Chapter Ten
.
Rachel
.
there are feelings
you haven't felt yet.
give them time.
they are almost there.
.
If, one day, someone asks me how it all started; I'll have to say it was a granola bar that finally did me in. I was pretty much a goner from the moment Quinn Fabray bit into my granola bar, and then handed it back to me. It sounds stupid and simple but it's a moment that changes something, though I'm still not sure what.
The confusion starts a few weeks after that day Quinn found out about Finn's lie to his teammates, but I'm able to pinpoint the moment the idea sparks. Or something else clichéd like that, because I kind of go a little crazy.
It's a Saturday. I think it's important to mention that this specific Saturday is bucketloads more significant to me than our Sectionals' win at the time. Which should have been enough of a red flag for me. I should have paid closer attention to how waking up without Quinn beside me is more of a blip on my radar than entirely crushing the competition with our superb singing skills and decent dance moves.
It's Quinn. It's always going to be about Quinn, I suppose.
I wake up to an empty bed, which would be normal if my alarm isn't set for six o'clock, and Quinn's practice is only at seven o'clock. I sit up slowly, blinking a few times to adjust to the sliver of light coming in through my curtains. Quinn isn't gone. Her duffel bag is still on the floor and I spy her car keys perched on my desk. So, where is she?
After a quick pitstop to the bathroom, I go looking. To be honest, I'm not sure what I'm expecting to find. She's a bit of an enigma, this Quinn Fabray; constantly surprising me with how complex and simple she can be without even having to try. I find her in the living room, her body spread out on the three-seater couch, as she scribbles something down on a small notepad. She's wearing her glasses, which is honestly the greatest thing I've ever seen in my entire life. It's illegal for a human being to look that good, seriously.
"Quinn?"
She sits up suddenly, hiding the notepad from sight. "Berry?" she questions, her eyes glancing at the clock on the far wall. "What are you doing up?"
"I could ask you the same question," I say, moving further into the room. "Couldn't you sleep?"
She shakes her head. "I've got a bit on my mind."
"Is that why you're making a list?"
She looks at me for the longest time. "If you must know, Rachel, I'm actually brainstorming ideas for your birthday present," she informs me. "I want it to be special."
I frown. "Oh, Quinn, you know you don't have to get me anything," I tell her. "Just your friendship is enough."
She shakes her head. "No, I have to get you something. This is your eighteenth birthday. It's important and it's special."
"Okay, fine," I relent. "Just, don't go overboard or anything," I say, before I backtrack. "Actually, don't even buy anything."
Her bow furrows. "Don't buy anything?"
I nod, not even sure what I'm talking about right now.
"Uh, okay," she says hesitantly, but doesn't question me further. I just get a quick hug - during which I'm assaulted by the smell of Quinn and left slightly breathless - and then she's going back upstairs to get ready for her practice. I linger a while, trying to make sense of my reaction to Quinn's hug. It's not the first time I've felt breathless around her but it is increasing in frequency and I don't know why. Am I suddenly allergic to the way she smells? That'll be hilarious to tell her. Maybe she's using a new perfume.
When I do finally recover, I go to the kitchen to make some breakfast for her. With the day she's about to face, she'll need the protein so, as much as it hurts, I put two eggs on the boil for her. Those poor baby chickens.
The things I do for Quinn Fabray.
Fifteen minutes later, Quinn breezes into the kitchen, dressed and ready for the nearly six hours she's going to have to run, jump and flip. I've been to one of her practices before and I don't think I could handle another one. Seeing her thrown into the air like a sack of potatoes almost put me in the hospital, and nobody wants that. Her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, not a single strand out of place, and her form-fitting McKinley t-shirt doesn't really leave much to the imagination. Thankfully, I catch myself staring before she does.
"Are these mine?" she asks, unnecessarily.
"No, I've decided not to be vegan for a day," I deadpan, and she rolls her eyes.
"Tone down the sarcasm, Berry," she murmurs; "It's way too early."
It's my turn to roll my eyes.
She grins at me. "Thank you, though."
I hum in acknowledgement and pour some coffee for her. Her smile widens when she takes the cup from me.
"We're like an old, married couple," she comments, her tone light. I don't know what about the simple words make me feel... uncomfortable. Is that the word? Just, something off, that I probably wouldn't be able to explain if anyone asked.
