Okay, first things first. I'll apologize profusely ahead of time, but before I get into this next chapter, I have a couple of things to say. If anybody, at any time, feels the need to question me, I implore you to do so. If you find something out of place, ask me about it; but, please, I beg of you, do not accuse me of something before I've had a chance to explain myself. I sincerely implore you not to insult my intelligence. I take it very personally. But if you ask, I will be glad to answer you.
So, please, please, please if you have a question regarding my story, please, ask me about it.
*sigh* Now, with that out of the way, I'm quite literally ecstatic to be moving on. This one is crazy long! I hope you're all as excited as I am for this next scene.]
Without further ado: Chapter Nine.
Monday, July 11th, 2011
The eleven o'clock sunlight is dim today, soft. The clouds roll lazily across the sky. Sitting on an abandoned bench near the rusting swing set of Windsor Park, I count the billowing wisps of condensed moisture as they pass, deciphering their nebulous silhouettes, envisaging their fabled stories. It helps distract me from the slow trickle of time, tempering my anticipation, calming me and keeping me still.
I'm early. I've been at the park for ten minutes already, and I'm still twenty minutes ahead of Rachel. It feels like I've been early all morning. I was so anxious to see her again that I was up with the sun, out of bed and ready to start my day at the crack of dawn, even though I'm a habitually late sleeper.
Even standing in front of my closet trying to find something to wear didn't set me back—though I was staring interminably at all of my clothes for what felt like forever. I couldn't make up my mind. Despite not knowing explicitly what the weather was going to be like, I figured, since it's the middle of summer, it was safe to assume that it wouldn't be cool enough outside for a pair of jeans. While I took the time to appraise my innumerable dresses, I realized upon seeing them that every single one of them was too reminiscent of my past and the person I used to be; I wasn't comfortable with the idea of wearing them. I decided then that I wanted to show Rachel the person she's helping me become—the person she makes it so easy for me to be—not the porcelain doll I thought I had to be before, and that keeping up appearances doesn't matter anymore. I finally settled on a worn pair of capris, the cuffs below my knees rolled once, frayed and threadbare, and a plain, fitted T-shirt; gray, my favorite color.
After I'd showered and gotten dressed, I couldn't tell if I was hungry or if I was just nervous, but the mercurial tumult in my stomach urged me to venture downstairs to find breakfast. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating a stack of paperwork, and she regarded me with copious—and quite obvious—amounts of shock when I entered the room, commenting incredulously that I was up early for the second day in a row. The only explanation I could provide was the fact that I didn't sleep well last night—which was an honest answer, even if it was only half of it. I didn't sleep well—or at all, actually—because it took me forever to calm down after Rachel had said goodnight to me. I was so eager to see her this morning that I couldn't relax enough to slip into unconsciousness.
I saw the numbers on my bedside clock hit three AM before I finally drifted off, and I was up only four hours later.
It felt like days had passed before it was finally time for me to leave the house this morning—but I guess that's what I get for getting out of bed at seven o'clock again. I did everything I could think of while I was waiting. I logged onto my computer for the first time in three days; I did laundry, and subsequently dried, folded, and put it all away; I listened to the songs that had been swirling through my mind all night; I researched some of the lyrics that I could remember from Rachel's wall, indulging in an impromptu shopping spree on iTunes, desperate to hear what Rachel deemed beautiful. I spent another hour in deep thought, rereading the text messages that were still saved from the night before last, only to realize that keeping them all is quickly depleting the availably memory on my phone. Even so, I still couldn't bring myself to delete any of them. I'm determined to keep them for as long as I can, until I no longer have a choice.
When I made it to the park, there wasn't a single person in sight, although it wasn't really a surprise. There aren't many children in this neighborhood; they all grew up in the same generation as Rachel and I, and most of them go to McKinley, so the park itself is usually vacant—which makes me wonder again if, for some reason, Rachel planned it this way, though I can't begin to rationalize why. All I know is that we'll be alone, and while the possessively jealous part of me is satisfied that I'll have her all to myself, even for a little while, the thought works up all of my anxiety and anticipation—so I try to calm myself and soothe my impatience by watching the clouds that sail through the atmosphere, contemplating how I got to this place in my life, reminiscing. I wonder frequently how I got so lucky.
I don't know how long I've been sitting here now. I've kept myself from checking my phone for the time. I've convinced myself that it's mostly to preserve my patience, but the truth of it is that I haven't been able to look at it all morning without a phantom tide of disappointment with the strength of a tsunami crashing through my chest.
Rachel hasn't texted me since we said goodnight last night.
Though I know that I shouldn't be upset about it, since she told me ahead of time that she had class to attend this morning, the illogical, emotional part of my brain is still melancholy and low, unsettled by her absence. It felt wrong, almost, to get out of bed without wishing her a good morning first…
A cloud that reminds me vaguely of a shooting star—only a fleeting wisp of moisture—drifts across the canvas of the sky. I watch it for a long moment, before something at the horizon draws my attention downward. Crossing the field, a familiar figure is moving toward me; and, all at once, it feels like the sun has finally begun to shine.
