I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm still freaking stuck at chapter 21 and I don't know how to fix it. God, I hate this so mu-hu-huch you wouldn't believe it. I already know what's going to happen in that chapter (at least half of it) but it just... it doesn't flow, you know what I mean? And I hate that. But I guess we're going to have to suffer through it for a while.
Summer break's over on Wednesday and then, I'll have to go back to school which means I'm not going to be able to write as much as I did during the holidays. BUUUUT I will try to update at least once every two weeks (once every week seems overly enthusiastic and pointlessly optimistic to me right now since I'm currently not in the flow and it's slowly but surely killing me). I have great plans for this story (and I'm still wondering how freaking long it's gonna get since I feel like we're nowhere near the end lol) and I don't want to leave it unfinished. (And if I do, I hereby grant you permission to bombard me with reviews and angry PMs and whatnot.)
Aaaanyway, here goes chapter 19. (There's again gonna be a note at the end of the chapter to explain some things that I don't want to mention right now as to not spoiler anything.)
Enjoy.

(chapter title is the same-titled song by Selena Gomez.)

Started writing: 14.07.2020

Finished writing: 22.07.2020

Chapter 19
Look At Her Now

Shelby.

In her mind, Shelby remembers the lessons her parents have taught her well enough. Not every single one of them, of course—there were just too many—but at least the most important ones. She was a good kid; she likes to say about herself. Up until she was, let's say fifteen and a half, she was one of those annoyingly perfect poster children that have the perfect smile and the perfect posture and the perfect attitude and everything's just so perfect and beautiful about them that you mostly want to punch it off their faces. She was the kind of child that arrogant parents would've shown off and boasted about at every given opportunity but—thank God—her parents aren't arrogant in the least.

She listened to what her father said and did what her mother told her to, she tried not to be different than anyone else, tried to fit in. But she had to realize very soon that fitting in isn't an easy thing to do when you have a talent as extraordinary as she. Her voice was always strong and remarkably good—it lacked the years and years of training that it has now, but it was still extremely good. It was something that made her different from everyone else, something that made her special, though she didn't realize at that point how wonderful being special is, so she resented it.

She didn't sing that often until she was around eight years old. Then, a young, newly divorced woman moved in the house next door, together with her two children and a small, annoying dog. She was a singer and a vocal coach and a failed superstar-in-the-making and after she'd, one day, heard her sing for the first time (Shelby had been dancing around in the kitchen with the windows open), she pulled her aside and told her that her talent was something she'd have to embrace—it was something that other people would come to admire later on in her life. She was the one who convinced Shelby to take voice lessons, she was the one who introduced her to Broadway for the second time—she'd been mesmerized when her parents first took her to see The Sound of Music in New York but she never realized just how wonderful it is until Miss Kelly Anne Decker took her to see it again. After that, she worked hard to achieve her dreams—Broadway, obviously. When she was fifteen and her parents filed their divorce, she got a fake ID—which was the first thing she ever did that was not allowed at all (illegal!)—and began to work at a local café to raise money for college. She had voice lessons twice a week and dance lessons three times a week. When she was sixteen, she began to work out at the gym. She got the female lead in her high school's rendition of My Fair Lady and Peter Pan, she was in a local theater group and sometimes worked backstage to get a look at the other departments that are involved in plays and musicals and operas and whatever.

She later on got into a lot of trouble when her mother found her fake ID in her purse and demanded an explanation. She had to be home at 7 p.m. every day for two months and she hated it.

She acted out a little when she got her first boyfriend—they went to a couple of parties and only got caught twice (which is really a bad track record but hey, she was a teenager)—and then acted out a little more when they broke up just before it was time for her to go to New York.

But she always—always—remembered the lessons her parents taught.

She still remembers them to this day.

"Sometimes, taking a backseat to watch, observe and listen to others teaches you more about yourself than constantly watching, observing and watching yourself."

And she does that from time to time. She likes to lean back and reflect on current events and recent problems and think about what others might have done differently. She sits back in the theater to observe other actors and actresses to see how they use their body, their mimic to express emotions. And when she finds a fault in her system, a crack in her foundation—so to speak—, she tries to fix it, tries to change it into something better.

"Be humble."

Plain and simple and quite easy to remember, though easier to forget.

She's sad to say that there was a time when she forgot that particular lesson. It was shortly after she won her Tony—her career was soaring, she was soaring, she feasted on the hustle and bustle of the theater, she felt like she owned the world, she felt like she was the most successful—the most worthy of success—and the best actress there was and, to her own embarrassment, she acted like it. For about a year she was an insufferable diva that probably no one actually wanted to work with. At least Shelby herself wouldn't have wanted to work with that version of her.

