Author's Note: Part twenty (wow) of the Don't Blink series, set between A Feline Casanova and Every Hour Has Come To This. This one will have three parts, but I'm breaking form a bit and posting part one before part two is complete. Next part should be finished in the next week or two. Don't worry; this part can actually stand alone.
Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta and my fandom soulmate.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.
Dust On Every Page
And I guess we fell apart in the usual way.
And the story's got dust on every page,
But sometimes I wonder how you think about it now.
And I see your face in every crowd.
~Holy Ground, Taylor Swift
Part I: First Glance Feeling On New York Time
Spending thirty minutes packed like a sardine in an overcrowded subway train isn't something that she enjoys. It's about twenty degrees hotter inside than it is outside, it smells like sweat and tobacco, and she's pretty sure that the noticeable bulge in the pants of the guy sitting next to her isn't being caused by his cellphone, but she hasn't let her gaze wander back in that direction since she'd accidentally caught that first glimpse.
The wheels clatter against the tracks as the train lurches around a bend, sending her sliding across the seat and nearly into the guy that she really doesn't want to touch in any way, shape, or form. It's on days like today when she remembers exactly why she hates this city. It's been such a long week, and she'd worked through most of her Saturday. Sunday is typically the only day that she gets to relax in the relative peace and quiet of her apartment, and yet here she is, on her way into the heart of Manhattan to battle the crowds for no other reason than her own warped sense of amusement. She's not sure it will be worth the hassle.
By the time the train finally rambles into Bryant Park station, she's ready to emerge from the subterranean hell, and for just a moment, she seriously contemplates walking to her destination just to avoid another stuffy subway ride, but the temperature hasn't quite dropped enough to keep her from turning into a sweaty mess before she makes it to Greenwich Village. Sighing, she grips her messenger bag tightly, tucking it close to her body out of habit as she weaves through the crowd at the platform and makes her way toward the underground passage that will connect her to the 6th Avenue line. Thankfully, most of the passengers who traveled with her from Queens have dispersed in various directions, and the D train is much less crowded.
In less than ten minutes, she's finally—gratefully—climbing the staircase to greet a gorgeous October day that's just cool enough to make the typically stale city air taste fresh on her tongue. She takes a deep breath and a moment to get her bearings as she admires the clean lines of St. Joseph's Church across the street, built one hundred and eighty years ago in the Greek revival style. Honestly, she thinks it looks more like a library than a church, which is slightly amusing to her when she considers that her destination today is actually a library that could easily be mistaken for some old-world cathedral that was dropped into the middle of Manhattan.
She walks the three short blocks uptown, away from Washington Square and into the heart of the village. She can see the red spires of the Jefferson Market Library barely kissing the blue sky, and she can't help but appreciate the Victorian Gothic architecture. That's why she's here after all, in this city in general and specifically on this street on a Sunday morning. This weekend is the annual Open House New York, when a plethora of the city's landmarks open up their doors and let the public inside to see their hidden secrets. When her boss had mentioned it several weeks ago, her interest had been piqued, and she'd found herself browsing through the list of available tours before ultimately deciding that the chance to climb to the top of the clock tower on the historic landmark was too tempting to pass up.
She's been to this library before. She'd walked a slow circle around the impressive exterior before entering to appreciate the detail in the interior design and stained glass windows under the guise of browsing the shelves. She's always loved old buildings. There's a certain grace to them that's so rare to find in modern architecture, which is probably why she's finding herself so drawn to restoration projects. The library speaks to her for that reason too. It was originally a courthouse, renovated and converted in the 1960s after preservationists petitioned to save it rather than see it torn down, and now the clock tower proudly watches over Greenwich Village. She can't wait to stand on its balcony and become a tiny part of its history.
When she turns the corner, she's met with a line of people waiting outside the door. They only allow about fifteen people into the tower at a time, and it's only open for a few hours before the door will once again be locked until next year. She'd thought that she was suitably early, but apparently a good number of residents and tourists had gotten the same idea. All things considered, she supposes it could be worse, and she digs out her phone, briefly glancing at her messages before switching on the camera and snapping a few pictures of the building. She can't even bring herself to care that she looks like a typical tourist.
