Summary: "When you decide to visit, you tell yourself it's not to see her. You're growing up and moving on from childish fantasies. You also tell yourself that what happened with Santana after Mr. Schue's non-wedding won't happen again, but the only reason you're visiting is because you hope it will." — college!Faberry, Quinn-centric, Quinntana friendship, post-'I Do'
Rated: M
A/N: Well, this took longer than I expected. Thanks for waiting, and I appreciate the feedback I've gotten along the way. This is a pretty long chapter, and things are a-changing. Hope you enjoy!
Why the Wind Goes and Comes Back
Chapter 4:
for the ghost of your heart is a holy place
and as most holy places are
when you hold me inside of it I feel like a child
May 2013:
You hesitate before you open the e-mail from Brittany. You haven't spoken much since graduation; it's hard to talk to Britt without Santana there to translate. It's even harder to understand when you can't watch her as she talks. (She moves with such precision and clarity; it makes sense that dance is her way of expressing herself.)
You smile when you see she inserted a picture of Lord Tubbington.
Hi Q,
It's Brittany. Ms. Pillsbury told me I should try writing to you because I've been kind of confused and feel weird lately. I'm not mad at you, Q. Santana told me about you and her. Don't get mad at her. I asked because I saw you two together at the wedding. It kind of hurt, and it reminded me of that time when I was with Artie and Santana was sad.
Ms. Pillsbury said I'm allowed to be upset, but that I'm in my own relationship and even though the plumbing is different, I can't hurt Sam. I really like Sam. I like him a lot. He makes me happy and he's here. I know I hurt Santana, so I just want you to be gentle with her. She's fragile. She just doesn't wear a "This Side Up" label, you know? She's still my best friend. And you're still my friend too. I just don't want my two high school friends to get hurt. You both should be happy and if that's together, then I should be supportive. But let's talk soon. I need to go because Lord Tubbington needs a bath. He started eating the garbage again, so he smells like tuna and old peaches and keeps pooping those toys at the bottom of cereal boxes and parts of Happy Meal toys. Be in touch, Q.
Love,
Brittany
You write a brief response back; you tell her you're happy for her and Sam, and you suggest that Lord Tubbington should get a checkup at the vet. You say how much you appreciate her honesty with you and Santana, but you don't delve deep into how you feel about the whole thing with her ex – that's something you trust Santana to explain in a way Brittany will understand – the way Santana will want Brittany to understand. You promise to call her soon.
You close your e-mail before opening your modernist poetry anthology, and you wish your professor would stop talking about vorticism.
You think you handle the news well. You talk to Rachel almost every night, and you are happy to hear she's healing, surviving this new bout of growing pains. You just didn't expect her to start dating again so soon.
"Santana's met a lot of nice women on OKCupid," she explains.
Santana has mentioned dates with other women, but nothing too detailed. You laugh internally at the fact that she omitted the online dating website.
"I'm sure you can meet a lot of people online, just be careful," you warn. "And if he says he's a 'really nice guy,' he probably isn't."
"I found that out last week."
You bite your lip as Rachel tells you about her terrible date with an IT guy who basically spoke entirely in code, but he was quite clear about how often he has been "friend-zoned."
"I'm all for diverse passions, but he's never seen Wicked, Quinn," Rachel rants.
"Rachel, I've never seen Wicked. He just sucks in general," you reply as a smirk plays at your lips.
"We're going to change that. Over the summer I'm dragging you if I have to."
"No dragging necessary, Rach."
You know that when you finally see Wicked, you'll listen closely to Rachel sitting beside you, hear her hold her breath before the most important moments, and after every song, you'll applaud and look at Rachel – see her eyes shimmer in the stage lighting and a smile stretch across her face. Whether she's on stage or not, she always shines the brightest.
The fourth time you visit, it's because Santana finally got a job and wants to celebrate.
"It's a dive bar basically, like a rip off of Coyote Ugly. Speaking of, I should have known I wasn't straight when I couldn't figure out my obsession with that movie."
You make it to their apartment in two hours on a Friday night. It's a big night because it's Santana's first weekend shift.
Santana lets you into the apartment before she has to run off to work to start setting up the bar. You go to her room to change, and you catch sight of the scar along your back as you pull off your sundress. You stand there in your underwear for a moment, reaching around your back and running your fingers along the smooth patch of skin. It looks ugly, but you're learning to love your body as a whole, including the faint stretch marks, the fading tattoo, and all the scars drawn onto your body.
