Author's Note: This chapter went through a lot of changes and revisions and edits – all before it even reached Mike Ownby. This, apparently, is what happens when the author has lots of late-night revelations but the girls don't want to cooperate :D
On a side note re: COVID-19, Mike and I are both fine! We hope all you readers are staying safe and staying home.
Marley cheerfully goes about her morning routine, singing an impromptu medley of Jim and Sam's songs interspersed with songs Quinn recognizes from Glee. There's even – to Quinn's unending horror – some dancing involved.
Really, it would all be very adorable if Marley wasn't doing it at seven in the morning, when Quinn hasn't had her coffee yet.
She clears her throat. "You're eager."
Marley spins around. Quinn hastily averts her eyes when she spies the bra hanging haphazardly from Marley's arm. Marley furrows her brow, momentarily confused, then follows Quinn's line of sight… "Shoot, sorry," says Marley, snatching away the bra and stuffing it into her bag.
"Someone's excited," says Quinn dryly, arching an eyebrow.
"Heck yeah I'm excited! It's my turn to be the big geek!"
Quinn shakes her head. She wouldn't have described it the way Marley did, but she has to admit; she prefers Grand Rapids more than Santana's original plan to get to Chicago early and seeing how many bars their fake IDs will get them into. But her own enthusiasm is dwarfed by Marley's, and what's worse, it's contagious.
They're checking out of the motel and heading to the car when Quinn's phone rings. She winces; she'd forgotten to switch her phone to silent this morning, and Rachel's voice is now belting out Don't Rain on My Parade from her pocket.
Marley snickers. "Nice ringtone."
"I don't wanna hear it, Rose," says Quinn, mock-threateningly. She fishes her phone out of her pocket. "What is it, Rachel."
"Well, isn't that a lovely greeting for someone you haven't spoken to in days," comes Rachel's voice, sounding huffy. "Hello, Quinn. I've missed you and it's lovely to hear your voice."
"I would've been much more cheerful if you hadn't changed my ringtone for you when I wasn't looking, and if I'd had my morning coffee."
"It makes so much more sense to have my voice informing you when I'm calling, Quinn, rather than that Green Day song you chose."
Quinn smirks. She makes a mental note to change the ringtone back to Basket Case after the call ends.
"Quinn, your travel itinerary clearly states that you two are supposed to be on the road to Grand Rapids by seven forty-five, and it is eight now. How am I supposed to know whether you've been sufficiently caffeinated by now if you don't follow the schedule?"
Quinn feels a headache building. "... Why do you have a copy of my itinerary, again?"
"So I could plan my own schedule accordingly, in case you wished to call me and tell me about how your trip is going." Coming from any other person it would have been sarcastic, but Rachel sounds perfectly earnest and sincere.
"... So that's why my phone calendar's been popping up with all these Call Rachel notifications." She'd turned off her notifications after the fifth or sixth popup, and forgot all about them.
"I had hoped that a small reminder would have jogged your memory, in the highly unlikely event you would be having so much fun you had forgotten to call me," replies Rachel.
"Sorry."
"Apology accepted. Now, how are things? How's Marley? Is she alive, or have you murdered her and are halfway across the border to Canada?"
Quinn rolls her eyes.
"Don't roll your eyes at me."
"How did you know?"
"I know you, Quinn Fabray."
Quinn laughs. She holds out the phone to Marley, who looks at her quizzically. "Rachel thinks I've murdered you," says Quinn. "Convince her otherwise."
"Hi, Rachel!" Marley calls. "We're fine! This is not a pre-recorded message!"
"Lovely," proclaims Quinn, wrinkling her nose, and puts the phone back to her ear. "Are you convinced now?"
"Marginally," says Rachel cheerfully, as Marley cackles in the background.
"You're insane."
"I know you meant that as an insult, Quinn, but I welcome it. In fact, I'm grateful for it. I will unfortunately but inevitably receive plenty of rejections from producers on my rise to stardom, so I need all the practice I can get being belittled."
"You're welcome," says Quinn. She really doesn't know how to respond to that. "Rach, did you have anything else important to say before I hang up on you?"
