AUTHOR: The Corrupter (I'm fickle and I can't decide if I like it with the "e" or the "o" *rolleyes*)
RATING: PG (b/c DP is an A, but not of the HA variety)
CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Rory, Tristan, and yucky (imo, but opinion held by all Fectas) Dean
SUMMARY: See Part 1
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, here you go. And update to the fic. I really think I'm losing all grasp of the characters... and my sanity, but that's a different story. Hello? Did you read my therapy session? Der. Sigh. Anyway, enjoy. I haven't had time to edit the million times I usually do, but hopefully, you're cool with that.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Yadda yadda.

It had been a week. And Tristan had returned to avoiding her. It shouldn’t have bothered her. She should have welcomed the solitude, the quiet, but she oddly didn’t. And Rory was too tired to chase after him. If he wanted to be a baby about their friendship, she’d let him. He was only hurting himself. At least, that was what she told herself. Every time she saw him walking in the halls with his friends, or hanging out by his locker, she’d catch his cocky grin and her heart would skip, wondering if this would be the time when he came up to her, ready for the pursuit once again. Only it never was. He would invariably walk past her, as if not seeing her, or would just turn his eyes. And there were moments during the day when she saw something and would half-expect him to show up, making a snide remark about it. Or leer at her. Only he never did. Even the staring had stopped. Sitting in class, she felt strangely empty and detached, devoid of all emotions. The fire was gone, and he with it.

He had seemed more withdrawn than usual that week. He had seemed haggard and upset. And it had nothing to do with her. He had left school early on Monday, had come back late on Tuesday, and barely made it to first period on Wednesday. His exhaustion showed despite his every effort to seem normal. His shirt wasn’t as crisp as usual, and the tie looked limp. Even the jacket didn’t seem to fit right. And yet, when he was with friends, the frown and vexed look were replaced by his trademark smirk. If any of the rumors of his grandfather being practically on his deathbed bothered him, he didn’t show it.

Rory finally decided she’d had enough. The catalyst hadn’t been so much his ignoring her. Even when she tried to exchange pleasantries, he had had the courtesy to return her greeting with his own clipped “hi,” but had not seemed happy to do so. As if it took a huge effort to share even an inconsequential little word with her. Had his mind been focused on his grandfather’s health, she would have forgiven him. But earlier in the day, she had seen him talking -- if it could be called that -- to Gracie Marcek. Gracie, a 5’8” tall specimen of a girl, with long flowing brown hair, and a model’s curves, had been standing by her locker, back up against it, smiling receptively at him. In a position he had often reserved for Rory, he had his left arm resting on the locker above Gracie’s head, the other by his side, effectively blocking her in. His body titled possessively towards her, head lowered with a teasing smile. Gracie had enjoyed the attention, and her flustered flirting had made him smile and laugh in a way that Rory used to.

Rory told herself she wasn’t jealous. She was only forcefully reminded of how carefree and happy he had been in those few minutes. And how being near her used to have the same effect on him, bringing the same warm smile to his face. Used to, being the operative words. As she started to walk by them, Tristan’s head had tilted pensively towards her, eyes following her every move. And the smile that had graced his face was nowhere near heartfelt or ecstatic. It was a muted quizzical smile. Almost curious. As if Rory was no longer a favorite object to be worshipped or pursued, but rather a mere oddity in his life. That realization had hurt, but she took a deep breath and surged past the couple, unable to make eye contact with anything other than the black and white checkered floor tiles.

And now, she needed to know once and for all where they stood. Were they friends or enemies? Or nothing at all. And despite all the inadvertent pain he had put her through over the past year, she didn’t think she wanted it to be that. There was something horribly final about being nothing at all with the boy who could simultaneously manage to elicit a stinging retort and a heartfelt smile from her on one of their better days. And she wanted to believe that despite all the obstacles that had been placed in their way - by themselves and by others - they could be at least something instead of nothing. With this purpose in mind, she found him at his locker after school, surrounded by three of his friends. They were laughing and joking, even though Tristan himself didn’t seem to be entirely there.

He knew she wouldn’t cause a scene in front of his friends. But she would show him. She would admit to herself that he made her nervous, but she would never admit that he intimidated her. She took a few deliberate steps towards the group, enough to make her intentions of speaking to him clear. He met her eyes, seemingly unperturbed. But while his eyes betrayed his fright and anxiety of the impending confrontation, the self-confident smirk never left his lips. His friends followed his gaze and let their eyes linger on Rory, the smiles left frozen on their faces. They knew Tristan had a thing for Rory, even if he wouldn’t admit it himself. But up until now, he had been unsuccessful with her, and had seemingly moved on. Rory became self-conscious with all the eyes on her. And the boys, on the verge of making a crack about Rory finally seeking out Tristan, were tactful enough not to, knowing that Tristan wouldn’t have let them do so.

“Miss Gilmore.” She had half-expected him to revert to calling her Mary, or calling her by her real name, something which often made her lightheaded. He himself was hoping his cold and impersonal greeting would send her away. Only she stood stubbornly before him, refusing to leave. “Guys,” he said quietly, shooing his friends away. They took the hint and left, confident they would hear the story from Tristan later, even though he had never really been keen on sharing, especially about girls he was emotionally invested in. His eyes never left Rory, and as soon as his support group was gone, he leaned against his locker, as casually as possible. Desperately trying to hide just how tense this situation was making him.

She decided to skip the pleasantries and get right to the point before she lost her nerve. “What’s going on?” she demanded to know.

He tensed for a split second before recovering. “What do you mean?” he asked, innocently, sounding almost insulted. It was easy for him to play ignorant. He had plenty of practice hiding things from her. What was one more lie except for another horrible moment he could recall later on in the throes of berating himself for being so weak and petty.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accused lightly.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” he pointed out.

“I don’t want you to ignore me,” she said, upset.

“So you want me to bother you,” he said, confused, and purposely twisting her words around.

“That’s not what I meant. I just…” He was driving her nuts again.

“Well, which is it, Rory?” he asked, interrupting her. He threw a longing look down the near-empty hallway. If he caught her off-guard, he’d be able to get away. To run away from her. From all the feelings that were threatening to bog him down. From all the worthlessness he felt ever since she had declared -- over and over again -- her hate towards him.