"It's not always about what you say but how you say it."

The list of lessons her parents taught her could go on and on, and she could probably praise herself time and time again for living after them for the longest part of her life.

And there's one lesson that she's positive she will never ever forget—one that she's never ignored once in her life. Until now.

"Never judge others from their appearance."

And Shelby has always found that one to be the most important one of all of them. And she still thinks so.

It's simply not her place to judge other people's choice of clothing or hairstyle or color—it's not her place to analyze or judge or interpret. She always tries to see a person's personality instead of their appearance, always tries to ignore their choice of words because it's the message they're trying to bring across that matters. Always ignores the prejudice voice in the back of her mind that tells her "oh, he could be dangerous" and "oh, she doesn't have a lot of money" and "oh, he doesn't seem that smart".

She always tries to see past all that.

But when she opens the front door to their house at 12:45 a.m., rudely awoken by the ringing of their doorbell, her hair still messy and her eyes still trying to adjust to the darkness, and sees her daughter in clothes she's certain she didn't buy and her—husband or whatever his position in her life currently defines as, standing next to her, she forgets.

And it's not what Rachel's wearing that makes her jaw drop—not even what he's wearing. No, it's what he's not wearing that has her stomach in knots.

It's the lack of a ring on his left hand—that's matching the one she's still wearing. She just couldn't bring herself to take it off. But it doesn't seem to have been an act of great effort of will for him.

She tries to ignore the pain that surges through her body.

She tries to ignore his very presence in this house—the house that used to be theirs and that's possessive pronoun is now in a state of uncertainty in terms of definition.

And she does a surprisingly good job of that. Even when they're sitting in the kitchen and she constantly feels his eyes on her back and, for the first time in her life, it's making her uncomfortable.

"Rachel, look at me, please."

There's a slight tremble to her words that she tries—and fails—to suppress as she squeezes her youngest daughter's arm. "Rachel, look at me."

Rachel's head drops lower for a split second like she's falling asleep but then, she finally looks up into Shelby's eyes. The tears are still running down her face and Shelby's heart aches for her daughter. And her fists clench in anger of the man that's currently leaning against the doorframe. This is his fault—her daughters' misery—her misery—is his fault. He's the one that could've prevented all of this. But instead, he had to be selfish.

"I understand where you're coming from, Rachel" -finally—finally—she gets the trembling in her voice under control- "Wanting to forget or pretend that it didn't happen is- well, it's not the best way of coping with problems—it doesn't help solving them in any way—but it can help. For a while. But—and you knew this before, Rachel—alcohol is never a legitimate response to anything. It's not when you're twenty-one, when you're forty-one. And it certainly isn't when you're fourteen."

Shelby reaches out to squeeze her daughter's hands. "It's dangerous, Rachel, do you hear me? Alcohol is poison, and that's not just a saying. It's addicting and it's unhealthy. People die from overconsuming alcohol. That goes for adults as much as it goes for teenagers—but it goes even more for teenagers. There's a reason that it's illegal until you're 21. What you did—drinking alcohol—Rachel, is a crime, do you understand me?"

Her daughter shrinks a little in her seat. Her hands feel a little cold in Shelby's own and she's getting paler by the minute.

"And it's not only that it's against the law, but I—specifically—told you no parties until you're at least 17. And even then, you still have to ask, and you still have to be home at the agreed time and you're still not allowed to drink. But you, Rachel, aren't 17, you're fourteen."

Behind her, someone shifts in the doorway—someone as in her somehow-still-husband—and Rachel tenses visibly. She frees one hand out of Shelby's grip to rub her nose and wipe her eyes.

"You disobeyed direct orders from me, you disobeyed the law and you endangered yourself. You endangered yourself, do you hear me? Did you even stop to think about what might happen if you overconsumed? Can you imagine what would've been, had I gotten a call from the hospital in the middle of the night, telling me that my youngest daughter is currently getting her stomach pumped out in the intensive care unit? I would've been sick with worry, Rachel. I probably would've verged on a heart attack."

Rachel's eyes are welling with tears again, her lower lip dipping between her teeth. "I-I'm sorry, Mom, I- I didn't think about that, I just-"

But she stops before she can finish the sentence and her eyes flicker a little.