Despite the number of times you've slept with Santana, she doesn't touch your scars. She runs her lips on your neck, tracing the blue of your veins – the parts of you that serve as a reminder that you're alive.
You pull on some skinny jeans and a dark floral tank, looking at your reflection. You pull your hair back into a ponytail, give yourself a little pomp, and wonder if you could get away with acting like someone else for the night. You sigh, checking your reflection once more before you leave Santana's room.
When you walk into the kitchen, you see a guy with shaggy, dark brown hair, a five o'clock shadow, and glasses leaning against the counter, holding a mug of coffee. You decide he looks like a sexy professor and you would probably be attracted to him in some way if he wasn't looking at Rachel like that.
"Quinn!" Rachel says upon seeing you, running to you and wrapping her arms your waist with a tight squeeze.
You watch as this man – so much more grown up in appearance than Finn or Jesse – smiles awkwardly (and endearingly) as he adjusts his glasses.
"Eric, this is my friend Quinn," Rachel says as you part, "Quinn, this is Eric." Something in your stomach flutters when she says your name with that smile that was never really meant for you. It still makes you feel childish because feeling butterflies will always make you think of being Lucy, when you believed in prince charmings, when you played a princess in open fields with your sister. Or the butterflies that unraveled from their cocoons in your stomach the first time you ever watched Rachel perform on stage. She's grown up so much since then, and you don't think you can dig yourself out of the soil where you planted your heart for her.
You shake his hand, and he has a crooked half-grin that reminds you of Finn. Your grip is firm, but not too brutal.
"I've heard a lot about you," he says.
"Wish I could say the same." You know it's not nice, but he doesn't flinch.
"Eric and I just met a couple nights ago," Rachel justifies. "I was telling him all about my plans to visit my friend at Yale."
Part of you is elated, but you remain indifferent on the outside.
"So what's your major? Yale must be quite demanding," Eric says before an awkward silence can bloom between the three of you.
"I declared an English major last week," you say casually, hoping to move on to a different topic.
"You didn't tell me that. That's exciting!" Rachel exclaims, and you feel the muscles in your back tense.
You hadn't for a reason. When you talked to Rachel, you only brought up vague studies, but nothing like the fact that every love poem you read seems like it was written for her, or that poetry has taught you new ways of articulating the way your heart swells when you hear her sing, or that you are forgetting how to write in prose the way her voice has forgotten how to speak without a melody. You were trying to protect at least part of your heart from her.
You breathe a quiet sigh of relief when Kurt walks in with a tall man who walks with a certain old-fashioned, proper boyishness. Kurt introduces you to him – Adam is head of the Adam's Apples at NYADA.
"Impressive," you say in an honest tone. He smiles modestly, and you can understand why Kurt would be intrigued by him.
"There's a hierarchy. We're at the bottom, but we have fun," Adam confesses with a shrug.
"That was glee club in Ohio," you say with a sympathetic grin.
"Well, now you can brag that you went to high school with Fanny Brice," he says, quietly thanking Kurt as he passes him a glass of water.
You just look at Rachel, whose face is a pretty shade of pink. You've never seen her look so modest.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Adam quickly says to Rachel.
Rachel shakes her head, "No it's fine. I was just waiting because I only got a call back."
"Only?" you repeat, "Rachel, that's incredible. I saw Funny Girl was coming back to Broadway, but I had no idea you were auditioning."
"Yeah, it was… kind of spontaneous. I'm up to my neck in work for NYADA, but this is what I came here for, ya know?" Rachel's cheeks are still rosy, and you imagine taking her into her arms, pressing your cheek to hers and whispering your congratulations in her ear, pressing your lips to her warm skin, feeling her grin against your kiss.
"I'm proud of you," you say earnestly as Rachel beams, and you ache to move toward her, but you remain standing where you are – across from her and Eric.
You curse the wings beating in your stomach, rippling through your veins and stirring up the pretty flowers you planted in your lungs. You don't breathe another word, fearing those flimsy petals (she loves me, she loves me not) might escape if you do.
As soon as you walk in the bar, the older woman with tattoos shouts over to Santana, "Ohio! These your friends?" Once Santana nods, whiskey is poured into six shot glasses.
"Thanks Vic," Santana shouts over the loud music as she slides down the bar to greet you and the crew.
