Thanks a million to those who reviewed! You guys help keep me going with this. :D To those who I message with and haven't replied to yet, I apologize, but I've been busy, especially with writing this story - I hope you understand. And I hope everyone enjoys this chapter and finds it as enjoyable as it is long, lol.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"You ready?"
I set my car to 'Park' in Rachel's driveway and cut the engine. "Yeah," I say, staring forward and taking a deep breath. "Quinn Fabray Comes out of the Closet: Take Four." I imagine a director's clapboard slapping out the start of a new scene, the camera zooming in and the boom mics rising out of sight.
Rachel reaches over to pat the back of my hand. She hops out of the passenger side door, her skirt flashing up for the briefest of seconds, exposing a long strip of smooth thigh; I yank my eyes away, blushing, and exit my car.
Over by the curb, Santana and Brittany are climbing out of their own cars; they come together, pinkies locking, and meet me and Rachel at her front door.
"Damn." Santana lets loose a long whistle. "Are your parents hitmen, Berry? This is one sch-waaaanky crib."
"San," Brittany giggles, rolling her eyes, "this is a house. Cribs are much smaller and generally would not be able to fit more than one normal-sized person." She giggles again and shakes her head at me and Rachel, like 'can you believe my girlfriend sometimes?'
Santana just smirks and rolls her eyes back at Brittany in retaliation. "You know what I meant," she huffs.
"I would just like to take this moment to address the earth-shattering fact that Santana just called me 'Berry,'" says Rachel, a proud smile inching up her face. "Not 'Dwarf.' Not 'Hobbit.' Not 'Toucan Sam.' But 'Berry,' my actual surname."
Santana glares so hard, I'm surprised her face doesn't collapse in on itself. "Yeah, well, don't get too used to it, Berry," she lets her tone do all the insulting for her. "I may have to play nice 'cause I'm about to enter your domain, but once we get back on McKinley turf, I can go back to calling you whatever the hell I wa – "
"Santana!" I snap, stomping my foot. "Please! Just get over it already! Britt and I have both moved on from tormenting Rachel for no good reason. So can you please just grow up already and give the girl a freaking break?" I gape at my fuming friend with an exasperated plea all over my face.
"Yeah, I'd like to give her a break, all right," Santana grumbles, so low that I'm only able to catch it after years of being around her and hearing her constant asides.
Then, louder, she hisses a sigh through clenched teeth before saying, "Fine. No more nicknames. Can we go inside already? And, now that I think about it, why the hell are we here anyway? What, is your house being fumigated or something, Quinn?"
Uh-oh. 'Quinn,' not 'Q.' That shows more than anything that Santana's really irked with me.
"My parents kicked me out," I say as Rachel finally succeeds in unlocking the door, the key jiggling between desperate fingers. "So, I'm living with Rachel now and for however long I need."
Santana's glare melts off her face faster than ice thrown into a raging fire; her now sheepish gaze lands on her feet as a blush appears on her cheeks. Sightings of San blushing are rarer than the Yeti.
Brittany stares at me, eyes doubled in size, as if she's just seen a ghost. Her face is certainly as pale as one. "Ohmygosh, Quinn!" she squeaks. "For how long?"
Rachel walks into her house and we all follow after her like a line of clumsy ducklings, our feet shuffling and our postures hunched.
"Um, two nights ago," I say.
The most uncomfortable silence ever presses down around us, a physical entity, fists and stones and lead blankets.
No one makes eye-contact with anyone. The enormity of the situation looms tall and intimidating, a cursed statue that will turn you into dust if you even graze so much as a fingertip upon it.
Finally, Santana says, with a light tremble in her voice and ample amounts of forced casualness, "Seriously, Berry, what do your parents do for a living?"
Rachel leads us up the massive staircase, onto the landing, past the grand piano. "They're interior decorators," she says.
It's a testament to the awkwardness that Rachel doesn't launch into her Tour Guide From Hell spiel and show them around her house. I'm grateful; the sooner my secret is unaired, the sooner we can deal with it and move on.
"Would you like to convene in my room or in Quinn's?" Rachel asks, pausing in the hallway between the two bedroom's doors.
