Chapter 6
Hey guys! Sorry for the delay in putting up this chapter. The real world has calmed down for me a bit now, so I should be making more frequent updates. I'll shoot for weekly! So I know I'm walking a fine line here with both Quinn and Mercedes in the story and neither of them being a straight up bitch ho that we all love to hate, but I'm doing my very best to do both girls justice. I feel like there's a story there between the two girls that the real writers were too bored to tell, so as always, I'll have my go at it. Enjoy the chapter, and as always, I sincerely appreciate your reviews!
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Sam felt a sinking in his gut as he pulled up to the next house, a stack of pizzas in tow. A white house, pretty, with a manicured lawn and blue and purple flowers. Hydrangea, he thought she'd called them. It was 7:00 on a Tuesday, just at the opening end of the dinnertime rush. The mid-June sun was bright and still warm enough in the early evening that children all along the street were running around in bathing suits, launching themselves at slip and slides and jumping through sprinklers.
Sam willed himself out of the truck and walked slowly around the front to retrieve the pies from the passenger's seat. Four large pies—two meat lovers, two veggie lovers. He sighed, pulling his company issued baseball cap as low over his eyes as it would go and picking up the heavy stack. At least this stupid job was keeping his chest and arms strong. He walked slowly up the path to the front door as if he was a death row prisoner marching to the chair. Sam pressed the bell and mumbled "pizza delivery," not loud enough for anyone inside to actually hear him, then looked down, pointing the bill of his hat down at the hot boxes.
He heard the sound of heavy footsteps inside, and the door opened. Again, Sam muttered "pizza delivery" and held the boxes out to whoever had answered the door. He kept his head too low to actually see who it was. Two strong, dark hands reached out and lifted the boxes from Sam's arms as if they were no heavier than a sack of feathers. It happened so quickly that Sam's arms actually sprung up momentarily from the loss of the heavy pressure. He dropped them to his sides, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets.
"Lemme just go set these down in the kitchen. I'll be right back to pay ya," the deep voice stated.
Sam nodded, eyes down, exploring the intricate patterns of the brick pavers in the walk. When he felt the presence of the man—he was now sure that it was a man—back in the open door, Sam dug the receipt out of his pocket and stared at it for a second, making sure he got the numbers right before he said anything.
"86.50 please."
The hands reached into the man's back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Sam watched as the fingers dipped into the worn leather, pulling out a few bills, and then paused.
"Hey!" the deep voice called out, "Aren't you that boy that took Cedes to the movies back a few weeks ago?"
Sam froze. Caught. He nodded quickly, hoping the man—he was assuming it was Mr. Jones, though he still hadn't found the nerve to look—would let it drop and it would all be over soon.
"Well where you been, boy?" he asked jovially. "Cedes' been talkin' about you but you never come 'round."
Sam felt his cheeks burning. His hands were digging deeply into his pockets. He wished he could crawl into a hole.
"I, um, I work a lot, sir."
Sam peaked up, hoping the taller man couldn't see the shame in his eyes and flushing across his cheeks. Mercedes' dad was tall, at least 6'5, and was a gigantic man. Sam knew that Mr. Jones was a dentist, but he looked like he easily could have been an offensive lineman for the Cleveland Browns. He had broad, muscular shoulders, tree trunk arms, and a protruding belly. His hairline was receding a bit. Sam didn't dare look up at him long enough to get a sense of what the man's face looked like.
That night, when Sam brought Mercedes home from the movie theater, he had been worried that Mr. Jones would kill him. Now, he felt like maybe if he killed him it would be better than the alternative—Mr. Jones seeing the homeless written all over him and deeming him unworthy of his beautiful daughter's attention. He had seen the way things had changed with Mrs. Fabray. The first time he had met her, she had eyed him coldly and examined him thoroughly, but had been generally polite. As his home situation became more precarious, though, the weariness started to show in his eyes. His clothes frayed, and he constantly looked like he needed to eat or sleep or both. It was at that point that Mrs. Fabray had made it pretty clear that she didn't approve of Sam as Quinn's boyfriend anymore. Of course, Mrs. Fabray was a little blonde woman, and Mr. Jones was a giant, terrifying man. So there was that. And he was some random white boy. Great.
"Well come on in, boy! Cedes' been wantin' to see you!"
"Oh, um," Sam started mumbling, confused. He felt heavy, like his concrete feet were frozen to the ground, but Mr. Jones' massive, skull crushing hand was on his shoulder, tugging him inside.
