Chapter Fifty-One

.

Quinn

.

you will drown if you do not have boundaries.
they are not optional.
this structure counts on your inability to say no.
mean no.
they take no from our first breath.
go back and return it to your mouth.
your heart. your light.

.

I've just packed away my towel in my gym bag when Santana arrives at the locker room. I can tell it's her from the sound of her footsteps, so I don't bother to look up as I make a grab for my phone where a text has just arrived from Rachel. A small smile tugs at my lips as I open it... which disappears the moment I read the words.

What the -

"Hey," I say to Santana, somewhat distracted by Rachel's text. It's cryptic at best, stating that she's not feeling well, she's gone home and I should enjoy my evening with Santana and Brittany. I know I should be reading between the lines, but I'm not sure what I've done in the last three hours to warrant such a text. My mind first goes to something to do with her grandfather, which makes me wonder why she's choosing not to discuss it with me when I'm the only person she does talk to about it.

Gosh, when do I get to get off this rollercoaster?

"Quinn."

I look up at the sound of Santana's voice, not recognising the tone. Why is she using my full name? "San," I whisper, sensing something severe. "San, what's wrong? What happened?"

"It's Britt," she says, and I jump up in shock, automatically thinking the worst. She practically recoils at my movement, and I absently acknowledge that I'm probably overreacting. It's just - it's Brittany. And, really, what more could this year throw at us?

"What's wrong?" I question anyway, slight panic in my tone of voice.

"She's not hurt. She - "

"What, Santana?" I press. "What the hell happened?"

"She's - she's not graduating."

I frown. "What?"

"She's not graduating, Quinn."

I feel as if I've been slapped. "But - but, no," I say, always so coherent. "No," I repeat, more firmly. "How? It's impossible. We made sure."

Santana shakes her head, tears pooling in her eyes. "She - she fell behind," she explains. "She couldn't keep up. She didn't say anything. I - I lost track of her because I've been too busy with - " she stops suddenly, and I feel as if I've been slapped again. Harder and with a heavier hand. I would know.

"With me," I finish for her, instantly deflating. "You've been so busy with me." I drop my phone onto my gym bag, forgetting about Rachel's text, and lift both hands to run through my hair. "Oh, my God." I force myself to take steady breaths. "No, there has to be something we can do," I say, looking at Santana; pleading with her. "We can make it up. There has to be extra credit we can get."

Santana jerks her head from side to side. "There's nothing, Quinn," she says. "Coach tried. There's nothing."

"No," I argue. "We'll figure something out. There has to be - "

"Stop it!" she cuts me off. "God, would you just stop? Don't you think you've done enough?"

This time, I recoil. "Santana," I say.

"Don't you see?" she hisses. "It's over, Quinn. We're over."

"What are you talking about?"

"She's going to break up with me," she says. "She's going to break up with me, and that's going to be it. We had plans. We're supposed to be going to New York together. All of us. We're supposed to be there together. How - why - this - " her voice keeps catching on her sobs, and I automatically take a step towards her, even though I'm unsure what I'm going to say or do.

It's all moot, anyway, because Santana holds out her hands to halt my movement.

"No," she says. "Just, no."

"San," I whisper. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean - "

Her eyes flash dangerously. "Don't," she says again. "Fucking hell, Quinn, this isn't your fault!" she practically spits. "Not everything is, you know! I know you can be a little self-absorbed, but this is a little much, don't you think?"

"But you just said that - "

"Stop!"

I register my own confusion but I'm unsure what I'm supposed to do with it. Maybe I should just let her vent or whatever. Maybe I should let her hit me. She would probably enjoy that, and it'll make us both feel better. Cringing internally, I file away that thought to discuss is with Dr McMaster in our next session. It seems we're going to have a lot to talk about on Wednesday.

"San," I try again. "It doesn't have to be over."

Her eyes meet mine. "You don't get it," she says and, yes, I definitely don't get it. It's as if she's just given up, and it's not a look I would normally associate with Santana Lopez.

"Then, explain it to me."

