AN: The full chapter title is: Pursuit of Happiness, pt. 2: When You Were Young or America. In case you forgot the TW from before.

Everything that shine ain't always gonna be gold.
 - Pursuit of Happiness, Kid Cudi

They always say that things have to get worse before they get better, but they have never stopped being worse to even try and backtrack to better. Or maybe you have to hit rock bottom first, and if you pull through there'll be something majestic on the other side. This felt like rock bottom, but every breakup had, at least at first. And then I remember what it felt like to give her away, and I know that it's not even close.

Dr. Maguire says that one of the goals of therapy is to help me to understand the things that have happened to me, and, though he never says it, I can see it in his eyes that he thinks I'm not working on my problems. I am; it's just that his version of dealing with things and mine don't always line up. I know he judges me for using, but he's never felt what a hit can do when everything else is falling apart.

Mom has been trying to keep me on lockdown ever since...well I don't even like to think about that. But I'm technically an adult, and we got into an immature screaming match about me going out tonight. Of course Will was on her side, and they said I was being irrational, but they've never had their freedom stripped away indefinitely, either. Why can't they just drop it? Because I was over it weeks ago. I know what I can handle now, and that includes seeing him.

When Will had finally had enough, he looked right at me and said that he didn't give a damn anymore if I was just going to keep hurting myself, and if I was hellbent on killing myself, then who was he to stop me? Mom had been silently staring at her hands for a few minutes by that point, but her face shot up, and she watched him with wide eyes like she'd been betrayed. But she didn't speak to me. Even when I pleaded for her to say, well, anything. She glanced at me but wouldn't meet my eye, like I was her greatest shame. And with tears building, she buried her face in her hands. I squeezed my eyes shut one at a time and watched the ceiling for a bit because her silence was devastating, and she had promised me that that sheep of a woman was in the past. So I packed a bag.

"If you walk out that door, don't come back until you've learned respect," Will said as I stood on the threshold.

"Don't worry," I replied. "I won't."

I didn't really have a plan or anywhere to go; I had just needed to get out for a while. I rode the bus until it let off at the station and hopped on the next one leaving to a part of town I didn't know so well where I could disappear for a while. The anonymity of things was a comfort because I didn't have to pretend here; I could be as shitty or as benevolent as I desired, and no one would be the wiser.

The roads were shining from the early April showers combined with the glow from the streetlights, and there was a pervasive chill that the Spring hadn't yet knocked off. Police sirens sang from somewhere a few blocks away, but it was so quiet where I was that I could hear my footsteps pitter-pattering against the wet concrete and echoing off the walls nearby. They blended with the sound of my heart waxing poetic in my chest, and for the first time in weeks, I felt okay. There was nothing nor anyone here to tie me down. The newspapers would lie and say that this neighborhood was hell because the broken windows invited society's undesirables, but hell was a place of fear and damnation, and I only felt...free.

After another five minutes of walking, I holed up in a booth at a dingy diner for a caffeine fix, to rest my legs, and to do my homework. I had wanted one night of freedom, and my parents had turned it into an all-out war with no determined end. Yale was still around the corner, though, and I wouldn't see my future ruined. I had to make it to the end of high school if it killed me.

A group of rowdy men burst in when I was on cup #3 and halfway through an essay on Oscar Wao's brief, yet wondrous, life. I paid them no mind at first, but upon hearing a voice I recognized, both extremely loud and incredibly close, I glanced up from my notebook.

"Well fuck me! I knew that was you!"

Conor didn't wait for me to respond before sliding into the empty seat across from me. Though it had been more than a year, he still looked the same: slight and gaunt with choppy hair that never looked clean. He was also dressed in the style I'd gotten him into: an anchor print button-down and grey skinny jeans, and he wore the black bomber jacket, glass rosary, and wide-brimmed hat that reminded me of who he really was. His boyish smile creased the soft bags under his eyes as his pupils darted here and there, trying to take me in all at once while Jason and Angelo, two guys who were more groupies than friends, excused themselves to order.

"How've you been?" He asked.

"Better," I replied shortly, closing my notebook. From the moment he sat down, my emotions went haywire because that's how it was with him. Our past was complicated and painful, but there was something about him that I just couldn't shake.

"Well you look good, if I'm allowed to say that." He smiled again but it wasn't as jovial. "You know since we didn't really end on the best terms."

"I don't want to talk about that, okay?" I'd begun putting my things back in my bag.