Something sparks through me at that: 'Quinn's bedroom.' It really enforces the idea of me staying here, and this makes me feel a disconcerting blend of sadness at leaving my own home and happiness at so easily falling into Rachel's.
"Your room is bigger," I point out. "But I don't want to impose on your space."
Santana turns to the side and starts slapping at her face as if battling with rabid mosquitoes. "It's nothing," she says, even though nobody asked. Her bottom lip gives a quick, violent quiver. "My eyes are just having an allergic reaction to all the dust in here. Like, you should really clean more." She swipes some more at her eyes, sniffles a sound as piercing as a gunshot, and straightens up into a prime posture as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
Rachel gives Santana the gentlest of smiles. "I'll keep that in mind." Yeah, as if Rachel's house needs to be any cleaner; there's not a single speck of grime or dust to be found. It's inhuman, really.
"You know what?" Rachel's softened eyes travel over me, Santana, and Britt, tracing a slow semi-circle. "How about you take my room? I think the bright, pink-based color scheme in there will have a subconsciously uplifting factor to what is sure to be quite a heavy conversation. I'll be down the hall watching TV in my dads' room if you need me."
She turns to go, stepping forward; my fingers jump without asking, latching onto her elbow and tugging her back. "No," I blurt, dropping my voice into the lowest of whispers. "Rach, I need you."
Rachel fixes me with an expression rife with meaning. "Quinn," she whispers, peeling my hand away from her and squeezing my fingers before letting go. "These are your friends; they love you. I promise. This is something you need to discuss with them, privately, okay?"
She shoots a final nod toward Britt and San, graces me with an encouraging smile, and walks off down the hall, disappearing into her parents' bedroom. When she peers through the doorway and sees us still standing like a bunch of paralyzed zombies, she makes a 'go on already!' motion with her hand, raises her eyebrows sternly, and closes the door, sealing herself away, leaving me standing here with two nervous-looking friends who keep sneaking anxious glances between each other, and a heart that won't stop flip-flopping in my chest.
"So…" I open Rachel's bedroom door and let them in first before following. "This is Rachel's room."
"It's like walking into a Barbie Dream House," says Brittany, grinning in childlike awe. "It makes me want to eat really sugary candy, like, right now."
Santana says nothing, merely looks around the room with an indecipherable expression on her face, one that I have never seen before in all my years of knowing her. She doesn't even roll her eyes at the cheesy heart-framed photo of Rachel and Finn on the white desk, the one disapproving thing I wouldn't even scold her for doing.
I plop down on one of the large petals of the dark-pink-and-orange, flower-shaped rug in the middle of the room. Brittany and Santana sit across from me. We tuck our legs beneath us, Indian-style, and suddenly I'm flashing back to Kindergarten; it's story time, and we're on the Rainbow Reading Rug, and my name is Lucy, not Quinn, and my first crush is over there with the bright red ribbons in her pigtails.
"So," Brittany says, pulling off the hair elastic from her ponytail and shaking her straight blonde hair out to fall around her shoulders. "What's going on with you, Quinn? Why didn't you tell us that your parents kicked you out? And, like, why did you go to Rachel's when you could've roomed with me or San?" Her tone is quiet, concerned, but veers into wounded toward the end. She blinks at me out of ocean-blue, injured-puppy eyes, her hands folded in her lap and elbows extended like an angel.
Santana runs her fingers over her forehead, toward her ear, brushing away invisible hairs; she swallows so hard that I can see her throat working. Her gaze flicks to the ceiling before meeting mine; I see the vulnerability surfacing raw and pure in her deep brown eyes.
"I just don't get it," she says in a small voice, all her self-proclaimed 'HBIC' layers stripped away, unveiling that warm, gooey center. "I thought we were best friends for life, Q: you, me, and Britts – the Unholy Trinity. We've been close ever since the summer before freshman year when we bonded at cheer camp. I just don't…" A spasm zips across her face, leaving behind muscles contorted in sadness, twisting her lower lip to pout and her eyes to somehow both squint and widen at the same time.
Santana's voice comes out croaky, her words unpolished and rough around the edges. "I just don't get what we did wrong. What I did wrong, to…to push you away…." She covers her face, arms shaking; when she pulls her hands away, a few tears are rolling down her cheeks, smudging her mascara. She swipes them away as if they're ants on a picnic table, frustration flitting over her features at showing what she perceives as weakness.