"What are you wearing?" you holler over the bar as you take in her attire. Santana's in a searsucker vest with a baby blue bra underneath with a tight pleated gray skirt.
"What everyone in Ohio wears," she says with a smirk.
"In a porno version of Ohio, maybe."
She winks and says, "That's the point, babe," before motioning to the shots.
Kurt looks appalled, whether by the cleanliness or the liquor, you'll never know.
You all take the shot, and it goes down perhaps a little too easy. (You've been drinking straight from the bottle with Pete too often, you suppose.)
"That was terrible," Rachel says as she sticks out her tongue and clears her throat.
"Take it like a champ, Berry," Santana says as she stacks your empty shot glasses, "That's the first of many. And hi, Aaron," she says with a nod and a smirk to Eric. You do your best not to laugh. Sometimes, you appreciate Santana's lack of filter.
You decide you're pretty drunk when you can't remember if this is the second or third pickleback. You've also been nursing a whiskey ginger ale all night because mixing liquors isn't good for you or something like that.
You all scored a table with a clear view of the bar, where the bartenders have been jumping up to sing and perform for the now raucous bar patrons. Santana said most of the numbers are unplanned, but Vic gets a final say.
"You okay there, lightweight?" you say to Eric when you notice his face is flushed from the booze.
"I'm fine," he says, his crooked smile in place.
You're sitting between Rachel and Kurt, and although they've included you all night, you're feeling like the fifth wheel.
"It's only midnight, bitches," a familiar voice comes through the speakers, "And you ain't seen nothin' yet!" You look to the stage and see Santana with her long tan legs standing on top of the bar. "This goes out to my Ohio lovers," Santana says as the drum beats through the speakers.
Soon, you all make your way to the makeshift dance floor, laughing and whipping out your hairography moves with Rachel and Kurt as Santana belts out "Do You Wanna Touch Me." Your head is spinning from the dancing and liquor, making your pulse feel electric, sizzling beneath your skin as Rachel pulls you into her. Her hands rest on your hips as she dances close, and you smell her shampoo and your hand finds the small of her back and for a moment you forget that she doesn't love you and you're not supposed to love her at all.
Santana somehow manages to not get fired after slapping a regular in the face so hard he had a handprint on his right cheek. He kept putting his hands on you, and you told him to fuck off. Santana showed up and also told him to fuck off. Once he called them "skanky fag hags," Santana slapped him.
Santana tells you that Vic hates the guy, but he apparently has some pull on the zoning laws if they're looking to expand.
"That's bullshit!" Rachel shouts, "What a dick!"
"Berry, calm your tiny tits down. It's cool. I just need to pass him on to a different bartender next time," Santana says with a shrug.
"Are my boobs that tiny?" Rachel asks with a pout.
You shake your head, "I'm not drunk enough to answer that."
You know you're very drunk when Santana is pulling you on top of the bar. You're still coordinated, which is a good thing. She introduces you as her wingwoman and fellow Head Bitch in Charge and the crowd hollers in approval.
"We aren't from some ritzy place. Just small-town royalty," she says into the mic. She passes you one, and you'd shake your head if you hadn't just done a shot, some liquid courage.
You appreciate your alto voice and ability to form harmonies once Santana starts singing "Royals." The room roars. You see Kurt, Adam, Rachel, and Eric dancing and singing along. Rachel looks up at you and smiles, so you give her a wink and pretend it's part of the performance and not drunk flirting.
You keep singing, even when you see Rachel grab Erics hand and pull him close, placing a soft and slow kiss on his lips as he keeps his hands on her swaying hips.
Kurt helps Adam hail a cab home to the Upper East Side before joining you and Santana at a diner nearby.
"I needed this," Santana says as she eats her disco fries. "So many customers bought me shots. I actually had to do the thing where I spit it into a beer bottle."
"Where'd Rachel go?" Kurt asks as he takes a seat beside Santana.
"Walking with Eric before he gets a subway home," you say, taking a bite of your BLT. You swallow, casually adding, "So what do you think of that?"
"I find him rather boring," Kurt says with a shrug, "But maybe that's what Rachel needs."
"He seems like a nerd, which I guess is better than Finnept or Booty Call Brody," Santana says. She looks at Kurt, "Sorry, but you get what I mean."
He just shakes his head and lets out a laugh. "What do you think? I mean, Rachel seems to value your opinion," Kurt says carefully. You look at him and he doesn't make eye contact with you.
"You live with her. I don't think my opinion matters," you say with a shrug.
