At the Crossroads

22.

You passed your driver's test with flying colors, but you're fairly confident it's mostly because the guy in the passenger's seat had his eyes on you more than the road. Having your license has made it easier for your spontaneous trips to Rachel's or Puck's, but that's been about the only thing that's been easy lately.

The whole glee club can tell something is off; Rachel is more blunt and bossy, and you're snide comments mumbled from the back row are making Santana seem like a cuddly kitten. Everyone thinks you're just on a power-trip, and Puck had asked if you were on your period at one point, which resulted in a really harsh glare and Mercedes smacking him with a notebook. After glee that day, he sent you a text apologizing, a photo of him pouting, then asked if you wanted to join him for some zombie-killing. You forgave him, and you appreciated that he didn't ask anymore about your moods in school.

You're studying for a Spanish test with Mercedes when you realize she's watching you as you copy some vocabulary onto some index cards.

"What?" you ask, meeting her gaze and quirking an eyebrow.

"What's going on in that head of yours, Fabray?" she asks, squinting her eyes at you with suspicion. It's light, almost teasing, so you don't feel very threatened by it.

"Spanish," you say with a grin.

"I mean in general. You seem tense lately," she says carefully.

"Just a lot going on," you say, trying to shrug it off.

Before she can inquire anymore, you suggest you both practice conversing in Spanish to prepare for the oral part of the exam. She gives you a questioning look, but simply nods in agreement.

When you see Finn kiss Rachel at her locker before going into homeroom, you walk into the nearest bathroom and slam one of the stall doors repeatedly until you've gotten most of your frustration out.

A week into the "Finchel" rekindled romance, as Jacob reports, there's rumors of them sleeping together. You want to ask Puck if there's been word in the locker room, but you know that would give you away.

Santana snaps her fingers in front of your face, "Q, you're being a shitty friend right now," she says as you turn your attention to her, away from Finn and Rachel kissing in the hallway. She looks over her shoulder then back to you, "They're gross. You're like one of those rubberneckers on the highway. Stop looking at the car wreck and focus here."

"Sorry," you say, "What were you saying?"

Santana continues her rant about something in Cheerios, so luckily she interprets your rage upon seeing Rachel smile and peck Finn on the lips goodbye as taking her side on the matter.

You parents make you sit at the table despite your insistence that you're not hungry. You're exhausted and just want to be alone, but Fabray dinners aren't optional.

Your father compliments your mother's cooking and you nod in agreement, forcing down small bites of the meal. You sit in silence for another ten minutes when your father looks at you directly for a moment before asking how school is going.

"The same. All A's," you say with a shrug, "I'm just tired from Cheerios. Can I be excused? I'll take some of the leftover chicken for my salad tomorrow."

Your father shares a look with your mother, but she simply nods. You can't ignore the feeling of their eyes on you as you clear your plate and head up to your room.

You walk from Puck's. It's not the coldest, but the cool night air feels nice on your warm cheeks. You know you aren't walking in a very straight line, but Rachel had texted you while you were drinking more cheap bourbon with Puck, so you said you'd be there. Your head is swimming and you squint up at the streetlights, looking at them as if they're man-made haloes.

As soon as she opens the door, you pull her into a desperate kiss. You feel her stiffen with surprise before she kisses you back, pulling you into the house and closing the door with some difficulty as she continues to press her lips to yours.

You pull her shirt off right there in the foyer, and you can still taste the liquor on your tongue, but mixed with some of Rachel's fruity lip balm.

"My dads," Rachel says between your kisses as she pulls your jacket off, "they're going to be home sooner than I thought," she explains breathlessly.

You don't say anything. Instead, you take her by her arms and pin her against the front door. You suck on her neck as one of your hands slips under her shirt and finds her right breast, kneading through the thin fabric of her bra. You shove your other hand down into her skirt, but her tights limit your movement, pinning your wrist down. You practically grunt in frustration, so you pull your hand out and drop down to your knees.