Brittany scoots over and slides an arm around San's waist, rests her head on the brunette's shoulder and stares at the ground, her blue eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
My heart rips right down the middle; I hate seeing them like this – they're like my sisters, seriously, my crazy-Latina and goofy-blonde sisters. The worst part is, I know I did this to them; I'm the one who did the pushing away, despite the fact that they almost always tell me their secrets, that they usually reach out to me. And how do I repay them? By batting away their hands and keeping them in the dark.
Guilt tears apart my insides, like a mountain lion's wild claws. "You guys," I squeak, my voice feeble against a sandpaper throat. "Please don't cry; you're going to make me cry, too, and I…I'm so sick of crying."
"Please," Brittany whispers, setting a hand on my knee and locking her gaze into mine. "Tell us what's going on. We're here for you. Please."
"The reason I didn't want to tell you guys," I say, eyes going back and forth between theirs, my stomach roiling, "is because I'm so ashamed. Not of the secret itself, but because I couldn't bring myself to trust you to be there for me." My stare falls to the dark-pink and orange of the rug, the moisture in my eyes swirling the two colors into a multitude of shades and tints.
"Because even though you two are probably the best people I could choose to relate to what I'm going through… I just… You guys have been able to accept it for a whole year, and it seems so easy for you, and I'm so ashamed that I'm not as brave or strong as you guys, and…and…." I pause to gulp in some air, my heart racing. "I thought you guys would be mad at me because you told me and I never told you, and…." I blink hard and the colors splash from my eyes, orange and pink bleeding away, leaving me to peel my eyes back open amidst a world of blurry edges with a too-sharp center.
I use the soft sleeve of my sunny yellow cardigan to dry my face.
Santana plants her hand on my other knee, ducking her head under my lowered vision and catching my eyes. "Hey, look at me," she says in her gentle, sweet-as-honey voice that is rarely used on anyone but Brittany. "Deep breath, let it out slowly, and then just blurt your secret out. Like a Band-Aid, rip the motherfucker off and let us know how we can help." Well, at least the 'motherfucker' part is more typical Santana.
She pulls her face away from mine to give me space, but like Britt, her hand remains on my knee. Their palms are like mine, a little too-warm and just the slightest bit sweaty. Somehow, this is better than if their hands were perfectly dry and perfectly sure – I don't feel so alone in my feelings, in my insecurities.
I place my hands atop Britt's and Santana's spot on my knees, hoping they don't mind how my palms are growing clammier by the second.
"I'm…" Come on, you can say it. You know they aren't going to leave you. You know they'll understand. They love you. Just say it!
They blink expectantly but don't pressure me. I consider what San said; I draw in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then, without letting myself think about it for even a nanosecond longer, I find my lips moving and my throat hoisting up the two words by their feet, launching them straight from my mouth like a cheerleader tossed onto a pyramid.
"I'm gay."
The words make a clear arc through the air, landing with an almost audible splat onto Britt and San's expressions; their reactions are immediate, so quick that I have to consciously stop myself from jerking backward.
Santana's eyes pop so wide, I can see the whites all around; her head tilts back; her jaw drops; she gasps with the sort of melodrama usually seen only in cheesy soap operas. "Whaaaaaattttt?"
Brittany's eyes widen, too, but rather than scream with shock, hers fill with joy. Her entire being lights up like a freaking Christmas tree; her posture bounces with excitement, her grin shows practically every one of her teeth, pulling all the way up to her ears; and her cheeks flush with a delighted pink.
"Really?" she squeals, as if I've just told her that I'm actually a Fairy Princess in disguise and need her help in finding my golden magical dust, rather than the fact that I, you know, just admitted that I have been living a lie this entire time.
"That can't be true!" Santana insists, shaking her head back and forth so fast and hard that her ponytail whips behind her in a tornado of silky black. "I pride myself on having awesome Gaydar, and you never blipped on it, not once! Not even a tiny little beep."
"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm definitely gay," I say, unable to stop myself from rolling my eyes (which feels weird with the leftover tears swimming in them).