"Only that you should talk to Santana more. She's a bitch and won't say it, but she misses you; and because she misses you, her torment of me has tripled."
"Goodbye, Rachel," says Quinn, and ends the call.
Marley, busy humming along to her music, taps her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. "That sounded fun."
Quinn laughs. "Rachel and fun don't go together. Unless you're a masochist."
"Ouch."
"She's…" Quinn searches for words to describe Rachel. "She's an acquired taste. She grows on you once you get to know her."
"A lot of best friends are like that," Marley agrees.
The song changes. Quinn recognizes the opening bass line.
"We gotta sing!" yells Marley, turning up the volume.
"Are you crazy?" Quinn winces as the electric guitar reaches dangerous levels.
"Come on! We haven't had any car karaoke since this trip started! This is the perfect first song!" Marley launches into the first verse, practically yelling the words as her head bobs along with the music.
Quinn shoots her a concerned look.
Marley shrieks the chorus and – Quinn can't believe her eyes – does the rocker hand sign, sticking her tongue out. "Woah, we're halfway there!" she sings. "Woah, livin' on a prayer!'
"You're insane!" Quinn waves a hand at the wheel. "And you're driving!"They're the only car on a relatively straight stretch of highway; Quinn knows she's grasping at straws, and she has the sneaking suspicion Marley knows it too.
"You're not singing!"
Quinn shakes her head and mouths you're nuts at Marley. She rolls down her window, lets the wind flow through her hair, and locks away this memory.
They pick a little roadside diner along the highway for lunch. It feels very much like all the lunches they've ever had in diners; Marley with her phone out, Quinn with an earbud stuffed in one ear. The unspoken agreement they have, Quinn feels, is that lunchtime is their time to be alone together.
The waitress pours coffee for Quinn (she takes it with a hint of milk and sugar, and Marley makes a disgusted face). The expression on Marley's face grows more pronounced when Quinn practically gulps down the coffee and signals the waitress for a refill. Quinn shakes her head. It boggles her mind, how Marley Rose, who's probably the only kid in Lima who knows the difference between a julienne and a fricassee, doesn't like coffee "because it's too bitter and gross". "It's not poison, y'know," she says.
"Shut up."
Quinn cackles. "I'm curious to find out how you'll survive college without coffee."
"Honestly, I'm not very sure myself. But if I do manage it, maybe there'll be a hit television show, and a book deal."
The waitress arches an eyebrow at Quinn as she refills Quinn's coffee mug. She doesn't say anything, however. Quinn doesn't care; she's had worse. She wraps her hands around the mug, letting the aroma of coffee fill her senses.
Instead of quietly sipping her tea like she has for the past few mornings, Marley says: "Tell me something about yourself you'd like people to know about you."
Quinn blinks, startled. "What?"
"I enjoyed all the talking we did yesterday," Marley informs her. "We should do more of it."
"By playing college orientation games?"
Marley snorts. "I mean, sure, if you wanna think of them that way. But you'll be playing them when college starts, like it or not, so you might as well get some practice in."
She wonders what planet Marley hails from, if she thinks getting-to-know-you questions at college orientation are something one needs to practice for. "Must we?"
"It'll be fun," says Marley, wheedling – which means she doesn't have any more compelling arguments. "With a little luck, we'll have something else in common that we can talk about endlessly."
"I know what we've got in common. You filled out Rachel's travel partner compatibility quiz." Quinn never thought she'd do this, but she silently thanks Rachel for her overbearing insanity. "Not to mention we went through the entire itinerary together."
Marley pouts. "Yeah, but we'll never know for sure. We could see some intriguing road sign and make a detour. Or we could like a place so much we'll stay another day. Or we'll be caught up in some event we never knew was happening until we were there."
"Yeah, following strange road signs down country roads is exactly what those kids in teenage slasher flicks always do," retorts Quinn, and grins when Marley's pout intensifies.
"You're no fun."
"Uhm, you kinda knew that from the beginning, and then decided to go along with it anyway," says Quinn. "I think yesterday conclusively proved it."
Marley just laughs at her. "You go on and think whatever you want to think. You're not getting off easy, though." She takes another sip of tea, scrunches up her face, and adds more sugar. "Go on. Tell me something about yourself that you want others to know."
