Thank you so much to everyone who is showing support for this story. I am loving that you are loving it. :D And to those who guessed who Quinn is visiting in this chapter... The answer shall be revealed! Congrats to those who got it right. I feel like I should be giving out door prizes or something. ;) Anyway, I hope you enjoy; remember, reviews are love! If I get a good enough response, I may even be able to put up the next chapter today.

By the way, I changed the story summary. Do you like this one better, or the old one? Let me know. :)

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Quinn! I haven't seen you in forever! ... Oh no. Are you okay?"

Even though I am no longer physically crying, I know my eyes are red, my skin is blotchy, and my mouth sags like a popped, defeated balloon.

"Hi, honey," I say, twisting my lips up in a smile as I kneel down to be eye-level with the petite young girl. "How have you been? I love your sweater. Is your brother home?"

Puck's ten-year-old sister, Abigail, blinks back at me from her big brown eyes with impossibly long lashes. The boys (or girls) better watch out when she gets older, let me tell you.

"Thank you," she says, running her fingers over the delicate flower pattern of her sweater. "I've been good. Noah is in his room."

She offers her tiny hand, and I take it, my smile small but actually genuine as she skips down the hall, pulling me along with her.

I look around as I amble through Puck's small, cozy home. The carpeting is worn-down beneath my feet, slightly stained. The walls have a few tapestries hung up, depicting different excerpts from the Torah. Those are the only marks of sentimentality. Other than that, the house is almost bare. There are no photographs of the family. Nothing to show that the house has any sort of attachment to the people living here.

Abigail stops at Puck's bedroom. "My mommy isn't home," she says, suddenly sounding shy. "I don't think Noah is allowed to have girls inside his room when she isn't here."

"Yes, but I'm not just any girl, sweetie," I remind her, patting her on the back of her hand as I pull away. "I'm Puck's good friend. I used to come over here all the time, remember?"

She nods. "Okay." She starts to walk off, but surprises me by suddenly darting her arms around my waist in a quick, tight hug, before running off down the hall.

I smile after her, affection warming my heart. Puck may have a deadbeat dad and a mom who works too often to ever be around and be supportive in any way other than monetarily, but his sister is the sunshine that keeps his life filled with purpose.

Taking a deep breath and smoothing my hands over my hair one last time, I turn to face Puck's room. Everything about it is so familiar, from the red-and-black 'WARNING: A Rebel Lives Here' plaque on the door, to the sloppily-scribbled-on-notebook-paper sign 'KNOCK FIRST! ... OR ELSE' that is taped right above the doorknob.

I oblige the paper, rapping my knuckles to the wood, one, two, three.

A few seconds later, the door pops open, just enough to reveal Puck's head and upper torso. I am relieved that he is still wearing his plain white T-shirt from school, because I don't think I could handle seeing another topless guy tonight. And Puck has been known to lounge around his house in just his boxer shorts.

When Puck looks at me, his half-mast, sleepy eyes fly wide open. His lips drop apart for a few seconds, then snap closed.

"Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to let me in?"

Wordlessly, he stands aside and opens the door, nice and wide. I slip through, ignoring the way he's now staring at me with unveiled worry, as if I'm something that is so fragile that I may break apart at any second, shattering into pieces at the wrong word, wrong glance.

He shuts the door behind me with a soft click. I have to pass through dirty clothes scattered on the floor, containers of food (some empty, some half-full), and abandoned homework worksheets before making it to his bed, its plaid covers undone and the single white pillow lying askew.

I sit on the edge of his bed; the mattress squeaks. I look around Puck's room while he rummages in his mini-fridge.

I used to come here all the time, sophomore year. Back when I was dating Finn. He and Puck were best friends – still kind of are, I guess – and Finn would go to Puck's house at least twice a week, usually inviting me to go with him; I usually accepted. And sometimes, I would come over without Finn, letting my worries be numbed by watching Puck master the next level on his videogame of the week.

It's just like I remembered it: there's the posters of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition adorning his blue walls; the clock with the hands on it shaped like beer mugs; the pool cleaning supplies leaning against his closet, the area around them kept tidy and neat.

It's a stereotypical teenage boy's room, take it or leave it.

Puck holds up an amber bottle from the mini-fridge. "Want a drink?"

"That beer better be made entirely of root," I say.

Puck looks over his shoulder, flashing me his toothy, devilish grin. He turns the front of the bottle toward me, displaying the 'A&W' label on it. "Of course."

"Fine then. Thanks."

A few moments later and Puck is sitting across from me on his desk chair, popping open his root beer while I hold mine awkwardly between tight hands. The glass of the bottle is chilled and frosty, already starting to sweat against my palms.

