A/N: This story deals with mature subject matter. Subjects addressed are dissociative identity disorder, (non-graphic) abuse, and attempted suicide. Please read at your own discretion.

Song used in this chapter is Sara Bareilles' "City." Also, yes, things move too fast in this. I know. ;)

"So I told him that I certainly couldn't respect the opinion of a producer who didn't know the difference from an original London cast and a revival cast. I suspect this is what lost me the part…"

They were trailing behind Brittany and Santana, and Quinn was torn between trying to hear what her sister and the blonde girl were discussing, and listening to Rachel. But Rachel's voice effectively drowned out anything Santana might be saying, and though Quinn was only half-tuned in to what Rachel was going on about, Quinn was more than cognizant of the five-foot-two diva walking next to her.

Maybe it was Rachel's perfume, the soft scent of some designer fragrance coming off in waves. Or maybe it was how she wasn't, for once, dressed in an animal sweater, but was instead wearing jeans and a black shirt. Maybe it was the way the street lights reflected off the sparkle in her brown eyes. Or maybe it was the way Rachel would chew her lip when she was deep in thought, seeming to consider with utmost care every question Quinn put to her.

And maybe it was the way that Quinn wanted to know everything about her, despite how much the other girl talked: what she liked, what she didn't like, what classes she was taking, what she wanted to do after college, what her fathers were like, what life had been like for her growing up in Lima…

Whatever it was, though Quinn's ears were mildly tuning Rachel out even as she somehow managed to hang on every word, the rest of her was aware – painfully aware – of the young woman striding purposefully next to her.

"I can't believe I didn't know you sing," Quinn offered weakly, then immediately berated herself for such a dumb comment.

But Rachel just smiled and laughed a little. "It's okay, Quinn, we only have one class together. I can't expect you to know everything about me after just ninety minutes of contact two days a week."

They fell into silence then, Quinn thinking, regretfully, that she hadn't even really had contact with Rachel outside of what had happened that week. She'd been trying not to think about it, because after 12 years of dealing, she knew that dwelling on things made them worse. Still, the one thing she couldn't get out of her mind was the way Rachel's hand had felt on her back, small but gentle.

Santana kept glancing back at her and each time Quinn would just shake her head, wanting to tell her sister to quit worrying, but knowing it was futile. Asking for Santana not to worry about her was like asking their family to not be Catholic – impossible.

But at the same time, Santana seemed to be just as distracted by the tall blonde walking next to her as Quinn was by Rachel. Brittany was sweet, Quinn thought; almost too sweet, but she could tell from the moment Brittany had bounded into the coffee shop ahead of Rachel and dragged both Santana and Quinn out by the hand, towards the direction of the bar, that every ounce of sweetness and light in her was genuine. Brittany was wearing jeans too, that seemed to hug every curve, every inch of her long dancer's legs, along with another tank top that (mercifully, Quinn thought) was devoid of animals and a plain, simple blue.

Quinn felt painfully overdressed in her blue dress with the white cardigan, and Santana had teased her saying that she looked more like she was going to Mass than out drinking, but Quinn had retorted that she wouldn't be drinking anyway, someone needed to make sure her sister got home in one piece. Santana just rolled her eyes.

And Rachel? Rachel had taken one look at Quinn and smiled, saying quietly, "You look lovely in blue, Quinn. It brings out your eyes, somehow."

Brittany and Santana used their fakes to get into the bar and headed straight for the bartender, while Rachel and Quinn accepted the stamps on their hands with grins at each other, moving to grab a table for the four of them in the back corner.

Mike's wasn't a dive but it wasn't upscale, either; it was somewhere in the middle, where you wouldn't find peanut shells on the floor but there wouldn't be cocktail napkins with your drinks. Instead, Santana and Brittany plunked their beers onto the table and handed Rachel a water and Quinn a Coke before seating themselves across from the two girls.

"Not bad," Santana said over the music thumping through the speaker system. "I guess you were right."

"Right?" Brittany said.

"Sometimes you just want to sit in the back corner of a bar and drink a beer." Santana grinned at Brittany before downing half of hers in one gulp, and Brittany laughed.

"I like your style."

"Get a room, already, you two," Rachel joked, laughing, and Brittany smirked.

