When you wake up and trudge to the kitchen for your morning coffee, Brittany and Santana are already awake. Brittany is sitting in Santana's lap on the couch, both watching the morning news.

You can't help, but tease them, "Look at you two all grown up drinking coffee and watching the news."

Brittany giggles. After a quick glance in Santana's cup, she stands up, taking the cup with her and follows you to the kitchen.

"That play must have gone on really late," she casually mentions as she waits for you to finish pouring your coffee.

"I went and had a drink with Rachel afterwards," you grin and hope that you don't look too excited.

She beams, "That's awesome." You move out of the way so that she can get to the coffee.

You nod, "We're going out again tonight. You guys can come if you want." You grab the sugar and pour a healthy amount into your coffee before stirring, "It'll be fun."

Brittany gaze drops and she let's out a sigh, "I'll try

You reach out and rub her arm, "I'm sure it'll get better."

She silently nods, her head bowed and exits the kitchen.

You wish there was a way to help them, but you can't even think of a way to help yourself. You look down at the coffee in your cup and shake your head at yourself because you caught yourself thinking it remind you of her eyes. You keep hearing that New York makes people hard, but it's pretty much turned you into a mush ball.

You still can't quite believe your luck last night. It went well despite the awkward moments and she wants to see you again. If you weren't so tired you'd have sworn you were dreaming.

"Quinn! Your phone is ringing!" Santana's voice interrupts your replay of drinks the night before.

You set your coffee down and trot her your room. The number isn't one you recognize, but you answer anyway, "Hello?"

"Quinn?" a timid, yet familiar voice asks.

"Hey Rachel," you can't stop a grin, "What's up?"

"I was just going over my schedule this morning and wanted to make sure you still wanted to go out tonight?" it comes out as more of a question and you can tell she's trying really hard not to be nervous.

"Of course. The last seminar of the day is over at five, but I don't know if I can take eight straight hours," you try to ease her tension and hear her chuckle, "Just call me when you're ready."

"The show should be over at the same time it was last night so maybe eightish?" she asked, "But I'm afraid that for a crazy night out you should go with Santana and Brittany. The craziest I get is karaoke night at a club uptown."

You smile and walk out of the bedroom. Brittany has disappeared and Santana is shoving books into a bag next to the couch. You pull the phone away from your mouth to ask her, "Are you still coming out tonight?"

"Yes," she nods definitely, "I need a drink…or ten." She shouldered the bag and made her way to the door, "I'm off to class. I'll be back at three."

You nod and wave to her. After she leaves your attention is back to Rachel, "Santana is going to come out with us. She just wants to get shitfaced to avoid her feelings."

"Classic Santana," Rachel answers, "Anyway, I have to go. I have to go get some coffee before I fall on my face." You can practically hear her smile, "I'll call you when the show is over and we'll figure out what to do. When are you going back?"

"The day after tomorrow," you answer with a heavy sigh. You really don't want to go back. Going back means divorce, dead-end job, and the mundane day to day that has become your life.

You hear her whine, "Aww…I have to go apartment hunting tomorrow. Although I'm sure you want to spend some more time with Santana and Brittany. I was hoping that you'd be here a couple more days. You know, so I could show you the New York that I know."

"I'll try to come back soon," you lean on the back of the couch and try to figure out when you'll be able to get back. You contemplate asking her if she wanted to meet for coffee, but if you get back to Lima and your boss asks you how the conference was, you want to at least be able to tell him how one seminar was.

"Alright well," she seems reluctant to get off the phone. She takes a deep breath, "I guess I'll let you go."

"Feel free to text," you add because you don't really want to get off the phone either, but you really need to get going, "I'll be bored out of my mind."

"Okay," she let's out a small giggle. "Have fun. I'll see you later."

"Bye Rach," you exhale and wait for her to hang up.

After a moment you hear her ask, "Quinn?"

You can't stop a laugh because you knew you were both waiting for the other to hang up, "Yeah, I'm still here."

"Well you have to hang up," she jokes.

You smile, "Okay. I'll count to three and we'll both hang up."

"Okay."

