Quinn Fabray was not gay.

Maybe, as she gunned the engine of her car to pull out of Rachel Berry's driveway, despite the protestations, despite the ache of the useless muscle thundering in her ribcage that begged her to stay, it could happen to anyone. To feel such a way with a kiss — that does not make nor break one's sexuality, right?

It could just be, and it baffled Quinn to admit this even though it was just in the silence of her car, that Rachel was an amazing kisser.

Quinn gripped the pleather of the steering wheel and felt its ridges against her palm, until her knuckles turned blue and white. Rachel's lips, she pondered, could appease gods. End conflict. Bring world peace. One kiss, and maybe the world would settle into a sedentary state, brought by the mind-numbing haze of Rachel Berry's mouth.

She let out a shaky breath and squeezed her thighs together.

Why did she have to test Rachel's limitations like that? Asking Rachel to fake-date her was enough of a trespass, but to keep pushing the girl to further their physicality, the intimacy that was difficult to keep corralled into a clear distinction of what was real and what was fabricated, was incredibly manipulative, Quinn knew.

The light turned green, and the vehicle behind her honked in four short bursts and one long, jarring note. Quinn stomped on the accelerator and drove, forced her mind to be blank and not to wander.

She did not want to go home yet. She did not want to sit alone in her bedroom. If she was going to think about Rachel and all the turmoil and confusion that came with her, she was going to do it outdoors.

A warm, late May breeze greeted her once she stepped out of her car. She parked by the curb, in front of the park she frequented when she was twelve, with Santana and Brittany. The same old slides, the swing set, the monkey bars and the jungle gym amidst the lake of gravel that crunched as she approached the swings. The primary colours of the bars had long flaked off, leaving exposed bars of steel. She paused, surprised.

"Santana? What are you doing here?"

The girl looked up from her phone. She sat on the swing, but was not doing any swinging. "Hey, Q. I'm just chilling," there was a cavernous hollowness to Santana's voice that made Quinn furrow her brow in concern. "What's up with you?"

Quinn sat on the swing beside Santana and rocked back and forth like a clock's pendulum. "Just came from Rachel's," she said. "And I didn't want to go home yet, so I wound up here."

"Ah, I feel you," Santana kicked off the gravel to match the back and forth of Quinn's swinging. "Except I'm waiting to go to Britt's. Sam's at her house right now, for some reason." She swung her legs to gather height. "You know, Britt wants to run for prom couple, thanks to you two."

She did not sound mad, but rather, resigned. "I told her we can't, because I don't know how my parents would react to me being with a girl. I know Britt understood, and she's chill about it, but I hate that I can't even hold her hand and walk down the hallway like you and Berry do."

"You link pinkies — "

"Yeah, but what is that compared to the whole hand?" Santana dragged her heel against the ground, and it skidded and kicked up gravel, and a dust cloud billowed at their feet. "I think you're brave, Q. I never said this before, and I know this mushy stuff, it's not how we operate. I thought you weren't ready, but now I can see that you're more ready than I am."

Santana looked at Quinn and the blonde wanted to run, wanted to scream the truth. That no, she was not ready — not ready at all, and now, the realization that the reason for her unbridled, unmatched joy resided in a girl a few inches shorter than her, but held more talent in a fingernail than the rest of the school combined, choked up any words that she wanted to utter.

"Now that you're with Berry, I see you're happier than you've ever been. You're not a crusty old lady anymore," Santana snickered. "I think she's good for you."

Quinn released a breath so shaky, so tremulous, that Santana frowned. "What's wrong? Did you fuck something up?"

And so, she told Santana everything. The ploy for prom queen, the kissing practice, and finally, making out. And most of all, how Rachel toppled everything she once thought about herself to be the infallible truth. Namely, her heterosexuality.

To Santana's credit, she waited for Quinn to finish talking. While Quinn sulked, stared at her palms lined with sweat, the texture of her skirt, and with eyes brimming with tears, she heard Santana snort once, before bursting into raucous laughter.

"Holy shit, Quinn. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Many, many things," she muttered. "Don't get me started."

"Bitch, I already thought you two are a couple, especially after she sang you a Carly Rae Jepsen song. Any gayer and she'd sing Mitski or Hayley Kiyoko to you — why did you feel the need to be caught making out with Rachel?"

"I... I wanted to see how far she was willing to go for me." Quinn grasped the chains that suspended the swing, and kicked off to rock back and forth, higher and higher. Santana grinned and matched Quinn until they were swinging as high as they could.

"So you tested Rachel's devotion to your cause, and look where you ended up, huh? But hey, I get it. If I were as maladjusted like you, with the type of fucked up dad you had? I'd be playing weird mind games with Brittany too. Well," Santana huffed. "Weirder mind games, anyway."

They let the swings taper off to stillness. "That's a really fucked up thing to do, Quinn."

"I know," Quinn gritted out. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how Rachel feels about me. What if she only went with the things I said because she saw me as a friend?"

Santana looked at Quinn in apparent disbelief. "Are you serious? Quinn, Rachel hardly ever looked at Finn with her googly, lovestruck eyes as much as she does with you."

"Maybe she's a really good actress."

