Thursday, September 1 / 7:40pm
It took four vehicles to get everyone up to Findlay for the opening night of Rachel's show. Quinn rode in Santana's car, sitting in the back seat by herself. She almost wished she had reconsidered and switched for a seat in Blaine's car, or even tagged along with Mercedes, Sam, Tina, and Mike, or Finn, Puck, and Lauren. The layer of saccharine that coated Santana and Brittany in a warm, fuzzy aura of coupledom these days was starting to make her feel like her morning sickness was back. Even when the two of them bickered over the playlist on the stereo or Brittany scolded Santana to please not pass people on the shoulder of the highway because it was making her teeth hurt, it was somehow cute, and affectionate, and out-of-control disgusting.
She wondered if it had always been like that, and she just resented it more now.
They picked up their tickets at the will-call window and milled about in the lobby as they waited for the house doors to open. Quinn peered at the tiny cast picture that appeared in the collage posters advertising the show. She found Rachel, nothing but a floating brunette head in the second row, by her unmistakable "I'm about to be in a show" smile.
They flipped through the program as they settled into their seats, which Rachel had made sure were all in the third and fourth rows.
"Company, with a book by George Furth and music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim," Sam read aloud, "Describes the love life of Robert, a thirty-five year old single man in New York City. While Robert entertains multiple girlfriends and ponders the value of marriage, the five long-term couples who are Robert's best friends encourage him to search for a more meaningful relationship."
"Soooo, in other words it's about a single dude with a sweet life who's got a bunch of married friends who won't leave him alone about finding a wife?" Puck asked, summarizing for himself. "Sounds like a barrel full of giggles. How come Rachel couldn't be in one of those shows where everyone gets naked?"
"Guys look," Brittany said, pointing to a page towards the back. "Rachel sent us a message."
"She's looking at the cast bios," Santana said. She and Quinn flipped through their booklets to find the page Brittany was reading.
"I recognize the headshot from the pile on her desk last spring," Quinn observed.
Rachel B. Berry (Marta) is proud to be making her Findlay Theater debut in this production of Steven Sondheim's Company. Rachel joins the cast straight from her high school show choir's 12th place finish in the American High School Show Choir Association's National Competition. Ms. Berry's high school credits include Sally Bowles in Cabaret and Janet Weiss in The Rocky Horror Show.
Santana snickered next to Quinn. "Neither of those shows ever actually happened, but whatever, Berry."
She would like to thank the amazing cast and crew of Company, her vocal coach Mrs. Veronica Tothe, her choir director Mr. William Schuester, and the William McKinley High School New Directions for their talent and support. This performance is dedicated to her fathers, Mr. and Mr. Berry, and her best friends, Quinn, Santana, and Brittany. xoxo, Archie
Quinn stared at the book in her hands in disbelief.
"Archie?" Santana said. "What the fuck, did she misspell her own name? This is who I've been letting tutor me in English?"
"I – I don' t know," Quinn murmured, shaking her head. "Do you know when they write these things? Did they write them when they first got cast, or recently, or-?"
Brittany didn't say anything, but stared at Quinn with a little smile on her lips as the house lights came down.
Rachel had a spoken line right away, and that was all Quinn knew for the first few minutes of the show. Her eyes followed Rachel around the stage, tracking her through the ensemble of what must have been twenty actors, feeling the pull of a wide grin across her face. She waited for Rachel's eyes to brush across her, but they never did.
Next to her, Santana wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
"God damn her talent."
The plot of this musical, what there was of it, was confusing at first. Rather than a linear sequence of events, you seemed to be getting random, usually depressing, conversations between the married couples and Bobby. Quinn tried to recognize her parents in any of these couples for some kind of frame of reference, but gave up when they started smoking marijuana.
A row ahead and to her right, Kurt mouthed the words to the songs and the dialog. Puck bounced his knee in boredom.
Quinn could feel no affinity for the lead character, Bobby. He seemed shallow and immature. Actually, none of these characters seemed like particularly nice people. The couples bickered and undermined each other constantly; though she cared little about the plot and more about Rachel's stage time, she hoped it would get less depressing.
About halfway through the first act, Kurt turned his head to look at Quinn, Santana, and Brittany. "This is it," he mouthed excitedly, fluttering his hands to his lips.
Quinn peered at the song listing in the darkness. Rachel, as Marta, one of Bobby's three girlfriends, performed a song called "Another Hundred People." The character was the youngest in the show, and was supposed to be a hip, savvy New Yorker who reveled in the constant influx of new people into the city.
It took a few lines before Quinn even realized Rachel was singing. This had to do with the fact that she was sitting on a piano in a sleek black dress and fishnet stockings.
"Close your mouth, Fabray."
Quinn barely heard Santana making fun of her. Rachel was on a stage, pretending to be a New Yorker.
I need to be around her. When she's a sophisticated, crazy New Yorker for real, I have to be there.
When it was over, Quinn wanted to leap to her feet. Or, if she were being honest, she wanted to rush the stage and hug Rachel. Or if that was inappropriate, she wanted to take out a billboard or some skywriting that said "THAT'S MY RACHEL AND SHE IS AMAZING!" Instead, she swallowed, smiled, and clapped, her heart in her throat.
At intermission, Kurt dabbed at the tears in his eyes.
"This show is kind of heavy," Sam commented. "What do you think is going to happen in the second act?" he asked Quinn.
"I can tell you this," Kurt said breathlessly. "Rachel isn't in the second act as much, but if you have a romantic bone in your body, you won't notice."