"Okay," he said, backing off. "I wasn't trying to upset you, Quinn."

"Well, I don't see how you could ever manage not to do that, Conor, since everything about you upsets me. Nothing good came from us; all I did was pick up more bad habits." I stuffed the last few items in my backpack and put some cash on the table, then I slid out into the aisle while he scrambled to get out of his side. He followed me outside and spun me around to face him before I could get too far. "Don't touch me!" I snapped, and he took a few steps back with his hands up.

"I won't take one step closer if you don't want me to," he said. "I just want you to hear me out. Please."

I crossed my arms and huffed. "I'll give you sixty seconds. That's more than you deserve."

"Okay," he agreed. "I just wanted to make it clear to you that I've never forced you to do anything that you didn't want to do. Hell, I begged you not to do stuff all the time, but you were so damn stubborn, and what the fuck was I supposed to do? Tell you no?" He sighed, and his voice became softer. "It's just that, I don't think that you realize the effect you have on me, Quinn, even after a year, and I'm not trying to ruin your night. I just noticed that you have what looks like your entire life in that backpack, and I care about you too much to just let you run around with nowhere to go."

I swallowed, hard, and took deep breaths as he relaxed and moved closer until he was inches away. I don't know why I didn't move, but that's how things were with him. I was weak around him, and most of the time, it wasn't the kind of weak that makes you get up and run. He knew how to apologize without ever saying that he was sorry, and it left me genuinely confused for a moment. But that never lasted long.

He put his hand up slowly and tucked a rogue lock of hair behind my ear then broke into a smile. "If you have to leave me tonight, let me at least buy you dinner first."

Dinner turned into conversation which turned into drinks which turned into heavier things because that is who I was with him. I didn't have to pretend to be perfect; Conor accepted me flaws and all. And he understood about the drugs like no one else because he had been there and back and still visited from time to time, and he knew how to control it. And as the night wore on, I was beginning to question why I had ever stopped seeing him to begin with.

Somewhere between several trips to the bathroom and his friends leaving, he had learned of a party a few blocks from his apartment at his friend Julie's house. We tried to hail a taxi a few times but decided the walk was worth it after the third one didn't stop. When we arrived, he introduced me as his long lost girlfriend, and I was just high enough to find it funny. We didn't dance much because Conor was not one for dancing, though he loved to watch me. After a while we found our own little corner where we could feel separate but not lonely. I rested against the wall for support while he leaned towards me with one hand on either side, focusing exclusively on me, and I had to admit that it felt good to feel that wanted.

"I was just thinking about the first time we met," he said with a smile, "at Zella's party, and you were dressed up as the sexiest hippie I'd ever seen. You danced circles around everybody else, and I knew from that moment that you were a girl that I could love."

"Really?" I asked, and try as I might I couldn't stop myself from blushing.

"I have never had a reason to lie to you."

He bit his lip and leaned in slowly, gauging my response, and when I didn't turn away, he gently pressed his lips to mine, and it was very much something I had missed. He touched me like I was glass, and he was the only person who had ever made me feel that way. Finn allowed me to dominate him, and Puck's lies couldn't sustain us, though he did love me in his own way eventually. Sam was different because I was certain that he actually loved me, but I wasn't the only one. He wasn't a nice guy, actually, in the end. All the other hookups fulfilled a need and nothing more.

He drew back from me and stroked a knuckle down my cheek. "You okay?"

I nodded and leaned into his touch. "Yeah."

"Well, if I can be honest," he began and waited for me to give the okay to continue, "you look sad, and don't lie to me and say that you aren't. You know I can always tell."

"So what if I am?"

I suddenly didn't know what to do with my arms because I was filled with an overwhelming desire to cross them-to cut him off-because he was getting too close, and I wasn't ready to go back down this road. I fought the urge, though, and let my arms hang.

"Let me help you, Quinn."

I kissed him then, hard, pulling him in until there was no space left between us, silently asking for him to understand. "Let's get out of here," I said. "I know you have some more stuff at your house and better music for sure."

"Okay," he replied, and the smile he gave could've lit up the sun.

I could recall every nook and cranny of Conor's apartment from memory even though it had been more than a year since I'd visited. It was dirtier, too, and the furniture was more worn, but it was otherwise the same. He handed me a drink and put on some music before reposing in the large, ugly chair he'd always favored. His throne, he called it, and he did look majestic with the light from the lamp behind him haloing the rim of his hat.

