A/N: Goodness gracious guys, glad you're liking this!
Straight on 'til Morning
Chapter 2
She's standing outside the San Diego Civic Theater just after six the next evening, in gray pants and a dark coat, a scarf littered with small green foxes. Jesse and Tina – who runs the restaurant at the Pacific Palomar and won Quinn's friendship with chocolate mousse a year ago – will be meeting her inside, so Quinn's perched on a bench, reading the label on her water bottle while she waits for her sister.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she startles and fishes it out, hoping that a disaster has not befallen the hotel in the half hour she's been gone. What she sees instead, "Shelby Corcoran," makes her heart thump hollowly in her chest.
May is approaching quickly, so she knows exactly what the call is for, what Shelby's going to ask, and she ignores it because she's not in the state of mind to deal with it at the moment. It leaves her breathing shakily, so distracted that she jumps at Frannie's, "Hey, kiddo," and drops her water bottle on the ground.
"Whoa, settle down," Frannie says, laughing.
Quinn retrieves it quickly and straightens up to find her sister watching her, eyebrows raised. She flashes Frannie a smile and says, "Ready to go in?"
"Are you okay?"
"Fine," Quinn chirps, holding out her arm.
She can tell Frannie doesn't believe her, but she loops her elbow around Quinn's anyway, gives her an enthusiastic little squeeze and says, "Are you ready for this? Lots and lots of pirates. I'm excited."
Quinn laughs, "Me too."
Frannie tells her all about seeing Owen off at the airport, how his suitcase had been overweight so he'd left an armful of t-shirts and two pairs of shoes with Frannie to avoid paying the fee, and how he said he'd call Quinn as soon as he'd seen Bagel.
Jesse and Tina saunter into the theater ten minutes before the show is supposed to start, arguing about where they've parked and if Tina's car will be towed away or ticketed, and if Jesse looks overdressed or simply outstanding.
He leans awkwardly over Tina and Frannie to see Quinn's face, and loudly asks, "Have you seen Rachel yet?"
"Rachel?" Tina questions.
Jesse sagely informs her, "Quinn's crush."
He's still draped over Tina's lap, and Quinn bites out, "Shut the hell up," reaching for his face. Frannie shushes her, laughing, and holds her hand. Jesse fills Tina in – in a civilized manner that won't set Quinn off – and Quinn goes back to reading her Playbill, cover to cover.
She finds Rachel's name under "Production Supervisor," and discreetly shows her sister, who smiles in a way that makes Quinn smile and shrink down in her seat.
The show is seamless and brilliant, full of spirit and energy and nostalgia, and it's during the intermission that Jesse gets water for Tina, then leans over their seats and says, "I'm in love with the woman who plays Peter Pan."
If there was a flaw in execution, bumbled lines or forgotten steps or crumbling sets, Quinn hadn't seen it, and she smiles because she knows what it's like keeping mishaps and calamities behind curtains and closed doors. Rachel is damn good at her job.
….
Rachel goes out to celebrate with her "21 and over" cast and crew after the first show, and everybody's in good spirits because Wendy's food poisoning had abated ten minutes before curtain, the lighting miscommunication had been solved by Sam before the second act, and the backstage collision between two Lost Boys had resulted only in minor headaches.
She goes again on the next night, feeling particularly proud of herself and her people, and she fumbles with her key card with a laughing Sam hanging on her side and hears, "Rachel!" from down the hall.
It's Sara Eddy, the twenty-year old who plays Tiger Lily, and Rachel grins and waves as she approaches. Sam slips into their room with a slurred, "Good mornin' darlin'," and the door shuts quietly behind him.
"Sorry to bother you, Rachel," Sara says, and she looks anxious in her pajamas.
Rachel scoffs, waving her hand around. "Not – not a problem, Tiger Lily."
Sara seems hesitant, searching her face for sobriety, so Rachel nods and prods, "What is it?"
"Just – some of my things are missing from my room. A watch and a necklace. I didn't know if I should tell the hotel or call the police, or maybe wait for the morning– "
Rachel holds up her hand and confidently drawls, "I'll handle it, Tiger Lily."
"You will?"
Rachel's a little offended that Sara seems so skeptical, but she nods and assures, "Don't worry, Tiger Lily," as she's walking back to the elevator. It takes her a moment to realize she's going in the wrong direction, and she passes Sara again with a glassy smile.