Quinn doubted that, but didn't argue. She didn't feel like talking at all, actually. She felt exhilarated and depressed at the same time, and moreover, she was busy becoming more and more aware, in the pit of her stomach, of how much she had lost this summer. It only took seeing Rachel in her element again.
Bobby had just finished singing a song called "Marry Me a Little," asking for someone he could commit to, but not entirely.
Is that what I'm like? Closed off like that? Unable to let someone in?
Her head swam through the second act of the show. Bobby's friends sang about how he hung around with couples but was never truly in one, and Quinn thought of her friends. Santana and Brittany, Kurt and Blaine, Puck and Lauren, Mercedes and Sam, Mike and Tina, Artie and. . . whatever her name was. God, that was everyone except her, and Rachel, and Finn. The perpetual triangle.
Oh God, what if she goes back to him? I won't be able to stomach it.
Quinn held her breath as Robert and his friend Joanne, a rich, married woman who had just propositioned him, drank together at the climax of the show.
"I'll take good care of you, Bobby," Joanne had said.
"But. . . who will I take care of?" Bobby had replied.
Quinn thought it was brilliant, this one-line explanation of the difference between love, and not-love. She felt like her memory and her imagination were both churning at once, like maybe she was dying, with the way her life was flashing before her eyes, the way she was regretting a future that she might never have.
"Rachel, wait," Quinn said, grabbing her hand before she could walk out of the room. "Come here."
Rachel, surprised, stopped in her tracks.
"Your lipstick is a little smeared," Quinn smiled, running her thumb along Rachel's bottom lip.
"Okay. Now you're good."
"Thanks, Quinn," Rachel smiled. She bent to kiss her on the lips.
"Break a leg, Archie," Quinn smiled back, and Rachel raced out the door to her audition.
...
"I am never drinking again," Rachel said, teetering back and forth as Quinn walked her from the toilet to her bed.
"I've heard that one before," Quinn chided.
"Okay, well," Rachel revised, "I'm never letting Santana mix the drinks again."
"I think that's fair," Quinn nodded.
She pulled down the covers on Rachel's bed and helped ease her down to the mattress.
"Quinn?" Rachel said, "Can you hug me?"
Quinn slid wordlessly into the bed behind Rachel, wrapping her top arm around Rachel's chest and cradling her from behind.
"Actually, Quinn?" Rachel asked a moment later, her voice small and apologetic.
"Yeah?"
"Can you go get the wastebasket and set it by my head?"
"Yeah."
Quinn slid back out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom.
...
"They're being ludicrously unfair!" Rachel exclaimed.
"Rachel, calm down," Quinn sighed. "Sit down with me."
Rachel continued to wear a path in the carpet from one end to her room to the other.
"I cannot sit in the face of this injustice, Quinn."
"They're just worried about you, Rach. My parents would never have let me go, either."
"It's just Chicago!" she exclaimed, exasperated. "It's only a four-hour drive!"
"More like five, actually," Quinn corrected her.
"Ugghhhh," Rachel gurgled emphatically, finally flouncing down on the bed next to Quinn. "It's just not fair. How often is West Side Story performed by a professional company mere hours away?"
"It's okay, Rachel," Quinn said, putting her hand on Rachel's. "Someday when they revive it on Broadway, we'll go. We can start saving up now. Or . . ." she said, wrapping Rachel up in a bear hug and pulling her down on the bed beside her. "Or, by then you won't have to have tickets. You'll be in it."
Rachel sniffled and grew quiet, letting that thought take root. "That does make me feel a little better."
"I thought it might," Quinn said, kissing the top of Rachel's head.
...
Quinn rolled over to look at the clock on the bedside table, though she knew from the way the moon was peeking through the buildings across the street from their 6th-floor apartment that it wasn't going to tell her any good news.
She closed her eyes in frustration after reading 3:21.
"Quinn," Rachel whispered again. "Can you go?"
"Mmmmm," Quinn groaned. "I went already."
"Please, Quinn?" Rachel pleaded. "I'll owe you the next two nights, okay? Please, I have a call at 7 downtown and they'll have to put extra makeup on me to hide bags beneath my eyes, and then I'll break out, and Quinn, it'll be vicious cycle of make-up and breakouts for the rest of my life and it all could start tonight."
There was no arguing. Quinn threw aside the comforter and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"Okay, sweetie," she called out in a sing-song voice as she stumbled from their bedroom across the hall to the baby's room. "Mama's coming."
"I love you," Rachel murmured from the bed as she curled into a ball and fell back asleep.
I know, Quinn smiled silently.
...
The final song of the show, Quinn squinted to read through the darkness and the tears in her eyes, was called "Being Alive." Before it began, Bobby's friends urged on the revelation that he might actually want to open himself up to love.
ROBERT: Stop! What do you get?
Someone to hold you too close,
Someone to hurt you too deep,
Someone to sit in your chair, to ruin your sleep.
Someone to crowd you with love,
Someone to force you to care,
Someone to make you come through,
Who'll always be there,
As frightened as you
Of being alive
"Rachel, can you just shut up?"
"No. You haven't answered me."
"I'm TIRED."
"We can't go to sleep like this."
"I assure you, I can."
"How are we ever going to get anywhere if you won't talk to me, Quinn?"
"There is nothing to talk about, Rachel. I was in a bad mood because I had cramps, now let it GO."
