Quinn watched the pieces of paper slowly being consumed by fire. A few chapters, a few thousand words; conjured by her recollection of a distant past transformed into ashes.

It's been almost a year since she began writing the story of her life—of a fictional girl in a fictional small town. Every paragraph written opened wounds, yet every transition to the next cured her emotional malaise as well. But there was always that one character and one plot line, the most pivotal of them all, that ended up torn apart, shredded, and most recently, burned.

She did a time check and sighed. An hour before Rachel's estimated time of arrival from Manhattan to where the writer was located.

Block Island.

She could still hear Rachel laugh heartily after finding out where she has relocated.

"You must really hate people in general."

"I just happen to find it quaint."

"It is. You fit right in New England. Aaaand, it's a lot closer than Saint Helena, so I'm not complaining at all."

"I thought we agreed to lie low."

"I wasn't even thinking about, you know. I just…miss your company. And, meeting you in New England is as low key as we can get."

"Have you ever told anyone?"

"About our…liaison? No. I don't think it would be wise to inform Kurt or anyone else in our circle—have you?"

"No. But I think Santana was suspicious at some point. Or maybe up to now. She sent me a cryptic message…that whatever it is I'm doing, I should stop."

"Oh, that's…what did you tell her?"

"I haven't replied. I don't know how to reply without sounding defensive. And we're not—you know. Not anymore."

"There's no reason to be—like I said, I'm owning up to this. You're…collateral damage to my temporary insanity."

"Sure, I just accidentally let your fingers slip inside me and gave me orgasms. Oops."

"That's exactly how it happened. See—I miss hearing your laughter. I should visit you."

"I don't think that'll be a prudent thing to do."

"We're friends. Friends visit each other."

"I'm also that friend your—"

"If you don't want to see me, just, say it."

"Rachel, that's not what this is about. But you know there's a very good chance we'll end up not…doing friendly stuff."

"We have self-control, Quinn. It's—"

"When do you plan to visit?"

"I'm not sure now given how unwelcoming your invitation is."

"That's not true, Rachel. I just…"

"Are you hiding something from me?"

"Well, I…"

"Oh. You've met someone."

"Yeah—he's—it's very new. And we're…taking things slow. And I just don't want you to –"

"Get in the way."

"I just don't want you to think we can simply do the things we did again."

"That's your worry?"

"Yes?"

"Quinn, you know you're my friend first. And I would never ever do anything that will jeopardize that. I want to meet him, and give him a fair warning to not hurt my friend."

"Uhm, thank you."

"Read me a line?"

"I thought you'd never ask.

Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one you want."

"Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you sick?"

"No…why?

"I thought I heard your voice—just checking."

"I'm okay, Rach."

"I'm okay. I'm okay." Quinn repeated it like a mantra while waiting at the dock on a dark October afternoon. The biting cold was getting to her and the warm coffee she held on for dear life had become icy stale.

"Sunset looks good on you," a voice interrupted.

The blonde smiled sweetly, her eyes never leaving the approaching ferry. "There's always something poignant about it."

"I never liked it growing up. It meant that my father was about to…leave for his real family."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"I never liked it. But I do now. You're beautiful. You make it beautiful."

"Patrick…"

"I know, I know. That doesn't make what I said meaningless. Truths don't rely on time."

"In another life time, maybe we could be..."

"Nah, I know where I stand. Starting this minute, I'm going to be your ridiculously handsome best confidante."

The playwright giggled but shook her head in regret. She leaned against him then kissed his cheek. "You're a good man."

Patrick O'Leary.

Advertising executive by day, craft brewer by night. Good looking. Established and stable; with just the right amount of artistry to understand Quinn's profession. Patient and with a sense of humor.

He was everything but her.

And there she was taking swift strides towards them.

"Woah. There she is. Quinn. Can I post a photo of her with—Ouch! What was that for?" Patrick mock grimaced. "Your elbow is very sharp."

Quinn glared at her him. "Really? You're going to get star struck now?!"

"I just dumped you because you're all googly-eyed on this woman, the least you could do is give me my social media moment with a Hollywood A-lister. Geez."

Narrowing her eyes, Quinn playfully punched Patrick's arm. "Why is it that I'm always the one getting dumped?"

"Ah no. You said there was Biff and—"

"Shut up!" Quinn guffawed. "Why did I ever open up to you?"