From what she's seen of Marley's personality so far, Quinn knows she can kiss her peaceful lunch goodbye; Marley's persistence is something Quinn finds simultaneously endearing and exhausting. She runs her teaspoon through her coffee, stalling for time, just as Marley says: "And no stalling for time until our food gets here."
"You must think you're sooo clever."
"I know so," replies Marley beatifically. "Why don't I go first? I like reading comic books."
"That's not a secret, you and Sam trade comic books and talk about Professor X or whoever in Glee."
"And how would you know about Professor X, hmm?"
"I dated Sam very briefly in our sophomore year." She'd come out of that relationship knowing how to say "I love you" in Klingon, Na'vi, and Gnomish, despite her best efforts. "He talks about his comics and other nerdy stuff a lot."
"Hmm." Marley squints at her. "You and Sam. I can almost see it, even if he looks like he could be your brother."
"No, thank you. Frannie is more than enough sibling for anyone." Quinn sips her coffee. "Sam and I worked better as friends. In fact, I got along better with his siblings than with him, really."
"His siblings?"
"He has a younger brother and sister," Quinn explains, "so most of our dates were babysitting them while his parents were out working."
"You babysit?"
Quinn shrugs. "It was that or work at our local Lima Bean, and my dad hated the idea of his friends seeing me brew coffee. He had this whole image thing going on, that we were too rich to be working for minimum wage, whatever."
"Right," says Marley, wrinkling her nose. She had looked on the verge of exploding when Quinn mentioned minimum wage.
"He only gave me money for stuff that he approved of, like new dresses for church, or piano classes, or some book our pastor recommended. I had to get a job if I wanted money for normal teen stuff," says Quinn dryly, making Marley laugh. "There're not many other jobs for teenagers in Lima, so… babysitting it was."
Marley nods. She has that look on her face, the one Quinn's starting to recognize as what Marley wears whenever Quinn talks about her dad.
"I don't think I need to mention that I'm the junior lunchlady," says Marley lightly. Quinn snorts.
"You mentioned it anyway."
"Oops." Marley looks unbothered. "Hey, I heard there might be an opening for temp junior lunchladies this summer," she says, bumping Quinn's elbow. "You interested?"
"Yeah, why not?" says Quinn, and is rewarded with a smile.
Marley practically skips towards the doors of the Grand Rapids Art Museum with such gusto that it makes Quinn laugh.
"You're really filling all the art kid stereotypes, aren't you?" Quinn teases. "Music, and now art."
"Please don't start talking to me about dimensions and saturation," Marley says. "I'm not the intellectual my tourist choices are making me out to be. I just like art 'cause it's pretty. And museums tend to have free entry."
She's reminded that Marley is on a strict budget and she's missing out on two weeks of catering business income to be on this trip. But Quinn doesn't react, doesn't let any kind of look get on her face. It's not a subject for discussion – at least not while they're being carefree teenagers on summer vacation.
At any rate, they seem to have a common, unspoken understanding that Quinn and her relationship with her father is off-limits, as is Marley's socio-economic status.
"If you ask me," says Quinn carefully, "I don't think that there needs to be a good reason for someone to like art museums."
Marley laughs at her. "Good idea," she says.
Much to Quinn's mild consternation, Marley doesn't take a map. She doesn't follow the suggested route (which is given in the map Quinn takes), but wanders haphazardly from gallery to gallery. She spends ten minutes in front of a statue of a hunched-over woman (Quinn thinks; she isn't absolutely certain) and bypasses everything else around it. She meticulously studies everything on display in one gallery (even the bemused guard) and skips the next gallery entirely.
It drives Quinn insane.
"Is there any particular reason for the – ah – grazing we're doing?" asks Quinn.
Marley pauses, halfway through her contemplation of a painting of a rural farm scene. "Grazing?" she replies, and giggles. "I like that word. I'm using it from now on."
"Sure."
Marley giggles again. "I figured you were the kind of person who would freak out if we didn't methodically view museums, but I didn't know you got this antsy."
"Please tell me you aren't doing this on purpose."
"Definitely not." Marley turns back to the painting. "I'm not doing anything on purpose. I like spending more time looking at works that I think are nice."