"Come on here in the kitchen," Mr. Jones said, leading Sam through his home. "We got some company over."
Sam followed silently.
"Cedes!" he bellowed through the hall, "Your friend brought the pizza!"
"Huh?" Sam heard her voice calling before her saw her.
He hadn't seen her in weeks. Not since that day in mid-May. She stepped into the kitchen, the confusion clear on her face. She wasn't wearing much. An oversized t-shirt barely brushed the tops of her full thighs, and the straps of her bathing suit top peaked out from beneath the collar. She had her hair pulled up off her neck, and bare feet were tracking little pools of water across the floor. The shirt was clinging to her in spots where her skin was still wet and her boobs were kinda like . . . right there. Lots of boobs. All over the place boobs.
"Sam?"
They both blushed at the same time. Sam dipped the brim of his hat back towards the floor, and Mercedes tugged at the hem of her t-shirt, trying to casually slide over behind a chair. Thank God Mr. Jones and his wife were busy pulling plates out of the cabinet and passing them around their large kitchen table, so they didn't notice their daughter's embarrassment or Sam's.
"Well aren't you going to introduce us girl?" a tall, light skinned woman with slender legs and a long, graceful neck asked, tsk-tsking Mercedes.
"Umm, yeah," Mercedes tried. "Auntie Beverly, Uncle Don, Ronnie," she addressed them, working her way around the table, "Mr. and Mrs. Tinsley, this is Sam. He's my friend from school and glee club. Sam, this is my aunt and uncle, my cousin Veronica, and you know Shane from football. Our families are really close."
Sam did know Shane from football. Kid was a freakin' beast of a left tackle. Before he got his throwing arm torn off, Sam had liked quarterbacking behind him. Ain't nobody getting through that line with that house of a kid stuffing it up. He could sit in the pocket and wait what felt like a year to throw, and some little linebacker would be flailing his toothpick arms at Shane. Sam couldn't help but notice the way Mercedes blushed when she mentioned Shane, and the way he smiled at her.
"Sir, ma'am," Sam mumbled, nodding briefly to each of the adults. "Hey Shane."
"Ooh Cedes he fine!" Veronica, who looked to be about seven or eight, declared, deepening the blush on Sam's cheeks to a cherry red. Mercedes' eyes opened wide.
"Shhh Ronnie," her mother said, smoothing the little puffs of hair tied up on her daughter's head, "We don't say those kinds of things about boys to their faces. You'll embarrass him. Good girls wait until boys leave the room to gush about them."
The little girl seemed content with that answer, and was distracted by a plate coming her way anyway. "Pizza pizza!" she meeped. Sam had to hold back the smirk that was forming. Her Little Cesar impression was pretty good.
"Sam, would you like to join us for a slice of pizza?" Mrs. Jones asked. Sam only glanced up at her for a second, but he could tell she looked just like Mercedes.
"Thank you, ma'am, I can't though. I have to get back to work. I'll get fired if somebody complains that the pizzas were cold."
"Ok then sweetheart. Let me walk you to the door."
"Byyyyyyyyye Sam!" Ronnie purred, batting her eyelashes and waving like she just won the Miss America pageant. Mercedes glared at her and pushed her arm down to her side.
"Bye, Sam," she offered, much more subdued.
Back at the front door, Mrs. Jones paid and tipped him for the pizza, then opened the door to let him out.
"Sam?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Sweetheart, Mercedes mentioned that your family is going through a bit of a tough time, and I just wanted you to know that if you ever need anything, anything at all, our home is always open to you. And your family. I don't like to brag too much, but I've got a bit of a reputation around this town for my mean cooking," she joked.
Sam smiled, but inside, his heart felt like it was about to break. The bad things never made him feel like he was going to cry. Not when they lost their home, not when Quinn cheated, not when he was miserable and tired and hungry late at night. He had been taught well by his parents and the church that the bad things you just keep your head down and soldier through. But when people were good to him, when they were so unbelievably kind and generous that he saw God's grace lighting their eyes and carrying their voices, that's when he felt his heart so impossibly full that it couldn't bear anymore.
"Thank you, ma'am. That means a lot."
"Ok sweetie."
Sam walked straight back to his truck without glancing back, afraid that if he did, Mrs. Jones would still be there and she'd see the uncertainty and the fear in his eyes. The fear that no matter what he did, it wouldn't be enough. He hopped back up into the truck and started the engine. Running his hands once through his hair to collect himself, he took a deep breath and started off for his next delivery.