"Something is bothering you, Quinn. You can't tell me your sullenness with the children at Bible School and argumentativeness every time we get together with our friends are coming out of nowhere. Nobody has PMS for that long, not even you."
"Rachel," Quinn said, her voice growing soft. "Please leave it alone."
"Fine. Fine, I can't make you talk to me. But I can't go to sleep with you when we're upset with each other. I'm going home."
"Rachel, stop it. It's two-thirty in the morning."
"My car still works."
Rachel slipped on her flip-flops and threw on her hoodie, and vanished out Quinn's bedroom door.
Quinn squeezed her eyes shut, sending tears down the sides of her face and onto the pillow beneath her.
I don't need this, she thought. I don't need this, I don't need this. . .
...
Quinn picked at the piano in front of her, running through her latest song ideas in her mind. She was annoyed. It's not like she needed this hassle; she was only doing this to keep an eye on the little shit, after all.
Jesus, where is she? As if she needed to add one more quality – tardy – to her list of undesirable traits.
Loud. Ridiculous. Egotistical. Terrible taste in women.
Blindly, irritatingly persistent and nauseatingly ambitious when it came to getting what she wanted, except when it came to her high school romances, apparently.
God, why do I even fucking care? Let her chase after Finn Hudson and screw around with Santana Lopez. Let her stagnate and ruin her chances. What do I care?
She was startled out of her angry daydream by the sound of footsteps across the stage.
"You're late," she said sourly as Rachel approached the piano.
...
"Guess what I did," Rachel said excitedly, breezing into their kitchen on a Saturday morning.
Quinn looked up from the paperwork in front of her.
"If you're referring to how you erased my documentary series on the ancient Mayan civilization that was on the History Channel this week, I noticed that already."
"That's not what I was referring to."
"Oh? So what else did you do?" Quinn asked, turning back to her laptop.
"Wait, are you doing money things right now?" Rachel asked, just noticing the bank statements and investment portfolio notebooks spread out across the kitchen table.
"Isn't that what I always do on Saturday mornings?"
"Oh. Um, we can talk about this later," Rachel said, attempting to turn and vanish from Quinn's sight before she could be questioned further.
"Rachelll," Quinn called out sternly.
Rachel turned and shuffled sheepishly back into the kitchen.
"What did you buy?"
"I. . . might have . . . not been able to pass up a really great deal on plane tickets."
"Rachel! To where?"
"JFK to Vegas, two weeks from yesterday," she said, pressing clasped hands to her lips. "But they were super cheap, Quinn! And when's the last time we got away for a weekend, just the two of us? Plus . . . you know we always have a good time in hotel room, don't we?"
Even with one eye on their credit card statement, Quinn couldn't help but smile.
"You know, you're the reason we end up eating peanut butter and jelly the last few days of the month, every single month," she said.
"I'm worth it," Rachel proclaimed hopefully, sweeping across the room to plant herself in Quinn's lap.
...
Even if her mind weren't going a thousand miles a minute, Rachel's tossing and turning would have been keeping Quinn from falling asleep.
"Are you awake?" Rachel finally asked, her voice small.
"Yeah," Quinn said. She rolled onto her side to face Rachel, brushing the hair out of her eyes. Her face was a little older, her eyes a little more tired than the young girl Quinn had fallen in love with. Still beautiful, though.
"Quinn, this is really scary," Rachel said. She laid the palms of her hands against her softly rounding belly.
"I know," Quinn said, laying her arm protectively over Rachel's chest. "But the doctor says you're both perfect."
"No, not just being pregnant. . . everything."
"Well," Quinn said, kissing Rachel's cheek, "THIS doctor says everything is perfect."
Rachel smiled. "I appreciate that, Dr. Fabray, but you're not a baby doctor. And you can't tell me you're not a little scared."
"I think we're supposed to be a little scared," Quinn said, intertwining her fingers with Rachel's against her stomach. "It means we're doing it right."
...
The song ended, and the last scene of the show was Robert leaning forward to finally blow out his birthday candles to make a wish. He finally wanted something, wanted someone.
As the stage went dark, Quinn felt a choking noise gurgle from her throat.
Happily, it was drowned out by the applause that rose from the crowd. The New Directions leapt to their feet as the lights came up halfway and curtain call began. Everyone except Santana, who was rummaging in her purse for tissues to wipe away the mascara that was streaking down her cheeks.
As she joined the rest of the audience in a standing ovation she turned to Quinn, who hadn't bothered with her own smeared mascara.
"I'm going to fucking kill Rachel Berry," she muttered, as Kurt and Blaine threw roses onto the stage at Rachel's feet.
After the show, they joined the throngs of theatergoers in the lobby in waiting for the cast to exit their dressing rooms to offer their congratulations. Quinn wandered among the patrons, nursing a headache, trying to feel less like a stunned bird who'd just unwittingly flown into a closed window.
"Dude, how hot were the actresses who played all those old married ladies?" Puck asked Finn. "I gotta find out if they've got swimming pools. Maybe I can dip into the Findlay market someday, if you know what I'm saying."
A few feet away, Kurt and Blaine discussed Raul Esparza in hushed, reverent tones.
On benches outside the ladies room, Brittany comforted Santana.
"I mean, he just sings that song about letting somebody into your soul, and then the lights come up? What kind of bullshit is that?"
"But it's okay, Santana, because he's happy now that he finally made a wish!"
Quinn eventually came to rest leaning against a wall near the ticketing window. When Rachel finally entered the lobby, their friends showered her with flowers, balloons, and cards. Rachel bent to sign programs for little kids, and gave hugs freely to old ladies.