We talked for a while on things I'd almost forgotten or had, and it felt beautiful to remember them again. I had nearly lost myself in the years since I gave my baby away, but Conor was grounding, and I could be myself. I didn't have to fear what he'd say or do when I asked for the things that I needed. He understood me and always had, and I got him, too.

I don't know when I dozed off, but it was nearly three A.M. when I awoke in Conor's bed. My high was pretty much gone, and that affected my self-assurance and made me anxious to be in his house again. I had stopped seeing him because he was manipulative and abusive, and to be here now (something of which I was only vaguely aware of exactly how that had happened)...it was unsettling to say the least. My neck was sore from sleeping at an odd angle, and I stretched to release some of the tension. He was still awake beside me, but from his drooping lids would probably have passed out soon had I not awoken.

"How'd I get in your bed?" I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.

"I put you here so that you didn't have to sleep on the couch," he said.

I still had my clothes on. My anxiety lessened slightly. "How long was I out?"

"About an hour."

"Oh."

I stretched again, rolling my neck side to side, and sat up. He was very close to me, and I shrank involuntarily. The sense of dread I got whenever I was around him was returning, and I knew I would regret coming here. "I should probably go."

"But it's so late," he said, rubbing my back, "and it's pretty chilly outside to boot."

"I think I'll manage," I said, shrugging him off.

"Don't be ridiculous, Quinn," he said more sternly, now massaging my shoulders.

"Conor, stop touching me!"

I pushed him away and crawled out of the bed, but he was faster and blocked me from leaving.

"You owe me," he said.

"You need to move," I replied.

"Quinn you're being really irrational right now." His tone was shifting to something sweeter, more devious. "It's wet and cold out there, and you're not going to find anywhere else to go at three in the morning."

"Conor get out of the way." My voice was shaking, and I was cursing every decision that had led me here. "Please."

He sighed and began to run his hands up and down my arms. "You know you're being really ungrateful right now, Quinn. I bought you dinner and drinks and gave you every little thing you asked of me tonight." He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, and his touch made me want to throw up. "I did those things because I love you." He leaned down until we were at eye level, but I turned my head so that I didn't have to watch him, and he pressed his lips to my temple. "Now you want to go running off into the night, and I just wouldn't be able to forgive myself if anything terrible were to happen to you."

"Conor please," I whispered, and he took his hand away to lock the door.

"Don't we always have a good time together?" He said, backing me towards the bed. "And I've never done anything you didn't like."

"Don't do this."

"Isn't this always what you wanted? An easy way to pay me back for all the things I do for you. I mean, your parents were absolute shit at looking out for you, but they sure did check your bank account." He pulled at my arm and glanced at the recent marks. "I'm guessing they relaxed on that front, though, since I haven't seen you in a while and it's obvious you're still getting your fix from somewhere."

I pulled my arm from him and stumbled backwards onto the bed. He followed quickly, pinning me beneath him. "I don't want this, Conor," I cried, tears flowing freely.

"Why are you crying?" He asked as he stroked my cheek.

"Please."

"You are so confused, Quinn. You don't even know what you really want, now do you? Because you promised me a year ago that you would never darken my doorway again, yet here you are." He kissed my neck. "And you aren't fighting because you know that I have never forced you to do anything you didn't really want to do. I've never hidden who I was from you, and I never will, but you knew what this was from the very start. I didn't drag you back to my place or even suggest that we come here in the first place; that's on you. So you can't blame me for assuming that this is what you wanted."

I was shaking uncontrollably now and trying to piece together a coherent sentence, and the cold that now encompassed me came from my very core. He'd spoken such pretty words at first, like he always did, and that broken 16 year old girl who he'd approached at Zella's party answered him every time. Perhaps it wasn't a coincidence at all that I had ended up here because I had run to him so many times before that I had stopped counting. He treated me like glass not to handle me with care but to exploit my fragility because that's who I was. And there were so many smudges and cracks that it was useless to pretend, and I always seemed to forget it until Conor reminded me. But still.

I could feel the rosary he always wore gliding across my skin, and the glass was cold though it rested against him all the time. And it was profane that God could see me now and leave me in this hell but wanted love and adoration without giving any back. Perhaps I wasn't good enough to be treated as God's daughter, and I deserved the shadows that followed me and all of the evil that manifested around me. The rain was picking up again outside, the wind howled in response, and when the drops hit the windowpane, they connected and rolled down slowly, like teardrops.

