A/N: Sorry this has taken forever and a day to post, but God, things don't slow down.
This is for the girl who was hit by a car, just outside my house. I'm sorry, so sorry, but none of us knew who you were.
But take it from me;I'm disorderly
And you'd be off better
Writing someone else your love letter
Well a telegram's no substitute
When it comes to living proof
And of course I wanna know you better
But you know the way it goes
{Lisa Mitchell – Love Letter}
The news gets out, and it feels like a big blur of oh's and ah's and I'm so happy for you! Luanna will be Rachel's Maid of Honour, with Quinn and Tina as her bridesmaids. She doesn't know how that happened, especially since Tina was in Chicago. She'd rather have them than Claire, who will not be in the wedding party, but merely another guest. The whole glee club was coming, in fact. Kurt can't come until later on, which is good, because he'd take over the whole thing otherwise.
Noah Puckerman won't be there. She made that choice herself, even if Jesse tried to get her to think over her decision like the wise, mature man he is. She and Noah had been friends for a long time, out here in New York.
The four girls – Luanna, Tina, Quinn and Rachel – laugh over champagne and talk about tiny details. Rachel is starting to like alcohol more and more, she realises.
"It should be after our performance," Luanna says smartly (if not a little drunkenly) which starts a round of nods and giggles and 'more champagne!' from the other girls.
"It'll be a performance of its own," Quinn says brightly.
Rachel knows what she means – that their wedding will be bigger and better and so much more beautiful than any Broadway production. But still, she can't help that think it might end up being a little too staged, too rehearsed.
Too fake, perhaps.
It's the alcohol talking, she thinks to herself before sipping down the rest of her glass and turning on some music. This discussion was getting too far into details this early in the engagement, anyway.
She and Jesse are going strong. He brings her flowers and kisses her cheek and every night is blissful and sweet, just like it should be. He's a romantic, dramatic, wonderful person, and as the months drag on, leaving the Noah-fiasco in the past, she feels more and more like she could deserve a man like this.
He lets her wear his shirts and they go on walks and she cooks him food. She has everything she wanted(it doesn't feel like enough) and she hasn't thought otherwise in a long time (oh God, she misses him, she misses him, she misses him).
Rachel is staring out at the theatre, standing on her stage, imaging the people in awe, sitting in the currently empty red seats.
"Like the looks of it, don't you?" says a voice from behind her. Rachel whirls to find her fiancé, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed. "Have you got butterflies?"
Rachel inhales deeply, looking around. A smile plays on her lips as she hugs herself tightly, her dreams unfolding before her eyes. "No," she says, and it's honest. She isn't nervous . . . Just anticipating. She wishes she were performing right now.
He sits in the front row while she goes through her first dress rehearsal , clapping after her songs. It's a remake of The Wizard of Oz, not Wicked, but it is enough to get New York interested. And if it's enough for New York, it's enough for her.
He meets her out the back, combs his hands through her hair and tells her how beautiful she looked. Her eyes flutter shut on the ride home, because it's so late at night, and Jesse's should is really quite comfortable.
She runs into Puck somewhere between Jesse's apartment and hers – she's taking a walk because she loves New York, and he's running because he's sick of thinking about her.
He stops in his path, because she's beautiful. It's autumn now (they'll have a summer wedding) and she's wearing a floral dress, her hair curling around her shoulders, the midday sun shining its rays over her shoulder. She hasn't caught his eye yet, and if Puck turns around, he doesn't have to face her.
But really, she looks gorgeous. Puck doesn't know if he can turn away.
When she does see him, she stops just like him. Rachel would like to say it was romantic, that she didn't know how long they stood their like that; that it could have been hours or minutes or simply a few brief seconds. But she knows it was exactly seven minutes and thirty-two seconds they stood on New York's sidewalk, watching each other even though passing people obstructed their view.
She takes a few steps towards him. Puck can feel the hot blood slithering through his veins, and any muscle that even tweaks just a little, and even little sunray hitting his back through the cotton of his grey t-shirt. He's never been more aware of anything, and he doesn't know why. Shouldn't he be concentrating of the blank-faced, sexy woman heading straight to him?
"Our engagement party . . ." she breathes, and his brain misinterprets that for us, Noah and Rachel, these two people right here. "It's in three weeks from today, at our apartment, starting at five. Everyone will be there from Glee club." Seconds tick on (now nine minutes and forty-seven seconds) And if he really, truly thinks about the words and less about the meaning, it's like Rachel Berry is controlling his and her engagement, and not theirs.
Pucks not thinking, though, and he doesn't get the chance to clear his head before she pushes past him and disappears fair off into the crowd.
She doesn't know what changed her mind – he was not supposed to be coming to the wedding, or the engagement. Just seeing him . . . Just being there, for those seven minutes and thirty-two seconds . . . She can't even explain it.
But Rachel is pretty sure it's not a good sign that her stomach twists, and God, she feels rejection wash over her. Which, really, is ridiculous, because she rejected him. And that's exactly what he would tell her, if he were still here now.
But he's not. She walked away. She keeps doing that.
