Finding a Voice

9: Could Tell a Love

(Author's Note: I'm ridiculously sorry for the wait! I know, it's been months, but things have been somewhat hectic and I just haven't had the time to write…but I'm looking at getting this story up and going again and updating at a normal pace, so don't give up on me yet!)

"Thanks for being my friend."

Rachel hadn't been exactly sure of what to call the relationship she had with Sam – a business partnership, perhaps – until he'd said that. 'Friend' probably would have been the last word she would've used before that, since she was so used to carefully avoiding it; people didn't seem to like when they were wrongfully connected with Rachel Berry, unpopularity extroardinaire. But now that Sam had said it himself, something about it had rung true, and it suddenly seemed clear that they had to be friends. Sam was someone she could trust to stick by her. He wasn't going to turn on her and leave her waiting in the sidelines for a day that would never come when they could become friends again.

After all, what were the odds of that happening to the same person twice?

Well, Rachel had to remind herself, for a normal person, it was highly improbable…but Miss Rachel Barbra Berry, of a well-to-do family and above-average talent, was so far down on the social ladder at McKinley High that she could barely hold on to the bottom rung, and that hardly qualified as 'normal.' It wasn't hard for someone to take advantage of a girl like that, socially at least. She would cling on to any sign of a friendship she could find.

Rachel always felt like she was treading on water, like she was one second away from going under any minute. She felt like she always had to prepare to hold her breath around Kurt and Mercedes and Finn, and anyone else who showed any interest in being her friend. Hell, even around Sam, she treaded lightly. Friendship was uncharted territory for Rachel Berry, and she had always felt like she had to be careful so that she didn't drown in it all.

But now, here in her room with Sam, she was taking baby steps, definitely, but they were confident baby steps. She wasn't about to rush straight to the best friend stage and overwhelm him, and get rid of the only chance she had to actually make an emotional tie that wasn't going to stretch too far and snap, like a rubber band pulled beyond its limits. But she didn't sense anything ingenuine about their budding friendship, and she didn't feel like she was walking on hot coals, either.

She didn't want to scamper off like a frightened rabbit; she was ready this time to actually make a friend. If he tried to get close to her, she wouldn't become overbearing or dive in too deep, try to get too up close and personal with him too fast. It was actually clear how to handle the situation, and it actually felt ridiculous calling it a 'situation.' It was just…life. The start of something new and exciting.

And, from a professional point of view, it seemed like Sam suddenly trusted her more. Maybe he felt the same way about that little word, 'friend,' that it suddenly put things into perspective. But whatever the answer, it seemed like this project was actually getting somewhere. He was suddenly answering her questions with more than single syllables and Rachel actually had the beginnings of a first draft in that little pink notebook of hers.

His entire background took up three whole pages, with the little chunks of descriptive answers Sam had given her. She could recite his entire history before coming to Lima now; she had read and reread and phrased and rephrashed all of the answers he'd given her so many times that she knew it by heart.

Samuel Gryffin Evans was born on May 15, 1995 in Nashville, Tennessee. His mom's name was Mary and his dad's name was Dwight. He was named after a baseball player and his great-grandfather, who had been killed in WWII. He used to go to Dalton, but no, he wasn't a Warbler and he'd never met Blaine Anderson before.

"It was a pretty big school; it was possible not to know everybody," he'd said. "I mean, I knew who he was, but I didn't know him know him…he's the guy who wears way too much hair gel, right?"

Sam's mom was fresh out of college when she'd had him, so she was still fairly young compared to a lot of other mothers. Stevie came when he was just about to turn eight, and he was almost ten when Stacy was born. He'd told Rachel he liked babysitting most of the time, but that, quote, 'Stacy Evans is probably the most difficult kid to get to go to bed in the history of forever.'

His dad used to be the head of a construction site – not the head of the company, but the boss of all the workers on that particular project.

"Things weren't going good for them on the site, and stuff was going too slow; they were really off schedule, and they just blamed it on my dad," Sam had explained. "So they just told him, y'know, 'Sorry it didn't work out,' and let him go. It hit everyone hard."

When Rachel had asked about his relationship with Quinn, he'd explained about how he tried to make himself overly-concerned with popularity to keep up with her, and then after they broke up, he kept up with it so he could keep his mind off of his dad's job. He stopped caring when they'd lost their house, though; then his main concern was taking care of Stevie and Stacy.

She then blurted out a follow-up question without thinking: "And what's your relationship like with her now?"

He'd thought for a moment before replying, "Unwillingly close."

She probably should have figured that he wouldn't want to get into detail with that, but she couldn't contain her curiosity, so she pressed on.

Sam had simply interrupted her with a sharp, "I don't wanna talk about it."

And so she had left it at that, and moved on. Rachel already somehow knew the answer, but she'd asked him to explain in his own words what it was like when everyone had found out about him living in the motel.

That was when he'd decided to revert back to single-word answers: "Heartbreaking."

She didn't have to ask about the aftermath following that, because she remembered it; she was there. Her idea to buy Sam's guitar back was what had brought them together in the first place. It was what had acquainted them with each other, and in a way, it was how they'd ended up here.

The story wasn't perfect, but there were no more blank spots in terms of the question, "Where did Sam Evans come from?"

The one question that remained was, "Who is he?"

And Rachel thought she just might understand why: he didn't know.

Rachel understood that feeling. She wasn't exactly sure who she was anymore, either.

The sound of Sam's laughter brought her out of her thoughts and back into reality. It was then that she realized that she must've been laughing, too – probably at something he'd said. She must've subconsciously noticed it and found it funny, but without it actually registering.

Rachel took a good long look at him and realized that she hadn't ever looked at him before…well, she had, but she hadn't actually taken the chance to see what she was looking at.

