Author's Note: First of all, I want to say thank you to everyone who reviewed. The response to this story is the best I've ever had for any story! So, seriously, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Now, that being said, I wanted to apologise for taking so damn long to update. Usually I'm not this bad about posting my new chapters, but in my defence, I've had school (I'm taking 21 credits this semester) and I'm also working a 25 hour week. I barely have time to breathe. I hope I'll be able to get the next chapter up more quickly, but I can't make a promise. I do hope you'll bear with me, because I hope to keep every chapter up to the standards I set with the first one.
Last thing, then I'll let you get onto the story: this chapter gets midly graphic towards the end. If that bothers you, please skip it. Chapter three will briefly recap everything that happens here, so you won't be lost if you need to skip.
Again, thanks, and please, please review!
It smells like a bar. But not in that dingy, grimy kind of way. More like, laughter, with familiar scarred wooden tables with friendly bowls of cliché peanuts atop them. The heavy scent of wheat beer hangs in the air and swirls together with the random puffs of cigarette smoke that dance their way inside whenever the door swings open. It smells like a bar. And I'm okay with that.
Apparently so is Mr. Scheuster, because he smiles as soon as we step inside.
"See, I knew you'd know exactly where to go."
"I like this place." I respond with what I hope is an easy shrug. "The beer is cheap, and if you're so inclined, the food is halfway decent."
We make our way over to the counter, and Will orders something dark that foams at the head, while I settle for water. Fighting our way through a rapidly growing crowd, we steal the single empty table near a window streaked with condensation. It's warm, the radio pumps some cheesy pop song. I use my straw to squish the lemon in my water to the bottom of the glass, swirling it around slowly, letting the ice clink along the sides. Will takes a long drag off his beer before smiling at me softly.
"It's amazing you've come this far, Rachel. I'm proud to have been your teacher."
I feel the blush rise hot and fast from the back of my neck. I don't know how to respond, so I simply smile again and continue to sip my water, catching the straw between my teeth. I chew on it for a while and a silence lapses over us, it's familiar, and there's something of a comfort in the lack of words. But I find I'm not disappointed when he breaks the quiet either.
"You'd think," he begins, and pauses to sip his drink, "that with so many schools in the area, that it would be easy to find a teaching job."
I nod, still playing with my straw and the ice in my glass. "Yeah, you would think. But I'm sure you'll find something." He shrugs, takes another drink, and says nothing, so I continue. "I meant to ask... why New York? It's so far..." I trail off, leaving the rest unsaid.
"It's... different. Almost the anti-Lima. Faster, and never turned off. I think I need the drasticness of a change like that." He sighs, almost wistfully.
"I completely get that." I mutter as he drains his glass. "Want another?"
He shakes his head, declining. "Interviews in the morning." Will responds, by way of an excuse.
"Speaking of tomorrow..." I begin slowly. "Or, rather, of tonight, where are you staying?"
"Hotel, on 54th."
"If you like..." I pause, considering the implications of what I'm about to say, and decide to say it anyway. "My couch pulls out. It's not much, but it's free."
The corners of his mouth tug up slightly. "Thanks for the offer Rachel, but I wouldn't want to put you out in any way. And besides, the last thing a twenty year old wants is her old high school teacher crashing on the couch."
I laugh. "Yes, because you'd be interrupting the ragging kegger I was planning on throwing." I roll my eyes. "Honestly Mr. Schue."
He laughs too. "Just the same, I'll give you your space. It's easier this way."
"Alright. But the offer stands."
"So noted." He responds with another smile. "I would like to do this..." he gestures around the bar "again tomorrow, before I have to head back to Lima. If you've the time, that is."
"Totally." I agree quickly. "Come by the theatre around eleven. I'll leave your name at the door, so they'll just let you through. No problems like tonight."
"Sounds like a plan." He whispers, and with another half smile, he's gone.
***
It's almost two am by the time I slide my key into my lock. Lights are still on inside, and I wonder if Alex is still here or if he simply forgot to turn them off. After all, it's not his electric bill. My question is answered within seconds, however, when I hear the clatter of breaking glass coming from the kitchen. Alarmed, I call out to him.
"Alex?! Are you alright?"
He steps out of the shadows, leaning against the kitchen counter, using it to stabilize himself. He smiles drunkenly.
"Fine, my little adulterous bitch."
I stop dead in my tracks. "What are you talking about?"
"Go google yourself my dear. I know all about the side dish you left the theatre with tonight."
I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not really sure why, I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, but I still feel better knowing I have an explanation for it all anyway. "That was just my old high school Spanish teacher. He came to see the show, and we just went to catch up."
He takes three staggering steps towards me. "Now why, do I not believe that."
"Alex, I swear, I love you. Why would I ever-"
Before I can finish the sentence, he's reached out and slapped me, palm connecting with my cheek. I reel back, tears welling in my eyes.
"You cheated on me. And you're standing there, lying to my face about it!"
He's screaming, and I can't even hear the words anymore. I watch, as if in slow motion, he raises his fists yet again, and I come to my senses long enough to yell out.
"For the love of god Alex! Not my face!"
He punches me in the side, and I crumple to the floor. He kicks me repeatedly, violently screaming obscenities. I feel myself begin to cry, and I don't stop until everything goes black.