"Of course it does. Tiny Tim keeps complaining that I hog you too much when you visit," Santana says before taking a generous gulp of water.
"I just think she deserves to be excited and in love. If she's having fun with him, then cool," another shrug, and you try to ignore the way Santana eyes you from over her water glass. She's always been able to read your body language too well.
"Yeah, but I definitely don't want to see her macking on him like that again," Santana says with a fake shiver, "Gross."
Kurt rolls his eyes, "You should not talk right now about PDA. Or Apartment Displays of Affection."
"Hey!" Rachel says, cutting the potential argument short as she walks toward the table and sits beside you. She's got a lazy smile on, and you recognize it from the first time she drank at the glee party junior year. She looks smitten, and you try not to think about her kissing Eric goodnight.
Santana convinced the cab driver to let her sit up front, so Rachel is smushed between you and Kurt in the backseat.
Rachel leans her head on your shoulder. "I call Quinn tonight!" she says, her eyes closed.
"What?" you ask with a laugh.
"Slumber party! I don't get to see you enough," she says, opening her eyes and looking at you with a grin.
"Quinn snores, so you can have her," Santana says from the front seat.
"I do not!" you argue, "And I'm also not an object to be passed back and forth."
"No, you're not. But I miss you, is all," Rachel says with a pout.
You pat the top of her head, "I'm right here, Rach."
Rachel just hums and worms her arms around you, nuzzling into your shoulder.
"At least now I'll be able to sleep without earplugs tonight," Kurt comments.
"Oh shut it, Hummel. How late was Adam over the other night?"
Kurt suddenly becomes preoccupied with something outside the cab window.
"What I thought," Santana mutters, looking smug.
You're lying on your back, and you feel her warm, tan skin pressed to your arm, like she caught the sunshine in each skin cell. You can feel the endorphins spreading from your arm to the palm of your hand, resisting the impulse to run your fingers over the smooth skin of her wrist. You try to pretend you don't have the option to move closer toward the edge of the bed.
"Can I ask you something?" Even her voice muddled with sleepiness comes out smooth in a whisper.
"Since when do you need permission?" you ask, turning your head to look at her. You see your breath ruffle her bangs and you realize how close she is. That she's close enough to feel the earthquake of your ribs, splitting your breaths into tremors.
"I don't. I was asking as a courtesy," she says with a silly grin.
"What is it?" You meant to look away from her brown eyes that pour into the darkness of her bedroom like bourbon, and it goes straight to your head as you feel the warmth sink from your chest to your stomach.
"Do you like Eric?"
You look away from her eyes and up at the ceiling, attempting to sober up or at least appear to be.
"Yeah. He seems nice."
Rachel lets out a gentle laugh that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand out, aching to be closer to her breath, "Since when does Quinn Fabray play nice?"
You smirk, and you find yourself looking at her again. "What? He's nice. I don't know. We were just drinking tonight. I was more focused on the douchebag Santana bitchslapped."
"Your vagueness says enough," Rachel says, rolling onto her back, but somehow ending up closer to you. Her bare calf presses against your knee, and you hope your bones don't persuade your muscles to entangle your legs with hers.
"Does it?" you quirk an eyebrow.
"I learned a long time ago to translate the few words you speak," she says, her eyes on the ceiling, briefly peering over to you and smiling.
You almost gulp, wondering if in saying too little, you've said too much – if maybe you should have expanded your body's vocabulary so its inarticulate behavior wouldn't be so simple to decipher. You want to deflect, but fear it would be too obvious. Instead, you focus on the colors the city lights are casting on the walls.
"I don't feel sparks," she confesses to the dark emptiness above her. "He's sweet. He really is, but I'm afraid I'm leading him on if I wait to see if something does spark eventually."
She rolls back onto her side, and you ignore the feeling of her breast pressing against your tricep. "Is that bad? Am I being unfair?"
You shake your head, "No, Rach. You can't make yourself feel something."
"Am I being immature though? For expecting butterflies in my stomach when I see someone? To be breathless after sharing a kiss?"
"Not at all," you say, your own butterflies betraying you, beating their wings so your words float out of your chest, sounding a little too much like a confession.
"I want it, Quinn," she whispers, and you feel her lean her cheek against your shoulder, "I want to feel those things. But even with Brody, something was missing."
You blink rapidly to try and get rid of the image of you rolling over and pressing your body on top of hers, pressing your lips to hers to until she knows that you love her like fairytales, running your hands over her body until she believes in God.
