Capture the moment – it's something you learned to do, back when moments were suddenly things you couldn't take for granted; time was not something that you automatically had more of. Situations that may seem forever were only for a second; you lost two women to faults of your own, faults of their own, and when she came into your life, you were hurting, unbalanced, and even afraid.
It's easy to fear the next thing, to count the seconds, the minutes; maybe this time it will be different; how many anniversaries will you get to celebrate this time? She taught you, through her innocence, that it doesn't lengthen any stable situation to count time, that living in the moment is all human beings have, and that enjoying is more important than regret.
She didn't realize she'd taught you any of this, but that's the nature of teenagers. Babies in some ways, wise in others – with Rachel Berry, you fell in love first with her well-trained voice, secondly with the woman that she occasionally became.
It was never anything you planned, but nothing that ever mattered in your life was planned, either.
/~/
She cries – a lot, and ordinary Thursdays in the choir room turned into therapy sessions long after the rest of the Glee club had sneaked away to other, less dramatic pursuits. You'd hold her in your arms – the slight, almost childish form, her soft hair falling coldly over your arm, the wetness of her tears seeping through the shoulder of your shirt. You knew, probably, that this wasn't kosher. However, Rachel Berry is hard to resist, and what kind of asshole would you be if you could handle Emma Pillsbury's extreme mysophobia and not be able to comfort an average sixteen year old girl?
"Rachel, it's okay. It really is. No one expected you to be able to sing that ballad perfectly."
"I am well-trained, Mr. Schue! It was unacceptable, and I'm sorry, I threw the whole choir off." She sat back, sniffled, and you handed her a Kleenex, feeling more than just the usual annoyance.
"Rachel, are you and Jesse okay?"
You hadn't known about Jesse until she confessed it one day, sitting cross-legged on the hard riser, her hair sticking to the sides of her cheeks. You hadn't realized that men could still be this cruel to women, even under peer pressure, and your heart broke a little for this girl who never got a break, never got a smile – was part of every conspiracy theory and the butt of every joke.
It was that first day that you'd held her, just against your chest, your arm around her shoulders. She'd leaned against you, buried her face in her hands, and cried, probably in a way she never let herself before.
She ceased to be as annoying; you stopped trying to ignore her suggestions, and you started walking her to the car as the leaves turned green on the trees and the harsh Ohio winter weather turned softer.
She started giving you smiles before she drove away and you started waiting until she'd made the tricky left turn out of the student parking lot before packing up to leave, yourself.
/~/
She is a good baker, and has been well-trained by her gay dads to learn that the way to any man's heart is through his stomach. She started bringing sugar cookies to rehearsal and you found yourself looking forward to the latest batch, chewy and sweet, covered in butter cream icing dyed her signature pink.
Later, she'd stand with you and mark up music, pointing at certain measures and trying to talk through a mouthful of cookie. Sometimes her rattling comments were nauseating; sometimes they were needed, but most of the time you spent trying to grab the pencil back out of her inquisitive fingers and erasing the stars she doodled on the edge of every score.
One day, she wouldn't say anything, but she seemed to want to hang close. You learned her dads had gone on their yearly pilgrimage to San Francisco, and she was alone in the house. You had about a metric ton of Spanish quizzes to mark, but you let her hang out while you chewed on the end of your red pen, frowned at some of the Cheerios' odder answers, and sighed and shifted in your chair, just wanting the day to end.
She did her homework quietly, and then sat staring at the floor until you realized she was crying.
"What's the matter, Rach?" You'd fallen easily into the nickname, and she raised her head, her bright eyes finding yours.
"I'm just tired of being alone, Mr. Schue."
And somehow, despite how wrong this was, even with the choir room door wide open, you ended up holding her again, close, and watching the tears make silver tracks down her cheeks. At the last, she raised her face to yours, to study your eyes; at the last, you leaned forward and kissed off some cookie crumbs that still clung to her red lips.
/~/
Summer arrived. The humidity was unbearable, but you don't like to run the air conditioner more than you have to. Instead, you spent the time on the balcony of the apartment, watching the summer traffic go by, the ice cream truck tinkling, the children laughing under the umbrellas of the spreading green trees, showing the underside of their leaves, begging for rain.
