A/N: Hey guys! So sorry about the long wait for an update, but I didn't abandon this story. I just got super busy with work and school and writing had to take the backseat for a little while, but I'm back and I'll try to update as often as I used to. Especially because I'll be going on winter break from school in a little! I hope you enjoy this update! I still have so much story to tell. And thank you for being patient with the slow burn, I promise the Faberry is coming ;)

~practicallyaprincess

September 27

I'm starting to think that the universe is playing some kind of trick on me. I admit that these past few months, my faith has been a little bit fragile. Maybe even longer than that. Hell, there are some times where I'm not even sure if I believe in God anymore. But this afternoon, something happened and I think my mind is changed. It really could be nothing but a cruel twist of fate, but I find it rather hard to believe it's a coincidence. Because Mr. Shue said that my partner would be Rachel just as I ripped my cross off. Even writing it seems like it's a scene ripped straight out of a bad 90s RomCom. Mr. Schue said Rachel is my partner just as I ripped my cross off. I can't make this crap up.

I guess in a way, it feels like He's testing me. Like He's partnering me up with Rachel just to see if I will break. And I hate to break it to you God, but I just might.

How am I supposed to last a week with her? The thought already makes my stomach churn and tie into knots. I can't decide if whether what I feel is excitement or pure terror. These days, they both kind of spark the same feeling inside of me and it's hard to tell which is which. But ever since I heard Mr. Schue say her name, it's like my world stopped and I didn't know that time was still a thing. When I pulled into the driveway and saw that it was only 3:15 I had to rummage through my purse to find my cell phone too, because something

inside my brain didn't quite believe it was still that early. In hindsight I know now that it felt so early only because Mr. Schue let us out at 3 so we could work on our assignments, when he usually keeps us until 3:45, but still. My point is that my concept of time is virtually nonexistent and I swear that only happened because of Rachel.

I also kind of feel like I have to pee and I've felt that way ever since I walked out of the choir room and told Rachel we could start tomorrow when she asked me when I wanted to get together. She used those exact words, too. "Get together", she said. And when I say that I thought someone turned the heat up to a thousand degrees, I mean that. I had to stop myself from saying "last month would have been nice" when she asked me when I wanted to get together and that's the truth. She said the words "get together" and I felt all the liquid in my body rush to my crotch and I've had to pee ever since. (To be honest I'm a little scared that I'll pee my pants, which may or may not be the reason I'm sitting in the driveway writing this)

Dear God, I hate to bother you but I really hope you bless me with enough strength to make it through this assignment with her.

One of the things my old therapist taught me was that I should try to identify the feelings I'm having towards her, and try to tell whether they or positive or negative.

I know that the feelings I have towards her are positive feelings, but that doesn't mean I want to feel them. These feelings make me feel exposed. Like my back is to the wall of a closet and I can feel the monster's presence lurking up behind me but I'm too afraid to turn around. Or like I went into a bathroom stall, only to find out there's no lock and anyone could walk in on me. That kind of vulnerable. That kind of exposed. Which is confusing to me because how can love make a person feel like that? I love Rachel, I do. But how does a feeling like love — a feeling that's supposed to be a good feeling — make you feel so raw?

Just because they're good feelings doesn't mean I want to feel them. I know they're impure thoughts and you really don't like people like me, but I'm trying. I'm really trying and really struggling and so I would appreciate it if maybe you could put aside all my sins this week. Put aside the homosexuality, the fornication, my bastard child. And all those times I've doubted you, please. And just help me get through this week. I've even tried to think about all the things I dislike about her, but that doesn't work for me anymore. I'm desperate and need any help I can get.

Thank you, God.

I don't really want to write anything else for the rest of the day. I think I just need some time alone with my thoughts so they can sit in my mind and marinate. Kind of like how when you're taking a math test and you don't know the answer to one of the questions, so you skip it. And then after you finish everything else on the test, you come back to it with fresher eyes and you can make better sense of it and you can solve it? Well, my mind isn't exactly a math problem that I can step away from, but it's starting to feel every bit as confusing as a math problem, so maybe this will help. I don't think anybody understands how exhausting it is to constantly feel like you don't belong inside of your own head…

Anyway, I don't want to write anything else tonight because I want to step away from my thoughts, so I stuff my notebook into the glove compartment on the passenger's side, gather up my backpack and my purse, and head inside. It's still pretty early compared to how late I usually get home from Glee Club, so I bet Mom doesn't have dinner finished yet. Which is okay, I guess. I'm not really all that hungry anyway.