Rachel's mouth opens, but she closes it and breathes heavily out of her nose. She goes to unzip her skirt, but you just pull her skirt up and tuck part of it into the waistband of it. You don't hesitate to run your hand over her warm core, over her tights and underwear. Her hips press into your hand, and because you know there's limited time, you don't bother teasing. You pull her tights and rip through them, pushing aside her underwear and immediately letting your tongue swipe through her folds. A moan escapes Rachel, her fingers tangled in your hair as you dive into a rigorous pace against her clit. You lightly suck the flesh and insert two fingers, quick to apply some pressure to her g-spot. She moans even louder, and you continue the fast pace you started with.

Rachel practically yells when she comes, her voice echoing in the foyer as she thrusts her hips toward your mouth, shaking as her orgasm rolls through her, a shuddering of her muscles spasming around your fingers.

When you stand from your position on your knees, wiping your hand on your jeans before pulling her into another kiss. It's slower this time, but you think of it as a 'goodnight' kind of kiss. You can tell Rachel's legs are still shaking as she adjusts her skirt. When she looks up, you hold her gaze—her eyes shining, catching light like her own personal haloes, like whatever she looks at could be something more holy—as you reach past her and turn the door knob; she moves out of the way, and you slip past her to start your walk home.

When Mr. Schuester calls on Rachel, she doesn't respond. Instead she slowly looks up from her book in her lap, asking him if he would mind repeating himself. The group looks at her like she's crazy because he asked if she had anything prepared for the group, and normally Rachel has an extensive repertoire prepared for any moment of any day. She simply shakes her head and says she hasn't prepared anything.

You swallow uneasily, wondering how much of this could be blamed on you. At this point, more and more people are noticing you and Rachel's strange behavior.

You watch Finn put his arm around Rachel, rubbing her shoulder to comfort her. She gives him a small smile, and you focus on reading your English assignment.

You're wrapped up in an oversized Dartmouth hoody you bought when visiting Frannie. You're eyes are still puffy from when you left Rachel's after bruising each other's lips and making one another come. It reminded you of confession—how you knew what you were doing wasn't right, that the sorrow was there, and the only option was to ask for forgiveness in the grace of your hands on her skin and your lips on hers—all desperation and a small glimmer of hope.

When Frannie's face appears on screen, you can tell the moment she sees your face because her smile quickly disappears.

"What's wrong, Lucy Q?"

You feel your bottom lip tremble, but you take a deep breath and manage to say, barely louder than a whisper, "Fran… I'm gay."

You watch as Finn runs his hand through his hair in frustration as he exchanges quiet but intense words with Rachel in the hallway. They're apparently on and off again, and Jacob's been reporting on Rachel's inability to commit to the quarterback. You hope Jacob isn't smart enough to trace the ISP addresses of his website's visitors.

Rachel storms off, leaving Finn to slam his locker shut, sulking his way to class.

You're reviewing Physics material with Mercedes to prepare for an upcoming test. You like working with her—it's calm and safe, so you're running through practice problems on your own before you check each other's work. You're in the middle of writing an equation on trajectory when Mercedes Mercedes closes her book on her notebook abruptly and does the same to yours.

"What—"

"Girl, you gotta spill," Mercedes demands, giving you a pointed look.

You roll your eyes and smile, "What conspiracy do you have now?"

"Something's up," she says, biting her bottom lip briefly before continuing, "and it has to do with you and Rachel."

You smile falters, but you force a laugh, "The only problem I have with Rachel is her terrible fashion sense."

Mercedes sighs, "I'm not going to judge you," she gives you a small smile, "I don't know quite what it's all about, but… I've seen the way you two look at each other—in glee and in school. And the past couple of weeks, you've both been looking like abandoned puppies."

You don't say anything, focusing your attention on a doodle you started mindlessly drawing on your notebook.

"I mentioned to Rachel that I liked studying with you, and she said you're a good study buddy—that you had been struggling with Pre-Calc," she says, raising an eyebrow.