Quinn laughed as Rachel bumped her shoulder, tipping her head at her sister, who was desperately trying not to appear embarrassed under the dim light of the bar, and failing miserably. Quinn felt light, happy, dizzy with whatever light floral fragrance Rachel was wearing and the nearness of the other girl, an excitement fluttering in Quinn's chest that she hadn't felt in years.

It felt a lot like… like she liked Rachel.

A lot.

She was smiling to herself, thinking that she hadn't been this happy in a while, and she reached her hand out for the bottle of soda in front of her. But she misjudged and her fingers hit the neck of the glass, tipping it over. Santana gave a shriek as the soda began flowing over the table towards her, and Rachel rolled her eyes.

"It's just Coke, Santana, not acid. Quinn, can you hand me those napkins over there? Quinn? Quinn, are you okay?"

But Quinn had frozen to her spot, eyes wide and unfocused.

"God is great, God is good, and we thank Him for our food. Through His love we all are fed; give us this day our daily bread. Amen."

She unfolded her hands and glanced straight up into brown eyes; her father smiled and Quinn smiled back, settling against the chair and trying not to kick her feet. All around her at the table, her parents' guests were also sharing smiles, marveling at the sweet, polite perfectness of the Fabrays' six-year-old daughter.

Everything was perfect. Russell Fabray was in his suit, calm but appropriately jovial as he had walked around the parlor serving drinks and cracking jokes with everyone. Judy was 1950s-advertisement perfect, down to the pearls around her neck, as she entertained the wives from her church club and kept a watchful eye on the little girl who sat primly on a chair. Quinn had answered every question about school or "Was she a good girl?" with the correct "Yes, sir, no, ma'am," ever-cognizant of the looks both her parents would cast her way. Not one curl of her blonde hair was out of place; her lace socks were folded on her ankles just as they should be; each ruffle of her white dress was in place, exactly where it should be.

And then Daddy had picked her up and carried her into the dining room. Quinn had been surprised; usually she'd eat dinner with Mrs. Reynolds, their housekeeper, but Daddy had happily told their guests "We've got a little princess joining us today, I hope no one minds?"

And of course, no one minded. No one ever minded a suggestion by Russell Fabray, darling of the secular corporate and Baptist church world.

She felt proud, sitting next to her mother as Daddy served the turkey and Judy cut it into pieces small enough for her. She was a big girl. Big enough to sit at the adults' table on Thanksgiving instead of the kitchen, big enough to eat her food off the good china instead of a plastic plate. Big enough to have her Daddy smile at her with a twinkle in his eyes, instead of that other way; big enough to reach for the milk that Daddy had poured into a wine glass just for her, big enough for her fingers to…

Knock against the glass.

And she felt small, so utterly, terribly small, watching the glass tip over as if in slow-motion, watching the delicate rim shatter against the table and the milk flow onto the cloth, spreading ever wider and bigger…

And then the world was silent, devoid of conversation or laughter, nothing except the sound of her quickening breath and a voice – her mother's – to her right, nervous and mournful.

"Oh, Quinn."

"Well," Russell Fabray boomed, and Quinn jumped with a squeak. "It seems perhaps my little princess is still a little too young to sit at the big table." The guests laughed, Mrs. Fabray quickly mopping up the mess with hers and Quinn's napkins. Russell swept his daughter up into his arms and she winced as he held tightly – a little too tightly.

"And if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to tuck her into bed and be right back."

Over his shoulder as Quinn's father walked up the stairs with her, Quinn caught sight of her mother's blue eyes, shining with unshed tears, and Quinn whimpered, burying her face against his suit and whispering what she hoped, in her little six year old mind, would earn her a reprieve.

"Daddy, I'm sorry…"

At the end of the Fabray Thanksgiving dinner table, a man looking and feeling terribly out of place fumbled in his seat. He knew he wasn't what the Fabrays – or their other guests – were used to; Russell only invited his mechanic to Thanksgiving dinner because of the discount he got after a fender-bender in the parking lot of his office building. (That assistant had been fired the next day, Fabray had confided in him, a smile like the Cheshire cat on his face. Predatory.) Conversation had resumed but his mind was on three things: one, the little boy that he had left at home with his grandmother; two, the wife he had buried less than four months earlier; and three, the uneasiness that was rising up in his stomach.