My demeanor immediately improves. Rachel.
She walks so smoothly, with such ease, that it's like her feet don't even touch the ground. Even though I can see her shoulders oscillating against the distant blue of the horizon, rising and falling with weightless buoyancy as she bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, she moves with such perfect grace that an awestricken paralysis floods from the top of my head down to my toes. Even from a distance, she is a sight to behold. Her hair is light and lively, the chocolate tresses dancing in the playful breeze, caressing and playing about the bronze curvature of her shoulders. She's wearing another one of her favored summertime camis, but it's white today, striped with a pale, cornflower blue; a thick ribbon, knotted with a bow and hued the color of powdered slate, encircles the most slender curve of her abdomen, hugging her just beneath the slight swell of her ribcage, and the delicate material flows below it, flaring outward at the waist; a lattice of flowery patterns adorns the modestly revealing neckline that comes to a low V beneath her collarbone. Her skirt today is much like the one she'd been wearing when we met at the café and spent the day together at the mall, but now with several additional tiers of diaphanous ruffles.
Already, my heart is calling out to her. You are so gorgeous…
Even if she never reaches me, I feel like I'd be content just to stand here and watch her walk toward me—literally, stand, because, although I was sitting just a moment ago, apparently, I've risen from my seat on the bench. I'm upright, on my feet. When I find that they're suddenly moving beneath me, without my conscious demand, I begin to rethink the scope of my patience. While the simple act of watching her is breathtaking, I realize that can't willingly keep myself away from her.
I'm halfway across the park before my brain catches up with my body, making my way across the trampled grass and loosely shifting playground sand to meet her. Taken captive, bolstered by the certainty of a lovestruck autopilot, I'm drawn to her, magnetized, unable to resist. I can feel the lazy curve of a smile tugging at my lips.
Sensation and function fail me the nearer I get to her. My heart should be bursting out of my chest, pulsing with excitement, but it pounds languidly inside me, too enamored even to beat, too awestruck to match the intensity of my anticipation. I don't blame it. I can't feel the ground beneath me or the warmth of the sun on my back; I can only see Rachel.
Her eyes are bright and shining as she approaches, her smile wide, lighting her face. "Hey," she says, her voice lilted and sweet.
The first words that come to mind have less to do with greeting her and more to do with the fact that she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Yet, somehow, I'm able to compose myself, and even though I'm grinning the same dopey grin without the ability to curb it, I return her salutation. "Hey."
She fakes a pout as she steps closer—close enough that I can just catch the faint scent of her perfume on the breeze. "You beat me."
While I try to draw my eyes from the mesmerizing curve of her lips, noting the dimple that peeks out when her artificial frown wavers and fails, the corners of her mouth curling up into an irrepressible grin, I search my muddled brain for something to say in response. I grasp for anything that won't sound moronic, anything simultaneously simple enough for my leaden tongue to articulate—but I'm at a loss. I can't tell her that I've been waiting here for half an hour, counting the minutes until I could finally see her; that I haven't been able to think about anything else but her all morning—since last night—since yesterday morning—since the night she invited me to dinner—since we went to the mall—since we shared lunch in the café—since the moment I met her…
Instead, I swallow my tongue and the truth, and I draw a card from my infinite deck of ambiguity.
"I had some time on my hands," I reply. It's not a lie—I never want to lie to her again—but I hope she doesn't catch on to the way my voice wavers when I try to evade telling her the full extent of the truth. I fumble for something less hazardous to my cardio-vascular health, trying to ease the pressure. "I was watching the clouds."
My face flushes hotly, and my heart remembers how to beat again, pulsing frantically. Way to make yourself seem cool, Fabray.
"I see," Rachel says with a wide grin and an encouraging nod, falling into step with me as we begin to walk. "Anything good up there?"
Seriously? I study the warm depths of her eyes, able to discern her sincerity without any difficulty, though I can't immediately overcome my hesitation. You really want me to tell you about the things I saw in the clouds? Her uninhibited, openhearted patience serves as my only answer.
It takes a minute to recall the shapes I'd seen, honestly, since I'd been so deep in thought for most of it. "A couple of rabbits…" I finally admit after a moment, searching the sky again as if the same fleeting figures are still there, waiting for me to name them, "and, uh—and an octopus."
God. Could I sound any more like a three-year old right now?
Rachel plays along. She doesn't hesitate to match my level of immaturity. "Wow. I've never seen an octopus up there before," she says, stressing her intonation on the eight-legged creature. Yet, beneath her deliberate silliness, I can see that she's being sincere. "I'm sad that I missed it."