"One, two, three," you pause and listen. When you look at your phone you see that she hasn't hung up yet, "Rachel! You were supposed to hang up!"

"You were too!" she calls back, laughing heartily.

You take a deep breath to stop laughing so hard you can't breathe. "Okay, Rach. I really have to go."

"Me too," she adds softly, "I'll see you later. Have fun."

"You too," you add, "Bye Rach." You realize that you've been saying her name a lot, but you've been avoiding saying it since the last time you saw her at graduation.

"Bye Quinn," she says and you finally hang up. You like that the last thing you heard her say is your name. Finally you get motivated to get moving. If you're not at the Regional Real Estate Convention to yawn in the back row who will be?

And yawning is exactly what you're doing in the back row. The man on stage is talking about projections and seller's markets and interest on first time loans. You don't care. These are all things you already know. You read articles and stay on top of the changes in the markets. It's not a lot of work and most of the time you wonder why people in your office don't make the effort.

Your phone dings in your purse and you calmly get it out. You're usually so good at turning it on silent during things like this. When you take it out you turn the sound off before opening the text.

Hey Quinn. I looked up where your conference is and thought I'd recommend somewhere for you to eat lunch at. Valentino's is a block away. They have great sandwiches and pizzas.

You smile at her thoughtfulness. She's been really nice to you since you got here. There has to be a way you could pay her back. Lucky for you, you have four more hours of this torture to not pay attention and figure something out. You text back:

I'll remember that. Is there any chance I could get a super awesome Broadway star to come have lunch with me?

You know she's probably busy, but it's worth a shot. Her text back is almost immediate.

I know a few that would probably love to have lunch with you, but I, unfortunately, am already in the hair and make up chair.

You knew it was a long shot before you asked. You text back that it's okay and that you wish you had a hair and makeup person for every day of the week.

You text back and forth, a little meaningless conversation before she tells you that she had to go, but she'll call you later.

Now that you're left alone with your thoughts and a slide show on the importance of getting a house inspected, you're bored again.

You go to the restaurant that Rachel suggested and she of course was right. It is the best pizza you'd ever had. You even eat the vegan pizza in her honor and love every bite.

You don't mingle much at the conference. Everyone who is milling around looks like they're posing for the photograph that they want on a bus bench and they're all discussing what else but real estate. You don't really care. Lima is a tiny market and you know it backwards and forwards. As far as you know you're the only representative that any Lima firm sent.

You meet a few agents from New York who engage you in small talk and ask about your numbers. You politely exchange business cards like you actually plan on calling them. You don't and you know they don't either.

Finally at three fifteen you really can't stand to be there anymore with the fake smiles and the navy blue power suits. So you walk the five or seven blocks back to Santana's apartment. When you use your key to open the door, you find her sitting on the couch, her face buried in a book. Her excited eyes shoot to you, but when she sees you the excitement fades, "Hey Q."

You feel bad that you're not actually Brittany when she looks back at the book. You also wish that someone would be excited to see you when you got home. Finn barely acknowledges you from the couch when you get home anymore.

You set your purse on the end table by the couch and sink down next to her, "How was class?"

"Same ole same ole," she drones, pulling her knees to her chest. "Oh look a blood clot, class what do we do? Wrong, here's what you do." She closed her book and set it on the table, "I should have gone to real estate school."

"I should have gone to med school," you chuckle.

She gestures to the books on the coffee table, "By all means. My schedule is my phone. I just wanna sleep."

"Take a nap," you tell her and rub her shin affectionately.

She shakes her head, "I need to study if we're going out."

You nod, "Rachel said she wants to go to a karaoke night Uptown."

"I'm not surprised," Santana rested her head on the back of the couch, "It's cool though. I probably need to let loose."

"I agree."

After about a couple hours to watching TV while Santana stared at her books, you decided to go for a walk. Santana tells you to call if you need anything and keep your phone close. You assure her that you'll be fine, but you'll call if you need her.

Once outside, the feel of the city invades your senses. There are people walking around oblivious to everything they could be experiencing with the city. You guess people who live here are used to it and don't feel the same surge you do when you step onto the sidewalk and you decide it's their loss.