"Oh!" Santana abruptly stops shaking her head and stares right into my eyes, expression now one of complete sympathy and a twinge of embarrassment. "No, I'm sorry. Of course you are, that's not what I meant; I just mean, you hide it really well. But that's not the point. Ugh, I'm getting all stutter-y and stupid on you, and I'm sorry, but I'm just…"
She turns her hand over under mine, so now the back of it is on my knee and our palms are connected; her fingers slip through the gaps between mine, curling around the top of my hand and locking into place. "I'm shocked, okay? To be honest, I thought you were going to say you're pregnant, so I'm also pretty damn relieved. I don't think I'm ready to be Auntie 'Tana just yet. But still, I'm…I'm shocked."
I follow her lead and lay my fingers atop her hand, successfully interlocking us, and flash a bashful but grateful smile. "It's okay, San; I get it. And I think Britt gets it, too." I have to chuckle at how overjoyed my fellow blonde-haired girl is, practically bursting right out of her skin.
"Are you kidding?" Brittany exclaims, turning her beam to Santana (which coaxes a giggle from her) before swiveling her crazy-exuberant stare back to me. "This is great! Like, super-duper-awesome-fantastic great! Now you're a fellow Rainbow Sparkle Unicorn with us. Like, all cool and unique people are Unicorns, but it takes an extra-special person to be a Rainbow Sparkle one."
"So, basically like a VIP group of lesbian Unicorns?" I clarify, smirking in amusement.
"Exactly!" Brittany exclaims, nodding so excitedly that I fear her head will go shooting off her neck and ricocheting across the room, crashing Rachel's lamp to pieces. "Just, you know, don't try to take Santana away from me, or I'll have to maul you with my Chief Unicorn Horn, which is tipped with sparkly gold poison," she adds, wagging a mock-stern finger at me.
"Trust me," I say, making a face. "You can have her."
"Hey!" Santana cries, laughing as she yanks her hand out of mine and then shoves against my shoulder. "Watch your mouth, Fabray."
I hold both of my hands up in surrender, accidentally bringing Brittany's with me, since our fingers are still intertwined; she leans forward with the momentum, toppling out of Santana's lap and sprawling across the round yellow center of the flower-shaped rug.
"Looks like Britt's the one you have to worry about," I say, releasing the girl in question's hand. "So shamelessly throwing herself at me; not that I can blame her, of course. I tend to have that effect on people."
"What effect?" Santana asks, helping Brittany back into a much more dignified sitting position. "Nausea?"
"Ha. Ha. Ha," I say, tone and face in full monotone.
"Enough with the jokes," Santana says meaningfully, expression transitioning easily from smile to serious. "All right, so what you told us sounds huge, Q. Huge. Obviously Britt and I know that from personal experience. But the truth is, your problems are only as big as you let them be."
I look down at my hands, cupped within my lap. "That's good advice."
"Of course it is," Santana says. "It's great advice. But unfortunately, it's way easier said than done. Again, personal experience." I hear her sharp intake of breath; my fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach out and comfort her of their own accord.
"I just...it's like… Look, I know this is really stupid to admit, okay? And I'm not trying to be all selfish and make your big coming out moment all about me, but… I'm hurt that you didn't think Britt and I would be here for you. And it really sucks, because I feel like we've been drifting apart lately, and you've been spending all your free time with Puck and Berry.
"I can't help but wonder if you're avoiding me, and it's like you think I'm a nuisance or something and… God, I'm like a fucking twelve-year-old." She utters a mirthless, self-deprecating laugh. "Just ignore me, I'm sorry. Let's get back to you."
I pull my gaze up from my lap and look at Santana, really look at her.
My heart rips apart all over again: her eyes are openly wounded, tinged with shame and self-loathing; her mouth is set in a deep, upside-down crescent.
My eyes swing to Brittany, and it's obvious that she's not in much better shape; the same crestfallen face, her fingernails digging into her cuticles.
"We love you, Quinn," Brittany says in a voice genuine and sweet enough to make even a grown man break into tears. She's like fluffy puppies and tiny kittens and everything pure in the world in this instant, with her blue eyes earnest and wide. "You're like our sister; seriously, San and I once got into a little argument over who would get to have you as our Maid of Honor at our wedding. How could you ever think we wouldn't be here for you?"