As she got closer, the surreal atmosphere of the night only deepened for Quinn. Rachel's stage makeup was startling and stark, her lips and cheeks bright red, dark black lines defining her eyes.
Quinn hung back, letting Rachel absorb all the thank yous and congratulations. By the time Rachel approached her, the lobby was nearly empty of patrons; even most of their friends had departed. Santana nodded at Quinn as she and Brittany exited the theater, giving Rachel and Quinn near privacy in the corner of the lobby.
Quinn handed Rachel her seventeenth bundle of flowers.
"Thank you," Rachel said, taking them. "So what did you think?"
"I thought you and the show were both rather brilliant," Quinn said, trying to smile warmly, still adjusting to Rachel's alien appearance.
"Really?"
"Of course. It was so amazing seeing you up there, Rachel."
"The show is pretty intense, right?" Rachel asked with a smile. "Looks like your mascara is a little smudged."
"It wasn't what I was expecting," Quinn agreed, running her finger across her eyelid. "I thought musicals were supposed to be light-hearted and fluffy."
Rachel shrugged. "Sondheim."
"Well, Santana is a wreck."
Rachel smiled again. "I know. I would have put money on it. But it's a good thing, you know. I think you can't be moved by this show unless you really get what it's like to love somebody, the good parts and the bad parts."
"I thought the second act would be about Bobby picking one of his three girlfriends to marry. But I was completely wrong. It was about how he had to open himself up to it, first. Love, I mean. It was really beautiful, actually. I feel like. . . I feel like I can relate, a little."
"Yeah," Rachel said. Her smile faded and she looked away from Quinn.
"Anyway, I'm really proud of you, Rachel," Quinn said, and leaned in to give her a hug.
Rachel stepped backwards. "Quinn, don't," she said.
Quinn froze. "Don't?"
"You know, this night isn't about you," Rachel said.
"Of – of course not. I know that. I'm not making it about me, am I?"
"You're making it about us."
"No, Rachel, I promise – I was just trying to congratulate you."
"You were talking about love. And you can't keep finding excuses for us to spend time together, Quinn, like that book and these flowers. I shouldn't be alone here with you. This was a mistake and I'm not comfortable, so… so I think we should just stop."
"Wait, stop what?"
"I can't do this with you anymore, Quinn. It's too confusing."
"But. . .why?" Quinn asked. "I thought we were doing okay with seeing each other once in a while."
"You need to ask me why?" Rachel asked. "Quinn, maybe I need to remind you of something. What we had – you broke it. Do you not remember that? You abandoned me, and you had sex with someone else before I'd even stopped crying over you. You were mean, and emotionally distant, and I may not have been the best girlfriend, but you can't just give me a half-assed apology and a paper about religion, beautifully written though it may be, and think it earns you a second chance. We were fucked up together Quinn, and there's nothing to suggest it would be any different this time."
"But I . . . what about therapy?" Quinn whispered.
"You said yourself it wasn't helping."
"No, that was. . . I was just being pessimistic, Rachel. It's hard and I hate it, but just the other day I was talking to him about coming out someday."
"Look, I'm thrilled that you're making progress, Quinn, I am. I'm just not sure that while you work out your issues that I'll be anything other than a punching bag."
Quinn covered her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Okay, I know. I don't blame you. Rachel, I don't know what you think I'm asking you for, because I haven't really asked you for anything. But I'm just going to leave. I'll just go."
Quinn turned away from Rachel without any further words between them. By the time she reached the sidewalk, she was running. She crossed in front of the theater and turned right into the parking garage.
"Level H5. H5, H5, H5," she repeated, trying to calm herself, to stave off the tears, as the elevator took her up to where they had parked before the show.
Quinn could see right away that Santana's car was not among the few stragglers scattered across the nearly-empty lot.
"Where are you?" she asked angrily, when Santana picked up her phone.
"What do you mean? We're about ten minutes outside of Findlay."
"You're WHERE?"
"Wait, did you need a ride? I thought you'd be riding home with Rachel."
"Fuck!" Quinn exclaimed, and it rang out across the garage. "Rachel and I are not a couple, Santana. You can't just assume things and leave people stranded!"
"Okay, Jesus, chill the fuck out, Quinn. I'm turning around right now, all right? Just wait in front of the theater, I'll pull up to the curb in like fifteen minutes."
"Fuck," Quinn said, sniffling, as she hung up the phone. She took the stairs down to street level, and leaned against a wall next to a poster featuring Rachel Berry's smiling face, and waited there alone.
...
Friday, September 2 / 9:05pm
The next night was the end-of-summer party at Trinity United Methodist Church. Quinn, Santana, and Brittany joined the other counselors and volunteers, most of the kids from Summer Bible School, and their families for a barbeque, bonfire, and sing-a-long.
Quinn had never been more grateful for a church event in her life. She didn't know what she would have done had she not been around a group of people today.
"She must be so tired," Quinn said to Dottie's mother. "She had a super long day."
"She's practically asleep," Dottie's mother said, caressing the little girl's back. "D, do you want to wake up and say goodbye to Miss Quinn?"
Dottie lifted her head from her mother's shoulder.
"Bye Miss Quinn," she said sleepily.
"Bye, Dottie," Quinn said. "You be good in school this year, okay? I'll see you next summer."
"Yes ma'am," Dottie said, and laid her head back down.