Hearing him say her name gave her pause. It had been so long since he actually acknowledged her existence. Even up till now, it seemed as if he weren’t really talking to her so much as fulfilling a detached, reluctant, and uneasy obligation of speaking to her. “What do you mean, which is it?” she asked, perplexed.

“Well, do you hate me or not?” he asked, gesturing, also getting upset.

“It’s not that easy…” she insisted. But only because she had no ready answer. Couldn’t even begin to dissect her feelings for him. Not when there were others’ feelings she also had to consider.

“It’s not that hard, either,” he pointed out.

“I don’t hate you,” she assured, biting her lip.

He sighed. “Well, you sure have a really strange way of showing it,” he retorted.

“Tristan.” She was flabbergasted at his behavior.

He tired to ignore the pattering of his heart when she called his name. “Rory, you either hate me or you like me. Or… you’re just indifferent.”

“Well, I’m not indifferent.” Her voice faltered. She wasn’t sure what she was, but she knew it wasn’t that.

“You don’t hate me. You’re not indifferent. Then what are you?” Somehow, the thought wasn’t comforting. It should have been, but it wasn’t.

“I’m just… I’m… I’m not like Gracie Marcek,” she blurted, stammering.

He raised a brow. This was an unexpected wrinkle. “So you’re jealous of Gracie… or…” He trailed off to let her fill in the blanks. The consternation on her face when she had invoked Gracie’s name, had given him hope when he knew there shouldn’t have been any. When he knew that any second, she would douse all his expectations with a biting rejection.

“I’m not jealous,” she snapped. She noticed a hint of the old Tristan now.

It was further evidenced by the slight smirk that was starting to grace his lips. A genuine smile. A cross between his old cocky leer and the affectionate one he had showered her with whenever she teased him. Back when they were on the road to being friends. It was a start.

“You’re sure.” Statement. Unconvinced.

She half-expected the arrogant smirk, cocky body language and an invasion of her personal space to follow. Along with a leering proposition. But none was forthcoming. To her disappointment. If there was one thing she could count on, it was the fact that Tristan usually made it easy for her to shoot him down. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to react to the new restrained Tristan. “Yes, I’m sure…” She paused, seeing his grin get bigger. Fine. She decided if he would play, then so would she. “Don’t look so smug, Tristan. You’re probably thinking about all that money you’re going to inherit. It’ll just make you even more insufferable.” The words had slipped out before she could check them.

The grin disappeared quickly. And he looked pained. “I don’t care about the money,” he snapped, eyes darkening.

She backpedaled quickly. It would be the last time she asked her mother for advice. Even if it were given in jest. And she knew that there was no way she’d take her mother’s advice now, especially if it involved sticking her tongue down his throat. “How is your grandfather? Better?” she asked brightly, hoping to change the subject.

The suspicious look was back, and Rory wanted to do anything to bring the smile back. It had suited him so well. So becomingly. “Why do you even care?” he huffed.

“Because I do.” But it had sounded weak. With an ill-timed retort, she had lost all the progress they had made in those past few minutes. She tried again. “Because we’re friends.”

He frowned and averted his eyes. “Isn’t your boyfriend waiting for you?” The “boyfriend” came out harshly and sarcastically.

Rory felt as if she had been slapped. “No… he’s…” She was at a loss for words. Then upset, “This has nothing to do with Dean.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. “You’re right.”

“Maybe we should talk,” she suggested.

“What is it with you and talking?” he asked, upset and annoyed.

“Tristan…”

“I don’t want to talk, Rory. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you. I’m tired of your boyfriend dictating your life. And I’m really tired that you can throw your feelings around like they don’t mean anything.” She flushed at his words, but he continued. “If you hate me, then just leave me alone so I can do the same for you. Just let me know first so I don’t make an ass of myself.” Seeing her upset made him hurt, but he couldn’t stop.

She wouldn’t let him know. She knew she didn’t hate him, not the way he made it out to be. But she didn’t know how she felt about him. All she knew was that she didn’t want him to ignore her completely. That his friendship did matter. But only his friendship, because for him to be anything more would have been unthinkable. Almost impossible. Especially after all the obstacles that they and others had placed in their path. But she needed him in her life just as much as she had needed Dean. She missed him as it was.

“I don’t…”

He sighed again. He was the jackass and he’d give her a way out. “I get it, Rory.” He had to say her name as many times as possible. He loved saying it and he wasn’t sure if this would be the last time he’d have the right to say it. Like her name meant something to him. “On the list of your priorities, Paris is located about a thousand miles ahead of me.”

“That’s not…” she started to insist, ignoring the gnawing feeling that maybe she had given him that impression. After all, wasn’t that he reason she had given him for not being able to date him?

“True?” He quirked a disbelieving brow and gave a short humorless chuckle. “It you believe that, then you’re deluding yourself more than I am that you’ll eventually succumb to my charms and go out with me.” His statement startled her. Before she could fully analyze it, he shook his head. “What do you want, Rory?” He was serious.

She didn’t know the answer to that. “You’ve seemed sad the past couple of days.”

Her concern -- knowing she actually cared enough to worry about him -- made his heart flutter. “Why do you care?” He watched her carefully, wanting to be sure that it wasn’t just another joke to her.

She hesitated. Why did she care? It was a question she had asked herself numerous times over the past few weeks, but had deftly evaded answering. Because in a way, she didn’t think she wanted to know the real reasons behind why she did care. Because he was a jerk. And she should have known better than to care, but she did. Care. A lot. And even Tristan didn’t deserve what he was going through. Only she hadn’t said those things. Hadn’t revealed all the contradictory feelings she had experienced the past few weeks. Couldn’t give him that power over her, or that kind of insight into her.

“Because we’re friends.” If she reiterated it enough, maybe they’d both believe it. But even she knew that being just friends wouldn’t be enough. It was all or nothing when it came to Tristan. And while she didn’t want it to be entirely nothing, she wasn’t sure she was ready for all.

“You keep saying that,” he muttered.

“Because it’s true.” But there was an obvious lack of conviction in her voice that did nothing to pacify the growing doubts in his mind that their friendship -- or any kind of relationship -- was worth salvaging. That maybe he had been wasting his time after all.

Her response was not good enough. “I don’t need any more friends,” he mumbled, positive he was only hurting himself.