"So a single glance can tell you it's not worth looking at?" Quinn didn't mean to sound sarcastic, but the words come out pointed, even to her own ears.
Marley nods. "Yeah. It's a gut feeling for me. I don't think art is good or bad; there's just art I like and art I don't like."
Quinn can understand this. Her own approach is fairly egalitarian and scientific; she looks at all artworks before deciding whether she likes them or not, and her preferences are usually influenced by interesting backstories or some other trivia that give context. To her, the artist's message, their life circumstances that shaped the piece of art… those are all things that are inseparable from the artwork. She says so, and gets an interested look from Marley.
"That's a pretty intellectual approach," she says. "Mine is so much more shallow in comparison."
Quinn's eyes widen. "I really wasn't trying to compare."
"I know." Marley turns back to the landscape they're standing in front of. "That's another thing I really love about art too, that there's so many ways to interpret it, and even then sometimes it surprises you. Like this painting," she says, "it looks so nice and green, but it could be about world poverty or something. Or maybe it's actually the artist's idea of a hellscape. Or it could be his memory of a twisted childhood which he spent herding goats in Switzerland."
"... You're insane," says Quinn, trying not to laugh.
Marley shrugs. "Sometimes, it's fun judging a book by its cover," she quips, and wanders off to the next painting.
Quinn follows, resisting the urge to glance back at the painting.
When they arrive at the museum's exit, Marley makes a beeline for the museum's gift shop and the racks of postcards on display.
Quinn, trailing behind, doesn't take too long before she loses interest in the stacks of print-sized art and wanders off to browse through the shop's collection of glossy art books.
"Quinn, help," comes the plaintive cry not long after.
Quinn turns around, half-amused, half-mortified. "That is a problem you brought on yourself," she says, looking at the thick stack of postcards Marley has in her hands, and the hopeless expression the other girl is wearing.
"How can any person be expected to pick ten out of all these?" asks Marley with some exasperation. She glares down at the postcards in her hands, shuffling through the stack. Occasionally she returns one to the display.
Quinn takes pity on her when Marley's down to about thirty. She does her best to ignore the grinning sales assistant, instructing Marley to divide them into two piles; one for 'definite yeses' and the other for 'maybes'.
She is not amused when Marley sheepishly stacks them all in the yes pile.
"You wanted help."
"You can see that I really need it."
Quinn glares at her. She shuffles through the stack herself – deaf to Marley's sounds of alarm – and reorganizes the cards into several categories.
Marley squints. "How did you organize them?"
"These are landscapes," says Quinn, tapping each pile as she names them. "Portraits. Abstract. Cityscapes. Nature. Pick your top three from each. Only."
"You're a monster," grumbles Marley.
"Hey, you asked for my help, and I gave it," shrugs Quinn. "I could always leave you here trying to narrow down your options from a thousand cards, and pick you up on my way back to Lima."
Marley sticks out her tongue at her, but starts picking through the piles. Quinn is quick to reshelve the rejects, much to Marley's disapproval.
"I bet you did this with the Cheerios," she mutters. "Get them to eliminate each other like it's the Hunger Games."
"That's more Sue's speed," replies Quinn. "I preferred to leave the eliminating to Santana. She takes the process very literally, which is always fun to watch." Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Marley shoot her a look, and she smirks as she pretends not to notice.
It's a painstaking process, and Quinn is more than a little disturbed by all the sounds of distress Marley makes, but they eventually leave the store. Marley carries the brown paper bag containing her purchases in both hands. "You know what? That was actually kind of fun," she chirps as they get into the car.
"Yeah, no. Let's not do that again."
When Marley hops onto her bed with her phone and her iPod, Quinn thinks she'll get a peaceful evening with her book.
She's sadly mistaken when about an hour later, Marley sidles over to her bed.
"Let's go out," she says.
"Out? Where?" Quinn checks the time on her phone. "It's nearly midnight."
"So? It's a motel. We don't have a curfew."
Quinn squints at her. "Are you hungry?"
"Maybe a little," Marley admits. She flops down on the bed, legs hanging off the edge. "C'mon. We're on summer vacation. This is supposed to be the epic pre-college road trip of a lifetime. Live a little."