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Later that evening, Quinn sat in her silver BMW, parked outside the house where she once lived. She knew what she was there for, but she wasn't exactly sure what she planned on doing, or how it would be received. She wasn't great at this sort of thing. In fact, she had never really tried it before.
She traveled slowly up the walk to the front door and rang the bell, clasping her carefully manicured hands in front of her. She listened closely, but didn't hear anyone moving around. From the living room, she could hear the faint, tinkling sound of canned sitcom laughter. It was late, almost 10:00, maybe they wouldn't be answering the door. Quinn waited another minute, enjoying the cool breeze in the night air and the scent of the summer flowers it carried with it. She felt like twirling and dancing, letting the breeze fill out her skirt while she skipped and frolicked through the grass like one of the dainty fairies from A Midsummer Night's Dream. But instead she stood, still and patient, while carefree, light-as-air Quinn lived on in her daydream.
Eventually, she heard the familiar sound of heavy footsteps, and a booming voice call out, "Who is it?"
"Hi Mr. Jones," Quinn said, by way of an answer.
The door flew open, and before she could steady herself, two massive arms wrapped her into a bear hug and squeezed so tightly that she was lifted an inch off the ground, losing one of her flats in the process. Quinn smiled brightly. She had grown up in a home where emotions were considered disadvantages in business because they allowed your negotiating partner to see where your vulnerabilities lie and exploit them. To get what you want, you have to play it cool and not show the other side your hand. That's how you close a big deal, her father always told her. She had forgotten what it was like to be around people who wore their hearts on their sleeves, never tried to fake emotions or hide them from each other, and always had more than enough love to pass around. It was freeing. It was the same thing that drew her to Sam.
"Quinn! Come inside, come in! Honey, Quinnie's here! To what do we owe the pleasure, Madame?" the big man asked, faking snobbery. There was no hint of malice in his voice. No lingering question of where she'd been, or why she hadn't been over to visit with them or to hang out with Mercedes. No implication that she had taken more than she was welcome to. Just genuine surprise and joy at the return of a girl he considered his daughter.
When she had moved back into the five bedroom house her mother had won in the divorce proceedings, Quinn had done what her mother said was polite. What Ann Landers might have suggested in a situation like this one. Her mom was always reading, quoting, and worshipping Ann Landers, the epitome of politeness. She had mailed the Joneses a thank you card along with a delivered flower arrangement. She hadn't been back to visit. She had tried to get her life back to exactly the place it was before her pregnancy and Beth. She rejoined the Cheerios as captain, she started dating the hot new kid quarterback, and once again, she started walking the halls like she owned them. And Mercedes wasn't part of her life before Beth, so she wasn't part of it after. Although she was never rude to Mercedes in the way she was rude to Rachel, if she wanted her perfect life back, it meant pretending none of it ever happened.
But by watching what Sam was going through and how it was changing him—how it was making him more mature, more grateful, more considerate—Quinn was beginning to realize that maybe it had been a mistake to try to pretend like her pregnancy was a dirty secret that she could pretend never happened. Trying to go back to the way things were meant that nothing had changed and she hadn't learned anything. But she did want to learn, and she did want to grow. That's why she was here, really. It just took a lot of effort to go against her programming.
"Well I, I was hoping I could talk to Mercedes," she asked, polite as ever, but with a hint of nerves.
"Of course, sweetheart, of course," Mr. Jones said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and bringing her into his home. "She's just up in her room. Cedes!" he called up the stairs. "Quinnie's here!"
Mercedes padded across the carpeted landing in her pajama pants, her hair wrapped around curlers. Quinn wasn't sure if the look on her face could be described as surprised, confused, happy, or all three, but Mercedes didn't seem to be angry with her.
"Hey Quinn," she smiled. Mercedes had always seemed a bit quieter, a bit shyer to Quinn than her boisterous, energetic parents. "What are you doing here? You wanna come up?"
Quinn nodded and headed up the steps. She followed Mercedes into her room and plopped into the plush pink disc chair that she had spent many nights curled up in, crying to Mercedes about losing her mom and dad, about trying to cope with Puck, or about her dismay at her changing body. Mercedes, for all her diva strutting in glee club, was a quiet, considerate listener. She never had much advice to give; she hadn't been in Quinn's situation before and she seemed to understand that. But she always, always listened. Mercedes sat down at the edge of her bed, her back straight, legs crossed Indian style, waiting for Quinn to explain.