"It's my fault," Santana says, matter-of-fact and that familiar know-it-all tone. But this time it doesn't make me temporarily hate her; this time, it makes me hate myself. "I'm a bitch." She nods and shrugs, this awkward movement of bobbing head and bobbing shoulders, like one of those desk dolls with the giant heads and little springs for necks.
"No," I say, firmer than I've ever been. "It's neither of your fault; it's all mine, okay? San, yes, you can be a bitch to those who don't know you very well, but you've never been seriously mean to me. So, don't you dare blame yourself. And Britt, don't try to blame yourself either."
I run my fingers through my hair, sighing deeply. "I didn't tell either of you about my secret – about who I am – sooner, because, like I said, I was ashamed. I still am kind of ashamed, because the fact is, I'm weak. You are both so strong and so sure and so…so untouchable, and I'm just not like that. I'm this scared little girl on the inside, no matter how tough I act."
I hold up a hand when Brittany tries to speak, needing to get this all out before I forget something or wimp out again. If they want to be there for me, they can start by being all ears, by letting me vent.
"Do you know how my parents found out that I'm gay?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. Obviously they don't, so I go ahead and answer my own question. "They read my diary. All of my recent diaries, actually." Britt and San visibly cringe at this. "I didn't get to sit them down and share my side of the story. I barely got to defend myself at all. I couldn't explain that this isn't a choice, that picking who you love is about as much of an option as picking your natural eye color.
"But the thing is, I don't think I ever would have been ready to come out to them. Because the truth is, I'm a coward. I'm terrified of the future; I have no clue what I want to do with my life, and then you add my sexuality on top of that? I should be dealing with acne at this age, not with a crisis of religion and losing my family!
"I see how it is for you two; you guys don't care what people think when you walk down the hallways holding hands. You don't mind the occasional whispering or the stares. And you have parents who love and accept you no matter what. And maybe I sort of resented you both for that," I say, scratching the tip of my nose and forcing myself to keep looking at them and not to stare over their shoulders.
"Maybe that's what pushed me away. Maybe I hated how you guys always drop me off early after we hang out so you can spend private time together. Like you're each other's Number One, and I'm just the back-up best friend for you to turn to when you're bored." My voice gives a crack that is both quiet and incredibly loud all at once.
"Maybe I'm jealous how people are too afraid to mess with you, Santana, or how people are too indifferent toward you, Britt, to tease you. Maybe I'm just…" Ugh; my voice is thinning, my tone wavering from indignant to something shriveled and weak. "I'm just… I'm so afraid!" I wail the last word, flinging my hands to cover my face and blushing through every pore of my body.
Damn it! Pull yourself together!
Two pairs of arms are thrown around me like blankets; bodies nuzzle into either of my sides, with hands all over –fingers smoothing back my hair, tucking stray locks behind my ears, sweeping stubborn wisps off my forehead; even more fingers are running up and down the length of my arm, tracing along the most soothing of lines.
Sniffling sounds fill the air, and I'm surprised that no tears have fallen from my eyes, that the face hidden behind my sweaty palms is still relatively dry.
And I'm even more surprised when I feel little splats of moisture dripping onto my shoulders, down my neck, and I realize that the sniffling I heard wasn't coming from me after all, but from them.
Of course, like a freaking chain reaction of hormones, this discovery makes my ever-present tears show up for duty and start leaking down my face.
I figure if all of us are going to be a hot mess, we might as well be a hot mess together.
Several minutes later, once we've composed ourselves and blown our noses in Rachel's bubblegum-pink-colored Kleenexes ("I feel like I'm wiping my snot on a fucking Barbie dress," Santana commented, but with humor rather than scorn), we lay sprawled on our stomachs across the floor, heads facing each other in a misshapen sort of triangle.
"You know, Q, you say that Britt and I have it so easy, but I think you're forgetting something," Santana says. Her chin rests on the back of her forearms, which are crossed on the ground, each hand pointing toward me or Brittany like a human compass. "Something huge."
"What's that?"
"Mi abuela abandoned me when I told her about Brittany, remember? I was closer to her than any of my other family members combined, and she turned out to be the only person who shoved me out of her life when she found out." Santana's tone is carefully controlled, devoid of any inflections that could lead to larger scale emotions like yelling or crying. She stares at the back of her hands, eyes narrowed, those thick lashes of hers curling up to put all of her exotic beauty on display.