She looked like a little doll, he thought, as he was unable to refocus on the plate before him, piled high as it was with, he assumed, the most expensive foods that money could buy. They'd even had caviar as an appetizer, which to him both looked and tasted like what he imagined cat food would. Instead, he couldn't stop thinking about the little girl, and the hazel eyes that had stared at her mother over her father's shoulder. In those eyes, he'd seen something he didn't think he'd ever seen before in a child.

Complete, abject terror.

And when Russell Fabray had lifted his daughter out of her chair, his mechanic had seen something else, something that had him standing up from his seat finally, and saying politely to Mrs. Fabray, "If you'll excuse me, I need to call my son."

But yes, he thought as he walked out to the parlor, cell phone in hand, she looked like a doll. A doll with perfectly curled blonde hair, wearing a white lacy dress that had ridden up on her thighs when her father had picked – no, seized – her up.

And his mechanic had seen bruises.

He could hear the sounds coming from upstairs, then, as if from behind a door closed shut and locked tightly against the rest of the world: muffled blows and the soft, muted pleadings of a little girl, and he swallowed down the revulsion in his throat, thumb hovering over the keypad of his phone.

Stay out of it, he told himself. Stay out of it. He had just lost his wife; he really couldn't afford to lose Fabray's business, and his boy…

He sighed. His boy wasn't like the rest. Already he was being teased for being smaller, softer, for loving The Sound of Music when most kids – most boys – his age were loving video games or slugging it out on the football field. He was sensitive, and was still struggling with the fact that they'd buried his mother just recently after the cancer had taken everything she'd had.

He needed to protect his boy.

But the blows from upstairs seemed to be louder, the pleadings fading away into wordless, wrenching sobs and for a moment, he wondered who would protect his boy, if not for him? And this little girl… who was protecting her?

He shook his head, and with a deep breath, Burt Hummel dialed.

"Allen County 911, what is your emergency?"

Quinn was startled out of her memory by a warm, gentle hand on hers. Relief flooded her and she opened her eyes, smiling down and expecting to see Santana's hand, but she blinked in confusion. The skin was tan, but the fingers that curled around hers were small and dainty, with perfectly clipped nails, unlike Santana's jagged ones, bitten off after too many late nights cramming for tests.

Quinn raised her eyes until she met the owner of that hand.

Rachel.

"I'm sorry," Quinn said. "I didn't mean to spill it, I'll clean it up, I…" She stopped, faltering, expecting to see anger and confused by the utterly gentle and calm look on Rachel's face.

She could see Santana watching them both, her body taut like a snake, ready to strike at the first sign of trouble.

But Rachel just smiled, brown eyes centered on Quinn, unwavering.

"You know," she said conversationally, holding softly to Quinn while her other hand used a towel brought by the bartender to mop up the drink. "When I was ten years old, I was celebrating Christmas with my grandparents – the Christian ones, obviously, not the Jewish ones – and my grandfather decided that I should have my first taste of wine. My grandmother objected, but my granddad just laughed and gave me some red wine – extremely watered down."

Rachel's voice was so low that Quinn could barely hear it, but still, somehow, it was as if hers was the only voice in the crowded room. She concentrated herself on the smooth motion of Rachel's left thumb stroking over her own knuckles, on the quick work Rachel made of the mess on the table.

"I was so excited, sitting at the adults' table, even though my feet didn't reach the floor—"

"Bet they still don't," Santana muttered, but was silenced when Brittany giggled and threw her arm around the woman's shoulders, hushing her. Quinn smirked a little, seeing a deep flush rise on her sister's cheeks, before turning her attention back to Rachel.

Rachel finished wiping up the table, and then drew her other hand back to Quinn's, cupping it in both of hers. "So I sat up straight, ready to be a big girl, when Granddad put that wine in front of me. I reached out for it, my hand shaking… and promptly knocked the glass over. All over grandma's best, white lace tablecloth."

Quinn gasped, her eyes widening. The corner of Rachel's mouth turned up a little.

"What… what happened?" Quinn asked.

She closed her eyes then, against the onslaught of images. She couldn't imagine it – little ten year old Rachel, being punished… being beaten for it. A tiny Rachel's face, twisted with fear and pain, cries going unheard and echoing into the night…

There was a squeeze to her fingers, and Quinn opened her eyes to see Rachel still smiling at her.

