Whoo-hoo! School's out for summer! :D At least, it is for me. Hopefully that means I can work on this and update it often.

Thanks again to everyone. Remember, reviews encourage me to update faster, and they fuel more inspiration to my writing. :)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I don't even know why I'm so shocked at her being here; she is Rachel, after all. If persistency was an Olympic sport, she would take home every single frigging gold medal, and the giant trophy, and all the blue ribbons, or however the scoring system works.

I can only stare at her like a complete idiot, my mouth gaping open like a fish. My body is a rigid board; I stare at her out of wide, deer-caught-in-the-headlight eyes.

Of course, she has to look absolutely adorable. It's insult to injury, as the world would have it.

She wears a simple white, knee-length dress with short-sleeves and a square neckline. Her hair is set in two low, long ponytails draping over the front of her delicate shoulders. Each ponytail is tied with bright red ribbons. She wears less make-up than usual, but that only adds to her angelic look.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" Rachel asks, widening her eyes meaningfully and tilting her head to the left.

Her words trigger me out of my hypnosis; my mouth snaps closed so fast that my teeth make a clicking noise.

I clear my throat and adjust my cherry-red headband. I rip my eyes away from Rachel, then shoot a nod and a 'please don't argue' expression at my mom. "We won't be gone long."

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. "Just be back before your father gets home. That leaves you about an hour. I don't want to have to explain that you're with someone whom he specifically forbade you from hanging out with." Mom cuts steely eyes first at me, then at Rachel, before sighing again and striding into the living room.

I duck my gaze down to the floor as I lead the way out of my house, not daring to make eye-contact with Rachel just yet. She walks beside me, leaving at least a respectable arm's length, as we stroll down the sidewalk, destination unknown.

We walk for half a block, the silence thick and choking as smoke from a forest fire, before one of us finally gathers the will to speak. Unsurprisingly, it's Rachel.

"I like your nails," she says. "Did you get them done?"

"Oh," I look down at my hands, which, unbeknownst to me, have been clutching my black velvet blazer around my middle. Tightly, as if it's my lifejacket, and I'm on a canoe amidst a raging sea. "Yeah. I did. With Santana and, um, Brittany? Thanks."

I wonder how she can wear a short-sleeve dress with no tights and not be shivering all over with goosebumps right now. Because I certainly am, and I'm wearing the aforementioned blazer over a red cotton T-shirt and gray skinny jeans. The previously-cool late-February air now feels freezing to me, as if an arctic wind is flowing through my veins.

Of course, that could all very well be because I am a nervous wreck.

It's silent for a few more minutes; we reach the end of the sidewalk.

This time, I'm the one who speaks.

My throat is dry as sandpaper, lacking any sort of saliva whatsoever, but somehow I manage to croak out: "Um, d-do you wanna...Do you want to go t-to the park?" Smooth, Fabray. Real smooth.

I risk a glance at her and see that she's smiling softly. "Sure," she says. "That sounds like a very nice location for our chat."

'For our chat.' As if we're going to be pleasantly discussing the weather and latest in politics whilst eating crumpets and drinking tea beside a fireplace in the library. Not as if I'm about to have to dive head-first into what is surely to be the most awkward and embarrassing conversation of my entire life. Yep, totally, just a little 'chat.'

I lead the way to the park, which is only a few streets away. It's eerie how quiet Rachel is. Miss Blabberbox McMouthpiece can usually not be shut up, even with a (knowing her, rhinestoned) muzzle. But for five solid minutes, maybe even more, she is silent. The only noises around us are the occasional birdcall, car passing by, and the rhythmic thuds of our footsteps striking the pavement, matching each other stride-for-stride.

It's a miracle that there is no one else at the park on such a beautiful, sunny day. I sit down on the bench between the water fountain and jungle gym. I remember coming here as a kid; my dad would hold me up by the legs as I did the monkey bars, essentially doing them for me: all I had to do was keep my arms up, touching the bars as he walked me forward.

Rachel sits down to my left, leaving about half a foot between us. She turns her whole body toward mine, crosses her ankles, and folds her hands in her lap. I sit staring straight ahead, but after a few more awkward-silence moments, I begrudgingly turn to face her.

I stare down at my lap, watching as my fingers fiddle with one other; it's as if they're tiny kittens playing with balls of yarn, and I'm aware this is a really freaking weird analogy, but thinking about cute little kittens is helping to calm my racing heart, okay?

"So...some weather we have, huh?" I mumble, still staring down at my twisting fingers. I am lamer than lame. Somebody please shoot me now.

"Quinn?" Rachel's tone is gentle. Prompting. "Let's not beat around the bush anymore, okay?"

I nod.

