Chapter 2: What does and doesn't constitute dating.

. . .

Rachel woke with a headache; blinking at the brightness that filled her bedroom.

She remembered the girl—her eyes—very vividly.

She was sure she wasn't wrong (now, perhaps, more so than before)—she wanted that stranger.

Images of the night before tore through her thoughts (as she ran a hand across her hair) clearest in her memory was the last time she'd glimpsed her: in the parking lot, passing through Rachel's periphery, pulling her coat's collar up against the cold. Her hands were paler in the moonlight; her disposition even more impenetrable.

Stones sunk in Rachel's stomach; causing sickening ripples.

Santana giggled beside her, "all hail cabs!" She and Brittany bowed, holding hands, and faking British accents. Rachel felt gruesomely lonely. She burrowed her hands in her dress pockets and watched the pavement blur beneath her boots.

. . .

. . .

Rachel loved the sound of coffee brewing.

Santana woke to it (miraculously, from she and Brittany's apartment, a floor below—Rachel surmised Santana had synchronized her alarm, but liked the mystery). And Brittany didn't like to sleep alone.

They conferred in Rachel's kitchen most mornings—and now, years after the glamour and luster, it was the only tradition that remained untouched; by chance, at first, but now it was almost desperately enforced.

Devotedly, at 7:30 every morning.

. . .

The coffee pooled, black, into their ceramic mugs. Its heady scent stroked open their eyelids.

. . .

"Romance is persistent. Romance is inexhaustible—it's brave, and it's fearless, and yes, it's crazy at times, but it's worth it."

Santana stared down the mottled shaft of a banana, trapped in Rachel's small, gesticulating fist. Her voice was most vibrant in the mornings—without regard to Santana's sensibilities.

"All I gathered there was crazy."

Brittany watched them with casual interest, pouring Trix into a salad bowl.

"Oh, shut up," Rachel waved a hand at her, dismissively.

"Hey! I can't help it, okay—you're stalking this poor girl, and the hot TV cop in me is furious about it," Santana smirked, watching with cynical satisfaction as Rachel's cheeks tinted.

"Not stalking," it was ground out through a locked jaw and wide eyes, "I'm optimistically expecting to see her somewhere I've seen her before. How is that stalking?"

Santana stared, silent, for whole seconds—quirked brow and derisive coffee-black eyes, "Are you fucking serious right now?"

Rachel scoffed, offended, "You and your conventionalized ideals of what does and doesn't constitute dating can go have breakfast in your own apartment, you know."

"Dating!" Santana cried out in horror (practically), dissolving into little, erratic giggles, "In no way, shape, or form, is getting rejected twice in the same night by the same girl considered dating, Rachel."

With a prosy shake of her head (eyes closed and a calm rosy smile), Rachel told her, "Despite her vehement refusals…there was something in her demeanor that just screamed try harder, win me over."

"Those would be your own projections, reflected back at you in all their delusional splendor."

Rachel turned her eyes (innocent, excited) to Brittany, "Brit, help me here please."

"She can't help you," Santana snorted, "She's an incredibly hot dancer, not an incredibly hot therapist."

Brittany turned her slender neck up to look at them—eyes flitting upwards from the swirl of strawberry pink almond milk and fluorescent cereal pieces. She sighed at them, "Rachel, this is my thirty-sixth vow of silence in a decade—not that you've noticed with all your self-centered rambling and everything. It's worth it—I'm more enlightened than both of you," she clucked her tongue, "But now I have to start over. And just because I had to confirm that you're delusional."

Santana's eyes squinted—happy wrinkles collecting at their edges, "Dry-humor Brittany is my favorite."

Rachel watched them. Happiness lay softly around them; almost visible, nearly a live presence in whatever room they occupied, following them, its hands clutched at their waists. Some days she wondered how she could stand to be around them—as alone as she was.

"All right—back to the Rachel Berry Show," Santana turned to her, "Even though I think this is completely ridiculous, it's still a step up from that tree you used to date in high school—so I'm vaguely supporting this new outrageous endeavor. Vaguely."