With a jerk, Shelby shoots up and yanks Rachel out of her seat and turns her towards the sink, just in time for her daughter to turn white as a sheet. A quiver rifles through her and her body shakes in an effort to keep it down and her jaw snaps open. She pants once, twice, then her entire body tightens up and releases in a matter of seconds.

"Oh God."

It's not more than a quiet groan from Rachel's lips while her breath slowly evens out and gets slower again. Shelby is just about to turn around to find a towel to put on Rachel's forehead when the girl tightens her grip on her mother's arm again, breath quickening and growing louder and louder still.

"Oh God, oh God, oh-"

"See where it's got you," says Shelby a little tight-lipped but her fingers still run up and down her daughter's spine and she still whispers soothing nonsense into her ear when Rachel starts to cry.

There's a ton of incoherent, incomprehensible words, strung together in pained attempts to form sentences coming out of her daughter's mouth but what Shelby does get is the stifled cries and pants and the big gulps of air Rachel takes, trying to calm herself down.

"I hate this, I hate this so much."

Shelby's brows knit in pity. "I know, honey. I know."

She lifts one hand to brush the sweaty hair out of her daughter's forehead and gently caresses her cheek with the back of her fingers. "Do you want to sit down with me? Do you think you can do that?"

Rachel shrugs weakly. She draws the air in through her nose, closes her eyes and holds her breath for a second. It leaves her body in a shuddering exhale again, she stands still for a few seconds and nods slowly.

"Alright, come on."

Carefully, Shelby takes her daughter's arm and leads her back to the table where she lets Rachel sit down on her lap. The girl is white as a sheet, her eyes bloodshot and there're tiny droplets of sweat glistening on her forehead. She looks ready to pass out, really and Shelby sighs inwardly as she reaches out to push the glass of water towards her daughter. "Rachel, honey, try to drink a little more, okay? You need to work the alcohol out of your system."

Rachel's fingers are shaking when she raises the glass to her lips and her nose scrunches up a little like it used to when she was still a little girl and her nose would dip into the water every time she'd drink because she'd almost bury her entire face in her glass.

"I- I don't want to throw up again, Mom," Rachel whispers hoarsely. She tucks her head under Shelby's chin, her hand finding the small of her mother's back to trace the edge of her shoulder blades.

"Drink your water, Rachel, it's going to get better, I promise."

There's an eerie silence in the room as Rachel sips her water, accompanied by the steady strokes of Shelby's hand up and down her spine. Her daughter's body gets heavier and heavier by the minute, her head sinking against Shelby's shoulder.

"Rachel."

She's met with a small groan in response.

"Rachel, I think we should table our talk for tomorrow," she nuzzles her nose into Rachel's dark hair. "It's late and I don't think you'll remember much of this anyway."

Rachel's head tilts backwards, lips parting as if to say something but there's no sound rising in her throat. Instead, she nods slowly, her eyes fluttering to a close. Her face is still unimaginably pale but at least her breath has slowed down, and she doesn't seem to feel all that sick anymore. Shelby gently pats Rachel's thigh. "Come on, Rachel, let's go upstairs."

She lets her hands stay on her daughter's shoulders and slowly guides her towards the stairs, (seemingly) easily ignoring the man that leans against the doorframe.

"That's it?"

She stops, foot frozen in the air just above the first step. She turns around.

"Is there something you wanted to say?"

She raises an eyebrow at him, challenging—daring—him to say something that he might (definitely) regret. She feels Rachel tense beside her, her hand sneaking up her spine to find the edge of her left shoulder blade. She never did that before; it's not a habit of hers. And yet, it feels strangely familiar—strangely calming.

But the effect isn't strong enough to actually calm her when she's standing on the bottom landing of the stairs, her drunk daughter beside her, and looking at the man who literally destroyed their lives. The man who's currently leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed like he owned the place (which he does—at least partly).

"She's fourteen. I just took her home from a party that she wasn't allowed to attend; seconds ago, she was throwing up into the sink because she's drunk—and you lecture her about drinking and send her off to bed and that's it?"

"You want to talk about my parenting skills right now?" her eyes twitch in anger. "You want to talk about how I handle things with my daughter? You want to talk about behavior?"

One step down the stairs and Rachel's hand slips off her back. Another step and she's only one and a half meters away from him. "Do you really want to go there right now? Do you really want to argue with me while our daughter is sick to her stomach?"

"And why is she sick, Shelby? Because she drank!"

"Yes, yes, I know that, I'm not stupid, David. But that's not the point, okay?" she rakes a hand through her hair. "It's—not—the—point and you know that. Stop playing the asshole, David, just- just stop it."