"I know you have it in your head that you're some kind of burden to the rest of us, but you're not," she says, and the sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. I definitely wasn't expecting to hear that. "You're our sanity, Quinn." At my frown, she shakes her head. "Beyond Britt, I have a sense of purpose because of you. I get to take care of you, and I get to be needed by you, and I have never resented you for it."

I have absolutely no idea what's happening right now, so I just stay silent.

"Do you believe me when I say that?"

I automatically nod, which seems to be enough for her. For now, at least.

Then: "Do you know why this is all so fucked up?"

It's rhetorical, so I don't bother responding.

"There's a part of me that's - " she stops suddenly, and her face twists into a combination of panic and pain that deepens my frown. "She's not graduating, Quinn. She's not coming with me to New York, and - " she stops again. "I need you to understand."

And, just like that, I start to feel uneasy. "Understand what?"

"Why I did what I did."

Realisation hits me then. Square in the chest. My eyes drift down to my bag where my phone is perched, and I feel my heart rate rise. "What did you do?" I suddenly ask. "Santana, what did you do?"

When she doesn't respond, I grab for my phone with the intention of - what? What am I going to do?

Santana's gaze falls on mine and, for the first time, we truly see each other. "I don't get to be with my girlfriend next year," she says; "and it baffles me why you would choose to be without yours."

"San?"

"I thought you said you already told her about New York."

I shift my weight in discomfort. "I did."

"And yet she was so very surprised to learn about your full-ride to Columbia."

I clench my jaw, my eyes slipping shut for a long moment. "Is this it? You blame me for Brittany not graduating, so you're sabotaging my relationship?"

Santana shakes her head, her tears pooling her eyes once more. "I just tried to explain it to you," she says. "You know, for a genius, you're really fucking stupid, you know that?"

I frown in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"You're supposed to be in New York with us, you idiot!" she shouts, the words practically bursting out of her. "If I can't have my girlfriend with me in New York, then I sure as hell want my best friend!"

This entire conversation feels as if it's happening to someone else, and I'm just playing catchup.

"Like I said," she says as she starts to leave. "Fucking clueless."

It's only three minutes after she's left that I realise I don't actually have a way to get home. If I even want to. I can barely work out if I have a right to be angry or not.

Do I feel angry? Hurt? Confused?

I'm definitely confused.

And, okay, I'm a little pissed off that I'm now stranded at school because my girlfriend and best friend are -

I don't even know what's happening right now.

For the longest moment, I'm unsure what to do. I just stand there, my mind running a mile a minute. As far as I know, I'm probably the last person at school, which leaves me with a dilemma. I suppose I could call someone - Kurt or Blaine - but I really don't want to have to explain why the two most important people in my life are mad at me right now.

And, frankly, I wouldn't even know how to explain.

Which, essentially, makes the decision for me.


It's late when I finally get to the Berry home, my limbs aching and my head not faring any better. One would think the long walk would allow me some time to think and plan and make decisions, but I've got nothing. If anything, I'm a little more pissed at both Rachel and Santana, both of them just leaving. We could have talked about it like the adults we're masquerading as. Seriously.

I stand on the front porch for endless minutes, trying to get my breathing under control. Since my accident, I haven't quite been able to regain all my fitness, but I'm on my way there. I intend to spend the summer doing proper training for when I get to Yale.

Because I'm going to Yale.

It's not up for discussion.

Breathing a sigh, I push my key into the lock and turn. For whatever reason, I feel a certain chill descend over me as I step through the door. I'm definitely not going to like whatever's about to happen, but I have no choice other than to face it.

We're trying to do that these days. No more avoiding things. Dr McMaster would be proud.

I drop my bags on the floor in the entrance hall, and then make my way to the kitchen to find Rachel, Hiram and LeRoy sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of dinner. Despite the untruths in her text, Rachel does look ill, and I suspect it has nothing to do with a physical ailment.

Hiram looks surprised to see me, and my flushed cheeks must set off alarms. "Quinn!" he exclaims. his brow furrowed. "If we knew you would be home, we would have waited," he says. "Rachel said you were having dinner with Brittany and Santana."

My eyes flick Rachel's way for a moment, but she's decidedly not looking at me. "I didn't end up going," I say. "Santana and I kind of had a disagreement."

