Emma Pillsbury hated messes. That hatred, that fear, was the one constant in her life, and she clung to it. She cleaned her condo, polished her shoes, matched her cardigan to her brooch every morning because she feared disorder. She feared anything being out of place.

But although it was easy to clean the physical messes, the emotional messes—the turmoils she felt inside—those were the ones she really needed to be afraid of. Those were the ones that it took more than Clorox to clean up.

Will Schuester wasn't a messy person; his sculpted jaw was always clean-shaven and his ties matched his shirts. But to Emma, Will's presence in her life always brought messiness with it. His existence had caused her cautiously applied eyeliner to stream sloppily down her face as she sat in the car, in the rain, singing "All By Myself." His unavailability had driven her into the stinky confines of a boys' locker room to accept the marriage proposal of a man she respected but nonetheless viscerally reviled. Will's pearly white harbor sneak attack kisses had left her panting, sweating, almost ready to abandon her primness and propriety. Almost.

But her fear of the messiness that came with intimacy stopped her. Really being with Will would mean that there would be the physical spot of blood on the bedsheets and the uncontainable emotional frenzy of being in love.

Emma hated losing control, because it exposed her to messes. Her feelings for Will were uncontrollable. More than that: Will was uncontrollable. She couldn't rely on him. He lied, he cheated, and with her unrestrained fury and hurt and betrayal came those dreaded mascara smears again.

So when Will plopped down a pair of tickets next to her bagel in the lunchroom and asked Emma to go to Sectionals as the Glee Club's good luck charm, she needed to remind herself to stay in control. To block out the memory of last year's Sectionals, of standing in the hallway the following Monday in a green peacoat and gasping for air as Will's lips unexpectedly pressed lovingly, pleadingly against hers.

"I would love to," she said with a smile, accepting Will's invitation. She was proud of herself for keeping year-old memories at bay and turning her attention, instead, to the best interests of the kids. "You're a constellation of stars. I would just hate to think that you might be ignoring some of them because they don't burn quite as obviously bright." Emma smiled to herself with satisfaction as she saw the message sink into Will's brain. She had always been better at fixing other people's problems than her own, after all. It was why she had become a guidance counselor. Cleaning up messes that were external to her was fun, relaxing. Clorox.

Later that morning, when she chatted with Carl on the phone from her office, she didn't tell him she was going to Sectionals with Will. She knew he'd be angry, after the Touch-a Touch Me debacle. Ugh, she didn't want to think about that—that moment, as she grasped Will's chest and sighed into his neck, had definitely been messy. She pushed the image out of her head while she listened to Carl, confident in her decision not to tell him about Sectionals. No point causing the mess that would come from his anger and unease.

But when Rachel and Finn showed up in her office that afternoon for "couples counseling," Emma realized that she was having a harder time keeping the messes from forming inside her than she thought. "Why her? Do you think she's prettier than me?" Rachel asked Finn. Emma's thoughts flashed to April Rhodes, her thighs peeking out from under her miniskirt and her blonde hair framing her eyes. No, Emma told herself. No, no, don't remember that. "Is it productive for me to slap him right now?" Rachel asked. Emma remembered a time that she stood in a red pencil skirt and a black-and-white striped sweater in front of Will in the faculty lounge, clenching her fists at her side to keep herself from slapping him. No, she chastised herself again. And when you watch Rachel storm out, don't think of yourself storming out of the faculty lounge either. This is about Rachel and Finn. Not you and Will. Emma realized in that moment that she wasn't avoiding a mess by not telling Carl about Sectionals; she was headed straight for a bigger, stickier mess if she got on that bus and went with Will. Her memories of him that she kept neatly tucked away would come flooding out.

Emma decided to face the smaller mess—the one that would be easier to clean up—and tell Carl. She rarely fought with Carl, and when she did, it didn't fill her with the kinds of passions that her spats with Will had. With Will, she had bottled up desires and dreams for years while he was married to Terri, and it were those little bottles that she had so unwisely kept in her heart that would come spilling out whenever she acted on her feelings—love and hate alike—toward Will. With Carl, there were no little bottles. There was a clean slate. Sure, she didn't thrill at his touch the way she had with Will, but that was just as well. If the highs with Carl weren't quite as high, that also meant the lows wouldn't be as low. And Emma, with her fear of losing control, really hated the lows. No, she told herself, it's better to play it safe. Stay in the middle. That happy medium. Balance. The yellow belt to balance out the demure lavender of her pencil skirt and cardigan.

When she told Carl about Sectionals, there was a mess, a fight. Carl was angry. But Emma kept her cool and talked him down. She was a guidance counselor. She could clean up after Carl. Clorox. Much easier than cleaning up after herself.

When Carl told her, in a fit of passion brought on by jealousy, that he loved her, Emma saw a glimmer of hope that the greatest of all her fears would be assuaged. Because while Emma hated messes, the one thing she feared the most was winding up alone. She was a thirty year old virgin. She was never the girl that guys noticed. She was too quiet, too shy, too quirky. She was well-dressed and had sumptuous red hair, but she wasn't classically pretty. She was bony and her eyes were too big for her face. Worst of all, her OCD was, as she had once told Will from the depths of her insecurity, "a totally unattractive quality."