"You'll have it someday, Rachel," you say, resting your cheek atop her head, breathing in the scent of lavender. "It's okay to keep company. You know? Just be honest with him about what you're feeling… or not feeling."
"You're right," she says and you feel her sigh, "Hey Quinn?" She props herself up on her elbow and looks down at you.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. You've been all too sweet to me," she says, kissing your cheek before snuggling back into you as before.
"No problem, Rach. What are friends for?"
You can feel the muscles of her cheek move as she smiles against your shoulder before she whispers goodnight. You fall asleep hoping your skin will forget the feeling of her and all the softest parts of her body.
You don't get the internship you wanted, but you aren't too hard on yourself because it's a competitive position. Instead, you accept the work study offers; there are worse jobs than working the library circulation desk and peer editing at the writing center.
You're pulling your first almost-all-nighter to study for your Western Civilization exam, the only course you take that doesn't have an essay as the final exam. You even buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke one and a half of them before Rachel calls. She chastises you, but then offers to keep you company. (She has a Music History exam tomorrow.)
Your roommate is at the library to study for her Accounting exam, so you have a Skype session with Rachel and sit in silence, but you smile when you look up and see her with her pink highlighter in her mouth, twirling her hair as she reads her textbook. Occasionally she'll look up and pull a face. You take breaks, stretching your back, talking about what you're reading to help process it all and keep from going crazy. She tells you you're "the smartest person in the world," and you blush.
At three in the morning, you decide to turn off your brain for a moment, and ask Rachel about her audition. Apparently, from what she can gather, there were five other women who made callbacks. The audition process sounds daunting, but you don't tell her this. She looks tired and rather disheartened when she tells you that her callback was rescheduled for the week after finals.
At five in the morning, you both decide to get a few hours of sleep. You promise to call one another to make sure you're both awake so you can study again before your afternoon exams.
"You're a star, Rach. You're going to blow everyone away," you tell her with a tired grin before signing off.
You just finished moving your belongings into a new single dorm room on campus when Pete invites you over to his new apartment. You were happy to hear that he registered for a summer music theory course on campus, so you'll both spend the summer together in New Haven. Luckily for you, your financial advisor was able to mitigate the cost of living on campus over the summer.
You check your mailbox before walking over to Pete's new place, opening it to find an envelope with familiar handwriting scrawled across the front. You open it and find a card with a watercolor flower on it. Inside is a five-hundred dollar check from your mother. The only thing written inside is, "I'm proud of you, Quinnie. Keep up the good work."
You remind yourself that you need to call her later and thank her. Your relationship with her is still mending; you both had to learn new ways to love each other without your father around. She's always trying, and that's something you're grateful for.
You stop at the corner store to pick up two six-packs of beer. You decide that you should celebrate the end of finals with Pete.
Your head hurts as you lie on the couch, sprawled out in a pair of Pete's gym shorts and a Yale t-shirt. You were in no condition to walk home at the end of the night. You groan into the pillow when you can't look at the empty beer bottles on the coffee table any longer.
"Too much beer," Pete grumbles as he walks out of his room in boxers and a tattered t-shirt.
"Why did we buy more?" you say into the pillow.
"Dunno," Pete says, tripping over an empty guitar case as he shuffles to the kitchen, "Advil?"
"Please."
You hear him moving about the kitchen when your phone goes off. You move as little as possible as you reach for your phone.
"What?"
"What a ray of fucking sunshine," Santana's voice says knowingly. "How's it feel to be done with your first year of college, nerd?"
"Like someone removed my brain in my sleep and made it a punching bag before slipping it back into my head this morning."
"Crazy party?"
"No. More like Pete and I drinking our weight in beer."
"Since when are you so butch?"
You'd roll your eyes if it didn't hurt, "So why are you calling?"
"I was wondering if you wanted to come to New York this weekend? There's a concert I wanna check out."
"Can't. Work."
"Wow, you really are hungover. But that sucks. I guess I'll drag Berry if she's not having an anxiety attack about her audition."
You merely grunt in response, no longer even holding your phone to your ear, just resting it on the side of your face as you close your eyes to block out the afternoon sun.
You hear Santana laugh and say, "Again?" but it's not directed into the phone.
"What?"
"Berry was shitfaced last night," Santana says, "She's been puking all morning."