LeRoy's eyes narrow. "How did you get home?"

"I walked," I answer with a shrug, and then make my way towards the fridge to get a cold bottle of water. I can hear murmuring behind me, but I'm not paying attention.

I don't really know how I'm supposed to handle this entire situation. Are we actually going to talk about it, or am I just supposed to let her stew until she can figure out a way to get over it? She hasn't actually brought it up - not even in her 'text' - and I don't want to be the one to do it.

Okay, so, maybe Dr McMaster won't be that proud.

It doesn't take me long to figure out that letting it stew is definitely not a good idea. Still, I know I won't be the first one to bring it up. If she wants to discuss it, then I'm all ears. Until then, I'm going to figure out what I'm going to about -

I sigh.

I spin around to face the kitchen table. "Hiram?" I say, and he snaps to attention. "Where are my car keys?"

I'm awarded with three separate frowns, but Hiram eventually responds. "I put them on the tray on the piano."

With a nod in thanks, I head out of the kitchen in search of the keys. I'm not really sure what my plans are, but today just showed me that I'm going to have to suck it up and get behind the wheel. If I intend to live an independent, self-sufficient life here and at Yale, then I'm going to have to be able to take care of myself in every way imaginable.

Transportation is very important.

Well, lots of things are important, but I'm going to start with this.

Fortunately, nobody follows me, and I'm able to retrieve the foreign keys from the top of the piano, grab my phone and purse from my bag, and then head to the garage without encountering any Berry family members. Maybe they realise my desire to be left alone. For whatever reason.

Steeling myself for what's about to come, I step into the garage and fight off the wave of anxiety. I'm okay. I can do this. I'm Quinn Fabray. Of course, I can do this.

I move towards the car, looming and large, dark and oppressive. From what I do remember of the accident, my car was unsalvageable, and yet I'm looking at a carbon copy of the very car that possibly saved my life. This bulky sore-eye - okay, it's actually a nice-looking car, if I'm being perfectly honest - withstood as much impact as it could, and I ended up with working legs and a collapsed lung. Things definitely could have been worse.

With a press to the car's remote, I unlock the car and shuffle around to the driver's side. I've ridden in the passenger's side before, mainly with Hiram, because Rachel isn't a fan of from where this car came. I'm not either, but it is one less thing to worry about for the future.

If I can get myself to drive it, that is.

Dr McMaster and I have been dealing with just this thing in our recent sessions. I'm starting to feel a little ridiculous having to be chauffeured around everywhere and, while people say it's okay, it can't be.

I don't want to be a burden and, after today, I think I definitely need to gain back some of my independence.

Particularly when I intend to be alone at Yale.

As far as it being the first time I'm getting behind the wheel of any car, I think I do quite well. I manage to put the key in the ignition and turn it to switch on the lights.

It's as far as I get, though, because, a beat later, my hands are gripping the steering wheel tight enough for my knuckles to turn white and my eyes are tightly shut. I know, from the moment I can't get my breathing under control, that this isn't happening tonight. No way in hell.

The second I come to that conclusion, I throw open the driver's door, and practically throw myself out of the seat, landing in a breathless heap on the concrete floor. My mind is flashing with memories of shattered glass, crunching metal and the smell of burning tyres. I suck in breath after breath in an attempt to gather my wits.

I didn't expect to succeed - not really - but I also didn't expect to fail so spectacularly. I'm almost embarrassed, and then completely mortified when I realise I'm crying. God, I'm pathetic.

I crawl towards the wall and sit with my back leaning against it, my knees drawn to my chest and my body trembling. Completely and utterly pathetic. I can practically hear Coach Sylvester spitting the words right into my ear, and it doesn't help me regain composure at all. In the end, only time does and, eventually, my breathing slows and my heart rate steadies.

I'm okay.

For the most part, I don't know how much time has passed, but it's enough for my complete and utter failure to turn into a fit of rage. It comes out of nowhere and, before I know it, I'm up on my feet and kicking at the back tyre as hard as I can. Which, in hindsight, is the absolute worst thing to do because it hurts like a little bitch, and I actually cry out.

