['"I didn't mean for this to be such a terrible date," she says, fighting a smile. You kiss her breastbone and close your eyes and laugh, tell her, "You know what? I'm here with you, so—it's really not the worst date I've ever been on."' or, three times rachel goes on a terrible date & one time she doesn't. definite angst but ending with faberry fluff.]
...
everything else catches up with you (& you'll crack like us all)
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if only ever i had known what it felt to be yours/ i would have treasured all the pain in this hell of a course/ all pain has met it's worth/ now i've held to you
—the careful ones, 'parallax'
…
1
Robbie is cute: thick black hair, rick dark skin, big brown eyes, very kissable lips. You met him in your Intro to Music Theory class in the spring, and he asked you out sweetly, almost shyly, one day by bringing your coffee with his number written on the cup.
Currently, though, you're in the bathroom of a moderately-priced Midtown restaurant in a pretty dress, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying your very best not to cry. You've been in the bathroom for a while, after Robbie had ordered a burger after insisting it was okay, and then he told you—almost reluctantly, with a hint of embarrassment—that he'd played high school football back in Colorado, and instantly, in the most vague and exact ways, you were reminded of Finn. Not that there's any part of you that really wants to be with Finn any longer—you know you're meant for bigger and brighter things, meant for a partner in all senses to accompany you on those joys and losses.
But Finn was—and will always be—your first love, that one person that changed things, that opened certain parts of your body and closed others. For a single second you want to laugh because that sounds poetic and esoteric and dirty all at once, and it instantly reminds you of Quinn, whom you think—despite all of the dark parts that seem, some days, to be getting darker—is beginning to settle a bit more into her own skin.
You actually laugh when your phone dings and you see a text from Quinn, coincidentally, that's just random emoticons ending in lots of celebratory bells and rainbow hearts.
You dry your eyes, take a deep breath, and text her, Are you drunk? on your way back to your table.
Robbie smiles and asks if you're okay, to which you nod and then check your phone again as you see a notification from Snapchat, which is two bottles of hard cider from Quinn, along with the caption, yes.
You shake your head fondly and show him, tell him a bit about her.
Maybe not a little, you think retrospectively later that night as you're recounting your date to Kurt, because Robbie had dropped you off and kissed your cheek, and you were still talking about Quinn.
Kurt laughs and says, "Did you tell Quinn how this date went?"
"She's drunk," you say, "so no, not really. We'll Skype tomorrow."
Santana walks into the room then—in one of your t-shirts—nursing an IPA. "Doesn't it feel weird to tell Quinn all about the penis you got denied because you wouldn't shut up about how great and pretty and smart and strong she is?"
"I did not—"
Santana shrugs, walks toward her room. "Whatever, Rachel. You didn't get laid tonight, and it's not because of that dress."
You blanche as Kurt laughs. "Did Santana just hit on me?"
Kurt stands and kisses the top of your head. "Goodnight, Rachel."
.
The next morning you Skype Quinn, who faithfully answers every Sunday. (Years later, she'll whisper to you on Sunday morning that you replaced her church long before that).
She's hungover this morning, you can tell, her hood pulled over her head and eating a bagel with abandon, but she listens to you intently, nodding, never taking her eyes off of you. They're beautiful—she's beautiful, even like this, and a part of you loves her even more like this, messy and sleepy, because you know not many see her that real—and her intensity rattles you—like her gaze had during senior year when she'd given a speech about Yale in the choir room.
"Did you have sex?" she asks, taking a huge sip of coffee so you can't quite see her face.
"No," you say, then pause, because for a moment you're sure she looks relieved. "Is it—it feels weird to talk to you about this stuff sometimes."
She furrows her brow. "Why?"
You shrug.
She sighs. "Rachel, you're my best friend. I just want—" she worries her bottom lip quickly and then nods to herself almost imperceptibly, but you know Lucy Quinn Fabray so well by now you see it without question—"Look," she continues, "you can date and sleep with whomever you want, as long as they're good and safe for you, okay? That's all I want."
You swallow, and your voice is small when you ask, "Are you sleeping with people?"
She lifts a perfect brow. "Rachel."
You take it as a yes and nod. You don't want to imagine why this is making you feel like your chest is being rubbed raw with a cheese grater, so you say, "I just want you to be safe too."
She rolls her eyes. "I learned my lesson, don't worry."
You don't quite believe her—you don't mean safe that one-dimensionally—but you appease her by laughing a little and then asking how her Modern Theory class is coming along, which sets her off on some long winded speech about Willa Cather and queer subtext.
You watch her more than listen—sometimes you wonder how you never noticed how ridiculously gifted academically she is, and in a semester in an environment that has fostered that, she's far surpassed you—and you feel your stomach flip when you let yourself acknowledge that she's so pretty in the you-want-to-kiss-her sort of way.
