This was supposed to be the last section of Chapter 3, so it's much shorter than normal. Hopefully, it is still a satisfying conclusion to this story.
I.
After the breakup, he looks for her everywhere – the quads, in campus buildings, the lines for the TKTS booth, and every freaking news report that even so much as mentions Ohio.
He moves on, obviously, and convinces himself that it was all for the best, but he never does get over her.
That first year, he spends hours on December 17th agonizing over whether to hit send on the text message he couldn't stop himself from writing.
Happy Birthday. I love you.
It had taken him two hours to decide to exclude the word 'still' - i.e. that he still loves her.
Because he does – still, that is. But he decided it sounded pathetic and desperate.
(As if the text message wasn't enough.)
Right as the clock turns midnight, he pushes send because the pressure of not sending it exactly at midnight is greater than the pressure of deciding whether to send it all.
Rachel deserves perfection or epic romance; something along those lines.
He waits more hours for a response, but it doesn't come until early August of the next year, right at midnight.
Happy Birthday. I love you.
His birthday is also the date of their breakup, and he's impressed that she managed to avoid any mention of it, mostly because it's been on his mind all day.
They exchange text messages every year on their birthdays, always exactly at midnight. It's the one thing that remains constant regardless of where he is or who he has in his bed.
He feels less guilty about that when he rationalizes that she's the only one in his heart.
He often wonders who she is with and where she is when she sends or receives his messages, but the fact that her text shows up like clockwork on his birthday comforts him in some weird way, and all the other negative thoughts pale in comparison.
He is her top priority at that particular moment, on that particular day. That has to count for something. Right?
All this has to be leading somewhere: perfection, epic romance, or something along those lines.
II.
He would never have guessed that the next time he sees her she will be on some other guy's arm, in London, more than six years after he dropped her at the airport and watched her walk out of his life.
It's a Thanksgiving potluck at a British pub, put on by a group of homesick Americans who have in turn invited every Yankee presently in the United Kingdom.
He's never been crazy about Thanksgiving, but one of his friends from college who lives in London with her husband wants to set him up with an American friend that just moved there. He agrees because, apparently, the friend is hot, and, according to his friend's husband, easy.
The hot, easy woman never shows, and he's finishing his beer and contemplating the movie menu back at his hotel when he sees Rachel for the first time in six years.
She's being introduced around by whoever her date is, but she seems distracted and her eyes are scanning the rest of the crowd.
Her hair is now around her shoulders, about six inches shorter than when he last saw her, and he wonders how different he looks to her. He's graying around his temples now, but none of the women he has been with have seemed to mind.
Still, she's 25 and she's never looked better. He just turned 36 and is bordering on middle-aged.
God help him – that seems like a lot less of an age difference than 18 and 29 did.
He shouldn't be thinking like this. She's obviously with someone else and she seems … distracted.
When she does notice him, her reaction is instantaneous: her eyes widen in shock, she fusses with her hair and bites her lip.
It's such a cute reaction, and so her, that he can't help but smile.
Her date recaptures her attention by introducing her to a woman, Millie, whom Jesse met briefly earlier when he handed over the loaves of bread he had brought for the potluck.
Jesse drains his beer and moves closer to the trio. Rachel is watching him out of the corner of her eye, though, like any good actress, her focus is trained on her audience.
His friend from earlier does what he was hoping, interrupting her conversation with Rachel and her date in order to introduce everyone.
"Harry, Rachel, this is Jesse St. James, he's a playwright from New York who is pitching his new masterpiece to producers on the West End for next season. Jesse, I'd like to introduce you to Harry, who obviously needs no introduction, and Rachel Berry from Ohio. She's auditioning for Harry's new musical."
He tips his chin to Harry, for whom he definitely needs an introduction, and shakes Rachel's hand, touching her for the first time in years. "Pleasure."
Harry starts to talk, he seems like the type to fill silences, but Jesse interrupts him.
Addressing Millie, Jesse apologizes for the fact that he has to leave early, making up a story about meeting friends for another dinner.
"I just have to use the restroom," he informs them, "Then I'll be out of your hair."
He counts to fifty outside the restroom door in a back hallway until he sees Rachel speed walking towards where he stands, still in her coat and gloves.
He kisses her without any sort of preamble, and he relaxes when she winds her arms around his neck and kisses him back with the same fervor.
