Junior Year of College

I feel like we've gone far enough. Turn back? No. Never.

When Columbia offered Quinn a second year abroad, she didn't think twice. And the fact that she didn't think twice told her it was the right decision. Or maybe it told her that her heart wasn't as attached to New York anymore.

Her heart attached itself to her antique, rustic desk in the corner of Statom Books. It attached itself to Statom and his floppy silver hair, big white teeth and kind dimples. It attached itself to newly published Lady Arna and her book, "Short Hearts and Long Streets". It took almost a year to get the woman organized enough to put a binding together. When Quinn stumbled upon her that day forever ago, she was pulling that cloth over her face and mumbling about the heavens and her madre.

Quinn stood grinning at her feet and outstretched a hand.

Worn brown eyes pulled up to hers and Quinn nodded her assurance. In a split second conversation, she begged to read what she had in her hands. The woman of thirty or so begrudgingly obliged.

As the notebook hit her hands, Quinn felt clothespins attach to her shoulders and rip her free into the air, stringing her all the way up to cloud 9 and its brothers. Her eyes fell over the clean journal, the messy writing, and the scribbled out words.

"Why don't you erase?" Quinn mumbled, scanning the pages.

"I don't have time," she responded, nonchalant as anything.

Quinn smiled, heart sure and mind racing.

She flipped page after page through scribbled words. She couldn't wait to sit and dig into them. She couldn't wait to call her mom and share her day. She couldn't wait to walk Arna into Statom Books and say, "Here is your new voice."

"I like the stars on your flag," Arna added.

Quinn looked down, taking a moment to observe the woman. Her eyes narrowed and questions raced. Where was she from? Why did she write? Why was life lived in the streets and how many journals like this did she have?

She peeled her eyes back to the notebook and landed on a page.

Arna looked down the street, eyes bathing a small boy in loafers chasing a bright blue ball. She grinned and attention fell to her lap to write him a story, but she found nothing. Her eyes reached back up the strange woman in front of her, holding her notebook, reading her words and learning her.

Those bright eyes bore over her paper:

I see more than anyone sees. Like a peeping tom through the slits of a fence, I bear witness to acts no one should witness unknowingly. She's unflinchingly honest, brutally creative, and abhorrently deceitful. And yet I have to watch and read. I can't close an eye to her life, to her words. It was January 10th, 1942 the first time I witnessed. She sat down at her desk and began scribbling, her face above a mosaic of emotion.

Quinn stopped and looked over the notebook at the woman relaxing on the stoop covered in leaves.

"What is this about? This story about watching a woman in the forties."

"Love."

"What kind of love?"

"The kind that never returns," she whispered and looked back to the boy bouncing his bright ball, elation ripping over his mouth and eyes each time it ascended to the skies and returned.

Quinn turned, following her gaze, and landed on the boy.

"You have a good eye," she said. "Do you have more notebooks?"

"Hundreds."

"Can I read them as well? Are they like this? Fiction and visual?"

"You can read anything you want. And I only write what I see. If you want to call that fiction, then sure, it's fiction."

"Do you have interest in other people reading your words?" Quinn asked, hoping and pleading she said yes.

"Aren't words written to be read?" she muttered, eyes following the ball up and then down.

"Not everyone thinks so," she smiled. "I want to take you somewhere. Can you come with me? I have a man who needs to meet you. He may want to put your stories together if he likes them. Would you like that? And my name is Quinn, by the way. You can call me Quinn."

"I'm Arna."

"I know," she said with a smile.

That day in the market, they meandered back to Statom Books, Quinn quizzing the writer on her life, her loves, and her history of writing. She learned everything she could in a matter of fifteen minutes on their stroll through Madrid. And everything she learned rapt her heart with joy.

And now, nine months later and newly twenty, Quinn had her first piece of talent. She had a title, she had a shop, and she had a baby.

The soft sounds of Statom Books played soundtrack to her life.

And Arna's notebooks remained the only thing she read. She read them daily, hourly, and by the stack. Eight months ago, the woman walked Quinn into her modest apartment and stopped in the foyer, shoulders shrugging and hands waving out.

Notebooks covered every inch of space. They splayed over an old block of wood masked as a coffee table. They stacked on shelves. They lay strewn about on the couch, in the corners, on the kitchen table, above the kitchen cabinets.

Quinn found heaven.

She walked into the main room, eyes jumping from one stack to another and to another.

"These are all yours?"

Arna nodded.

"And I can read them all?"

She nodded again.

"Can I take a stack now?"