After she's done eating, she quickly washes her dishes, grabs her things, kisses my cheek, and then leaves with a quick goodbye over her shoulder. I feel a little winded by it all, and it gives me something to focus on as I go through my morning routine. I'd go for a run but the snow's arrived, and I'm not ready to face it. I spend an hour on my elliptical, using the monotonous movement to sort through how strange I feel this particular morning.
It isn't a feeling that goes away, though. After she's done tutoring Florence, Quinn spends Saturday evening with Santana and Brittany. Sunday is church and then the park with me. She goes home straight after, and I have a growing feeling that she's hiding something from me. It grows and grows when, on Tuesday, she doesn't come over and I find out from Brittany on Wednesday that she was with Quinn when I was told she was home alone. She's lying, and we don't lie to each other.
She's absent from the Berry house on Wednesday and Thursday night, and it annoys me how unworried my dads seem to be. Quinn isn't here and she's obviously hiding something from me. From all of us? Why aren't they more concerned? Quinn isn't here.
And, by Friday, I learn why. The entire week, I've been convinced I did something wrong, and it's all reached a head. Quinn is smiling secretively at me though, even as she sits beside me in Glee. It's cute and unsettling, and I can't help thinking this is it. Her little experiment with me is over, and she's about to humiliate me in front of all my friends. I try to prepare myself. I try, desperately, not to feel overwhelmed by the crushing hurt that's threatening to overwhelm me. Because I'm feeling very overwhelmed right now.
Which only escalates when Quinn raises her hand and asks Mr Schuester if she can sing something. She practically jumps up when he gives her the floor, and I hold my breath. She has this childlike enthusiasm about her today of all days, and it's making it really difficult for me to breathe.
"So," she starts; "as I'm sure all of you already know, it's Rachel's birthday on Sunday."
Oh.
Oh.
She waits, her eyes studying each of our faces for recognition or surprise. She obviously doesn't like what she sees because her eyes narrow enough for some of my 'friends' to shift in their seats. Quinn Fabray, my hero, people. I feel a little silly having worried so much all week. "Well, anyway," she continues. "Britt, San and I have decided to sing a little something to her." She flashes me a smile and my heart thunders against my ribcage. "It's a little homage to right now, and to the future we all know you're going to accomplish. Happy birthday, Rachel Berry." She blows me a kiss, which renders me stupid.
Santana and Brittany stand and move to flank Quinn. They have a small discussion before they each grab a stool and Santana picks up a guitar. I glance nervously at Puck - our resident guitarist - and he does look equal parts shocked, annoyed and put-out. It's a strange expression on his face.
Quinn clears her throat, getting my attention, and then she starts to sing Taylor Swift's Never Grow Up, albeit with a few altered lyrics to accommodate my dads. Her voice is soft, gentle, and it draws me into her eyes and into her very soul. She's telling me something important; I just know it. I'm just not ready for it.
"Your little hands wrapped around my finger, and it's so quiet in the world tonight. Your little eyelids flutter cause you're dreaming. So, I tuck you in and turn on your favourite nightlight. To you, everything's funny. You got nothing to regret. I'd give all I have honey. If you could stay like that." She smiles faintly - lucky number seven - and then Brittany and Santana join in.
"Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up. Just stay this little. Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up. It could stay this simple. I won't let nobody hurt you; won't let no one break your heart. No one will desert you. Just try to never grow up. Never grow up."
It's just Quinn again, her gaze meeting mine, and I feel a bit dizzy. "You're in the car on the way to the movies, and you're mortified your dad's dropping you off. At fourteen, there's just so much you can't do, and you can't wait to move out someday and call your own shots. But don't make him drop you off around the block. Remember that he's getting older too, and don't lose the way that you dance around in your p.j.s getting ready for school."
The Unholy Trinity are back singing together but I can't take my eyes off Quinn even if I tried. "Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up. Just stay this little. Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up. It could stay this simple, and no one's ever burned you. Nothing's ever left you scarred, and even though you want to. Just try to never grow up."