And I know you have a heavy heart
I can feel it when we kiss
So many men stronger than me
Have thrown their backs out trying to lift it
Yeah, but me I'm not a gamble
You can count on me to split
The love I sell you in the evening
By the morning won't exist
 - Lua, Bright Eyes

Conor was hunched over on the edge of the bed, his dark, greasy hair hanging limply across his forehead, and he glanced over his shoulder as I rolled over. He'd been waiting for me to wake up.

"Smoke?" He asked, holding out a joint. It was half-smoked already because, as I well knew, he didn't really like to share. Not without a price.

I felt myself shaking my head and closed my eyes against the throbbing in my brain.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged, putting it back to his lips and taking deep, wheezing tokes. He coughed and spit some phlegm into an empty beer can then laid back against the mattress. "I don't really have any food here. There's a couple of beers, though, if you want one."

I didn't speak. There were no words I wanted to say as I gathered my things and put back on my clothes. I just needed to get out of here. Conor turned his head to watch me and furrowed his brow.

"I'm not kicking you out, Quinn," he said, the joint hanging from the corner of his mouth. "I'll take you to brunch if you want. No charge."

He cackled at his own joke, but it made me sick. Everything about this fucking place disgusted me, and I just wanted to disappear and never see him again. Every second that it took for me to leave was crushing. Why couldn't I keep the wrong ones out? Were my walls not bolstered enough? Or were they just too good at getting past them? Maybe they were experts at finding the cracks in my foundation or digging holes to crawl underneath. Like snakes. Or maybe it was me, and they were just giving me what I wanted.

Conor watched me a moment more and, realizing that I was hellbent on leaving, shrugged me off. "Whatever," he said, turning away. He turned on the old, tube-style TV that he kept "for nostalgia purposes" and raised the volume to drown me out. I considered telling him off, but I doubted that he could even hear the sound of me slamming the door on my way out, let alone hear me say a word.

I rode buses for an hour before I made up my mind about where I should go, and even then I wasn't sure for what I was looking. I couldn't say whether I needed answers to my questions, a reconciliation, or a confrontation, but I knew that I would never find peace if I didn't at least try to see my father. He had made himself out to be new and improved in his letter-something due in part to the affair with the "tattooed freak," but I couldn't yet believe it, not after so many years with the man that I knew. He was conservative to a fault and stern, but I had never doubted he loved me until the day I disappointed him by getting pregnant. And now I had a chance to change things, and he was willing to give me that peace. So I steeled myself and made my way towards his house. I had burned the address into my mind from the letter that Sam and I had destroyed.

We still lived in the same neighborhood, I realized, when I disembarked from the bus at the end of his street. In all the time that my father had kept his distance, he was a stone's throw away, and the ease in which he'd found us that Sunday made more sense now. He'd been contemplating this for a while, it seemed. I shivered with each step, though it wasn't very chilly, and found myself taking shallow breaths.

"He's Russel Fabray, you idiot. Your dad," I whispered chastisement. "Of what are you afraid?"

In truth, what wasn't there to fear? If he could turn his back on me for getting pregnant (though then I was still his perfect daughter in every other regard), how could he ever accept me now?

Pure will kept my feet moving, compelling me forward until I stood at the edge of his half circle driveway. Thirty seconds before, a shiny, new Mercedes had crossed the threshold and disappeared beyond the gates. It rested now in front of the house, and a svelte brunette with just the hint of a tattoo peeking out from the top of her ankle boot had one long leg out of the sedan as she collected things from inside. Pressed against the limestone wall and careful to stay hidden, I spied on her. She finally exited the car, and it was impossible not to notice that she enjoyed a lavish lifestyle. From the fine fabrics draped across her lean form to the Birkin bag swinging at her side, she was the kind of woman whose very presence commanded a room. She made her way to the passenger side and hoisted the bag higher upon her shoulder before opening the backside door. She ducked inside for a minute, and when she reappeared, every thought that I possessed drained from me.

She held a little girl with blonde curls and ivory skin, and she cradled her head in a hand ornamented with an engagement ring that would've disheartened Elizabeth Taylor. The girl couldn't have been more than one and rested upon this woman, no doubt her mother, comfortably. I watched them, mesmerized, my heart in my throat, as they neared the house, and before she could take out her keys to unlock the front door, it swung open, and a man, unmistakably my father, greeted them each with a kiss before leading them inside.