"Quinn? You might want to actually look at me. Maybe then you won't be so unnecessarily intimidated, and you will see that I am on your side."

Top teeth sinking onto my bottom lip, I force myself to lift my neck and lock eyes with her. Amber-brown blinks back at me – the edges of skin around her eyes are softened, and the irises are illuminated by the day's gentle sunlight.

I nibble upon my lip, trying not to pass out as my heart slams faster and faster. My stomach is filled with angry, biting ants that are attacking my intestines.

I am so distracted with darting my eyes into hers, then over her head, and then back to her eyes again that I don't see her hands slipping on top of mine; rather, I feel them.

One minute, my hands are wringing each other like wet rags, and the next, they are stilled by a pair of smaller, warmer ones.

I jerk backward, surprised by her touch; reflexively, I start to yank my hands away, but her fingers curl around mine, holding steadfast.

"Quinn," she says, so quietly that it's almost a whisper, almost carried away completely on the afternoon breeze. "Quinn, please look at me, okay?"

I take an embarrassingly loud breath and make myself maintain eye-contact with her. My whole body is tense as piano chords; my hands are stiff within hers, and I am sure that mine must be clammy and cold. I wonder why she doesn't just pull away… And yet I am relieved that she doesn't.

"Rachel." Panic chokes my vocal chords; her name comes out high-pitched and breathy.

My words tumble from my lips in a fierce whisper; my hands grip hers and clench against her knuckles as if she is my lifeline.

"Please! Just forget about it. We can just pretend like I didn't…like it didn't happen, okay? We can still be friends. I want us t-to be friends at least, just please...Oh, God..." A strangled gasp interrupts my crazy babbling.

My eyes squeeze shut; I am not going to have a nervous breakdown. Especially not in a public park, a place so innocent and childhood-like – that should be illegal.

"Hey, hey, hey," she says. "Shhhh. It's okay. Take a deep breath. It's okay."

I draw in a deep, shuddering breath, and let it out slowly. My eyes flutter open, connecting with hers.

"I kissed you," I say. Um, duh, Quinn. She was kind of there for that part, remember?

Rachel nods, expression equal parts serious and concerned. "You did."

"And you're not freaking out..."

"Rachel Barbra Berry does not freak out. Unless it's over Broadway, of course."

"Rachel, you're a diva; 'freaking out' is your default setting."

"Okay, maybe I did do some ample amounts of 'freaking out' yesterday. Maybe you could even say I cashed in my platinum-gold 'Drama Queen' membership card for all it's worth."

"That sounds much more likely."

"You crack a grin now, Quinn, but I'll have you know, even my drama queen flare-ups are comprised with the utmost poise and grace. Anyway, this conversation isn't about me – it's supposed to be about you. And how you…kissed me."

Blood rushes to my face; my lips give a sudden throb, tingles shooting along every dip and crevice of my mouth as the memory surges through my mind, my veins, through every part of my body.

Her face is red, too. I wonder whose is brighter; mine certainly feels like the warmest blush in all the lands. Is that even something to brag about? Or is it one of those 'the winner is actually the loser' type of things?

"Yeah…I did," I say, the tightest and tiniest of grins puckering up the corners of my mouth. "Um, sorry about that…. I kind of just…attacked you. With my mouth. Sorry."

"Oh, it's fine! Eh-it was…it was fine. Don't be sorry. I mean, it was a one-time thing. So...it's fine."

"Okay…good. Thank you. For being so understanding, I mean, not for the kiss, obviously."

Oh, wow! Do you see that? That's a herd of hot pink Awkward Elephants stomping right by us, wearing those multi-colored propeller hats, and waving over-enthusiastically with their trunks.

Rachel, bless her, giggles away my craziness. "Yes, I got it." She runs her fingers down the length of one of her ponytails; the glossy red of the ribbon winks against the afternoon sun. Her face switches from amusement to one of seriousness again. "I don't want to push you, Quinn. But there must have been a reason you kissed me. And I'm wondering if maybe that reason is… I'll let you fill in that blank. It's not my place to do so."

"Okay. Fair enough." I breathe in and breathe out perhaps the deepest breath of my life, steeling myself. I guess I'm about to come out of the closet again… Even though Rachel already caught me in there, organizing my 'I'm a Lesbian!' designer shoes (…or would 'I'm a Lesbian!' shoes be something more sensible, like hiking boots? Or Doc Martens? … Oh God, am I stereotyping my own kind? Is it okay to do that? Ugh.)

Finally, I say: "I think you're implying that I kissed you because I'm gay, or bisexual, or confused, or whatever. If that's the case, then to answer you: yes, I like girls."

She doesn't look shocked or disbelieving or unsure of how to proceed; rather, she gives a few nods, lips slightly sticking out in this pensive way, as if satisfied with my confirmation.