She studies the stonework, sloping roofs, and gables, not paying much attention to anyone around her, until the man behind her barks out, "Hey, lady, the line's movin'," in the typical charming New York drawl. She frowns in irritation, sparing only the briefest glance over her shoulder before she shuffles forward all of five steps to close the gap between her and the woman in front of her. In a few moments, she reaches the door, and the gentlemen playing sentry waives her inside when he discovers that she's a party of one. Sarah grins in satisfaction when he stops the guy behind her and tells him that he'll have to wait until the next tour.
The space inside the entryway is small, and she bounces on her toes in an attempt to see over the heads of the group in front of her as their tour guide introduces himself and gives them a rundown of his qualifications—twelve years as a senior architect at Gensler and a list of very impressive locations for which he's had a hand in the design. She's sufficiently impressed.
She inches a little closer, finding just the right angle to see one-third of his face as he begins to speak about the building, giving a crash-coarse history lesson on the library and the Venetian inspired clock tower into which they're about to climb. She loses interest in her obstructed view of their tour guide fairly quickly and instead allows her gaze to dance around the walls, floor, and ceiling as she lets his voice inspire thoughts of the original architects designing and building the structure over a century before. She really does love old buildings, and she's so lost in her revelry that she almost doesn't notice when the group begins to move forward toward the one hundred and forty-nine spiral stairs that will lead them into the tower.
She's actually grateful to be the last in line, taking her time to carefully climb the steps and trail her fingers along the walls in admiration without anyone thinking she's a weirdo with a fetish for stone and mortar—even if she kind of is. The climb is purposely slow to limit the risk of vertigo from moving in seemingly endless, upward circles. She's in good shape, so it's an easy effort, but she definitely understands how quickly a person could become disoriented in the narrow staircase. Eventually, they reach the "fire watchers" balcony where the bell once rang to summon the volunteer firemen.
She slides along the interior wall, torn for a moment between listening to their guide expound on the history of the bell—Old Jeff—and slipping out the nearby door onto the actual balcony to take in the view of the village, but spontaneity has never come easily to her, so her feet stay rooted to the floor. She ignores the familiar tickle of regret that comes from letting the moment slip away.
The rest of the group has already spread out a little, a few looking out the windows while others check out the bell or stare at the giant white spider that climbs the outside of the tower every Halloween. She smiles at the little boy hiding behind his father's leg as he warily eyes the Styrofoam monster and leans back against the wall, allowing her own eyes to wander around the room until they catch on a blonde turning her head to whisper to the woman standing next to her. She feels the breath leave her lungs, and in a heartbeat, she's thrown back five years in time to the very first moment that she'd seen that unforgettable profile.
xx
"You know, generally, paintings are more enjoyable when you step back and take in the whole picture."
Sarah inhaled sharply at the unexpected interruption of a husky voice just over her shoulder and quickly stepped away from her position—nose practically pressed against the gilded frame in front of her as she'd studied the intricate, arabesque design through squinted eyes. She felt her cheeks heat in muted embarrassment as she turned to apologize, certain that she was about to see one of the gallery staff poised to reprimand her for getting too close to the artwork. Instead, she encountered a gorgeous blonde standing to her left with her hands casually folded behind her back as she studied the portrait.
Sarah's gaze lingered helplessly over a very appealing square jaw and high cheekbones before it started to slip a little further down. The heat of her blush intensified, warming her ears before creeping down her neck to her sternum, and she silently cursed—not for the first time—the way she always seemed to be reduced to a tongue-tied, red-faced mess in the presence of a beautiful woman. Sometimes she really wondered how it had taken her so long to realize that she was gay, but then she supposed that growing up in her small town of Fennville, Michigan, where boys and girls were practically paired off at birth, might have had something to do with her complete lack of self-awareness. It had taken a summer working for her aunt at a bed and breakfast in Saugatuck and an out-and-proud blonde in a bikini who really knew how to kiss to fully introduce Sarah to her sexuality. She'd spent her last year of high school vacillating between panic attacks and a welcome serenity at finally discovering the missing piece of the puzzle that was her. Coming to Yale had been a revelation.