It's an idyllic scene; it becomes more idyllic when Rachel joins you and you both sit, strumming your guitar, listening to her gently idling through a jazzy rendition of the latest Norah Jones or humming to one of her favourite show tunes.
When she looked up, you caught her smile, and despite the cares on your mind, you smiled back.
"You want to sing some Georgia Stitt?"
She never said no, to anything you suggested.
Later, you sat on the couch and held her tiny body in your arms. She's sixteen – only sixteen – and this mantra rings through your mind as you let her sit in the hollow of your lap, her arms around your chest, her head cradled on your shoulder.
She's only sixteen, but you kissed her, anyway.
When you broke apart, her lips were glistening, and without another word, she leant in again.
Time was measured by so many kisses this summer. Time was suspended because without the order of school and classrooms, you can believe she isn't another teenage girl, and this isn't forbidden.
/~/
She started bringing special-order books from her home to sit at the piano with you in the living room. Well, you say piano; it's really a keyboard, a "crappy Clavinova", as you tried to tell a disbelieving Terri. She never got the allure of a real piano; Rachel, after the first rendition of a piece from "The Light in the Piazza", grimaced and turned away.
"I can't stand electronic music. Isn't there a place we can go that isn't all tinny and weird?"
So, you end up driving to the local library. Hushed in the quiet auditorium, there's an expensive Steinway grand. You strummed the keys, listening to the rich sound rolling out into the blue-covered velvet seats.
Rachel, standing in the centre aisle, cocked her head and gave you an unbelievably joyful grin.
She belted out into the back of the auditorium, her well-trained voice with the hint of immaturity keeping pace with the grandiose sound of the Steinway. She leant forward, opening her chest, forcing the chest voice to bubble up out of her stomach, to really "sing from her hoo-ha" as she'd constantly, adorably, quote Kristin Chenoweth as advising.
It's awkward, but also strangely endearing.
You lay with her on the carpeted hardness of the side right aisle and looked at the stained glass piercing through the dusty auditorium air, the summer light creating a grotto effect, here in this place of classical music and amateur public record productions.
She made the first move, but you can't say you didn't stop it when you should have. Instead, you let your fingers move over her budding breasts, the tiny nipples, the gentle swell, and dip down into the softness of her warmth.
Clearly, her time with Finn and Jesse didn't leave her totally innocent; her eyes darkening, she bit her lower lip, reaching into your pants, hand closing around your hardness, moving with assured and confident strokes, almost to climax.
You pushed her away, that time. The rest of the summer, the Thursdays in the auditorium were not always as innocent, and the Steinway often sat, dust gathering on its black polished top, while the music slipped off the edge of the stage to scatter beside your entangled legs.
/~/
You're back at school, teaching six hours a day, prepping another four, and she's around, all the time. Her birthday is December 17. Seventeen, to you, really isn't any different than sixteen, but hushed and harried conversations in the back of the McKinley High auditorium and on the benches beside the track tell you that Rachel believes differently.
Honestly, it's not as if this is a milestone either of you should be proud of. You spend a lot of time together hashing out the pros and cons of this relationship. She insists no one will ever find out. You have her over for cinnamon buns and coffee on the weekends and you spend the day on the cool terrace, listening to Bach or Vivaldi. Sometimes you spend the day in bed, reading parts of the paper, or watching her sleep, her deceptively innocent lashes betraying how young she really is.
It's not that you'd give it up. The sex is good, and she's learning fast, but it's not that that keeps you going. It's that you wish she was at least ten years older, and maybe somewhat more mature; she's everything you've wanted in a woman, and yes, you love her faults, too.
She has a very naive way of insisting that you both know enough to keep it secret. However, anyone could see her on your balcony, and anyone could walk by and catch you kissing in the choir room. It's getting harder to explain away the weekends, to even take phone calls, though she stays as quiet as a mouse in the bedroom while you pace the kitchen. She's over at your place more often than she's home, and her dads, clueless as they are, don't realize that it's not a community theatre project she's attending.
You decide to end it one October day, and she stands, disbelieving, on the cracked and broken asphalt of the parking lot, just as it starts to rain.