When I get to the front door, I fish my keys out of my purse and try to shove the one with a purple "Q" on it into the lock, but it won't go inside. A couple years back when I was still in middle school, I used to get my keys stuck in the locks because I would turn them too many times, so Dad put these fancy locks on our doors and now they won't even accept a key unless the door is unlocked. If you try to push a key inside while the door is unlocked, it's like trying to jam a nail into a brick wall; completely useless. So when my key doesn't even go inside the lock, I'm kind of nervous.

Mom always locks the doors. It's not like she doesn't have a reason not to, especially when there are some parts of Lima where you can't even leave your car doors unlocked while you run into the gas station to pay for your gas. But we live in the decent part of Lima, the part where you can leave your car keys in the ignition for the entire night and still come out to your car sitting in the driveway because chances are, everyone in the neighborhood has a car that's ten times better than yours anyway. Dad always used to think her compulsive need to lock the doors at all times was a little bit ridiculous, mostly because he would just be angry when all he did was run out to grab the mail. But I guess I'm like my mom in more ways than one because I kind of think locking the door like that makes me feel safe.

If Bailey could read my mind right now, she'd give me some big long explanation as to why I prefer to have doors locked and what it means to my psyche. She'd probably say something like "you needing to have doors locked represents your need to feel safe and secure after you've gone through something so traumatic." But Bailey's not here and my thoughts are purely my own and I'm thankful for that, at least.

Anyway, the door swings right open when I turn the knob, so I just walk right inside. And I know my mother is home, because her shoes are resting right beside the fireplace, the news is playing in the good living room and there are grocery bags still scattered all over the kitchen. She must have just gotten back, because the only thing that's worse than my mother's constant need to have the doors locked is her inability to keep the kitchen a mess for longer than fifteen seconds at a time.

"Mom…?" I call out as I ditch my shoes and backpack on the welcome mat in front of the door. "I'm home early."

I'm sure she probably heard my car pull into the driveway as she always does, but I still want to let her know, just in case she's upstairs changing or sitting on the toilet or something and realizes she forgot to lock the door and has a heart attack at the thought of an intruder. I know that sounds melodramatic, but I'd be lying if I said that's never happened before.

I head to the kitchen and grab my favorite mug from the cabinet above the sink, and push the button on the fridge to empty some water into it. "Mom!" I yell a little louder this time because with no response, I don't think she heard me.

A few sips and I put my water on the counter so I can empty out these grocery bags. I don't usually do this — mostly because Mom always has the bags emptied out before I even know she ran to the store — but I'm doing it now because I'm genuinely curious as to what she bought and what she has in mind for dinner.

Cranberry juice, iced tea, a six-pack of Canada Dry. Must be for me. She knows how much I love ginger ale.

I hear the floorboards creak above my head, so I know she's upstairs moving around. I just keep unloading the bags for her. She'll put everything away when she gets down here.

Hmm, ground beef, tomatoes, onion, fresh parsley, basil, a color of garlic, spaghetti noodles… must be making spaghetti. With the homemade sauce. Not the crap that comes in the can. I wonder what the occasion is. She never makes her homemade sauce anymore.

She must have been in the laundry room or something. It's really hard to hear in there when the dryer's going. Our dryer's about five thousand years old so it makes a lot of noise.

"You don't have to worry about me for dinner tonight, okay?" I yell towards the steps and go for one of the store-bought brownies with the fudge frosting because I'm hungrier than I realized. "I have to leave back out in a little while to do this thing for school, so I'll just eat on the go. Okay?!"

Silence. No response.

"...Mom…?"

I know she's here, because I just heard movement and the floorboards creaking. And her shoes are right over there and the TV's on and these groceries are just sitting here waiting to be put away and Mom never leaves the groceries out like that.