"And?"

"Quinn," she says softly, putting her hand on yours to stop you from scratching more shapes onto your notebook, "you told me you were tutoring her in Pre-Calc. That's why I asked you to help me with Spanish."

You look up at her and you're not quite sure how your expression reads, but Mercedes just lets out a gentle laugh, "Besides, we all know you don't need any tutoring."

You're silent for a while, but Mercedes calmness stops you from running and never coming back. You had told Frannie and cried, and your sister just assured you that she'll always be proud to have you as a sister and what kind of woman you're growing into, and how much she loves you. She gave you more reason to be brave, but the stress and sense of loss still remains. With this sense of bravery, you give Mercedes a timid and somewhat melancholy smile and confess, "I think I like her… I really like her."

Mercedes practically snorts, "Girl, you are far from subtle," she says, patting your hand.

"It was this really unexpected thing, moving here, then meeting her," you find the words spilling from your mouth, "But I couldn't stay away from her, and now I think I fucked it all up," you conclude.

"That's what high school is about," she says with a shrug, "I think you can fix it. Even if it's not the same as before… maybe it can grow into something better, or at least something that works for the both of you."

"I have no idea what that could be. With my parents and the school… it's all too many external factors," you say, blinking the tears back as you hear your father's voice in your head, his casual remarks about the shame of homosexuality.

"Well, maybe you'll be able to figure out what's best."

"Maybe."

Mercedes gives your hand a little squeeze, and you appreciate the gesture. You don't feel panicked, like you need to make her swear to secrecy. Mercedes is the type of friend who doesn't need the details, just enough to know you'll be okay, and that's all you need in this moment.

You stand silently in the doorway of the choir room as Rachel warms up; she makes it seem so easy—as easy as breathing, which is something you can hardly do when you hear her voice dance over the notes with ease.

You quietly walk in, and you see her hands pause on the piano keys. You sit beside her on the piano bench, and you know she can tell it's you without even looking your way.

You're both silent as Rachel pulls her hands from the piano and rests them in her lap.

"We can't do this anymore, Rachel," you say, breaking the silence, all the fatigue you feel evident in your words, "This isn't what I wanted it to be."

Rachel licks her lips, and her voice suddenly seems less smooth—more broken—when she replies, "What do you want?"

"I want to survive… this and the next two years," you say with a defeated shrug, "This is it for me, Rachel. I'm sixteen, and I've already made so many mistakes. It doesn't matter now because I'm pretty and young… But the real world won't always be so forgiving to me."

"Quinn… you're a very pretty girl… the prettiest I've met," she says quietly, "But you're a lot more than that."

"No, I'm not," you say with a sigh, "I wave my pompoms. I sway in the background in glee," you pause as you look at her, willing her to look at you to convey how much you mean this, "With Regionals coming up, you should focus on that—it's your future, Rachel. Not me. Not Finn."

"What are you saying?" She finally looks at you, and you can see circles under her eyes, tears threatening to fill them.

"I know you like Finn a lot; you could even love him," you take a breath, "but I'm asking you to be realistic… not just about whatever this is—"

"You still can't even acknowledge it, can you?"

"Look, Rachel," your voice escalating slightly, but it falls back to its tired tone, "look at the big picture. Do you want to know how this all plays out? I end up with one of these boys, like Puck or another captain of some sports team here. You and Finn break up and hearts get broken. I graduate, maybe go to OSU, and then settle down right back here."

"Quinn, you'll get out of Lima."

You shake your head, cutting off any reassurances she could offer, "I'm meant to be a big fish in a small pond. You aren't. You don't belong here, Rachel," you say, and you hate how your voice cracks when you say her name, "and you can be angry with me for ruining this and the past year. But you can't hate me for helping to send you on your way—to snap you out of this provincial, school girl fantasy, and make you realize that people like me and Finn aren't meant to be any more than high school memories."

"You're more important than that."