You try, after that, to pay attention, but you spend the rest of the conversation trying not to cry.
She's beautiful, and she is not yours.
.
2
"We can't let Rachel see this," you hear Santana tell Kurt avidly when you get home one day a bit early from rehearsal the fall of your junior year.
You walk into the living room after putting your coat on the rack.
"See what?" you ask, and they both whip their heads toward you as Santana slams her MacBook shut.
"Just some terrible review of Barbra," Kurt says, and Santana nods far too quickly for you to believe that (besides, who would review anything of Barbra's as terrible?).
"Really?" you ask.
"Yep," Santana say. "Totally awful."
"Don't lie to me," you say.
Kurt swallows and Santana stares at her hands.
"Come on, guys, please don't lie to me."
Kurt sighs and glances at Santana, who opens her laptop and then gets off the couch.
You walk over, and you don't know exactly what you expect to find there, but it's certainly not Quinn Fabray is in a relationship with Spencer Jill Hastings on Santana's newsfeed.
"Oh," you say, and you've never felt this hollowly breathless before.
Santana comes back over and hands you some drink involving a lot of gin when you take a sip—not that you mind right now. "Good for her," you say, but your voice doesn't even sound like your own.
Santana closes her computer gently and sits back next to you.
Kurt wraps his arm around your shoulders and asks, "Are you okay?"
You nod. You feel numb, terribly sorrowful—but you'd been the one to break up with Quinn, and she deserves to get to date whomever she wants.
"Can I—" you fight back a wave of tears—"I just need a little space, okay?"
Santana nods and stands and Kurt squeezes your hand before following her into the kitchen. You take out your phone and log into your previous deactivated Facebook account and go to Quinn's profile. You swipe through a few of her new profile pictures—she's squinting into the camera in one, eyes flashing the same color of her hair in the sun, and the caption says, Quality photography by Spencer Hastings; another is Spencer kissing Quinn's temple while Quinn is wrapped around Spencer, Quinn's glasses crooked, both in Yale t-shirts and cardigans, laughing, in a pile of red fall leaves.
You click on Spencer's profile, which is partially private but you can see that she's from Pennsylvania, that she's a few months older than Quinn, that she's in the same class at Yale and studying Applied Physics and Russian Literature, interested in men and women, and is—of course, again, although it still makes you breathless—in a relationship with Quinn Fabray.
You click on Spencer's photos because she's beautiful—tall and sharp and lovely—and then you swipe to one picture that immediately brings tears to your eyes, because Spencer is laughing into the camera and Quinn is to her left, staring at Spencer like she used to stare at you, with her intense eyes and her pretty, pretty mouth, her perfect nose.
Quinn probably isn't happy—Quinn has never been happy—but Quinn is very, very much in love.
You deactivate your Facebook again and put on your coat in a hurry, slamming the door without telling Santana or Kurt goodbye.
You wipe your tears and find the nearest bar, let the first seemingly respectable(ish) man—he introduces himself as Michael, is wearing a flannel and Levi's, studies business at NYU, has tan skin and grey eyes framed by black glasses—buy you a drink. You're already a little drunk from Santana's gin concoction, and you order a gin and tonic—from what you remember about Quinn when you're not sober, it's always that she tasted like gin—and when he asks if you want to go outside for a cigarette, you agree.
You don't smoke—you'd never do that to your lungs—but you watch him: the flick of his fingers, the way his hands are so big and rough and dark compared to her gentle skin, how his lips aren't pink and pretty, how his chin is stubbled and hard. You imagine Spencer tugging Quinn to her right now, kissing the back of Quinn's soft neck, mumbling something in fucking Russian into the small freckles on Quinn's shoulderblades, tracing the scars up and down Quinn's back with reverence.
You wonder is Spencer is soft. You wonder if she is softer than you ever were.
You take Michael's hand and he looks at you seriously, drops his half-finished cigarette into a puddle at his feet, and leans down to kiss you.
He is as rough and hard and unforgiving as you expected, and although he asks for verbal consent, very carefully uses a condom, and kisses you softly afterward, you sob when you walk back home at three in the morning, clutching your coat tight around you to ward off the cold of October, the drifting leaves, the loneliness in skeleton bloom.
.
3
Santana introduces—you don't even want to think about how they know each other, although Santana assures you it's 'not that'—you to Blake, who is a senior at Barnard studying history and film. She has blonde hair and these very, very pretty green-blue eyes, loves to run, and has the most extensive musical collection you've ever seen when you go over to her tiny apartment after a very wonderful—for all intents and purposes—dinner.
You kiss that night on her soft sofa with the remnants of My Fair Lady in the background, and she tastes like mango sorbet and coffee and white wine—nothing like gin, and nothing like years of brokenness.