"Well, let's see. You got miserably drunk one night…and I'm charming, trust-worthy, and not Rachel Berry."

"Patrick," the blonde suddenly whispered in a serious tone. "I do trust you. So please, Rachel's career …she can't—people can't—"

The man took in the weight of Quinn's words and stared into hazel eyes. "I swear, Quinn. I won't tell anyone. I swear."

"Thank you," the playwright breathed out.

"I just hope that you'll—I mean, Quinn. At some point…you'd have to let someone in and take care of you…as much as you're caring and protecting her."

"Am I…interrupting?"

Quinn took a deep breath, turned around and grinned. "Rachel."

The actress matched the warmth of her friend's smile and without further prompting jumped for an embrace—not a hug, as the man observing them noted. "Cough, cough. Am I interrupting?"

"Patrick O'Leary," Quinn muttered under clenched teeth. "This is Rachel Berry. Rach, this is Patrick."

Patrick shot the blonde a smug look, then smirked at the brunette, "pleasure to meet you, Ms. Berry."

Rachel returned the welcome with a tight smile. "Likewise, I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Patrick laughed then picked up Rachel's luggage. "Is that…so? I wonder what Quinn has been saying about me."

"Thank you—and no, nothing," Rachel sniggered, "exactly why I've been dying to meet you. I want to know the person who's making Quinn's heart all a-flutter."

The gregarious man stared at the actress with incredulity, then laughed again. "Right, that's me!"

"Anyway," Quinn growled then swooped Rachel away from Patrick, taking a few steps ahead of him, holding the brunette as close as possible. "You must be tired."

"Actually, I'm not really—"

"Don't be shy, Rach. It's human to feel exhaustion. Patrick will just walk us to my car and he'll leave us, and then you can rest."

"But I wanted to—"

"He's actually a very busy man," Quinn interjected, "Right, sweetheart?"

"Right, babe."

"But I thought he's also here on vacation," Rachel whispered.

"Yes, but he's also trying to start a brewing business so, you know, experiments and all."

"Oh, wow, that's impressive."

"Yes, so…" Quinn stopped in front of a black SUV. "Here you go, my lady. Your chariot awaits."

"Where's my tip?" Patrick deadpanned after hauling the bags inside. "Or I haven't gone up from indentured servitude?"

The brunette let out a hearty laugh. "You share the same sarcastic humor, I like him already," she nodded to Quinn in approval. "What would be a fitting reward, good sir?"

"A photo with my baby sister's favorite actress," the man beamed, with Quinn's protests drowned by Patrick's huge hand over her mouth. "She worships you."

Rachel's eyes sparkled then bit her lip, hesitating to agree. "If…just please don't post it anywhere until I'm no longer here? I don't want this place and the locals disturbed by…"

"Yeah, I mean…I didn't mean right now," Patrick chuckled. "I'll see you and Quinn again. But yeah, don't worry about it. I promised Quinn as well."

The blonde sighed in relief. "Alright, good."

"I'll see you later," the man smiled then kissed the playwright's cheek. "Good luck," he whispered before walking away.

"You look good together," the brunette teased, bumping her hip against Quinn's, "please tell me you're thinking long-term this time."

"I don't know, Rach," Quinn sighed while buckling up, "I don't know."

"Hey, no, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to pressure you into settling down." Rachel instinctively mirrored Quinn's actions, worrying her lower lip as she soaked in the view that they were passing by. "I just want you to be happy. And you seem very comfortable with—I'm shutting up now."

The blonde smiled. "It's fine, I know what you mean. I just…I spent a good part of my adolescence agonizing over finding the perfect man…being able to settle down and all. I understand your concern. And I appreciate it, Rach. I honestly do."

"But…I have nothing to worry about," the brunette uttered. "You do look more…content."

The writer shrugged. "The sea is calming."

"Maybe I should settle down here as well. Embrace the Zen."

Quinn wrinkled her nose. "I'm sure you will disturb the tranquility of this place."

"Quinn Fabray!" Rachel gasped. "Don't act like I'm the only noisy tourist around here."

"No," the blonde woman chortled, "but you're the only one whose star is so bright. Here we are."