She walks softly beside me, her arms drawn behind her back, fingers laced together, as they have been ever since she first ventured into the park, and she beams at me as we begin to circle the vast field, moving aimlessly. I watch her as she moves, my eyes drawn to her in a far less subtle manner than I'd like, studying the sunlight as it caresses her shoulders—the shoulders that I'm quickly falling in love with; the shoulders that I long to simultaneously touch, kiss, taste, and lay my head on whenever I see them. I allow my gaze to wander, tracing the gentle planes of her face, noting the constant flex of her smile as it responds to her thoughts.
I'm so light that I could be breathing helium. I'm a walking balloon. It feels so good just to be here with her, just to see her again. If it wasn't for the fact that I've been just short of dying to hear her voice ever since she sang for me the other night, I'd be content just to walk with her for hours—but I can't help it. I need to hear her.
Turning to catch her eyes, my heart pounding relentlessly as I melt into the familiar warmth within them, I shift my hands into the pockets of my jeans in an attempt to quell the tremors of my nervous excitement. "How was your dance class?" I ask eventually, once I find the right words.
Rachel drops her gaze, the corners of her lips rising into an indecipherable smile. "It was somewhat challenging, actually," she admits, and euphoric relief floods through me, simply to hear her speak. When she lifts her eyes again, searching for mine, they're alight with a familiar luster. "I couldn't seem to pay attention today."
I try to ignore the million and one connotations, implications, possibilities, and Whatifs that my mind produces in response, shying away from the innumerable chances that linger within the chocolate depths of her eyes, the enigmas I can never comprehend. Relax, Fabray, I command myself. She didn't say anything about you.
Instead, I focus on what should be the most probable cause of her distraction. "Are you still hung up on the festival?" I don't sound nearly as composed as I'd like to.
She shakes her head, the voluminous locks that I love so much dancing against the bronze of her shoulders. "No, I don't think so," she says slowly, and she pauses for a moment, just long enough that I can't help but ponder her words. "I was just anxious to be done today." Her eyes dip away from mine, to the grass beneath us, just for a moment, before fixing me with the first glimmer of the profound intensity I know so well. "I wanted to see you."
Her voice is so soft, so sincere that my heart throbs in my chest, a pulse that echoes throughout my limbs and tingles in my fingertips. I wish I could mentally record her words and save them in a deep, safe part of my brain, where I could loop the playback and listen to it over and over.
'I wanted to see you.' I can only exhale dumbly in response, humming an unintelligible tone that wavers into nervous laughter. My dopey grin stretches from ear to ear.
She smiles to herself, bouncing a bit higher with her next step, and she shakes her head, seemingly in response to something I'm not privy to. "But you're right," she continues. "I can't get over the festival completely. It was so amazing, Quinn." The way her face lights up, I know it's true. "Even when we were in New York, I'd never felt so at home, so content." I search her eyes, mesmerized by the soft glow of wonderment that befalls them. "It was magical."
Though her smile is wide and unwavering, it seems like, for now, she's willing to let the topic drop, and I realize that I don't want her to stop talking.
"Was there any particular theme?" I ask her, in what is decidedly a very lame attempt to get her to continue, and I have to resist rolling my eyes at myself. Is there any particular way you could sound more like an idiot? Of course there was a theme, Fabray—that thing called music!
Even though it feels like I'm doing a monumental job of making a fool of myself, Rachel appears unbothered, smiling even as she shakes her head. "Not that I could tell."
I thank my lucky stars—the few of them that I do have—for the fact that, despite my distinct lack of eloquence, she understands that I was trying to allude to a deeper subject matter within the overall theme. The congenial warmth she so easily exudes effortlessly soothes my wounded super-ego.
"There were musicians from every genre you could imagine," she says, the awe in her voice evident. It calms my nerves, easing the tension of my lingering anxiety, and instead of berating myself, I revel in the fact that I'm able to hear her so excited about something. "Classical pianists and indie bands were posted side by side, right next to Chinese and Japanese culture troupes." She pauses, a shy grin on her lips, meeting my eyes only for a fleeting moment. "The pots-and-pans band I sent you a picture of traveled the whole festival, joining in with cellists and guitarists. There was a vocal ensemble—which was so amazing that my dads literally had to drag me away so we could make it to the fireworks in time—and a mariachi band too." When she laughs, my heart thrums against my ribs. "At one point, we even passed a beatnik."
Watching her, I wonder briefly if the flush that lingers in her cheeks is reminiscent of her comment about the picture she sent me, because my face is still warm too.
"Have you decided which one was your favorite?" I ask, after I've had a moment to collect myself. I asked which performance she liked best yesterday, but she'd told me that she couldn't decide just then, and that, even if she could have, I'd have to wait to know until the festival was over in case she changed her mind.
She pouts at me, her face drawn in a visage of exaggerated pain, a visualization of her inner struggle. "That's such a tough question to answer," she laments.
I avert my eyes as she bites her bottom lip, unable to watch her directly, and I note that she's searching our surroundings for the answer, as if it's written somewhere in the sky, only through my peripheral vision. Luckily, her indecision is adorable and endearing enough that I can force myself to ignore the movement of her lips, retaining at least some semblance of sanity. I realize after a moment that I'm smiling to myself; she's even more lovable when she's struggling with something so slight.