"I know," I say. "I'm sorry that happened to you, really."
I wasn't ever able to actually comfort Santana on the issue when it happened, since she told me about it off-handedly one day after Glee Club, like: 'Ugh, can you believe all the homework we have today? I don't see how I can finish it by tomorrow. Oh, by the way, my grandma disowned me when I told her I like girls. Gotta go; I'll see you later; bye!'
Something like that, maybe not verbatim. Then, she had stridden off down the hall with Brittany, evading my concerned, probing questions. Anytime I tried to bring it up after that, she would swiftly change the subject.
Maybe that's another reason I kept my own secret from them for so long; I felt bitter toward Santana for always keeping me in the dark or at least in the shadows with the major aspects of her life, so I wanted to punish her by not letting her in on my own worries and troubles.
"I know you are," she says, gaze stretching upward, latching onto mine. "And I'm sorry for not letting you in more. You know I don't like to talk about myself, unless it's bragging or some other shit like that. I hate speaking about bad things, because it makes it feel more real, you know?"
"Yes," I say with a small smile, knowing exactly what she means. "I do."
"My parents are okay with me being bisexual," Brittany says, "but they're not totally thrilled about it. Like, my dad said, 'if you like both boys and girls, then why not just go with boys?' As if I could just turn off or ignore the part of my brain that is attracted to girls and only make myself fall for guys." She holds her hair out in front of her and fiddles with the ends, as if it's the most fascinating thing she has ever seen. Somehow I doubt that's the reason for the intensity her eyes have taken.
"And my mom didn't believe me at first," she continues, tone as detached as someone reciting a boring speech they've had to memorize and give dozens of times before to disinterested crowds. Seeing as how Brittany is usually the epitome of expressive and excitable, I can tell how much this part of her past bothers her. It makes me think that maybe everyone has their own demons to battle.
"She said that bisexuality doesn't exist, that I was just confused." Here, her tone veers right into Pissed Off territory, all hard syllables and a bitter bite to the word.
"What changed their minds?" I ask. "What made them believe you?"
"Santana," she says simply, looking up and exchanging a serious, loving look with her girlfriend. For once, it makes me smile rather than roll my eyes at the mushy-gushiness.
Britt's gaze swivels to mine, much more open, though still a bit tentative. "The first night she stayed for dinner as my girlfriend instead of as just my friend, my parents sat me down afterward and told me that they had never seen me smile so much or act so happy. They said they knew I really did care about her in a 'more than friends' way, and they said that even though they thought it was weird, they were glad I had found a great person and they weren't going to stand in my way."
"That's awesome," I say, my heart warming for her, even if it also splinters the slightest bit in envy. "I'm glad your parents opened up their minds for you."
"Thanks." Her smile is the shyest and sweetest I've ever seen it. "I'm sorry I never really talked about it before. It kind of embarrassed me at first, to have my parents thinking I was abnormal or just confused. It made me feel kind of stupid, even though I know I'm not."
"No," Santana says, earnestness rolling off her in waves, "you're not stupid."
"Definitely not," I agree with an emphatic nod.
Brittany's smile widens and the faintest of pinks surfaces atop her cheekbones.
After a few seconds of comfortable silence, Santana speaks again, her tone now thoughtful, expression pensive.
"You know, I'm thinking back to what you said earlier," she says. "About how you're scared of the future."
"And?" I ask, curious.
"And, I think it's okay to be afraid," Santana says. "Everyone's afraid of something, especially the big things. Those who say otherwise are delusional or liars. Or both."
"I'm afraid of the dark," Brittany says. "Bad stuff only happens in the dark."
"That's why God invented flashlights," Santana says, "and oversized chubby tabby cats that sit at their owner's feet and guard her during the night like a furry ninja."
"Lord Tubbington isn't chubby," Brittany says defensively, which is kind of hilarious in its own right, considering she did name the poor cat 'Lord Tubbington,' after all. "He's just…round and full, like an apple. Please don't ever mention his weight in front of him, okay? It's something he's really insecure about."
I think of Buttercup and a cold sickness churns in my stomach; I miss her so much.