"Thanks, Quinn," Dottie's mother said. "She'll miss you."
Quinn kissed the back of Dottie's hand and watched them go.
"Hey, don't throw your crap on the ground! God, you're such a hooligan!"
Quinn supposed this was Santana saying goodbye to Cristofer. He took off running toward the picnic tables, and Santana followed him.
Brittany sat on a bench next to the remnants of the fire, half-heartedly toasting a marshmallow.
"Brittany, you okay?"
"Yeah, just. All of these goodbyes are making me sad."
"Yeah. Me too."
"It makes me think about this time next summer, when we all have to say goodbye to each other. I can't believe I'm going to have to say goodbye to Mike and Tina and Artie, and you and Rachel. . ."
Brittany's gaze traveled to Santana, who was near the jungle gym, trying to reign in not only Cristofer, but his brother, too.
"So what do you think she's going to do?" Quinn asked.
"I don't know."
Quinn sighed, and sat down next to her. Brittany handed her a stick with a marshmallow already attached.
"I think she means it when she says she liked Toledo. But I know she never would've thought of going there if I hadn't told her about it. I hate to think of being the thing that holds Santana back from doing what she wants. Sometimes I feel selfish, like maybe I should have given USC a chance."
"You can't compromise what your heart is set on, either, Brittany. That would be just as wrong."
"Maybe we were always going to have to let them go, huh, Quinn?"
"Rachel and Santana?"
"Yeah, like, if you and Rachel had stayed together, next year she'd be going to New York, or wherever. Maybe it was always going to be like this."
Quinn's marshmallow caught fire and fell into the dirt. She poked at the ashes at the edge of the fire with her stick.
"Maybe it was," she said. "I mean, you're right. I would break up with Rachel before I would let myself hold her back from being onstage, especially after yesterday. But take it from me, Brittany. At least you and Santana have each other now. I'd give a lot to have another year, even if at the end of it I had to say goodbye to her."
"Quinn, I think I need to go talk to Santana. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Go on."
...
"These kids are a fucking—sorry, freaking—pen full of piglets, I swear to Christ," Santana grumbled as she bent to pick up the scattered toys and clear plastic cups left behind after the party.
"Did Cristofer leave?"
"Yeah, you just missed him."
Brittany smiled.
"He's in love with you, you know."
"Brittany, he's seven."
"I fell in love when I was seven."
"Of course you did."
"I'm so proud of you, Santana. You've been so good with him, and like, all the kids. Remember when you were afraid to even go in the building?"
"I was not."
"Well, remember when you were afraid of boogers?"
"Shit, I'm still afraid of that. We're not out of here yet."
"Santana, I want you to promise me something."
Santana stood and turned to look at Brittany, her arms full of discarded plastic cups. "What?"
"I think," Brittany said, "Santana, I think you can do anything you want. Even things you're afraid to do at first. So I want you to promise me that you'll go to college where you truly want to go. Promise me you won't go somewhere just for your mother. And not for me, either."
The corners of Santana's lips curled downward.
"Santana, you understand what I'm saying, right?"
Santana turned her back on Brittany.
"We can't talk about this here."
"Then put that stuff down," Brittany said, "And come with me."
Brittany took Santana's hand and led her over the hill to the parking lot.
"Talk to me here," Brittany said as they closed the car doors behind them. "What's wrong?"
"Are we done?" Santana said. "After this year, are we done?"
"Why are you asking me that?"
"Because you're pushing me toward California."
"Santana, that's not true. I'm pushing you to be happy."
"What would make me happy is to know my girlfriend wants me with her thirteen months from now."
"Santana, I'm the one who asked you to go to Toledo in the first place, remember? Of course I want you with me. But, not if it's your second choice."
"You know what I think? I think you've never loved me as much as I love you, so you don't care as much if we go our separate ways in a year."
Brittany, who had been comforting Santana with a gentle hand on her shoulder, withdrew it and turned away.
"I'm so tired of this, Santana. You always change my words to mean things I didn't say. Just because I'm not jealous and possessive like you doesn't mean I don't love you."
"Jealous and possessive? You know what? Fuck you, because I have been putting up with you hanging out with your fucking ex-boyfriend for weeks now."
"And sending Quinn to spy on us."
Santana stared at her hands on the steering wheel.
"I don't know how many times," Brittany added. "I only saw her once, but maybe she hid better the other times."
"Jesus, Quinn is a terrible spy. So why didn't you tell me Artie had a new girlfriend, huh Brittany? Was it because you wanted me to be jealous?"
"No, I didn't tell you because he's not telling people yet. He's not sure it's going to work out and he met her in a weird way, so he's taking his time. I was being a good friend."
"And not such a great girlfriend. You know what would make me happy? If you put ME first, sometime."
"Santana, I do put you first! With things that are actually important, like college. And you know what, Santana, it's funny how you're always on my case about Artie, but you're the only one of us who cheated this summer."
"Is that why you're pushing me away? Because I kissed Rachel? Or because I sent Quinn to make sure you weren't about to break my fucking heart, AGAIN?"
"No, but as long as we're talking about that, don't forget that you broke mine first."
Brittany's insides burned. Why was it that every time she tried to tell Santana something she thought was good for them, it wound up being a fight? Every time she tried to be a grown up and make the right decision, it wound up coming out bad.
Sometimes it was hard to remember through the anger that nothing made Santana lash out harder than scaring her.
Santana was scared. That's what Brittany had to fix.