"Be nice, San," you tell her. "Why'd she get so drunk?"
"She went to some end of the year party, and she got back and she was sad for god knows whatever stupid reason," Santana says, not sounding too concerned. "And I think I might've turned her gay."
You open your eyes at this. "What do you mean?"
"She wanted to cuddle up on me and talk to me about Britt."
"I think she's just lonely."
"Aren't we all, Q," Santana says with a sigh. "Anyway, I found out her and Ernest are just friends now."
"You mean Eric?"
"Yeah. She told me last night, so once she's done puking I'm sure she's going to call you to tell you all her feelings about that."
You make vague plans to visit New York at the end of the month before hanging up. You eventually drag yourself to the kitchen where twist in the chair to crack your back as you watch him cook, playing music from his iPod dock and tapping the spatula to the beat.
You rest your chin in your hand and smile at him, and you are certain that in an alternate universe you are both absolutely in love with one another.
(Rachel never calls to tell you about Eric.)
You've been e-mailing Brittany, exchanging vague personal updates. She tells you she's looking at dance schools in Iowa and New York. You almost ask if she's shared these plans with Sam or Santana, but you opt for instead asking why she'd go to Iowa. After hitting "send," you put on some sweatpants and a t-shirt.
You kiss the cross on your necklace before removing it and placing it on your dresser with your small amount of jewelry. You grab your keys and you're out the door.
You're feeling less guilty about skipping church. You still find yourself there at strange times, no longer needing the people but just some time with yourself to find a god you believe still loves you. Sundays are running days with Pete. He's trying to get back in shape, and you never really fell out of it, but you like the feeling of pavement beneath your feet and the way the ground smells in the morning. It smells like a certain kind of hope that you never found in the bindings of musty Bibles that have begun to decay from what you imagine are tears and sweating palms.
Sometimes you have to slow down, when you feel twinges of pain shoot up your back because a nerve decides to send a reminder that you were once broken in half. Pete is always patient; he stretches with you as he waits, always giving you a smile and a Good? before you both carry on down whatever New Haven street you so choose.
You only told him once in detail that were paralyzed from the waist down your senior year of high school. As you both drank whiskey, you confessed that you wonder sometimes if you lost the wrong half of your body for those few months, that maybe the trauma of your heart and mind was what really broke you, what really still makes your chest twinge as a painful reminder of what you survived.
You're lying out in the grass of the quad with Pete, each reading your book of choice. You decided to take advantage of the sunny weather and running high.
You're listening to some electronic music that Pete recommended (some talented anonymous artist from Philadelphia), when it's interrupted by your phone ringing.
You smile when Rachel's face appears on your phone.
"Hey Rach."
Pete looks your way at the sound of your voice, he smiles before returning to his book.
"Hey." Her voice is quiet, and you sit up a bit straighter.
"You okay?"
"Uh, yeah?" You hear Rachel sigh, "I'm not sure."
You wait as you listen to her breathing, knowing she's probably trying to find the right words. The fact that Rachel can't find any for a moment is disconcerting – Rachel Berry has an expansive vocabulary, and when Rachel Berry is struggling to say something, then that sends a red flag.
You open your mouth to check on her, but her voice cuts in before you get the chance.
"Finn visited."
Silence. Just the sound of your heart pausing, or breaking.
"He showed up at my apartment with flowers," Rachel explains, and you aren't sure if you wish you could see her facial expressions right now because her tone isn't giving you anything to work with, nothing for you to understand why she's telling you this.
You realize she's waiting for your response. "That's… sweet." You wonder if Rachel's the type of girl who really likes flowers or likes being the girl to get flowers.
"It was," you note she's not gushing, but stating it. "It was a romantic weekend, really."
You swallow, and you imagine breathing in the air after a dust storm. Your eyes burn, and you occupy your hands with your water bottle, fiddling with the lid, hoping you look nonchalant in Pete's periphery.
"So he stayed the weekend…"
"Yeah. He told me not to say anything about me and him. Or anyone else I was seeing. When he kissed me goodbye he told me he still loves me."
"What did you say?" Your stomach is revolting, and you feel nauseous as you try to remember what questions friends ask, what people ask others who they care about but haven't given their heart to.
"Nothing. He just said, 'Don't make your mind up just yet,' and hugged me."
"Do you?" You don't have to clarify. She knows what you're asking, and you can tell she knows because there's a distinct pause, an intake of breath and a false start response, followed by another tired sigh.