I try to make it easier on her. "If I had to guess," I begin slowly, praying that I'm at least close, "I'd say that it has to be between the violinists and the vocal ensemble."
For a moment, Rachel appears taken aback. She regards me with a soft, indecipherable smile, and I can just see the faintest hint of pink rise in her cheeks before she drops her eyes, turning her face downward. Her hair cascades over her shoulder, veiling her from view, but as she lifts a hand to smooth the chocolate locks back where they belong behind her ear, I notice that the curve of her lips has deepened, and I find myself wondering how it's possible that something so simple can be so beautiful.
In the midst of its rhythm, my heart stumbles over a beat. I'm beginning to wonder if I really do have to worry about cardiac arrest…
Though her gaze is still glued to the ground, Rachel nods. "You would be right," she finally says. Her voice is low, but her eyes, when they return to mine, are illuminated with a new brightness. "Those are my top contenders, but it's hard to narrow it even to the two of them. All of the performances were amazing in their own way."
When she opens her mouth again to speak, I'm concentrating too intently on the curve of her lips, but I notice that she pauses briefly, as if reconsidering her decision to continue. Though she eventually makes up her mind to keep going, her pace is measured.
"The very center of the festival was a lake," she says, "and when my dads and I passed it, there was a woman on the bank, singing. She was performing an arioso in Italian, and it was absolutely breathtaking."
Her cheeks redden further, the delicate hue just beginning to spread downward along her neck, and I hold my breath in anticipation, studying her intently; she's either embarrassed about whatever she's going to say, or nervous—maybe both.
"I honestly thought for a minute that I had forgotten how to walk."
Shaking her head at herself, she laughs, and if my throat hadn't just inexplicably collapsed upon itself, I would laugh with her.
For some reason, the thought of Rachel flustered so intensely by a woman—even if it's not me—is exceptionally exhilarating.
Maybe I have a chance after all.
Though I try to temper my voice, it is high and strained when I speak. "That good, huh?"
"She was magnificent," she agrees, nodding.
Magnificent? Dear God, Rachel, what— I sever that vein of thought before I can finish thinking it.
Thankfully, Rachel distracts me. "So, with that said, it's very hard for me to choose my favorite, but I think…" She trails off for a moment, biting her lip. Despite the fact that I'm still trying to calm my spasmodic heart, I can't help but find her absolutely adorable. Abruptly, she huffs, and I can imagine her internally demanding herself to make a decision. "I'm fairly certain that the violinists were my favorite," she says finally. "I did love the vocal ensemble, but it's… it's extraordinary when the music itself can overtake you." She turns to me, searching my eyes, as if to be sure that I understand what she's trying to tell me, her ardent intensity warming me from the inside out. "When it doesn't even need lyrics to move you—it's just so powerful."
I tumble into the welcoming abyss of her eyes. Relating to her is effortless. Sometimes, even hearing Rachel hum to herself is breathtaking.
"I know what you mean," I assure her, breathless with just the thought, when I finally remember how to speak.
She smiles, and my chest swells with a multitude of emotions as we both drop our eyes. How is it possible that the simplest moments with you are so perfect?
We continue walking, content for the moment to be silent. When I regain my bearings, determining my location by studying the skeletal silhouettes of the swing set and the jungle gym set against the blue of the horizon, I realize that we've already passed the spot where I met her. We've circled the park at least once—though, honestly, I wouldn't know the difference if this was our third or fifth time around—but I don't mind. Not even the silence bothers me, or the fact that, as we walk, I watch her, and I know without a doubt that she can feel my eyes on her; right now, with her by my side, I am strangely okay with being obvious.
When she turns to me and catches my eyes, I don't bother trying to look away.
"Can I tell you something?" she asks, swinging gently in my direction.
If it wasn't so adorable hearing her ask, I'd tell her that she doesn't have to. Instead, I remain silent, nodding, urging her to continue.
"Honestly, most of the time we were there, I felt kind of silly," she says, and she giggles, dancing lightly around the patches of flowers beneath her feet. "Walking around with my dads made me feel like I was a little girl again—but it probably didn't help that I was jumping and squealing the whole time too."
I laugh with her as I envision the scene; I wish I had been there to witness her excitement. Somehow, I know that her behavior in New York, as jubilant and exuberant as it had been, wouldn't even compare. I can only imagine how utterly adorable she must have been, skipping her way between pavilions, complimenting the musicians she passed, encouraging the younger performers to follow their dreams, no matter the obstacles they faced.
I smile to myself, watching the resilient grass rustle beneath my Converse, when I realize that nobody else knows just how sweet and selfless she can be. Though I find myself drifting further and further away into the deluge of thoughts that accompanies the chaos that is Glee Club, Rachel's voice brings me back.
"I haven't even gotten to tell you the best part yet."
