulful. Rory would call them intense. She adds a hint of eyeshadow to the corners of Paris's eyes, not for any reason in particular, as she’s going so light you can barely see it. But she likes the effect anyway, she thinks, because Paris's eyes do look pretty, upturned and blown wide and not staring Rory down but looking where she tells her to.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go. I mean, what if I fall for him and he doesn’t like me?”
“Then you’ll find someone else,” Rory says simply, because it’s true. Paris could leave her date tonight and find someone within the hour. She’s beautiful in a way she’s not at Chilton. If Tristan had seen Paris like this, in this rosy dress that brings out the soft blush of her skin, that dips low so you can see the wild rise and fall of her breaths — well, maybe Jamie wouldn’t have had the chance to. So it’s for the best that Paris is in her and Rory’s room smelling of strawberries and cream for the first time, and not somewhere else before they had been.
Not quite friends.
Paris's voice is quiet now and a little tremulous. “But what if there is no one else?”
Rory doesn’t think that’s a terrible option. She sets the eyeshadow down. “Then you’ll buy some cats,” she answers, grinning, because Paris brings out the cruelty in her.
This is evidently not the right answer, though, because Paris's breath hitches and her next sentence is more forceful. “I wish knew if he was right for me, you know? So I don’t — put myself through all of this for nothing? I mean, women fall for men who are wrong for them all of the time, and then they get sidetracked from their goals.”
Rory concentrates on getting the bronzer onto the puffball and does not think about the day of her mom’s college graduation, or how Rory sat on a bus for hours thinking of nothing but how hard her mom had worked for this after everything with dad in high school, and whether Louise was actually going to send her the notes she had missed from cutting school to be with the boy her mom hated.
“They give up careers and become alcoholics,” Paris continues, “and — if you’re Sunny von Bulow — wake up in a coma, completely incapable of stopping Glenn Close from playing you in a movie.”
Rory determinedly listens to none of this, merely brushes Paris's high cheekbones with a layer of bronzer that transforms Paris in seconds from the primrose princess she had dressed herself as and into something much older and dangerous.
Rory’s eyes safely navigate away from Paris's face to her shoulders, near where her long ponytail whispers at her neck. When Paris stops talking, Rory announces, “I think you should wear your hair down,” and stands up to correct this.
“How do know if a guy’s right for you?” Paris asks. Rory already has her fingers up, slowly working their way into the elastic so she doesn’t accidentally pull too hard.
“You just have to feel it,” Rory says and hopes she comes off more confident than she is. Paris's hair falls out effortlessly once she finds the right looseness, and it pours through Rory’s fingers like satin.
“All I feel is my back breaking out,” Paris says miserably.
Rory runs her fingers through the tresses of blonde hair, separating them into thirds and combing through them. “You’ll know, okay? You just have to let it happen.” Rory drapes some of Paris's hair over her shoulder, letting the waves cascade down her the expanse of warm skin exposed by the low neckline.
She parts more of Paris's hair, arranging the new section so it comes down her other shoulder. “And then, probably when you’re not looking, you’ll find someone who... complements you,” Rory settles on.
Paris does not sound sold, though. “Meaning?”
Rory allows herself to play a few seconds more with Paris's hair before retrieving the brush. “Someone who likes what you like, or listens to the same music,” she explains, beginning the brush at the crown of Paris's head and following through to the ends. “Or likes to trash the same movies,” she adds, because now Reversal of Fortune is on her mind and it was somehow both audacious and popcorn-binge-inducing levels of boring.
“Someone compatible,” Rory concludes. But then she remembers Dean, Dean who likes every book Rory likes, who Rory hadn’t kissed like her heart was in his mouth that day at Sookie’s wedding. She adds, “But not so compatible that they’re boring.”
“Someone who’s compatible but not compatible,” Paris says slowly, like it’s a math problem. And maybe it is to Paris, who tends to look at the world like it’s a miscalculation she can’t figure out or a test she didn’t study for.
But Paris looks so human now, made of pinks and golds, lace and satin. Skin and breath. “Yeah, kind of,” Rory answers. She fancies herself a bit of a teacher at the moment, though she never would’ve pictured Paris a willing student. It’s a nice thought, Rory having a hand in softening Paris.
She suddenly wants to see Paris's face, just to know if there’s something different about it. She comes around the bed. “I mean, you respect each other’s opinions and you can laugh at the same jokes,” she explains, brushing her fingers through Paris's hair. She does look softer, Rory thinks, and it’s almost staggering to realize that she’s petting Paris Geller’s hair — and Paris isn’t growling or trying to bite Rory’s arm off.
Hot and cold, this girl, Rory muses, this maybe-friend who sabotages her every move at The Franklin then shows up at her house with stress-red eyes needing a study buddy. Who dresses up like Romeo then forgets the kiss.
Rory slides the brush through Paris's hair, pays attention to the way the gold shines in the dim light of their room, how it brushes against her rosy skin. “But I don’t know, there’s just something about not quite knowing what the other person’s going to do at all times,” she admits. “It’s just really — exciting. ”
When Rory looks at Paris, though, Paris is smiling. Grinning, actually, with her brown eyes lit up in some emotion Rory thinks she’s seen before but somewhere else, not here, never between them.
Rory drops her hands from Paris's hair and steps back. She feels like she’s walked too far off in an unfamiliar place and needs to retrace her steps. “Look, just have a good time,” she says, waving the hairbrush before whirling around to the desk. “You’ll figure it out.”
There’s a black jacket draped over the chair near it, flowers embroidered across the fabric. Perfect. Rory grabs it.
