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Rory was on a fricking roll. All the tables were filled except the emergency-table, and there was a queue to get a spot. Her team of top event organizers had helped her source everything from period accurate wear for the staff and hosts to non-alcoholic wine with 40’s retro labels for those who didn’t indulge, all to get the closest replication of the Hollywood Canteen on this side of Mississipi. The decorations were set, the band were on their way and the waiters and cooks were in the kitchen waiting for introductions and further instructions.
“Oh, when the band gets here, grab Jerry and get them to do a sound check,” Rory declared as she made her way through the tables to Lacey, only to realize she wasn’t there. “Lacey? Where’s my Lacey?” “Here!” the auburn-haired woman skipped towards her, folder in hand. Rory smiled and told her to keep up. “I spotted the security guard, so I filled him in,” Lacey explained. “Excellent!” Rory exclaimed. “Cross that off the list. Servers are here?” “Got ’em all waiting in the back!”
They continued through the hall, verbally checking off their to-do list as they strolled to the kitchen. Inside the cooks were already in full swing, seasoning trays, cutting vegetables and generally giving Gordon Ramsay a run for his money. Paris waited giddily by the kitchen island, fidgeting with her hands and smiling like a toddler waiting in line for a roller coaster as Rory got closer. “Rory, I clocked in.” “Cool,” Rory half-chuckled at Paris’ excitement. “They gave me this card, and it had my name on it, and I shoved it in the clock thing and it made the punchy sound and I’m officially on the job.”
“Great,” Rory nodded and walked past her to take a look at the stew, letting Paris continue her ramble on the side. “I’m gonna welcome the whole group here,” Rory explained once Paris was done with her recap of Just Shoot Me. “No problem!” Paris answered and followed Rory towards the corner where the wait staff was mingling. “Hello!” Rory said, and a few of the guys with their backs turned walked towards the others. “You must be my servers,” she began as one after another turned towards her. “I’m Rory Gilmore, I’m running this little- Marty.” “Marty.”
Rory and Paris simultaneously froze as the boy came into view behind a girl in a lavender top and grey scarf. Marty. Rory was almost surprised to recognize him after not talking for so long. Not since that night. That stupid stupid night. Marty leaned off the counter and straightened his back, towering over the girl who had hid him. Rory blinked quickly and resumed her speech. “Sorry- this little shindig.” She reaffirmed her grip on her folder and smiled: “How are all of you today?”
“Good/Great,” the wait staff replied in unison with varying levels of enthusiasm. Marty said nothing, awkwardly nodding instead. But Rory looked away from him as fast as she’d looked at him. She wasn’t here to be awkward around long-lost friends, she was here to get the event running smoothly. “You all come highly recommended by Glenda, our catering manager, so I know you’re all top notch,” Rory declared, trying to calm the possibly nervous staff just as much as herself.
She would’ve continued if it wasn’t for the intense vibrations running off Paris behind her. She threw a quick glance at her friend, who was stiff as stone – staring directly at the one person Rory was trying not to look at. “Um,” Rory stuttered. “You know- um, you should probably be standing over there with the others,” she continued in a hushed tone. Paris broke out of her trance and grinned crazily. “Oh- right! I’m one of them. Got it. Sorry.” Paris looked out at her colleagues, seemingly struggling to pick a place to stand, until she finally walked straight forward and parked herself next to a girl in a pink shirt. Rory fought tooth and nail not to audibly note the awkwardness and continued.
“So it’s going to be hard work tonight…” While she explained the gist of the evening and where to pick up outfits, Rory tried not to notice Paris having her head turned exactly 90 degrees, staring directly at a Marty who was slowly shrinking in size and leaning in the opposite direction of her. “It’s a good cause!” Rory said a little too loud, but thankfully got back their attentions. “…so let’s get changed and go do,” she finished with a slightly apologetic smile. As soon as most of the staff started moving, Rory made a beeline for the hall – partly to get on with the schedule but also for air.
He still looked like himself, Rory thought as she pretended to quadruple-check her checklist. Of course he still looks like himself, it’s only been a couple of months Rosie Bukater, she scolded herself. But she had to be fair on herself, a lot could change in just a couple of months. He could’ve gotten a bunch of tattoos. He could’ve gained weight. He could’ve died his hair all fashioncore-y. He could’ve started dating that one person none of his friends liked and become the center of a massive argument in said person’s family and gotten a consolation-internship by the person’s dad only to be told by that dad who happened to be a titan in his field that Marty didn’t have what it takes and then go steal a boat and land in jail and- oh yeah wait that was her.