"Fucking hell!" I yell in equal parts anger and pain, and then slam the door with all the force I can manage. I hit the side of my fist against the metal, and hiss at the impact, fresh tears springing to my eyes. Today has just been a completely shit day, and I just want to crawl into bed and let the darkness protect me.

For the first time in a long time, the absence of light just seems safer, because it's a place where Rachel isn't.

I need to get out of here.

Abandoning the keys in the car, I leave the garage, that pathetic feeling turning into defeat with a hint of self-loathing. What I would do for this entire day not to exist. I mean, it didn't even start off all that well. Besides waking up wrapped around Rachel, the morning was just awful. Prom-fever has hit, and I'm apparently on the list of potential dates for all the wide-eyed hopefuls of our school. I know I shouldn't complain - I should be flattered - but there's only so much a person can take.

I start walking.

I know exactly where I'm going, so, really, it's more of a march.

Well, it is, until I'm hit by a wave of exhaustion, both the physical and emotional kind. It settles over me, and makes my limbs feel heavier and my chest feel tight. I slow my pace considerably, and then stroll. I try to use the time to sort out my thoughts, but I get to Santana's house before I can make sense of anything. I waste no time in going up to the front door and ringing the doorbell. I'm comfortable enough here to go straight in, but I'm unsure where Santana and I actually stand right now. I'm pissed off, yes, but the part of me that isn't fucking clueless is desperately trying to understand.

By some miracle, Santana is the one to answer the door.

And, at the sight of me, she starts to close it again.

"No," I say, raising my voice and putting my hand on the door to stop her from closing it. "No," I repeat, a bit more heatedly. She has to know I mean business. "This is not how we're going to do this, do you understand me? You have a problem, you come to me. You don't go to my girlfriend to try to stir the pot, okay? I know you think all I see these days is Rachel, but you're my best friend. Well, you're one of them, and I hate that you're hurting, but - "

"How did you get here?" she suddenly asks, cutting me off.

I flounder, surprised by her interruption. "What?"

"How the fuck did you get here?" she asks again, looking past my body, as if she's expecting to find the answer behind me. Which, well, she does. "Shit, Q, did you walk?"

"What?" I ask, suddenly irritated. "When my girlfriend and my best friend left me stranded at school? Why would I ever do such a thing?"

Santana frowns. "You did walk."

"I needed the time to think."

"Bullshit."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one who gets to call bullshit tonight," I snap. "Firstly, you're an asshole for attempting to use Rachel against me, and we are definitely going to have a talk about that. Secondly, when have you ever shied away from talking to me about anything? You should have told me what was going on with Britt. We would have figured something out. And, thirdly, like, just, what the actual fuck, Santana?"

Her eyes narrow, and it takes every bit of my composure not to look away. Sometimes, she's like a caged animal, and I have to be careful not to push too hard too fast or I'm going to end up with claw marks.

"Jesus," Santana finally says. "What happened to you?"

To be honest, I don't have an answer for that, at all. Even if I did, I doubt I would be able to get the words out.

When she next speaks, she sounds utterly defeated, and it's a tone of voice that doesn't match Santana Lopez's fiery personality. "We both know Berry is the only reason you'll come to New York," she says. "It wouldn't be enough for me to ask you."

I clench my jaw, forcing myself not to respond.

"I didn't realise the situation with Britt was so bad until it was too late," she says, and she sounds equal parts guilty, irritated and just plain livid. "She hid it from me. She tried to do it all by herself, and I'm just so fucking mad at her." Her voice falters near the end, and I have the nearly-irrepressible urge to hug her.

I don't.

Santana and I don't hug.

It's too... weird.

Her gaze meets mine, her eyes stormy. "And, this is what you wanted."

I sputter. "Excuse me?"

"You told me it's what you want, Q," she says tiredly, and I feel it in my very bones. We're both just so tired. "When you were in New York, you called me and told me New York was what you wanted. You told me Rachel is the girl you're going to marry and that you wanted the four of us to be together in New York."

My brow creases. "I don't remember that."

"That's probably because you were drunk."

I swallow audibly. "And I tell the truth when I'm drunk."