Something…(Rage? Melancholy? Confusion?) stirred beneath my skin, and I used the coolness of the limestone to ground me while I tried to come to terms with what I had witnessed. Was this the reasoning for his return? The day he turned from me was the darkest day of my life till then. He had called me a disappointment because I was no longer his innocent little girl, because I had made a mistake that in his eyes was unforgivable. Everything that I had since become connected in disjointed lines back to Russel Fabray, and I would lose sleep over that little girl's fate. Would he turn his back on her, too, someday if she couldn't be what he'd molded her into?

Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes, and I wouldn't be able to hold them back for long, but I couldn't let him see me cry. He didn't warrant sorrow; he deserved my contempt and hatred and the physical manifestation of how it felt to be abandoned. I couldn't stop myself, nor did I want to, as I snatched rocks from the ground and let them fly towards his car and house - the sound of dented metal and broken glass the first bit of relief I'd had in three years.

He wrenched open the front door and stepped out, red-faced with a demonic air, and I stood my ground long enough for his anger to turn to surprise. We watched each other silently until he took a step towards me with a hand outstretched and quietly said my name. I dropped the few remaining rocks and ran, refusing to stop until my lungs threatened to collapse and my vision was too blurry to safely go farther. Only then did I allow my grief to overtake me, and my tears didn't stop until I had nothing left.

I washed my face in a gas station bathroom about a block away then bought a cheap coffee to settle my nerves. Too much had happened in the last 24 hours, and I was running out of options. But I wasn't ready to go back. Will would have a smug smirk on his face, and even if he didn't say it, his eyes would tell enough: "I knew you'd come crawling back." And I would never live it down. Besides, they clearly didn't care or thought tough love was the answer because they hadn't called, either. As the day wore on, the bus rides around the city bled together into a fluorescent blur, and I began to feel like one of the forgotten. I had been preparing to spend a night in a hotel when Santana called me.

"Q! What are you doing?" She asked before I could even say hello.

"Uh, nothing much," I replied, glancing around the near empty bus. The driver watched me through her rearview mirror from time to time, as it was my third time in a row on this same route. "What's going on?"

"So you know how I hate going to your little functions and all?"

"You remind me how fake they are every chance you get."

"Yeah, well I'm also a huge advocate for free booze."

"Uh huh."

"And some gringa named Sylvia is having a party tonight."

"And you need me because I know her."

"Ding ding ding ding ding! Are you still on lockdown?"

"Actually, I got off last night," I replied with a smile. "Can I get ready at your house?"

I'd been to Santana's place a handful of times before, and I loved everything about it because she made it so comforting. She'd moved into an apartment with her cousin, Raphael, right after she graduated due to complications with her family over her sexuality. Though her parents were cool with it, not everyone in her family was, and it made it difficult to be around them all the time. So she and Raphael, whose parents weren't so accepting, turned their place into a sanctuary.

After a playful but catty exchange at her door, I finally pushed past her and made my way to her kitchen where she already had a pot of coffee on. We sat at the bar catching up. It had been a few weeks since we'd last talked, and it felt good to be in her company again.

"So you and Sam broke up?" She asked.

I nodded.

"I knew there was something off about that boy. No one with a mouth that big can be trusted. What'd he do?"

"He was cheating on me," I sighed.

"Holy shit. With who?"

"Mercedes."

She looked scandalized but intrigued. "Really? Little Miss Perfect. I would have never guessed that, but it makes sense considering all the shit she's gone through." I cocked a brow. "Daddy issues," she said cryptically.

"That doesn't mean anything, Santana."

"Bullshit it doesn't. I mean, look at you, princess. You're not the poster child for a hot mess for nothing."

It stung more now than it usually would have, and I looked away from her for a moment, staring down her appliances (which had a strange glitter effect in the coating) to keep from going off. "Please don't."

"Fine," she said, backing off. "We've all got our crosses, even Mama Snixx. But that's why you and I are going out tonight and forgetting about everything."

"I'm so ready," I agreed, letting go of my anger.

"Good. Now get showered because you look like 1990s Kate Moss," she said.

Two hours later, after long showers and the first real food I'd had all day, we were on our way to Sylvia's. Santana blasted the music in her beater and rapped along to Kid Cudi, cutting the engine as he crooned, "You don't really care about the trials of tomorrow. Rather lay awake in the bed full of sor-"

She stuck with me long enough to get a drink and find someone with whom to dance, and I didn't see her for a while after that. She didn't need me to fit in; she'd rubbed elbows with many of these kids before, both through me and through her dad, who was a doctor. She just hadn't wanted to walk in alone. And now that that was accomplished, she didn't need me anymore.