Rory took a deep breath, trying to recenter herself. It was just Marty. Calm, decent, somewhat moody Marty. It made complete sense for him to be on this gig as a seasoned caterer. She knew he’d waited for this sort of crowd before. It was going to be fine. He wasn’t going to waste a good wage – and holy hell did she know that was a good wage – to start some juvenile, pointless drama. Rory didn’t have to worry about Marty. She just had to worry about herself. And the event itself. And Paris.
Crap.
-
What the ever-loving hell was Rory Gilmore doing running a D.A.R. event?
Marty couldn’t stop wondering about it as he mixed drinks. The place had become packed in no time, and the second he, Joey (his fellow bartender) and Kit (the barback) had opened the bar, the orders had poured in like the Grote Mandreke. Martinies, manhattans, wine, champagne, whiskeys neat and not – he was serving it all. It wasn’t a bad crowd though. Marty had done enough of these gigs to know what kind of clientele he could expect at what event. Alumni events were the nicest: most people were too busy catching up with each other to demand a full tray of canapes every five minutes, and there would always be someone who drank enough to get you a full bill, but not so much that they’d turn into a real asshole.
Private family-run parties were the worst. The organizing family-member would watch over the staff like the eye of Sauron, dragging you into the kitchen to scream at you over the tiniest speck of crumbs on your tray. The guests would complain about how you twisted your Martini and get drunk like frat guys on a keg of beer anyway. Somebody was always bound to get handsy on the prettier guys or any of the girls, and at the end of they day you got zero tips.
This kind of event was alright. Everyone had to be on their best behavior because of it being an event for an organization, including the guests. They were so busy trying not to become next week’s gossip that you could sneak off to smoke or get a snack from a sociable cook if you wanted to. The worst part was usually the hours before, when the lead organizer would drill the rules into their staff and threaten to have them professionally castrated if the organizer felt like it. Or they would give no information whatsoever. They’d get so caught up with talking to the guests that you and the team would have to put your heads together and make your own system to keep things running smoothly. Because something always, always, went wrong on events like this.
But Rory was no dictator. Or a tool. She gave them the information they needed with a smile on her face. When Delilah had to disappear for an emergency phone call, Rory rushed her off and made a battle plan on the spot for how the remaining tray-servers could cover for her equally. She got the frustrated wealthy guests who had skipped out on getting tables to leave calmly and quietly with smiles on their faces. She was a gala wiz through and through. And Marty had no idea what she was doing here in the first place.
He tried asking Joey, who he’d worked with a couple of times before and knew was good at picking up gossip, if he knew. Joey just shrugged and said: “Hell do I care. I wish she’d be my boss every day.” Marty frowned and returned to shoveling ice for a whiskey on the rocks. They were going to run out soon. He noted it to himself instead of telling Kit, in case he could use it as an excuse for a quick break. He’d almost managed to shake away his questions and start dreaming of the mac and cheese in the kitchen when a tray slammed on the counter right in front of him.
“Does nobody here even know what a performance review is?!” Marty looked up at Paris moaning over the tray. “You usually wait ‘til the end for that,” he replied and leaned past her to give out the whiskey to a considerably confused gray-haired lady in red. “Oh screw that,” Paris exclaimed with a frown. A fire lit in her eyes and she leaned over to whisper angrily at Marty. “Screw that, and screw late-stage capitalism and screw the rich!” Marty tilted his head and an eyebrow: “Paris, you are the rich.” Paris jumped back from the counter with a pout. “No I’m not, I’m broke now.”
“Since when?”
“Since my parents brought a knife to a gun fight with the IRS. Now I only have one year at Yale guaranteed before I have to go live in a cave until I’m 25.”
“Why 25?”
“It’s when my trust fund kicks in.” Marty shook his head. “Yeah, get back to me when that trust fund runs out,” he muttered to himself. Paris scoffed: “Ugh, you wouldn’t get it anyway.” She turned on her heel to leave, and Marty had to snap to get her attention back. “What?” she asked with the darkest voice he’d ever heard come out of her. He used the hand he snapped with to point down on the counter: “Tray.”
A mortified Paris blushed as she took the tray and stomped off, just in time for Marty to spot Rory on the other end of the bar with a horrified look on her face. She’d been calmer than the Dalai Lama all night. Marty felt unease creep up on him. He watched her turn her head to look out into the crowd. Following her gaze, he saw a group of wrinkly guys. White heads stood on each side of a blonde one, and Marty lowered his eyes to see none other than Mitchum Huntzberger. Mitchum ‘billionaire boys club Huntzberger. Mitchum ‘the Hamptons edition of Back to the Future-Biff’ Huntzberger. Mitchum ‘bails his kids out of felonies and gets waiters fired for tripping on a carpet’ Huntzberger. Marty could barely cover the disgust on his face before he turned to look at Rory again, who was halfway to the kitchen. “Kit,” Marty called, and the boy appeared next to him. “Cover for me for five minutes?” “No problem,” Kit answered, and with that out of the way Marty took off to the kitchen.