I head over to the window by the dishwasher and pull back the blinds.

Her car's in the garage. She's definitely here.

"Mooooom?" I tiptoe over to the steps and hold my breath so I can hear over the sound of my breathing. I hear a little bit of life upstairs. Like something's creaking or rustling. Maybe it's the dryer, she did say she was going to wash the sheets on our beds today. But maybe it's not…. "...Mommy?"

Still no response from her, so I go to plan B. Which… I didn't even realize existed until I realized that plan A is to stand at the bottom of the steps and call to her like an idiot in a horror movie.

Plan B takes me back to the kitchen and into the drawer where we keep all our carving knives. I pick up the biggest and sharpest one and tiptoe back to the steps.

She could be lying on the floor dead. Maybe she had a heart attack or something and she's upstairs on the floor dead.

To that thought, I just grab my cell phone from my back pocket and dial 9-1-1, but I don't press the call button. I just want to have it ready. Just in case.

My hand sweats so badly around the handle of the knife, but I just grip it even tighter so that I have a good hold on it just in case I have to drive it into somebody. It's not until I tiptoe my way all the way up the steps that I realize I wasn't breathing.

This is probably nothing. She's probably in the bathroom. After she got home from the store, she realized she needed to use the bathroom and she holed herself up in there. It was an emergency, which is why everything is left scattered around the downstairs.

Yeah, but she would have at least answered me. She would have at least said "I'll be down in a second, Quinnie!" or something like that. She wouldn't have just said nothing if it wasn't serious…

On my end of the hallway, I hear more rustling and creaking, which is how I know it's not coming from the laundry room because the laundry room is on the other side of the hall. It's clear across the other end, right across the hall from Frannie's old bedroom.

"Mom," my voice only comes out in a whisper and I don't think it would get any louder even if it could. It's barely making it out of my throat.

I inch my way further and further down the hallway and the closer I get, the more sure I am that the creaking and rustling is coming from my mother's bedroom.

What if she's maimed and can't speak? What if someone came in here and hurt her so badly that she can't even speak and tell me? Or what if she collapsed? And she's trying to get to me so I can hear her call out?

I don't know what's going on, but I don't think I'll ever be fully prepared for whatever's going on, so I just… rest my hand on the door and take a few breaths.

I know the light is on, because it's spilling out from underneath the door and into the hallway. I see shadows moving across the light. And the sounds of her TV playing, I think. Because I hear a man's voice that kind of sounds like the guy who hosts The Price Is Right. The door isn't closed all the way, just cracked. A little push would open it all the way. And I hear…. I think I hear…

I press my ear to the door, knife clenched tight in my hand that's a fist. And hold my breath again so I can have a listen.

Is that… is that…

It's like a wave of electricity runs through my body and up to the hand that's against the door. Without even so much as a second thought, I push the door open — not a lot, but enough for me to see inside — and clench my teeth so tight that I give myself a headache when my eyes confirm what my ears had heard.

I don't even care about being quiet anymore and I don't even care if they know that I know and that I saw.

The knife leaves my hand and clatters to the floor when I drop it, and my footsteps are heavy and loud as I run back up the hallway and down all fourteen steps. My eyes sting and burn as I stomp back into my shoes, and the tears that roll down my cheeks tickle my chin when I run back out to my car.

The front door to my house slams so hard that the walls should shake…

And I know that they'll know I saw them.

"I-I'm… I'm sorry I don't have any, like… snacks or anything, I just… wasn't expecting you to be here," she says as she puts the bowl of barbecue chips on the bed between us. "I thought we agreed to meet at The Lima Bean and I just —"

"Change of plans," I mumble and stretch my legs out for the first time since I sat down nearly ten minutes ago. She's probably looking at me like I'm a crazy person and I kind of feel like I am one, a little.

I just showed up at her house with itchy, red, I-just-got-done-crying-eyes, and followed her upstairs just to sit on her bed with my knees pulled into my chest, staring off into space while she scrambles around downstairs and tries to prepare for an unexpected guest. If I were her, I'd look at me like I'm a crazy person, too.