The people you see as you walk as unlike anyone in Lima. Everyone in Lima has pretty much the same fashion sense they did when they were in high school so nothing has changed. Here you see the highest of highs and the lowest of lows on the fashion scale. You see every ethnicity you can think of and some you didn't know existed. The air floating around added an electricity to the scene. You love the smells, good and bad, and the noises, loud and soft.

It doesn't surprise you that after an hour of walking you end up on Broadway, standing across the street from where she is dazzling another audience. You take a long, deep breath and force yourself to walk away. It's better if you start this process now. You're leaving the day after tomorrow and you know that's going to be hard enough.

Your phone rings and you see a New York number you don't recognize. "Hello?"

"Quinn Fabray?" a strong male voice asks.

"Yes," you quirk an eyebrow with expectation even though the man can't see you.

"This is David Corbett with Upper Manhattan Real Estate Associates," he says smoothly, "We talked earlier this afternoon."

You don't remember him, but go ahead and blow smoke, "Oh David, how are you?"

"I'm doing well," he tells you, "I was just calling to inform you that, we are looking for a few new agents and after talking to you, I'd like to personally extend an invitation for an interview in front of our senior partners in the upcoming weeks. You did express interest and moving from your current location and there's no better place than New York."

You're momentarily stunned into speechlessness. Working here would mean living here and living hear would mean that Rachel is close. But then reality hits you. You have no experience in New York or anywhere outside of Lima. Your mom is still in Lima. Your sister is still in Lima. Your soon to be ex-husband is still in Lima. Your whole damn life is still in Lima. Moving here has always been your pipe dream and you know it'll most likely stay a pipe dream. Besides it's just an interview. It doesn't mean a job. There's bound to be some trust-fund baby in an Armani suit that has grown up here and know the whole island like you know Lima.

Before you can answer you hear him chuckle, "Think about it and let me know by the end of the week. It was good to talk to you again."

"Thank you. Um…You too," you mumble before you hang up your phone. You suppose strange things happen in New York everyday. This has got to be one of the strangest.

Around seven forty-five, you're back at Santana's apartment, getting ready. You've already eaten Thai food from a place down the street that you picked up on the way back and now you're deciding what to wear. Knowing that you were going to stay with your best friends, you brought going out clothes. A little black skirt accentuated with a light blue top with a deep dip in the back.

"I'm impressed," Santana looks you over as she slides on her heels. "Where are we meeting her highness?"

"We're going to meet her at the club," you answer, "Her assistant called me an hour ago."

"For real?" Santana stands up straight and smoothes out her wine red dress, "That's so weird. I can't help, but picturing her in animal sweaters and argyle skirts."

You chuckle. It's true. You're so used to thinking about her as Rachel from high school when most other people know her as Rachel Berry, Broadway stunner. It makes sense for her to have an assistant. You're sure she has a lot to do, but it's just foreign to you that people have personal assistants. You can't think of a reason anyone in Lima would ever need one.

You watch Santana pick up her phone and glance at the screen before lightly sighing. She slips the phone into her purse and turns to you. When she sees you looking, she forces a smile, "Ready?"

You nod and follow her to the door. You wish Brittany was coming, but you don't say it out loud because you know she does too.

You both arrive a little late because the cab driver got lost. Santana yelled at him for the better part of the trip and she throws the money at him as she gets out at the club. You offer him an apologetic smile as you slide out. He does look like he just got his driver's license and you're sure after that ride he's ready to give it back.

Once inside you find that the karaoke is in a back room that is smaller with a smaller bar, but you like it better than the swelling mass of people vibrating in the main room. You look around the room that is still crowded with people, but you don't see her.

"Hey Q," Santana calls over the really bad, drunken rendition of Heart's "Crazy on You." You look at her and see that she's pointing to an alcove type area where couches and chairs are abundant. There are two very large men in all black guarding the stairs leading to area. On one of the larger couches in between two less threatening looking men is Rachel.

Santana leads the way over to the guards but before they can get there, Rachel comes gracefully down the stairs. "You made it!"

She wraps her arms around your waist; her hands hitting the skin on the small of your back make you softly gasp. You slide her arms around her shoulders and she gives you a tight squeeze. When she leaves your embrace to awkwardly hug Santana, you're disappointed at the loss of contact.