Rachel comes off the stage of her first performance. It had all been dragging on so slow until the about five minutes 'til the curtain opened, when everything blurred. She could've said every single line wrong, and missed every note – all she remembered from it was the lights. Bright, beaming lights shining down on her, lighting up her stage. And now it was all happening so quickly – final bow, back to change room, costumes off and handed to management for cleaning, ironing and pressing, back into normal clothes, out for drinks, 'wait! Where's the limo?', drunk co-stars, more bright lights, laughing on the table top, Jesse's voice in her ear.
"Let's go home, baby."
She lets him wrap and arm around her waist and help her off the bar bench. Jesse takes her home, and it's still going so fast. She's in bed what feels like minutes later, an aspirin and a glass of water by her side for when she wakes up, her red-sequined heels perched by the doorway (she gets to keep them, but she has to pay).
And the last thing she remembers is a subconscious image of a man who looks just like Noah, waiting outside the theatre, watching her slur and stumble down the street.
Her imagination is a funny thing.
Puck comes home, shaking from the cold.
He doesn't remember why he bothered by tickets.
(Except, Rachel standing there under golden lights, her sequined heels sparkling, singing until there was no breath left in her seemed like a worthy cause. At least, it had when the tickets went on sale.)
When Rachel wakes up, things still don't slow down. Her head is pounding too fast, and she doesn't have a show tonight so its more wedding-planning and dress-picking and oh, I'm so happy for you! Quinn is coming over and she might have a headache, but what kind of excuse is that? Rachel is getting married!
Woo.
It goes on like this. Planning, performing, aspirin, lights, Quinn, headaches, dresses . . . They pick on a date – July 29th, a summer wedding. Rachel has chosen a dress, strapless and long with a skirt made of so much tulle that it looks like she's floating in a pretty array of white silks. They're holding it at a huge church, as Jesse is Christian (it could be at a synagogue, if she were marrying someone else) and he has his closest co-star as best man, with two old Vocal Adrenaline teammates (could've been Finn and Matt). The after party will be classy, with champagne and big-named people (it could have been fun).
Whenever Rachel has a headache, she secretly thinks of Noah up there in a suit, his dark eyes settling on her as she walks through the door in her beautiful dress. And everyone would be looking at her, because she'd be glowing, but she'd be watching 'the poor sucker at the altar' (how she always loved 27 Dresses, now it feels like a nightmare).
And she could have Notebook moments – kissing in the rain and dancing on the street – or she could have classy, elegant romance – roses and expensive dinners and nice presents.
Rachel eventually gets so confused that she's able to fall asleep easily, forgetting about her throbbing, aching mind.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She's always known a wedding wouldn't be easy – but it should be easy to tell if its right, right? She should know what she wants (she does) and she should know how to get that (she doesn't). Oooh, there goes the head pain again.
Two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks.
They've chosen the rings, and because Jesse is such a perfect fiancé (soon-to-be perfect husband), everything is ready so that all she has to do on the day is look beautiful and say 'I do'. The invites were sent two weeks ago (she still has Noah's in her purse) and the cake is all planned. She literally has nothing to do but perform – which is hardly even nerve-racking anymore, but totally, naturally easy – and go to their fancy dinner parties.
Hey world is laced with compliments that say she's glowing, and woven into the lace is an intricate beading of friends and family who are just so happy for her. She can't believe it; all of it; any of it.
The day is fast arriving, and she is quickly fading away, lost in a sea of bouquets and tulle and waltzes.
(Drowning in it all.)
Puck hears about their engagement through all the New York streets – people who know him from Broadway and know her as 'the budding star' and all of that. He's featured on Perez Hilton and such other gossip blogs because Jesse St James has been on Oprah with all his upcoming talent and he mentioned Rachel, his talented fiancée and the whole thing just makes Puck sick.
He spends his days working with cars and taking orders from his boss, Rick. He still has the acceptance letter under his bed (the one that he tore open, hoping for a little luck to lighten up the darkness) that reads something like this:
Dear Mr Puckerman,
We are sorry to say that you have not made the New York Police Department . . .
And then more formal things that didn't seem to make sense after such a quick rejection. Puck told Rachel that he hadn't tried, because it'd only make him seem more pathetic, and clearly he's too much of that for her, anyway.
He still doesn't get why he didn't make it. He worked hard. Sure, he swore a little every now and again ('Fuck! What was that? Holy shit! This course is friggan' torture, you fucking know that? Stop looking at me, bastard, you don't have to fucking run this far!') but who didn't? He could've been great.
So now, career plan 2.0 is still in the making and he doesn't know what it will be. He can sing and stuff but . . . That's Rachel's business, and he doesn't want to go anywhere near her or him or their whole life. Puck doesn't know whether he's angrier that she's moved on or the fact that he's meddled with it all.
He wonders how much hard work would go into setting up his own garage; he hates hard work. But if Rachel Berry and Jesse St James are allowed to have dreams, along with the rest of NYC, then he should too, right?
He picks up his phone to make some calls.
Life moves on, and so will he.
(It might take forever, but he will.)
So I need a flight home
There's no day to argue
No I need my pillow
Well inside an old house, by the seaside
You can take off my blouse
But take it from me;
Go on and write somebody else,
Somebody else
Somebody else a love letter
{Lisa Mitchell – Love Letter}