Brittany's brows furrowed, confused, "You and Finn used to date? Weird—I always thought you were one of the Keebler elves that lived inside him."

Santana's chest shook with giggles, "Oh my god! If I hadn't already put a ring on it… Jesus, babe, I've—frankly, I've never been this turned on."

Rachel sighed, watching the smoke over the rim of her coffee swirl away, "I hate you both."

"Yeah, yeah," Santana drawled, "We'll meet you tonight at ol' Myra's—which is consequently the ugliest name you could ever give a dyke bar. For the record."

. . .

. . .

Rachel descended the stairs out of the studio, intently. The sky outside was dusky—tinted red and emerald-grey. Hours of soul-crushing ballads passed by, with verses staggering awkwardly across the page. Most days were spent crossing words out, saying 'cut it,' sighing at producers.

It was only when she thought of the blonde-haired girl that it felt like Christmas.

Snow fell on her hair; misty and tragic New York snow. She'd left her cap in the studio, but it wasn't worth going back for. She wanted to be far away from the booth, the microphone—the daunting grey machinery she didn't comprehend.

Her phone buzzed with a message: We're starting without you, come-lately.

She smirked fondly, typing back: order me a double daiquiri, Satan-oops-auto-correct-i-guess-my-phone-knows-what-you-turn-into-when-you-step-into-telephone-booths.

A beat, then, come-backs are generally quick, Rach.

She sighed—it was still a nice surprise when Santana referred to her that way.

The streetlights were coming on; consecutively, unsteadily (blinking as they woke). Rachel felt butterflies swirling in her stomach, their fairy-wings tickling her ribs. It was a foreign feeling. She hadn't felt this way since her chorus-girl days.

She hailed a cab, casually; little golden hand gleaming in the grey, winter dusk. Her own car had most likely been towed last night—she'd left it parked in some non-descript spot for days now.

It was the least of her worries—with her stomach swirling the way it was.

A taxi stopped for her, and she piled in; lonely. It was terribly lonely riding a cab by yourself.

. . .

She exited to the sight of bright moonlight. The street glowed under it; a pretty pallor that reminded her of Quinn beneath the bar-lights.

She passed the tall buildings, glanced up at their dark windows—New York made her feel big and small; a girl and a woman all at once. It was daunting. She was grateful when she reached the bar.

. . .

. . .

The girl in the green pea coat with the just-above-shoulder-length blonde hair failed to appear (again and again). Rachel counted every minute of her absence. She counted to a hundred and two before ordering a drink.

"If I don't get drunk then tonight will truly be a waste, won't it?"

"Is it really all that bad?" Santana asked her.

Rachel pouted. She was aware of looking petulant and girlish.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this girl," she confided softly.

"Yes I do," Santana deadpanned, brows furrowed, "It was since last night."

"Exactly. I haven't wanted anything for that long since I won those two tonies."

Santana dragged a hand down her cheek, scowling, "You're ridiculous. You give me headaches."

"Jack and coke on me," Rachel told her, drolly.

Santana's eyes turned soft and sensitive.

"But you're also one of my dearest friends and I love you."

. . .

She walked up to the bar with languid awareness; ignoring the interested glances, hands in her dress pockets (a tartan dress tonight—very, very high-school).

The bartender watched her with far too much clarity, "Hello again Miss Berry."

She looked up from the sight of some girl's glowing cigarette—like a lightning bug floating beside her, "A double daiquiri and a jack and coke."

"Sure," the bartender nodded a few times, sharply, "And—y'know—on the house. Or well, maybe for an autograph? I'm a fan of yours."

The bartender's pale, freckled hand slid a napkin and a pen nervously in her direction. Rachel noted the subtle twitch of her ring finger as she pulled away.

She hummed and signed some non-committal cliché with her name attached; messy curves punctuated with a star, "May I ask you something—would you mind?"

She watched the speckled dust beneath her feet, but felt—distinctly—the wideness of the bartender's stare.

"Sure—of course! Anything at all."

"The girl…" she started, carefully, "In the green pea coat, with the just-above-shoulder-length-blonde-hair…does she come here regularly, or was it just the once?"