She nods once, sighing. "You asked me, wouldn't it be so cool if we were all in New York together? You said it would be amazing. Just the four of us taking the world by storm and being happy and in love and free. You said we should do that, but you're going to Yale, remember?" She clenches her teeth, her gaze hardening as she replays the conversation that she very clearly remembers. "It's what you decided, I told you, and then you said you wouldn't be in New York with us if you went to Yale." There's something broken in her next words, and I feel tears spring to my eyes. "You asked me if I was going to leave you."

My breath hitches.

"But, I'm not even the one doing the leaving, am I?"

I shake my head, tempted to make her stop talking.

"No, Quinn," she says, her tone cold. "You're the one leaving me."

I realise, in this moment, that the pronouns are very important. There's no 'us' anymore. This is between me and Santana, and I don't think either of us is truly ready for it.

"You said we have to be happy together. You said we're going to be happy and in love, and we're going to get married and have lots of babies and live happily ever after, and you made me promise you. You made me promise I wouldn't leave you, and now everything is just a fucking mess!" She forces herself to take a calming breath. "God, you're so fucking annoying!"

I blink, slightly miffed, before I say, "And, apparently, clueless as well."

"Damn straight," she breathes, sounding painfully amused and apathetic. "So, the way things are playing out; it's going to be only me, Kurt and Berry in New York," she says sadly. "That was never part of the plan."

"Plans can change," I offer, trying my hardest not to let her melancholy infect me. "It's one year, San. You and Britt will get through it, and then you'll be together in the Big Apple and everything is going to be fine."

She gives me a curious look. "I think you're spending too much time with Berry," she says. "Your optimism is revolting."

I can't bring myself to smile, because this all feels wrong somehow. This isn't a conversation we should be having. "I don't think you and Britt are going to break up," I say, trying to inject as much confidence into my voice as I can. "It's just a year. You'll visit each other and you'll make it. You're Brittana. If you two can't make it work, what hope do the rest of us have?"

She looks at me again, and it's the first time I see it.

Well, she allows me to, and I see the devastation and the heartbreak and the sheer anguish. It's in her eyes, on full display for the first time, and my breath catches in my throat.

The truth is I can keep saying the words until I'm blue in the face, but they're always going to mean nothing.

"Santana, no?" I whisper, my own heart aching at the sudden realisation.

Without meeting my gaze, she merely shrugs. "So... guess who's newly single?"


Quinn: So, I think I'm going to spend the night at Santana's. Some stuff has happened with Britt, and she needs me. I already spoke to Hiram, so there's no need to inform your fathers.

Quinn: Also, maybe we both need some space, for whatever reason. Santana told me what she told you about Columbia, and you're clearly not ready to talk about it if your excuse this afternoon is anything to go on. I think we both know you're not actually ill, and I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that. I don't know if you're mad or if this is something else entirely. I don't even know if you want to talk about it or not. I don't know anything, and I guess that was your point.

Quinn: I'll see you in the morning. I love you. X

Once I've sent the messages to Rachel, I instantly deflate, and I'm pulled out of my musings when Santana throws a pair of McKinley sweatpants at my face.

"Jesus, Q," she says. "Don't look so forlorn. I'm the one who got dumped. Not you."

Despite myself, I wince at the sound of her words and, the second she replays them, her own face crumples. I don't know what to do. In my own experience, handing out comfort to any person who isn't Rachel is difficult for me. It just feels awkward and forced, and I don't want to pass that on to Santana. Not right now, when the events of the day seem to be catching up with her.

Eventually, she clears her throat, and then looks at the sweatpants that are now sitting in my lap as I sit on the edge of her bed. "Are those okay?" she asks, gesturing at the garment.

"They're fine," I say.

"Bathroom's all yours."

It's awkward as we get settled, but we eventually manage it, each of us sliding under the covers of her large bed. I have a fleeting thought about what Santana and Brittany have possibly done in these sheets, but I'm not going to bring up my fellow blonde. Right now, I'm going to be Santana's friend and, whenever Brittany replies to my texts, I'll be her friend as well.