"Santana—"
She was interrupted by a loud thud on the driver's side window behind Santana's head.
"What the fuck, Quinn?" Santana said, whipping her head around.
"I'm sorry," Quinn said, wide-eyed and breathless on the other side of the window. "Guys, I'm really sorry, but Santana – can I borrow your car? I need to get to Findlay before Rachel's show is over."
...
Monday, August 29 / 3:15pm
"I never had a problem with gay people, even though I was probably supposed to. I just never thought I'd be one."
Dr. Reese nodded. "Sometimes it's easier to be understanding towards others than it is toward ourselves."
"Christianity teaches you that," Quinn said. "If you listen in church, there's all this talk about loving your neighbor, and 'judge not' when it comes to other people. But you're supposed to try to be perfect yourself, and feel guilty if you're not."
"You sound a bit disillusioned."
Quinn shrugged.
"Do you still attend church services regularly, Quinn?"
"Every Sunday morning. Then pancake breakfast at 11. I missed a few this summer, but I usually go."
"Do you go because you like to? Does your mother impose it on you?"
"I suppose it's always been a little of both. But, there are a lot of nice people there. My mom's friends and the pastor were actually pretty understanding about my mistake with the pregnancy. I mean, after I spent nine months apologizing, of course."
"Do your recent revelations about your sexuality make you feel uncomfortable when you're there?"
Quinn couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. Like, she recognized that the question was his way of opening up conversation, but how stupid could you get?
"Well . . .yeah."
"So what makes you continue to attend? Spirituality? Community?"
"It's just. . . normal. It's normal to go there."
"And that's comforting."
Quinn nodded once.
"I think many people attend services for that reason."
"Well, it's not like I'm not a Christian," she added. "I don't go just to hang out with my mother's friends."
He waited for her to continue.
"I read some things this summer that made me feel stupid for being my religion. The history of the church, you know? None of it is like they tell you in Bible school."
"How is it, then?"
Quinn stared at the wall above his head.
"Arbitrary. Some of it is arbitrary. But, I need it."
"There's nothing wrong with that."
"Nobody understands it, though. Rachel, Santana. They think, why don't I just leave if I don't fit in with my church."
"You should feel free to make any changes at your own pace, Quinn. Nobody can dictate when it's right for you to do that but you."
"Yeah," she said, gazing out the window for a minute. "It's like . . . punctuated equilibrium."
He gave her a half smile. "Like evolution?"
She gave him a half smile back for knowing what it meant. She only let it linger on her face for a second. She didn't want him to be too proud of himself.
"Yeah. I think that's how change happens with people. It's not necessarily this gradual, continuous thing," she said. "For a long time nothing changes, and then all of a sudden there's some kind of disaster. Metaphorically, of course. But there's some kind of force, and then—" she clapped one hand down on the other.
"Evolution happens. Change occurs," he finished for her.
"Santana said that's how it was when she came out to her mother. I mean, she didn't say it in terms of evolution, but same idea. So maybe it'll happen to me, too."
"Maybe what will happen to you?"
Quinn's shoulders slumped. Weren't therapists supposed to be perceptive?
"What happened to Santana," she clarified with a sigh. "How one day she knew she had to."
Quinn's therapist smiled and twirled his pen end over end. She knew that smile – it meant she had said something that excited him; she already recognized this air of carefully detached hopefulness. Something encouraging yet vague was about to come out of his mouth in 3, 2, 1. . .
"It must be helpful that you have friends who are going through the same things as you."
Quinn stared at him for a beat. Sometimes, he really didn't get it. She shook her head in frustration.
"You disagree?" he said, and she noted with satisfaction that his smile became approximately fifty percent smaller. "You don't feel grateful to have their support?"
"What I'm saying is, they are not going through the same things as me." She leaned back in her comfy leather chair. "It's different for everyone."
She almost felt bad. Rachel was probably never this much of a bitch in therapy. Quinn looked down at her hands, finding her fingers nervously massaging one another.
You wanted to come here, Quinn. Say something productive.
"I—" she started, and he practically vibrated with anticipation. "I am lucky, though," she finished, pushing each word reluctantly from her lips. She gazed out the window. "I suppose I know that."
His smile came back, and her sympathy waned.
"What makes you lucky, Quinn?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
She knew wasn't going to get away with it, but it bought her some time.
"Quinn, after four sessions, I know you better than that."
"Technically, it's only been three and a third."
"I'll rephrase. After a limited number of sessions, I suspect that you must have some idea how to back up your statement, or you wouldn't have spoken at all. What makes you lucky?"
Quinn winced and looked up at the ceiling, bracing for the mental anguish the next word was about to bring. She hated therapy so, incredibly much. Like, really.
"Santana," she sighed.
Of all the smiles in her therapist's repertoire, this had to be the most annoying one she had ever fucking seen.
He nodded his head once. "So Santana's support is important to you."
"If it qualifies as support when someone hasn't punched you in over a month."
She felt guilty as soon as she said it, as soon as she minimized things. Flashes of Santana's charcoal gray walls, blurred by tears in the blue-tint of early morning light, played in her mind's eye.
"You can't drive like this, Q. Just lie down, okay?"
"I should go, but. . . I haven't slept yet."
When she zoned back into the moment she found Dr. Reese looking at her with mild disapproval.
"Okay," she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Santana is nearly always intolerable. But once in a while she says things that maybe I need to hear. It's probably usually by accident, but it happens."