I have this sinking feeling in my stomach as Quinn's voice invades my every senses. "Take pictures in your mind of your childhood room. Memorise what it sounded like when your dad gets home. Remember the footsteps, remember the words said, and all your best friend's favourite songs. I just realised everything I have is someday gonna be gone." She smiles again, but her eyes are shining. "So, here I am in my new apartment. In a big city, they just dropped me off. It's so much colder than I thought it would be. So, I tuck myself in and turn my nightlight on."
Quinn, Santana and Brittany start up again, their voices rolling in and out of one another; the various lines criss-crossing and overlapping in perfect harmony. "Wish I'd never grown up. I wish I'd never grown up. Oh, I don't wanna grow up. Wish I'd never grown up, could still be little. Oh, I don't wanna grow up. Wish I'd never grown up. It could still be simple." All three of them are looking at me now, and that overwhelming, all-consuming feeling is back. It's threatening. "Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up. Just stay this little. Oh, darling, don't you ever grow up, don't you ever grow up. It could stay this simple. I won't let nobody hurt you; won't let no one break your heart. And, even though you want to, please try to never grow up. Don't you ever grow up. Just never grow up."
With a last strum of Santana's guitar, the room erupts in noise, and I just manage to be present enough to register what's happening around me. I'm aware of the fact I say words in response, smile and clap, but there's something happening inside of me and only Quinn seems to notice. She resumes her seat next to me as the excitement dies down, and I can see her nervously biting her bottom lip. I feel horrible.
When Mr Schuester finally dismisses us, neither Quinn nor I moves at all. I get a few well wishes as the others leave, and then it's just the two of us. I stand first, and she follows. I don't want to be sitting for this; whatever this is.
"Rachel," she starts, trying to get my attention. It's the moment I realise I'm actually pacing.
I stop and turn to look at her. She looks confused, and my own confusion doesn't help. It makes me angry and irrationally so.
"Talk to me," she says, stepping towards me and moving to wrap her arms around me. I react in a way I've never reacted before, and it surprises us both.
"Back off," I suddenly say, and she steps back, surprised by the tone of my voice. "Please, just back off."
She takes another step back. "Rachel," she starts, her voice calm; "is something wrong?"
I swivel to face her, some unknown feeling taking lodging in the pit of my stomach. "Why did you do this?" I ask.
She risks a smile. "I wanted to do something nice for you," she explains. "I know you said you didn't want anything special, so I kind of made it more Rachel Berry friendly. It's, uh, it's technically homemade, you see, so I wasn't really breaking the rules. San and Britt really helped with the arrangement, though San probably won't ever admit it." She falls silent, clearly studying my face. I haven't actually reacted to anything she's said. "Did you not like it?" she asks, her voice quivering. "Rachel, did I do something wrong?"
Whatever has lodged itself in my stomach is growing and rising. "I told you I didn't want anything," I tell her through gritted teeth.
"I thought - "
I interrupt. "You thought wrong," I say coldly. "Why didn't you just listen to me?"
Quinn looks legitimately confused by my reaction and, frankly, I am too. "I didn't buy anything," she defends, thinking that's the part that has me so uncomfortable. "I heard everything you said, Rachel, and I found a little loophole. I thought you'd like it. I thought you'd appreciate it."
And the thing is, I did. I liked it. Hell, I loved it. And, of course I appreciated it. It's just - it all feels like so much and the overwhelming feeling is overriding everything good I want to be feeling in this moment. Which is the only reason I say what I say.
"You shouldn't have done this."
Quinn looks at me for the longest moment as if she can somehow read what's going on with me, and it just makes me feel angrier.
"Stop looking at me like that!" I snap, and she flinches.
"Like what?"
"Like you know what's going on."
She blinks in confusion. "Okay," she says, dropping her gaze. "I won't look at you."
"No!" I snap again. What the hell is wrong with me? "Why are you being so nice to me? Why do you keep doing nice things? When is the other shoe going to drop, Quinn? Stop messing with my feelings like this! I can't take it anymore! I can't stand it!"
"Rachel!" Quinn returns, her eyes widening. "Stop it," she warns. "I do nice things because you're my friend and I care about you. Stop thinking there's some ulterior motive because there isn't. I genuinely like spending time with you. I like you."