It just didn't make her any better with women.
"I…um," she began, nervously clearing her throat. "I was admiring the frame."
The woman's head turned, pinning Sarah with light-brown eyes filled with amusement and leaving her breathless all over again. The woman was gorgeous—like straight-out-of-a-magazine, can't-be-real-must-be-airbrushed gorgeous. "It's a very nice frame," she conceded as the traces of a smile flirted around her mouth. "But you're missing out."
The painting paled in comparison to the woman in front of her. Sarah paused a second to make sure she hadn't said that out loud—luckily, it seemed that she hadn't. "It's Stanford White," was what she blurted out instead. She stifled a groan and the urge to press her hand over her eyes.
A musical laugh filled her ears as the woman smiled fully, and Sarah decided that breathing was overrated anyway. "The painting," she stressed, nodding to the moody image on the wall, "is by Thomas Wilmer Dewing. Most people would be admiring that."
Sarah felt her face flush a shade darker. "I'm not most people," she muttered, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jeans as she dropped her eyes to the floor.
The woman sighed, and Sarah waited for the rustling of fabric or the clicking of heels to signal her departure, but instead she heard, "He was an architect, wasn't he?" Her eyes darted back up to see a soft smile and raised eyebrow. The blonde tilted her head. "I think a friend of mine mentioned his name when she was giving me a dissertation on the history of Madison Square Garden."
Sarah's own eyebrows rose in surprised pleasure. "He designed the second building," she said slowly, "but it was torn down in 1925."
The woman nodded. "Didn't he get murdered on the roof?" she asked with a wry smile.
Sarah grinned despite the inappropriateness of the action in relation to the subject matter, but she was just so tickled to meet someone outside of her fellow classmates who knew anything about any architect. "That's an unfortunate thing to be remembered for when he designed so many noteworthy structures, like the Washington Square Arch for example."
The blonde's eyes sparked with interest, and Sarah could see that the irises that she'd initially thought were simple brown were actually flecked quite liberally with green. "Really?" she murmured before taking a step closer to the painting to examine the frame more intently.
Sarah studied the graceful line of her body and the curve of her neck, swallowing thickly before she attempted to moisten her lips. "He…he designed the frame specifically for the painting." When the woman glanced back at her, she stuttered out, "He…um…he designed a lot of…of frames…for artists," she added dumbly.
The blonde grinned. "Do you have a thing for frames, or are you just a history buff?"
Sarah wondered if her skin could actually burst into flames from acute embarrassment, but she forced her head to stay up and her eyes to meet the blonde's measured gaze, because there was one thing that didn't embarrass her. "I'm an architecture major."
"Impressive," the blonde commented with a nod. "So I'm guessing you're more interested in the gallery itself than the exhibitions." Her grin bordered on a smirk as she tipped her head toward the painting again. "Except for this frame, of course."
"The painting is nice too," Sarah admitted with a shrug before glancing around the gallery. She couldn't exactly deny that she was more interested in the modernist design with its geometric ceiling and the beautiful combination of concrete, glass, and steel. "But the building is a masterpiece."
The blonde laughed, and the sound resonated so richly and fully that Sarah could feel it flutter inside her chest. She'd never believed in silly things like love at first sight, but she certainly knew the signs of sexual attraction when she felt them. She figured the chances of this woman reciprocating were pretty slim. She just didn't have that kind of luck.
Those glittering eyes, the true color of which she still couldn't quite determine, danced around the gallery before they settled back on Sarah, filled with good humor and crinkled at the corners from the smile that colored every inch of her face. "I have to say, I've never really paid much attention to the place other than thinking that the natural lighting from the windows really complements the artwork. Maybe I've been missing out," she mused in soft tones, taking a single step closer and causing Sarah's throat to go dry all over again. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in enlightening me on what makes this place a masterpiece. I'd hate to remain ignorant."
Sarah couldn't quite decide whether she was being teased or flirted with, and she drew in a shaky breath. "Um…I…I could…if you really want me to. It's probably kind of boring though."