"I burst into tears, because my grandma was always talking about how a proper lady should behave, and I just knew I was going to catch it for ruining her favorite tablecloth that her mother had given her, and her grandmother before that."

Quinn nodded miserably. "I don't think I want to hear—"

"But," Rachel interrupted, squeezing Quinn's hand again. "While my granddad grabbed a washcloth to soak up that horrible red stain that to me seemed to be the most gigantic thing in the world, my grandma picked me up and snuggled me. And you know what she said?"

Quinn shook her head.

"What is this?" Santana wondered. "A Hallmark commercial?"

"Santana, shut up," Quinn said, and her sister gaped at her.

"Might want to do what she says," Brittany mused.

"Both of you are traitors," Santana said sullenly.

"I barely know you."

"Can I get on with this story?" Rachel said, exasperated. "It does have a point, you know."

Quinn's fingers tightened around Rachel's. "Please?"

"Come on," Brittany said, pushing at Santana until the woman slid out from the table. "Let's go get another drink."

"But I—"

"Let's go," Brittany said, and grabbed Santana's hand, pulling her towards the bar.

"Finally," Rachel breathed, shaking her head.

Quinn stared off after Santana, feeling that old familiar panic rise up within her, until a gentle tug on her hand made her glance at Rachel.

"My grandma hugged me," Rachel said simply. "She hugged me and said that the stain was a good thing."

"A good thing?" Quinn arched an eyebrow. Her fa—Russell Fabray would have never said that a stain was a good thing.

"A good thing," Rachel repeated. "Because she said that stain on a fifty-year-old tablecloth was proof that a family had used it. And you know," Rachel said, her eyes taking on a faraway look at the memory, "She pulled that tablecloth with its hideous red stain out with her best china for every holiday dinner until she died. And now it's mine."

"Oh." Quinn nodded, staring down at her hand clasped in Rachel's, and was momentarily jealous of the small girl who had a family that didn't care about reputation, about names, about staining more than just a tablecloth.

"Quinn."

Hazel eyes met brown, and there was something in those eyes that Quinn had never seen before, and she felt herself tremble. She stared down at her lap again.

"It happens, okay?" Rachel said softly, thumb still trailing over Quinn's knuckles in slow circles. "It happens, and it's all right. Okay?"

She ducked her head to meet Quinn's eyes once more.

Quinn took a deep breath, and nodded. "Okay."

How, she wondered, had Rachel known? And what's more, how had she understood?

It was easy, this talking to Rachel… and for a moment, Quinn was terrified.

"Okay." Rachel's smile was beaming, and Quinn's breath caught in her throat. Seeing that Santana and Brittany were on their way back to the table, beers in hand, Rachel released Quinn's hand and straightened up, a determined look in her eyes.

"It's time for me to sing," she said. "You'll listen?"

Quinn grinned. "I'm not sure there's any way I couldn't listen to you, since you'll be the only one singing?" She laughed as Rachel huffed. "I'll listen. I want to hear how good you are."

"Oh, I'm always good," Rachel shot cheekily, over her shoulder, and Quinn swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise to her face.

"She really is good," Brittany said, sliding into the her seat across from Quinn and tugging Santana to sit next to her, even though the Latina had moved to Quinn's side. Santana scowled, and Quinn giggled.

"At singing, though," Brittany added thoughtfully. "I've tried to find out if she sounds good at other things, but Rachel says she's not interested."

Santana's eyes narrowed and Quinn marveled at the spark of jealousy that rose up within the brown darkness, before she was distracted by Rachel stepping up on to the stage at the front of the bar. The stage was really nothing more than a wooden platform that looked less safe than Quinn was comfortable with (and she momentarily wondered why she cared), a single microphone set up in the center, and a stereo – for backing tracks, she guessed – set off to one side.

Rachel didn't introduce herself; it wouldn't have mattered since most of the patrons didn't even notice she had stepped up to the mic, that same look of steely determination in her eyes. But her gaze met Quinn's and it softened as she smiled.

Quinn smiled back as the gentle opening notes of a piano began to course over the talk of the people around them.

There's a harvest each Saturday night
At the bars filled with perfume and hitching a ride
A place you can stand for one night and get gone

Quinn blinked in shock. Rachel's eyes had closed, and she was holding on to the mic with her hand, oblivious to everything around her, concentrating on carrying her voice over the crowd, over the noise of glassing clinking, laughter, and conversation.