She absently gets on an elevator that already contains a young couple heading up, and she gets off with them on the twenty-third floor – the penultimate floor – with the intention of boarding one of the other five elevators to get back down to the ground. She doesn't push the button though, because honestly, she's forgotten how elevators work, and the sight of an organic vending machine lures her further up the hallway.
She's standing in an alcove with two vending machines and an ice maker, in a t-shirt that says, "MY WARRIOR NAME IS BEYONCE PAD THAI," fishing for change in the back pocket of her black jeans, when she hears movement in the hallway.
When she turns, Quinn's leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed, curiosity and amusement painted on her face. She's in sleep clothes, a Yale sweatshirt and flannel shorts, and her hair's wet and dripping on her shoulders, and Rachel lights up.
She puts one hand on the glass of the organic vending machine and absurdly exclaims, "Why isn't this one on my floor!?"
"The vending machines vary between floors," Quinn says, smiling. "We like to provide options for our guests."
Rachel nods. She puts her other hand on the glass and looks longingly inside at the chocolate soy pudding. There was no change in her pockets, and Sam had taken her bag inside their room.
"Do you need some quarters?" Quinn wonders, searching her own pockets.
Rachel backs quickly away from the machine and says, "Oh, no – no thank you. I think I was supposed to be going somewhere else anyway."
"You think?" Quinn enters the alcove to stand in front of the vending machine, and she cringes at what Rachel assumes is the smell of the rum that Noodler the pirate had accidentally flung over half the cast and crew.
It's dried into Rachel's t-shirt now, mingling with the gin and spearmint gum on her breath. She sways a bit, and Quinn watches, concerned, and steadies her briefly with a warm hand on the small of her back.
"Tiger Lily's missing some things from her room," Rachel explains after Quinn feeds two dollars to the machine.
Quinn glances at her, frowning, and says, "Oh, no."
"A watch and a necklace," Rachel repeats, proud of herself for remembering.
It's distressing information for Quinn, and she drops two more quarters into the machine with a furrowed brow and then stands back, gestures at the glass and offers, "Pick what you like, Rachel."
She smiles at Rachel's look of confusion, her lopsided glasses and disbelief.
"Really. It's on me."
Rachel's immobile for another moment, gaze locked with Quinn's, but then she shuffles forward and selects the chocolate pudding, clumsily pulls it out of the plastic flap at the bottom when it drops.
"Thank you," she says quietly while Quinn's getting her own snack. "That's really sweet."
Quinn's face heats up, from her neck to her ears, and she manages, "You're welcome," while she's crouched to pick up her mini cookies.
Rachel holds her pudding close to her chest and checks her phone, and it takes her a while to process a text from Sara from four minutes ago that says, "It was the Lost Boys! The Justins were playing a prank. Sorry, Rach."
When she looks up from her phone, Quinn's watching her intently.
"I – Tiger Lily found her things. The Lost Boys had them."
Quinn's obviously relieved, because her shoulders relax and she narrows her eyes playfully and says, "The Lost Boys make a lot of trouble for you, huh?"
"They're juvenile delinquents, Quinn," Rachel remarks, and it's said with such passion and earnestness that Quinn laughs loudly, and then quiets herself because there are guest rooms around.
Rachel's own smile widens.
"Was this all a ploy for you to have an excuse to come and find me?" Quinn ventures, eyebrow lifted.
She knows it's unprofessional, but she's in boxers and socks with a bag of cookies in her arms, in an ice machine alcove in the middle of the night with an out-of-her-mind tipsy Rachel Berry, so now's the time to say things that wouldn't otherwise be said.
Rachel scoffs twice, wordlessly, and then, "I didn't know this was your floor. And I was – I wanted to go down. The elevator – it just brought me here by itself."
Quinn laughs again, quietly this time. She loops an arm through Rachel's to steady her – very aware of Rachel's gaze on the side of her face – and leads her out into the hallway, over to the elevators.
"I'm sorry I…bothered you…when you weren't working," Rachel says stiltedly on the quiet ride down to her floor.
Quinn's been reading the elevator warnings, and then the back of her little package of cookies because she'd memorized the warnings long ago.
She shakes her head quickly. "If I'm here, I'm working. You didn't bother me."
Rachel sighs then, and her lips are turned down and she looks so exhausted and sad that Quinn squeezes her arm and says, "I saw your show, Rachel. It was fantastic."
Rachel looks at her, searching her face. She says, "You saw it?" in a faint voice, like it's hard to believe, and Quinn nods.
"I loved it. Everyone I was with loved it," Quinn tells her honestly. "You should be proud."