Quinn sighs deeply. She won't actually look at Marley (because she knows the other girl will be pouting ridiculously at her, and that will skew her judgement). "Fine," she says, tucking her bookmark into her book and sliding off the bed. She can't decide what the worst part is: that she was convinced so easily by Marley's paper-thin reasoning, or that she wasn't even considering the reasoning at all.
Against her better judgement, she lets Marley drive.
The first sign that she should be concerned is how Marley refuses to let her open Google Maps, and just takes off down the road, following (or deliberately not following) roadsigns.
"Please reassure me that you have some idea of where we're headed," says Quinn as Marley executes a three-point turn.
"Sorry, no can do."
"It wasn't too much to ask," Quinn mutters reproachfully.
"As in, I couldn't tell you where we're headed even if I wanted to, because I have no idea myself."
"Oh, my god."
"Hey, this is an adventure! We're having an adventure! Isn't it cool to have a neatly-planned itinerary and not follow it for once?"
Quinn wants to beg to differ, but a sharp left turn down a poorly-lit road forces the words back into her mouth. "You're nuts."
Her only reply is a cackle. Quinn hangs on grimly to her seatbelt.
Eventually they roll to a halt. "Are we dead? Is this heaven? Are you there, God? It's me, Quinn Fabray," says Quinn.
"Ha ha. Trust you to be dramatic as hell and sneak in a Judy Blume reference." Marley gets out of the car.
Quinn follows suit, glad for the chance to feel solid ground under her feet. "Where are we?"
"No clue."
She looks around. There are a few streetlights in the distance, but there's nothing to indicate their geographical location. They're parked not far from a river, in a grassy clearing.
"That's the Grand River," says Marley, pointing, "and the rest, I have no idea."
"Actually, at this point, if we found ourselves away from the Grand River I'd be worried."
"You need to have a little more faith," says Marley. She hauls blankets from the backseat of Quinn's car.
"When did you pack those?"
"When you were engrossed in your book earlier. Here, hold on to these while I get the groundsheet down, then help me spread the blankets out."
Together, they make a comfortable nest of blankets big enough for them to lie down. Marley kicks off her sneakers and flops down. Quinn follows suit, albeit more gracefully; she slips off her ballet flats and tucks her legs underneath her, arching an eyebrow as she watches Marley sprawl over the blankets.
Marley grins up at her, unabashed. "I'm comfy," she says, "that's important."
Quinn shakes her head. "Whatever floats your boat."
"Quinn, stop being all judge-y and come lie down."
Quinn complies. She rolls onto her back (careful not to lie down on Marley) and finds herself looking up into a star-filled sky. "Whoa."
"Yeah, that was what I was gonna say," comes Marley's voice from beside Quinn's left ear. It's much closer than she'd expected (it was hard, aiming in the gloom) and she hopes her blush goes unnoticed in the darkness. "We're just barely out of the town and we got this view."
"You can see the stars in Lima, too."
"I know. I go stargazing a lot from my roof." There's rustling beside her as Marley shifts. "There's also a lookout spot outside of town that's pretty isolated. Jake took me there once."
Quinn wrinkles her nose. "Jake Puckerman? As in, Puck's brother? You dated him?"
"He's not that bad. He's less douchey than Puck, and he can be really sweet. It goes without saying that he's hot," Marley says. "We rarely had time for dates 'cause I was busy helping my mom. We went out a few times until he decided that Kitty's schedule was more compatible with his."
"Oh." She'd seen Jake around town a few times, before Puck told her about the family connection. She agrees with Marley that he's hot, but she's not really into boys these days, so…
Then she holds her breath when a hand grabs her upper arm. There's a pause before Marley kicks at Quinn's leg. "You're not allowed to judge. You didn't date Puck."
Quinn holds her breath and expects Marley to say something about her and Puck, but there is nothing. She blinks, surprised and confused, before it dawns on her that Marley probably doesn't know.
Naturally, all of this happens in her head.
Marley nudges her. "You're quiet. Aren't you gonna bitch back at me?"
"Not really," says Quinn absently. "About what?"