"I must admit," she says, "that I came to that conclusion last night. It is certainly a surprising development, but I believe I have already accepted the fact as if I've known it forever."

I don't really know what to say to that, so I just nod – this probably-stupid-looking series of nods, like I'm a life-sized bobblehead doll.

"Did you…did you tell anybody?" I ask, a wince already flashing across my face at the thought. "Finn? Kurt?"

"Of course not. I would never tell anyone; it's not my place to; it's only yours."

I release a relieved breath I hadn't known I was holding. I offer a little smile. "Thanks."

"Of course. … Well… I did tell my dads..."

"Oh God!"

"But that's only because I was in quite a state of shock when I got home, and they asked me what was wrong, and I couldn't very well lie to them. I'm sorry, I just told them that you abruptly kissed me; I had to talk about it with someone, and they were the only and obvious choice, and I – "

"Rachel! Whoa, slow down. It's okay, seriously. I'm actually…I'm glad they know. What did they say?"

"Just that I should be a supportive friend to you in this surely confusing and trying time; which I told them I was already fully planning on doing." She smiles at me then, this smile that speaks of friendship and loyalty and just a dash of bashfulness; I smile back, hoping that the warmth in my stomach and the feeling of a hug squeezing my heart is shown in the pull of my lips, the light in my eyes.

"Did they have any advice for you to pass on?"

"Not specific advice, per se, but they did point out how hard it must be on you. With your parents..." An apologetic frown flips her smile right over.

I purse my lips, swallow at my dry throat. "I don't think I'll ever be able to come out to them," I say, lifting my shoulders high up in a matter-of-fact, 'what can you do?' shrug.

"Nonsense!" Rachel leans forward and plants a hand right on my knee. I force myself not to break away from her eyes and look down at it, even though I can feel her palm's warmth through the fabric of my jeans. "Your parents love you, Quinn. That much is obvious to anyone who sees them interact with you. I'm sure that with the right amount of time, they will understand that you are who you are, and they will accept it." She extracts her hand, moving it back into her own lap; her warmth lingers behind, spreads up my thigh.

"I hope you're right," I say. And then, quieter, "I really hope you're right."

"Don't you worry about that; if there's one thing besides my singing and performing abilities that I am naturally the best at, it's always being right," she says, smiling the cheesiest, most self-satisfied smile I have ever seen.

I release a loud, scandalized laugh and whack her on the arm. "Yeah, and real modest, too!"

Rachel sticks out her tongue and squeezes her eyes shut; I laugh harder. She giggles, too, opening her eyes and shooting me a playful wink.

"I'm pretty irresistible, huh?" she says, fluffing the ends of her ponytails and making a show of tossing back her neck importantly.

"Yeah; a real charmer." I roll my eyes.

But something occurs to me...

"Hey, just to clear the air, I don't have a crush on you or anything." Heat spreads across my face, but I continue. "I know I kissed you, which is typically a sign of romantic interest, but I was just really stressed out, and I do care about you as a friend, and I guess I projected all of these confused feelings onto you when we were arguing. I just don't want you to think I'm secretly pining away for you or something. I don't want it to be awkward between us now, is what I'm saying."

She nods. "I understand. I know you don't have an actual crush on me or anything. I may be egotistical sometimes, but I'm not conceited."

"Though I must admit," she continues, twirling the end of a ponytail around her forefinger, "I am quite flattered that of all of the girls to project your pent-up sexual aggression onto, you chose me. It shows that, be it purely subconsciously or not, you do think of me as at least a semi-worthy suitor to fit your needs. Coming from you, that means a lot."

My lips part; my head tilts to the side as I look at her. She really thinks that highly of me? She's "flattered" that she considers herself only "semi-worthy" of my "needs?" I don't think she knows how wrong she has it.

"So does this mean we're still friends?" I ask.

"Are you kidding me?" she raises her eyebrows right up to her bangs. "Are you honestly asking me that? Of course we're still friends!" She shakes her head, gives me a 'you're crazy' look while spinning her forefinger near her temple, and belts out her loudest, most charming laugh.

A giant grin splits across my face, scrunching up the corners of my eyes. "Good!" A hearty giggle of my own bubbles up from my chest and spills over.

"We're going to hug now, okay?" she says.

I nod, still beaming, as we scoot closer and wrap each other up in our arms, our own humanized, warm winter coats. We rest our chins on each other's shoulders, heads pressed together, bodies snuggled together. She always gives the best hugs.

And there's that scent again, the sweet subtleness of her perfume and shampoo: lavender-vanilla. My eyes draw closed; a small, contented grin tugs at my mouth.

"Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"For what?"

"For everything."

In response, she holds me closer.