David huffs slightly. "I'm just saying you shouldn't let her get away with it just like that."

"Oh well, I don't give a damn about what you say anymore."

"I see," his answer is thin-lipped and sharp, and Shelby can't help but raise her brows at that.

"Are you offended now?" she says, crossing her arms in front of her.

"No, no. Not at all," but he says it in this voice that tells her yes, absolutely. It's this arrogant, aren't-you-a-stupid-little-know-it-all voice that she can imagine on a stunted hick of sorts. But she never ever imagined hearing her husband—her husband—speak to her in such a tone.

"Good. That's- good," Shelby turns. "You don't have the right to be offended anyways; you lost that right the second you kissed another woman."

"So, you're saying I won't have a say in our daughters' upbringing anymore?!"

His eyes flare up with anger and he pushes away from the doorframe. Finally, as Shelby thinks, because she isn't sure she would've been able to keep her calm had he stayed with his arms crossed in front of him like some sort of arrogant observer, about to tell her what she's doing right or wrong.

"If you're going to teach them how to cheat on your wife and be a neglectful ass, then no, you won't."

David's features harden into a scowl. His lips part, already preparing to form the words but then, there's a tiny little voice from behind Shelby that beats him to it. The woman turns around to see her daughter, still slightly pale, clutch the bannister of the stairs.

"M-mom," she says, her voice trembling a little. "I'm just gonna go upstairs, okay?"

Almost immediately, Shelby's face melts in concern; her brow softens, and her eyes widen in worry. "Oh, honey, are you alright?"

Rachel's head dips low to suggest a nod but she seems too weak for any further reaction. She looks at Shelby from halfway closed eyes and mutters a quiet "You gonna lay down with me?"

"I'll come upstairs as soon as I can."

From slightly narrowed eyes, Shelby watches her daughter turn and climb up the stairs—considerately slower than usual with her head swaying from side to side. When Rachel finally disappears around the corner, Shelby turns again, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'll try to make this as quick as I possibly can," she hisses, raising one finger in front of his face. "You don't get to waltz in here and tell me what to do and what not to do; you don't get to talk about the way I'm raising our daughters when they're standing right next to me; you don't get to stand there and do nothing but watch me comfort our child while she's throwing up and then tell me that I should be harder on her and you don't—and I mean you don't—get to talk to me about behavior when you're the one that went off and screwed some other woman behind my back!"

She sees how David clenches his fists in anger. "So, you're just going to forbid me from seeing the girls? You're going to cut me out of their lives?"

"No, I'm not," Shelby spits back. "Don't blame everything on me, David! That the girls don't want to see you is your own doing—you behave like an ass, you lied to all of us for years and now, you want them to trust and love you all the same? In what kind of sick universe does that work out well for you? For any of us?"

"God, Shelby, I'd never thought you could sink this low."

"What?! I could sink this low? How about you, huh? How about your lying and- and cheating?"

David shakes his head, almost in disappointment. "That you would sink this low and set the girls against me just to punish me."

"Set the girls against you?" Shelby rakes her fingers through her hair in a desperate attempt to compose herself. "I'm not setting anyone against you!"

"Then why is Rachel neither receiving nor answering any of my texts? Why does Santana never pick up her phone when I call?"

He pushes further away from the doorway, stepping closer to Shelby with his fists still clenched. He looks furious. "Why do my calls on the landline get redirected to a pizza delivery service?"

Shelby crosses her arms in front of her chest. "Santana showed Rachel how to block certain numbers and she doesn't pick up her phone because she doesn't want to talk to you and- have you ever thought about the possibility that I might not have anything to do with that?"

"Yeah right," he lets out a dry laugh. "God, Shelby, you're such a vindictive bitch-" Smack.

In her mind, Shelby remembers the lessons her parents have taught her well enough. Not every single one of them, of course—there were just too many—but at least the most important ones.

And she always considered "do not fight" as one of those. But still, she receives an almost sickening amount of pleasure from the feeling of her palm meeting her (definitely soon-to-be ex-) husband's cheek.

If she weren't the proud, stubborn woman she is, she would probably admit that—God, that stings—but she wouldn't want to embarrass herself or, God forbid, admit defeat of any kind. She withdraws her hand as quickly as she extended it, folding it underneath her right elbow as she gestures at the door. "Get out."

David gapes at her in disbelief. "What the-"

"I said 'get out'!" Shelby spits. "You do NOT call me a bitch and then expect me to let you stay in my house! Get out before I call the police on you!"

"Call the police on me? You're the one that just freaked out a-and slapped me in the face!"

