It's not like she doesn't think about it. February can't sneak up on her; it's about as subtle as a truck and for that, there is no metaphor.
Quinn deals in facts; she accepts them and moves on. Feelings though, are an entirely different matter. Her head and heart don't interact because if they did, they'd collapse upon the gravity of their own weight and Quinn would get sucked into the black hole left in their wake.
She can't can't afford that.
Dread starts seeping into her bones, spreading slick like oil, thick and heavy and even just by the beginning of February, Quinn feels like she's about to lose it.
She's been pushing back the panic attacks, keeping them at bay, because the dates don't match. If it's not the 21st, she can't break down because it's not the actual anniversary yet. Quinn's always been familiar and comfortable with denial, and she's desperate enough to use it in order to endure the next few weeks.
Lucy was always desperately afraid of bees. Not because they stung and it hurt, that was the least of it. It was the anticipation. Waiting for the sting hurt much worse than actually being stung. The buzzing put her on edge and she'd freeze, seize up, was caught in fear for what was about to happen.
Lucy knew what she was and, more importantly, what she wasn't. There was always an underlying stubbornness in Quinn, an unwillingness to fail. She always had to strive for something to be better at, to postpone that eventual sting. Lucy knew she was everything her sister, mother, and father weren't. It was only a matter of time before it was a gym membership, nose job, and dye job away to avoid being stung. It's part of what made growing up in her house so much more difficult than it already was- waiting for that perpetual sting: for the disappointment, next diet plan, or unachievable existence. Her whole life she'd been shifting and it's exhausting. She was cracking at the edges.
February is a like giant bee. And with each passing day, the hive grew larger into a swarming buzz and the panic threatened to consume her whole, it was almost claustrophobic. She couldn't help it.
Almost dying had that effect on her.
Its crippling to the point where nothing helps. She can't possibly busy herself enough; her mind and the heart are coming perilously close to one another.
Her chest seizes when she plays with Beth and no amount of Sesame Street or peekaboo will make it go away. She can't shelve enough books or file enough paperwork to calm her heartbeat. She can't run like she used to. She can't clear her mind. She cannot occupy or busy it, and she feels it crawling under her flesh like beetles.
When the doorbell rings on the Tuesday morningthe day before, she's damn near crawling out of her skin.
Her arms are shaking much the way they did after her first week of physical therapy except something as mundane as the door seems to be her limit this time. She hears a bag drop to the ground and two seconds later, Sam drops to a knee and pulls her into a hug before she even registers what's happened.
He's strong and steady, and she feels safe, as if he'd pulled her out of the car in time.
She chokes out a laugh, because that's what happens when she's borderline hysterical, and she clutches fistfuls of his shirt tightly in her fingers, holding on with every fiber of her being.
"I was building up the courage to do this the whole drive here," he jokes. "You're like a Wookie, I didn't want to get my head ripped off. Or my arm, I need that for football."
She doesn't realize she's crying until her cheeks feel wet, (but it's not really surprising given she barely feels in control of anything these days, least of all her body) because God sent Sam Evans to her doorstep when she needed someone most. He's like the relief of the ocean when the pain is almost too much to bear after walking barefoot across the burning sand.
He saved her from herself. Just in time.
She wipes her eyes sloppily and reluctantly lets go as Sam straightens up.
There are a million thanks on the edge of her lips but Sam seems them before they exist. "C'mon," he says smiling, hoisting the bag over his shoulder, "You can cry and talk. Or, more likely, cry and not talk. I prepared for either situation," he says, whipping out a stack of DVDs as proof.
Once in the foyer he cranes his head and remarks, "It's been, like, forever since I've been here. Does your mom still make those low-fat yogurt parfaits?"