"For kicking you. For grabbing your hand – which I needed to do anyway, because it's dark and I didn't wanna kick your boob or something. I'm rambling. I don't know."
She chuckles and pillows her head with her hands. "Hey, Marley?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember when we were in Ann Arbor and I was telling you about when I got pregnant?"
"Yeah?" Marley says again, sounding anxious now.
Quinn huffs out a breath. "Puck was the father."
A beat.
"Whoa, hol' up there," exclaims Marley, sitting bolt-upright. Quinn squints as her view of the night sky is suddenly obstructed by Marley staring down at her. "Puck, as in Noah Puckerman got you – whoa, okay."
"What, no one ever told you?"
"No!" Marley flops back down, grunting as her back impacts with the ground with a solid sound that Quinn feels rather than hears. "I mean, it's not the kinda thing you go 'round asking people."
Quinn smiles faintly. Time has mostly dulled her emotions. "There was a party at his house. I was feeling fat, and he'd gotten me drunk on wine coolers. I don't even remember any of it." She lays out the bare minimum, unwilling to go into detail.
"I'm sorry that happened to you. And I'm sorry I brought up Puck – shoot, that's what made you bring it up. Sorry."
"It's okay. I just thought you should know, and better you hear it from me than anyone else." Quinn blinks up at the sky as another internal wall crumbles. It releases a mix of emotions that she doesn't know how to process, let alone deal with, but Marley isn't talking, so neither does Quinn.
They stare up at the sky in silence. It's clear enough Quinn is certain she can make out constellations if she actually knew what they looked like, apart from the ones everyone knew like Orion and the Big Dipper. But right now it's all a jumble of stars above, and Quinn makes up new ones in her head. There's her car, up to the right. Sue's bullhorn. A baby stroller.
"Quinn?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
"Go ahead and ask."
"Did your dad really kick you out?"
Quinn snorts. "Of course he did. You've heard a few stories about him already, he's not the kind of guy who tolerates mistakes from his perfect daughters. Especially not me. I'm not the golden child like Frannie is; just… a disappointment."
A warm hand grips her wrist. Quinn stiffens.
"You're not a disappointment," Marley says firmly.
There's a part of Quinn that raises its hackles when Marley says that. It wants to snap at Marley, wants to tear her apart for daring to assume what she is and isn't. But Quinn muzzles it, locks it away. She's better than that now. "I don't see how that's possible, but I appreciate the sentiment," she says.
"I'm serious. You're not. You're Ivy League, Quinn. You're getting out of Lima. I think the real disappointment is your dad, because he wasn't there for you when you needed him."
It's nothing Quinn hasn't heard from her friends before. But it means so much more to her, and she blames her not-so-little crush for it. "Thanks," she manages, squeezing Marley's hand back.
Marley hums. "This is kinda heavy for a summer vacation. Do you still wanna talk about this? We can talk about something else. Let's talk about something else. Like constellations. Do you know any? I know Orion and the Big Dipper."
Quinn is startled into a laugh. "Way to change the subject, Rose. Has anyone ever told you you're a natural?"
"You're the first but you won't be the last," Marley replies jauntily. "But seriously. I bet you know a whole bunch of constellations."
"What makes you think so?"
"You're a classics fan. It goes with the territory."
Quinn snorts and rolls over to look at Marley, propping her head on her elbow. "There are too many erroneous stereotypes in that sentence for me to address."
"What, you're telling me that you don't know any constellations?" Marley laughs, and turns her head in Quinn's direction.
It's a bit hard for Quinn to concentrate on talking after she realizes that now Marley's face is so close to hers, that if she tips just a few inches forward, she could be kissing Marley. "I, uhm," Quinn mutters.
Too close, too long. Quinn rolls away to safety. "... I know Orion. And the Big Dipper."
"... What a coincidence, so do I." Quinn's hormonal, overactive imagination may be playing tricks on her, but she's certain Marley sounds flustered and breathless all of a sudden. "That's them, up there."
"You didn't point anywhere, you're just waving your hand in big circles at the sky." Quinn, earlier glad for the darkness hiding her blush, now curses it for not letting her see if Marley is blushing.
"They're up there somewhere," insists Marley. "Since you know them too, I'm sure you don't need me to point them out."