"Uh, I don't think so," Santana retorted. "She may be good, but that shit is hard to keep up at all times. Take it from me who has to sit through every instance you two are within ten feet of one another — that girl is apeshit, buckwild, crazier for you than she ever was with Finn."

A moment of silence lapsed between them, while Quinn mulled over the things Santana said.

"I don't know if I'm gay, but... Maybe I like Rachel."

"Duh," Santana retorted, but she sighed. "Look. In the long run, the label doesn't matter as much. What matters is how Rachel makes you feel. Which is…?" she gestured with her hand to prompt Quinn to reply.

"Happy, excited to wake up every morning. Delirious and ecstatic."

"Gross," Santana said, but with a small, good-natured smile.

"Thanks, Santana."

"And that'll be five hundred dollars. Therapy isn't free."

Quinn rolled her eyes and slapped Santana's still held-out palm.

"What are you going to do now?" Santana asked. She got up from the swing and stretched her arms above her head. "You gonna talk to Rachel?"

"I think I need some space. I need to figure out what to say when I apologize so she would forgive me," Quinn admitted. She reached into her pocket to check her phone and saw a few texts from Rachel.

Hi Quinn, I hope you're safe

I just wanted to check on you

And I wanted to tell you that what happened
today doesn't have change anything between us

We'll still be a prom couple together
if that's what you want

I'm safe, don't worry

Would you still want to run for
prom couple? Is that what you want?

It took Rachel a long time to answer that Quinn started to grow worried.

At this point, I think it's
ridiculous for me to back out now

I'm a big girl — I can handle it

Hopefully

Fingers crossed

Quinn sighed and pocketed her phone. She knew she said she needed space, to mull and think over her feelings so that when the time came to talk to Rachel, she would be coherent. But how could she, when all she wanted was to drive back to Rachel's house, get on her knees to apologize, and ask for the privilege to kiss her every single day?

"Would you like a ride to Brittany's house?" Quinn offered.

Santana yawned and nodded. "I do. Thanks, Q."

"You know," Quinn managed to say as she pulled her car away from the curb. "I think Sam's at Brittany's house because they have a group project together."

Santana grunted and eyed Quinn. She chuckled. "Yeah, probably."

It had been a long time since Quinn drove the streets that led to Brittany's house. She pulled up by the curb and Santana got out of the car. "You won't tell anyone, right? About me and Rachel faking being together for prom queen?"

"Nah," Santana said with a sneer. "I think seeing you be miserable because you actually grew to have romantic feelings for Rachel is more hilarious than seeing you lose prom queen. Talk about karma, bitch."

Quinn watched Santana walk up to Brittany's front porch before she drove home, to worry about her feelings for Rachel some more.

Here were the facts.

When Quinn asked Rachel if she would help her win prom queen by running with her, by posing as her date, that was all she had in mind—to win the prom queen crown, she was willing to go through any length to achieve it. And, at that moment of deliberation, she arrived at the following conclusion:

One, that posing as a lesbian would a risky move, albeit an impactful one. And given Quinn's history, it would definitely catch the attention of the student population.

Two, that it would be the curveball among curveballs if Quinn and Rachel ran for prom couple together, acting as if they forgave each other for all the slights and fights during sophomore year, to becoming friends, and eventually, into being something more. But in pretend.

Quinn failed to recognize yet another curveball—which was, her feelings would actually become real.

In her bedroom, Quinn stared at the ceiling blankly. She was unaccustomed to unrequited love. If this even was love. If this even was unrequited.

She screamed into a pillow to release the frustration that coiled in her stomach. She never had a crush before. Never. People had crushes on her, Quinn Fabray, not the other way around!

And, she supposed, it was karmic beyond belief that of all the people she had a crush on, it was on a girl. And on top of that, it was a cold, hard crush on one Rachel Barbra Berry.

With a sigh, Quinn curled into a ball on her bed. She snuggled under the blanket and huffed. She should be studying for tests, given how close finals were, but how would she focus on anything else? She would close her eyes, and all she would remember was the feeling of Rachel's lips on hers. And that broken way she looked at Quinn when she made her escape, when the kiss proved to be too much and Quinn could only handle so little...

And it wasn't like it was the first time she thought that maybe, just maybe, she was starting to fall for Rachel. In fact, it entered her head, many times—she just refused to entertain it for longer than two seconds. She thought about it once, imagined this world where hey, maybe to be in love and be in a relationship with a girl that was specifically Rachel Berry wouldn't be so bad, given how the way she looked at her made Quinn feel like she could do anything. Quinn noticed it, how Rachel looked at her when she did not think the blonde noticed—but she did. She did, and her chest ached at the mere thought of anything about this being not real. Just acting.

Above all else, Quinn wanted to be in Rachel's company. She wanted to see her succeed, see her name in bright lights.

Quinn wanted to call Rachel right at that moment, but she remained still. What would she even say? Hey, I'm sorry but I think I have a not-at-all-fake crush on you. And hey, maybe you're just a really damn good actress and none of this is real for you but all of this feels real to me and —

She dug the heels of her hands against her eyes and sighed.

In summation, here were the facts:

Quinn, in an attempt to win prom queen, grew feelings for Rachel instead.