The bartender "oh-ed" softly and licked her lips, "She's here Thursday nights. Been coming for two, three months now."

Rachel considered this, distractedly, "Thursdays…"

The bartender eyed her queerly; studying her cautiously—as if she were unadjusted, or likely to suddenly explode.

"Is something the matter?" Rachel asked her.

"Well…" she fiddled with the blender, working on Rachel's daiquiri, "It's not every day award-winning actresses stalk mild-mannered book-store clerks."

Rachel noted the wealth of rum being poured into the blender, appreciatively, "She, she works at a book-store?"

"I've said too much."

She fought against her tendency to always take things seriously, with a bite of her bottom lip, "I'm not stalking her you know…I'm—merely seeking her out in order to get to know her better, based on the signals she's subconsciously been sending me."

The bartender "hmm-ed" and slid the frothy red drink—strawberry perched prettily on the rim of the glass—in front of Rachel.

"Thank you," Rachel told her. She was horribly conscious of the bartender's eyes on her, still, but did not mention it. The jack and coke slid into her eyeline; she picked it up and turned to go.

"Hey, um—wait."

She turned; fixing the bartender with her full, brown-eyed attention.

"Um," the bartender stuttered, shocked silent for moments, "The—the girl in the green pea coat, with the just-above-shoulder-length-blonde-hair, she left this last night."

She placed a notebook carefully on the counter-top—leather-bound, with frayed edges.

"I figure since you're seeking her out and everything, maybe you should have it. And that way, it'll be sure to get back to her safely. And—you know—you'll have a better basis than the signals you think she's been sending you to…seek her out."

Rachel nodded slowly; trying conscientiously not to stare in wonder at it—slight, worn, and neat.

"I whole-heartedly accept the responsibility."

The bartender scrutinized her tiredly, "You're many degrees weirder than I thought you'd be."

. . .

She advanced back to their table, the notebook clutched to her chest via the crook of her elbow and both drinks in her hands.

"Who let you hold three things?" Santana asked, with a humorous smirk.

She sat—laying the drinks out on the table, still clutching the book to her chest. She sighed eagerly.

Santana eyed her. "Whaddaya got there? A notebook's worth of phone numbers, I hope."

Rachel closed her eyes and shook her head.

"It's hers."

The minutes passed while Santana and Brittany watched her with wide eyes.

"It never ceases to amaze me how quickly you jump from 'hello' to 'look at these neat cat calendars I made out of our faces'—honestly, it never does."

Brittany shook her head, "You stole her diary? That's low—Lord Tubbington did the same thing to me and I haven't even forgiven him posthumously."

She set it down, diligently, "The bartender gave it to me. She left it last night. And now I know she comes on Thursdays. And I know she works at a bookstore. And I know she writes in journals in addition to reading voluminously in darkly-lit bars which can't be good for her eyesight so for all intents and purposes she might also wear corrective lenses."

The wild bar lights made Santana's skin glow practically ruddy, "This isn't generally the sort of information one needs to know when attempting to hit it and quit it. You don't even need to know this bitch's name, honestly. Medical records would help though."

Rachel stroked the leather; trailed her index finger to the frayed edge of the cover. She flipped to the last page.

There was a hasty sketch of her face on the page (she recognized her eyes immediately), punctuated by a few broken verses that might loosely form a poem.

Our ghosts may have kissed…I think in a past life, they did.

"Hey!" Santana grasped it, closing it promptly, "Don't be a creep."

Rachel blushed, "It was only a sentence…"

The significance of the words filtered slowly into her consciousness (she was in part distracted by Santana patting an index finger to her nose).

"Oh, dark, short, and reckless," Santana told her, still patting her nose, "You're lucky I take the time to occasionally guide this mess you've made in the right direction."

"To what mess are you referring?"

"Your life," she answered simply, "Because frankly, you absolutely suck at this ladies lady business. You're not smooth. You have no game. And you're very hard to watch."

Brittany nodded, "I concur. You're like the sun if the sun sucked at seducing things."