We lie in silence for seven minutes before I release a breath and roll onto my side to look at her. "I know we're not those people who do this," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't know what you need but, if it's to talk, I'm all ears. If it's someone to rage at, well, you've never needed to be told twice. I'd offer myself as a punching bag, but Coach would probably have something to say about that." I pause. "And, well, if you need a hug, I can do that too. Rachel's taught me a few things."

She stares at me for the longest time before she laughs. "Is this as weird for you as it is for me?"

"I can't imagine that being possible."

"God, you're an idiot."

"You've called me that far too many times today," I say. "I'm not sure I like it."

She laughs harder at that and, before either of us knows it, her laughter is turning into uncontrollable sobs. The tears come thick and fast, and I try not to think about it as I close the space between us and draw her into a hug. She's around Rachel's height, so she fits against my body, but it's not perfect, and there's a large part of me that's relieved by that.

Only Rachel Berry fits perfectly.

I run a soothing hand along her back as she cries into my neck, her body shaking. I don't say anything, because who wants to hear that everything is going to be okay? I certainly didn't in November, and I know Santana doesn't either.

"This wasn't part of the plan," she says after a while, calming slightly.

"I know," I say.

She's quiet for a long while and, when she speaks again, her voice is surprisingly clear. "Do you know what the fucked part of this whole mess is?"

I hum in acknowledgement.

"There's a tiny part of me that's... relieved," she confesses, and I wait. "We were supposed to be in New York together, but that's not going to happen, and I'm relieved that we're not going to have to work so hard to maintain a long distance relationship." She sits up, extricating herself from my arms and wipes at her eyes. She looks so small. "Just imagine, Britt and me trying to do long distance. We're not built for that. Breaking up is the best solution."

It sounds as if she's trying to convince herself of the truth of it, and I want to ask questions, like why did they break up today when there's still a few weeks left of school, and I want to ask about Prom. Are they still friends? Are we all going to be able to hang out? What does this mean for the Unholy Trinity?

Because they're all selfish questions, I don't speak.

I just wait.

Eventually, she looks at me, tears shining in her eyes. "Everything is going to be okay, right?"

Well, okay, maybe I'm actually more terrible at this than I thought. "Of course," I immediately say. "Everything is going to be okay, Santana. You'll see. You're going to be okay."

All I can do is hope the world doesn't make me a liar.


In the morning, nothing is clearer, and I have a pounding headache that feels as if it's spreading through my entire body. For two people who don't express themselves well, I think Santana and I have made it through the night relatively scathed.

Well, she has.

I still have to go home and face my girlfriend and whatever that entails.

I find out soon enough, though. Santana drops me off - claiming she's going to the Lima Bean to get us both coffees - and then she's going to come back to fetch me for school. I told her about my attempt to get behind the wheel, and she says we're going to work on it.

There are so many things on which to work.

Rachel is in her bedroom when I emerge from the guest bathroom, already dressed in my uniform. She gives me a quizzical look when I move to stand in her doorway, as if she didn't expect to see me back so soon.

I live here.

"Santana and Brittany broke up," I tell her.

"I know," she says, rising from the edge of her bed. "Britt told me."

"Did she say how she's doing?"

"Not really," she answers. "I think she's just focusing on other things not to think about it."

I nod. Brittany is a special case. She could be focusing on other things, or she really could be okay. Her emotional maturity and level of human understanding is eons more than mine is. Or Santana's is. She's probably more emotionally mature than the two of us combined.

Rachel clears her throat. "You didn't tell me about Columbia."

Okay, so we're doing this.

"You didn't let me," I counter, and then immediately feel childish. "I tried to tell you on the Ferris Wheel, but you didn't want to hear it. I left it at that because it doesn't change anything, Rachel. I'm still going to Yale."

"But, we could be in New York together," she says, and her voice cracks on the word 'together.'

I close my eyes against the sound. "Rachel, please," I say, drawing on all my patience to get through this without lashing out the way my body is screaming for me to. "My not picking Columbia isn't because I don't want to be with you. You know that."

"Do I?"

I ignore that and continue. "I have to be at Yale in New Haven the same way you have to be at NYADA in New York, okay?" It amazes me that she doesn't get that. "I won't follow you blindly. I won't. We'll resent each other for it, and you know it as much as I do."

