His favorite jeans were tattered and faded and had been bought before the look was in and authentically transformed to be that way through too many falls from his skateboard after attempting tricks with ridiculous names that she had stopped trying to keep track of. She knew that Kirsten had made countless attempts to throw them out and it was times like these, watching movies on the Cohens’ gigantic leather couch, all curled into Seth with her hand on the denim, fingers playing into and around the holes, that she was glad they’d survived… although who would have thought the day would come that Summer Roberts would be glad to see Seth Cohen’s bony knees and pale chicken legs through the holes in his gnarly ripped-up jeans? And she was pretty sure that they had been bought years ago, which was weird considering he was like seventeen and a teenage boy really shouldn’t be able to fit into his jeans that long. Seth had at one point explained to her that he went through some kind of demented ‘gangster’ phase in an attempt to fit in (and who could blame him, poor kid? A lot really had changed in a year…) and bought them, “like, twelve sizes too big,” (a truly Cohenesque hyperbole) and part of the reason they were so torn up was their terrible hugeness and the adverse effect they had on his coordination because apparently Cohen missed the memo that skateboarding and gangsta so do not mix.

Another reason, though she would never admit it to anyone, that Summer liked those jeans so much was because they did wonders for Cohen’s scrawny ass. She had grabbed it more than one time when he was wearing those jeans…

But mostly she liked them because they were Cohen, more than his ugly vintage tee-shirts, more than his argyle sweaters, and maybe even more than the truly heinous band t-shirts he loved so dearly: they were unconventional and authentic and truly loved.