The party was filled with folks that I had known since moving to Lima from Fairbrook Township. Girls with whom I'd taken dance classes. Guys whose fathers were friends of my dad and Will who I'd talked to over lunches at the country club. Girls who were lonely. Guys who were their fathers' punching bags. Kids who were as broken as I was. Kids who were all great pretenders. And we could've used each other as a shoulder to cry on or as a vessel to take some of the pain, but instead we just used each other.

Maybe this was the way it always was. Santana and I were using each other; I needed a place to stay, and she needed a free drink. Conor had used me, but I had used him and his seemingly endless supply of drugs, too. Sam had used me to get a leg up, and I had used him to feel normal, but still. He was the closest I'd been to happy in a long time.

My reverie was cut short by a pair of rough hands suddenly massaging my shoulders, and when I turned to face the uninvited guest, he quickly pressed his lips to mine to silence my protest. My drunken mind took a moment to catch up with my sober sense of panic, and I finally pushed the intruder away to find that it was Conor.

"Did you miss me, Quinn?" He asked with a smug smile.

A shiver went down my spine, and my eyes immediately watered. "Get the hell away from me!" I slurred, taking a step back.

"Aw don't be like that," he said, grabbing my arm to hold me there. I glanced around, but everyone was either too high or drunk to notice or care. "Who'd you come here with?"

"Let go of me," I said, trying to stay calm, but I wasn't sober enough to control my emotions and started crying.

"Come here, love," he said, pulling me into him, and he bent to whisper in my ear. "I had such a good time with you last night, and I couldn't stop thinking about you today."

"You're hurting me," I whimpered.

"It must be fate if we're at the same place again in such a short span of time, right?"

"Please." My mascara ran in streaks.

"You don't have to cry, Quinn," he said quietly and wiped my tears with his thumbs. "I just wanted to say that I have some more stuff if you want it. I'll be here for a little while, and we can go back to mine after and," he licked his lips, "have some more fun. Sorry about how I approached you; I just couldn't resist kissing you."

He let me go, and I stumbled away as he faded into the crowd. Everything was blurry as I searched for Santana; I needed to get out of here. I saw her, finally, at the end of a long hallway, and her face was that of a raging bull. I couldn't see to whom she spoke-too many people were in the way-but they were surely receiving a verbal lashing. Regardless, I felt nothing but relief upon finding her because it meant that this hellish party had a quick end. I pushed my way through the crowd, a few of whom complained that they needed to use the bathroom, and, after assuring those I passed that I was not, in fact, attempting to cut the line, I finally gained entrance to the front of the queue.

"Santana, I need to talk to y-" I began, but my words caught in my throat at the sight of Sam, the object of Santana's fury.

His hand was intertwined with Brittany's, Santana's ex-girlfriend for whom she still harbored a flame. Brittany and I had been on the Cheerios together until Coach had released me, and other than some friendly talk in Glee Club, she and Sam had never really interacted much. So to say that I was surprised would be an understatement. I swallowed the rest of my words and took in the whole scene. Brittany's and Sam's faces were full of shame, and Santana was ready to kill. And me? Well I was just trying to hold myself together.

It wasn't that I never expected Sam to move on-to be honest I was more surprised that he wasn't off somewhere with Mercedes-but, I don't know, something about the randomness of it all was off-putting. Perhaps he was telling the truth when he said he'd ended things with her, or maybe I was right all along and he was more like the rest of us than he even knew. It didn't make seeing him hurt any less, especially with Conor somewhere in the vicinity.

You could've saved me. I could've run to you, I thought, and it brought tears to my eyes as I turned to Santana.

"We need to leave now," I demanded.

"Quinn, I…" Sam started but his words faltered, and he cast his eyes to the floor.

"Other people need to use the fucking bathroom!" Someone yelled from down the hall, and it brought us all back to the reality of where we were.

"Let's go," Santana agreed, and grabbing my arm, pulled me from the scene. Away from Sam and Brittany to a dark corner of our own.

Santana shook with sadness, staring up at the ceiling and blinking furiously to keep herself from crying. "I never meant to leave her in Lesbos!" She said suddenly. "She lost her fucking passport, and they wouldn't let me stay." She was pacing back and forth with her hands over her temples. "When she finally made it back, she broke up with me claiming that I abandoned her! All because of that shit with her parents!" She sniffled and couldn't hold back her tears. "She was the first good thing in my life, and you're supposed to end up with your true love, right?" She sloppily wiped at her face.