The blonde tilted her head to the right, still smiling with twinkling eyes—they were really kind of greenish now. "I highly doubt I'll be bored. Architecture is just a different form of art, isn't it?"
Sarah grinned in return, practically standing to attention. "Yeah. Yeah, it is," she agreed eagerly, happy to have finally met someone who understood.
"I'm Quinn, by the way," she announced, holding out a hand in invitation. "Quinn Fabray."
Sarah glanced down at the offering, slowly lifting her own hand to slide her palm into Quinn's—sweet lord, even her name was gorgeous. "Sarah Cartwright," she practically whispered as she shook Quinn's hand, feeling a little thrill race through her when Quinn didn't immediately let go.
"It's nice to meet you, Sarah."
The smooth purr of her name falling from Quinn's lips sent a shiver racing down her spine. "Yeah," she practically sighed, reluctantly pulling her fingers away from the silken warmth of Quinn's hand before clearing her throat. "Um…nice to meet you too."
xx
The impromptu lesson in the architectural history of the Yale Art Gallery—during which Sarah had rambled endlessly about the Louis Khan Building in addition to the adjacent Old Yale Art Gallery and Street Hall, and Quinn had shown either unparalleled interest or commendable patience—had been followed up by an equally impromptu cup of coffee at the Booktrader Café. They'd spent another two hours discussing history, literature, and their respective majors until the café staff had turned off the lights and kicked them out the door. Sarah hadn't quite figured out that it had been an actual date until Quinn had called and asked her out on a second. Things like that—having a beautiful, intelligent woman seamlessly maneuver her around her own nervousness and into a first date—just never happened to her. She should have known it was too good to be true.
Sarah stifles a frustrated groan and bumps her clenched fist against the wall behind her. She isn't being fair, and she knows it. She'd ultimately been the one to end their near two-year relationship, but only because she could feel Quinn slipping through her fingers, pulled away by this godforsaken city and the very woman standing next to her now.
Rachel fucking Berry.
She wonders if she can slip back down the stairs without being noticed. Damn it, she'd really wanted to stand on the balcony and see the view. She knew she should have just stayed home today. She's still debating what to do when their tour guide claps his hands and suggests that they all head outside. Sarah watches Quinn's gaze come up, and for just a moment, she gets to see that rare, unrestrained smile that she'd always felt so privileged to witness before it freezes on Quinn's face and then melts away into wide-eyed shock.
So much for slipping away unnoticed, Sarah thinks grudgingly. She forces a crooked smile and lifts her hand in a half-hearted wave.
Quinn visibly inhales, and yeah, the whole scenario is pretty weird, and Rachel is eyeing her disdainfully. Sarah really just wants to flip her off, but she keeps on smiling thinly through gritted teeth. Rachel fucking Berry. Like running into her ex-girlfriend isn't already bad enough without also having to deal with the most annoying of her supposed best friends. She's done a pretty good job of avoiding the both of them since she'd moved to New York five months ago—that's the one good thing about this city—even though she'd once stumbled over Rachel's name and picture as she'd flipped past some pointless pseudo-news in the Times about an equally pointless show on Broadway. She no longer has to pretend to like the self-absorbed woman for Quinn's sake.
Oh, who is she even kidding? She's probably just going to keep faking her smile and make some stilted small talk with both of them before she escapes in the opposite direction from wherever they're heading.
Sarah drops her hand, tucking it into her pocket along with her other one, and takes her own fortifying breath. Quinn looks a little dazed as she walks forward, and Rachel follows behind her with crossed arms and a frown.
"Sarah," Quinn breathes out.
She hates that the sound of her name on Quinn's lips can still make her shiver. "Hi, Quinn," she returns, feeling her smile become a little bit more genuine. She can't help it—Quinn looks good. But then Rachel sidles up next to her, and Sarah is forced to acknowledge her with a jerky nod and a muttered, "Rachel."
