So I took what I wanted and put it out of my reach
I wanted to pay for my successes with all my defeats,
And if heaven was all that was promised to me
Why don't I pray for death?
And now it seems like the unravelling has started too soon,
Now I'm sleeping in hallways and I'm drinking perfume
And I'm speaking to mirrors and I'm howling at moons
While the worst and the worst that it gets.
{Dawes – When My Time Comes }
Things are good for a period of time. Rachel isn't even sure how long; she just knows she's incredibly, unbelievably happy. Auditions after auditions. She usually spends the day travelling across New York with Jesse, learning new things here and there and meeting new people. He introduces her to Alistair White, a Broadway director, and she has to take a long sip of coffee to stop from squealing. He says he can't promise, but will definitely try his best, to get her an audition. She's fine with that.
She spends the night hours with Noah. Whether it be karaoke-ing in their living room or sightseeing or going to watch some productions or even just studying. He introduces her to what she likes to believe is a kind of high – the type when you're so over being tired that you go crazy, or the kind where you're having so much all you emit is gasping, choking laughter, accompanied by peculiar snorts.
So yeah, things were beyond amazing. It goes like this for a good few weeks, and then it rolls into months. She wasn't totally sure where she stood with either boy, but that was okay. That was fine with her, for now.
Rachel is in New York.
Every morning she has to take a deep, deep breath as she looks down at the city, watching the bright yellow cabs swerve amongst the boring white and silver and black ones. Sometimes he catches her with her palm pressed against window pane, a smile playing on her lips.
She never catches him catching her. He always slides out the door and sits on his own bed, waiting for her to knock on his door and tell him to wake up.
(He's happier than ever, too, Rachel thinks.)
He wonders everyday when she's going to find someone to love her; someone to love. She deserves it a whole lot more than he does. So he asks her, often, whether she's seeing someone.
She replies with a blush and a quiet no.
He doesn't doubt that she's lying.
Jesse feels this sudden feeling whenever he's with her. It's almost like he's a marionette, and someone has taken all his strings and cut them. He thinks the feeling is freedom. He thinks maybe that this time, they are free. He tells himself he sounds like a tree-hugging hippy, but he still thinks so. Because there isn't anything tying them back. No brutal, forceful team behind him to push him on; no surprise mother jumping in at any time to complicate things; no high school in general. He finds it easier to breathe when he puts an arm around her shoulder this time around.
The first time he kisses her [since three or so years ago] they're in the library. She's freaking out about everything, from money to exams. She's really finding university hard while balancing work, bills, audition, homework and Noah.
So as Rachel is babbling on and on about pointless things and difficult people, he leans in and brushes his lips against hers. It causes a couple of glances from people across the room, but she has the most incredulous look on his face and he thinks he made the right choice.
Once she's packed up, they take a walk through Central Park. He has a grin on his face, and her wide eyes are staring at the ground. She likes how their fingers are intertwined, and her hand fits just right.
"I want you to give me another chance. No, I'm begging you, Rach, give me another chance."
She doesn't reply, just keeps walking alongside him. When five minutes have passed, he drops her hand, takes her shoulder and pulls her around to face him. "Rachel, please. I'm so in love with you."
The words force all the air out of her, force her diaphragm up until she can't breathe. Why?
Because she's in love with him too.
She thinks.
But he was the closest she'd ever come to a none-painful relationship, right up until the last minute. Then it had probably been the worst. He was all she had now, and all she'd had then, and that seems to fit right with her.
(The difference is, though, that this time there is another boy. And not a stupid one. A real one that she's currently living with.)
She wraps her arms around his waist smiles up at him, and he'll take that as an 'ok, Jesse, let's see how this goes'.
He's so, so, so glad.
"Our first date," he says, kissing her forehead. "It should be tonight."
"Where?" she asks, looking up at him. She feels slightly dizzy, comparing their heights to the tall buildings edging Central Park.
"I'll surprise you," he says, and she likes the gleam in his eye. He takes her hands and pulls her flush against him. She likes it. "Seven O'clock," he says against her neck. "I'll be waiting outside."
(Why oh why, does Noah's face flicker in her thoughts while Jesse kisses her? It's only for a second, so she forgets about it.)
(Tries to forget about it.)
She goes home after that, because Noah surely can't feed himself, she knows it.