Rory chewed her lips, lost in reflection. Every thought was consumed with Tristan. Even though the two of them had never gotten past the initial, beginnings of a friendship, she didn’t know why his ultimate rejection of her affected her so. Logic told her she shouldn’t have worried, shouldn’t have let his decline of her friendship hurt her. And yet, she was hurt. Logic had failed to prevail in this case. All she could think about was his face when he had told her he had enough friends and essentially, did not need her. She was perplexed. She was angry. But when she finally let all her emotions pass and analyzed the situation head on, she was heart broken. She had never set out explicitly to befriend him, but there was always something about butting heads with him in a manner that vacillated between teasing barbs and vulnerable openness that made her smile at the end of the day.

She didn’t even see Paris until the girl was standing right in front of her.

“So hey, you want to write the music column?” Paris asked suddenly, breaking into her thoughts.

Rory glanced up, upset to have her reverie interrupted. Paris was waiting for her answer, expectantly, her hands akimbo, and a ready scowl on her face. “I thought Louise was writing it.”

“Yeah, well…” Paris gave her head a nonchalant an uninterested shake.

Rory squinted suspiciously. “I thought you were going to make me miserable.”

Paris sighed, exasperatedly. “Look, do you want the job or not? Because I’m not going to offer again.” She started to turn on her heels.

Rory pursed her lips, trying to determine whether Paris was being genuine in the offer. “No, wait,” she called out. Paris turned around, the scowl having softened to an almost grateful and relieved smile. Almost. “I’ll do it. I just don’t want Louise to…” Rory hesitated.

Paris shrugged, as if telling her she had nothing to worry about. “I’ll assign her to write about sports or something,” she assured.

Rory quirked her brow dubiously. “She doesn’t know sports,” she pointed out.

This time, Paris nodded a little, a sincerely warm and lighthearted grin teasing the corners of her mouth and threatening to overtake her face. “No…,” she agreed, glibly “But she knows jocks.”

Rory’s face lit up, understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Rory seemed to ponder this for a few minutes. Seeing no other reason to stay and chat, Paris turned again to walk away. Finally remembering Paris, Rory glanced up hurriedly. “Thanks,” she called out, with every attempt to instill as much friendliness into her voice.

Paris was startled, and her expression said as much when she turned to look at Rory over her shoulder. “You’re welcome,” she answered, almost automatically. Then, pausing to listen to herself, she seemed to accept this response, and then continued on.

Rory frowned, then smiled to herself. She shook her head, at the turn of events, then turned back to what she was doing.

Lane reached over the large poster board lying on the floor to grab some markers. She pursed her lips as she watched Rory bent over the cardboard, diligently coloring in the bubble letters that ranged across the poster. “Thanks for letting me do this here,” she said.

Rory smiled, glancing up. “No problem.”

“Thanks for helping with my history project, too.” Lane’s eyes fell down to the large map in front of her. They weren’t even halfway done with the coloring. She sighed and returned to working on her corner of the poster.

Rory chewed on her lower lip. “I think his grandfather is really sick,” she revealed, suddenly.

Lane inhaled sharply, raising her eyes curiously. “Why do you say that?” She didn’t even bother to question why Rory was so concerned. She had long since become accustomed to her best friend’s caring nature.

Rory shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, he seemed pretty agitated and upset when I asked about his grandfather. And I gave him an opening to make one of his rude remarks, and he didn’t even take it.”

Lane grinned, amused. “Ooh. Maybe he’s the one that’s sick,” she offered, joking.

“Lane.” Rory gave her a lightly reproachful look.

Lane put her marker down. “Come on, Rory. What does it matter? I mean, maybe it is his grandfather. Or maybe he’s just having a bad day.”

“Or a bad couple of weeks,” Rory corrected, frowning.

Lane rolled her eyes. “The point is, what gives?”

Rory hesitated. “It’s just that last year, when my grandfather was in the hospital… I know how it feels to be scared and worried and…”

Lane quirked a brow. “I thought you said he was a heartless, narcissistic…”

Rory grinned despite herself. “I never said he was entirely devoid of all feelings.”

Lane snapped a finger, as if remembering. “Oh. Right,” she agreed, wryly.

Rory frowned. “You think I’m asking for trouble?”

Lane shrugged. “I don’t know. What does Dean think about it?”

Rory chewed on her bottom lip. “This has nothing to do with Dean,” she reminded, pointedly, even though Lane already knew the answer to the question. Dean didn’t know because he didn’t like Tristan. And Dean would not be finding out anytime soon.

Her best friend did not say anything. Finally, hesitating, “Well… maybe you should run it by Paris first,” she suggested, half-facetiously.

“Very funny,” Rory remarked, dryly.

Lane chuckled, turning her attention back to coloring in the states on her map. “How is Paris, by the way?” she asked, not really caring, but teasing Rory.

Rory shrugged. “Well, we’re sorta - but not really - friends now.”

Lane snickered. “As opposed to the ‘definitely not’ and ‘what, are you out of your mind’ friends.”

“Yes,” Rory chirped.

“Well, it’s a step, right?” Lane asked, beaming for her friend.

“Definitely,” she quipped, giggling now.

Lane shrugged, now serious once again. “So I think you shouldn’t worry about Tristan. I mean, you already tried, right? So forget about it,” Lane advised.

Rory pondered the advice. “You’re right,” she agreed, without hesitation.

“Of course I am,” Lane assured, brightly.

“It’s not like I’m trying to win bonus points with him in order to be Miss Popular. I’m just being nice,” Rory admitted, though somewhat ruefully, as if she were trying to convince herself.

“Of course you are,” Lane agreed, helpfully. She tilted her head to one side and watched as Rory chewed on her lower lip, lost in thought. A change of subject was in order. “So tell me about this carnival that’s coming up,” she ordered, playfully.

“Carnival?” Rory asked, dubiously.

“Henry told me. It’s some charity event for a kids shelter or something?” Lane prompted.

“Oh, right,” Rory recalled, unenthusiastically. “Every year, the Chilton PTA decides to do something for the unfortunate children in Hartford.” She imparted this information with a wry shake of her head. “This year, they thought it would be great to set up a little fair on the fields. You know, a couple of booths, some rides… and then invite the children to play for the day.”

“So that’s cool, right?” Lane pressed.

Rory shrugged. “I guess. Although somehow, I got roped into helping out.”

Lane chuckled at this information. “You don’t say. They didn’t volunteer you for the dunking tank, did they? Because that would just be too cruel.”