She doesn't get a verbal acknowledgment from the woman in return. She doesn't even get a painfully forced smile. It's not really surprising. She'd always suspected that Rachel Berry was only attempting to be nice to her for Quinn's sake, much the same way Sarah had with Rachel. But really—how was she supposed to relate to someone who thought that Andrew Lloyd Webber's contributions to the world were somehow as significant as those of Frank Lloyd Wright? As if a man in a mask screeching a poor imitation of opera could ever compare to the beauty of Fallingwater. Having a conversation with Rachel had been a chore that Sarah had only undertaken for Quinn—and lord, the woman had even burst into song once right in the middle of a coffee shop! Who does that?
Sarah's attention doesn't stay on Rachel for long, not when Quinn is standing right there in front of her again. Her hair is a little bit shorter than Sarah remembers, but she hasn't really changed at all. If anything, the few extra years of maturity have made Quinn even more stunning. It's just not fair.
"It's been awhile," she comments, digging her hands deeper into her pockets to keep them occupied. She remembers all too well what they felt like tracing the curves of Quinn's body in darkened bedrooms as they'd trembled with quiet reverence.
"Yeah," Quinn agrees softly.
"You look good," she says before she can think better of it, even if it is the absolute truth.
Quinn breathes deeply, shaking her head so slightly that Sarah probably wouldn't have noticed it if her eyes weren't busy drinking in every nuance of her face. "What are you doing here?" she asks with a tiny frown.
"Touring the bell tower," Sarah quips evasively, offering a shrug and a grin. She isn't willing to have that conversation right now. "Which…we should probably…you know," she nods toward the balcony and gingerly takes a sidestep in that direction, "see the view before we get kicked out for the next tour."
Quinn's frown deepens, creasing the skin between her eyebrows. "That's not what I…"
"We definitely shouldn't miss the view," Rachel quickly interrupts, brushing a hand over Quinn's biceps. "We can enjoy the fresh air while we catch up." She flashes that too-wide, fake smile that has always made Sarah cringe and takes her own step closer to the balcony, silently urging Quinn to follow. "After all, how often does one get to stand up here?"
Sarah rolls her eyes. "Once a year, I'm told," she mutters, but she can't deny that she's grateful to Rachel for the interruption. She can see the confusion swirling in hazel eyes, chased by wounded anger, and that was never a portent for a pleasant conversation with Quinn.
She follows them out onto the balcony, keeping a reasonable distance as they line up along the iron railing. It would be rude to race over to the other side of the tower, but she's kind of hoping they can just enjoy the rest of the tour in their separate bubbles, maybe make a little small talk about the weather and leave it at that.
"It is a pretty nice view," she muses quietly, not really expecting an answer. It's certainly nothing compared to standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building or at the Top of the Rock, but it's still so much more peaceful up here than being down in the midst of the hustle and bustle.
Quinn sighs, gazing out over the buildings in the Village. "Imagine what it must have looked like a hundred years ago before the city grew up around it."
"Cleaner, I'd wager," Sarah answers with a smile. She pulls her phone from her bag, snapping a few quick pictures before she turns around and peers up at the top of the turret where the clock is located. She wonders if she'll have time to climb the ladder to see the bell. When she finally lowers her phone with the intention of quickly sifting through the pictures to make sure they look okay, she notices Quinn's eyes trained on the side of her face and feels a faint blush work its way across her cheeks.
Damn it.
"You still take a million pictures of buildings," Quinn says with a fond smile.
Sarah shrugs, pocketing her phone again. "It's my passion."
Quinn's smile slips away, and she turns fully with one hand still resting against the railing. "Are you just here for the weekend?"
That dark look is back in Quinn's eyes again, and over her shoulder, she can see Rachel's head bow as she curls her fingers around the rails. Sarah takes a deep breath and swallows, starting slowly. "Actually, my advisor…you remember Professor Easterling?" she asks, knowing that Quinn probably does. Sarah had talked about the woman enough over the course of their relationship.
Quinn nods quickly. "Yeah."
Sarah licks her lips and takes another breath before speaking again. "She recommended me for a position with Skidmore, Owings & Merrill as an architectural assistant."
"In New York?" Quinn questions sharply.
She sighs. "It obviously wasn't my first choice."
