He met her on winter break at her home in Lima – the only one on the street with no lights in the windows, though the spotlights illuminating the elegant façade her dads had had put in two years ago were up. She was sniffling on the couch, watching "Funny Face", and she only let him in because after three days with a chest cold, she was tired of being alone.
Will had let her go almost a year ago – small rendezvous in the choir rooms between classes and long hours after school in his office had led to her getting hurt and him almost getting fired. So, she turned 18 and went to college without his blessing, but he still kept tabs on her through the Glee club kids. They communicated by email, once or twice. She stepped that up to about once a month or so through her first year of university.
Voice lessons weren't going that well. It seems that her pure soprano actually needed work that Will didn't have the expertise to provide. He got the impression she was angry with him for this; like he should have known better how to nurture her voice. Surprisingly, instead of annoyance, he felt guilt.
He should have known better about a lot of things. Like he should have waited to make love to her until she could handle it.
They'd had their first sex session in his office. She bent surprisingly well for one with such restrictive clothes. She was tight, almost uncomfortably so, and he didn't enjoy it because he didn't really understand why he was driven to make love to her. She cried out – it hurt her. After they were finished, she was in tears and he vowed never to go that far again.
Of course, it happened again. It happened countless times – through the winter months, behind the dusty black curtains of the auditorium stage; once painfully, against the splintery scaffolding of the drama club's Juliet balcony. It happened after hours in the choir room, her back grinding against the carpet of the riser; it happened in his office, straddling him in his chair.
It happened too many times. And he put an end to it after they were almost caught by Emma Pillsbury, working after hours one night.
In the end, it didn't work because it never could. She was a baby. And through the last of her school years, her body matured, but her attitude didn't. Though the childish tantrums were replaced with knowing looks and thoughtful silences, she was still the same spoilt Rachel Berry, and he was still the same nervous, indecisive Will Schuester.
He thought she probably felt some relief when she managed to move on with her life. He thought that he'd feel relief, too; however, all he felt was a strange emptiness and sadness. He loved her. She was certain she loved him once, she said; now, she thought of him fondly, as a favourite teacher who helped her get into Columbia University in New York City.
He rings her doorbell now, listening to the unfamiliar chime roll through her expansive hallway, and hears her light step coming closer. When she opens the door, her face wears an expression of shock.
She hasn't changed much. She let the bangs she wore through her junior year grow out, and the soft darkness frames her face beautifully. Her big dark eyes catch the light from the street, and despite her startled expression, her wide, joyful smile is the same.
"Will. Why are you here?"
The biggest difference in Rachel Berry is the sound of her voice. It's more melodic, more modulated. She's been taught to control her voice, and gone is the whiny and shrill note that made Will want to cover his ears. He can hear the power behind her words, and suddenly, he aches to hear her sing.
Instead, he smiles. "Hi."
She lets him in wordlessly, the cold whisking past both their feet, and leads him to the kitchen, where he settles at the island and watches her pour them both a glass of red wine.
"I didn't expect you. Ever, in fact," she says honestly, turning towards him slightly. Her body is slimmer, less baby fat than her high school days. She's toned, and her movements are graceful instead of anxious and jerky. Her hair is straight, shining down her back. He takes a moment to admire the curve of her ass under her fleece pants and her breasts under her T-shirt before looking at her face again. Then he smiles.
"I was in the neighbourhood. I missed you, and I thought I'd drop by to say hello."
"It's Christmas Eve," she says, and hands him the wine. "Why aren't you with Emma, or with your family?"
"Emma's gone," he says, and that's all she needs to know. Her eyes widen, in the old way, and she inclines her head.
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"No, don't be." He sighs, takes a sip of wine. "It didn't work. It never will. We're better friends, and I just . . . well, Rachel, I miss you."
"Why?" Again, the direct question coupled with her honest eyes makes him want to look down in embarrassment. He tells her the truth.
"Last Christmas in New York. I just miss that. And miss what we had."
"You miss it because it wasn't supposed to happen," she says, and turns away from him, pretending to do something at the sink. "You weren't supposed to be there. You weren't supposed to contact me again that way. We agreed."