It puts a small, contented smile on Rachel's face, and Quinn leads her down the hallway, clumsily fishes the key card out of Rachel's back pocket, and opens the door to her room. She compliments her shirt and tells her to drink a lot of water, and she's about to say goodnight when Rachel abruptly pulls her into a hug.
Quinn is overwhelmed with the smell of rum, and Rachel's pudding is pressed between them, but it's warm and midnight and Rachel's hair is soft against her cheek.
"Thank you, Quinn," Rachel says sweetly, stepping into her room.
Quinn realizes she's dropped her cookies, flustered, and she barely gets out, "Goodnight," before the door shuts.
….
She spends the next morning supervising the set-up of a baseball scouting seminar in their largest conference room, which ends with a jolly, burly man in a Padres hat teaching her how to swing a bat, and she heads to the Pacific Palomar restaurant for lunch before she can break anything. She convinces Tina to come out and sit with her, and she's halfway through her pile of hash browns, listening to Tina describe a particularly obnoxious patron from last night, when she sees Rachel's blonde friend sit down at a nearby table.
She must be watching a little too closely because Tina follows her gaze and says, "Who's that?"
Quinn quickly focuses back on her food, shrugging. "I don't actually know."
Tina narrows her eyes suspiciously.
"It's – I really don't know who he is," Quinn defends, laughing at her friend's expression.
Tina leans forward conspiratorially and whispers, "Why are we watching him?"
"We're not," Quinn whispers loudly. She pokes at her food and says in a normal voice, "He's always with Rachel. I think they're rooming together."
Tina glances over at him again, sizing him up this time. He's in a tank top and a ball cap, and his sneakers are neon green, and Tina looks doubtful when she says, "Boyfriend?"
"Would it be weird to room with a guy who isn't your boyfriend?"
Tina tips her head thoughtfully, and maybe it's because Quinn looks so hopeful that she says, "I don't think so."
The guy's got a club sandwich now, and he's trying to open his mouth wide enough to fit the whole thing in.
"He looks like a hobo, Quinn," Tina remarks.
Quinn's inclined to agree, but she smiles down at her food and says, "That has nothing to do with it."
"I'm just saying," Tina's smirking, and she reaches over to pat Quinn's free hand, "I think you've got a shot, girl."
Quinn mumbles, "Thanks," refusing to look up, because she's incapable of talking to or about girls she's attracted to without eventually degenerating into a bashful mess. Tina's used to it – the dichotomy of Quinn's graceful, driven work self and her endearingly eccentric personal self – so she just smiles and steals a strawberry off her plate.
Quinn only looks up when Jesse slides awkwardly into the chair next to her, and he's immediately huddled forward over the table, addressing Tina and Quinn.
"I finally met her," he says, grinning, and the top button of his vest has come undone. "Taylor Bright – the woman who plays Peter Pan – she came down with one of her friends and asked me to call them a cab."
Quinn blinks at him, offers an indulgent, "Congratulations."
He's unaffected, biting into one of Quinn's strawberries when he says, "She touched my arm to thank me. I'm sure I charmed her."
"What kind of touch?" Tina asks, overpowering Quinn's snort.
Jesse demonstrates on Quinn by brushing her shoulder lightly, and she rolls her eyes and sits patiently while Tina observes.
"It's – I mean, there was a smile that went with it that made it significant," Jesse defends.
Tina's shrewdly observing him, ready to offer advice, but Jesse's attention is captured by Rachel's friend, who has a pickle in one hand and the rest of his sandwich in the other. Jesse leans into Quinn and says, "Did you see blondie over there?"
Quinn hums.
"His name's Sam," Jesse offers. "We had a conversation about cars."
Quinn straightens up and looks at him, and his smile is more pompous now that he's caught her interest. He leans lazily back in his chair and waits.
"Did you learn anything else?" Quinn asks.
Jesse frowns at her. "How unprofessional do you think I am?"
"Very."
His roguish smile is back immediately, and he says, "Sam has a '68 Mustang fastback in New York that he never gets to drive. He's from Ohio and he's always wanted a supercar, which is why he came up to me when I was getting out of somebody's Bugatti."
Quinn's interest is slipping, and she slumps a bit in her seat.
Jesse nudges her side, and he's only looking at her when he says, "His old friend, Rachel, has a '63 Austin Mini Cooper that's been in her family since it was new."
It takes Quinn a moment, but she can't help the smile that spreads slowly across her face. Who'd call a girlfriend an old friend? Her gaze is fixed on the wall over Tina's shoulder because she can feel their eyes on her, affectionate and expectant – Jesse's ready to be praised – and she says, "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Quinn Fabray," Tina laughs.