"I'm calling fraud."
"Pot, meet kettle."
Quinn laughs. She removes her hands from her face once she's certain the heat has receded from her cheeks, and her heart's no longer pounding in her ears.
"Penny for your thoughts."
"Is that all they're worth?"
"Inflation sucks," says Marley very seriously. "But yeah, what's on your mind?"
She can't very well say she's imagining what it would be like if she'd kissed Marley two minutes ago, so Quinn says: "I think I saw a 24-hour drive-through on our way out here."
"Greasy fast food after midnight? What would Sue Sylvester say if she could see you now?"
"That you're a terrible influence but also I don't give a shit, because she's not the boss of me anymore." Quinn leaps to her feet with a grace born of years of gymnastics. "C'mon, I'll drive."
"You know how to get back?"
"Okay, I'll let you drive."
"Generous of you. Since you're in the giving mood, help me up first."
Quinn hesitates. It's a second too long, because Marley says: "You got up so easily. Spare a thought for the rest of us who aren't athletically inclined."
There are so many ways this could turn into a disaster. Front and center is Quinn being a gay mess, imagining kissing Marley because they were close enough. But she holds out her hand and braces herself, yanking Marley up; to her surprise, the other girl is lighter than she expected and Marley stumbles forward into Quinn.
"Sorry, I wasn't expecting you to be so light," Quinn blurts, and cringes. "I, uh, normally do that for Santana and Britt, and they're heavier."
Marley doesn't say anything. It makes Quinn nervous. "... Please never mention this to them and I'll be eternally grateful."
It makes Marley laugh, but it sounds strained, breathless. "My lips are sealed."
At the mention of lips, Quinn's eyes automatically focus on them. She tries valiantly to clear her mind of all thoughts – and realizes she's still holding on to Marley's hand. "Sorry," she says, letting go, stepping out of Marley's personal space. "I promise I'm not normally this awkward."
"I believe you." Marley bends down to gather up the blankets, back to Quinn, hiding her face from view.
She wishes she could melt into the ground. "Okay. Great. Do you need any help with that?"
"No, I can manage."
"Okay." Quinn gets into the passenger seat to be alone with her thoughts, which are currently buzzing around her head like a swarm of angry hornets. She doesn't know what to do; for goodness' sake, when she was crushing on Rachel, the first thing she managed to do was to corner her in a bathroom and kiss her. That's not an option here, not with a week or so left of forced proximity and nowhere to run.
Quinn fights the urge to bang her head on the dashboard.
The driver's door clicks open, and Marley slides in. "The trunk's a mess, but we can sort it out tomorrow morning," she says.
"Okay."
"It's really late but Chicago's like, 3 hours' drive away, so we don't need to rush." Marley's not looking at her, which should be a good thing, except it's really not. "What time did they say we have to check out again?"
"11, I think," says Quinn, fumbling with her phone, "let me check."
"Cool. So, I'm thinking we could head straight back now and get some sleep so we can be on schedule."
"Forget the schedule," says Quinn with a vehemence that surprises them both. "I mean… it's our epic summer vacation, right? We don't have to stick to a neatly-planned itinerary if we don't want to."
Marley looks at her. "Follow strange signs down country roads?"
"Yeah, maybe not that."
Marley smiles at her. Quinn smiles back.
"What did you have in mind then, Miss Rebel?" Marley asks, resting both arms on the steering wheel.
"I say we find that diner on the way back," says Quinn, feeling bolder with every word that comes out of her mouth. "We'll just check out later than planned. I don't think you want to drive when sleep-deprived."
"Missing a night won't kill me, but you're right." She frowns suddenly. "We'll have to pay, though."
"It's fine. I know someone who can line up a junior lunchlady gig for the summer," says Quinn, and gets a scoff and a smile in response.
The conversation was a good distraction for everything that was on Quinn's mind. As Marley starts up the car, Quinn quickly plugs in her phone so there doesn't need to be any awkward silences. Which there really shouldn't be at all, after they've spent the last couple of days getting along so well. Quinn chews on her lip as the sounds of Florence The Machine fill in the space.
