It's the first time you've ever had a boyfriend (correction: any friend) invite you over for dinner. People don't seem to be so keen on advertising you as an acquaintance, so when Finn casually offers, you turn the invitation over in your mind, looking for the catch. You pull the longest skirt you have out of the back of your closet and practice your pre-audition breathing exercises in the backseat as your dads pull in front of the Hummels' house, Finn's new residence. You bark at them a little too harshly as your nervous hands motion for them to hurry up and drive away, wondering later what ignited the sudden spark of shame you harbor for your less than conventional family.
Picking your way through your non-vegan dinner, you force a few too many smiles as Finn proudly lists off your accomplishments and goals to his mother as he shovels lasagna into his mouth. Kurt eyes your silence suspiciously, punctuating Finn's praises with a few jabs at the pony on your sweater before his dad shoots him a warning glance and he excuses himself to go upstairs. And before you know it Finn has joined Burt in the living room for the rest of the baseball game and your politeness in offering to help clean up has left you cornered in the kitchen.
"Finn says you're quite the talker," Carole offers, taking the plate from your hand as you watch your uneaten dinner being scraped into the trash. "So I'm thinking that this is new for you. But I'm not scary. I promise," she smiles.
"I know that," you say to the tiles on the floor.
"And I've done the whole meet the girlfriend thing before," she pauses, waiting for your nod of acknowledgement as she turns off the sink and wipes her hands on a dish towel. "Heck, we've done the whole let the girlfriend move in thing before-"
"Oh, I would never-"
"I know. I know Rachel. Quinn was different. I'm not saying that." She squeezes your shoulder before taking a seat and motioning for you to join her. "I'm just doing my job. You and I both know that Finn loves a little too easily and a little too blindly sometimes. It's usually his best quality, but sometimes it can be his worst. But I'm not worried," she assures you as you finally meet her glance. "You're not like her at all."
It's the best compliment you've gotten in a long time.
"Anyway, I know you'll take good care of him," she says, smiling again warmly as she reaches over to cover your hand with hers. "Just be sure and bring him over to your house so your mom can give him the same speech. I'm sure it's hard on her to have to share you with a boyfriend."
You nod is stolid as you let her words drill into your chest, until you hear a sudden, almost impatient honk in the driveway. And you're out the door and into the backseat before Finn can even notice you've left, a breath of relief escaping your lungs as you notice that Carol hasn't bothered to open the front door and wave to the woman who should have been taking you home. Your dad frowns at your tears from the rear view mirror, but you push away the water bottle he tries to hand you as you bury your head into the backseat. You don't feel thirsty anymore.
You shut the door to your bedroom and stumble out of your skirt as your arms wrestle your sweater over your head, too tired to change into pajamas as you crawl between the coolness of your sheets. On your nightstand, your cellphone blinks to life, and you flip it open to see the question you've been dreading since you walked out his front door.
so what did u think of my mom? love u.
You try to sleep but your mind is on repeat, and all the smiles and warm words that rained down on you all night are ripping the seams of the place you've tucked away your jealousies. You hate yourself for feeling this way. But mostly, you hate him for having what you don't.
It's Saturday morning and your dads have sat you down on the couch to give you their annual"We're worried about your emotional well-being" speech. You appreciate their effort, but you're just too exhausted to come up with another lie to mask the events of the last few months. So you just nod and agree with everything they say, and four hours later you find yourself wedged between them in the yellow leather waiting chairs outside of your therapist's office. Twenty minutes before your emergency appointment, the door to your shrink's room opens and without warning she emerges, swinging her purse hurriedly over her shoulder before her glance lands on your stunned face. Her cheeks flush to match the color of her hair as she smiles weakly at you. You open your mouth, but before any words can fall out she's turned her back on you and trotted out the door in her heels.
You had eaten lunch with her every day of the past week, and as you stand on your tiptoes to survey the lunchroom on Monday, you're not sure whether you're mad at her for ignoring you on Saturday or embarrassed for her. Your decide you're definitely mad when you spot her on the other side of the cafeteria, distanced from your usual table and chatting rather enthusiastically with some pimply freshman girl whose name and subsequent insults occasionally occupied the same bathroom stalls that yours so often does. Because it suddenly dawns on you that all her subtle questions and smiles and laughs at your stories was just her making you the case of the week. You turn the opposite direction, dumping your tray of food into the garbage as you swallow the bitter taste of your realization instead.
You've talked yourself out of the self-degrading conclusion by the time glee rolls around, because you're 99% certain that she wonders where you were today and wants to apologize for everything. So when a guidance aide pops his head into the choir room with a slip of paper for Mr. Schuester, you've grabbed your backpack and are halfway out of your seat before he calls out Quinn's name instead. You don't even so much as bat an eye when he asks who wants to perform their assignment first. It's the farthest thing from your mind. You're 98% sure she'll be waiting for you outside of the choir room when rehearsal is over, but the halls are empty and so is her office. Your backpack's wheels are bouncing across the parking lot as fast as you can pull them as you hurry over to the faculty parking lot, and you're 97% sure you're going to regret whatever you say but you're fuming too much to care right now. You yell across the pavement at her, watching her throw her bag into the backseat of her car before she turns to see where the voice came from.
"Rachel, is everything okay?" she asks as her eyes widen in worry.
"How would you know that, Miss Pillsbury?" you snap as your palm slams the handle of your backpack down. "How would you know if everything's okay when you've clearly been avoiding me this whole day?"
"Rachel, I haven't been-"
"Yes, yes you have," you yell as your hand shoots up to silence her. "You weren't sitting in our spot at lunch and you were talking to that freshman and then Quinn and-"
She raises an eyebrow as you stop to catch your breath. "I talk to other students, Rachel. I'm the guidance counselor."
"I know that," you snap, willing yourself not to cry. "I know that but at lunch you were talking to that girl and I just thought that because of what happened on Saturday-"
"You just thought what? That I only do my job in my office? Other students have problems too Rachel. Not everything is about you." The bite in her words causes you to take a step back, and you can tell by the look on her face that she's just as surprised by them as you are.
"I know that," you mumble, swiping your cheek on the sleeve of your sweater. She's seen you cry a thousand times but you wonder why you feel so embarrassed this time around as she reaches for your shoulder.
"Sweetheart. I'm sorry. That-came out wrong. But I'm just doing my job when I have to talk to another student, and you can't let yourself get upset over that. Don't you want me to be able to do my job?"
"No," you mutter. "Not with me."
"Excuse me?"
"Miss Pillsbury, when Mr. Schuester listens to me lecture about my superior ideas for glee club, what do you think he's doing? His job. He's doing his job. And when my teachers have to listen to me complain about how most of their curriculum has absolutely no relation to my personal aspirations, they're doing their job. When my therapist tells me that I'm not crazy for feeling the way that I do about everything, she's doing her job. When my mother," you choke out, as the ground blurs underneath your glance, "when my mother, gave birth to me, she was just doing her job, okay? That's it. That's all she was doing. So no. No I don't want you to do your job, okay? Because that's all anyone ever does with Rachel Berry. Their job."
"Rachel-" her hand squeezes tighter around your shoulder but your step back out of her grip as you muster the courage to look up at her.
"I want you to sit down across from me in the cafeteria because there is the slightest chance that you'd rather be talking to me than any other girl with the same boring teenage crises. That I'm not just some project...on your list that you have to check off. That's what I want okay? But I'm stupid, just stupid, for expecting anything more from you. So forget it."
As you sprint back across the parking lot, you half expect her to come running after you. But then you remember that that's not her job.