Paige draws out the last word, and I laugh, abandoning my lone spot on the couch to join the party.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “But when it comes to Stars Hollow, I prefer the gentlemen.”
Paige whacks him with a giant pillow, and Miles obliges by wrestling it from her and arranging it so he rests against the foot of the couch, lounging in his fitted jeans and equally fitted black T-shirt. His inky hair and lashes are almost too much. The guy is a specimen to be reckoned with, adored by guys and girls as he adores both as well, and tonight the flirtation between him and Paige is palpable.
When I told Paige Miles was coming over, as he does most Sunday nights to binge-watch Gilmore Girls, she made it clear she had no plans this evening, either. While the two have met in passing, I’ve never mixed neighbor life with, well, Miles life. Right now I wonder if I should have thought twice about my invitation for her to join us.
Don’t break my neighbor’s heart, Miles. I kinda need her.
Instead of letting on about my misgivings, I shake my head at both of them. “It’s my choice tonight, and we’re not watching a Logan episode. We’re watching a Jess one.”
The two of them groan in stereo, but then a spark alights in Miles’s blue eyes.
“You want fucking ‘Swan Song,’ don’t you?” he asks, accusation in his tone and a grin on his face.
I don’t answer him. Because, damn it, he’s freaking right, and I hate when he figures me out before I mean him to.
“‘Swan Song?’” Paige repeats.
I stuff a guacamole-covered chip in my mouth and let out a tiny moan of pleasure before returning to mock surliness.
“Yes, I want to watch a Jess episode, and yes, I want to watch ‘Swan Song.’ But why do I get the feeling this choice of mine is about to come with a dose of analysis?” They can crush on Logan all they want, but my fictional heart belongs to Jess—troubled, closed-off Jess who could have held on to Rory Gilmore if he was only emotionally capable of letting go of his pride.
Miles sits forward, commanding Paige’s attention, ever the know-it-all grad student.
“Because it does, darlin’. Are you new? What’s the one class we had together?”
I roll my eyes because I know what he’s doing. Laying it on thick, as if he needs to, and all for Paige’s sake.
“You were a T.A. in my Intro to Psych class sophomore year.” Now he’s a doctoral student, working his way through school while earning his PhD in psychology.
Paige’s eyes widen, and she bites back a smile. Shit.
Miles nods in my direction. “Let’s take a look at the lovely Margaret’s attire.”
Paige directs her gaze, reluctantly, at me.
“Margaret, Miles? Really?”
He doesn’t falter. “The size of her university attire tells us one of two things—either the campus store was plum out of women’s sizes or even a small or medium in men’s, and our dear Margaret was desperate to represent the Gophers anyway. Or, this sweatshirt belongs to someone else, someone who, like our friend Jess Mariano in said episode, came into our lovely friend’s life with a shiner…and probably as much emotional baggage.”
I’m rethinking my wardrobe now, not only from Miles’s astute analysis. Maybe Paige was on to something with her choice of attire because the room feels much hotter than it did a few minutes ago.
“I’m not following,” Paige says. “Whose sweatshirt is she wearing?”
“Maggie?” Miles’s voice loses the taunting tone, and it’s all warmth now. “Tell us how the date that wasn’t went last night.”
I bring my knees to my chest and bury my face so I can hide the evidence that will give me away. When I come out of hiding, I can’t disguise the flush of my cheeks or the uncontainable grin that comes with remembering where I was only a couple of hours ago—back in Griffin’s shower. Then back in his bed. I smile because it’s him. I smile because I remember.
Then, because I really never wanted to hide this, not from Miles—and now not from Paige, either—I tell them everything.
Miles walks Paige home…to her next-door apartment, and I try to trust that he won’t make things difficult for me in the one place where I have the most control—home. When he comes back, he finds me in my room, pushing a thumbtack through a photo. Not on the bulletin board with the photos I need, the ones that serve a practical purpose, though there is a photo or two of Griffin there. No, this one goes on a small board that leans like a picture frame on my nightstand, the top edge balancing against the wall. On it are only two other photos—one of me and my grandparents from my high-school graduation, the other of me and Miles posing with my first piece of latte art. And now this one.