"Sometimes honesty can feel brutal," Dr. Reese opined. He gave her another little smile, and now he was waiting for her to go on. Even she knew this was the oldest therapy trick in the book. She probably could have waited him out if she wanted to.
"She and Brittany both do that."
"Brittany – you said she was the young lady Santana was dating?"
Quinn nodded.
"Yes. With her it's completely different. When Santana says things, it's usually because she's found something wrong with you and wants to point it out. Brittany sandwiches her real life thoughts in between humming a song she made up about ponies and telling me she has a business meeting with her cat."
Dr. Reese smiled again, using his eyes this time. "Maybe I should get her in here next."
"Don't do that to yourself," Quinn smirked. "Although there might be some kind of Nobel Prize in it for you if you can figure out her mind."
He chuckled. "Well, I'd like to hear more about them both the next time we meet. But Quinn, before we run out of time – we haven't talked about Rachel in a couple of weeks."
Quinn chewed on the inside of her cheek. Well, that took the mirth out of the air.
"Have you spoken to her lately?" he asked quietly.
"Actually, yes," Quinn said, lifting her chin a little. "I had coffee with her last week."
"Good for you for reaching out. How did it go?"
Rachel. I'm sorry if I ruined your summer.
That's kind of a strange way to put it, Quinn. Like you broke our vacation plans, or something.
Well, I mean. . . I did break our plans.
Quinn shrugged. "We weren't there very long. I gave her my research paper to read."
"A paper for school?"
"No, the thirty-page research paper I wrote just for kicks."
He scowled and cocked his head to the side.
"Sorry."
"What's the paper about?"
"Religion and homosexuality. Summer homework for one of my AP classes. I. . . don't know why I gave it to her. That was ridiculous."
"It sounds like you want her to know how much you've learned this summer."
"Yeah, well." Quinn leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, and pressed the palms of her hands together. "I haven't heard back from her. She's probably too busy with rehearsal to read it."
Or she doesn't care.
"The important thing for now is that you reached out, Quinn. I think that's a great step forward, and at a manageable pace."
"Mmm," Quinn said. She watched as her left nails sank into the fabric of her jeans. "I suppose. But it's always a manageable pace until the next metaphorical disaster."
"Maybe you shouldn't use such a negative word as 'disaster,' Quinn. Wouldn't a biologist call it . . .'selective pressure,' maybe? Whether it's external or internal, something is pushing you to evolve. Right?"
He actually winked at her when he said that. It was official – extended metaphors made him entirely too happy.
"If I may offer some advice?" he asked, and waited.
Well you're only my therapist. I think it would be about time.
She nodded.
"Do your best to recognize those moments of growth when they're happening, Quinn. Don't be afraid of them. Embrace them. After all, I'm sure you remember what happens to species that fail to evolve."
...
Friday, September 2 / 9:35pm
"Can't this wait until later tonight?" Santana asked, trying to conceal the quiver in her voice.
"No."
"Can't we drive you to your house to get your own car?" Brittany asked.
"There's no time. I'm sorry, but you guys need to either get out or start driving."
Santana and Brittany exchanged a look.
"Ugh. Just get the fuck in," Santana said, tilting her head toward the back seat. "We all know I'll get you there way faster."
...
"What are you even doing?" Santana asked once on the drive.
"Finishing a conversation," was all Quinn would say.
...
So for the second night in a row, Quinn found herself standing around at the Findlay PAC as the post-show crowds dwindled to nearly zero. When Rachel finally emerged from the building, it was with almost the entirety of her cast, amid a lively racket.
Exiting out the double doors of the theater, Rachel froze for an instant when she saw Quinn standing off to the side, almost in the shadows. At first, Quinn felt a sickening drop in her stomach as it looked like Rachel might decide not to acknowledge her at all.
"I'll just be a few minutes, Bradley," Rachel said, gesturing toward Quinn. "I'll meet you at the car."
She strode toward Quinn. "What are you doing here?" she asked, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Quinn's confidence, which had been rock solid up until about twelve seconds ago, sputtered and cut out.
"Can I talk to you?" she asked meekly.
"I'm listening, Quinn. But my ride is waiting for me, so."
Quinn cleared her throat.
"I came . . . I came to ask you what you're so afraid of, Rachel."
"Pardon me?"
"I realized something tonight. You had weeks to get mad at me, to blow up in my face the way you did last night. We've hung out together a few times now. At Santana's, at Bible school, that one time tutoring. Things have been fine. Then last night, in the middle of a really happy moment, everything changed."
"Yes, well, I don't think you get to make commentary on people's mood swings, Quinn."
"Well, maybe that's fair. Except, this wasn't a mood swing. You're freaked out about something."
"Look, Quinn, what is your point?" Rachel asked, shrugging. "I've had a difficult summer and a highly emotional week. I'm allowed to freak out."
"But what is it, though?" Quinn pressed. "It's something recent, like about my paper, or the fact that I'm going to therapy, or that we hung out and had coffee together, just the two of us. It's like you got more upset when things got a little better."
"Okay, fine," Rachel said. "Maybe I did. Maybe it's because I'm trying to move on, did you ever think of that? Maybe one moment I'm just starting to think I can, and that we can see each other from time to time and it'll be fine. And then the next, you won't leave me alone, talking about coming out to your therapist and about the character in my show opening himself up to love. It's like you've changed overnight or something."
"Mmm. They say hitting rock bottom will do that."
"Be that as it may, I still don't know where that leaves me."
"And I don't know what you mean by that."