You put the umbrella up under the bright leaves as she starts to cry.
"You're being a coward," she accuses. "You love me."
"I do," you reply, unable to deny it. "But I can't lose my job, and you deserve a teenage relationship. You play very well at being an adult, Rach, but it's not fair to you."
You expect her to throw a tantrum, hurling insults, carefully-worded bombs that explode in your face, causing you to shield yourself, but instead, she just cries.
"I've been so happy," she whispers, barely audible above the rain, and you feel like an asshole.
Let's face it – you were an asshole for ever allowing this to happen.
You man up, refusing to look her in the eyes, and shake your head. "This isn't allowed. This never should have happened."
"Well," she replies, picking up her bag and throwing you an expression of utter hate, "have fun telling that to yourself when you have to go to bed alone."
You watch her drive away, her wheels slipping on the slick road, and feel absolutely drained.
/~/
She calls at midnight; you refuse to pick up the phone.
Seven missed calls; you set the phone to vibrate.
It isn't until you actually hear the banging on your door that you realize this has more of a fallout than you ever imagined.
You get up, pad to the door, and find her leaning against it, red hoodie pulled over messy brown hair, two spots burning high on her pale cheeks.
"Rachel," you begin, but she vomits onto the hardwood, and you realize that she's drunk.
"You can't just leave," she insists, and stumbles into the apartment, knocking against the plant by the closet. You automatically put your arms out to catch her, and she rests in them for a moment before bursting into tears.
You're unnaturally annoyed, probably because she just vomited on your floor, but you fast realize that this is not teenage angst. She is dangerously fragile. She heaves, her tears catching in her throat, and you manage to steer her to the sink before she empties her stomach again.
You choose not to address this tonight. Instead, you sit with her in the bathroom until she stops being sick, then you hold her like a baby against you, letting her feel your heartbeat, letting her rest her head on your shoulder and wrap her legs around your waist.
She is hiccupping from tears; you lay her in bed and watch her face crumple as you grab the throw to spend the night on the couch.
"You think you can just go, that this never mattered. It mattered. It mattered to me, Will!"
So, you make the second biggest mistake of your life with Rachel Berry and you stay in bed with her. She clings irrationally to you and you mutter into her hair, trying to get her to quiet.
"I won't leave you tonight. I promise, I won't leave you tonight."
She falls asleep, exhausted, and you finally understand that this is starting to get dangerous.
/~/
Her birthday comes and goes, and you take her to Columbus to see a travelling production of Wicked. The actors are understudies from the Broadway production, but she stage-doors like any fangirl and you know, despite her airy pontificating on how Idina Menzel does "Defying Gravity" with more emotion or Shoshana Bean has a smoother transition on "No Good Deed", that she is enjoying this; that it's not every day anyone gets to see a Broadway, Tony-award-winning musical, and that although she pretends to know all about it, she's really, very much so tonight, a teenage girl.
Later, you drive back to Lima and pull over at a coffee shop for a pick-me-up. She's been asleep in the car, but she wakes up briefly to use the washroom and buy herself a donut. It's only a two-hour drive back, but she stands blearily with you at the counter and rubs the sleep out of her eyes.
"Did you enjoy the play, sweetheart?" You've started using terms of endearment with her because she smiles so softly when you acknowledge the relationship in any way. It's changed since the night in October; she's more cautious, less willing to let weekends slide because you're both busy, less likely to forget to call. Even now, she's standing defensively, her stance protective.
You feel awful because you're the one that did this to her, and truth be told, you are still looking for an out – not because you don't love her, but because now, you love her too much.
She nods, smiles, leans against the musty leather of your coat, and murmurs, "Thank you."
She sleeps against the window and you rub a hand over your face, feeling the tired buzz of coffee in your legs and a headache starting up behind your eyes. You hash it out mentally in the car, and focus on ending it once again.
And then the moonlight touches her features, the length of her eyelashes, and you wonder why you can't be happy with what's given – with who's right there in front of you.
You decide not to end it.
She listens to the Wicked soundtrack on repeat for the next three weeks.
/~/
By the time the leaves are coming back on the trees again, the relationship is over, and you didn't have to do anything at all.