Puck leans forward, elbows resting atop the ripped knees of his jeans. "So," he says, lifting his eyebrows. "Spill."

I bite down on my lip, turn my eyes to the floor; they land on a pair of dark red boxer shirts. Ick – that forces me to look right back up at him.

My lips open, words try to form, but get stuck in my throat, to the roof of my mouth, thick and heavy as peanut butter. I'm afraid I'll start crying again, even though my eyes are dry.

"I…I…"

Puck waits patiently, staring softly into my eyes, his head cocked ever-so-slightly to the left.

"I…I…" WORDS, Fabray! Use your WORDS!

To his credit, Puck doesn't rush me. Simply, he waits, without an impatient tic anywhere to be found.

"I was…I just…" I can't do it; I can't bring myself to say that I kissed Rachel. That I like girls. Not boys. That I was at Sam's, and I threw myself at him, and we got into a fight. None of it. It's like my brain is a car with a stalled engine (being in such a testosterone-driven room must be what inspired that particular analogy).

"Quinn," Puck says, tone gentle but firm. "It's okay. Just say it."

My fingers fiddle with the label on my root beer bottle; I take a deep breath.

Rip off the Band-Aid, Quinn. Just get it over with and deal with the pain. DO IT!

"Look, you know I don't do well with mushy-gushy feelings-talk, but you're my friend, and if you need to tell – "

"I like girls," I blurt out, clean interrupting him.

" – me anythi...ng… Oh… Um… What?"

There are rocks in my stomach; my heart is racing; but there's no going back now. I twirl the bottle of root beer between my palms, staring at it as it spins 'round and 'round, knowing just how it feels.

"I like girls, Puck," I say, so softly that I don't know if it's even intelligible, "in the way that I should like guys."

It's silent for a long, long time – in enough time for countries to be made, paint to dry, a snail to win a race. I keep staring at the bottle and playing with it: my anchor to reality, to this bedroom.

"You mean... you're a lesbian?"

It's so abrupt, and uttered in so much shock, that my eyes jerk to his as if he yanked them up by a string. I give one long, slow nod, watching as he works through a mixture of emotions; the dominant one seems to be surprise, plain and simple.

Finally, he says, "Oh."

And I oh-so-wisely return with, "Yeah."

"When?" he asks.

"'When' what?"

"When did you find out," he clarifies, "that you like girls."

And it's because his tone is more caring than curious, and because his facial features and his posture have arranged into a determined sort of nonchalance, that I can tell it's going to be all right.

Me talking about this with Puck, exposing the soft, scarred underbelly of my most hidden secrets, and stripping down to the most naked of vulnerabilities – it's all going to be okay, because he's already switching into his Accepting and Loving Friend mode. The part of him that I love best. The one that shows me there is more to him than meets the eye.

It's like some of the weight has been lifted from my shoulders; my breaths are a bit lighter, my heartbeat suiting a more regular pattern. The rocks in my stomach have been replaced with mere pebbles.

"Ever since I can remember," I say, nibbling on my lower lip. "My first crush was on a classmate in Kindergarten. This girl who always wore bright red ribbons in her pigtails. I can't remember ever having a crush on a guy."

Puck nods, prompting me to continue.

"It's why I quit the Cheerios, you know," I say, even though he couldn't have. "It was too much, getting dressed with all of those girls, some walking around practically naked. I hated that…I hated that I…looked at them. I didn't want to, so I…removed myself from the situation."

"I always just thought you quit because you were tired of Coach Sylvester's batshit craziness."

"Yeah, well, that too," I laugh a little, smirking. But the brief humor quickly fizzles out. "It was my cover story. I still miss the Cheerios sometimes. And not just for the popularity benefits, like you're probably assuming. I genuinely enjoyed – no, enjoy – cheerleading, the sport and competition of it all. I miss the feeling I'd get after nailing a super difficult routine, and Coach would grace me with one of her rare compliments."

Puck sets his drink down and holds his hand out for mine; seeing as how I have no real thirst or appetite, I give it to him, and he puts that down, too.

"It's not as bad as you think," he says.

"What?"

"Being gay."

I snort and roll my eyes. "Yeah, and you would know?"

"No," he says, eyes more serious than I've ever seen them. "But Kurt and Blaine do. And so does Santana, and sort of Brittany. And they're all, like, really happy with their love lives."

"Yeah, well, they're different."

"How?"

"They just are, okay?" Oh God, not again; here come more tears, stinging my eyes like salt to an open sore. "They don't have to worry about their religion or their parents or being wrong with their life. They can just be."

Puck shakes his head, a frown tugging at his mouth. "That's not true. Santana's grandmother abandoned her when she found out, remember? They haven't talked in months."