"It's probably all that cheese he eats," I tell Brittany, rolling over onto my back and staring up at the ceiling. "Maybe you shouldn't let him have all that fondue when you do your internet talk show. Change the name to Vegetables and Fruits for Two instead." I'm only half-serious, only half-present. My mind is back at home, in my own bed, with my doggie by my side, her tail wagging against my leg.
"Quinn, don't be ridiculous," says Brittany. "I can't change the name this late in the game; think of all the money on branding that will have gone to waste. Besides, Fondue for Two has a nice, memorable ring to it because it rhymes. Everyone loves a good, catchy rhyme."
"True," Santana says, and I can just see her lifting an agreeing finger into the air.
"So, are you going to stay with Berry, or are you going to go back home and make your parents let you live there?" Santana asks me. "Honestly, I say, fuck 'em. If they're gonna be like that, then they aren't worth your time or your energy, you know? That's what I finally decided about mi abuela – she's the one missing out, not me."
"Rachel and her dads are amazing," I say, warm affection flowing through me at the thought of the Berries. "They're letting me stay here for as long as I need, free of charge. I don't see myself going back to my old house and trying to talk it over with my parents, because I'm both too prideful and too embarrassed to do that."
I nibble upon my lower lip, twisting it around at odd angles. "A part of me is furious with them for abandoning me, for being so quick to throw me from my own house. But there's another part of me that misses them, that wishes this had never happened. I mean, I'm glad it happened– if 'glad' is the right word – since I don't have to live this big lie around them anymore; in that way, things are easier. Still, it was nice to think I had parents who loved me for me, even if it all turned out to be a ruse."
"Really," I say, on a ranting roll now, "I miss Buttercup the most of all. She's my best friend, the only one who never judges me, ever. I'm sure you can relate, Britt, with Lord Tubbsy."
"Wait!" Santana says, and something in her tone makes me roll back over onto my stomach so I can look at her.
"Yeah?"
"Oh my God, I didn't even think about that! You mean they took your own dog away from you?" she asks, eyebrows flying upward.
I nod, my throat feeling too tight to squeeze out any words.
"That is complete and total bullshit!" she seethes, lifting up a hand just to slam it back down onto the carpet. "Buttercup is your dog; she obviously loves you the most, and you're the one who always feeds her and takes her on walks. I mean, seriously, what the fucking hell?"
The wariest of smiles pulls at my lips. "My thoughts exactly."
"That is so not fair," Brittany says, frowning deeply. "Your parents are sooo mean, Quinn. I can't imagine if my mom and dad took Lord Tubbington away from me. He's, like, my best friend, my sunshine on a cloudy day – the cat version of you and Santana."
"Yeah, I wish I could get Buttercup back," I say. "My house is one thing, but my dog is another. I wish I could just sneak into my house and take her away with me."
Santana shoots right off her stomach, sitting up on her legs and straightening her posture like a ramrod. She gets that look of hers – that mischievous 'I Am Currently Scheming, Do Not Interrupt' look I have come to know like the back of my own hand: puckered brow, pursed lips, dark brown eyes glowing as her emotions stew within, cooking to a boiling point.
"What if you do?" she says after a moment, a delicious smirk stealing up her mouth. She cocks one eyebrow at me and tilts her head.
"What if I do 'what'?" I ask, lifting up on my elbows. My heart begins to pick up speed; my stomach simmers with either excitement or nerves, but for the life of me, I can't tell the difference.
"What if you broke into your own house and got to take your dog back and stick it to your parents all at once?" she says slowly, not as if I'm stupid but as if the words are tasty enough to savor.
Brittany perks up at this, face brightening with an understanding grin and eyes widening to twice their normal size. "Oh my God! San, you're a genius!"
"I know," Santana says with a scarily determined grin. "Quinn Fabray, we are getting your dog back."
"Epic Mission Reunite Buttercup with Quinn while also Sticking it to Quinn's Parents, begin!" Brittany cheers.
"The length of the codename could use some work," I say, unable to stop myself from beaming right back at them. "But other than that, I think that sounds like the best plan I've ever heard."
To seal the deal, we stack all our hands – San's, mine, Britt's, San's again, mine again, and Britt's again – one on top another; say "the Unholy Trinity!" in unison, our breath stolen away by jubilant giggles; and with that, we break on it.