I lift my eyes to her face, my eyebrow inching upward—and despite the fact that it was once a habitual, conceited response, an expression I despised, the architecture of a mask that I couldn't rip away no matter how violently I fought, somehow, now, it feels completely different—and I can't help but smile. Pushing the thought away, I'm brought back to the conversation, and I pick up, beaming helplessly, where she left off. "I thought we already established that it was the violinists," I remind her.
Laughter that I can only liken to a stream of bubbles escapes her lips, and she leans closer to touch her bare shoulder to mine, as if to chide me. "They were my favorite performers, yes," she elucidates, the playful tone of her voice a delicate symphony, "but the best part of the day was actually something we got to partake in."
I laugh with her, but I miss the warmth of her skin. "Okay," I relent. "Tell me about it."
She grins to herself as she begins. "Around noon, most of the performers were taking a break to eat lunch, but a couple of musicians from separate groups got together around the fire pit near the lake instead, and they were all playing old billboard chart-toppers."
I don't quite follow her at first, wondering what exactly made the performance so special, but the light in her eyes assures me that I'll know soon enough.
"There were dozens of them," she says, and her voice begins to rise with her excitement. "Cellists, flutists, pianists—on electric keyboards, for the most part—guitarists and drummers; and even some of the musicians from the cultural groups joined in." She turns to me for just a moment before reversing her movement, switching feet gracefully. Beaming as she walks backward in front of me—while I watch on, completely enamored, staring after her blatantly—she continues to explain. "The best part was, if you knew the song, it didn't matter if you were a performer or not. Anybody could sit with them and sing along. My dads and I spent an entire hour there."
I watch the sure rhythm of her feet against the ground—surreptitiously, I hope—wondering at the ease with which she moves. I know for certain that I would've fallen flat on my back by now, if I were her—but, maybe, if I were her, I wouldn't forget that I had legs every time she smiled…
"What songs did you sing?" I ask, honestly curious, though I use it as a means of distracting myself. It's a logical question. 'Billboard charts' isn't a very narrow category.
"Most of it was older," she replies easily. "A lot of the songs they played were correlated to their ages, so it involved a lot of nineties-based bands, like Vertical Horizon and Better Than Ezra; Lifehouse." Just hearing her mention the bands, knowing that she can recognize them by their songs and list them so effortlessly, has my heart doing back flips. I follow her movement with my eyes as she twirls lightly, reclaiming her place by my side. "My favorites were "Jumper" by Third Eye Blind, and "Iris" by The Goo Goo Dolls, though their rendition of "Drops of Jupiter" was absolutely beautiful."
I stare at her in awe. Could you be any more amazing, Rachel?
She laughs briefly, and I wonder if she somehow heard me. "Dad suggested Pantera at one point," she says, and we both laugh, "which was hilarious. We did some older things too—things like Joan Jett and Poison. The only somewhat modern songs we sang were by Nickelback and Maroon Five."
I don't care that I'm about to change the subject. She's just finished listing bands and songs from the very playlist of my soul.
"How do you know so much about this kind of music?" I ask her, barely able to verbalize my wonderment.
Somehow able to discern that I am completely enamored with her, she turns to meet my eyes, but whatever she sees causes her to shrug shyly. "My dads," she admits. "When I was growing up, they always allowed me to decide what I wanted to listen to for myself, so that meant a lot of musicals and Broadway recordings she pauses for a moment to laugh—but whenever I wasn't listening to my music, I was listening to theirs."
She searches the sky, tracing the horizon with her eyes, just as I find myself tracing the planes of her face with mine.
"At first, I thought that I just wanted to be like them, you know?" When she turns to me, seeking confirmation, I nod—I can understand where she's coming from, even if I never really felt that way towards either of my parents—and she smiles before she continues. "I just wanted to have something to share with them. It wasn't until I started getting older that I realized how much I actually enjoyed it for myself." She smirks, joking, "It was surprisingly cathartic for all of my ill-placed teenage angst."
I can only shake my head, immersed so deeply in awe that I can't even think of anything to say. She moves beside me, shuffling her feet beneath her while she walks, the toes of her shoes toying with the grass. After a moment, she raises her head, grinning at me with that enigmatic diffusion I can never decipher.
"I bet you never thought that I would listen to anything other than Broadway and jazz."
Her teasing smile is disarming, threatening to distract me entirely. "I…" My first attempt fails, but I try again, shaking my head. "I knew there had to be something else."
"Then don't look so surprised," she counters with a wide grin and a giggle, nudging my shoulder for the second time.
I used to think, when I was naïve and I had no idea what love really felt like—before I finally admitted to myself that I was falling head over heels for Rachel Berry—that television and movies were nothing but gross exaggerations. I had always found it ridiculous how, once the starry-eyed protagonist got a chance to touch or be touched by the person they loved, they pledged never to wash that part of their body again—but, right now, as ridiculous as it sounds, I am seriously considering it.
Eventually, when higher-level brain functions return, I begin to defend myself, though it's not a particularly solid rebuttal.