And her voice… was gorgeous.

"Dance with me?"

Quinn looked over her shoulder at Brittany, who was smiling at Santana hopefully.

Santana, for her part, looked uncomfortable. "This isn't even a gay bar," she said.

"Who said anything about being gay?" Brittany gently pushed Santana to a standing position, and then took her hand. "Just two friends sharing a dance, hmm?"

Quinn smiled and shrugged her shoulders as Santana stared at her helplessly before Brittany led her to the dance floor. She looked back at Rachel, who was now singing with her eyes open, staring directly at Quinn.

It's clear this conversation ain't doing a thing
Cause these boys only listen to me when I sing
And I don't feel like singing tonight
All the same songs

Brittany's arms were around Santana's waist; Santana was keeping space between them as they swayed together in the center of the floor, but by the way they were looking at each other and laughing together, Quinn figured that space wouldn't last very long. She fought down the pang of envy and met Rachel's gaze.

Rachel's voice, to Quinn, was like a cup of hot chocolate in Mami's kitchen after walking home from school during a freezing Lima winter. It warmed her, spreading through chest, and it seemed even her fingertips were alight with the way Rachel sounded out each note, pitch perfect, soaring and passionate. Quinn watched her, taking in the changing expressions on Rachel's face, the way her body moved in rhythm with the song and the way she caressed the mic as if it were a lover, and Quinn Lopez realized what it all meant.

Rachel Berry was beautiful. And Rachel Berry was born to sing.

Here in these deep city lights
Girl could get lost tonight
I'm finding every reason to be gone
Nothing here to hold on to
Could I hold you?

The space had diminished between Santana and Brittany. Rachel's next two songs were slow; Brittany's dance was slower, and Santana had her head rested on the girl's shoulder. Quinn felt that familiar ache in her palms, the twinge of pain that spoke to her of loneliness, of the desire to lay her head on someone's shoulder and let it all go.

But she couldn't. She knew she never could. They'd never understand.

Rachel ended her set to mild applause – the most enthusiastic of which was Quinn's – then as the bartender switched the music back to its regular, thumping bass, she grabbed a water bottle and headed off stage towards the back of the bar. Santana and Brittany came giggling back to the table and Quinn, suddenly feeling like a third wheel, muttered something about having to go to the bathroom and got up.

She met Rachel in the hallway outside of the bathroom. Rachel smiled at her. "It's locked," she said, gesturing towards the door. "I hope whoever is inside is using it for actual business and not for… well, couple activities."

Quinn flushed crimson. "They do that in there?" She squeaked.

Rachel laughed. "You've been to clubs before, haven't you?"

Quinn clenched her teeth, unwilling to remember anything about her last few club excursions. She simply nodded.

"Hey," Rachel said, sounding concerned, her brow furrowed over dark eyes. She reached out and touched Quinn's upper arm gently. "I didn't mean—"

"You sounded amazing," Quinn blurted out. Smooth, Lopez, she instantly berated herself, and glanced down at the dirty wooden floor. "I mean, you sing… beautifully."

"You think so?"

Quinn glanced back up, catching the uncertainty in the little diva's (well, she was reminding Quinn of a diva, anyway) voice. She tilted her head, and then nodded. "Yeah, I really do. You were just… you were amazing up there, Rach."

Rach.

Once again her smile was blinding, and Quinn felt her heart skip.

"Thank you," Rachel said, her eyes trained on her shoes and a flush spreading over her cheeks.

"Sure," Quinn responded, just as the door to the bathroom opened and a flustered-looking young woman – followed by a man holding tightly to her hand – exited. Rachel sighed and caught Quinn's eye.

"Guess I won't be going in there," she said with a grin.

"Guess not," Quinn grinned back.

They fell into silence then, not sure what to say and neither of them wanting to go back to the tables.

Finally, Rachel said, "Quinn, I—"

"We should—"

They laughed. "You first," Quinn said.

Rachel nodded. "Quinn, I… I don't know what happened the other day, at school."

Quinn tensed, briefly closing her eyes and trying to fight the sudden wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Quinn." Rachel's fingers were on her wrist; her voice was cautious. "I don't know what happened, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But… if you ever need to talk, you can talk to me, okay? About anything."

