Week 34
Sam
He's seen a few pictures of Russell, and there was that one time he saw him in the grocery store in Cincinnati, so it's not like he doesn't know what he looks like. But Sam is still surprised to see him, as if someone has pulled a character from a movie or a TV show and plopped him down across the table from him, the background of the crowded restaurant suddenly seeming fake, a moveable soundstage.
Sam elected to meet him a small local diner nestled in the town at the foot of the mountain range, roughly forty-five minutes from the cabin. He figured he could use the time on the drive back to figure out what to say to Quinn, about his thoughts on her father, about whether or not Russell was…worthy? Was that the right word?
Now, as he watches the man fiddle with the cutlery in front of him, Sam thinks that, yes, "worthy" is the right word. This is his family, the two most important people in his life, one of whom he hasn't even met yet but loves so fiercely that it feels like a small, second sun in his chest. He doesn't want to bring anyone into their lives that doesn't deserve them, especially someone who has been proven to be a disappointment before.
The more he looks at Russell, the more he sees Quinn, not so much in his features themselves but the quiet minutiae that play across them—the way he presses his lips into a thin line out of anxiety, the way he's fidgeting, not just with the silverware but his feet tapping on the floor, his eyes bouncing from object to object. They're the things he's used to seeing on Quinn's face, and it's jarring to see them anywhere else.
"So," Russell says, his voice rough, as if he hasn't used it in a while and it's become rusty with disuse. "Um…how is she?"
Smiling faintly, trying to be encouraging but unable to let go of the idea, the nagging burr digging into his brain, that this guy has made his wife cry, Sam says, "She's good. We're both really looking forward to the baby."
Russell doesn't quite smile. It's more like the corners of his lips twitch abortively, as if they're just too heavy to lift. "Yeah, I bet," he murmurs, his fingers dancing over the handle of his knife, spinning it rapidly on the table. "I remember Judy being pregnant with—with her. She was really happy. She, uh, she looked great."
At this, he looks up at Sam, his expression suddenly so hopeful that Sam feels this immense weight on his shoulders, as if he has the power to break this man. "Can I see a picture of her?"
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens up his pictures folder, scrolling to a picture that he took a few days before—Quinn in profile, standing by the wall of glass in the living room, her hands on her stomach, laughing at something Sam had said before snapping the photo. Tapping the screen so that the picture fills it, he pushes it across the table toward her father.
The man picks up the phone as if no more substantial than a bubble, like it will disappear in a second if he isn't careful enough with it. Sam turns his eyes away before Russell's eyes fall on the picture. It reminds him of this one time he went to church with Quinn and her mother, and they were holding a service for a woman whose son had been ill with leukemia, and had recently found out that he was in remission.
He remembers being unable to look her, because her joy was so full, so iridescent, that it was like looking directly into the sun.
Sam waits until Russell slides the phone back to him, and he takes a moment to look at the picture himself. He feels his smile take over his face before his mind is aware of it, and he lightly puts a fingertip to the surface of his phone, right over Quinn's cheek.
He's startled when the man across the table speaks, because he's honestly become so wrapped up in looking at Quinn that he forgot about him. "You really love her, don't you?"
Tucking his phone back into his pocket, Sam nods easily. "I really do."
Russell nods, looking back down at the table again. He's a broad-shouldered man, almost built like a bull, and though Sam tops him by a few inches, it isn't as though Russell Fabray is a delicate man. But now, he looks terribly small, as though grief and regret have the power to shrink you.
"What is she like?" he asks, his voice a mere thread of sound, barely able to reach Sam.
"She's the most incredible person I know," Sam tells him. "She's so, so smart. She's sweet and passionate and an amazing singer, even though she doesn't think so. She's a wonderful actress, and you can tell she loves it, which is the best part. She loves to read, and I love watching her read. She's my best friend."
Across the table, Quinn's father looks away again, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and Sam realizes that he's close to tears. "She doesn't talk about me a lot, you said?"
"No," Sam says, for the first time feeling pity creep into his heart. "But every girl needs her father, even if she doesn't admit to it."
Russell smiles briefly, a convulsion of his facial muscles, as if it's painful. "That's my Quinny," he murmurs, more to himself than to Sam.
They're silent for a little while, and then Russell asks, "Does she hate me?"
This quiet question, spoken with fear and what seems like desperation, throws Sam for a loop at first, and then just makes his chest hurt. "I don't know," he answers. "I think she's just hurt."
"Um," Russell says, now almost shy. "Do you think she'd want to see me?"
"I'll ask her," Sam tells him, and her father nods.
"Thank you."
They stand up, and Sam unthinkingly stretches out his hand, a habit drilled into him from childhood. Russell Fabray shakes his head firmly, and this too reminds Sam of his wife.
"I may have failed her in many respects as father," Russell says, "but I'm glad to see that she has someone like you taking care of her."
Sam smiles at him again. "I like to think we take care of each other."
/
Week 34
Quinn
At first, she tries to read, but her eyes slip over the words like a ship over the ocean. And then she straightens up the house, making the bed, wiping down the kitchen counters, unfolding and refolding the blankets, sheets, and towels in the linen closet. After that, she just paces restlessly back and forth across the living room, her phone clutched tightly in her hand in case Sam decides to call.
When she hears the scrape of his key in the front door, she drops onto the couch with an unwilling little whimper of anxiety. Sam's footsteps clomp down the hall, and Quinn's fingers entangle with each other as she feels his gaze on the back of her neck when he enters the living room.
"How'd it go?" she asks, her voice too high, too thin, and still she doesn't realize how tense she is until he sits next to her and his strong arms wind around her, and she relaxes into him.
His warm, familiar voice is in her ear, his hand rubbing up and down her arm. "Good," he says. "He wants to know if you'd like to see him."
She thinks about it for a few minutes, and then leans back just enough to look into Sam's face. "What do you think?"
He smiles at her, and she can't help but smile back. Dropping his lips to hers for a quick peck, Sam says, "He asked to see a picture of you, so I showed him the one earlier this week, the one where you were laughing by the window."
Quinn grins again, remembering that picture. She'd been looking out at the stunning view, and Sam had said, "How much did a pirate pay to get his ears pierced?"
Her lips twitched, already familiar with most of Sam's awful jokes, but this one was new. "How much?"
"A buck an ear."
"Anyway," Sam says now, "he saw me looking at it before I put it back in my pocket, and he said, 'You really love her, don't you?'"
She leans her head against his shoulder. "And what did you say?"
"'I really do.'"
Quinn snuggles closer to him. "What does that have to do with my dad, though?"
Sam presses a kiss to her hair before he answers her. "Anyone who can see how much I love you just from the look on my face should get a second chance, I think."
She nods. "I'll call him tomorrow."