Rory had to laugh at the image Lane had conjured up. “No, but I get to be one of the people who draws on the kids’ faces.”

Lane looked horrified. “Uh, they do know how you suck at art, right?” she teased, ruthlessly.

“I do not suck,” Rory assured, affronted, eliciting a grin from Lane.

“Rory, you know how to color within the lines. That’s about it,” Lane reminded, mocking her.

Rory tried not to laugh at the truthfulness of the statement. “Wanna help?”

Lane rolled her eyes. “Rory, remember the D I got in eighth grade art class, when I vowed never to draw anything unless it was specifically for school or my life depended on it?” She threw a disdainful glance at the poster in front of her, choosing to ignore the lopsidedness of her map. “I don’t think using a poor kid’s face as a canvas is a good idea. I just might scar them into signing up for permanent therapy sessions.”

Rory laughed. “But you’ll be there.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss seeing Lorelai go crazy around carnival rides. And I think Henry is bringing some kids from his church.” She paused. “I mentioned how perfect he is, right?”

Rory shook her head, smiling. “You know, I don’t think I like seeing you so happy,” she teased.

“Jealous?” Lane shot back, playfully.

“Of course,” Rory retorted.

Lane stuck a tongue out at her. “Too bad.” She made a face at Rory, and the two girls began giggling as they turned their attention back to the poster board in front of them.

She watched, amused, as a gaggle of children, ranging from six to twelve years old, ran past her. They were laughing raucously and yelling at each other good-humoredly from across the span of the brightly and colorfully lit fairway. It was a far cry from what Chilton was usually like, and even she was in awe at how the normally snobby prep school had been transformed, practically overnight, into a playground where everyone was having fun. Although she shouldn’t have been surprised. Money, she discovered, made the world revolve a lot faster than usual. And not for the first time that evening, she wished school were like this all the time.

She felt a gentle tug on her hand, and glanced down, meeting the eager and expectant brown irises of a wide-eyed little girl. Rory smiled welcomingly, and squatted to eye level with the girl. “And how can I help you?” she asked.

The girl giggled. “That other girl told me that you can paint my face,” she informed shyly, pointing to a group of small children surrounding two other beleaguered Chilton students who were busy trying to keep up with the number of kids who clamored to have their faces painted.

Rory’s smile widened, as she tried to hide a sigh from having her five-minute break cut in half. “Well, what are we waiting for?” she asked the girl, leading her back towards the booth. The other students there gave her relieved looks, though they were not friends, or even speaking to each other. And for the fifteenth time that evening, Rory again wondered exactly how she had been roped into helping out. She assumed it had something to do with Mr. Medina being in charge of the arts and crafts, and her mother’s sick sense of humor. “So what would you like me to draw on your face?” she asked, praying the little girl would ask for something simple. Her creative talents only went so far.

“I’d like to have my face painted,” a deep male voice interrupted the tête-à-tête. “Maybe something that looks like a tattoo with the words ‘Rory and Dean’ on it.”

Startled, Rory glanced up sharply. Her face broke out into a grin. “Excuse me, but I’m currently with another client. A very important client,” she informed, teasing him with feigned haughtiness. She gave the little girl a conspiratorial look that caused the child to giggle in response.

Dean shrugged. “Maybe later then,” he suggested.

Rory glanced around, quizzically. “Where’s Lane?” The two were supposed to arrive together since Rory was expected at the fair early, and Henry had been too busy with his church group to drive to Stars Hollow to pick up Lane.

“She saw Henry and ran off to help him. There were like fifteen little kids trailing after him.” He scrunched up his face, warily, though his voice held considerable awe. “And I think I saw your mom dragging your teacher, Sookie and Jackson towards the Ferris wheel.” He gave her a dubious look. “I think she was cackling loudly, too.”

Rory rolled her eyes, grinning. “That’s my mom for you. She can’t stay away from these rides. I think it’s something in the cotton candy and funnel cake that causes a weird reaction with the coffee in her system.”

Dean chuckled, then nodded towards the group of kids who were laughing and joking, carefully examining each other’s face makeup. “So you need help?” he asked.

Rory glanced around, taking in the scene around her. She sighed dramatically. “No, it’s okay. Besides, I question your makeup skills,” she ribbed, sticking her tongue out at him. “But you know who could use some help… Henry and Lane.”

He played ignorant. “You think?”

She nodded eagerly. “Oh yes. I think it’s very sexy when a guy helps out with the kids,” she teased mirthfully.

He pretended to frown, looking away doubtfully. “You do, huh?”

“Yes.” Her grin did not waver.

“Well, in that case, I guess I’ll go find them and see if they need help,” he offered gallantly.

“Good choice,” she teased.

He shook his head at the power she had over him. “I’ll see you later?” She nodded in the affirmative, and he bent down to place a gentle kiss on her lips.

The little girl, watching the scene unfold before her with apt fascination, made a taunting gagging noise at the kiss. Dean responded by sticking his tongue out at the girl and making a funny face at her. The girl responded in kind, and Rory laughed, amused. As soon as he was gone, she turned her attention back to the little girl seated before her.

“Now, where were we?” she prompted, smiling brightly.

She couldn’t find her friends. And surprisingly, she couldn’t even hear the unmistakable laughter of her mother over the din of the children and the festive music. Her work as a below-average makeup artist had ended only moments before, and certain that one of her friends would eventually find her, she strolled through the charity fair, taking in the sights. And even though she had been there for hours, she still couldn’t believe that she was actually standing on Chilton school grounds. Grinning, and offering a bright smile to all the children that zipped past her, she paused before each booth, watching the festivities. As she stopped in front of the dreaded dunking booth and watched as student after student dunked the gracious and obliging Ms. Caldecott, Rory realized that this was the first time in weeks that she had been alone with her own thoughts. And that during this moment of solitude, she felt more lighthearted than she had ever felt since school started. And this time, it had nothing to do with Dean or Paris or Tristan. Sighing, knowing that the moment would eventually end and she would be forced to face her adversaries once again come the light of day, she turned to continue down the fairway. And immediately stopped, curiosity etched across her face.