"It's not entirely my fault," I insist. "When you were showing me all of the music on your iPod, I didn't see a lot of alternative."
I'm surprised that I managed to get such a complex sentence out in one try.
She seems to accept my answer, however, because she relents, her lips drawn into a wry frown as she says somberly, "A sacrifice I was disheartened to make." I search her face, confused, only to see that her frown has collapsed into a sincere pout. "There wasn't enough room for all of it."
I gape at her openly, forgoing any attempts—which would be futile anyway—to conceal it. You've got to be kidding me.
"Are you serious?" I ask, to which she nods. "But—you Again, eloquence and articulation fail me. "Rachel, that thing is huge," I remind her. "It's sixty gigabytes."
The chocolate depths of her eyes are bright and alive with mirth, and the sweet melody of her laughter accompanies it. "I know," she says.
Sixty gigabytes? I repeat to myself incredulously. That's got to be like…—that's almost twice as much as I have. More, even! She has more than that.
I flounder for a moment, uttering mostly unintelligible syllables, before I finally ask her, "How much music do you have exactly?"
"A lot," she says, with a tease in her voice and a secret grin on her lips that successfully induce my heart to skip. She tilts her head just the slightest degree. "Trust me."
Awestruck—and trying to catch my breath—I fall silent. I can't think of anything else to say. It isn't a secret that music is important to Rachel, and while I wasn't under the impression that she only listened to Broadway and Jazz, I never expected that her tastes would be so diverse as to encompass the spectrum of nineties alternative, or that her collection of music is double the size of my own. It's a difficult concept to wrap my head around. Sixty gigabytes—really? That's insane.
Rachel doesn't seem to mind the silence. As she walks beside me, she embraces the stillness that has come to settle around us, taking the opportunity to gaze across the fields at our surroundings—which is more than I can say for myself. I can't take my eyes off of her. I watch her movements, study her face, and, eventually, I begin to wonder if there's something on her mind. She sways lightly with the rhythm of her feet, a gentle dance of left and right, peaceful and at ease from a first glance, but there is a faraway look in her eyes, a contemplative distance that betrays the gravity of her thoughts.
What are you thinking, Rachel?
"There's only one more thing I haven't told you about the festival," she says softly, as if she heard me. Her eyes wander across the sky. The tone of her voice makes me think that maybe she's saved this part for last on purpose; I can feel that there's something significant about what she wants to say.
She moves gracefully at my side while I await her explanation, but she doesn't continue immediately. Instead, she smiles to herself, her lips lifting upward into the secret curve that teases me endlessly, and she crosses in front of me, twirling to pass me backwards as she goes. Our eyes meet, a deep, magnetic tension condensing between us, drawing me after her, into her. I feel like I've been drugged, dosed gently but heavily with a relentless, fluttering anticipation. As she moves, I'm transfixed. She holds my eyes with her own, my heart with her smile, and I hold my breath in my struggling lungs until she slips from view, vanishing behind the partition of chain-link fence we're headed toward, posted near the outer limits of the baseball fields.
"They had the most beautiful hand-crafted jewelry there," she says from the other side, and though I can't see her face, her voice is clear.
Jewelry? I echo silently, yet I find that my confusion is brief, cut short and replaced by distraction.
Through the crosshatching pattern of wires, she is enveloped in a tantalizing, beguiling shroud. I catch only brief glimpses of her beauty, fleeting moments of focus—the curve of her jaw; the moistened pink of her lips; a brief flash of chocolate tresses laid against bronze skin; chestnut-chocolate eyes searching for my own. She continues walking, moving without hurry, languid and unrushed, and though it prolongs the duration of the distance between us, I don't mind. I move with her, eager to follow, to see, anticipating and savoring each captivating glimpse of her that I can get.
There is something distinctly intimate about seeing her through the diamond-cut vacancies of the chains, watching her fingertips trail along the peeling lacquer of the metal and dip into the empty hollows of each section that they pass…
I swallow thickly. My hand rises to mirror hers, aching to feel her, but I draw it back—hopefully before she has a chance to notice. It's not an invitation, I remind myself, though, even inwardly, even consciously, I lack conviction. She's entrancing, hypnotic, and even though I know I shouldn't be, I'm all too willing to submit.
Seemingly oblivious to my struggle, Rachel continues speaking from the other side, and I grasp blindly to comprehend her. "They cut jewels and stones and set them in rings and in pendants, and they braided them into the most intricate necklaces," she explains, her tone light and reverent, her sincerity about their importance obvious.
I still don't understand why exactly she's telling me this, but, then again, seeing her as I am, when every aspect of her being teases me—her voice, her skin, her scent, all barely restrained behind the barrier between us, begging me to find a way through—I can't even understand why my last name is Fabray.
The opposite end of the partition approaches. Rachel beats me to it, catching herself on the outermost support bar, using the gentle momentum of her movements to swing around it until she faces me. As she leans into the post, waiting for me to reach her, I'm overwhelmed by her beauty, finally able to see all of her at once again. My breath catches in my throat, my lungs malfunctioning. My stomach flips like a pancake handled by an overzealous chef.