As it turns out, you discover over the next few weeks, Blake is exactly that: she's from Emeryville, California, has a younger brother—attending Wesleyan—and a younger sister—finishing high school—and incredibly supportive parents that she's all very close to; she drinks socially; she doesn't smoke, doesn't go near drugs; she eats healthier than you do, goes to yoga twice a week and is training for a marathon; she has a few tiny, unremarkable scars—ones earned by virtue of growing up happily and falling out of trees, jumping off swings, not quite being able to balance on a bicycle.
Blake is bright, and she is one of the least troubled people you've ever met, although she cries when she listens to contemporary classical music on long runs and when she gets too stressed about school.
She doesn't remind you of Quinn very much at all—she's more muscular; her eyes are so gentle, so whole; her skin is unblemished; she laughs like she's never seen the darkness; she doesn't have nightmares—and after about a month, you're certain that she's really, really good for you to be with.
But then you find out from Kurt that Quinn had tried to commit suicide, and the next morning you meet Blake—as per your now-developed routine—for breakfast before classes.
You hadn't slept the night before, and you'd mostly thrown up and stared at your ceiling, and no amount of concealer really hid that.
Blake greets you with a quick, gentle kiss and hands you your coffee—she already got it for you, along with your customary vegan scone—and folds her hands under her chin, looks at you concernedly. "What's wrong?" she asks.
You shake your head and take a deep breath. "I just didn't sleep too well. Santana brought home another girl and—"
Blake looks at you patiently but with skepticism. "You know Barnard isn't the easiest school to get into, right?"
"What?"
"I'm sometimes a little smart," she says, then takes your hand with a gentle smile. "So, what's wrong?"
You feel tears immediately prick at your eyes, and you mumble, "My ex—Quinn—she tried to commit suicide last night," into your coffee.
You watch Blake's eyes get big, watch as she runs a hand through her hair, but she squeezes your hand. "Is she going to be okay?"
You shrug, then nod. "She's like—she lost a lot of blood but her girlfriend found her in time so she just had to get a bunch of stitches and a transfusion and now she's in the psych ward for the weekend and I know Santana's going up to see her today and I—I don't know," you taper off.
"Rach," she breathes, and then gets up and sits down on your side of the table, hugs you tightly. You press your forehead into your shoulder and she rubs your back. "Are you okay? Do you need anything I can help with?"
You want to change things; you want to fix Quinn's brain and Quinn's body; you want to have loved her better and with more bravery and more strength—but at the same time you wish, so fervently, that you'd never laid eyes on Lucy Quinn Fabray, that you'd never held her hand or kissed her or felt her body against yours.
You let Blake hold you tighter, and you say, "This is all I need right now."
.
You break up with her a few weeks later, because Quinn comes to visit Santana and the second you see her, you know you're nowhere near in a space to be good for any person right now, let alone someone as lovely and kind and untarnished as Blake.
"I understand," she tells you, and you don't think she really does, because she has never loved someone with as many ghosts as Quinn—but you kiss her sweetly anyway, because she's been good for you, and because she deserves many, many gentler kisses than you have left. "Be good to yourself, okay?" she says.
It feels like something far off, something under the surface, something that might have to find some cracks to grow through, but you promise: "I will."
.
4
When Quinn started to feel sick, you figured it was just because she'd had two pear ciders and had gone running that morning and probably hadn't eaten nearly enough before you got into New Haven in the evening.
But now your stomach starts to twist, and the Quinn rushes to the bathroom and you follow and try to drag back her short hair from her face.
"I'm sorry, baby," she says, voice rough, as she flushes the toilet and then slumps back against you. "I was going to take you to Criterion to see—"
"Shhhh," you tell her, kiss her temple softly. "It's fine, plenty more films, yeah?"
She starts to nod and all of a sudden you feel something awful and acidic clawing at your throat and she kind of flops aside as your scramble for the toilet.
When you're finally—it feels like an eternity—done throwing up, you crumple onto the floor next to her.
She grabs your hand and rests your joined fingers on top of her stomach aimlessly, then turns to you. "Food poisoning?"
You groan and nod. "Twenty bucks it was the shrimp."
You can tell she's trying so hard to be serious, but then she starts laughing. You join in—you love, you're in love, with this lighter, healed and healing side of Quinn, scars and bruises—and food poisoning—and all.
You spend the next few hours alternating between lying on the floor together in the bathroom and puking—Quinn manages to get up and get water for you both at one point—and finally, when you're pretty sure you both have nothing left to throw up, you make your way to Quinn's oversized couch and cuddle up, tangled and sore, while she turns on reruns of Twin Peaks.
"I didn't mean for this to be such a terrible date," she says, fighting a smile.
You kiss her breastbone and close your eyes and laugh, tell her, "You know what? I'm here with you, so—it's really not the worst date I've ever been on."
She wraps her arms around you and kisses the top of your head, and you doze off listening to her heartbeat, the drifting score from the television, fog lifting everywhere.