The stopped in front of a private beach, where the actress immediately saw a two-level house that stood majestically against the ocean backdrop. Dread took over at the realization that it was the only house that existed in the whole area. "Uh, Quinn," Rachel gulped as she scanned the darkness. "I know this town is very safe but—"

"There aren't psychos in here, Rach," the blonde chuckled, scrambling to open the door.

Rachel frowned. "Who cares about knife-wielding psychos? What if there are," the actress shuddered then mock whispered, "ghosts."

"You're more worried about—there aren't ghosts, I promise—will you get in?" Quinn stamped her foot while holding the door. "It's so cold."

"I thought you like being one with the Atlantic Ocean?" Rachel quipped as she marched past the writer. "Sourpuss."

"Scaredy Cat." The writer retorted. "Well, how do you like this?"

The actress pretended to scrutinize the place, taking in the open space and the unobstructed view of the waters. "I can see why this place has stolen you away from me."

Quinn busied herself taking out food containers for heating. "I made Asian hot pot earlier—vegan of course—is that alright? I can make something else if you're not in the mood for—"

"That sounds perfect."

"Okay," Quinn breathed out, "that's great. I'm just going to reheat this. You can freshen up while I do that."

"Yes, I'd love—where do I stay?"

"All the bedrooms are upstairs, there are, uh, three—I mean, I obviously use one of them, you can, uhm, choose—"

"From the remaining two," Rachel smiled. "I know, Quinn."

The blonde was left alone, confused at what she swore was sadness in the brunette's eyes. She groaned then banged her head against the kitchen cabinet. "Get a grip, Fabray. You're hallucinating from too much salt water. That's what it is."

She took out her phone and sent Patrick a message.

Quinn: Thank you for today, and for all the days. I'm such a horrible person. I'm sorry that I was unfair to you.

Patrick: Bang that girl until she can't walk away from you, then we're good. I'll see you tomorrow with some O'Leary brew. Get her drunk. Maybe she'll talk, too. If that happens, I'll seriously name my first product as "True Brew."

Quinn: Ha ha. Had I known you can be this lewd, I wouldn't have been slightly attracted to you. And you suck at naming things. Are you sure you're an ad executive?

Patrick: Stop texting me and start wooing her, woman.

The playwright pursed her lips and gripped her phone tightly. "Maybe in another life time," she whispered to herself. She returned to task at hand, prepare the dinner table—to make it romantic but not too romantic.

"How on earth…this is tougher than I thought."

"What are you mumbling about?"

"Uhm, nothing—uh," Quinn felt her knees weaken, fighting the urge to stare at the diva in nothing but an oversized sweater that fell slightly above the knee. The blonde moved quickly to retrieve the food, shooing away all images of the diva's damp hair and doe eyes.

"Quinn?"

"Dinner's ready, would you mind choosing a wine you prefer? I chilled a few."

"Quinn."

"Yeah?"

"Are you…okay? You seem flustered,"

"I just—"

"It's okay. I want you, too."

"Fuck."

In a split second, Quinn was all over Rachel. Moving her against the kitchen counter, the blonde left Rachel no chance to claim dominance. She was lifted with ease, and almost screamed when Quinn assaulted her right nipple before she could settle on top of the cold marble island. "Jesus fuck Quinn I—yes, oh god," Rachel hissed. The blonde moaned in response, feeling no barrier between her hand and Rachel's heated core. The writer tugged Rachel closer, resting the diva's legs over her shoulders, before diving for the taste she had desperately missed.

Rachel closed her eyes in pure elation. She could hear the faint sounds of waves crashing against rocks, the muted thunder from miles away, and the creaking of windows conversing with the wind. A harmony of sounds that oddly fit with the rhythm of their movements. And when it was over, everything seemed silent and still, except the ticking of the clock and the beating of Quinn's heart that the diva was quite fond listening to.

"The soup needs to be reheated…again," Quinn huffed.

The diva patted the other girl's chest. "I don't mind eating cold soup."

Both sighed and made no attempt to move.

"Rachel…"

"Don't—oh shit! Patrick! Oh my god, Quinn," Rachel scrambled to untangle herself from the playwright and retrieve her sweater.

Quinn sat still; naked, exposed and vulnerable. She watched in anguish the woman she who's made her life a living hell and paradise on earth move further away from her. "Rachel," she said quietly.

"God, I'm such a disgusting human being. Using you," she pointedly remarked as she walked back and forth. "Again."