And yet, Carl loved her. This handsome, successful dentist—who made a living from cleanliness and hygiene—loved her. She saw an opportunity for herself, an opportunity to spend the rest of her life with a man who never left a mess around the house or in her heart.

"I love you too," she told Carl with a smile. She watched his face light up as he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her, gleefully, passionately. No fire lit up inside her, but she did feel a smug satisfaction. She had done the rational thing; she had picked Carl. Screw Will. "In fact," she told Carl honestly, "I could really see myself spending the rest of my life with you."

That Saturday morning, Carl showed up at her condo out of the blue and rushed inside when she opened the door with a questioning look of surprise on her face. "Emma," he said breathlessly. "I've been walking on air since you told me you love me. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about what you said, about how you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with me. I woke up this morning from a dream about you, half-expecting to find you curled up at my side in my bed. When I realized you weren't there, I thought to myself, why isn't she here? What am I waiting for? I need to make Emma Pillsbury my wife."

Emma's breath caught in her throat as Carl went on. "Let's go to Vegas, Ems. Let's get hitched. Hell, it's crazy, it's impulsive, but it makes perfect sense. We love each other, so let's do it."

Emma had a brief moment of panic at the thought of doing something so impulsive. Getting married on a whim? No chance to get fitted for the perfect wedding gown? No neatly stacked invitations waiting to go out to friends and family?

Then again, if she did marry Carl, she didn't feel the need to go shouting it from the rooftops. There was nothing to be ashamed of—he wasn't Ken—but there was nothing to be all giddy and bride-ish about, either. It's not like she was marrying Will or anything.

Will. That's when the real panic set in. If she said no to Carl now, he might leave her. She'd be alone again. Or not... she knew Will had some fight left in him. There was a chance Will would fight for her. And she didn't trust herself to not give in this time. And then she would be taking a risk, losing control, making a mess.

No, it was better to marry Carl and seal the deal. There would be no going back then. A wedding in Vegas sounded impulsive, but it actually was the rational choice for Emma Pillsbury. Will Schuester and his messy kisses and betrayals couldn't hurt her anymore if she became Emma Pillsbury-Howell. If Will tried to fight for her then, that would be the prelude to adultery, and she knew Will wouldn't do that. Will was good, kind, passionate...

No. Don't think about Will, Emma reminded herself for the millionth time. Marry the safe, boring man in front of you, who tries to get you to loosen up but doesn't succeed at unleashing the passions inside of you.

So it was that Emma Pillsbury-Howell stood in her office that Monday morning, trimming her plants, occasionally glancing at the wedding ring sparkling on her left hand. It was as if nothing had changed. She and Carl had flown to Vegas, gotten married, and flown back to Ohio. She got back to her condo, neatly packed up her clothing and jewelry, and took it back to Carl's house so that she could move in with him. They were tired from the trip and the moving and Carl didn't want to pressure her, so even her virginity had survived the weekend. It really was no big deal.

So she didn't know why she was nervous about seeing Will. She knew she would have to tell him she got married, and there would be an awkward moment between them, but then she would get to go home to Carl. Her husband. Her neat, orderly husband. And she would get to stay in control.

"Hey!" she heard Will's voice call from her doorway, and she had a moment of panic. She nervously brushed her hair out of her face with her left hand, hoping he would see the ring and it would do the work for her. But she quickly composed herself at the sight of the trophy—an excuse to talk about Glee Club. A mess that she had helped Will clean up. Clorox.

"Congratulations!" she said brightly. "I wanted to call you but I, uh..."

Uh-oh. Just do it, Emma, she told herself.

"I need to tell you about my weekend."

"I think I'd rather not hear all the details."

"Carl took me to Vegas."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Screw it, she thought. I'll let the ring do the talking after all. Less messy. She held up her left hand and gazed at Will expectantly.

"Is that an engagement ring?" he asked anxiously.

She met his hazel eyes and was dizzy for a moment, but she reminded herself that this was the only way she could keep her future mess-free. "It's a wedding ring, actually."

She looked up to see Will struggling to find words. She looked down again, nervous.

"I'm happy for you."

She heard Will's voice breaking. She heard the pain, the frustration, the anger, the hurt, the betrayal. She heard it all and her heart broke. "Will, I..."

"Let's just leave it at that," Will said, his voice low and even. Too even. Those hazel eyes betrayed him, because she looked up at him and saw them brimming with tears, threatening to spill out. Oh no, she thought. If they spill, they'll make a mess, and I'll have caused it.

Emma realized then that she had made a mess after all. She had made a mess of Will's whole world. She had been selfish. She had acted as if she were the only real person in this scenario and Will was just a fantasy that tortured her dreams, not flesh and blood.

That evening, when the school was empty and Carl came to her office to pick her up, Emma Pillsbury-Howell kissed her husband and flashed him a smile as he gazed into her eyes afterward. She was grateful when she felt his hand run up her shoulder blade, pulling her close to him, because it meant she could hide her face behind his neck. Because when she looked at her husband's brown eyes, all she could see were the tears pooling in Will's hazel ones. She bit her lip, thinking of that tearful mess she had made, and willing herself not to cry, too. Because Will's life without her was one mess she had no idea how to clean up. It would take much more than Clorox, and she just couldn't face it.