She narrows her eyes, and I wonder if I've said the wrong thing. "But you applied," she argues. "You wanted Columbia at some point, Quinn."

"And, if I didn't get into Yale, I would be somewhere else," I say. "Hell, I would be anywhere else." I smooth down my hair, needing to get it perfect to match my uniform. "But I did, Rachel. I got in, and I did that, for myself." I look at her, almost pleading with her to understand why this is important to me. "I know it makes it difficult for us, but this is something I have to do for me, and for both of us."

"Quinn." It's that strangled sound from deep in her throat, and it slices through my chest, making me ache. "Quinn."

"I love you," I say. "I love you so much, Rachel, but I'm sorry; I won't do this for you. I won't, and you can't ask me to." I take in a shaky breath. "You can't," I repeat. "God, you can't ask me to go to Columbia and New York for you. You can't."

She gives me a curious look. "Quinn?"

"We both know what I'll do if you ask."

She presses her lips together, considering it. "What?"

"I already told you I would follow you anywhere," I say. "Please don't make me. Please."

Rachel stares at me for the longest time, her eyes searching my face for something. Whether or not she finds it is lost on me, though, because she eventually drops her gaze and says nothing for several minutes.

I wait.

What can I say, anyway?

Eventually, she speaks again. "I love you, Quinn," she says, her voice gentle and unassuming. "I'm sorry, but I can't help it that I want to be with you in New York, okay? I can't deny that, because I would want nothing less than to be able to see you all the time; even live with you. I want all of these things with you, and I can't wrap my head around the fact that you don't."

She's not actually asking me but, somehow, this is worse. I don't know how to tell her of course, I want all these things, and then still go to Yale. Those things can never be mutually exclusive to Rachel, and I don't know how to explain it other than saying, "Imagine it was the other way around." I run another nervous hand over my hair. "Yale is my NYADA, Rachel. It's the place I have to be, and you can't stand there and say words like that to me, as if my dreams are any less than yours."

I look away from her, suddenly feeling emotional.

God, how did we even get here?

I clear my throat. "Look, I know I was lost and confused when we started this whole thing, but you and your fathers have helped me figure out what I actually want to do with my life, and I have. I want to go to Yale, and I want to be a writer. These are things I decided for myself, and I refuse to let you make me feel as if I love you any less because I refuse to go to New York for you. That's not fair, and you know it."

She just stares at me.

"Obviously, you need more time to come to terms with this," I say, fixing my already perfectly straight uniform. "I'm going to go to school and deal with the aftermath of my two best friends breaking up. You know where to find me when you want to have a proper conversation about this."

And then I do just that.

Aftermath, here we come.


As far as major school breakups go, this one is less awkward than I anticipate it being. It's obvious Brittany and Santana have agreed to remain friends - whatever that means for them because they were once friends with benefits - and I worry for how this new dynamic will affect them, me, the three of us, Glee and the Squad.

It's all moot, anyway, because they're... friends.

They do it far better than anyone I've ever met. I mean, they even do that whole pinkie thing, and all I can do is stare in disbelief. I could barely look at Finn after we broke up, and Kurt and Blaine are still weird and cryptic around each other. I guess it really does matter who the people are.

If Santana picks up on the tension between me and Rachel, she doesn't say anything.

Right now, it looks as if Rachel and I are the ones who broke up.

Dr McMaster is definitely in for it during tomorrow's session. Honestly, I don't know how I ever got through anything without a therapist.

I'm barely surviving as it is.


It takes Rachel until I get back from cheerleading practice on Thursday to come find me. I'm lying on the bed in the guest bedroom, having two separate conversations with Kurt and with Santana, both of them talking about New York and how their single lives are going to be so much better once they get there.

I have half a mind to tell them to talk to each other.

Anyway.

I look up from my phone's screen when there's a soft knock on the bedroom door, and spy Rachel standing in the doorway. I shift into a seated position and raise my eyebrows in question. "What's up?" I force myself to say, keeping my tone even.

Rachel nervously wrings her fingers together, her gaze on the carpet. "Quinn?" she says, her own tone serious.

I turn my body, and drop my legs to the floor. "What's wrong?"