"Well, I don't know. For one thing, I haven't told my therapist I'm bisexual. How do you think that makes me feel?"
"It's not like a bingo card, Rachel. You don't have to tell every single person as fast as possible."
Rachel's shoulders slumped. She shook her head, tired. "I don't think you realize what a big deal that is, Quinn, what you did. All the things I know I need to work on, my therapist is the person I tell. It's like, 'okay, here it is. I have this issue.'"
"It makes it real," Quinn summarized. "Oh my God. You're afraid to come out."
"I'm not afraid," Rachel said, lifting her chin defensively. "I'm not afraid to be different, the way Santana is. I'm not afraid of losing my support network like you are. I'm not afraid of homophobes, or discrimination, or gossip behind my back. It sucks, but it's nothing I haven't dealt with before. It's just.. . Quinn, do you remember all of our summer plans? If you think about it, we accomplished barely any of them."
"Rachel, most of those plans were unrealistic. You know that. But we're tutoring and volunteering. We did outreach before Pride."
"I didn't care about any of it," Rachel said, her voice rising in pitch and volume with every sentence. "Not the same way I would have a year ago. Now it's September and I haven't started a single college application. And this week, I barely cared about this show – my FIRST professional show. A SONDHEIM show. So, let's see what we have. Suddenly I'm bisexual, I'm in love with a girl who's growing up into this complicated woman that I barely understand on a good day, and I'm so distracted from everything I used to care about that I don't even recognize myself."
Rachel's eyes filled with tears.
"You asked me, Quinn, when you first got here, what I'm afraid of? Well, there's your answer. I'm afraid I won't even be me anymore, if I'm with you."
A smile touched the corners of Quinn's lips.
"Well. I guess I have no idea what that's like, do I?" she asked gently.
Rachel let out a noise that was half laugh and half sob.
"So you're suggesting we can be strangers to ourselves together? I'm not sure how comforting that is. Or how wise."
"I'm not suggesting anything, really," Quinn said. "Look, Rachel, I know I got a little intense last night. Your show really moved me. In fact, if you knew some of the things that had been running through my head, you would admire my restraint, actually. But I'm not stupid, and I know we have a lot to fix. But all I can think about right now, Rachel, is that if you and I can stand here and talk like this . . . that there's something here that we can't abandon."
Rachel closed her eyes and sent fresh tears down her cheeks.
"I need some time to think, okay?" she sniffled. "I'm really confused right now, and I'm exhausted, and I still have one more show tomorrow."
"You're right," Quinn said. "You have to focus on that. This is me backing off."
"Yeah," Rachel said, nodding. "I should go. Brad's been waiting forever, so."
"Right. Break a leg tomorrow, all right?"
"Thanks, Quinn. I guess I'll see you at school on Tuesday."
"I guess so," Quinn said, and waved goodbye to Rachel as she disappeared into the shadows of the parking garage.
...
Friday, September 2 / 10:20pm
"I'm sorry for hurting you. For sending Quinn and not trusting you, all that bull shit."
"It's okay, Santana. I know why you did it."
They stared out the front window at the empty Findlay street, Rachel's theater the only thing lit up for blocks.
"I really don't know what to do."
"About college?"
"Yeah."
"I know. Santana?"
"Hmm."
"You don't have anything to worry about, even if you go to California."
"How do you figure that one, Pollyanna?"
"You don't realize how much people love you. Me, or anyone. You don't realize people aren't going to forget about you."
"Brittany, I'm a lot of things, but well-loved ain't one of them."
"You're wrong about that, though. Santana, do you ever think about how you're three different people's best friend?"
"Britt, what are you smoking and why aren't you sharing?"
"No, for real. Like, okay, obviously you're mine. That's one. But you're Rachel's and Quinn's too."
"Okay, whatever," Santana said. "Rachel has Kurt, and Mercedes. Quinn has. . . you know, Jesus."
"But Santana, whose room do they show up in whenever they really, truly need someone? Whose bed, even?"
Santana didn't say anything.
"You're a really good friend, Santana."
"Knock it off, all right? You're really fucking with my self-image right now."
Brittany smiled. "Just be proud of it, Santana."
"Well, I don't know what this has to do with anything, though. If I go to California, I'm leaving them too. Quinn's staying in Ohio, Rachel's probably going all the way to New York."
"It has to do with you trusting that you're good enough to keep the people you love in your life. Which you are. So promise me," Brittany said, holding up her right pinky finger. "Promise me that you'll go to college where YOU want to go."
"Fine," Santana said, and hooked her pinky begrudgingly into Brittany's, then yanked it away. "Fine."
"Good. Hey look, Quinn's coming back," Brittany said, pointing out the window. "Look, it's your best friend Quinn." She poked her finger into Santana's ribs, tickling her.
"Fuck you," Santana said, grinning and batting her away. "And where the fuck is Rachel?"
"Where the fuck is Rachel?" she demanded to Quinn as she huffed into the car.
"She had a ride already. I didn't come here to kidnap her, Santana."
"So we literally drove all the way here so you could finish a conversation?"
"I told you."
"And you did it anyway," Brittany said with a smile, elbowing Santana.
"I hate you both," Santana said. "I should make y'all hitchhike. Q, this conversation better have been about what you and Berry are getting me as a thank you present for putting up with your drama queen asses all summer."
"I will agree to that if you'll shut up about it."
"I told you that always works on you."
Quinn sighed out the darkened window. She settled backwards into the seat of the car, and smiled, just a little.