Tristan was sitting on a bench, absently watching some children attempt to play a ring-the-bottle game. She hadn’t recognized him at first. He was dressed casually in jeans and a black sweater, almost as if he wanted to blend into the darkened corner he was sitting in. Only the colorful lights of the Ferris wheel, located on the other side of the field, still managed to throw flashes of colors on him, accentuating his wan and tired features. And even more surprising, was that he was alone. Something he hadn’t managed to be the past week, when he had purposely surrounded himself with as many of his friends as he could. All in an effort to distance himself from her. She wouldn’t have noticed him. Would have walked right by him. Except that his figure was all too familiar to her. And the introspective expression that adorned his face had also inexplicably become a familiar sight whenever she caught him staring off, lost in his own reverie.

She wasn’t exactly sure what propelled her forward. But she assured herself that she wanted to do it more for herself than out of any obligations she may have felt she owed him. She was just that way. Never mind that he had gone out of his way to make her miserable when they first met, then offered tentative friendship, before reverting once again. It was the same thing - the caring nature that instinctively came out -- that made her befriend Paris over and over again, whenever they hit a rut in their relationship, as if instinctively knowing that the girl could use a real friend. And it was the same thing that made her reach out to him in his moment of despair. Much like how he was now.

“You look sad. Want me to paint you a happy clown face?” She took the few tentative steps towards him. His eyes still focused on the scene before him, he didn’t hear her approach. And she could tell by the way his head snapped towards her, as he inhaled sharply, that she had startled him.

“A clown face?” He gave her a confused look, as he tried desperately to ignore the sudden skipping of his heart. The confusion was two-fold. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to think. Even though she had uttered words of hate to him more than once, and she had yet to apologize for either time, for some reason, she kept seeking him out. And he was confused as to why, refusing to fall into the trap that his heart wanted him to believe. There was too much pain associated with hope, and she had given him too much of that. And now, she was talking about clowns.

In response to the startled and confused look on his face, she held up the tiny makeup bag she clutched in her right hand. A look of understanding crossed his tired features, and the ridiculous idea of Rory making him look like a clown made him chuckle softly, and then quickly made him silent. There was truth in that. With or without makeup. But Rory was ignorant of it all.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of clowns,” she teased lightly, mocking his macho image and reputation he portrayed in school.

“No… but…” He hesitated, wanting her to get right to the point, and yet, not wanting her to leave. Not wanting her to enter into another one of her about-faces. And definitely not wanting her boyfriend to show up suddenly, interrupting this lighthearted moment.

“Because they’re not supposed to be scary. They’re supposed to be funny and happy, and they’re supposed to make you laugh,” she assured, interrupting his thoughts. “Now mimes, on the other hand…”

He quirked a brow, forgetting in his optimism to scan the area for her boyfriend. “You’re scared of mimes?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. He found it hard to suppress when she was around.

“Not me. My mom. She runs screaming… it’s not a pretty sight. She almost beat one up once because she thought it placed a hex on her.” Rory shook her head, chuckling, and she absently sat down beside him on the bench.

He froze, tense from her sudden nearness and proximity to him. And he was conscious of the subtle distance -- six inches of frustrating, cold, impersonal space -- she had placed between them when she sat down. And yet, he could feel her, the nerves on his arm prickling in anticipation of an accidental brush. He could smell her, the light fruity scent of Rory Gilmore intermingled with the overpowering aroma of popcorn and corndogs. And he could sense her, the entire half of his body closest to her warming up in the brisk night air. He turned his blue eyes on her, unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” she asked innocently, meeting his eyes. She let them linger a little too long, locked onto his, before evading her eyes in slight discomfiture. A rush of something sent goose bumps through her body, and she shivered. She told herself it was because she had forgotten her jacket and the night was getting cooler. Nothing more. Nothing else.

“Acting like we’re friends,” he stated, flatly.

A gentle smile had graced her lips until then. But with his statement, she frowned. “We’re not,” she answered just as flatly. He was being sullen again, and she didn’t think she deserved to be treated as such, especially since she had sought him out to continue their friendship on more occasions than he had. She was beginning to think he was a hopeless cause, which for some reason, distressed her.

“I know…” The way he said it made her cringe involuntarily. As if he could be so callous. As if the words were so final. Even though she had been the one to bring it upon them every time she chose Dean over him, giving him the impression that she didn’t value their own friendship as much as Dean. “Then why try to cheer me up?”

“What makes you think I’d waste my time doing that?” she joked, trying to infuse as much pleasantness as possible into her voice. She tried to ignore the heaviness that weighed down her heart, pushing it down to the pit of her stomach from the way he sounded. As if he were accusing her of something bad. As if he had given up hope of anything ever working out in their favor. And that she might as well give up, too.

“Because you’ve been trying to ask about my grandfather all week,” he replied, simply. Now, there was no suspicion. Only weariness.

She pursed her lips, before asking quietly. “How is he?”

He shrugged. “Getting better. I think.” He let his voice trail off, contemplatively, his thoughts turning to his ill grandfather. Then, remembering that she was still sitting beside him, waiting expectantly, he set his face. “So you don’t have to try so hard. I know it’s killing you to just sit here.” He met her eyes once again, challenging her to refute his claim. And she made eye contact, but only for a second, before averting her eyes once again. He sighed softly, having misunderstood the reasoning behind the action, thinking that he had called her on it, and she was too embarrassed to admit to it.

Except it wasn’t the truth. She had only turned away because she was pained by the intensity evident in those blue irises. An intensity that she remembered had been directed at her more than once, and which had been missing the past few weeks. An intensity that seemed to rip into her, searching through her without hesitation or remorse or flimsy excuses. “It is not,” she huffed, affronted. She lifted her chin in defiance, attempting to prove to him that she was not deterred by his tactics to push her away this time. “And what makes you think I’m doing this for you? I have a community service requirement I need to fulfill, and making spoiled, obnoxious, egotistical teenage boys, who have sick grandfathers, feel better is an option on my list of services.” She paused for a beat, noting with pleasure the sheepish grin that began to form across his full lips. The reappearance of a ghost of the charmingly overconfident Tristan, who had been missing the past few weeks, was enough to make her smile warmly. “Besides,” she added, making her voice playful and mocking, enough to assure him that she was indeed making fun of him, “it was either that or picking up litter, and they didn’t need any more help on cleanup.”

He tilted his head, contemplating her. Her mood swings, and consequently, his mood swings, were beginning to drive him insane. “So garbage is still a step higher than me,” he rejoined.

“Yes, but just a little.” She leaned closer, smirking. That elicited a chuckle from him. Sighing, once again feeling comfort in the reappearance of their playful and unique banter, she sat back and glanced around, curiously. “Where’s your entourage?” She quirked a brow and saw him flush under her scrutiny.