Quinn takes Jesse's hand and squeezes it, and resigns herself to the task of helping him capture the heart of Taylor Bright.
…
It's a little saddening, actually, once she realizes that she can't really ask Rachel on a date without representing the hotel in an unprofessional manner, at least at this stage in their "relationship." She'll have to build up a camaraderie that is completely removed from work, and the thought of it is daunting.
Also thrilling, but mostly frighteningly daunting.
Quinn's sitting on a gray couch in the lobby with her sister – who'd shown up after dinner with pie to share, straightened Quinn's sunny yellow bow-tie, and dragged her out from behind the front desk – and a binder of upcoming events, because work is all that can keep her mind off of the second phone call she'd received from Shelby Corcoran.
Frannie's telling her about the camp Owen's staying at in India, what he's been eating, and how he woke up at four in the morning just to call her before she had dinner.
"You guys are so cute," Quinn remarks, pie in one hand, pen in the other.
Frannie's smile is infectious, but she falls quiet so that Quinn can work.
It's only a few minutes later that she whispers, "Who's that?" and Quinn looks up to see Rachel approaching, wearing a cheerful smile and a black polo with "Production Supervisor" on the pocket. Quinn quickly sits up straight, checks that her hair is tidy and tied back, and Frannie fixes her collar and bow-tie again, smiling with delight because she can guess who this person is.
"Good evening!" Rachel greets when she reaches them.
Quinn answers with a welcoming smile. "Hi, Rachel," she says, and she's in the middle of her lobby, so she follows it up with, "What can I do for you?"
She ignores the amused look on her sister's face, her knowing expression.
Rachel glances questioningly between them, and her mouth is open to respond when Frannie holds out her hand and says, "Hey there, Rachel. I'm Frannie. Quinn's sister."
Quinn's expecting surprise, maybe some awkwardness because of her drunken excursion through the halls last night, but Rachel doesn't miss a beat as she shakes Frannie's hand and warmly assures, "It's nice to meet you."
"Your show's fantastic," Frannie remarks, and Rachel smiles proudly.
"Thank you!"
"How's your night, Rachel?" Quinn interrupts before her sister can get carried away.
Frannie gives her a quick look that says, "You can't shut me up," then sits back and watches Rachel with interest.
"I just got back from the show," Rachel says distractedly, digging in her back pocket. She comes up with two dollar bills, flattens them, and hands them to Quinn. "For last night."
Frannie looks thoroughly entertained.
"Oh, that's not – you don't have to – " Quinn shakes her head at her nonsense stammering and turns to Frannie, who's smiling expectantly. "It's for – I got Rachel something from the vending machine last night."
Frannie hums, nodding.
Rachel takes Quinn's free hand and presses the money into her palm, then gives it a squeeze. "Thanks again," she says, pushing up her glasses, and then, charmingly, "I like your bow-ties."
Quinn's struck silent, and Rachel knows it, because she's nearly laughing as she tells Frannie that it was nice to meet her and bids them goodnight. When she's gone, Quinn takes her time putting the money away to avoid her sister's gaze.
"How old is she?" Frannie eventually asks, ducking to catch Quinn's eye.
After some hesitation, because she knows exactly what reaction it will illicit, Quinn mumbles, "Twenty-eight."
"Quinn!" Frannie's eyebrows shoot up, intrigued and concerned.
"It's only a five year difference."
Frannie's eyes are wide when she says, "She's a year older than I am, Luce."
Quinn scoffs and scowls, pulling her binder back onto her lap. "What does that matter?"
She doesn't feel that it's a significant gap at all. They're both solidly in their twenties with dynamic careers – though most of Quinn's career has been spent at Yale, working under a ridiculous white-haired hotel industry tycoon named Vivaldo, who got her this job – and she's incapable of controlling her heart.
Watching her carefully, Frannie softens. "It doesn't, at all. I'm just surprised."
"Why?" Quinn snaps.
"You've never dated anybody older than you," Frannie's tone is mollifying. "Or younger, actually. That I know of."
Quinn's lips turn up as she repeats, "That you know of."
Frannie looses an exaggerated gasp and leans in closer, taking Quinn's hand. "Are there any that you haven't told me about?"
Quinn rolls her eyes, but she really does tell Frannie about all of them, whether they last a night or a year. Her sister pulls out the ice cream and tolerates Quinn's fidgeting, cover-stealing, cuddling bedtime habits when things go bad, and tells her to "have fun and take lots of pictures" when things go well.