She nodded once more and Quinn grabbed five notebooks from the couch. It felt like Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter and Halloween all rolled into one. What would be inside? What had this woman's eyes seen and created?

That night, she tore home, pulled up Skype and dialed Rachel.

The bing bonging still peppered her with goose bumps, even if they did strike fast and dissolve faster.

The line rarely picked up. If Rachel wasn't in class, she was at the theater. If she wasn't at the theater, she was sleeping.

Quinn clicked End and selected her mom instead.

The line bing bonged again and again until it picked up, crackling and loading a picture of her parents hustling to hover over the computer.

"Is it on, Russ? Is it?"

"Did you click it?"

"Should it say on?"

"But did you click it?"

"Guys," Quinn giggled.

"I musta clicked it. Quinnie? Can you see us?" Judy boasted, eyes peering over her glasses and face far too close to the screen.

"Mom, back up. Just sit down in the chair."

"Is it up? Can you see us?"

"Yes, Mom."

"So you click here or there?" her dad pointed.

"I think right there. You can hear us, baby?" Judy called again.

"Yes! Yes. Look, I'm right here," she groaned and waved.

Judy beamed and Russ smacked his hands together in triumph.

"How was your day?"

"I signed my first writer, Mom, to Statom Books. I officially have a job as a junior editor!" Quinn shrieked.

"No! What does that even mean?"

"It means I'm now in charge of making sure this woman's words get put together in a way where people will want to read them."

Their pride floated through the screen and Quinn breathed easy.

She had a thing. She was in charge of a thing.

She finally had her baby.

Opening night arrived quickly for Rachel and the cast of "Nobody's Business", but what arrived even quicker was the present Quinn sent to her dressing room. She tore through door and froze, the single red rose stealing her air. Unconsciously placing a hand to her heart, she walked across the room and snatched the tag off the vanity.

Congratulations on your dreams coming true.

I still am and will forever be your biggest fan.

Bee

It lay bittersweet across her fingertips. She hadn't seen her anchors in weeks. She hadn't seen luscious blonde hair on her screen in weeks. She hadn't heard the voice that soothed her insides in weeks.

But she saw her words. She got her emails. They emailed daily.

And each day, they got shorter.

Quinn threw herself into her job and Rachel threw herself into the play. They threw themselves into life and life took them away. It took them away from each other.

Rachel wondered if this part was part of Quinn's plan.

She wondered if this space, this vast, dipping span of space between them was part of her plan. Did she think about this before making the decision? Did she think about the fact that if you went out to carve a path and lose yourself, you'd find yourself somewhere new?

She'd find herself somewhere new and without Rachel.

I, Bee, promise to stay faithful even though I'm hot. I promise to stay true even though I'm snarky. And I promise to come back to you even though I must fly to make you proud.

To make you proud.

Rachel was already proud of Quinn.

Did the blonde not know that?

The thoughts churned in Rachel's head daily. Her insides cried a bit more as each month passed without her love by her side. She was living her dream and without the girl who helped her create it. Her dream was always interwoven with Quinn. Her feelings for the blonde pushed her talent. It gave her something to sing. It gave her the power and emotion to be great.

And Quinn needed life without Rachel to find the same greatness.

What did that mean?

She sat the flower note card back on her vanity and stepped forward to smell the rose. She imagined smelling the roses to be more freeing and beautiful.

It was only a stench so sweet it made her cringe.

She now cringed at roses.

What was her life becoming?

She brought her eyes up to the mirror lit by enlarged, round bulbs along the arched glass. Her tired eyes fell on her features. When was the last time she lit up? When was the last time she felt butterflies?

When the audience applauded fifteen minutes ago?

No.

Standing on stage, looking out over her first legit crowd, she saw Quinn's face. She used to see the Quinn who sat in Noah Puckerman's living room, bathing Nun Rachel with her eyes and falling in love against her will. She used to see that adoring Quinn.

Now she saw blonde hair and blankness. She saw a figure so elusive, Rachel wondered if she'd ever reappear. She was written words through the airwaves now. She was a dinging email alert. She was the unanswered bing bong call through skype. She was uncatchable in thoughts and unreachable in her heart, a figment of love and imagination.

And now she was a single red rose and a note card when she should be arms around her, applause in her ear, congratulatory kisses to her neck. Rachel should be thanking her for being a driving force, for helping her succeed, for being there. She should be escorting Quinn to Statom Books and reading journals with her. She should be lying across her legs on their worn couch and laughing about their afternoon. She should be there.

But she wasn't there.

She was off gaining her own applause- without the need for Rachel.

Somehow, at some point, Quinn's dreams became exclusive.