"Hey, darling," he grins, packet of pasta in hand.
"What are you doing?" she asks incredulously, following him into the kitchen. Pots are bubbling and sauces are stewing and good Lord, that smells delicious. She inhales slightly before whirling to face him, an eyebrow raised and her mouth hanging slightly open in a half-smile. He stirs a pot slowly, his brow creased in concentration, before he looks back up at her and grins wickedly again.
"I'm cooking! I'm fucking cooking, Rach!"
"Yeah . . . Why?" she replies, putting her bag down.
"Because you've been out all morning, and I was getting hungry, and I thought you'd be hungry too. And then I walked in here and I was looking for a pen, and I saw the book, and I opened it and . . . And well, I made some pasta."
"Could it be, Noah," she says with a grin, taking the spoon from him and stirring it in the opposite direction, "that maybe you wanted to do something sweet?"
"Sweet?" he scoffs. "I'm not a pussy, Rach. Just needed some food for my grumblin' tummy."
She rolls her eyes at him before telling him she's got it from there.
He shakes his head and snatches the wooden spoon back. "No way, baby. I've made it this far, there's no turning back now. You go rest your little head and let me work on my creation!" he beams, sprinkling some oregano in her hair.
"Hey!" she hisses back, scowling at him. "Now I have to wash it again. And it's really not healthy for the strands to be too clean, because-"
"God, Rach, just go chill out."
She frowns and turns on the television. It's no use though. Every noise he makes causes an involuntary head-turn or shudder from hair. All she could keep thinking was my kitchen, my kitchen, my kitchen. She sounded like his mother. Literally, Rina Puckerman. (She had met Rina on several occasions, and been slightly overwhelmed, slightly annoyed each time.)
She has to give him credit. For a boy who'd never even touched a cook book or a stove, the food was good.
"Does it taste alright?" he asks, throwing a spoonful into his mouth.
"Terrible," she grumbles back with a sly smile. "Are you sure you aren't losing some kind of badass points, cooking and all?"
Puck shakes his head, swallowing his last spoonful. "Not if you don't tell anyone. Which you won't."
Rachel shrugs, rinsing her bowl out into
"We'll see."
She wouldn't though. It would ruin his 'reputation'. As she's mentioned to him before, she does find all his hooligan qualities quite attractive.
It's six on the dot when Rachel starts to get ready. First she'll shower, then cleanse her face, then clean her teeth, then do her makeup, then hair, then put her new dress on, then accessories, then shoes . . . Or maybe that wouldn't work out. Maybe she should just get dressed before anything else, so she knows exactly what hairstyle will look better with the dress – the up do or the loose look – and whether her hair is at all ready to compromise with her and go into a particular way. Bad hair days often sneak up on Rachel. But what if they aren't even going to a restaurant? What if it's just a picnic in Central Park? That changes everything completely. It was only cool, so she'd need a jacket, but should she be outside all night she would surely need something more.
Rachel sits down and breathes in. She was thinking too much and making herself nauseous.
When Rachel has her dress on (hair done, too) she sits in front of her vanity and studies herself. It might be slightly vain, but she's still completely uncertain about tonight. Tonight, she dares to hand over her fragile heart one more time and make things somewhat official with the boy who broke her heart the most. She needs to know that this man can love her, Glee clubs and long-lost mothers put aside.
(She feels even worse when she thinks about this, for Rachel has always had the inkling of doubt somewhere deep inside that loving a girl like Rachel Berry is a task no man is able to – or willing to – accomplish.)
There's a tap on her door just as she's brushing blush across her cheeks. "Come in," she mumbles, focusing on eyelashes as she moves onto mascara.
Puck watches her for a good five minutes. He has always found the make up process strange and very, very sexy. Especially girls like Rachel, who are so focused on getting it all right that they drag brushes across their cheekbones slowly and flutter their eyelashes flirtatiously without even knowing they're doing it. He also has a feeling, even if he doesn't know where it came from, that the brush Rachel was using just then would feel like a feather across his skin.
"Did you want something?" she asks quietly, turning to face him.
"Uh, yeah. Where are you going, anyways?"
Rachel snatches her heels from the bench and slides her feet into them. "I have a date," she murmurs casually. "Tell me, where would you take a girl like me if we were going on a date?"