After my little "change of plans" one-liner, silence falls between both of us again, and I know it's awkward but I really don't know how to break it. I know she wants to ask me what's wrong, because anyone with eyes can tell that I just cried so hard on the way over here that I could have wrecked my car. But I just don't know what to say. I'm not in the right frame of mind to be around her right now. I'm not in the right frame of mind to be around anyone. But I just really don't want to be alone…

Did you see the way she just….looked at him? And the way she kissed him? And the way it seemed so…. natural?

They weren't expecting me home so soon. She knew I wouldn't be home for a while because I had glee… so she knew…. she knew and she…. had him come over….

Is that what they do? Does he come over every time I'm at school? And they just go upstairs and have sex like the happy couple they used to be…? Even though she promised she wouldn't… even see him…. for me…

After everything he said to me… after everything he did…

He threw me on the street like…. like I never mattered to him. Like I wasn't even his daughter. Like… like I was nothing. He threw me out… left me homeless… slammed the door in my face when I was seven months pregnant and came home to ask if I could have money for medicine because I was so sick I could barely walk…

And she lies down… and has sex with him…. probably every day that I'm not there…

"Have you thought of a song suggestion yet?" her eyes never leave the floor when she asks me, and I get the general impression that she's more nervous to be around me than anything. Normally I'd care about that. Normally I'd be trying anything to make her a little more comfortable. But I just…

"No," I mumble. "I haven't thought about it."

"Oh," she traces her fingers along the quilted pattern of her bedspread. "...Well are you going to the Halloween party after homecoming?"

"Probably not," I admit and really, I haven't thought about that either. But I know for sure that I won't go.

"Why not?" She tucks a lock of that beautiful brown hair behind her ear and finally looks at me. Something about her eyes makes everything melt away. I feel at ease when she looks at me. Like everything that's going on in my shitty, messed up personal life is minor compared to whatever is going on in this moment. I like this feeling. I hope she never stops looking at me.

"Last time I was somewhere with alcohol, I wound up pregnant," dry sarcasm is laced all in my tone and stupid, stupid me. She just looks back down at the floor again and I know that I've officially ruined the moment. Stupid, stupid me.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Quinn?" she asks.

"It doesn't matter if I say yes or no, you're gonna ask me anyway," I rest against her headboard and look around her room. It kind of looks like a preschooler who's seen one too many reruns of Full House threw up all over the place. But it has that Rachel-esque eccentricity to it and I'm not at all disappointed. It's exactly the way I thought her room would look. "Shoot."

"...Do you ever…," she starts and her voice gets lower and lower with every word. "Do you ever think about her? About… Beth?"

Not what I was expecting her to ask. How the hell do I answer that? How the hell do I tell her that I do, every second of every day and even on the days where I try not to think of her because it makes me sad, she still consumes my every thought process?

And how come I knew she was going to be that invasive with the question?

"I-I-I just mean…" there she goes with that explanation. Rachel can never just ask a question and leave it at that. She always explains herself. Always. "I met her. My birth mom. I met her and I just keep thinking that I… I just don't know if she ever thought about me. And loved me. Or regretted her decision. And I… I guess I was just hoping you could enlighten me a little bit on what goes into thinking like that… I know if it were me and I loved something, I could never let it go. If I loved something that much, I'd want it close to me at all costs."

"You will never understand it until it happens to you." The way that comes out of my mouth has so much matter-of-factness to it that I disgust myself. I didn't mean to be so brashly blunt with the way I said it, but that's just the way it is.

Stop being so mean…. open up to her a little… she's just looking for answers here, Quinn. Cut the attitude.

"The only way I could…. reconcile giving her up is just by knowing that I loved her more than I loved myself," I say. And she nods. And my eyes sting all over again. I can't believe I'm talking about this. "I mean yeah, I'd be happy as hell if I kept her. I could do it. Come home after glee club and… make a bottle and play with her… give her a bath… kiss her and… put her to bed…." I wipe away a pesky tear with my hand before she can notice that it fell. "But Beth wouldn't be happy with that, you know? She wouldn't be happy with a stupid mom that put her in daycare every day just so she could finish freaking high school…"

She doesn't even look at me when she hands me a tissue and I think that makes me love her even more than I already did. Because she doesn't make a big deal of my tears.