He knew she knew that he had used his friends as a buffer. Clearing his throat with some embarrassment, he gave her a boyishly charming puppy-dog pout. “They ran off to harass some of the kids.” His eyes brightened as a mortified look crossed her features. He had repressed the sensation of the rush he received from needling her. Then quietly, he glanced down at his hands, aware that he needed to take it slow. That she wasn’t used to his inconsistencies. Not yet. Even though she was the one that encouraged such discrepancies in his behavior. When every erratic mood was applied in a weak effort to shield himself from her powers. “Or to play some of the games. I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on staying long.”

“Oh.” She fell silent.

“Rory, seriously…” He let his voice trail off, not sure he wanted to remind her of the question he had put forth earlier in their conversation. He waited until she turned inquisitive eyes on him, the genuinely warm, although almost sad smile still lingering on her lips. She waited patiently for him to continue. Swallowing thickly, he licked his lips and let the words rush out. “Why? And other than just because you’re that nice.”

His disclaimer caught her off-guard, and made her blush. She was almost certain he considered her annoying. And frustrating. And exasperating. Because those were the exact emotions she felt towards him. And she sensed that he might have resented her for not playing his game, by his rules. For not giving into him. For being so different than all the other girls. But never in a million years did she ever think he would consider her nature as being sweet or nice. Especially when the only other time he had been so gracious was when he described her as “odd.” Especially when the sentiments sounded so sincere coming out of his lips. As if he wanted to express more, but was too scared to use any stronger words. Words that would embarrass the both of them. Especially when there was no reason for him to feel that way towards her.

She hesitated, then looked down at her shoes, afraid to meet his eye. Afraid to show too much concern that would encourage him in ways that she had not wanted to up to that point. “Because no one else seems to care.” Her admission was made quietly, almost inaudibly. As if she didn’t want to call attention to what he didn’t have in terms of familial support and affection. But there was a passionate force behind the words. As if she would dare him to disagree, dare him to challenge her and accuse her of lying. Realizing that an awkward silence had befallen them, she glanced up, reluctant to see what expression would be adorning his face. Her breath caught in her throat. Then, seeing the intense and wistful gaze he directed unblinkingly at her, and not understanding why the look caused her knees to go weak even though she was already sitting, she added hastily, “And because I know what you’re going through. My grandfather had to be rushed to the hospital last year around Christmas time, and…” She was babbling, trying to ignore the look. Trying to assign any reason -- other than what the real reasons might have been -- for its presence. There was no way that Tristan could sincerely like her as anything more than friends. She was certain that, given any romantic aspirations, she would always be considered a conquest, especially since she did not think she was his type, and had heard as much.

“Rory, I’m…” His Adam’s apple bobbed with difficulty as he struggled to come up with the words to express how he was feeling. The turmoil and tailspin his heart had entered into. Anything. He was at a loss as to how to approach her. He wanted to make things better between the two of them. Wanted to be able to start from scratch with her again. Or at least, if not on a clean slate, to build on all the good things that had been shared between the two. But most importantly, he wanted to apologize to her for making her life so miserable, even though she had affected him twice as much. But he was afraid that once the words began to flow, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Wouldn’t be able to stop the other words, like he had the last time he had an opportunity to tell her how he felt - the ones that held so much potential for, and promise of, pain and anguish if rejected - from spilling out and ruining everything.

“Rory? What’s going on?”

Only Tristan didn’t have to worry. The loud and angry voice of the intruder shocked him into silence. And as his brain struggled to stay afloat and not drown in the sinking of his heart, he could only stare as, once again, the boyfriend made his presence known. Tristan didn’t think his world could get any worse, or that he could feel any more pain than he already felt. Even as his temporarily mended heart began to shatter once again. And while he sat, numb, and helpless to stop the breaking, he was hit by the absurd notion that his life had become more like a trite and cliched soap opera, than the carefree and effortless existence he had been accustomed to, ever since Rory had entered his life. And even though he knew he couldn’t stand by and just watch this time, there really wasn’t anything else he could do. He could try to goad Dean into a fight, but the tenuous strands of friendship he still held with Rory weren’t strong enough to withstand another attack on Dean. Her loyalties, despite the fact that she had continually taken steps to further their own relationship, were wholly with Dean. And anything he did against the infuriating boy would only strengthen those bonds. And send her back to remembering all the reasons why she subconsciously found it so easy to express hate and love when it came to Tristan and Dean. And send Tristan back to his moneyed and affectionless life, sulking and mocked by thoughts of what he could have had. Only, had either boy been watching Rory instead of entering into a surly and arrogant staring contest, they would have noticed that she was having her own internal emotional war.

“Dean.” The name sounded weak and pathetic coming out of her lips. And there was no way for her to correct that.

Only Dean hadn’t noticed. “What is he doing here?” The accusation was evident. His eyes never left Tristan’s face. And neither boy was willing to show weakness by conceding.

“I go here,” Tristan spat, standing up to his full height. Although he was considerably shorter than the other boy, his figure was more imposing. He belonged on Chilton grounds, even when they were masked by the façade of joyously carefree youthful indiscretions. And his confidence, in himself and in his status, silently reminded Dean of his position. “Why are you here?” he mocked, voice dripping with sarcasm. He had allowed Dean to enter his domain once before, and he had allowed him to turn Rory against him during that time. But this time, he wanted the other boy to know that he wouldn’t stand idly by, and watch a rehashing of the scene again.

“I’m supporting my girlfriend,” Dean growled, glaring at him.

“Good for you,” Tristan snapped, crossing his arms, unable to help as a contemptuous look of amusement crossed his face.

Dean did not appreciate the look. As if Tristan had refused to take him seriously. As if his money and social status made Tristan better than him. Even though he was currently in possession of what the rich boy so desperately wanted. Love. Affection. “Rory.” He locked eyes with her, almost pleading with her to step in and correct the other boy. To tell him off. To fix everything. To perhaps remind Tristan of where he stood in Rory’s list of priorities. And to cruelly remind him that Tristan could only be the receiver of her hate or indifference. Nothing more.