After Christmas, she stopped calling. You called a few times to see what was up, but there was never any answer. She started avoiding you in the hallways and she started skipping Glee practice.
You chastise yourself for being bereft over the loss of Rachel, but it isn't so much that you weren't ready to end it as it is that you weren't ready for her to be the one to make the decision.
Later, you corner her in the auditorium and she tosses her hair.
"I agree. It's not healthy. And I don't want you to lose your job, either."
"You know that's not why you ended this. Don't lie to me."
She blinks a little at your sharp tone, and frowns. "This is what you wanted. Don't pretend it isn't."
You get tired of her tone and sink down on the piano bench, and then her face softens. "Will. I'm going to college next year. I'm just . . . too young for you."
"I know," you say, and are surprised when you end up focusing on two tears that drop, unbidden, to the ivory piano keys.
"I love you," she whispers, and you know it's true. You shake your head, vowing to be professional, but you can't meet her eyes.
Regardless, she lifts your chin with her finger and meets them, anyway. "I love you. I just . . . you don't like the same things as me. You get tired of me easily. And I think this is harder for you than it is for me."
"It doesn't mean I don't love you," you say, and she nods.
"I love you, too. It's just not the same, now. I feel like I'm always walking on eggshells."
"I feel like I could hurt you. And I have hurt you."
"I don't want us to break up," she whispers, "but we have to. You can see that. It's not fun anymore, Will."
You spend some time playing random chords on the piano after she leaves, and you listen to her laughing backstage with Finn and Tina, trying on the polyester nightmares you wore to Nationals in '96.
When she comes out with the rest of the Glee club, you're just the teacher again, and her soft smile is the only reminder of the past seven months.
/~/
Graduation is a bore every year; this year, you decide to attend not out of duty, but because Rachel's graduating, and soon she'll be gone forever.
You've maintained the teacher-student relationship well. She asked for help with her Juilliard audition; she got the acceptance letter two months ago and she baked you sugar cookies again to celebrate. You'd almost kissed her then – almost – and then the slight dip of her chin, across and away from you, told you that that time was done.
Nevertheless, she sat with you beside the piano on Thursdays and practiced for fun. She'd now learned to sing for the sheer joy of singing; the difference in the two years you'd heard her voice was astounding. The ribbon of the soprano on the air was exquisite; you often had goosebumps, all the way up to the top of your arms.
Now, you watch her cross the stage, her robes swirling around her legs, and she takes her place at the podium to deliver the valedictorian speech.
"I won't begin to speak for my classmates," she begins. "I'm not about to give yet another tired valedictorian speech for all of us. High school is a learning process, and that's what I'd like to speak on today."
She finds your eyes in the crowd, her smile falters a little, and then her voice grows stronger.
"I was a loser. I was part of a loser crowd. We formed a show choir because we had nothing else to do with our time, and it's comforting, being a part of something great. And we were – we were great.
"I learned that it's little moments that matter. I don't care that we didn't win Nationals. I care, and we all cared, that we managed to learn something doing it. Whether it's a bad test, or a great essay; a science project gone wrong, or a life-changing relationship," – and here, she finds your eyes again – "high school wasn't just another cliché. Not for me, and not, I hope, for this graduating class."
You watch her give the speech, her back straight, her voice assured, and remember the same stance when she conquered "Back to Before" from Ragtime; when she insisted she could sing higher than her natural range if only she pushed, and when she insisted to you that sixteen is really not so very young, after all.
She finds you after she gets her diploma and smiles, sadly. "Thanks, Mr. Schue."
"Rachel – it's Will." You won't have this travesty, and she shakes her head, agreeing.
"Will. I miss you."
"I miss you. I will miss you."
She sighs, puts a hand on your arm. "I'll miss them, too."
You feign innocence. "The Glee club?"
"No. The Thursdays." She smiles. "The ordinary Thursdays."
You want to kiss her, remembering her crossing her legs in the lawn chair on the balcony, her hair shining in the Saturday sun, her voice curling from the stained glass in the library and the many hardworking hours at the piano in the choir room, and blink.
"Thursdays. I'll miss them, too."
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