"No, I'm not. Neither is Finn, and the sooner you understand that, the sooner we can all do what we're supposed to—let these years play out like they should and then your real life starts," you say this with a sad smile, willing yourself to dress your words in hope instead of soaking it in the sorrow of your own loss—this is about her, not you, "Rachel, with people like me and Finn in the picture, we'll just hold you back. You'll never get it right until you see that."

A tear slips past Rachel's eyes as she closes them and steadies her breath. You can't see her like this and stay around and wait for her to give you false hope—convince you that you could give her what she wants and needs. This is the only way you know how to stop this, to protect your heart from further damage and make sure Rachel gets the life she deserves, away from this childish scorn McKinley has thrust upon her—what you've done to torment her.

You stand up to leave, but you let yourself put your hand on her shoulder. "You have a wonderful future ahead of you, Rachel," you manage, your voice trembling. You let your hand fall away, and you walk out of the room before Rachel can find the words to cast a spell on you, the kind of spell that makes you the protagonist in this story, like the hero who offers up their heart without fear of pain. The best you can do is make sure the real hero gets her happy ending.

23.

The flowers have finally decided to bloom in the spring sunshine, stretching their limbs out from their wintry cocoons. You always liked the spring, but you still feel cold and locked inside, especially when your gaze meets Rachel's across the hallway or as she sings in glee. When you witness the tension between Finn and Rachel, you don't feel as amused or happy about it as Santana. You know this is what you wanted for her, but seeing her tired eyes, the way she holds herself as if she's aching, isn't something you could have prepared yourself for.

When you hear Finn in the hallway, you can't help but glance over at the couple.

"Just tell me what's going on!" he exclaims, quickly hushed by Rachel, who closes her eyes and tries to remain calm.

"I can't explain it. Especially right now."

"You won't talk to me. You normally love talking!" Finn says, earning himself a glare.

Rachel shakes her head and walks away, leaving Finn at his locker. He slams it shut, which has been happening often lately, before stomping his way to class.

The weeks leading up to the Regionals competition has been stressful: Members still haven't learned all their dance routines, timing is off, and then there's the tension everyone in the group can sense resonating from Finn and Rachel and some unknown source.

You smile, however, when Mr. Schuester announces that Rachel will be singing the opening solo for the New Directions at the competition. He explains the song she's selected—something from an old off-Broadway musical—and how it will affect the tone of the performance. Apparently Rachel has been seeking advice from Mr. Schuester, which you find to be quite preposterous. Still, it's the first time Rachel's looked something close to happy in the past two weeks.

As you stand in the wings, you watch Rachel walk out onto the dark stage in front of the curtain. Others are getting into position, but you insist on watching "to make sure Berry doesn't blow it."

When the lights come up, you see that modest smile—a quirk of her lips, in a way that hints at the confidence that that's where she belongs—but there's a hint of melancholy to match the way her eyes seem to shine in the spotlight. When the pianist starts playing the music, there's a small hum from the audience as they try to identify the song.

"She wrote this herself, you know," Mr. Schuester says, seemingly appearing beside you with a bright grin. "It was a little secret of ours. She's really grown as an artist."

"Really?"

Mr. Schuester merely nods as Rachel takes a breath and begins to sing.

"What have I done? I wish I could run, away from this ship going under. Just trying to help, hurt everyone else. Now I feel the weight of the world is on my shoulders…" You feel the familiar shiver run down your spine at the sound of her voice, but your body starts to tremble lightly as she closes her eyes and continues to sing, "What can you do when your good isn't good enough, and all that you touch tumbles down? 'Cause my best intentions keep making a mess of things, I just wanna fix it somehow. But how many times will it take? Oh, how many times will it take for me to get it right… to get it right?"

You stand in awe, watching Rachel sing the very words you've wished you were strong enough to confess. She's the bravest person you've ever met, and here you are, on the sidelines with your open mouth and breathless lungs.