And that's the moment the string inside of me - the one holding whatever I'm feeling about all of this together - snaps, and everything just kind of immediately goes to shit. I don't even know what's happening, but it is and I'm so out of control that Quinn steps back, right out of my space as if she's worried I'll actually lash out with anything other than my words.
"I didn't ask for this!" I scream. "I didn't ask for any of this! I didn't ask for you and everything that comes with you. All the fucking confusion that comes with your pretty smiles and innocent touches. I didn't ask to feel like this!"
She continues to stare at me, her mouth hanging open in the most adorable way. The sight of it just makes me angrier.
"Why did you do this?" I yell. "Why did you do this to me? I was fine. I had my friends, I was comfortable. And then you came along with you perfect hair and perfect teeth and amazing eyes and your wonderful laugh and urgh." I scream. Like, scream scream, tugging at my hair like a crazy person. "We weren't even friends. We were better as enemies because then I didn't know what this was like. Why, Quinn, why? Why did you let me feel what it's like to have your attention? To have you look at me and not scowl? To have you smile at me? To hug you?" I'm crying now, sobbing uncontrollably. "Why did you do this to me?"
She steps towards me again, her arms lifting as if she thinks a hug is going to make this any better. Whatever the fuck this is.
"No!" I screech, and she stops dead. "Stay away from me! Stay away! God, what is happening?"
"Rachel," she pleads.
"No," I say again, shaking my head. "You did this to me. This is all your fault! You made me feel all these things. Was this part of your plan all along? Is this what you wanted?"
Now she just looks even more confused - she wears it well - but my brain doesn't register it.
I keep going. "It's the only thing that makes sense," I say. "You did it on purpose. You came into my life, made me feel these things, all so you can laugh about it later! Why, Quinn? What did I ever do to you? I don't want this! This isn't - "
"I don't know what you're talking about," she says. "Please, just stop."
"No!" I back away. "Why did you do it? Do you think this is funny? None of this is funny!"
"I'm not laughing, Rachel."
"You should," I snap. "Your plan worked."
"What plan?"
"THIS!" I yell. "Look at me! I'm a fucking mess, and it's all because of you! Did you show up in front of my house on purpose? That's a lot of work for a fucking ruse, Quinn. Is Finn in on it? Santana? Britt? I mean, I have to give you props; it's diabolical, but even this is beneath you. But, then again, I can't say I'm surprised. You've done some hateful, hurtful things in the past. Why would Rachel Berry be any different?"
She blinks, forcing away tears.
"I was so stupid to think we could ever be friends," I say, and now she's crying fully. "You set out to do this from the very beginning, didn't you? I don't - I don't want this. Why do you want to hurt me? Why can't you be better? Why, Quinn?" I don't even know what question I'm asking her. Or, myself. "Why would you do this to me? What did I ever do to you? Why do you want to hurt me like this?"
She's at a loss for words and I turn on her, practically snarling.
"But it's you, isn't it? It has nothing to do with me and everything to do with how sick and twisted you really are. You pretend to be nice, but you're really just a cold-hearted bitch who doesn't know love and kindness." Her tears are flowing freely but I barely see them. I'm just so angry, and it makes me even angrier not knowing why. "It's no wonder your family wants nothing to do with you!" I hiss. "I never could understand why Finn decided he didn't want you anymore, but now I do!"
Quinn's face morphs into one of utter devastation, and I have the wherewithal to register that single, pained look before she's opening her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Nothing. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest moment, and I see the deep hurt in them before she's spinning on her heel and rushing away, leaving me feeling empty, spent, confused and sick to stomach.
When she's out of sight, I drop to my knees and sob. I cry and I cry and ohmygod, what is happening?
When I've cried myself out, I manage to pull myself together enough to leave the choir room. I stop by my locker, pack my books for the weekend, and then go home. The drive is slow and made in silence. I don't need music and whatever emotions it'll evoke right now. I don't deserve music.
I pull into the driveway, unsurprised to find Quinn's car nowhere in sight.
What did I do?
Oh, Quinn, what did I do?
I sit in my car for fifteen minutes before I get out. My movements are laboured and tired, and I feel horrible, right to the very marrow of my bones. I also feel dirty, like I've soiled everything that Quinn and I have built, in just one afternoon of total and utter panic.