She takes a deep breath, and then meets my gaze. "I know we're... whatever we are, right now, but - " she stops, her voice faltering. "You said you would - " she stops again. She clears her throat. "I'm meeting James tonight, and I was wondering if you would still, umm, come with me?"

I blink once, twice, and then slowly rise to my feet. "Of course," I say, which looks like a surprise to her. "I told you I would be there, and that's not going to change, just because we're... whatever we are."

"Oh," she mumbles. "I just thought..." she trails off. "I just thought you would be too mad or something."

I take a cautious step towards her. "I'm not mad, Rachel," I say, and it's the truth, because Dr McMaster and I examined all my feelings on this particular topic.

"You're hurt."

I sigh tiredly. "Whatever I'm feeling while we're at this... impasse, is unimportant," I say patiently. "I made this promise to you, and I intend to keep it. I love you and, if you need me, I'm always going to be there."

"I do need you, Quinn; all the time," she says softly. "Isn't that the problem?"

"And I'm always going to be there," I tell her, and I mean it. "It just, maybe, might take me a little more time to get there. I hear the train takes two hours, and I've been looking into these Metro North passes that will allow us to - mmph." My speech is cut off by lips that haven't kissed me since early Monday morning, and I immediately sink into the embrace.

Nothing is fixed, but I've missed my girlfriend.

Before it gets too heated, Rachel pulls back, and then immediately presses her face into my neck, her hands sliding to the small of my back. "I'm scared," she whispers. "I'm terrified, Quinn."

"Of what?" I ask, threading my fingers through her hair.

"Being without you," she confesses. "Of having you so far away. Of your getting hurt again. Of your growing into someone wonderful that I don't get to witness. Of your realising that I'm not actually what you want. Of your figuring out that your life and dreams are so much bigger than me. Of your finding somebody new, who's going to be there while I'm in New York. I'm terrified of so many things, Quinn, and I don't know how I'm supposed to deal with them without having you right beside me."

I don't know what to say for the longest time, my brain working overtime. That's definitely more than I was expecting her to say and, yeah, it's a lot. Deciding that I probably don't have the tools to make any of this better, I go with the truth: "I love you." It's all I have because, really, I don't know what's going to happen in the future. "I love you, Rachel. I don't know if it's going to be enough, but you're going to have to let it be." I lay my hands on the sides of her face and lean back, so I can look at her. "We're going to figure it out," I say.

"Quinn."

"I know it's not going to be easy," I continue. "We'll get frustrated and angry and we might go weeks without seeing each other, but we can do this." I have to be the confident one, here. I have to be certain. "But, you know, just think about how great the reunion sex is going to be."

Despite herself, Rachel chuckles tearily.

"Oh, baby," I murmur, pressing kisses to her cheeks. "Everything is going to be okay. You'll see."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do," I say. "We're Quinn and Rachel. We'll always be okay."

She grumbles. "And, now, you're just using my words against me."

"It's your own fault for drilling them in so spectacularly."

She breathes a sigh, her breath warm against the skin of my neck. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I don't think your dreams are any less than mine, and I definitely don't want to make you feel you love me any less because you won't bend for me. I'm sorry." She meets my gaze, her eyes imploring. "I don't like the idea of us being apart. I won't deny that, because it's not something I'm looking forward to, but I love you, and I'm determined to make this work, because I want to be with you for forever." She holds up her right hand for me to see. "This ring is a promise, and I intend to keep it. You're right. We're going to be okay."

I smile knowingly. "Because we're Quinn and Rachel."

She laughs softly, almost as if she doesn't want to. "Of course," she says, and then kisses me again, her lips soft but insistent.

I pull back this time, smiling lazily. "So, where are we meeting, umm, James?"

Her brow crinkles slightly, and I find it insanely cute. "We're supposed to be having dinner at that Thai place on Belvedere."

I frown. "But, don't you hate that place?"

"I do," she says, all innocence. "I picked it because, you know, if this dinner goes terribly - which, let's face it, is a strong possibility - I'm not going to ruin a place I actually like."

And, really, it's such a Rachel thing to say that all I can do is draw her back in and kiss her.

We're going to be okay.

I just know it.