It was way past midnight when Rachel returned to the loft alone.
It was Saturday night- well Sunday morning and she felt grateful she didn't have to perform again until Monday. Eight shows a week, two on Fridays and Saturdays. This was her dream. This is what she wanted. Funny Girl was enjoying an unprecedented run, it had been three months since opening night. Despite taking Rachel back after her FOX audition fiasco, Sidney was still keeping her on a tight leash. She had the feeling he had agreed not to fire her out of necessity not by choice. Over the last three months Rachel has been eating, sleeping and breathing Fanny Bryce. The look in Sidney and the other producers eyes when they look at her, further commits to the role. It's a bittersweet cocktail of disappointment, disgust and admiration. And it's all her fault. The stupidity of her actions only occurred to her after the deed was done, after she realized what a flop the audition was. There was no way she was right for that role, that was clear from the moment she opened her mouth to sing. Who knew a TV show called Song of Solomon wouldn't actually involve singing. For about eight hours, she truly believed she had made the right decision, and that she; like many small town, abnormally attractive, neurotic girls who come to New York City seeking fame and fortune, could indeed have it all. That bubble burst with even the slightest touch. It occurred to Rachel that she should have listened to Kurt.
She has a similar thought around this same time every night she comes home to the empty loft. Overwhelmed by the silence and stillness of the place this time of night- it felt almost hollow without Kurt and Santana there, or anyone for that matter.
"Not that you're here to say I told you so…" Rachel said just loud enough for her to hear her own exhausted voice, but quiet enough that she could deny those words were ever spoken to any possible unexpected listener. Not that there was any. Rachel wasn't in anyway bitter about Kurt's absence; she was ecstatic for him. But that didn't mean she wasn't missing him. Chicago was the furthest Kurt had been from Rachel in five years. NYADA's work experience program, and his internship at secured him a job at Chicago's leading theatre company. Rachel tried desperately to get Kurt a job with the producers of Funny Girl, but Kurt so quickly pointed out the still volatility of their relationship, which in fact was built upon a 'righteous power-struggle for the ages', and that it would be so easy to fall back into old squabbles in the inevitable high pressure situations. It was apparent to Rachel that Kurt wanted to get out of the city for a while, after his break up with Blaine, and if he wanted to work in theater it was probably best done off Broadway- the whole city was buzzing with accolades for Funny Girl and its new star Rachel Berry.
So Chicago it was.
Thoughts of Kurt flooded through her mind as she filled the teapot and put it on the stove- a post show ritual. No matter how hard she tried she couldn't quite make the tea as good as Kurt. Was it the extra lemon, or a tad too much honey? Or maybe just the fact that she didn't have to do it herself. It was too late to call now; she made a mental note to call in the morning before work. She let the tea brew and took a long shower, washing away the flush from the stage lights, letting the ringing in her ears dissipate with every drop of hot water that came cascading down her face, she felt all the important mental notes she made during the day (Kurt included) come flooding out of her ears, and watched them circle the drain before quickly disappearing from sight. Rachel felt better already. She smiled a quaint peaceful smile, a look in her eye radiating gratitude. When she finally got out of the shower, steam filled the small bathroom, hugging her tightly as she wiped the mirror clear to be greeted by her own familiar reflection. She took a deep breath as she pulled her McKinley tank, silently acknowledging the word tattooed on her ribs, as she did every night, Finn, then went to the living room to stretch. She poured her tea, before sitting cross-legged on the Persian rug Kurt picked out at the flea market, stretching out her hips, shoulders, and calves. All things considered she was feeling pretty good. She worked hard, looked after herself, and still made time to enjoy experiencing some of her dreams that were appearing to be coming true. It still continued to surprise her, she still had surreal moments, where she couldn't believe the life she had been swept up in. Like the moment when she's on stage after "Don't Rain on my Parade" and can finally look out to the crowd. Every time it shocks her, seeing the looks on peoples faces, when part of her is still expecting to see her own teenage reflection looking back at her as she sings into her golden hairbrush. God, she was such a dork- Santana would agree that she still is.
She felt her body start to loosen up, her shoulders relaxed- the tension she was holding in them had disappeared. She sat in silence for a while, sipping her tea, as the city moved and hummed around her. The windows creaked; she could hear traffic, and the constant city sounds that always seemed to be floating through air- inseparable from the night itself. From her position on the floor she thumbed through a crate of records, last nights soundtracks were still scattered delicately on the rug: Celine Dion, Joni Mitchel and Kate Nash. She smiled at the obvious choices she had made the night before, the perfect music for her sleepy, melancholic sadness. Like brewing tea, and stretching, records had become a part of her 'wind down' routine. Santana brought the record player home one day, mumbling something about stealing it from Dani after she left town. Rachel never took much notice of it, admiring the obvious art of music on vinyl from a distance: but still she found it an inconvenient way of listening to music. She didn't see the appeal of having to listen to a whole album through just to listen to the one song you actually wanted to listen to in the first place. As someone who knew just the right song for any mood or moment, most of which were recorded by strong, independent, empowering women, she had trouble relinquishing control. She never mentioned this to Santana however; she seemed to have some powerful connection to the idea.
Most of the records in the loft were Santana's (the Joni Mitchell, obviously) but Rachel had begun to add to the collection as she fell more and more in love with the old machine (the Celine Dion, obviously). Rachel had grown to appreciate listening to an album. She took comfort in listening to music in its rawest form, as the artist intended it before the digital age remixed, shuffled and re-released it. All credit to Mr Shue and his "mash-ups", but Rachel had learnt a lot about music on the floor in that loft. She put last nights back in the crate and made her next choice: Tapestry, Carole King. As she set the needle to play the A side, she reached for Santana's headphones and put them on. Immediately the sounds of the city fell away, and Rachel was drowned by incredible silence, something extremely rare in New York City. She sat in a cool anticipation waiting for the familiar sounds of the record crack and whirr, and the comfort it was known to bring. Rachel sighed and smiled. Letting her tea go cold, she was fast asleep on a pile of cushions before track three.
When she woke the next morning, she was greeted by the dull New York sunlight battling to break through the clouds. As familiar she was with this situation, waking up this way every morning for the last two weeks, something felt different. Her tea was cold, the record was stuck in a melodious crackle through the abandoned headphones, and her neck felt a little stiff: nothing new. Rachel's mind was cloudy with obvious sleepiness, but she thought it must be the sun. It was brighter today, she thought, hoped; it just might break through those heavy blanket clouds. Bound with a bright new optimism, Rachel stretched out from her spot on the floor. She was ripped out of her smooth morning slumber by a sharp, familiar voice, slicing through the silence of the loft like a knife.
"My god Berry, you're five cats, and a home haircut away from being too bitter for the too young to be bitter club"