When I enter the house, I half expect Quinn to pop out of somewhere, but I'm not that lucky. There is someone in the house though. It's a good thing too, because I think I'm going to go crazy if I'm left alone.
"Daddy," I say, getting his attention as I move into the living room.
"Hi, Sweetheart," my Daddy says, glancing up from the newspaper he's reading. His eyes automatically look behind me, expecting to see Quinn. He frowns slightly when he realises it's just me, and then smiles when I notice. He's so transparent sometimes - he loves Quinn. Everyone does.
"Quinn's not coming," I say dejectedly, and even I hear the sadness in my voice. His gaze meets mine and he asks the question silently. "We kind of had a fight."
He pats the couch beside him and I shuffle towards him, dropping my bag on the floor and collapsing on the leather. I feel his arm wrap around me and he draws me into a much-needed and undeserved hug. "Tell Daddy what's wrong," he says.
I sigh against him. "It was a stupid fight," I say. "A hurtful one, though."
"Oh, Sweetheart, what did she say to you?"
"It wasn't her," I confess quietly. "It was me."
He tenses. "Oh."
"I feel terrible about all of it, and I don't even know how or why it started," I continue. "I'm convinced I started the fight on purpose, just to - "
"To what?" he questions.
To hurt her. I close my eyes. "I think I'm mad at her or something," I tell him.
"Did she do something?"
"It's not any one thing, Daddy," I say. "This week has been horrible. She was hiding something from me, and I was terrified it was over, and she did something so nice and I just..." I trail off. I sound like such a crazy person. "She's just - she's everywhere, and I can't stop thinking about her and I can't escape her. I mean, I dream about her, and I get all mopey when she's not around. I plan my life around her and I - " I stop suddenly. "I don't even know why that all makes me mad, but it does. What is wrong with me?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "There's nothing wrong with you, Rachel."
"But I just picked a fight with her for nothing, and I said such hurtful, hateful things to her, and I don't even know why," I say, tears springing to my eyes. "You didn't see her face... I just feel so horrible about it, and confused, and why is this happening? She's - she's my best friend and I'm supposed to protect her; not hurt her. Why did I do that? Why would I do that? It felt awful. I feel awful." He doesn't say anything. "Daddy?" The word sounds strangled as it leaves my throat
He tightens his grip on me, and his left hand covers the side of my head, forcing me to rest my head against him. "I don't know what to tell you, Sweetheart," he says. "Best friends fight sometimes. They say things they don't mean. Give her some space and then apologise. I'm sure she'll forgive you if you're sincere." His words just make me feel more miserable. "Come now," he soothes. "It's going to be okay. Just give it some time. Take a moment, try to work through what you're feeling, and then talk to Quinn. It's going to be okay."
He lets me cry until my tears dry up, and then I go upstairs to my bedroom, not feeling any better but not feeling any worse. There are so many items in my room that remind me of Quinn; that belong to her. Her notebooks are piled with mine on my desk, her pens and pencils thrown around its top. Her novels are on the nightstand on her side of my bed, and she leaves her spare set of glasses in the drawer. She has pyjamas and underwear in my closet and toiletries in my bathroom.
And I said those things to her.
I'm an awful person, I am. I wanted to hurt her because I was mad at her for making me feel things. All sorts of things that I don't understand, which is why I crawl onto my bed, grab for my dream journal and start writing down what I may or may not be feeling when it comes to Quinn Fabray like my Daddy suggested.
1. I feel OVERWHELMED.
2. I feel suffocated.
3. I feel uncomfortable.
4. I feel irritated.
5. I feel flustered.
Wait. Flustered? What does that even mean? Coming up empty, I take a deep breath and keep going.
6. I feel angry.
7. I feel guilty.
8. I feel confused.
9. I feel irrational.
10. I feel exposed.
Okay. This isn't really helping me understand anything. It's almost as if I have a thesaurus in my head.
11. I feel vulnerable.
12. I feel safe.
Okay, those two are totally conflicting ideas. Oh, wait.
13. I feel conflicted.
14. I feel excited.
I search my brain for why that could be and come up with the fact I've never had a friend like her. I've never really had a friend like anyone, so this is entirely new territory for me, and for her. I get excited to see her in the mornings, and it's torture having to wait for her to be done with Cheerios practice even though I keep myself occupied with vocal lessons and hours in the dance studio.