“Yeah, well, I hope I figure it out fast,” Paris says, sounding a lot more glum now than she had seemed just seconds prior. “Before I throw up.” She’s smoothing the wrinkles in her dress out, hands gliding down her thighs. But her eyes are on the floor.
Rory helps her into the jacket before Paris can spiral into her next mood. Whatever it is, Rory thinks she might have caught it. Maybe her mom was right about “empaths” and “sharing people’s energy.” It would stand to reason Rory would feel so off from Paris. Paris has a lot of energy all the time . She’s all over the place, and she's been all over the place Rory lives in for the past three months.
A knock sounds at the door. Paris's head snaps up like an alarmed gazelle on the Nature channel. “That’s him,” she says, resignation mixed with a touch of dread.
Rory clasps her hands together. “Turn around?” she requests.
Paris obliges, straightening her jacket as she faces Rory. Rory envisions Jamie opening the door and seeing her. She wonders how Paris will look to him, if he’ll think she’s pretty, if he’ll not know quite what to make of her standing like this — in smooth satin, with lavender eyelids.
“Well?” Paris prods.
Rory works her jaw. “Perfect.”
Paris's brown eyes are imploring, almost puppyish. “Promise?” she asks, like Rory might not actually find Paris beautiful. Like it’s important Rory does.
“Swear,” Rory says as solemnly as possible.
“Thanks,” says Paris. There’s a moment where Paris looks so impossibly soft and open that Rory feels she’s stepped into another world. She almost steps forward, too, before the door apparently closes because Paris suddenly orders, “Now get in the closet.”
Rory’s heart freezes in her chest while her mind hurriedly rewinds the conversation, checking for errors, slips, any evidence that maybe she’s gone too far, said too much when she should’ve stayed quiet. “What?”
“If he comes in here and sees you, he won’t want to date me anymore.”
“Paris, that’s crazy. He’s seen me. He’s seen me for weeks.”
“Yes. In conference halls, crowded lecture halls, badly lit banquet rooms with crappy food smells — not at night when it’s dating time and he’s thinking about dating and you’re standing there, looking all dateable.”
Rory’s face scrunches. She’s wearing an orange t-shirt with a giant 76 embroidered across the front. She doesn’t even know what 76 is for, she has no memory of ever even buying the shirt and is fairly certain it materialized in the wash in the same way socks disappear from the dryer. “I’m not looking dateable.”
“Please? I can’t risk it — at least if there’s nothing to compare me to, then I’ve got a fighting chance,” Paris says with a glossy, trembling lip. How long has Paris thought Rory looked dateable? Just today, with this shirt? They see each other every day, they wake up feet apart in their pajamas, and Rory doesn’t think she looks all that different now than she did this morning.
There’s another knock at the door, this one louder and longer, and any irritation Rory feels is snuffed out by the look Paris shoots her. Rory lets out a sigh and tries not to drag her feet too much, but she dutifully grabs her notebook and a flashlight on the off-chance Jamie takes his time getting out of here. “When you get home, you need to get a new therapist, because the one you have is really not working.” Then she walks towards the closet like a complete fool and lets Paris close the door on her.
Rory expects Paris to immediately answer the door with Rory out of the way, but she actually hesitates a few seconds. Rory can see her shadow through the bottom crack of the door. Paris takes a deep breath, then says, “Thanks for helping me get ready.”
For a quick second Rory should probably be ashamed of, she wishes she had messed up Paris's makeup. She wishes Paris wasn’t on the other side right now, looking perfect as she closes Rory’s door and opens Jamie’s.
“Any time,” Rory dully answers.
“Hi, ” she hears Paris say. Jamie says, “Hello,” and it’s the dumbest reply Rory can think of. Hullo. He follows up with the generic compliment, “You look very nice.” So much for exciting.
Rory has to bite back a laugh when Paris replies, “This is a really good sweater,” with astounding awkwardness.
“So, shall we get going?”
“Oh, sure, sure.”
“Do you like Italian food?”
Rory rolls her eyes in the dark, but Paris merely says, “I love Italian food.”
“Good. I’ve made a reservation at a great place. Or, at least, that’s what the Zagat guide says.”
Rory wants to set this stupid Zagat on fire. Paris nearly exhales on a dreamy “you’re perfect” to him. Rory’s heart plummets. She lets herself sink to the floor, knees pressed against the closed door, even though she can hear them leaving already.
So, she stays in the closet and opens her notebook, flashlight balanced so she can look at the pages. Dean’s name is still at the top, but all she can think to talk about is Paris. Maybe Dean would be okay with that, but maybe he wouldn’t. Talking about Paris isn’t the same as talking about Lane. And she doesn’t want to talk about Paris right now, anyway, not really. She’s annoyed with herself, because certainly a lot more has happened to her over the summer that Dean would think is cool, but all she can come up with is that time Rory convinced Paris to try street tacos with her, after some particularly crappy conference food, and Paris admitted that Rory had good instincts.
Maybe she could talk to Dean about Zagat guides. Although Jess would have more to say. And he would even point out how stupid and unnecessary they were. She moves down the page, writes Jess across a line, and beneath that, writes Tacos - Paris.
She stares at all the names on the page for a long time. Then, figuring screw it, writes beneath both columns:
Joke about Paris on the battlefield
Zagat guides - useless?
Blonde hair - y/no?
Orange t-shirts - dateable?
She knocks her head back against the wall and switches the flashlight off. “Perfect,” she says aloud. In her head, Paris asks, Promise?