“You’re having a panic attack,” he could hear Paris say as he entered the kitchen. The blonde with her hair in pin curls was walking cautiously over to Rory, who was gripping the table like the edge of a cliff. “I think so,” Rory said, leaning towards and away from the table. Paris looked right at Rory with her jaw to her chin: “Don’t worry, I have these all the time-” “Is everything okay?” Marty asked, not able to hold back. Rory turned around, white as a sheet. “I…” she faintly said, before Paris blocked the view between them by covering Rory with her body. “She’s having a panic attack but I’m on it so go back to your watering hole.” Marty ignored her and tried to get direct eye contact with Rory: “What happened, what can I do?” “Nothing!” Paris answered for her and turned her attention back to Rory. “Okay what do you need? I’ve got Diazepam, 50 and 100 miligrams-” “I don’t want any Diazepam!” Rory squeaked. Paris stopped in confusion, and Marty grabbed the opportunity to step closer. “Is it Mitchum Huntzberger?”
Both girls flipped their heads at him faster than meerkats. Marty almost had to take a step back from they weight of their eyes on him. Paris slowly turned her head back to Rory. “What about Mitchum?” she asked with a creepily soft voice. Rory seemed to struggle with the technical part of speaking: “No- I-, those- they didn’t even RSVP. That’s not right, this… this is for…” She stuttered onwards as Paris and Marty continued to listen with growing concern. “Shira’s one thing, I can deal with her! But Mitchum? I- I can’t see him, I can’t face him! It’s too much, after what he did- what he said to me.” “What did he say to you?” Marty asked, but Rory was in her own head. “If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t have-…”
“You wouldn’t have what?” Paris asked. Rory’s lower lip quivered, her eyes darkening and watering. “Rory?” Paris pressed on, but Rory closed her eyes painfully instead. “Nothing,” she mumbled, then put on a crappy attempt at a smile. “Nothing,” she half-giggled. “He’s just… they’re just not the nicest people.” That set Paris off into another pseudo-Marxist rant. Marty could see whatever anger was in her turn cold and mournful as Paris went on and on about the means of production like a professor back at Yale rather than an actual worker. “You know, I haven’t eaten all day,” Rory finally interrupted, and left the two to stare at each other and the blank space she left.
“What was that,” Marty declared more than asked Paris. She snickered bitterly: “So now you care.” Marty ignored the insult and pushed forward. “What is she even doing here running this event? What the hell has happened?” “Didn’t you read the blog?” Paris asked, crossing her arms. “I didn’t- oh screw it of course I read the blog. But that just said she stole the boat- which, why would she even do that?” Paris leaned back, brows twitching. “You didn’t know she dropped out?” Marty’s eyes doubled in size. “She what?”
“Where did you think she’s been all this time?”
“I don’t know, different classes than me?”
“She dropped out after the boat-fiasco and now she’s in the D.A.R.”
“Why would she drop out?”
“I don’t know!” Paris threw her fists to her sides and yelled. “I don’t know! She says she found out journalism isn’t for her, but that’s just bullshit, and clearly something is wrong with the Huntzbergers but she won’t talk to me about it!”
Now Paris looked like the one struggling to breathe. Marty took a cautious step forward. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked softly. Paris looked at him with a shaky breath and angry stare: “Don’t bother Mister Nice Guy.” Marty couldn’t help from rolling his eyes. “Oh come on, not this crap again.” Paris stuck her neck out: “I mean really, dropping off the face of the earth when she picks the other guy over you? Talk about friendship.”
“You like Logan.” The memory popped into his head. “I like Logan.” “Figures.” Marty tried to force it down to focus on the girl yelling at him now. He waved his hands at her. “I didn’t like her like that, for the last time!” “No, you just have such a big problem with her boyfriend that you can’t even sit in the same classroom with her anymore!” Marty had enough. He closed the distance between them with a march and pointed a finger in front of her face. “You want to talk about eating the rich? About your loathsome bourgeoisie?” he growled in a hushed tone so he wouldn’t get caught talking trash.