15. I feel jealous.
I know I've felt it before when it comes to her, like when she gives attention to other people. I acknowledge my tendency to react by hugging her a little longer and reminding her she's my best friend. She's - she's mine. I've said it on more than one occasion.
16. I feel warm.
17. I feel noticed.
18. I feel cared for.
My chest starts to tighten when I remember the completely pained look on Quinn's face as my careless words cut through her. I don't want her to think I don't care about her. I know I'm going to have to apologise but I need to have a clear head when I do that. We both deserve that much before I make it any worse. What else do I feel when it comes to Quinn?
19. I feel seen.
20. I feel adored.
21. I feel nervous.
22. I feel strong.
23. I feel trusted.
I stop to go over my list, and I realise I have to repeat a feeling.
24. I feel overwhelmed x 20000000000.
25. I feel heard.
26. I feel understood.
27. I feel appreciated.
28. I feel special.
She really does make me feel special. It's the smallest things possible; like opening doors for me and bringing me single flowers whenever she comes over from Brittany's house. Even just a single look from her during Glee makes me feel as if I've accomplished something tremendous, and her acknowledgement is heavenly.
29. I feel grounded. (Stable.)
30. I feel encouraged.
31. I feel accepted.
32. I feel happy.
Before this afternoon and before all the confusion, I was actually happy. And now...
I realise there are a lot of conflicting feelings written down but I do feel all of them. At any one time, sure, but also all at once. It's... overwhelming. I press my pen to the paper and convince myself to write the last feeling. The one I can no longer deny or put off any longer.
33. I feel loved.
With Quinn, I feel loved. It's in the way her eyes always meet mine, regardless of the situation we're in. She always looks to me, heat and understanding in her expression. It's in the gentle touches, for assurance and for comfort. It's in the way Quinn smiles at me, knowingly and contently. It's in the smoulder of her heated gaze, hazel claiming me and not releasing. It's in the -
When it hits me, it hits me hard, and I sit bolt upright as if I've been electrocuted. Before I know it, I'm throwing the journal aside and racing out of my room in an instant, practically flying down the stairs and into the living room like a bat out of hell. My Dad's jaw drops at the sight of me, but my eyes are on my Daddy.
"Rachel," he says, sitting up straight and giving me his full attention.
"I figured it out," I say, breathlessly. My heart is pounding and my entire body feels like it's burning up. "You know, don't you?"
He nods slowly.
"Was it important I work it out on my own?"
He nods again, his eyes so kind and full of love and understanding.
I take a deep breath and settle myself. Everything is buzzing around me, but I feel so calm. I feel relieved, to be able to understand what's been happening inside of me. I feel lighter somehow.
My Dad looks at me, slightly confused. "Rachel?"
I lick my lips and smile. "I figured it out," I say.
"What did you figure out, Sweetheart?"
"I like her," I say, feeling this weight lift off my chest at my confession. "There it is," I continue. "I like my best friend. I like like her, and - " I stop, the blood suddenly draining from my face when the reality of the words I've just said out loud hit me.
My Daddy stands, worried. "Sweetheart?"
I shake my head, fighting off my panic. "I like Quinn."
And then, well, like the complete drama queen I am, I pass out.
I wake in my bed. My head is throbbing and my mouth feels gritty, as if I've just eaten sawdust. It takes me a moment to get my bearings and, when I force myself to sit up, I feel like I might throw up. The feeling becomes worse as my mind catches up and I remember all that's happened today: the present, the fight with Quinn and the realisation that -
I bury my face in my hands. I can't believe I passed out. Quinn would probably call me dramatic for such a thing... if she were talking to me. What if she never talks to me again? Oh, my gosh. I've ruined it all!
Before I can devolve into a pity party, I roll out of bed, visit the bathroom and then go downstairs. I can hear quiet voices coming from the living room, and I steel myself for the conversation that's sure to come.
"There she is," my Daddy says when I move into view. "How are you feeling, Sweetheart?"
I rub a hand over my face. "Pretty stupid," I say. "And embarrassed."