"Part of me feels childish," she finally says, "I still dream about him, Quinn." You bite your tongue, preventing yourself from lashing out, from scoffing at the sound of your name leaving her mouth while she talks about him. But you don't get to be angry. Rachel's not responsible for the days you spend pining. If anything, Rachel deserves your gratitude for allowing you near her after the way you treated her, for letting you into her life. "I have this dream of us together, of going back to him when we've got it all figured out."
"What's the other part of you say?" You curse the way your voice cracks, the dust in your throat forming broken concrete as you swallow tears you shouldn't be holding.
"The other part says I'm growing up."
You breathe in through your nose, you brace yourself. "I think your heart has always been set on New York, Rachel, but your heart can't be in two places at once."
"Yeah. I'm sorry, Quinn. I know you have your own opinions about Finn, but… I just don't know what to think right now."
"It's okay, Rachel."
You tell her to call you if she wants to talk about it some more, but you hope she doesn't. You're not sure you have any proper answers other than calling Finn a number of synonyms for "moron."
"Everything okay?" Pete asks as you take your seat beside him.
"Yeah," you roll your eyes for good measure, "Rachel and her issues with Finn."
He nods knowingly. You've told him what you think about Finn, how it took you and a Mack truck to prevent their wedding.
"She'll come to her senses," he says with a reassuring smile.
"Yeah, it's fine." It's not, but that's not something you want to confess to Pete quite yet. Coming out to him was relatively easy, but telling him who has your heart in their palm, letting him see Rachel in that light, just seems like too much for you to expose.
A few days pass, and you only sporadically text with Rachel. She never brings up Finn, but she gives you vague details about her emotional state. She's busy preparing for her callback audition, so you let her have some space. You don't mind stepping back a little bit, but you feel selfish – cowardly, really – for fearing any mention of Finn.
When she finally does call you at the end of the week, you're unsure how to comfort her when her voice cracks and she says, "I blew it."
"What did the directors say?"
"They just said, 'Thanks. If we need anything else, we'll be in touch.' That's it. If I learned anything at NYADA, those words are the words you tell someone you never plan on seeing again."
"Broadway can be intense, maybe they're just trying to keep up an image for all the actors that got callbacks," you try.
"Yeah, maybe," she says, though not sounding very convinced. "I was going to call you yesterday because… I wanted to let you know… Well, I know I should have told you sooner, and I hope you won't be upset–"
"Woah, Rach. Slow down. What are you talking about?"
You hear her breathe, inhale, controlled exhale, "I got lunch with Shelby. She had a last minute trip to New York and she asked me if I wanted to meet up, and I was so down about my audition that I thought talking to her might help. She was in New York for a school field trip, so she left Beth with her brother and sister-in-law, but she said she's well–"
"Did it? Help, I mean."
"Yeah. It was awkward of course, but she was very sweet about it. She's been there, you know? She gave me some great advice. It feels like a fresh start, now that I know what to expect."
"I'm glad, Rachel."
"Are you mad?"
"Not at all," you say honestly. "Like you said, we both know what to expect now. We've done a fair share of growing."
You write a poem about Rachel. For Rachel. You've started a new box that you keep next to Beth's, except this one is full of things you'll never give to Rachel – mix CDs, poems that remind you of her, poems you wrote and realized were about her. No matter how many poems you write, you end up writing about the stars.
"Hello?" you say, clearing the sound of sleep from your voice. You accidentally fell asleep reading Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese," and you're sure you were dreaming of sermons and prayers on your knees in the desert.
"Hey, Quinn." It's Shelby, and there's something gentle about the way she talks to you that you hope it's how she always speaks to Rachel. "How are you?"
"I'm good. Just doing some reading. You?"
"Good. Beth's actually taking a nap right now, but I wanted to call. I'm sure Rachel told you that I was in New York the other day."
"Yeah, it's okay. She told me Beth was with your family."
"Yes, but… I was wondering if you'd be able to visit New York in a couple of weeks? I'll be bringing Beth with me; I want to introduce her to the Big Apple… we'd love to see you."
Your breath hitches and something swells in your chest.
"Yes," you breathe, "Yes," you say more clearly, "That'd be amazing."
"Okay, I'll let you know when I have my flight booked." You smile because you can hear the happiness in her words.
"Thank you, Shelby."
When you hang up, you fall back into your pillows, and you let your eyes close again to see all those wild geese flying home.