"Obviously."
The accusatory tone is unmistakable. Rachel's head snaps up, turning quickly in their direction, and she pushes off the railing and moves to stand just behind Quinn's shoulder with dark eyes narrowed. Sarah shakes her head and glances out over the city, remembering the many discussions that they'd had about New York and her insistence that she was moving back to Michigan as soon as she'd earned her M Arch from Yale. That had been her plan. Boy, did ever it go astray.
"I applied to every firm in Grand Rapids," she admits unhappily, "but nothing panned out. I…couldn't afford to turn down the opportunity."
Quinn chuckles bitterly. "Wow, that sounds familiar."
Sarah's eyes flutter closed. She remembers standing in a dorm room in New Haven listening to Quinn tell her the very same thing about the job she'd wanted to take in New York.
"Quinn," she utters softly, at a loss for anything else to say.
"So you're living here now?"
Sarah opens her eyes and meets Quinn's sharp gaze. She's standing with her arms crossed and weight shifted onto her right leg. She wonders if the left one is bothering her from those one hundred and forty-nine steps. She imagines it probably is—maybe her back too. Rachel's eyes are fastened on the concrete floor now, but otherwise her posture mirrors Quinn's almost comically.
"I have a place in Queens," Sarah tells her. "At least until I get through my internship and earn my license. Then I'll probably reevaluate things."
Probably definitely, she thinks. She's working under some very influential master architects right now, and with a lot of hard work and a little bit of luck, she can get her license and build a career back in Michigan, closer to her family and her childhood home.
"That'll take a few more years, right?" Quinn asks.
"Yeah, probably," she concedes.
Quinn huffs. "I thought you hated New York."
"I do," she's quick to say. That sure as hell hasn't changed. "But there's a lot of competition for internships, Quinn. Sometimes you have to make compromises to get what you want."
She knows it's a mistake as soon as she says it. Quinn's eyes narrow, and she hisses, "I seem to remember you weren't all that into compromises when we were together."
"Can we not do this here?" Sarah pleads, glancing around nervously to see if any of the other people on the balcony have noticed their increasingly heated discussion. Luckily, it doesn't seem that anyone is paying them much attention right now, and she'd rather keep it that way. She's not one for airing her personal drama in public.
Rachel, silent all this time, finally puffs out a breath and steps closer to Quinn, murmuring her name softly. "This…really isn't the best time or place," she says haltingly, curling her fingers into her own biceps hard enough to turn her knuckles white. "Can we just enjoy being up here for awhile?"
Quinn seems to soften a little at this, and her eyes dart guiltily around the balcony. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, mostly to Rachel, but then her eyes are back on Sarah. "I just really didn't expect you to be living in New York. I practically had to drag you with me for even a weekend."
And that typically also involved compensating her with more pleasurable activities. Sarah smiles wryly. "Believe me, I'd rather be anywhere else. But this is the most prestigious internship with decent pay that I could find." She doesn't add that she'd pretty much pinned all her hopes on the Grand Rapids market and when nothing had worked out by her last semester of graduate studies, she'd been fairly desperate for any internship.
"I don't know why you're so disparaging of New York. It's the greatest city in the world," Rachel comments, still appearing more than a little tense and unhappy with her defensive posture.
"It's dirty and noisy and smells like wet dog," she replies, watching Rachel's frown deepen as she lets out an audible huff of annoyance. Sarah bites back a smirk.
"It's got some great buildings though," Quinn says, seemingly calmer now.
"That's the only saving grace," Sarah agrees. There are so many gorgeous, iconic designs from so many prominent architects on practically every block of the city—this one included. She trails her fingers fondly along the railing. "You know, this is where they held the original trial of the century back when it was still a courthouse," she catches Quinn's eye and smiles crookedly, "for the murder of Stanford White."
Quinn's expression softens even more, and her lips curve with fond recollection.
"Oh, I know that name," Rachel interjects, relaxing somewhat. "He was murdered on the roof of the old Madison Square Garden over his dalliance with a chorus girl. You remember, don't you, Quinn?" she prompts, resting a hand on Quinn's shoulder with a slight smile.