"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," he assures me. "Come, sit with us." He waves his hand and I shuffle into the room. I feel so off-kilter, top heavy in a way. Unbalanced. I was so sure before, and now I'm just filled with dread. He pulls me down onto the couch beside him, and my Dad quickly comes to sit on my other side, making me the jam in a Berrymen sandwich.
My Dad rubs my back. "We should probably tell you that Quinn called my phone," he says, and I look at him with wide eyes. "She said that something happened between you two at school and she was worried. She thought, maybe, it was best we were both home early for you because you seemed, how did she put it, emotional and a little out of control."
I blink. "Is she mad at me?"
"I don't know," he says. "She sounded sad, but she didn't really allow me to ask her questions. I think the fact she called to warn us means there might be a day she isn't mad, if she even is. Give her some space for now."
"Oh, I don't plan on talking to her anytime soon."
My Daddy clears his throat. "Why is that, Sweetheart?"
"What am I supposed to say to her?" I ask, rhetorically. "I'm sorry I flew off the handle with you; I actually really like you; do you want to go on a date with me?" I laugh humourlessly. "She'll run so fast, we'll both get whiplash."
"Rachel," he breathes. "She's your best friend. I suspect she'll expect some kind of explanation."
"Then I'll tell her I was off my meds."
"But you're not on any meds, which is something Quinn knows, by the way."
I look at him. "Do you want me to tell her? Because she'll never come back here, ever."
My Dad rubs my back again, getting my attention. "What I think your father is trying to say is that you probably shouldn't make decisions based on other people's reactions. The question is: do you want to tell her?"
I sigh, visibly deflating. "Until earlier today, I thought I was very in tune with my sexuality, Dad," I say. "I prided myself on knowing, being so sure, that I wanted an adoring, leading man in my life. In my future. I was content to wait for him. I mean, the chances of finding him in Lima were low anyway, and I set the dream aside. Quinn was never part of the plan." I shake my head. "I know the heart wants what the heart wants and all that, but this really seems to have come out of nowhere and I really didn't see it coming."
"Uh..."
I snap my head towards my Daddy. "What?"
"I don't know if it's as out of the blue as you think, Sweetheart," he says, his tone gentle. "Even before she showed up on our doorstep, Quinn was a fixture in our house, the good and the bad."
"I talked about her?"
He nods. "And then you became friends."
"And you never shut up about that," my Dad says, and my Daddy sends him a pointed look. "All I'm saying is that your father and I have been here to watch you two dance around each other these past few weeks, trying to figure out how to be friends when you've clearly been feeling something more from the very beginning."
"Am I that transparent?"
"No, of course not," he hurries to say. "But we're your fathers, Rachel."
"Do you think Quinn knows?" I ask, horrified.
My Daddy answers. "She might have an idea," he confesses. "If she didn't before, I think your outburst this afternoon might have clued her into it."
I drop my head, defeated. "I was so mean to her," I say. "I couldn't even stop myself. It all just came pouring out and she just stood there and took it. And now you tell me she called... after all of that... it makes me feel worse."
"She cares about you," he says. "And she'll want to help you come to terms with this, even if it's not in the way you want."
"What if I'm not strong enough for that?"
"I think we both know you're stronger than you think, Sweetheart."
I burrow into his side, and I just let them hold me. I have this, but Quinn's probably alone at her house, worried over all that's happened... alone. It makes me feel worse, and I didn't think it was even possible. At some point, I excuse myself and go upstairs to my room. I take my phone out of my bag and pull up Quinn's contact. I have to say this. Tonight. If I can't manage anything else, I have to say this.
Berry: I'm sorry.
I don't know what else I can say in a text message. We should talk, definitely, but not today. Or tomorrow.
Berry: I'm sorry for what I said and how I reacted today. I want to explain it all to you, but do you think we can take the weekend? I'm still a little confused about a few things and I imagine you're still mad at me. Can we please talk about all of this on Monday at school?
I don't expect a reply. At all. So, imagine my surprise when my phone actually buzzes when I crawl into bed a mere hour later.
Quinn: Okay, Berry. Feel better.
Quinn: And happy birthday for Sunday. I'm sorry I won't get to see you, but I hope you have a wonderful day, little star. X
Gah.
She's so stinking cute.
Granola bars and flour on noses... okay, so, maybe it started well before then, after all.