"Yeah," I agreed, "and you will, Santana. You two will be so in love that it makes other people sick to see it."

She gave herself another minute to stop crying and fixed her makeup in her compact.

"You feel better?" I asked, and she shook her head. "Well aside from red eyes, you look better. You ready to get out of here?"

She shook her head again. "I'm not drunk enough to deal with this. I'm holding back, but I don't know for how long."

"I get you, Santana," I said. "There are people here that I don't want to see, either, and I'm a second from falling apart, too. So, please, let's just leave. We can steal a couple of bottles if you want. They're probably too drunk to notice anyways."

"I know you aren't thinking about leaving yet." A butch girl who I didn't recognize interrupted. She was probably who Santana had been dancing with throughout the night.

"Ew, what the fuck?" I said.

She put her arms around Santana and leaned onto her shoulder then began to kiss her neck. "I've been looking for you forever, baby," she said to Santana.

"Look, whoever you are I'm sure you're a really nice person, and I usually wouldn't even care, but can you just leave us alone," I said.

The girl looked at me with a smirk. "Only if she asks me to go."

Santana gazed at me sympathetically and mouthed the word, "Sorry."

"She's not even your type, Santana!"

She blinked back tears and breathed in deeply. "Have you ever just needed something, Quinn?" And when I didn't respond, she replied cynically, breaking down, "Of course you haven't. You get everything that you want, right? The world feeds you with a silver spoon. Well I need this, okay?"

My eyes brimmed with tears but not from sadness. Of course I knew what she meant. Of course I understood; probably better than anyone. But she couldn't put herself in my shoes. Sure the world had fed me well, but its cruelty was not discerning. "Do whatever you want," I replied stonily. I walked away from her then, not bothering to turn to see if she was coming after me; I knew that she wouldn't because neither would I.

I drank more than I had in a while and floated through the halls of Sylvia's cavernous house. I didn't see Sam again nor Santana for that matter. And I drank more to feel nothing because party girls don't get hurt, and it's hard to miss someone when you're locked in a haze.

In my next moment of lucidity, I realized that I was once again in Conor's bed. He was on top of me, thrusting hard, disregarding the fact that I was bleeding from the force of him. I started to say that I wanted him to stop, but he put his lips to mine and quieted my protest. I didn't know how I had ended back in this place where I had promised so often that I would not go. I wanted to reject him, but my body would not listen, and the way that he held me made it impossible to push away. So I squeezed out tears while he told me that I was his "good little girl" to the sound of Rihanna crooning over and over how we found love in a hopeless place.

He finished and rolled off of me with a sigh of contentment. "I swear when we're together I see the face of God," he said breathily, fingering his crucifix. "I could fuck you for eternity."

I didn't bother covering up for I had no shame anymore. This is where girls like me belonged: in some dirty man's filthy apartment being used. I didn't care to know how I had ended up here; if I were here it's because I wanted to be here. Because I understood these type of men and what they needed, and he knew what I needed, too.

There was a bruise forming where he'd grabbed me earlier in the night, but it didn't hurt. Even when he yanked my chin towards him and shotgunned smoke into my mouth, I felt nothing. When he was recharged and crawled back on top of me, as Agyness Deyn drawled, "It's like you're screaming, and no one can hear," I could only think, I hope his dope is pure.

I awoke to Conor's rough hands slapping me across the face.

"Quinn, wake the fuck up!" He demanded.

"I'm up!" I replied, and he covered my mouth with his palm then put a finger over his own mouth.

There was a loud banging at the front door, and a vaguely familiar alto voice was yelling on the other side. Conor crept out of the bed, walking quickly across his bedroom, then turned to me and said quietly, venomously, "Put some clothes on and get rid of this shit," pointing to the drug paraphernalia scattered about the room. He then went into the living room and closed the door behind him.

I slipped my shirt and pants back on and sat on the bed, my arms around my knees, as he answered the door, and his "What the fuck do you want?" was answered with Santana's equally indignant, "Where the fuck is Quinn?"

"Who?" Conor feigned ignorance, and I could imagine Santana rolling her eyes.

"I don't have time for this shit," she said, venom in her voice. "I know she's here, and I need to know she's okay."

"Why don't you go away and stop bothering people?" He replied.

"No," she insisted. "I'm looking for Quinn...are you going to move or what?"