The blonde girl ran her fingers through hair, still making no sign of covering herself. "I'm the one who assailed you, basically leaving you without a choice."

The actress scoffed. "And I wore nothing but this because I had every intention of being wholesome tonight."

"Why would you do that, Rachel?"

"Well, duh, Quinn. For ob—"The brunette's eyes widened after finally seeing Quinn, genuinely seeing her that night: the brokenness in her voice, her shattered appearance. "Quinn…"

"Come here. Sit with me."

"I…"

"And please hand me my shirt."

"Okay."

"And underwear."

"Yes, of course."

They sat side by side, watching the fire flicker gently, giving warmth and glow. Rachel glanced at Quinn from time to time who kept chewing her lip while seemingly contemplating.

"We have to end this," the writer finally said. "I realize I sound like a first class asshole for saying that after…but I had to say it."

"This isn't about Patrick, is it?"

"No…no…it has nothing to do with him."

"I knew we weren't okay."

"We are."

"We're not. We haven't been since…"

"Since when?"

"Since I chose my career over you."

"That's ridicu—"

"That's when you left New York."

"I wasn't meant to stay there for a long time, Rachel."

"That's when you started to create distance again."

"You decided to divorce Jesse. The last thing you needed was to be seen—"

"I know. You think the world would be different by now. I'm a hypocrite."

"No, of course—"

"I am. Telling people it's okay to—"

"We made a decision to—"

"Cut the bullshit, Quinn."

"Yes! Okay! You're right! This is absolutely your fault. I'm just," Quinn raised her hand in surrender, shaking and pale. "At the sidelines, waiting for you to dial 1-800-QUINN. Press 1 if you need affirmation, yes?"

"Quinn. Stop."

"Press 2 if you need to be entertained.

"God, Quinn, why are you—"

"Press 3 if you need to scratch an itch."

"Quinn."

"Press pound sign for phone sex."

"Stop."

"Asterisk for home service," Quinn muttered almost inaudibly.

Rachel bit her thumb with her lips quivering.

"…Do you really think I only value you for that?"

"I…go ask yourself."

"I'm NOT Santana Lopez, Quinn! You were her revenge fuck! You weren't mine!"

"Then what am I to you, Rachel?! Because forgive me if can't distinguish your intentions from Santana when that happened before!"

"You're a lot more to me than that, Quinn."

The blonde looked away and exhaled loudly. "That's—don't—you need to be careful with your words, Rachel."

"You don't think I mean what—"

"I think you mean what you say but you say that in a way that makes them open-ended."

"Then why don't you clarify."

"Why are you here?"

"Because I miss you. I miss your company. I don't—technologically mediated communication with you leaves me—it's not as satisfying as being right next to you."

"See, this is exactly what I meant earlier, Rachel. The things you say…what do you want? How do you see this?"

"You—Quinn. What's happening between us? This was supposed to be…uncomplicated."

"I know…I tried. I realized Santana was wise to stop as soon as we left the room. I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm asking you to…if we can stop seeing each other for some time…because I can't seem to—I obviously can't—stop myself from trying to have you."

Rachel laughed bitterly. "That's funny. I don't recall you trying at all," she mumbled before abruptly leaving Quinn alone to ponder the meaning of her words.

The diva knew things slowly changed when their two-hour encounters turned into overnighters, when sleeping side by side ended up with one spooned by the other, and when she started waking up earlier than Quinn to make breakfast.

For two.

That the breakfasts extended to lunches, dinners, and night caps.

And her New York apartment came to life with the playwright's clothes, books, and toothbrush. A Corona typewriter as well took residence— a surprise for the blonde; a framed photograph of Saint Helena positioned right on top.

They were careful until they became careless. It remained unspoken until people started to talk. They had temporarily forgotten the purpose of their set up, until tabloids reminded them why they were in this.

Quinn panicked at the first instance of a paparazzi ambush outside a café with their hands clasped together.

Gossip blogs were on fire trying to figure out Rachel's mystery blonde companion until bits and pieces of information about Quinn started to build up.

In a matter of hours.

She figured it wasn't that hard to search about her, but she didn't realize—she never fully appreciated—the magnitude of Rachel's popularity. Her profession was a mere footnote while her sexuality became the focal point.