As Rachel finishes the final verse, she looks over into the wings of the stage, and you suddenly feel so full, almost delusional as you consider walking out onto the stage and kissing her and telling her she's always been right.

When the lights go down, you feel yourself breathe out, "Wow," but it's mirrored by another voice. You turn around and see Finn standing beside you, an expression of amazement to match your own. Then you suddenly feel small again because maybe this wasn't about you. Maybe being with Finn is her way to get things right, put her life back on the track you threw yourself onto, derailing her plans.

You win Regionals, so the glee club has a modest celebration due to the number of parents who attended. They have milkshakes at Breadsticks, and Rachel provided her own almond milk for her own. When Rachel looks your way, you force yourself to meet her gaze and give her a small smile. She returns it, but it's broken when Finn puts his arm around her and congratulates her again for carrying the team to victory. It's a friendly gesture, but it twists around in your chest and makes it difficult for you to contribute to the enthusiastic conversations around you.

You're in the bed of Puck's truck, each equipped with flasks he bought for you as a "bromantic gesture." You slipped into more comfortable clothes, but Puck just removed his jacket and undid his bowtie. You both share a few laughs regarding some of the ridiculous performances at the Regionals competition, but you both let the silence fall gently between you as you look up at the sky.

You slide forward and recline, using one of Puck's old cushions as a pillow. He smiles and does the same. There's only the sound of crickets and the slumber of spring, rustling leaves in the light breeze, and the swishing of the bourbon in the flasks as you both drink.

Your stomach feels warm and you imagine the stars and the moon are closer tonight. You close your eyes as you breathe in the night air, but Puck nudges you lightly with his elbow.

"Hey, Q?" he says, in a low, soft voice you're not sure you've ever heard him use. You turn your head to him and he gives you a small, crooked smile—so unlike the ones he tosses around at the other girls in school. "It's… okay, y'know… If you want to talk about stuff with me."

"Like some freshman screwing up a Cheerios routine?" you say, laughing up at the sky and taking a small sip from your flask.

"I'm trying to be serious," he says in a kind voice, so you look at him again, "I mean… if you want to talk about whatever's going on with you… and Rachel?"

You sit up at this, Rachel being the last name you'd expect to come from Puck in this context. Puck follows your movements and leans back against the side of the truck, and you realize your breath is shaky and your hands are almost humming as they struggle to cap the flask.

"I'm not trying to pressure you or anything," he says gently, "I just… whatever it is, it seems difficult."

You look at him and his face appears blurry, so you quickly wipe at your eyes. "It's… Wha—… How?"

He shrugs, "I just noticed you… look at her like I wanted you to look at me for a while. So I put the pieces together."

There's a long pause, and you uncap your flask again to take a swig. You imagine the burning sensation is lighting all the lies sitting in your throat on fire—cleansing you of the sacraments and prayers that marked all these truths as sins, "Only you and Mercedes know," you say, barely above a whisper, fiddling with the clasp of the cap. "And my sister… Does anyone else know?"

Puck shakes his head, "Most of the glee club can barely hold eye contact with you, let alone notice your behavior," he says with a grin.

You let out a small laugh. "Good… Good."

"So are you going to do anything?"

You look up as if the constellations will give you better answers than the ones you looked for when you would bow your head in prayer or read the Bible. The stars wink at you, but they don't say much.

"No," you say, "Maybe… I'm not sure." You take a drink before reclining into your previous position, "I'm not sure about anything anymore."

Puck lies down beside you but motions for you to come closer. You let him wrap his arms around you, and you feel safe and calmed by his steady heartbeat against your ear.

"You don't have to be sure," he says, his breath rustling your hair, "but I think you deserve to be happy. She could make you happy," he pauses, and you wonder if he's fallen asleep, but then he adds, "Maybe that's enough of a reason to try."

"Yeah," you say, pausing as you raise your flask. He bumps his against yours, a small, metal clang, "To 'Maybes.'"

He chuckles lightly, and you smile when you feel him press a kiss on the top of your head.