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“Wait,” Paris says, and catches Rory’s hand to yank her back. Rory leaves the door to Doose’s behind, along with all her hopes and dreams of this being a normal shopping trip.
“What?”
“I know that sloppy updos are hip with the basic-bitch-fluencers on the Insta, but you’re really pushing it. Come here.”
“Hey.” Rory swats her gently away. “Stop that. I spent a lot of time on those casual flyaway hairs.”
“We’ve got to look presentable,” Paris insists. She tucks some of the poor flyaways behind Rory’s ear.
“Is this just an excuse to gaze lovingly up at me again?”
“I don’t gaze.”
“I hate to break it to you, friend, but you can get pretty gazey.”
“I guess this’ll have to do,” Paris declares at last with a sigh. “At least you’re not wearing sweatpants.”
“Thank God,” Rory agrees. “Sorry I forgot my HRC pantsuit at home.”
Paris considers Rory’s jacket and jeans with intense scrutiny.
“I’ll get over it,” she declares generously.
Rory smiles to herself as they finally cross the threshold into Doose’s.
“Why are you so twitchy anyway?” she asks as she grabs a basket. “Everyone knows who you are. Our wedding was here. You’ve been coming to Stars Hollow since we were in high school.”
“But as a guest,” Paris protests. “Not a member of the community. Now that we’re Stars Hollow weekenders, we’ve got to make a good impression.”
Rory’s not sure if the tiny one-bedroom apartment within thirty-second walking distance of Al’s Pancake World counts as the stuff of weekenders, but writing and grading in Stars Hollow is way easier than writing and grading at home, and Paris is way too passionate a misanthrope to spend all her time in the city now that she’s in her forties. The possibility of a rage stroke is just getting too high. So on the weekends when the kids are with Doyle, it’s Destination Stars Hollow for the Gilmore-Geller marrieds.
“I’m not sure I can make a better impression here at this point,” Rory says. “Not to brag, but I’m kind of universally beloved.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve still got that jobless millennial stink on you from eight years ago. At least you can redeem yourself somewhat with the fact that you’re not under your mom and Luke’s roof anymore. You’ve got your own mailing address, finally.”
“Finally,” Rory agrees, and if she’s honest, she does feel a little glow. Rory Gilmore of Stars Hollow, take two.
“Hi Kwan,” Paris says briskly. “Paris Geller.”
“I know,” says Kwan from behind the register, confused. “You were at our house for dinner last night?”
Paris ignores him and slips him a crisp twenty. “There’s more where that came from. Spread the word to the Stars Hollow bag boy network.”
“Hey, Kwan,” Rory says, throwing him the Oh-that’s-just-my-crazy-wife wave she’s perfected in recent years.
Kwan looks a little less freaked. “Hey, Aunt Rory.”
“Is that allowed?” Rory muses as she and Paris walk down an aisle.
“Greasing palms got me to where I am today, Rory. Well, that and being a formidable genius who takes no BS. But never underestimate the value of slipping someone a crisp twenty.”
“What if it’s a rumpled twenty?”
“I know you think that’s cute, but don’t kid. So.” Paris claps her hands, the picture of efficiency. “What’s our vibe for this grocery sesh?”
“Well, I thought the vibe might be We Don’t Have Any Dishwasher Detergent And Also I Need Poptarts.”
“That’s not a vibe. That’s barely a list.”
“And yet the need for clean dishes and conveniently packaged toaster pastries burns bright.”
“I thought we might want a more specific vision for our maiden Doose’s voyage. So here’s the ingredients to duck breast with apricot chutney.”
Rory looks over the printed recipe Paris whipped out of her purse. “Um, Paris?”
“What? Is it that you think I can’t cook it? Oh, I can cook it. I’ve watched videos online. Eight videos online, to be precise. And I Zoomed with a Michelin star chef while you were in the shower.”
“Of course you did.”
“Kwan!” Paris shouts. “Tell Lane and Zach and the other one–”
“Steve,” Rory whispers.
“Fine, Steve – gee, that’s original – that dinner’s at ours tonight.” Paris turns to Rory. “We might be able to invite your mom and Luke too. Depends on whether this is a one-duck establishment.”
“I think it might be a no-duck establishment,” Rory says.
Sure enough, the meat section is totally duck-free.
“Are you kidding me?” Paris huffs. “What kind of self-respecting grocer doesn’t stock duck?”
“Tell you what,” Rory says, slipping her free arm through Paris’s, “you can take it up with Taylor at the next town meeting. There were rumblings that he might step down from the podium one of these months, but I think now that you’re here part time, it’ll keep him going for another twenty years, easy.”
“He does get a certain apoplectic shine when you question his natural authority,” Paris reflects. “I enjoy that. Plus, nice sweater collection.”
“He’s a cable-knit icon,” Rory says, “it’s true.”
Paris forlornly tosses some organic romaine lettuce into the shopping basket as they pass the veggies.
“Do you really want to host dinner for everybody?” Rory asks, touched.
“Well, yeah,” Paris says, sounding a little shy. Her voice goes brusquer, the way it always does after she’s momentarily vulnerable. “We got totally hosed on that gigantic table-”
“Are you kidding? That was the biggest discount in the history of Kim’s Antiques. I’m amazed you and Mrs. Kim both came out of that alive.”
“-so we might as well have guests over to make it feel like less of a ripoff. And besides. I like your Stars Hollow people.”
“You do?”
“Don’t get me wrong: I could make an exhaustive list of all of their flaws and use it to destroy them psychologically one by one if I had to. But they’re nice. Relaxed, or whatever. It makes sense why you turned out so zen.”
Rory feels sometimes like the only person in the world she could seem zen to is Paris. Maybe that’s part of why she’s never been able to quite get enough of her. With Paris, even in the nightmare early Chilton days, she’s always known exactly who she is, and what she can do. Which is a lot, as it so happens. More than she’s usually felt capable of.
“Not that you’re not a therapist’s wet dream,” Paris adds, with her usual tact. “But, you know. For whatever reason, despite your myriad hangups and crippling anxiety, you calm me down.”
“You calm me down, too,” Rory says, and kisses her. Paris gives her a small, sweet smile. “Hey, what if we did pasta for dinner?”
“Pasta? What are we, Al’s Pancake World?”
“See, now you’re getting it.”
“If you didn’t have so much weird, nostalgia-fueled affection for that place, I would get that guy shut down for health code violations like that, by the way.”
“I know. Thanks for refraining.”
“Thanks for appreciating how hard it is for me.”
“Always. Well, what if we made … artisanal pasta?”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know. There’s strategically placed pieces of kale? Which my mom will pick off, by the way.”
“Strategic kale,” says Paris thoughtfully. “I can work with that.”
“Look at us,” Rory says, smiling, as they turn into the next aisle. Paris has already taken out her phone to look up new recipes. “A totally successful maiden voyage shopping trip. Wait – hold on a second. Kwan?? Kwan? Where are the Poptarts?”
“We’re out,” Kwan calls back.
“You’re out?? Did my mom have something to do with this?”
“No comment,” calls Kwan.
“Not so fun, is it?” Paris crosses her arms.
“Duck was a long shot, Paris. But Poptarts? Poptarts are a grocery store staple. Not to be dramatic, but when you go to the grocery store, I think it’s reasonable to expect Poptarts as your grocery-store-given right.”
“Is now the time we have the conversation about how consuming ultra-processed food in fun Candy Land colors in your forties is basically shaving years off your life with a cheese grater?”
“No,” Rory sulks.
“Right,” Paris sighs, and pats Rory on the shoulder. “There, there.”