They break apart, and she laughs softly against his chest.
"Your place or mine?" he asks, kissing along her hairline.
"Yours," she says, "I'm staying with a friend, and I don't think she will appreciate me bringing someone back to her apartment."
At that moment, one of the waiters comes in, carrying what appears to be a heavy box, leaving the door to the back alley wide open.
Rachel tilts her head towards the direction of the open door and the alley, tugs her coat closer around her. "Let's go."
He resists her effort to pull him outside, needing to clarify something. "What about your date?"
"He's a prick and not my date. I've already got a job lined up at the Loeb in Cambridge in a couple of weeks. He promised to introduce me to some people here tonight, but I think he had higher hopes for what would happen afterward."
She pulls at his arm impatiently. "Let's go."
III.
"So after all that, you made your way back to theater," she says the following morning, after they've gotten the awkward what and who of the last six years out of the way. She's sitting up naked in bed next to him after ordering room service. "I knew you would. What's your play about?"
"It's about falling in love when you least expect it," he tells her, and she smiles knowingly in response. "It's playing Off-Broadway in January, and people are interested in bringing it here. Things have been really busy recently, but I'm heading back to Manhattan next week to find an apartment and settle down there to see the play through."
"I'm here because one of my friends from college made me godmother to her baby," she tells him with a smile. "In January, I'm doing a revival of Gypsy in Cambridge, Mass. that they expect to move to Broadway in a few months. I think it may be my big break."
"I remember just how captivating your rendition of Let Me Entertain You is," he says seriously, "It's about time people realize how amazing you are Rachel."
She grins and leans down to kiss him. "I agree. Want to hear something crazy?"
"Crazier than you waking up next to me again this morning? I'm pretty sure yesterday you were a memory."
"Different kind of crazy," she specifies, curling back into his side. "My dads bought me an apartment on the Upper West side my senior year, and I need to find a subletter for when I'm in Cambridge."
"The problem is…" she continues intriguingly, trailing her fingers across his chest, "I don't want to give up my apartment. I'm still going to want to come home sometimes, sleep in my bed, walk around in my underwear…"
He stops her roving hand, tries to look into her eyes. "Are you asking me to move into your apartment?"
She sits and tucks her hair behind her ears. "Actually, I'm asking you to move in with me. I'll be home about half the week… and do you not want to?"
He takes a deep breath before looking at her. In response, she chews on her lip.
"Your dads will be thrilled," he says sarcastically, but it's still not the answer she wants.
"You're not answering my question."
He leans on his elbow so that he can face her. "It's not the right question."
She scrunches her face in confusion. "I thought… is it too soon?"
He chuckles at the look on her face. "I'm 36 years old, Rach. We've lost enough time. I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I need to know if that's what you want too."
Her smile is dazzling. "Yes," she answers breathlessly. "A million times yes. But let me do the show and make it on Broadway before we get married. You've already got your Tony!"
He kisses her on the lips and goes to answer the door for room service, telling the waiter to come back with a bottle of champagne so that they can celebrate.
"I can think of other things we can do to celebrate," Rachel mentions coyly as he deposits the trays on the bed. "Did I ever mention you were the best teacher I ever had?"
He laughs smugly. "I'm pretty sure you said something similar last night, but you may have left out the word 'teacher.'"
"So conceited," she jokes. "Plus, it was more than obvious that you missed me."
"Touché. You're supposed to stop looking after you find what it is you want," he tells her seriously, "Not go without it for years."
"If you love something let it go; if it comes back it's yours; that's how you know," she says cryptically. He smiles at the simple sentiment, and she laughs when she sees him struggling with the reference.
"Ms. Christina Aguilera," she informs him. "Such wise words from the, what did you call it at the time? 'Pedestrian world of bubblegum pop.'"
He rolls his eyes at her as he goes to retrieve the bottle of champagne from the waiter at the door, which starts her giggles anew. "Maybe there are some things that I can teach you after all," she teases him.
He pours them glasses of champagne, but instead of handing one to her, he places both the glasses and the bottle on the nightstand.
"Did you ever realize just how much you taught me back then?" he asks quietly, poignantly, looking directly into her eyes.
She smiles knowingly, but shakes her head.
"Show me."
I loved writing this story, and I'm glad that many of you enjoyed it as well. Now back to Charades!