But Rory couldn’t. It hurt her too much the last time she failed at playing mediator. The day Dean had unexpectedly shown up at Chilton during her first week back. And she didn’t think she had the heart to repeat the script that had sent the past few weeks into motion. An emotional roller coaster where she hedged between wanting to make friends with Tristan, and wanting to pacify Dean’s anxieties regarding Tristan. “Dean, it’s not…” Her voice trailed off, as she racked her brain for something that would placate both boys. And to subside her own qualms and reservations about what kind of relationship she wanted with either boy. Her heart was beating rapidly, and she wasn’t sure why the familiar panic attack had chosen this very moment to surface.

“Make sure you use small words so he can understand,” Tristan jeered, smirking at Dean.

“Tristan,” Rory sighed, helplessly. He wasn’t helping at all. And she had counted on his cooperation. Especially when she knew Dean would not be as complying.

“Rory, what is going on?” Dean demanded again.

“Rory, you don’t have to explain anything to him. He doesn’t own you,” Tristan reminded, pointedly, his voice suddenly quiet. Rory’s eyes flickered helplessly between the two of them, and she prayed for some form of intervention. Only none was forthcoming.

“Like you do?” Dean snapped, caustically.

“No, but at least I don’t treat her like crap for something as simple as this,” Tristan retorted.

“And what is this?” Dean mocked, gesturing wildly around him. He was trying to hold it together. Trying not to let the rich boy prod him into doing anything foolish that would turn his own girlfriend against him. Even though he wanted desperately to drive his fist through Tristan’s skull. And Tristan appeared to want to do the same to him. He was reminded that they had never finished their fight from the winter formal. And that even though now would have been a good time to end it all, Rory would not have appreciated the sentiment. “She’s never going to like you the way you want her to so why don’t you mind your own business?”

“Dean,” Rory called out weakly, putting a hand on his chest in an effort to stop him from lunging at Tristan. He pulled back. And then she turned to Tristan, the expression in her eyes clearly begging him for control. Control he didn’t have because she had unknowingly taken it away from him. “Tristan, let me explain it to…”

“Don’t bother,” he fumed, knowing exactly where this was going. She hadn’t impulsively pulled the “hate” card. Yet. And he didn’t think he could stay there and wait for the inevitable expression of those words, used so easily to appease the other boy. The one who really mattered to her. “I’m leaving.”

“Tristan.” She called out feebly to him, but he only held up a hand, refusing to turn around again. She watched helplessly as he took purposeful strides away from them, the pain and betrayal so evident in the tension of his shoulders and the stiffness of his gait. And that made her upset. She whipped her head towards Dean, infuriated. “Dean, how could you…”

“Rory.” With Tristan’s absence, Dean had become calmer.

“Dean, you’re jumping to conclusions,” she informed, firmly, frowning.

He felt as if he had been slapped. “Am I?” he asked, incredulously. He knew that Rory wouldn’t lie to him, yet there was no mistaking the closeness that the two were sharing just moments before he had interrupted them. It was similar to the moment he had broken when he had shown up at her school that second time. And even though she continually assured him that she hated Tristan, or that the most she could ever feel for him was platonic indifference, Dean couldn’t be sure. He had too many unanswered questions and doubts.

“Yes,” she seethed, through clenched teeth. “I was just asking about his grandfather.”

“Why?” There was suspicion in his voice.

“Because he’s a good friend of my grandfathers, and because he’s sick. I was just being nice.” She didn’t know why she was defending herself. And she didn’t think she liked how it made her feel. Like she couldn’t be trusted.

He gestured in the direction that Tristan had headed in. “That guy doesn’t deserve your niceness.”

She sighed, shaking her head adamantly, trying to effectively end their disagreement. They had spent three months avoiding any and all conflicts, afraid that their newfound relationship would not be able to handle it. And now, in the span of a few weeks, they had been tested twice. And she didn’t think she liked hearing the doubt and accusations in either of their voices. “Let’s not do this.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Let’s not do this right now, or let’s not do this at all?”

She stared at him. “Let’s not do this at all because there’s nothing for you to worry about,” she informed, provoked. Then sighing again, she slumped down on the bench that she and Tristan had vacated only minutes before. The bench felt oddly cold and uncomfortable now. “Dean, you can’t do this every time.”

He stood before her, titling his head to the side, observing her. She looked exhausted, and he couldn’t link his actions to her behavior. In his mind, it was all Tristan’s fault. “What am I doing, Rory? Tell me. Tell me so I can stop.”

She glanced up, meeting his eyes. A small, assuring smile tried to make its way onto her face. “I can’t tell you that. Because I know that you won’t stop. You can’t help yourself.”

He sat down besides her, taking her hand within his larger ones. And mysteriously enough, the action was did nothing to alleviate any of the coldness she felt. It should have been comforting, and safe, but strangely, it wasn’t. It only made her more aware that things were unraveling. Between herself and Dean. Between herself and Tristan. “He just… I don’t like him. And I don’t trust him. And if you really hate him…”

She instinctively gave his hand a squeeze, stopping him in mid-sentence. “I need to form some sort of truce with everyone who goes to Chilton. How else am I going to make it through the next few years? And just because I’m talking to them doesn’t mean that I like or hate them,” she reminded, neither correcting nor furthering the lie.

“I just…” he hesitated, trying to come to terms with what she said she needed to do. What she sounded like she didn’t want to do, but had found it necessary. He could live with truces. He just didn’t think he could survive a real friendship between his girlfriend and Tristan.

“Trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing,” she assured, soothingly, hoping the words were enough to convince Dean when she herself had a hard time believing them. She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t think she wanted to know. She just knew that she did it, based on some subconscious need and explanation that she wasn’t willing to face, didn’t think she could face. “Come on. I’ll buy you some cotton candy.” She stood up and pulled at his hand. Reluctantly, he gave in. And as he wrapped an arm around her and she molded herself up against him, he found he could trust her. He just couldn’t trust Tristan.

“He doesn’t like you,” she stated, bluntly, as soon as she saw him at his locker Monday morning before class.

Tristan was startled by the suddenness of the statement, and he only glanced at her briefly before turning his attention back to his books. His sick grandfather and his run-ins with Dean were leaving him flustered and defenseless. She had snuck up on him without his knowing, even though months ago, that action would never have gone unnoticed. “The feeling is mutual,” he replied, neutrally, once he was back in control of his facial expressions and was able to hide behind a façade of bored indifference.