"I really do like her," Quinn says quietly.
Frannie smiles. "I know, sweetie."
It's quiet for a moment, but then Frannie continues, "She's cute. And very small. I like her glasses." She sounds like she's talking to herself, but her smile is growing because Quinn is slipping lower on the gray couch, smiling down at her binder and burning up.
Honestly, sweet Lucy has no game. Frannie's always known it.
"And she loves your suave little bow-ties," Frannie adds, tugging Quinn's hand so that her sister will look at her. When she does, Frannie says more seriously, "Just be careful, Luce."
They're in the middle of the lobby, in their own mess of upcoming event schedules and leftover pie and coffee and an extra pair of Frannie's shoes, detached from the world for just a moment, exactly as it had been growing up, and Frannie's still telling her to be careful.
Quinn's still listening, but the trouble comes in the execution.
…..
"I figure I'll sell a few more songs, solidify myself as a songwriter," Sam reasons, "and then pop up out of nowhere with a hit single that I'm singing myself."
Rachel laughs, face tipped up into the sun. "Like Neil Diamond."
They're at the hotel's large outdoor pool, which is the length of a football field but shaped like an amoeba, a river, and they've been floating around and enjoying the California afternoon for a good hour. Half that time was spent racing – freestyle from end to end and underwater to retrieve coins – so Rachel's leaning against the pool wall, recovering, while Sam does handstands in head high water.
He pops up right in front of her and pants, "When are you going to ask that girl out?"
Rachel blinks at him, abruptly alarmed by his chlorine-reddened eyes.
"Quinn," he clarifies, mistaking her surprise for confusion. He shakes out his hair and continues, "The blonde one. I saw her eating French toast yesterday."
Rachel hums thoughtfully, then shrugs.
"You don't know?"
She's dipping lower in the water, so that only her head is exposed, when she says, "I'd prefer to just let it play out. I'm curious to see if anything will happen without a deliberate move on my part."
It sounds so well-rehearsed and ridiculously thought out that she grimaces at herself.
"Seriously?" Sam's stock still in the water, frowning at her plan.
"Just – she's young, and professional. And pretty peculiar, actually," Rachel's lips quirk. "And she's so easy to read. I don't want to…take advantage of that."
"Dude, she's an adult."
"I'm aware, thanks, Evans."
Sam's shoulders and the bridge of his nose are turning violently red, so when Rachel puts both her hands on top of his head, he easily lets her dunk him. She's climbing out of the pool when he comes back up, and she turns around to find that he's politely averted his eyes.
"Surf and turf?" she suggests, drying off with a fluffy hotel towel.
Sam grins and throws her a thumbs-up. He points to the other end of the pool, where Justin Brown and Isaac are playing with goggles and a blow-up whale, and says, "I'll be over there. Grab some cash from my wallet. I'll pay."
Rachel fishes his wallet out from underneath his t-shirt and towel, then slips cotton shorts and a loose tank top that says, "YEEZUS TAUGHT ME," over her bikini. She's hurrying out the massive glass doors of the hotel's back entrance – because her wet hair will dry and curl and frizz into an unmanageable mess if she takes too long – when she spies Quinn striding purposefully up from the marina.
Quinn must see her at the same time, because she stutter steps, then walks even faster than before.
"Nothing's wrong this time," Rachel calls, smiling, as soon as Quinn is close enough, "I'm just picking up take-out."
"That's your story?" Quinn's unable to suppress a laugh when she can read Rachel's tank top.
She'd been speaking with a few of the boat owners, and she's flushed from the sun despite her short sleeves and rolled-up pants, and strands of blonde hair are sticking to her forehead. It's Rachel's sweet, half-smile that makes her ask, "Would you like company?"
Rachel's eyes widen, and she manages to hold off for a beat or two before, "Absolutely!"
Quinn settles her hands in her pockets, pleased, and falls into step with Rachel as they head for the Embarcadero. She follows Rachel's lead – though there's no way Rachel knows her way around already – and asks, "How do you like the pool?"
"It's great. My friend, Sam, says it's the best we've been to, but there was one in Florida that had an alligator in it, so I'm not sure that I agree."
Quinn chuckles, then observes, "You're not wearing your glasses."
"Swimming pools and glasses don't mix well," Rachel says with a wry smile.
"But you can see?"
Rachel slows down and squints exaggeratedly at Quinn. "You're a little blurry. Just don't let me step into the harbor."