She's afraid she's ruined it. Everything was going so well, she had her inconvenient feelings under control, until she had to make it awkward not once but twice. Quinn purses her lips and blows out slowly.
"Quinn?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think you could get directions for the motel, please?"
"What about the diner?"
Marley smiles, a shade of what Quinn is used to. "I'm not very hungry, to be honest."
Her stomach plummets. "Oh. Okay, then."
Quinn continues to be nervous throughout the short ride back to the motel, for some reason. After that uncharacteristic turning down of food, Marley is back to her usual cheerful self – which only exacerbates Quinn's nervousness.
She knows things were awkward back there. She knows Marley noticed; there'd be no other reason for Marley to act weird around her.
With everything that's on her mind, Quinn is surprised that she manages to doze off for a few hours. Or that's what she thinks happens, because the last thing she remembers is running through everything that's happened for the eight hundredth time.
She dresses hurriedly yet quietly. Marley isn't awake yet, judging by the unmoving heap of sheets in the other bed, and Quinn doesn't want to disturb her.
Quinn doesn't know how to make things right – or, at least, Quinn would settle for somewhat normal. But… she owes it to Marley – and herself – to try.
By the time Quinn comes back, Marley is awake and packed. "There you are, Quinn," she says, climbing off the bed, "where'd you go?"
Quinn holds up a bag. "The motel doesn't do those breakfast buffets you like, so I got something to tide us over to the nearest greasy spoon."
She hands the bag to Marley, who opens it. The sugary aroma of donuts wafts out.
"Holy heck," says Marley, sounding reverent. "Donuts. They smell amazing." She glances up at Quinn, eyes shining, and Quinn hates that she melts instantly. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Quinn wants to run. Every nerve is screaming at her to disengage, bail out, swim for her life. But she ignores it all. "I know last night was a little weird," she begins, glossing over everything she'd actually describe it as, "but I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."
Marley grins suddenly, then slings an arm around Quinn's neck. "I'm not, I promise. But this is a pretty high bar you're setting." She lets go of Quinn to fish out a donut.
Quinn isn't sure if things are truly back to normal. There are some things she can't take back – the main thing being her feelings – but something has shifted, and she lacks the ability to say what.
Perhaps she's reading too much into things. God knows she'd done plenty of that in the dark days of her crush on Rachel. She'd been too closeted to look for help online, and that had meant plenty of sleepless hours puzzling through everything she was feeling and how it went against everything she'd been raised to believe.
At least she has plenty to keep her busy now. Chicago is the biggest and busiest city she's been in since New Directions were in New York for Nationals. Chicago is packed full of museums and music and amusement parks and food and Ivy League colleges for the both of them.
It's going to be an incredibly hectic next couple of days.
While planning their itinerary, the most difficult thing had been whittling down everything they wanted to see and do in Chicago into three days. Marley had been more devastated than Quinn because Quinn has been planning the trip for far longer, and has had more time to come to terms with her disappointment.
But right now, Marley is back in her little kid mode, buzzing in excitement as they visit their first Chicago attraction…
"She's beautiful," says Marley, starry-eyed.
Quinn tries not to laugh. "Mm," she replies. "She does look pretty good for being, like, 60 million years old."
Marley slugs her in the arm, hard. It makes Quinn lose her composure and start laughing, which draws curious looks from the kids around them. "You're making a scene. I can't bring you anywhere, honestly."
"Sorry," says Quinn, who's not sorry at all.
Marley has a smile of her own (which she quickly hides when Quinn accidentally makes eye contact with her, covering it with a mock-stern facade). "Apologize to Sue, not me," she insists, pointing at the skeleton.
"Sorry I called you old, Sue."
She's glad Santana can't see her now; apologizing to a T. Rex skeleton because Marley Rose told her to. Santana would've had a field day.
Marley beams at her, and catches her hand as they leave so they won't get separated in the throngs of elementary school kids. Quinn can only imagine how she looks right now, and it's probably so much worse than how she feels. She's walking an increasingly thinner tightrope, but Quinn can't bring herself to care right now.
"Hey, who do you think is older? Sue the T. Rex, or Sue Sylvester?"
Quinn cackles. "Sue Sylvester. Duh. By at least 10 million years."