And Rachel's drowned in their wallowing inclusivity.

October rolled around and Rachel sat down to her laptop for the fifth time that week. Without hope, she clicked on Bee Abroad and the bing bongs flooded her ears.

Please answer.

Please answer.

She needed Quinn to answer. Her heart wandered the gamut from being excited about their paths to being confused about their paths to dreading the inevitable non-crossing of their paths.

She needed a reconnect. She needed Quinn. She needed Quinn or she didn't know what would happen. Her heart longed for the blonde. She longed for physicality. She longed for a smile. She longed for the sound of her voice. It'd been two months since they webcammed. And now, the emails only came once a day. It was enough to be in a so-called relationship, but it wasn't enough for Rachel.

When the line clicked on and Quinn's sleepy face came into view, Rachel burst into tears. She leaned forward, gripped the screen and kissed that scrunched forehead.

"It's four in the morning, Rachel," the girl groaned and pulled the laptop closer.

"I know. I'm so sorry. I needed to catch you. We're about to head out the door for the show and I just… I needed to see you."

"Half asleep?"

"Yes. I never see you awake, figured I should try," she muttered, a bit annoyed she wasn't being received as she hoped. "Wake up and talk to me. How is the book coming along? Is it selling? Do people like her stories? I read the one you sent yesterday about the boy turning his best friend into a ball and losing him the street. God, it was so innocently perfect and magical. Can you imagine being turned into a ball and me bouncing you through the streets?"

"I can't handle rambling Rachel at four in the morning."

"Deal with it."

"Baby."

Rachel's eyes fell closed at the word. Half a second passed and tears seeped from them.

At the sight, Quinn finally focused her eyes.

"Rach?"

"Sorry."

"Are you okay?"

"I miss you. I miss you so much it's killing me," she cried and swiped at her eyes. "Will you come visit soon?"

"Probably not, love. We have so much work to do."

"How is school?"

"A lot of reading. A lot of essays and Spanish classes," Quinn murmured and curled into her pillow, sleepy eyes fluttering at the screen.

Rachel lost herself in the view. She loved the view. Her breath soaked into it, misting over the screen and begging for more.

"You're so beautiful, Bee."

"It's four in the morning, Rach."

"I don't give a shit!"

"Whoa, whoa. Easy."

"I need more than a webcam once every two months. I need more than that. I'm clingy and hyperactive and I need face time. I need actual things. The emails are nice, but I need sight and sound and feelings. I need that, Quinn. Or I won't last."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we need to make an adjustment. Plan better. Set a schedule where we both know we'll be home. My heart used to pound at skype's ring and now it cries. Do you understand that?"

"It's a two-way street, Rachel."

"I'm not saying it's not! Don't get defensive. I'm not blaming you. I know I'm busy, too. But at least I'm trying, calling out what's wrong. And something is definitely wrong. I need more, Quinn. I'm telling you right now I need more."

"I hear you."

"Okay…"

"What do you want from me?" Quinn whispered.

"Excuse me?" Rachel chided. "I want to feel like I have a girlfriend!"

"No, baby. Stop. Relax. I mean what I can do? How can I meet you halfway? I'll meet you halfway."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to snap. I'm just, you know," she choked through settling sobs. "Emotional diva over here," she giggled. "What time of day are you home every day?"

"It's different every day. Arna and I do street walks. Palo and I do dinner out sometimes. And I've started taking dance classes in the morning with Maria."

"You're taking dance classes?"

"Tango."

"Oh. Wow. That's neat," she murmured. "Good for you."

"It's fun."

"I'm sure. What about a lunch break? Do you take lunch breaks?"

"I'm at school for lunch and then head over to Statom for the afternoons."

"Okay," Rachel whispered, smiling against her will.

"I don't think a schedule will work, love. Let's just email more daily and be better at asking when the other is free. Then we can hook up that way."

"Okay."

But so not okay.

"I'm gonna go back to sleep, okay? My eyes are on fire," Quinn muttered with a shy smile.

Rachel nodded and reached out to run a finger over that face, that beautiful face. She smiled, remembering what the skin felt like under her touch.

Quinn knew. She knew. She saw the eyes lower and she knew.

"I love you, Short Stack."

"I love you, too."

"Tomorrow? I'll try to be home," Quinn smiled.

"Me, too," Rachel frowned.

But it wasn't enough. It wasn't near enough. Rachel clicked End on Quinn and her fingers took her to the internet. Quinn could fight for her own path, her own dreams, but she'd be damned if she thought Rachel wasn't going to fight for Quinn. And before she knew, she booked a plane ticket.