“That’s the Huntzbergers for you, senior and junior. They sit around in their penthouse poker dens drinking their trust funds dry and running over people like speed bumps all because they’re bored. Guys like Mitchum pay girls to keep quiet about being shoved into bedrooms by their creepy friends and guys like Logan harass your classmates for working at daddy’s parties. Guys like that treat the whole world like Disneyland and use monopoly fines to get away with murder, and let’s not forget harassing and firing and arresting whoever gets in the way of a good time. So yeah, you’re right, Paris. I don’t like her boyfriend. In fact, I think he’s an asshole and a bully and a nepotistic trust fund bitch.”
Only once he got it all out of his system, did he see the way Paris’ eyes glistened. She ran away before a tear could be shed. “Shit- Paris I’m sorry-” but she was gone before he could utter the last syllable. God he was being an idiot. And unprofessional. Marty rubbed his hands over his face. He wasn’t supposed to have a fight in the kitchen about an ex-friend’s love life with her bff. “You okay?” he heard from the side, and glanced up at Robert the sous chef. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” Robert smiled comfortingly. “Don’t worry, we all have a day like that.” He pointed towards the mac and cheese casserole. “Snack?” Marty nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
After a cup of comfort food, Marty stepped back out into the bar, tapping Kit on the back to switch positions. “Thank you,” he said while the guy made space for him. “No problem. I’m gonna go get ice, back in two.” And with that Kit went through the door Marty had just come in from. Marty grabbed a piece of cloth and wiped the bar, waiting for guests to come over for more booze.
“You know, the problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.” Marty looked up and found none other than the notorious Huntzberger on the other side of the counter. Marty reluctantly dropped the cloth and put on his job-face. “What can I do for you, sir?” He didn’t seem to recognize him. It was funny, people always got annoyed if they got the same waiter at a restaurant twice and the waiter didn’t recognize them in the sea of thousands of people that they served every day, but nobody expected them to remember you.
Mitchum stared at Marty, seeming to wait for a laugh over the same quote guys had thrown at him every other time he ended up bartending for an intellectual crowd. At last he gave up: “How about a nice Prosecco, can you do that for me?” “Will do,” Marty replied and looked in the cabinet below him for a bottle. There was one unopened one, but as Marty stretched to grab it, an idea popped into his head. A petty one, but an idea nevertheless. He bent back and stood up again. “I’m sorry we happen to be out of fresh bottles right here, but we’ve got some in the back. If you’ll excuse me?” Mitchum waved it off with a shit eating grin. “Please, I’ll take an opened one. I mean who am I, Robert Parker jr?”
Marty forced a grin and a laugh and went down again. No corked Prosecco then. He practically crawled into the cabinet to grab the opened bottle as the plan reformed. Spit was a little more basic, but it was a classic for a reason. And Rory did say they were supposed to have fun tonight. Marty silently gathered up saliva and poured it down the neck. Making sure nothing had ended up outside, he pulled the bottle and himself out of the cabinet, found a glass by the wall and poured it for Mitchum. “Here you go, sir,” he declared with a tempered smile and his hand stretched out, trying not to look too suspicious.
-
“Careful, she’s been through enough already!” Rory asked the deliverymen as they took the massive framed photo of Bette Davis down. She stepped to the middle of the hall and took in the sight of it all emptied out. Most people had left, from the guests to the Swing Dolls to the extra hands in the kitchen, but Rory had insisted on staying behind to make sure the entire locale was left just as they found it. She’d assured her grandparents that Logan would pick her up, but didn’t mention that him and Finn and Colin were going to take her out to celebrate her first organized event for the D.A.R. Now everything was all but finished, except for some final boxes of ribbons and Bette.
Thank goodness her grandma had been around to fix the seating crisis. And the staff for being so good when everything felt like it was crashing down on her. When the guests had left they all complimented the event and praised each their waiter or bartender, apart from one guy who begged her to not use Paris at the next one. But she’d managed to calm down too, dutifully serving dishes and giving Rory a comforting pat on the way out. Even Marty had done everything right, which of course he did. It wasn’t his fault that the sight of him stressed her out. He was just here to do a job, and he did it splendidly. But if only he didn’t have to see her like that-
“Everything in order?” Rory turned around. Speak of the devil. “Yeah,” she nodded with a small smile. “Just one more truck of war memorabilia to load and then we’re off.” Marty stood by her, the costume long gone and replaced with his civvies. “Well done,” he said. She acknowledged it with a nod. “Really,” he continued. “Not too many organizers try to make this fun for the staff, exactly.” She let the compliment sink in. “Well this couldn’t be done without all of you, so… pleasure’s all mine.” They stood in the middle for an awkward minute or two, Rory looking at Marty studying her. Then he opened his mouth again: “So you dropped out of Yale.”