"I should have known," Sarah mumbles. The story did involve a chorus girl and a famous entertainment venue after all.
Rachel sends a sharp glare in her direction, dropping her hand. "Pardon me?"
Sarah ignores her, instead asking, "So how are you, Quinn? Are you still working at…HarperCollins, right?"
"Yeah," she confirms with a nod. "I was made associate editor earlier this year." There's nothing boastful about the revelation. It's simply a fact.
"That's great," Sarah tells her, and she means it. She's happy that Quinn's career is going well. It makes their breakup feel a little less pointless.
"She's also finishing her first novel," Rachel adds proudly. "I expect her to be a published author by this time next year."
Quinn's cheeks flush pink. "Rach, that's," she trails off, ducking her head in embarrassment. "It's still a work in process," she informs Sarah.
"It's amazing," Rachel insists.
"It's okay," Quinn corrects with a shrug, and Rachel frowns at her.
Sarah chuckles lightly. She can remember Quinn occasionally killing time on her laptop with her little stories. "So you're still doing the writing thing?"
Quinn's lips purse imperceptibly while Rachel's eyes flash. "It's not a thing," she defends hotly. "Quinn is extremely talented."
"Rachel," Quinn warns softly.
"Well, yeah," Sarah hedges, not wanting either of them to think that she's trying to insult Quinn, "but…I mean, it's kind of a saturated market, isn't it? And being an editor at a major publishing company isn't something you should throw away for a hobby."
"A hobby!" Rachel echoes incredulously. "Writing is Quinn's dream. Her passion!"
"Rachel," Quinn repeats, dropping her hand onto Rachel's upper back and rubbing lightly—an oddly intimate action that Sarah can't miss. "It is still kind of a hobby right now," Quinn concedes.
Rachel huffs and crosses her arms again, looking extremely put out.
Disguising her amusement at Rachel's ruffled feathers is a hopeless cause, and she barks out a laugh despite the scowl on Rachel's face. "Are you moonlighting as her publicist now or something?" she jokes.
"I'm her girlfriend," Rachel fires back heatedly.
Sarah definitely isn't laughing at that. She's not sure she's even breathing. Quinn's hand is still resting on Rachel's back, and her expression is a mixture of regret and guilt, and Sarah is certain that she didn't mishear Rachel's words or misunderstand their meaning.
"You're together?" she whispers.
There's a distinctive curve to Rachel's lips that hadn't been there before, but at least Quinn has the decency to look apologetic when she softly confirms that they are, in fact, together. It hurts more than it should when their own relationship has been over for years. It's not like she'd expected Quinn to still be single, even if Quinn had been happily single and dating around when Sarah had first met her. She's over Quinn—or she'd thought she was.
No. She is.
It's just—
Rachel. Fucking. Berry.
"So much for Rachel not swinging in your direction," she chokes out, a little breathless from the sudden onslaught of memories bombarding her—all those times when she'd been made to feel like a jealous, insecure shrew for supposedly imagining that there was something deeper than merely friendship between Quinn and her so-called best friend. But, no, Quinn had assured her that there was nothing there—that whatever confused, teenage attraction she'd had to Rachel was long forgotten and, anyway, Rachel was as straight as an arrow.
It's an awfully crooked fucking arrow.
"God, I knew it, too! I knew she wasn't just some high school crush you'd gotten over."
Quinn has the grace to look ashamed, and her eyes dart away guiltily. "Sarah," she begins, but whatever she wants to say doesn't matter now. Sarah can see the truth right in front of her. She was always Quinn's second choice.
"No, don't," she commands, holding up a hand to stop the flow of empty words that she knows is coming. "You don't have to explain it, Quinn. It's none of my business anymore. I suppose I should tell you that I'm happy for you, but," she shakes her head. At some point, Quinn's hand had dropped down to entwine with Rachel's, and Sarah frowns at the picture of them together. "I think you'll understand why I can't."
"Well, you're still as unpleasant as ever," Rachel complains haughtily.