The look on his face reminds her that Noah Puckerman does not date girls, just tosses away their dresses late in the night when it [usually] doesn't mean anything. There's no consequences (yes, there is) and there's no emotional strain (not on him, but on her and Quinn and all the people around them).
"Somewhere fancy," he finally says. "Somewhere that'd make you think I was rich and dashing and all that shit. I'd have to be impressive, you know, for a girl like you."
No, no, no. She didn't mean it like that.
(But he does look good in a tie, Rachel thinks, and would it really be so bad, a date with Noah?)
"Do I know him?"
Rachel takes a deep breath, because this is where things get complicated. She was hoping he wouldn't care, honestly . . .
"Yes."
Noah raises an eyebrow and leans against her wall, his eyes scrutinizing her like the colour of her skin might reveal who it is. "You gonna tell me who?"
"Oh, I don't know if that's necessary." Rachel does a once over of her purple dress (he'd call it more a napkin, but no complaints there) and slides her bag over her arm. "I need to go. I'm going to be late."
"Come on, Rach, tell me who."
Noah has now positioned himself in front of the doorway, and she doesn't like that he thinks he can just trap her like this. "Jesse St James!" she says loudly, her shoulders square and head held high.
"Jesse who now?"
She sighs, pushes past him and walks down the hallway. "We aren't doing this now. I am going on a date with Jesse St James, and it's going to be a lovely evening, and you, Noah, aren't going to be a pain."
"You can't go out with that dickhead! He broke your heart, remember? Remember that broken heart and black soul and bone-crushing defeat? Rach! Come on, you can't . . . You can't seriously be going out with that pussy, are you?"
"I am."
He runs a hand over his face and sighs, "Fuck. Fuck, Rach. Why?"
"I believe in second chances, Noah. I've given you and Finn one, and right now, you're on the edge of blowing yours. I'm going. Have a good night."
With that, Rachel Berry is out the door and long gone into the night with some douche that they were supposed to hate. He thought they were, like, a team and stuff. They were supposed to hate the opposition. High school or no high school, the name Jesse St James screamed enemy. Why couldn't she see that? He was an idiot and he hurt her and how is she okay with this?
Seriously, how?
He's always known Rachel was insecure. But jumping into the arms of the first guy to show an interest in her? S'not cool.
He thought they were a team. Glee club was supposed to stick together and shit, that's what Mr Schuester always said.
Noah Puckerman doesn't really let go of grudges. No, you're supposed to bottle them up and use them against people when they think it's all behind them. You're supposed to make them hurt and feel all the guilt that they thought they would never feel. You're supposed to hurt those who hurt you. It's karma, or something.
(It never dawns on him how all he wanted was forgiveness from a certain former-ex-but-now-again best friend.)
Seriously, how?
The date would be absolutely, wonderfully, amazingly brilliant. All Rachel had ever really wanted was a man who could do this – make her happy. And she would be happy, what with the beautiful candles and delicious food and impressive restaurant and walk through Times Square. It would have been beautiful, had she not been so mad at Noah.
Had she not been wondering whether this really was a mistake.
"Rachel," Jesse says to her as he walks her to the curb to catch a cab, "I don't know what's going on. You don't seem yourself. But you're so beautiful. So beautiful. And I love you. I don't expect you to love me yet, no, but I've had the best time with you, and I do. I miss your smile and your insecurities and your drama queen qualities. I love you."
He's talking evenly, because he's always had the talent for show business. Jesse isn't nervous or worried or doubtful at all, and though Rachel likes that because it's so him, she can't help but hate that he's always had it easy like that. They worshipped him like a god at Carmel. He's never had to wonder whether he was good enough, because it was painfully obvious that he was.
"I love you," he says again, pulling her closer for a kiss.
"Let's go back to your place," Rachel says quietly. He loves that she doesn't know how very sexy she sounds right here, right now.
When he agrees, she doesn't feel anything but light butterflies in the pit of her stomach.
Really, nothing at all.
There were moments of dreams I was offered to save
I live less like a workhorse, more like a slave
I thought that one quick moment that was noble or brace
Would be worth the most of my life.
And now the only piece of advice that continues to help:
Is anyone that's making anything new only breaks something else.
{Dawes – When My Time Comes}