"Gee, thanks, Puck!" I say, my chin quivering. I flick my eyes to the ceiling, willing my tears to go away. "Make me feel even worse."

"Hey, hey, hey," he says, quickly swinging himself off of his chair and onto his bed, scooting close enough that our thighs almost touch. He rests his hand on my shoulder and searches imploring eyes into mine. "I'm not the bad guy here. I want to help you. I want you to know you have nothing to be ashamed of."

And that does it – his caring touch, his affectionate words spoken with such assurance and earnestness; my eyes squeeze shut of their own accord and cold tears fall over, tracing a familiar path, dangling from my chin before splashing onto my bare knees.

I feel Puck's arm sliding around my shoulders; he draws me into his side as his other arm circles around my front, holding me against him.

I turn into him, my face pressing against his shoulder, catching a whiff of his subtle, boyish cologne. His comforting scent wraps around my senses like a warm blanket.

Thankfully, I do not cry long, and I do not cry hard; after a few minutes, I pull away, wiping at my face and giggling just a little bit at how pathetic I am.

Puck surprises me by kissing the side of my head, lips pressing a quick seal of affection to my temple.

"There's more," I say.

He nudges his fingers between mine and gives my hand a squeeze before releasing, his raised eyebrow saying, 'Go on.'

"I kissed Rachel."

Puck's eyes pop, his neck shoots back, his mouth drops open. "I think I need to get my ears checked, because I could have sworn you just said that you kissed Rachel, when we both know that no way in hell would that ever happen."

"Well, Puck, there's been a snowstorm in hell, pigs have flown all the way to Mars, and all the other clichés you can think of have come true, because I did kiss her."

"Would you totally hate me forever if I maybe-kind-of laughed right now?"

"Puuuuuuck," I warn.

But his shoulders are shaking up and down, and his hands are clapped over his mouth, and he is totally laughing right now.

And damn it all to hell if I can't manage a proper glare at him because I'm too busy laughing, too.

"It's not funny!" I insist, the effectiveness of my words lost on the wave of giggles they're riding.

"You're right; it's totally not," he says, laughing harder.

I slug him on the arm. "Noah! Cut it out!"

"Owww!"

"Baby," I scoff.

He makes a funny face; my resolve wavers as I chuckle.

"So…" he says, all business again. "You kissed Rachel…a few more details would be nice to help me understand what was going through your mind. And by 'a few more details,' I mean, 'enough to write a fucking novel.'"

I roll my eyes, blushing from head to toe. "It's not that big of a deal, really."

"Yeah, just like the Titanic was a tugboat."

"Exaggeration," I counter.

"Elaboration," he persists.

"Ugh. All right…it was after the performance. I was feeling…really confused. And she was standing so close to me. And she smelled good – you know how she smells so good all the time, like lavender and vanilla. I just…lost control. And if you even so much as make a cough that sounds like laughter, I will waste no time in ripping out your Mohawk and storming out the door."

Puck holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm not laughing. I've been down that road before with Berry, remember? She can be annoying as hell, but she's also weirdly irresistible. And a damn good kisser." A smirk dances upon his lips; the flicker of nostalgia flitting through his eyes tells me that he's not smirking at my expense, but rather at a fond memory.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't know," I say after an awkward beat. "She kind of, uh, she kind of pushed me off of her and onto the ground."

Puck's eyebrows soar, and for a second, his inner Casanova pops up. "Ooh, onto the ground, huh?"

"Puck!"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, and only because I can tell that he means it do I not punch him on the arm. I should anyway, for good measure.

"So she rejected you," he says. His tone makes it clear it's not a question.

"Yep."

"But you're Quinn fucking Fabray! You're seriously the hottest, most attractive girl in a hundred mile radius. You're the only girl who's ever made the Puckster feel things in his heart and not just in his dick."

I can't help but smile at that. And feel pretty flattered. Now it's my turn to grab his hand and give it a quick squeeze.

"I think you're forgetting one teeny, tiny little fact," I say. "Which is, oh, you know, that Rachel's not gay. She has a serious boyfriend whom she is devoted to. She's straight as a board."

Half of Puck's mouth slants upward as he shrugs. "Yeah. Can't really argue with any of those facts."

I heave a sigh that works all the way up through my body.

"Do you, like, like-her-like-her? Or did you just smooch her 'cause she was the closest thing nearby with a vagina and you were horny?"

This time, I do punch him on the arm. Hard. "Puuuhhh-uuuuuuuck!"

"What?" He looks genuinely confused as he rubs at his arm. "It's a valid question! And, I repeat for the second time: owww."

"I was not," I lower my voice into a whisper, heat prickling the back of my neck, "horny."

He smirks at hearing me say the word. "So you really do like her, huh?"