A moment later she entered the room, and her face flooded with relief. Conor turned on loud music in the living room, and I imagined him smoking a joint while sitting on his throne. "Oh, Quinn. Thank God," she said, sitting on the end of the bed.

"What're you doing here, Santana?" I asked, involuntarily rubbing my arms to self-soothe.

"I've come to take you home," she said. "I'm so sorry about last night."

"Don't be. I'm fine," I lied. "No one's hurt me...so."

Santana closed her eyes a brief moment like she was in pain and shook her head. "You shouldn't be hanging out with Conor, Quinn. He's not a nice person."

I laughed a bit at that and looked past her. "Hanging out? We're not hanging out." My resolve was starting to crumble. "We're fucking, having fun, getting high." Her eyes dropped then, and she furrowed her brow. "And we can do that because we're adults." She met my eyes, and I looked at her with all the confidence that I could muster. "You wouldn't get it because you're not a part of it…and I know what you're thinking; you think he took advantage of me." She nodded slightly, and my voice broke. "But he didn't; he likes me." My eyes watered. "You know, and I'm the one taking advantage. I'm the one with the power, me."

Santana put her hands on the outside of my thighs, and I flinched at her touch. "So what is it that you think he likes about you, then, Quinn?"

"I didn't say like, I said want," I replied defensively.

"You said like."

"Well, what's the difference?" I exploded. "Do you have any idea how good it feels when someone, someone literally can't keep their hands off you, and they grab you like they're crazy?" Her eyes were wide now. "You think I'm a bad person," I accused.

"No, I don't think that," she began softly.

"No, you think I'm a stupid slut!" I yelled over her. "Well, so what?! It's my body and I can do what I want with it. Do you understand that?"

She pulled me into a hug, and I shook in her embrace. "I do understand. Quinn, I do, I do understand." She pushed back to look into my eyes and held my hands, and she was on the verge of tears. "Just please let me get you out of here."

Her genuine concern finally broke me, and I didn't want to pretend anymore. "I'm sca-I'm scared," I whispered.

"I know, but it'll be alright. Okay?" She put her hand on my arm, gently caressing my bruises. "Everything will be alright. I promise."

We sat in her kitchen with empty bowls later that afternoon; after my shower, Santana had insisted that I eat something at least, and she was a good enough cook that she made it really difficult to say no. She was still shaken up, though; I could see it in how she moved around the kitchen.

"Hey," I said, grabbing her hand as she came to take my bowl. "You okay?"

She squeezed my hand reassuringly then sat down on the stool next to me. "Are you?"

"I will be."

"I let you down, Quinn." Her voice quivered, and she forced herself to keep looking at me. "I'm so sorry that I let you down."

"It wasn't your fault, Santana," I said.

"I'd have never let you go with that creep; I just wasn't expecting to see Britt there is all, and that fucked up my focus."

"I know, and you have every right to be upset. I can't say that you shouldn't."

"I know, I know. I just kept thinking that if I couldn't find you…if the last thing I did was let you walk away while I hooked up with that girl…and you were right. She wasn't even my type."

"You came back for me," I said. "Nothing before that even matters."

"...right," she said.

She stood up again, grabbing my bowl, and went to the sink to wash the dishes. "Look, I know you're having problems with your parents and all that." And before I could say anything she remarked "your bag," and I said "oh." "Well you're welcome to stay here for as long as you want. I can tell you really need it, and I don't want it to ever be said of me that I didn't help a friend in need." She stopped washing and turned to me for a second. "Because we are friends, Q."

I got up and snaked my arms around her waist then rested my chin on her shoulder. "Thank you," I said, kissing her cheek.

I don't know for how long we stayed like that, but we didn't mind because it was what we needed at the time. There was safety here and comfort, and as I rested against her, sunlight poured in through the window, illuminating the sparkles in her appliances so that they shone like gold.

AN: This chapter is titled Pursuit of Happiness, pt. 2: When You Were Young or America based on the songs by Kid Cudi, The Killers, and XYLØ, respectively.

Pop culture referenced in this chapter includes: Good Will Hunting, the Broken Windows Theory, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz, 1965 by Zella Day, Lua by Bright Eyes, Forrest Gump, Kate Moss, Chandelier by Sia, Stay High by Tove Lo, I Feel Like Dying by Lil Wayne, We Found Love by Rihanna, and My Mad Fat Diary.

So this was really heavy, and writing some of this stuff makes me mad uncomfortable, tbh. Quinn makes me sad, but I did this to her, so…