"We agreed, and we shouldn't have," he says, hearing his voice rise in frustration, because they've had this argument about twenty times and it's the same old bullshit. "I had fun. And so did you."
"Yes, I did," she says, and now the expression is back on her face, the same one she used to give him when she was a child in Glee club, arguing for a solo. "I did and I did it because I missed it, too. Will, I have a boyfriend now. And I just don't need this. It was off from the start – risky. I should never have flirted with you."
He feels a rush of guilt. He knows she's been carrying that with her – their almost being caught; the secrecy, the constant glancing over their shoulders, wondering if someone was going to notice, someone was going to read the apprehension in their eyes, the way they looked at each other.
"It wasn't your fault," he whispers, staring into the ruby depths of the wine, and she sighs.
"It always takes two."
"I love you."
"I loved you, too."
They move to the couch in the adjoining great room, and she smiles a little at his careful leg crossing. "Don't worry, I won't cuddle with you. And you'll be enough of a gentleman to keep this a friendly call, and not anything silly, right?"
He marvels at her, her legs curled under her, her 19-year-old body beautiful in the light of the gas fire, and he smiles again, his face tender.
"I respect you, Rachel. Of course."
She swirls her wine, looks into the fire. "I think I liked it best when we just took off that night. Left my dorm, left your hotel, and went down to the tree at Rockefeller. I'm Jewish and I adore that tree."
"I think you don't need to be Christian to like a Christmas tree."
"It wasn't that. I don't really care why it's there. It's the lights – all the lights. And the fact that anyone can see it, just glowing there in the centre. It's like it was magic, last Christmas. I sometimes don't believe it happened."
"I don't believe it, either," he replies inanely, although he thinks about it constantly – always, in fact. He misses Rachel. He's a fool, but he misses her.
She smiles, then. "You bought me spiked eggnog and we got really drunk."
"You threw up on the street. Such a classy lady," he teases, and she punches his arm, screwing her face up into a silly grimace.
"Shut up!"
"I suppose you did all that with Jesse this year?"
"No. We were too busy. Final exams were right up to the holidays and I just didn't have time, through the studying and the singing. My voice is raw, now. I've been resting it while my dads are away."
He allows himself to rest his hand on hers for a moment, in supposed sympathy. What he really wants to know is if her hands are still soft. She used peppermint lotion constantly through high school. When she raises her hand under his, he catches a faint whiff – she still does.
He then looks at his lap, and his corduroy pants blur in his vision, and she sounds far away as she asks gently, "Will, why are you crying?"
Because. Because he's a fool. Because he's an idiot. Because he loves a young girl he never should have loved, and never was allowed to love.
"Because I miss that. You, New York, and Christmas when it's special with someone else."
She gives him a sad smile, and moves into his space, leaning against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
He pulls her into his arms, then, and holds her tightly, then whispers, "I don't know why I'm here."
She doesn't answer him, but they lie on the couch in the heat of the fire for awhile, until her regular breathing leads him to believe she's fallen asleep. When he looks down, her eyes are closed, but she's not sleeping.
She's humming. "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough . . ."
He joins her in harmony. "And have yourself a merry little Christmas now."
Her eyes meet his, and he kisses her, so softly it barely registers. When he opens his eyes, there are tears on her cheeks.
She walks him to the door, and holds it open as it begins to snow outside. "I wish I could let you stay."
"No, you don't, and that's okay," he says – and he means it. It is. It's safer this way, even though she's legal – their time is done. She deserves what she has.
She smiles again, that Rachel Berry smile – the confidence, the joy, the control – and it softens into something beautiful, more womanly than he's ever seen her.
She drops a kiss on his cheek. "I think you should call Emma. I think it's time."
"I hope you have a great rest of the holiday," he says in return, and she smiles again, this time a little satirically.
"I hope you find what you're looking for, Will."
He doesn't answer, but when she closes the door, and he's standing in the snow – he remembers.
What he's looking for is to be loved. And for a brief, New York moment – he was.