Quinn let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding; her muscles relaxed and she forced a smile to her face. "Everything's fine, Rachel. I just got a little overwhelmed that day. But thank you, really."

Rachel seemed doubtful, but she nodded slowly. "Of course."

"We should probably get back to Brittany and Santana."

"You know, Quinn… I like you."

She blinked in surprise at the news. "I… I like you too."

"And I meant what I said."

"What you said?"

"To Brittany." Quinn shot Rachel a confused look, and the petite singer blushed an even deeper shade of red, if that was possible.

"You really are very pretty, Quinn."

"Oh." She rolled her eyes; apparently her usual charm was going to be non-existent tonight. But she took a deep breath, noticing that Rachel had shuffled a little closer, so that their arms were touching as they both leaned against the wall.

"I think you're pretty," Quinn confessed, not looking at her.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "Really, really pretty."

It sounded to her like the dumbest thing in the world, and evidently Rachel thought so too, because she'd pushed off the wall with her foot, and Quinn closed her eyes against the brief disappointment within her, only to open them again when she felt Rachel's hand, soft and gentle on her shoulder.

"Quinn…" Rachel's teeth worried her lower lip as she hesitated.

"Yes?" Quinn prompted.

"Would it be…" Rachel's eyes darted to the left and right before settling back on Quinn. "Would it be all right if I kissed you?"

No, Quinn thought. No, it wouldn't be all right. I'm damaged goods and this won't end well and you don't want me.

It was on the tip of her tongue, the very tip of her tongue to spill out all the thoughts racing through her mind, to tell Rachel to run like hell away from her and never look back.

But Rachel was beautiful in the crappy backlight of the bar, and the ache in her palms was there, that hope, that persistent "what if," even as her brain was screaming at Quinn to get out of there.

Instead, she nodded. "Yeah," she breathed. "Yeah, it would."

"Oh, okay." Rachel seemed a little shocked but she shuffled closer, her hand moving from Quinn's shoulder to gently cup her cheek. "Okay."

"Okay…"

It only took an instant for an achingly soft pressure to descend onto Quinn's lips as Rachel pushed herself up on her toes and kissed her, and it ended in an instant when Rachel rocked back onto her heels and stared up at Quinn, a look of uncertainty combined with want on her face.

And Quinn wanted to do it again, because Rachel had tasted like sweet and musk and something tart that she couldn't put her finger on. So her hand came up to softly wind through brown locks as this time, Quinn bent low and Rachel tilted up, their mouths meeting halfway.

Quinn set the pace and Rachel let her, slow, ever so slow until Quinn realized that Rachel's mouth had opened slightly, granting her access, and when Quinn's tongue slipped inside she moaned slightly, giggling when she felt Rachel smile against her mouth.

"You're beautiful," Rachel managed to whisper, kissing her lightly. "You really are."

Quinn shook her head, aware of nothing else - even the people moving around them to get to the bathroom – but Rachel's lips on hers, gentle and inviting. Rachel's warm breath, Rachel's hand against her cheek, moving tenderly over her shoulder, down her arm, coming to rest snugly against Quinn's waist…

Quinn jerked away.

"Quinn?" Rachel's voice was small, worried. "Quinn, did I do something wrong?"

Her head was spinning, the blood pounding in her temple and she could feel her fists begin to clench.

"No," Quinn choked out. "No, you didn't… I… It's me, it's all… I have to… Rachel, I'm sorry."

She stumbled away, Rachel following after her, calling her name, but Quinn ignored her. She saw Brittany and Santana at the table, sitting close, with Santana's forehead nearly resting against the taller blonde girl's. They moved closer, and Quinn whimpered, knowing that Santana was never going to forgive her for this, but she knew Rachel was right behind her.

"We have to go."

Santana pulled back from Brittany, though their lips had been mere centimeters apart; her darkened eyes widened upon seeing the look on her sister's face.

"What did she do?"

"Nothing, we just, I need to… I have to… We have to go!"

Quinn spun on her heel, hugging herself, and ran out of the bar and out onto the street, turning in the direction of home.

"Quinn!"

She ignored the calls again.

"Quinn, what the hell is going on? Come on, talk to me!"

She shook her head, still holding herself, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she walked away from Santana into the crisp New York night, Rachel's voice still echoing in her ears.

Here in these deep city lights… a girl could get lost tonight…