She wasn't obviously hiding in the closet, but Quinn never felt fully comfortable to brandish her sexuality everywhere. It was her, and no one else's, business.

But now she's somewhat fair game, simply because she was seen attached to Rachel Berry's hip. Her profile rose in the most ignominious manner. And the most disconcerting part for the writer is that no one asked her if she wanted all of the attention.

The actress kept a calm demeanor and maintained a façade of control and nonchalance over the simmering insinuations. She tried to reassure the blonde that, like everything else in Hollywood, things go away.

Eventually.

Much to the diva's consternation, Quinn began distancing herself. Like film being played in reverse, she witnessed in silence how the days became overnighters to merely hours together. She felt cheated by life because she had nothing to stop it from happening.

Quinn wasn't hers.

And Quinn can't be hers according to her management if she wanted to continue enjoying the A-list status.

No actress has ever sustained a career after coming out.

No, Ellen is an exception. Why? You ask why, Rachel? Because she's a goddamn comedienne.

Even Angelina Jolie had to go super straight and had a thousand children with an extremely heterosexual man.

The statement would be, Quinn is your bff from Ohio and was simply being a good friend, commiserating with you while you're dealing with divorce. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.

We don't want you looking desperate or out for revenge.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay…Like you said it's…temporary."

"Will…you stay tonight?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea right now."

"I understand…it's—yeah, I understand."

"I…Rachel, this—"

"Has to stop, I know."

"We've had a good run, huh?"

"Oddly. It was the most stable relationship I've had."

"It wasn't—"

"It felt like it. Don't tell me you it didn't feel like that for you."

"Regardless, Rachel. It wasn't."

"So, that's it?"

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing. I—no, I want us to still be friends."

"You'll always be, Rach. That was never sullied. But…my time in New York is over for now."

"When are you leaving?"

"I'm ready anytime."

"When are you coming back?"

"I don't know."

"Where are you heading?"

"I'll let you know."

"Quinn—"

"I have to go, Rach."

"But…"

"I'll talk to you, soon."

You didn't read me goodnight. Rachel said when there was nothing but static at the other end of the line.

It was the end of the line.

Or so she thought.

Safely guarded by the weight of the typewriter, Rachel saw a handwritten note with scripts distinct to the blonde:

"Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?"

Rachel folded it carefully. She had created her own tradition of carrying the note no matter where she went. She heard the blonde's footsteps and began hiding the letter and tears. She felt the slight dipping of the mattress and the warmth of another body next to her. The actress couldn't resist to roll her eyes playfully when hazel eyes shot her a wounded puppy look.

"You wanted me to have fought for you?"

"That would have been most ideal, yes."

"That would have been extremely hypocritical of me. After fighting to get you to leave…I'm not going to be the one to end your career."

"Maybe my career would have been killed and—"

"I'm not going to be the reason—"

"And maybe it wouldn't have. I won't know. I never will. You're not hypocritical; I'm a coward. I let other people control my…I just let it be without fighting. You didn't, as well. It's scary, I know. I know."

"Rachel…"

"I thought it was going to be a simple, linear, progression to fame, Quinn. You know how—there's no manual for this."

"Maybe you should write it."

"I'm disgusted at myself. I accepted your decision to leave because of my career, and not because I wanted to protect—I'm still that horrible, selfish girl, willing to rob someone else's happiness for my own advantage."

"I wasn't happy with Finn," Quinn scoffed, scooting closer to Rachel. Instinctively, the actress rolled towards the blonde and burrowed herself into the writer's side.

"But it gave you—it shielded you from a lot of—"

"I really don't see the point of going back to that."

"What is it that you hold on to?"

"Hmm?"

"You said before...that there were things in the past you still hold on to. Beth?"

"Well, that's a given, Rach."

"Anything else?"

"Well, there's my friendship with you guys."

"What else?"

"Are you looking for something specific?"

"I've been thinking about it…I haven't really stopped thinking about it."

"And?"

"I thought there was nothing. Then…you reminded me of certain…things and events."

"I shouldn't have brought up the bathroom art, huh?"

Rachel laughed then propped on her elbow. "Well…that could've been phrased more—but then again, I don't regret it because the events that happened after…do you?

"No…no… I don't."

"It's—yeah, I realized that out of the many memories…the ones we shared are the things I hold on to."

"There were very few of them."

