Characters: Quinn, Rachel, Finn, and others
You're Too Late
As you walk down the aisle towards your beautiful bride to be, your heart beats almost painfully against your ribcage. She looks stunning in her cream-colored wedding dress that you had specially made for the occasion. Her short blonde hair is styled elegantly, and your breath catches in your throat at the sight of her. She's beautiful every day. It wouldn't be an uncommon occurrence for her looks to stop traffic. But today?
Today, your fiancée could stop hearts.
Quinn sees you round the corner, one of your dads at each of your elbows. The smile that spreads across her face causes every emotion you've ever experienced in your life to crash down around you in one fell swoop. You're sure you're blushing through the light makeup you're wearing, but you don't care. It feels right to blush – it feels right to be happy and in love.
You bite your lip as you duck your head slightly, but Santana's voice is suddenly in your mind. "Don't ruin the lip gloss, Berry!" So you stop.
You had always wanted an outdoor wedding. An outdoor wedding required that everything be perfect – the location, the type of grass, humidity, the weather (before and, of course, during). For an outdoor wedding to be perfect, everything had to coincide just so. And ever since you were a little girl, you believed that nothing in the world could ruin your wedding day – especially not a trifling detail like the weather. You had imaged it for so long – the dress, the guests, the flowers, the setting, the reception, the cake – and now, it was finally coming to fruition. Though for the past few years, the only detail that had really changed was the inclusion of another bride on top of the cake next to your own figure instead of a groom.
Everyone gathered in front of you stands as the appropriate music begins to play. You take a step forward, lovingly sandwiched between your smiling fathers (with one crying unabashedly into his handkerchief). Your progress down the aisle is almost torturously slow. But still, a part of you relishes the slowness.
Because you've already scanned the faces around you, and you don't see Finn anywhere in sight.
He was your first love. And it may have been more of a school girl crush than anything, but in your heart and mind, you really do think it was love. And he rejected you, time and time again. You were ambitious, and you had – at one point – tried to make him as important as your other dreams. It was only later in life – when you had already fulfilled most of those dreams – that you thought back on those high school years of pining after Finn with something akin to annoyance or exasperation or just plain silliness. Because one day, Quinn had stumbled back into your life. And you finally understood what it was that Finn – and most of the other male population of McKinley High – had found desirable in her.
You're standing in front of her now. Your dads have each kissed her on the cheek, passing your hands off to her. Her hazel eyes shine brightly out at you, and you can't breathe.
Breathe, she mouths to you.
This is true love.
You had walked into that café in New York City on one of your rare days-off. You had expected to drink a delicious cup of your favorite coffee. You had expected to sit back in one of their sinfully-comfortable chairs. You had expected to waste your day in the most amazing of ways. What you had not expected was for an apparent regular to sit herself down on a stool onstage with a guitar and start singing covers. Covers of love songs. And you had not expected your mind to screech to a standstill as you stared blankly down at the page in front of you, refusing momentarily to move let alone look up. And when you finally did look up, you had most certainly not expected to see Quinn Fabray, strumming her guitar and so in tune with the soft melody flowing from her lips that she didn't even notice you watching. Because now, you were most definitely watching. You couldn't look away. And you approached her when she was done with her set. Your hands had reached out of their own volition, and you had been so surprised when her fingertips had met yours halfway.
The rest, as they say, was history.
The wedding officiator droned on and on. Quinn repeated her vows. You repeated your vows. And suddenly, the moment you had been waiting for arrived.
"If there is anyone here today," he said, "who opposes the marriage between these two women, speak now or forever hold your peace."
Her eyes are swimming with tears. Happy tears. You think yours are too, but you've been feeling so much for the past five ten fifteen twenty or however many long minutes that you're starting to not feel anything at all besides the caress of her fingers against yours. You can't break your eyes from hers, but part of you wants to – part of you wants to turn and look; part of you wants to see if he's there to object, to stop the marriage, to fight for you.
"Finn never knew what he had. He never deserved you. I'm so sorry that I went about protecting you completely the wrong way in high school, Rachel."
When no one objects, you're announced as an official married couple. Something inside of you swells up, and you realize that this is perfect. Standing in front of you, your wife. Standing all around you, your friends and family and people who love you. Waiting after today, the rest of your amazing life with this stunningly perfect girl.
You had wanted Finn to show up. You had wanted him to object. You had wanted to say, "Finn!" You had wanted to keep Quinn's hands laced with your own as you turned your shoulders to him and said, "You're too late." That's all. "You're too late," is all you would have said before giving Quinn the greatest kiss of her life.
But none of that happens here in the present. Except the epic kiss, of course. And somehow, you know – this was how things were meant to turn out. Finn was just a boy from your past. But Quinn?
Quinn is your future.
Postsecret: "I fantasize about him showing up to stop my wedding. Just so I can say "You're too late."
See this Postsecret at: your-kat (dot) livejournal (dot) com