"...Sometimes it's just confusing because she loves Beth so much and I just wonder if… if she loves Beth enough to raise her and stuff, why didn't she love me? And raise me?"

"Don't think like that. Okay? Don't you dare think like that. The situations are very different and it'll just kill you to think like that."

She nods once and I can tell that's the end of that part of the conversation. "...Does it hurt sometimes?" she continues. "Knowing that you can't see her the way you'd like?"

"It does."

Admitting that to her is like admitting it to myself. Sometimes, it hurts so much that I just feel like…. like maybe if I don't think about it and don't acknowledge how badly it hurts that the pain will just go away.

And other times, I think that it'll never stop hurting. And I think that I'll be this way for the rest of my life. Just stuck in an endless, vicious cycle of pain and heartache.

Rachel gets off her bed and goes over to her jewelry box, but my mind is still reeling from the conversation. That's really the first time I've ever spoken about Beth so openly and honestly. I thought maybe it would feel liberating to do that because it's kind of taboo to talk about around my house, still. I thought getting it all off my chest and addressing those feelings would make everything feel easier. But it doesn't. Everything still sucks… everything still hurts. And maybe nothing will ever make sense anymore...

"I want you to have this," Rachel says as she holds out whatever it is that she produced from her jewelry box.

Without too much focus, I just take it from her hand and I have to blink a few times to get my eyes to stop being blurry so I can see it clearly.

"I took it a few nights ago whenever I snuck over Shelby's apartment," she whispers. "...She's a really amazing baby, Quinn."

I have to fight off a fresh round of tears as I stare at the Polaroid she just handed me. In it, my lil baby girl is standing with her little chubby hands on the coffee table and her smile is just as wide as can be. She boasts two tiny top teeth and two tiny bottom teeth and her smile is so honest that her eyes are completely closed. Those little blonde curls look so silky and the way her little diaper butt hangs out the bottom of the yellow and pink dress she's wearing is really killing me.

Just when I think I'm about to get off the bed and leave, something else comes over me and I do something I totally don't expect from myself.

I blink back the tears and just say "Thank you, Rachel."

And I still think I'm going to cry and disintegrate into a pile of salty, murky tears. So I just stuff the picture into my pocket, clear my throat and say "...We should do something by Madonna because that always goes over well. "Maybe Open Your Heart?" That's never been done."

To my surprise, Rachel doesn't dwell and try to get me to throw my feelings up all over the place anymore. She just crosses her legs and faces me and dives all in the conversation and I didn't realize just how much I needed her to have a non-reaction until now. God, that just made it so much easier to move on from Beth. I can't talk about her anymore. That's enough for one night.

"I wouldn't mind singing "Open Your Heart", but I feel like maybe we should do something more… personal. And meaningful. To ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

"Quinn, music should be therapeutic. Think of it as one time to let all the members of glee club get inside your head. We get one opportunity to tell them something. One opportunity to tell them how we really feel. Should we waste it on a Madonna song, just because it'll go over well?"

I sit back against the headboard again and really think this time. I never thought of music like that…

She starts scrolling through the playlist on her phone to think of more songs we could sing, but I'm still a little stuck.

It should be therapeutic...

"...Rachel, I'll go to the Halloween party after homecoming if you go."

"Why?"

Oh crap. I slipped up. I got too comfortable and a little too much slipped out and now…

Damage control, damage control, damage control….

Think. Think. Think.

"Because I don't want to be the only friendless loser there."

Rachel cracks a smile and tosses a furry pink pillow at me. "You've got a deal."

Whew. That was close. She almost figured out that I've got a big fat lesbian crush on her.

"Now keep looking for songs!" she's back to business all over again and I'm glad, but it's not necessary. I've got the perfect song in mind already.

Because music should be therapeutic… and I should say something I want everyone to know about me…

I quickly type the song into Google on my phone to pull up the lyrics, then nudge Rachel and show her the phone.

She takes one look at the song, grins, then says:

"It's perfect."