"No!" The word jumps out too fast, too loudly. "Of course not!"

"But you did kiss her," Puck points out. "So, what, are you going around macking on poor, defenseless Jewish hobbits, or was it something that's been building up toward just her?"

"It's like this," I say, taking a moment to gather my words. "I've been going through a lot lately. Battling my feelings towards girls, my lack of feelings towards Sam, who's my boyfriend. I'm trying to deal with the fact that my parents are totally homophobic. It's just been a ton of pressure. But when I'm with Rachel…it's like, some of that pressure goes away."

"So," I continue, "earlier, when she was so close to me, and we were arguing, it was like, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to shut up my thoughts. So I kissed her." I shrug, trying to come off as casual as possible, even though I'm pretty sure my face is redder than a ripe tomato.

And I could kiss Puck right on the mouth for sparing me further embarrassment and discomfort by swiftly segueing away from my remembered moment of insanity: "What about Sam?" he asks.

I cover my face with my hands and groan.

"What? What happened?"

I groan again in response, more anguished this time.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"Tell me." He nudges his shoulder against mine.

Slowly, I lower my hands back onto my lap and meet his eyes. "I went to his house after I kissed Rachel, and I basically threw myself on him, and when he didn't want to have sex with me, I yelled at him and ran off."

Puck sucks in a secondhand-embarrassment type of breath and cringes. "Ooooooh. That's…yikes, yeah, that's not good. Though I will say, if he seriously denied that kind of request from you, then I think he might be the one who's gay." He winks.

I offer a small smile to show my appreciation toward his joke. "It was pretty brutal. I don't know if I can face him again. Or, God, if I can face Rachel again. I think I just need to transfer schools."

"Nah, don't do that," Puck says. "Then Glee wouldn't be as fun, and my life would be boring without hearing about all of your drama."

"Okay, I'll stay just to provide you with some amusement."

"I appreciate it," he says. We share a smile.

"So, do you want to crash here tonight? I can take the couch if you want the bed," he offers.

Now I'm the one to kiss him on the side of the head. "You're the best, but I can't. I actually need to be getting home, like, now. My parents made this big deal about a family night tonight with pizza and a movie."

"Think you'll be able to put on a brave face?"

"I've been putting on a brave face for seventeen years."

"True."

I get up, hitching my purse over my shoulder. "Thank you so much, Puck. You have no idea what this means to me." Warmth fills my system, swells my heart, as I look at him: at his Mohawk and his white T-shirt and his ripped jeans, and most importantly, at the man he is inside.

"Anytime," he says, standing up. "And if I ever need to vent…." He waves his hand through the air, shoulders hunching up, letting me fill in the rest.

"Of course," I say. "I'm all ears."

When I reach his bedroom door, I turn and say, "Puck?"

"Yeah?"

"Pleas, just…keep all of this between you and me."

He gives me a look. "Like you even have to ask."

I manage to put on a brave face throughout the night, chowing down on pizza with my mom and dad, watching a pretty hilarious movie that manages to take my mind off of things, and sitting snuggled between them. I feel like they are the mama and daddy birds, and I am the egg they need to protect – a feeling that is both assuring and alarming at the same time.

Later, after I've taken a hot shower to wash away the day from my hair, my body, and my senses, I change into my comfiest pajamas. Then, after I have completed the rest of my nightly beauty routine, I summon enough courage to finally check my phone.

Six missed calls (three of which have long, rambling voicemails) and three text messages from Sam.

One text from Santana, reminding me about our mani-pedis tomorrow. Well, crap, I totally forgot about that, but it's not like I can cancel, lest I want her to be mad at me and add even more drama to my life.

And…there is one missed call and one text message. Both from her.

She didn't leave a voicemail. That would be bad enough, having to hear her voice. Reading simple words on a screen should be far more doable.

THE Rachel Berry*: Quinn, we need to talk. As soon as you are ready.

The problem is, Rachel, that I'm not sure if I will ever be ready.

And yet…I can't bring myself to hit the 'Delete' option. Rather, I just exit back to my home screen.

I write in my diary, which takes a good hour, as I have a lot to say. Buttercup lays with her head in my lap the entire time, eventually falling asleep and snoring contentedly.

By the time I'm able to get into bed (Buttercup following after me and promptly resuming Dreamland before I've even had a chance to get under the covers), I figure that, since I am practically keeling over with exhaustion, I should be in for a night of a deep, dreamless sleep.

No such luck.

Even in my subconscious, in the furthest realm of my mind, she finds me.

A pair of bright pink lips drifts in and out, its owner pressing against me, short skirts riding up thighs.

And as pink dances with red, even in my dreams I have never felt more alive.