"But very intense and thought provoking. They changed me. And they're the ones I look back these days with nothing but fondness. There's—it's pure and raw…love."

"Rachel…"

"It was there, wasn't it? Don't say a word—I know you'll deny it because that's what you do. But it was there. You loved me. You loved me the first tim you spoke to me."

"Well, that's a little bit—"

"Fine," the actress huffed, "let me amend. You were attracted to me. And then you loved me."

The blonde side-glanced the other girl, expression full of mirth. "Aren't you just the egoistic one."

"You're deflecting," Rachel retorted in a sing-song tone.

"So what if I did?"

"So what? So what?!"

"That was like…a half century ago."

"Right. And what's happening today has nothing to do with that."

"Exactly."

"You loved me back then with the love of a child. You love me now as an adult. Two different things."

The blonde closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "What are you trying to achieve, Rachel?"

"Clarity. You kept me in the dark, unilaterally decided it's alright to protect me but not to let me know, you sacrifice your own happiness for me—I mean, who does that, Quinn? Who does stupid things like that—"

"Yeah, okay, Jesus. I love you."

"Well…that certainly lacked…ardor."

"That's because you're annoying," Quinn whined.

The actress grinned impishly. "Oh now, I'm back to annoying Rachel Berry?"

"There was never a non-annoying Rachel Berry."

"You love me, anyway."

"Yeah, well—"Quinn paused then glared for good measure before softening her expression. "What now?"

"Well, first. You'd have to…break up with Patrick. I'd hate to have you hurt him because he seems to be a really nice—"

"Done."

"What do you mean, done? Say it in—oh, you little devil!"

"You just assumed we were still together."

"A few days ago, you were."

"He dumped me hours before," Quinn shrugged. "He's one of the rare ones who have a might good perception."

"Wow, okay, that's…yeah, okay, good."

"And then?"

"And then…I don't…know."

"Your management will—"

"I'll fire them and find people who aren't afraid to handle situations like this."

"This isn't just a situation, Rachel. You weren't caught with a DUI or a nip slip. This is—"

"My whole career on the line, I know."

"Everything about us, our past…"

"I won't let them hurt Beth."

"See, that's just another complication—I mean, you do realize it's very…Beth's sort of your sister. And this will all—ugh, your fame is so ugly."

The actress smiled sadly. "It is lonely on top. And to think I spent hours watching you climb on top of everyone. Literally. Wishing that was me."

"So…we don't have an idea where to go from here."

"I do…and I know you know, as well. It's the unfair way, but…"

"We hide this."

"But you belong to me."

"And you?"

"With all my heart."

Quinn screamed with all her heart; a scream that echoed throughout County Dublin. It's been two years since she recently trotted across the pond once more and settled at Dalkey; six months since her latest play began its Off Broadway debut and was about to make rounds across the country.

Settling into another sea side down, Quinn seemed to have found a much more permanent home. Her name fits, Rachel teased, and that she ought to have that Irish brogue down to a science because it's sexy, the diva added.

Quinn's not sure about the accent, but she was sure to have feisty striped bass for dinner.

"So, I just learned how to fish for my own survival."

"That's…not cute."

"Two hours to catch this fiend, baby."

"I'm currently rolling my eyes at you."

"I'm currently can't bring myself to care. How are you?"

"Missing you."

"I miss you, too."

"I hope you're taking good care of our home."

"I just recently purchased dressers you'd love. I can't wait for you to see it."

"We're almost done. We're a bit behind and post-prod are breathing down our director's neck. I can't wait to see you."

"Me too."

"So what've you been up to besides murdering innocent fish?"

"Still working on my never ending novel, but it's good that I'm not rushing into it."

"I'm sorry it has been on hold."

"It's fine. The last thing I want is for it to be a best-seller because your fans think it's about us."

"It is about us. And really, half of the reason why your play is getting a lot of press time is because you have been attached to my celebrity status. Admit it, it has its benefits."

"It would be a better benefit if you agree to star in my play, eventually."

"Maybe…when you convert that novel…I will think about it. Besides, I don't think you can afford me."

"Tit for tat?"

"What are you propositioning, Miss Fabray?"

"Well, that depends. Where are you?"

"Home."

"What are you wearing?"

A/N:

"Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one you want." –Louisa May Alcott

"Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?"- Robert Frost