"And you're still a bitch," Sarah snaps, unable—and unwilling—to censor herself as she crosses her arms defensively. Apparently, she's not quite as adverse to public drama as she'd thought.
Quinn groans at the same time that Rachel opens her big, fat mouth. "You little…"
"Rachel," Quinn growls as she glares at her girlfriend, demanding her attention with a little jerk of their joined hands. "Just…stop."
Rachel huffs again, but she snaps her mouth shut and continues to scowl at Sarah. It's not amusing at all.
"I'm sorry," Quinn says shakily. "I know how this probably looks, but you have to know that what Rachel and I have now…it didn't start until you and I were completely over."
"You know, I think you actually believe that," Sarah drawls slowly.
Blonde brows furrow over narrowed eyes. "It's the truth," she swears, voice crackling with growing irritation.
Sarah sighs. "It's a technicality." Maybe she's still being a little naïve, but she actually does believe that Quinn was faithful to her in the most basic, physical sense. Emotionally, however, is another story entirely.
Quinn's jaw clenches and her eyebrow arches dangerously. It's an expression that Sarah recognizes instantly. They've hit the end of Quinn's patience, and she braces herself for the expected attack. Quinn doesn't disappoint her.
"You're the one who ended things, Sarah," she grits out harshly, dropping Rachel's hand and taking a step forward. "You didn't even want to try to make it work once I told you I wanted to move to New York. Apparently I wasn't worth the compromise, but as soon as it suits you, here you are," she points out, waving her hands around wildly. Rachel flinches away from a near blow to her nose. "So everything you said about us being on different paths and cutting our losses was complete bullshit. I guess now I know where I really stood with you."
It would be so easy to remind Quinn exactly why she'd been so sure that their relationship wouldn't survive in this goddamn city. A pretty big one was standing right next to them. They could trade accusations and blame for hours, but what would that accomplish? She's never been comfortable with confrontation, and Quinn's bitchier side is something that she definitely hasn't missed.
"I guess we both do," she says simply.
Quinn inhales sharply, eyes glistening as she stares at Sarah. Rachel is looking frustrated again; she's probably not appreciating that her girlfriend is getting so worked up over an ex. Sarah can't bring herself to care. She watches Rachel touch Quinn's arm with wounded eyes. "Quinn. Maybe we should just go," she murmurs.
Sarah releases a tired breath. "For once, Rachel and I can agree on something."
Quinn's perfect posture slips, and she drags a hand through her hair. "Sarah," she sighs dolefully, ignoring Rachel and unconsciously moving away from her touch. Rachel wraps her arms around her body dejectedly, staring out over the city with pursed lips.
Sarah jerks her gaze away from them, looking toward the door. "I'm gonna head back down," she announces, reluctantly abandoning her plan to climb that ladder and see the bell up close. She's really not in the mood anymore. "Take care of yourself, Quinn," she adds after a moment of hesitation.
She's already walking away when she hears Quinn plaintively ask her to wait. She only pauses to glance back over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Quinn in her post-bitchy repentance, with glistening eyes and pouting lips that still manage to tug her heartstrings and make her want to forgive everything. She idly wonders if it works as well on Rachel before she shakes her head and smiles sadly. "Good luck with your book," she offers in parting before she turns and heads for the stairs.
It's only as she begins the spiraling descent that she notices her vision blurring, and she slows her pace, brushing at her wet cheeks with trembling fingers. She's over Quinn, she repeats again and again as she measures her steps, not wanting to tumble headfirst down the stairway. She's over Quinn, but maybe she's not over the way they'd ended things. And maybe she's not over the regret of letting Quinn go without a fight. Maybe she's not over her own selfish unwillingness to compromise. And she's definitely not over the revelation that Quinn is now dating the one person who'd always made her feel like the other woman when she should have been feeling like the one.
Sarah is dizzy by the time she steps back out onto the sidewalk and into the shadow of the clock tower, and the October air feels just a tiny bit colder. A truck blasts its horn and nearly plows into the bumper of a taxi on the street in front of her, and the smell of burning rubber and exhaust is acrid in her nose. God, she really hates New York.
Stay Tuned for Part II