Quinn laughs again – either easily entertained or flirtatious – and Rachel's so self-satisfied that she's still smiling when they reach Seaport Village. It's a complex of dining and shopping right on the water, and Rachel doesn't know the layout yet, so she turns to Quinn and says, "Seafood?"
She's already made the executive decision to take the "turf" out of "surf and turf."
There's a complacent smile on Quinn's face, hands still in her pockets, and she surveys their options and leads Rachel to Marion's Fish Market, a beachy, shack-style seafood place with outdoor seating. She walks Rachel up to the counter and points out what's good, and Rachel informs her that she's a lapsed vegan while on tour, so fish is a fine option, then orders Mahi skewers and fish tacos, rice, and a bucket of clam strips and popcorn shrimp.
Hopefully it's enough to feed Sam.
Quinn looks impressed, so Rachel's compelled to tell her, "It's not all for – Sam's appetite is insatiable."
Quinn just hums while Rachel pays, and she reads everything written on the chalkboard menu and the back of a Seaport Village pamphlet, and then orders a crab cake sandwich and fries for herself. Rachel's looking at her curiously as they sit down at a plastic table overlooking the water to wait, and Quinn glances down to make sure all her buttons are done up and there are no insects on her.
"No, it's – you're always reading," Rachel says with a laugh. "Even on the walk here, you were reading all the signs. At the vending machines, in the elevator."
Quinn's smile is apprehensive.
"Not in a negative way," Rachel clarifies quickly. "It's cute."
"Yeah, it's – it's a compulsion," Quinn admits, and her face is even more flushed now, her eyes bright in the sun. How many times has Rachel called her cute now?
"My sister says I've always done it."
She props her chin in one hand and leaves the other arm upturned on the table, angled just enough that Rachel can make out another tattoo – "LUKE 2:40" in typewriter font on the inside of her upper arm. With the miniscule penguins on Quinn's wrist, that's two so far.
Rachel can feel her hair thickening, growing, curling, so she's braiding it into a long plait over her shoulder when Quinn says, "Tell me something about yourself, Rachel."
"I have asthma," Rachel says immediately, then laughs at Quinn's expression. "Just – I think I might've embarrassed you a minute ago, so I'm offering up a weakness. I have asthma."
Quinn's smile spreads slowly, still staring.
"It's fairly mild. Sometimes I have problems when I'm sleeping, but I carry an inhaler and haven't had a real attack in years," Rachel describes. "Years of singing lessons and performing have taught me to regulate my breathing properly."
Quinn doesn't know what to do with so much new information. She sits with her mouth open for a moment before deciding on, "You perform?"
Rachel's grin recedes back into that half-smile. "I've been auditioning for shows in New York since I was eighteen."
"That's amazing."
"It obviously hasn't gotten me very far," Rachel shrugs, plucking at her tank top where her bikini has soaked through. "I've been working on various crews for ten years."
Quinn can tell by Rachel's pensive expression that they've turned down a melancholic path.
"That's still – you obviously belong on the stage," Quinn blurts, despite the fact she's never seen this woman on a stage in her life. Rachel's a character – unfulfilled but passionate and hard-working, and Quinn's already picturing her as the lead in a show, maybe Peter Pan, if Jesse whisks Taylor Bright away and the producers want a small, dark-haired Jewish Peter replacement.
"You're still auditioning, right? When you get back to the city?"
Rachel smiles ruefully. "Sam wants me to."
Quinn agrees with Sam, the blonde friend who likes cars, pools, and club sandwiches. She decides that they'll get along just fine.
She drags her sweaty hair out of her eyes and says, "I don't think you should give up."
Rachel rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "You've never heard me sing. Or seen me perform," she laughs shortly, "Or work at all. You don't even know me, Quinn."
It stings a little, even if it wasn't meant to, and Quinn's face must fall a bit, disappointed, because Rachel's eyes widen and she sits forward and says, "I meant…professionally. I could be a terrible performer for all you know."
Quinn's astute gaze drifts back to her.
"I'm sorry I said that," Rachel implores, "Really."
"I can't imagine you'd be a terrible performer," Quinn muses quietly.
Rachel smiles. She's really not. She's sure of that, at the very least.
"And I'm enjoying getting to know you," Quinn adds, bashful now, overheating in her short sleeve button down. "I could – maybe I could show you around the city, if you have free time. And I'd like to hear about the shows you've worked on."
Rachel leans forward, grinning, and says, "I've worked on five shows, and three are books, so we have a lot to talk about."