Rory shifted on her feet, sensing the unwelcome vibes emanating from him once again. And she idly wondered why it was that every time they overcame their awkward silent treatments to bring back their teasing and enlivening banter, it only ended up with the inexplicable, and inevitable return to the same avoidance tactics that had marred their relationship so far this year. “Why do you hate him?” she asked, unexpectedly, lifting her eyes inquiringly to him.

He paused, his hand stopping mid-way to the locker. He let it drop tiredly on the top shelf, and he leaned into the recesses of the locker, as if his legs and body were too tired to support him now. When he turned to her, there was a blankness in his normally vibrant ones. “Why does he hate me?” he asked, returning the question. There was an obvious lack of respect inherent in the question.

She frowned. “I asked you first.”

His jaw clenched, and turning his attention back to his locker once again, he pulled out the last few books he needed, and slammed the door. The action and unexpected noise made her flinch, startled. And now, he turned fully to face her. The rigidity of his posture and hostile glower on his face, though not necessarily directed at her, cut into her. “Do you really want to know?” he asked, aware that the harshness in his voice was injuring her. And even though he had vowed never to purposely hurt her again, there was something very petty and cathartic about making her hurt as much as she had done to him.

Her chin jutted out in response. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t,” she informed, just as piercingly, matching his arrogance.

The fire in her eyes made him pause. As if unsure of whether she was taking him seriously. Then shaking his head, he looked down at the floor, scuffing his shoes against the black and white tiles. “You don’t want to know,” he said, voice too tired to be fully insolent.

“I think I can handle it,” she retorted, aware that perhaps she really didn’t want to know, and that even though it wasn’t too late to stop, she felt an inexplicable need to continue. Even if it meant being pained by whatever he would have to say.

“What could you possibly see in him?” he asked, suddenly, aware that he wasn’t answering her inquiries.

“He’s sweet, and considerate, and he doesn’t treat me like a possession or make me miserable,” she shot back. She didn’t like the way he had asked the question, as if Dean were deficient in some way and she was crazy not to see it.

He blinked once, and tried to keep the hurt out of his voice. “He won’t be able to support you in your old age,” he retorted, emphasizing all the material things that Dean would probably never possess in comparison to him.

“He’s my boyfriend. It’s not like we’re getting married. And besides, money’s not everything.” She had a comeback for everything. Although she secretly wondered why he cared to even bring up such topics. Unless he wanted to rub it in her face that Dean may never amount to his social position and status. And that sent her into an infuriated tailspin at his audacity and conceit.

“That’s only what people say when they don’t have it,” he rejoined, suddenly wishing he weren’t in this conversation and hadn’t started on this topic.

“And that’s only what people who have it think,” she snapped. She wished she could take the dazed sheen out of his eyes. She had only posed a simple question, wanting to get to the bottom of the hatred that was shared between the two boys who had become, in their own ways, important to her. She hadn’t expected Tristan to enter into an argument with her regarding her tastes and choices.

“So what is it? His looks? His personality?” he spat, mocking each characteristic with a devilish glint in his eyes.

She rolled her eyes, insolently. “Jealous?”

“Hardly,” he scoffed. Even as the expression in his eyes contradicted the statement.

“It didn’t look that way at the fair.” She shook her head at him.

“How would you know? Once he miraculously appeared to rescue you from me, you couldn’t take your eyes off him,” he accused.

“Is that what you’re upset about? I asked about your grandfather, then I tried to defend you to him.”

“No. You didn’t.” His voice was soft, forcing her to remember that she really hadn’t tried to defend him. She had only floundered helplessly until Tristan had stepped away. And then, without his feelings to worry about hurting, she had fallen back into the same routine of soothing submission and pacification she entered into whenever she found herself at odds with Dean.

She paused, digesting this information. Trying to decide how she was supposed to feel. Tristan meant nothing to her. She wasn’t obligated to make him feel better; she wasn’t obligated to save his feelings or defend him to her boyfriend. And yet, she almost felt something akin to guilt for not having done a better job of explaining their friendship to Dean. “But that’s not why you hate him. Why?”

Glancing up, sharply, he met her defiant eyes. And the weakness he had tried to control at the end of last year, spurred by her obliviousness to his feelings and his attempts to reach out to her, was unleashed in full force. “Because he doesn’t deserve you, and you’re too blind to see that,” he snapped. And as soon as the words passed his lips, he panicked, wishing he could take them back.

She pulled back, eyes glazing over, as if slapped. The answer was not what she had expected. She thought Tristan would complain about what a jerk Dean was, or how he managed to rile him based on whatever contest of male machismo or insecurities she did not understand. She never thought it would have anything to do with her. But just as quickly as the surprise and fluttering of her heart overcame her, so did the indignation. This was Tristan after all, and he had no right to malign her boyfriend. Especially since she had worked hard to keep Dean from doing the same to him. “I’m blind? What else can’t I see?” she asked, sarcastically. She could feel the indignation rising.

He sighed, running a flustered hand through his tousled blonde locks. He had never wanted to be a participant in this conversation that she had somehow managed to provoke him into. There were too many painful directions it could go in. And none of the directions boded well for him. Or for her. “Rory, you don’t want to…” he assured, shaking his head, suddenly reticent.

The fire was still there. “You mean you don’t want to do this,” she objected.

“No, I mean you don’t,” he corrected. “I’ve already been through this, believe me.” And there was resignation in his voice that confused her.

“What the hell does that mean?” she demanded, unable to mask her bewilderment at his mysterious declaration.

He shook his head again. “It doesn’t matter.” He glanced down the hall, looking for a quick escape.

“It obviously does if you’re worked up about it.”

“I’m not…” He bit his lips, realizing that he did sound as if he were worked up about it. “I’m not, okay,” he insisted, calming down.

“Yes, you are.” And she couldn’t help but sound complacent.

“No. I’m not.” He frowned, upset. The calm was starting to dissipate once again.

Rory bit her lip, suddenly repentant. She wondered how a simple question with regards to why he disliked Dean so much had escalated into such a perplexing and baffling argument, where only one person knew what was going on, and would not share. “Tristan,” she said his name, quietly, thoughtfully.

And it was too much for him to take. “Rory, just leave it alone, okay?” And the way he pleaded with her to drop the matter made her freeze in place, unable to question his motives. He took two steps past her, as she stood frozen in place. Then turning on his heels to face her once again, he lowered his voice, trying for calm and soothing, but sounding only agitated. “It’s better this way. Trust me.”