And there it was. Rory was surprised at how relieved she was to finally get the question. Waiting for the moment when people asked what the hell was going on with her was torture. Then again, having to explain it again was pretty painful too. “I did,” she said. Marty took in her response. “Is it okay if I ask why?” Rory sighed. “I don’t know,” she replied, honestly. Rory walked over to the edge of the stage and sank down in front of it. Marty followed, placing himself next to her. And then he just sat there. Breathing. Not pushing, just… waiting.
“I just couldn’t go back, not after all of that. I was humiliated.” “All of what?” Rory shot him a glare. He shook his head. “Yeah, I read the blog, but marine theft can’t be the whole story.” Rory looked away and braced herself. “I interned for Mitchum.” She felt Marty move his head. “Oh.” “Do you wanna know what he said?” “I’ve got a feeling it was bad.” Rory nodded, her eyes hurting. “Yeah, it was bad.” “I’m not going to be able to convince you he was wrong, am I?” Rory frowned and looked over at Marty again. He looked so sincerely pained, like what she was going through hurt him too. She wanted his words to help. She really did. “I’m afraid not,” she knew she had to reply, and did.
“So Daughters of the American Revolution?” he asked. Rory raised her head. “It’s something to do. While I figure out what I’m going to do with my life.” Marty lifted his eyebrows. “I figured you to be one of those people who went to the Himalayas to find themselves.” Rory chuckled at that. “Huh, maybe that’s the next step.” Slowly, Rory realized that she was breathing easier again. Not just since seeing him just now, but since before the night. She’d been holding her breath for so much longer than she’d realized. “But enough about me,” she declared and turned her entire attention onto Marty. “How are things with you nowadays?”
Marty smiled. “Well, I decided to follow my heart and went for that Cervantes class.” “Good for you!” Rory exclaimed, totally not happy to hear anything positive syllabus-related for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I moved in with a couple of the guys from my dorm.”
“Not the twinkies thief though?”
“No, not the twinkies thief.”
“Good.”
“He got his revenge though. Told all the freshmen what happened our freshman week.”
“Oh no.”
“Yep, now I’m certifiably the guy who fell asleep naked in the hallway.” Rory half-jokingly patted his shoulder. “There, there.” “Screw you,” he said back with a smile for days. She hadn’t seen it in a long time.
“What about Glenn? Did he move in with you?” she asked. “No, actually,” Marty said in an inhale. “Glenn got a girlfriend.” Rory’s jaw fell to the floor. “No way.” Marty nodded. “Her name is Carrie. They met right before summer.” “Amazing!” Rory declared, her heart-warming for her distant friend. “I told him, I told him that if he just stopped approaching every other girl like she was a future date he would actually start scoring.” “You sure did,” Marty grinned. “She’s taking a class on mad poets in the nineteenth century.” Rory practically beamed. “I like her already.” “I figured you would,” Marty chuckled back.
She looked at him then. His borderline emo mop. The familiar face. The shoulder she’d napped on during every other Tarkovsky movie. The hands she’d slapped away as they tried to grab the last Cheeto. The chest she’d cried in to when her heart refused to heal. “Marty?” her voice was fragile when she said his name. “Yeah?” He sounded fragile too. “I’ve missed you.”
She wanted to hug him. She wanted to hug him and cry and scream and punch a wall and have him get her a pack of ice to cool her fist. She wanted to go back to late night movie marathons and coffee breaks between study sessions. She wanted to be friends again.
“Your pumpkin has arrived, Cinderella!” Rory and Marty turned to look at the entrance. Logan had arrived, the boys right behind him. He stopped in his tracks as he spotted the other man. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Jeeves,” he said, staring with a weird smile. “It’s Marty,” Marty muttered under his breath. Logan wiggled his brows and returned his attention to Rory. “You ready to go, or do the mice need you any longer?” Rory perked up, putting on a brave face and rubbing the corner of her eye before the water formed. “Just need to check the last truck and do another round and then I’m done.”
She got on her feet and rose up. Marty followed suit and graced her shoulder. “I can take care of the last stuff,” he said with a reassuring but small smile. “I’ve done it before.” “Thank you,” she said to him, and patted his shoulder. A small consolation for the lack of a real hug goodbye. But she couldn’t do that, Colin was just going to make some disgusting joke about it.
Rory walked over to her boyfriend and his entourage, casting one last glance at the hall she’d filled to the brim just hours ago. Logan met her with a kiss and an arm around her shoulders. Finn poked her belly as they left the building. It was getting harder to breathe again.