It wasn't the email, it was the address.
She couldn't have given two shits about the baby in the photograph or the two of them smiling back at the camera holding their bundle of fucking joy.
All that mattered was that he sent it.
In that moment, Quinn knew she'd tasted forever and let it go. It was time to go get it back.
Ignoring the messages from her boss about passing deadlines and the snoring body on her bed (was it Mark? or Michael, she didn't remember) she threw some clothes into a bag and grabbed a Coke from the fridge before closing the door behind her.
It was a little less than five hours from Chicago to Lima- four if she pushed it (and she always did).
Just the sight of the "Welcome to Ohio" sign was enough to make her sick, but she knew she'd do anything to get him back. Swallowing the bile in her throat, she put in the CD from their Prom and let the memories soothe her.
The crown was theirs and everything was perfect. They smiled. They were beautiful. They were everything they were supposed to be. The weight of the crown was comforting, it anchored her to the dance floor as the spotlight shone on just them, dancing, dancing, dancing.
She hadn't listened to the CD in six years. Not counting that one time when she drank a fifth of vodka after Paul dumped her. No, she didn't count that because she didn't feel anything.
But this, what her and Finn had, this was real. He just didn't realize it yet. He just forgot.
The two liter bottle next to her was empty and she had to pull over at a rest stop to pee.
She hated rest stops, they made everyone seem like a vagrant. She hated the sideways glares she got walking up to the building in her Uggs and baggy sweats. Who were they to look at her like that? She was Quinn fucking Fabray, cheerleader, Prom Queen and successful writer. She left this hick state behind and drove a mini Cooper, for crying out loud. Those tired moms with their bratty kids and useless husbands can get back into their minivan and drive to soccer practice. What did they know.
It was dark by the time she pulled into the Holiday Inn, but waited for the song to finish before cutting the engine and heading inside.
The lobby was dim, the carpets worn, and everything smelled vaguely like cigarettes. The girl behind the counter looked like she'd rather be skinning a cat than be there. She couldn't have been more than what, 16? 17? Quinn smirked.
The girl, slouched in her seat texting, jumped at Quinn's purse slapping down on the counter.
"I'd like a room, please. Smoking," she says, sliding her credit card across the wood veneer.
Wordlessly taking the card, the girl (Danielle, her namecard says) clicks a few buttons and slides the credit card and room key back over.
"Room 304. Left out of the lobby, elevators will be on your right, you can't miss it."
Danielle's eye makeup is uneven. Quinn judges her. "Thanks," she says.
By the time she dumps her bag in the room and finishes checking her email (which includes shopping the sales online), it's only 7:30. Already she feels like crawling up a wall. This feeling won't do, so she pulls a silky shirt and tight black pants out of her bag, lays them on the bed and takes a shower. An hour and a half later, she parks outside Mulligans, the bar they used to go to during breaks at school.
While the phone rings, she fluffs her hair with her left hand.
"Hello?"
Quinn smiles instantly. "Hey, Finn, it's me!"
"Quinn?"
"Yeah, I'm in town for a few days to take care of some real estate and thought maybe we could get together?"
There's only the slightest fraction of a pause before he answers, "Yeah sure, that'd be great."
It's already coming together.
"Great! Want to meet at, say, Mulligans at 9?"
There's a grunt and some fumbling on the line, "Sorry, Quinn, I'd like to but can't really do spur-of-the-moment things anymore. Being a Dad and all... I've gotta get a bottle ready for Amy, so tonight isn't really great. What about tomorrow. There's this place, Sportscasters off Findlay. They've got great nachos. How about six?"
Quinn rolls her eyes. Nachos are on her "do not eat" list, with all the fat and salt in them. Instead she smiles, even though he can't see. "Sure, that sounds great."
"Awesome. Okay see you then, Q."
She hangs up. Her mood is shot. She's pissed, but it'd be stupid to waste the outfit. She needs a drink anyway, so heads into Mulligans and flags the bartender.
"Jack, straight up, and a vodka tonic, please," she says, hanging her jacket on the back of the stool. The bar is mostly empty, a small party lingers in the back nursing a set of beers and a plate of fries. Quinn absentmindedly watches the game that plays on the TV behind the counter, downs the Jack and nurses the vodka tonic. A plate of cut cucumbers and grilled vegetables slides down the bar and clinks against her glass.
"Hey, watch it," she snaps.
The woman with the offending plate swivels in her stool. "Well I'll be damned."
She smiles, cocks her head and holds out her hand. "Quinn Fabray, Rachel Berry. I believe we went to high school together."
Ugh.