He was really rather beautiful – she hated the word hot, or at least in terms of guys she did. His eyes were a light green flecked with golden brown, something she hadn't taken the time to notice before; she'd always thought his eyes were blue, though she wasn't sure why exactly. His hair seemed to get shaggier every day, and it was only about four or five inches away from brushing his shoulders. His bangs were cut unevenly, too, which normally would have bothered her, but she thought it looked kind of cute on him. Sam must've given up on his old lemon juice trick, too, because his hair had become a couple shades darker within the last month or two.

Sam gave Rachel a look, wondering why she was staring at him like that. Something on his face? Was his hair sticking up in the back? It had a tendency to do that sometimes…

"Um, what're you staring at?" Sam asked, feeling a little awkward and trying to keep his thoughts from racing self-consciously.

Rachel just blinked out of her trance and cracked a halfhearted smile. "Oh; sorry. I wasn't trying to seem rude or anything, I just…"

He cut her off, grinning: "It's cool."

Rachel's smile softened a bit, becoming more genuine. It was easier to mean her smiles when she wasn't preoccupied, worrying that she might have done or said something wrong – because no matter how comfortable she felt around him, she didn't doubt that there would be a way for their friendship to be jeopardized.

"Oh! I've been meaning to ask," Rachel began, something suddenly coming to her attention. "How are things going with, um…with your voice?"

Her voice became quieter and more unsure as she said this, being careful not to step over any boundaries. But she had remembered why they were supposed to be meeting up in the first place, before he had become her friend or even before he had become her project – Sam Evans' voice just wouldn't come anymore. And knowing that Sectionals were in a month …well, that scared her. Sam was one of their most talented, and she wasn't sure if they could get on without him. Next to Kurt, he had one of the best ranges and they would need something fresh to get the judges' attention. It would be far too predictable for Mr. Shuester to hand off all the solos to her and Finn, something she would never forget because it had been far too difficult for Fake Rachel to realize – because Fake Rachel couldn't get on without the best part or the best praise.

The best for the best; that was supposed to be her motto. And if she suddenly expressed no desire to be in the spotlight, she would certainly turn some heads and spread some rumors. After all, according to the logic of the McKinley High student body, there was a reason for anything, and that likely included any sudden personality changes on the part of Miss Rachel Berry.

"It's coming," Sam lied, just to keep Rachel off his back. Sometimes, he was thankful for her questions, knowing that she was pushing him towards accepting himself in a way a guidance counselor never could…but now was not one of those times.

Since hearing the crack in Stacy's voice the last time she had asked him to sing for her, and she'd replied with a heartbreakingly disappointed, "Oh," he was ashamed of his lost voice more than words could express. But no matter what he did, no matter what he gargled with or did to exercise his throat muscles, the same thing always happened: Sam would open his mouth and try to sing a note, and nothing would come out. Not if he tried to go high or low or right in the middle; it didn't matter what he did. He was officially good for nothing – his 'condition' wasn't 'stable enough' to play football, and he couldn't sing anymore…how was he supposed to get out of Lima now?

"You know, I'm really sorry. I feel terrible, I just…I didn't think there was anything I could do," Rachel said, averting her eyes and trying to avoid his. She didn't like to make eye contact unless she was absolutely sure of herself, and she couldn't say she was. She didn't understand the situation with Sam, or what was holding him back. She didn't understand how a person could have so much talent and have it just disappear like that.

But she cared enough to find out, and right then and there, The Real Rachel Barbra Berry vowed that she was going to find out what had taken the notes right out of Sam Evans' mouth. And she was going to start right now: "It has to be something mental. I mean, I'm not trying to play Dr. Phil, but I just think that you're holding yourself back….did something happen at home?"

Abruptly, Sam stood up and said, "I gotta go."

It was reflex. His gut was telling him it was time to get out while he could, before Rachel's words could guilt-trap him into revealing the truth, his weakness. He was trying to be Superman, hiding his vulnerability and trying to tackle issues that were too big for him to take on by himself. He was trying not to need anyone; he didn't want to impose or thrust his problems onto anyone else's shoulders. Rachel was better off not knowing the truth, better of without needing to worry about him; that was what he was trying to convince himself.

"Wait, are…are you sure?" Rachel asked, giving him a wide-eyed, almost pleading look. "Because it's nearly dinnertime, and I'm sure Daddy and Daddy will be home any minute now…are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner?"

"No," he blurted. He hadn't had to hear anything other than 'dinner' to know his answer. Anything that pertained to food – that was always his answer. No. There were no questions or arguments; food was the easiest giveaway. His eating rituals made it obvious that there was something wrong with him – it was obvious by the way he took five whole minutes to chew one bite, and from the way he had an almost OCD thing going with cutting his food into eighths before eating it. And although some people might be oblivious to what those things pointed towards, Rachel wasn't stupid.

"Oh…well, okay," she said, feeling a bit discouraged at being shot down like that. Still, she tried not to let it get her down: "Um, well, it's getting dark out…do you need a ride home? I've got my car; it's in the garage, I can go get my keys…"

"Um, no thanks, Rachel," Sam said, staring down at his toes. He began to drift towards the door, but paused about a foot away from the doorframe. He slowly turned around to face her, giving a halfhearted smile.

The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it and realize what he was giving away: "Don't worry about me."

Rachel seemed skeptical: "Why would I be worried?"

Sam mentally slapped himself and blurted, instantly, "Bye, Rachel."

Then he was gone, and Rachel was left with an open pink notebook in her lap, sitting on her bed and staring hopelessly at the door, questioning his statements and feeling like, no matter what he said, there was some reason why she suddenly felt like she had good cause to worry about Sam Evans…

And like it had something to do with his lost voice, and that the causes for both just might be one and the same.