My God… You are so beautiful…
After I've finally ceased to move, standing before her, Rachel raises her hand, and I watch, transfixed, she allows her fingertips to trail along her collarbone. Erogenous shock roots me to the ground, like a bolt of lightning, liquefying my insides. I can't even blink. Rachel… What—?
I wonder briefly if, somehow, she's realized how easily she affects me and she's just doing this to tease me, before her searching fingertips find what they're looking for: a pendant, gleaming in the pale sunlight when she disturbs it, hanging on a fine golden chain that crosses and lies just beneath her collarbone. Though I've been with her for at least twenty minutes now, this is a part of her wardrobe I honestly hadn't noticed; though how I've missed it, I have no idea.
She takes hold of the pendant and draws it away from the smooth plane of her skin, raising it, showcasing it, so that I can see it better, but my eyes are slow to focus on its shape, the gears of my mental processes jammed, my gaze fixed on the bronze silk beneath it. Her gaze lingers on my face for a moment before she drops her eyes to the pendant herself. I have only enough presence of mind to notice that the shape of the pendant itself is a delicate golden treble clef, overlaid in the center with a small aquamarine star, which I imagine has to be the same jewel-like stone she was telling me about before. She traces the edges of the note with surprising tenderness.
"My parents bought this for me," she says softly, and though her voice drops to a whisper, I can just hear her when she continues, "and…"
She trails off, but, for the moment, it doesn't occur to me as particularly pressing. My gaze has wandered back to the bronze silk of the skin she had so innocently drawn my attention to. I realize, now, with my attention explicitly focused there, that these summertime camis she seems to be fond of are going to be the death of me. They bear so much; her shoulders, her neck, her collarbone—all of which beg to be touched, to be kissed…
Not for the first time, I wonder how I'm going to survive this summer. Faced with this, I don't think it's possible.
Once I regain my capacity to think, I realize that Rachel still hasn't continued. Her eyes are still lowered, focused intently on the pendant at her fingertips. Only the fact that the corner of her lip is drawn nervously between her teeth betrays her. Curiosity piqued, I try to encourage her. "And…?"
Rachel peers up at me shyly. When her lips curve into a smile, one side still caught and held by her porcelain canines, it's a struggle to recall what exactly we're supposed to be talking about. She shifts her weight, pushing away from the post at her side, almost as if, despite her grin, she's nervous.
"And," she mirrors with a subtle tease, mimicking both of us simultaneously, before her voice dips lower, shy as she continues, "I got you something."
My heart ceases to beat entirely. What? I stare at her blankly, immobile, paralyzed. Did she—? She just said— No, I must have— She didn't—
Rachel drops her eyes once more, this time to her skirt pocket—a feature that I'd been completely oblivious to, due to its impeccable camouflage—and she reaches into it delicately, searching for a moment, before drawing something free. At first, the object is shapeless to me, with no defining features other than the fact that it appears to be delicate and thin. I watch as she uses both hands to straighten it, smoothing it out, and she holds it out to show me. Numb, I discern vaguely that it's a bracelet.
Oh, my— She did.
The bracelet is made of braided thread, just like she'd been explaining; the base color, composing the thickest part, is an off-white cream, similar to beige, interlaced with pale embellishments of jade and forest green wound into miniscule music notes that protrude just slightly from their foundation.
I stare at it reverently. I don't know what to say.
Oh, my God…
I breathe her name before I can help myself. "Rachel…"
She continues before I can attempt to say anything else. "There was this vendor at the end, before we left," she says, her eyes averted, gazing down at her hands. "He had hundreds of bracelets like this." She turns the bracelet gently in her fingertips, contemplative. "I saw this one, and it made me think of you."
This… I'm dreaming. She— That's… I swallow my heart, pounding thunderously in my throat. Please, don't wake up. Don't wake up.
Rachel catches my eyes. "Hold out your wrist." Though her voice is soft when she speaks, and confident, somehow, she makes it sound like a question.
I obey without a second thought, lifting my right hand so she can fasten the bracelet around my wrist. She lifts her hands to the level of my wrist, and I watch her face as she works, urging the free ends of the thread into a knot above my pulse. Her eyes flicker to my own every now and then, searching me deeply, looking for a reaction, and I can only stare back in return and wonder if this is really happening. Her touch is like heaven. I revel in the sensation of her fingertips working feather-light against my skin, teasing my rushing veins, electrically charged against my nerves.
When she's finished, she steps back, the tips of her fingers lingering even as she draws her hands away. I try to swallow the bowling ball in my throat, and I finally allow my eyes to fall to my wrist. I gaze at the braided threads, the jade laid against the beige, awestruck.
This is from Rachel, I remind myself.
Rachel… bought—bought, as in 'spent money on'?—a bracelet for me.
A bracelet! It's— I'm wearing a bracelet from Rachel Berry...