Shelby steps closer. "And pray it doesn't get more, David! You want me to play the bitch? Then let me play the role my way. You'll hear from my lawyer—if you hear from me in any way ever again. And you will let the girls do what they want, am I making myself clear? No calls, no texts, no nothing. Or I'll see you in court the next time I see you at all."

She points at the front door. "Get out of my house, David!"

Her voice breaks, words stumbling over words over vowels over consonants over breaks, but she still manages to force out word after word with such fury that David visibly recoils. He gapes at her for about another second, then he finally jerks into a walk. Good for him because Shelby's eyes were already trained on the knife block behind him and in her mind—although subconsciously—she was calculating how many seconds it would take her to get one of those deliciously sharp kitchen knives versus getting the frypan from the sink.

David's steps, echoing through the house like the rumbling of thunder, come to a pause in front of the door. He turns to look at Shelby—eyes wide and perhaps even a little fearful—and then, without another word, he's gone. The door snaps shut, quietly but still strangely sharp in Shelby's ears. Strangely final.

She stands in the middle of the hallway—hands still shaking as the adrenaline slowly leaves her system—and listens to the faint sound of an engine roaring, a car driving away. It's completely silent in the house, so the small groan that makes Shelby's lips part as she rubs over her stinging hand seems booming.

It's final, it's final, it's final.

Her head is vacant of all thoughts except those.

For what feels like all eternity, she stands there in the middle of the hallway, staring at the closed door to her opposite and trying to comprehend what just happened—and what the recent events would mean for their future.

And then, with a determination that will later on impress her, Shelby wraps her fingers around her left hand and pulls the silver ring off. In its place comes the thumb of her left hand, brushing over the vacant spot as if to lift the strange feeling of something missing. The ring is heavy in her hand, heavier than she remembered it to be. It's cold; smooth.

Trying not to think about what she's doing, she turns and places the silver band on the top shelf next to the front door.

Her fingers find her phone in the pocket of her pants.

iMessage

Saturday, 12th December

1:08 a.m.

Shelby: I'm thinking the two of us (and the girls if they want to) on a ridiculously expensive yacht in the Caribbean bought from the money I'll get when I sell my wedding ring?

Cassie: WHAT DID HE DO?!

1:09 a.m.

Cassie: And also, yes. Yacht, cocktails, Caribbean, hot guys. Count me in.

Cassie: Why the hell are you awake? Are you drunk?

Shelby: No, I'm not. Are you free this afternoon?

Cassie: I'll bring cake.

Wait, I know what you're going to say. Shelby should be raging at Rachel and ground her fOr lIfE. And, for the record, I'm not a mom, so I have no idea whatsoever about punishments and how I would react if my child... and also, my parents actually allow me to go to parties and drink and I never sneaked out before (a saint of a child you would think but you'd be wrong hehe) so I'm completely clueless as to how my mom would react. Which means I'm trying to be empathetic here and see this from Shelby's point of view. And here's what I think: First of all, she's shocked. Like why the heck is David here and why the heck is he here with my daughter? (Notice how I switch to first person here lol) Second of all, she's, of course, angry af. Angry at Rachel for going to that party without permission, DRINKING WITHOUT PERMISSION. Angry at David for basically existing and, more complicatedly, for being the reason that her daughters are miserable and Rachel's drinking. Then, she's concerned because Rachel's not exactly feeling well at the moment and she's even more concerned that their current family situation made her try to drown her feelings in alcohol and drink away her misery.
So, I can imagine her to be quite torn, you know? There're like two Shelby's in her inside, trying to get her to act.
There's the one that's so freaking pissed that she just wants to grab Rachel and ground her for life and make her do -I don't know- stuff, no matter if she's throwing up or not. And then, there's the one that's just so concerned and worried about the how and why and what of this story. She's the one that wants to sit Rachel down and talk to her about everything, that wants to make sure that she's fine and happy and healthy, no matter what she did.
And I think that, while Rachel's as drunk as she is, the Concerned, Worried Shelby just wins over the other. But I promise you that we're going to see Freaking Pissed Shelby in the chapters to come. Not right away, I'm afraid, but very soon. (I'm gonna wait for now for the response to this chapter and then see if I should change up some stuff I already wrote. Wish me luck that it's gonna flow with at least that.)
Now, here's the end of my rant lol. This was very long, I'm sorry.
I hope all of you are staying safe and healthy and happy wherever, whoever, whatever you are. And if you're not, then I hope you're gonna get there soon.
Bye for now;)