Quinn sighed. She'd never attempted a conversation like this. Quinn was a product of unbridled ambition. Like her mom and dad, when she wanted something, she went after it, and stayed focused on her target until she got it. Technically speaking, she didn't steamroll people in her way on purpose; she just didn't even notice them there when she had her eyes on something. But the problem was that what she wanted couldn't be acquired that way.
"So, I know we haven't hung out much lately, " Quinn started uneasily. "I was hoping I could talk to you about something."
Mercedes nodded, interested, "Ok, what's up?"
"Well, I wanted to talk to you about Sam."
"About Sam?" Mercedes asked, her brows crinkling in confusion.
"Yeah, well, I . . . How do you, um, how do you feel about him?"
"Oh," Mercedes paused, surprised, clearly not expecting that. "I love Sam," she said cheerily.
"You, you love him?"
"Yeah, I mean, we all do right? Who doesn't love Sam?"
"Oh, no I meant like, how do you feel about him. You're dating him?"
"Oh! Um, well not really. I mean, prom was really nice, and we went to that movie right at the end of school, and he was sweet and cute. You know. I thought maybe there would be something there, but I haven't seen him in forever."
"Do you still think you like, wanna try things with him?"
"Oh my God, Quinn Fabray you totally like him!"
Quinn blushed a bit, and allowed the grin to show on her face. "Yeah, maybe, I mean, yeah, I think I do. I don't know."
"Aww, Quinn!" Mercedes smiled.
"So, I mean, I'm just . . . uhh," Quinn started. She recollected, and tried again. She was unfamiliar with stuttering and tripping over her words. "If you wanna be with him Mercedes . . ."
"So wait, you're saying that if I told you right now that I like Sam, and I wanna go out with him, even though you like him too . . . you're just gonna let it go?
Quinn picked at the chipping polish on her nails, fighting the urge not to peel her cuticles.
"I'm trying to be better. I'm trying to think about how the things I do affect other people. Finn and Rachel didn't think about me for a second, and they made me feel like crap. I don't wanna be like them," she paused, adding quietly, "I don't wanna be like my dad."
Mercedes nodded quietly, knowing that nothing needed to be said between them. She understood from the many nights Quinn had spent curled crying in that chair exactly how she felt. The moment passed in silence.
"You know Shane Tinsley?"
"Football player Shane?"
Mercedes nodded.
"Yeah, I know him. Why?"
The corners of Mercedes' mouth started to twitch upwards, containing a smile. "We've been spending a lot of time together lately."
"You like him?"
Mercedes considered it. "I don't know yet. He's really fun to be around and I've known him my whole life. Plus, he makes me feel like a movie star. He looks at me like I'm the hottest girl in the world. He doesn't look at any of the Cheerios like that, just me."
Quinn smiled. "You need to be with somebody who chooses you first, Cedes. You deserve that." Mercedes returned the grin.
"So, um, what about Sam?" Quinn asked.
"Quinn, if you wanna try to see where things go with him, you've got my blessing. I love you both, and you were adorable together the first time. Just try not to break his heart this time, ok?"
Quinn smiled through the little pang she felt in her heart at the thought of how much she may have hurt Sam. When it happened, she hadn't really thought about it. She had only thought about trying to figure out whether it was Sam or Finn she wanted to be with. But all of her actions had consequences, she now understood; everything she did affected someone else.
"Hey, maybe you and Sam and me and Shane can go on a double date!" Mercedes suggested.
"Are you two like officially a thing?"
"I mean, it's not official but I know as soon as I say it is we will be."
"Is that gonna be soon?"
"I think so," Mercedes said. The excitement was clear in her eyes.
"Well, when you and Shane are official, I'll take you up on that double date."
"If Sam says yes."
"Huh?"
"You mean we can go on the double date if Sam wants to go out with you again."
"Oh, yeah, I guess."
That was another thing Quinn hadn't really thought of. Sam had been so in love with her, so infatuated when they dated in the fall and winter that she had never considered the fact that he might not want to be with her again. He had thrown her for a loop when she had mentioned at the Lima Bean that she might still be able to love him and he hadn't jumped at the opportunity to ask her out right then. Then weeks had passed, and Sam had been nothing but friendly, but he hadn't made any attempt to kiss her, to touch her, or even to ask her out.
Since they had started spending time together on Wednesday and Sunday mornings, along with their Saturday night dates, they had undoubtedly grown closer. Quinn had been slowly but surely opening up to him, turning her whole heart over to him.