My eyes are still glued to my wrist, but I can just see through my peripheral vision that Rachel has returned to her previous position, leaning into the outermost post of the fence next to her, and she hugs herself close to it—immeasurably adorable in her demure shyness, even indirectly.
A moment later, her voice, hushed, breaks the silence. "It matches your eyes."
Of course it does, I realize. Like the gardenia's green ribbon…
"Rachel, this is…" My voice is barely above a whisper. I swallow my nerves, but I'm shaken from the inside out, my equilibrium thrown awry, the world askew. My heart pounds violently. "It's amazing, Rachel," I tell her. I can't stop saying her name, subconsciously trying to affirm to myself that it really is from her. "I… I love it."
I raise my other hand to touch the bracelet wondrously, fondly. When my eyes find Rachel's, she smiles again, sure this time, and I fall helplessly more in love with her.
"I was hoping you'd say that," she says, and she drops her eyes, her bottom lip once again clutched between her teeth.
I'm smiling like an idiot. I can't think of anything else to say, staring at the sueded thread encircling my wrist. As ridiculous it seems, it feels warm… like it's a part of her, a piece of herself that she's given to me, a little bit of Rachel Berry that I'll always have with me—and I realize with a horrifying clarity that this is what she's reduced me to: this quivering, melting mess, so petrified, still, and completely full of sap that I could be a tree.
I don't know how long I've been silent, simply staring at the thread that suddenly seems like the most precious gift I've ever gotten. It feels like it's been forever, though simultaneously not long enough—and I still haven't caught my breath. I don't think I'll ever tire of looking at it. Rachel got me this. Rachel Berry…
Apparently, I've been still for longer than I have realized, because, soon, Rachel pushes off from the post she's been leaning against, and she takes a step in my direction. She knows—with that perfect intuition of hers, like always—that I'm too stunned to move on my own, and she raises her hand to my waist, her warmth like fire as she slips a finger into my belt loop and tugs playfully, urging me to follow her. The jolt of excitement that circles my hips like a centripetal rocket and shoots up my spine frees me from my paralysis. I finally drop my arm, letting Rachel lead me. I follow her willingly, grinning helplessly when she tugs me closer to match her step.
Though she drops her hand as we walk, lacing her fingers together behind her back again, I don't mind. I feel like I'm on Cloud Nine.
After a moment, still dancing around the flowers and playing with the grass, Rachel prepares herself to speak again, though she hesitates before she says, "When Kurt was in Colorado with his dad, he brought me back a souvenir, so I had to get one for him too—"
I notice briefly that it seems that her voice is soft and heavy with the strains of reluctance, but the thought slips away. Cloud Nine has dispersed, and I'm hurtling back down to Earth. My stomach twists and knots, whirling and clenching at the vertiginous sensation of falling. Of course. My chest seizes. It's not just you, Fabray…
Rachel steps an inch closer, as if trying to soften the blow, and—for a reason that I can't begin to discern—a soft tease colors her voice when she tilts her head, studying something I can't see on the horizon. The corners of her lips lift gently when she continues,—but he'll have to wait to get his."
Even though she's trying to make it less of a disappointment, always able to sense how much it affects me, I don't want to think about it—but, for her sake, I try not to make it obvious that my mood has begun to sink. "Why?" I ask, referring to the delay. "Is he out of town?"
Rachel shrugs lightly, regarding me with one of her secret smiles—and though I wish in this moment that it didn't affect me, that it didn't cause my heart to race, it does as effortlessly and intensely as it always has.
Crossing another step closer to me, Rachel slips her arm around mine. Her skin is warm against mine, the smooth friction of our bodies like static, electric; and she leans into me, pressing the full warmth of her body against my side, even as we continue to move, the closest I've been to her since she invited me to dinner. Her eyes, when they find mine, are brighter than I've seen them, and she beams at me, seemingly happy, while somehow retaining that infinite softness I can't comprehend.
Dumbfounded, I can't even question her. The prickle of pins and needles assaults my whole body, thrumming in my fingers and my toes, yet it's nothing compared to the wave of heat that befalls the half of me that is nearest to her. My entire body is doused in liquid fire. I can't tell if we're still moving, or if my numb legs have given out on me; with her face so near to mine, I can only stare, barely breathing, learning the movement of her lips and memorizing every facet of the light in her eyes.
"I'm spending the day with you," she says.
And somehow, as we continue to walk along, her body pressed warmly against mine, moving in tandem with me, the fact that she bought Kurt a bracelet doesn't matter. What matters is that she cared enough about me to get me anything in the first place, and that's enough. Suddenly, I'm not jealous at all.
She's spending the day with me.
Hope you guys enjoyed it! Review if you'd like. :D
Next chapter won't pick up immediately after this. There will be a gap of a couple days, but then it'll be pretty cohesive from there, for a while, anyway. Doesn't sound all that exciting when it's put like that, but, as a teaser, the next chapter features another interaction in Rachel's bedroom.]