In the end, they find refuge on the couch and a Pixar marathon. She lays into Sam's side on the couch, the chair nowhere in sight, relishing in feeling like this is a normal activity people do that she finally understands. The silence is soothing and is punctuated with Sam's movie trivia (of which Quinn could care less about aside from the fact that he loves sharing it in the first place). He's warm and soft, and she takes comfort in not having to reply to questions she doesn't know the answers to.
Mr. Incredible shouts on the screen and she tries not to flinch, the hero unavoidably reminding her of another big, blonde father she once thought was a superhero, too. Quinn is Violet, flickering invisible, but never for the right reasons. She snuggles further into Sam.
Whether Sam's friendship happened through accident or design, she doesn't know. But she won't let him go as easily as he seemed to fall into her lap (and by easy, she means not at all because in what world is what either of them have gone through considered easy) because this is something she needs now. He's a part of her as much as breathing, Beth, or the wheelchair. They're too wrapped up together, now.
She doesn't realize she's fallen asleep until the phone rings and it's Brittany calling to say she was worried when Quinn didn't show up for tutoring, but then remembered what day it was. Guilt swells for a moment but Brittany disarms her completely, "I love you, and even though you probably don't want a hug because you're a cactus, I'm sending one anyway. Santana also said 'make sure she doesn't go off the deep end', but you don't swim anymore, so I'm not exactly sure what she means but I think it means she loves you too. Especially today. I'm so glad you didn't die."
The dial tone drones in her ear and she must look stunned because Sam asks what happened. "Brittany," she replies because it's answer enough.
Sam nods knowingly and remarks, "Sometimes I'm not sure if she's smarter than all of us or dumber, or both and is like, a 5th dimensional being or something."
She quirks an eyebrow and without missing a beat he says, "We're adding Men In Black III to the list because Griffin is totally awesome."
Later, (after having gone to bed filled with Thai food and more movies) she's lying in bed having stared at the ceiling for hours in the dark, unblinking and unfeeling, teetering on the edge of something. It's been hours, and if this is her one day to be selfish, she decides she's going to take advantage of it. She wheels down the dim hallway to the guest room. Trying not to over-think it, she takes a deep breath before she changes her mind and gently knocks on the door. "Come in," she hears, and Sam's sitting up in bed with a book on his lap.
She bites her lip, because her track record for this is pretty deplorable and she's afraid.
He's looking at her without question or judgement, as if he's just waiting for her to catch up with herself and she trembles under the wake of it. Even if she doesn't trust herself, she trusts him so allows herself to softly blurt out, "Can you hold me?"
Despite his kindness, the words feel foreign and she knows there should be a part of her that's screaming against the kind of vulnerability she's refused for so long. But mostly Quinn feels so weary in her ache that she just want to surrender. And he's the safest harbor she knows.
Shyness overtakes her in this naked moment so she clears her throat and adds, "For a little while," her voice tilting up at the end as if it's still a question she needs answering.
Wordlessly he moves to make a space for her, patting the space next to him invitingly.
She locks the chair next to the bed and lifts herself into the bed, maneuvering her legs into place. She's not ashamed- but having someone see the inner workings of this part of her life makes her feel exposed in a way she's been avoiding since she was 12.
"Didn't take you much for a Kerouac reader," she mumbles, trying to pull the attention away from herself as she snuggles back into him.
He clears his throat. "It's for school. I mean, I know I'm slow and reading isn't my strong suit, but it's taking me forever to get through this thing."
"Read it to me?"
She falls asleep, his voice and the rhythm of the words like the ocean. The darkness of her sleep is smooth and comforting, not angry, sharp, and fearful. Quinn wakes up in the morning more rested than she has in weeks and it feels like days have passed. She keeps her eyes closed, luxuriating in the moment, before realizing she's still in the guest room.
Twisting around, she sees Sam's head cocked to the side and his mouth wide open, Kerouac lying on his chest. She smiles.
Sunlight pours in through the window and it's warm instead of stark. She stretches, joints pop and muscles flex, and she feels….refreshed. She's passed through the storm.
She breathes, and another day begins.