Most of their time on Wednesdays was spent with the kids. Quinn would buy groceries and bring them over to the motel, and she and Sam would cook pancakes or French toast and bacon or sausage for the kids, luxuries they hadn't had in over a year, since they had been cut down to bran cereal and skim milk long before they lost the house. On Sundays, they spent most of their time splashing around or sunning by Quinn's pool.
It was on their Saturday night dates on the porch that they talked and got close. Quinn told him more about her life and about her feelings than she told anyone besides Mercedes. She told him about the devastation of her father's rejection, how he missed her pregnancy and the birth of her daughter, and how his visits with her now were painfully awkward. She told him about feeling like Santana and all the other girls, even Rachel, were out to bring her crashing down from the impossible height of her perfection. She told him about the insecurities she still had about her body, and about the stretch marks on her hips and belly. She told him, too, about how she wanted to do something big, get out of this town. How now that she was free of the idea of Finn, staying in Lima and being an ex prom queen real estate agent seemed like a dead end road.
Sam always listened to her with patience and curiosity. It was less often that he told her about something that was really bothering him, but when he did, she listened with the same generosity he did. Still, as close as they were getting, he never moved to kiss her; his hugs were nothing more than an exchange of affection between friends.
She guessed technically she was going to have to push him to take their relationship one step further, and she hadn't really considered the possibility of rejection. Normally, when she wanted a guy to want her, she would start to flirt in ways that he couldn't even recognize as —coy smiles, shy glances from beneath painted lashes, a casual swaying of her hips as she walked by. They ended up desperate for her without even realizing that she was into them too. She was sure she could do that with Sam and it would work; it always worked. But she didn't really want to this time. She didn't want to waste what they had been building together.
Quinn hugged Mercedes and thanked her for being a good friend and being there for her always. She promised Mr. and Mrs. Jones that she would stop by to visit more often. As she left the home where she once lived through the toughest year of her life, she felt confident that for once, she had done the right thing.
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Quinn sat on the top step of the motel porch, her legs resting on either side of Sam's hips as he sat on the step below her. It was nearing noon, and the kids had already been fed and were now running around the motel parking lot, wearing themselves to the bone in the hot June sun, attacking each other with the Super Soakers their motel neighbor had lent them. As he breathed evenly, Quinn could feel the steady rise and fall of Sam's sides and back against the insides of her thighs.
Locks of blond hair tickled the skin of Quinn's thighs as they fell to the wooden planks beneath her. She worked the scissors through Sam's hair, always threading her fingers between a lock of hair and his scalp, trying to keep all the cuts the same length, and trying not to cut him in the process. She was no expert hair stylist, but he was getting so frustrated by his hair in his eyes that she figured she could do as good a job as the next amateur. Strand by strand, his blond mop top fell away, revealing an older, sexier boy Quinn hadn't even realized was in there to be found. When he turned to smile at her and thank her, Quinn noticed for the first time how bright his green eyes were, and how strong his jaw line was. His wide lips somehow stopped looking comical and became enticing. He didn't look like the sweet, innocent, boy next door anymore, that was for sure.
Facing away from her again, Sam leaned his back into Quinn. She wrapped an arm loosely around his broad shoulders and ruffled her other hand through his hair, dusting out the stray strands. She could feel the muscles in his shoulders relaxing under her touch, and he sighed, leaning his head back against her chest and closing his eyes. Quinn couldn't help wrapping her legs a bit tighter around his hips and her arms tighter around his shoulders. She was so small compared to him, too small to be holding him like this, but he felt so good in her arms, like nothing had ever changed between them. A gentle breeze brushed across them, cooling the heat in their skin as they watched the kids across the parking lot.
Quinn brushed her fingers through Sam's hair one more time, then traced them lightly down over the shell of his ear. She leaned close, her lips hovering, breath warm, and wondered if he could feel the same tension, the same desire to touch him, as she was feeling. Breathing deeply, she pressed her lips to the tiny patch of skin between his ear and his hairline, inhaling the scent of warm skin and soap. He tensed slightly, but he didn't move away. She moved lower, letting her blonde waves fall over his shoulder as she touched her lips to his throat. She could feel the constriction in his throat as he swallowed, and she opened her eyes to see a faint blush traveling over his fair skin.
When he turned to look at her, she could see the clouds in his green eyes—clouds of confusion, of uncertainty, and of need. Quinn parted her lips slightly and brought them within an inch of his. She had come this far; he would need to do the rest. To prove to her that he wanted this too. She watched in slow motion as his blond lashes fluttered down to his cheeks and he closed the fraction of electric space between them.