The disappointment doesn't last long because Rachel takes your hand to guide both of you up the stairs and to the couches. "These are some of my cast mates," she introduces you to the two men she was with earlier. They're both handsome and you've seen tabloid pictures him on a 'date' with Rachel. You immediately hate him.

He stands and offers his hand to you, "I'm David."

You shake it and tell him your name. Then you glance at Santana who is already laughing with the other guy.

After introductions, Santana and her new friend Andrew, order shots for all five of you. The VIP waitress is attentive and quick with your order. You're seated on the large puffy couch next to Rachel who is in between you and David.

"When are you going to sing?" she leans forward, asking David.

He shrugs, "Now I guess." With a quick smile he stands up and makes his way to the now empty microphone.

Rachel leans back into you and you've had just enough to drink to be comfortable wrapping your arms around her. She tilts her head up and grins at you. You feel the muscles in your hands tremble because your faces are so close together and you really, really, really…really want to kiss her.

Before you can engage in the stupid action, she looks to David who takes his place behind the microphone. She stands up, out of your arms and cheers for him. When she sits back down, slightly tipsy, she accidentally sits in your lap. You feel like your throat is closing up at the close space, but you put your arms around her again.

You both watch David sing. You begrudgingly admit that he is a good singer. Rachel takes a few sips of her drink as his song goes on. She leans back into you and you wonder if she'd be doing that if she knew what you want to do to her at that moment.

As the song winds down and David bows to the crowd she turns her head to the side to talk to you. "Quinn I will pay for you to come back up here anytime you want if you go up there and sing 'It's a Man's, Man's, Man's World'," She laughs into the darkened VIP section of the bar you're in. "Plus two hundred dollars and I'll cook breakfast for you tomorrow."

"I can't," you shake your head. That was years ago. You haven't sung like that since before you got married.

"Please?" she pleads, "That was my favorite song you've ever sung. It was so…charged." She turns in your lap and clings to your waist. She places her head on your shoulder, "Except for the pregnant girls dancing in the background. Forgive me but that was a little creepy."

You can't help, but laugh. Having background dancers wasn't really your idea, but it was nice having someone up there who understood what you were going through. In hindsight you can understand how it could have been creepy.

You notice that in her drunken state Rachel keeps chanting, "Please, please, please…" into your neck and you shiver because you've only fantasized about having her this close before now. She's in your lap, arms locked around you, and her face is in your neck. There's nothing about this moment that doesn't turn you on, but you know she's drunk and has no idea about your feelings for her. You're starting to see that that's unfair to her, but you're enjoying this moment until it's over.

Finally you sigh like you weren't going to do it, but somehow she talked you into it. You knew you were going to do it the second she asked. "Fine, but you know that I'm definitely not who you're used to hearing and your memory has probably made me sound a hundred times better."

"Yay!" she claps and bounces off of your lap. Before you know it you're being drug to the stage before she shoves a microphone into your hand and tells the DJ what you're going to sing.

The DJ looks at you like you're a drunken sorority girl who is in way over her head with a song. That pisses you off. Who is he to know what you can and can't sing? Who says a white girl from Lima, Ohio can't get down with James Brown? Who says you can't be a month from twenty-three and getting a divorce? Who says you can't start over? Who says you can't recuperate from a life that has pushed you down and kept you in something you decide is a less sexy version of Wisteria Lane where no one ever gets out without dying?

Your thoughts morph from the DJ's expectations of you to the world's expectations. You don't know how it made the jump, but with all the riots and mosh pits going on up there, it's hard just to tell what you think sometimes. The alcohol isn't helping. Besides this song needs anger and soul and fiery passion. You've got them all in spades.

The music starts and you put the microphone to your lips. You deeply inhale letting the air reach deep inside you and pull that emotion to the surface.

This is a man's world

The room goes silent and you smirk. Got 'em.

This is a man's world

But it wouldn't mean nothing

Nothing without a woman or a girl

You can feel all the eyes on you. You feel them probing your soul through the song. And you let them because you're angry. You're disappointed. You're emotional and you're letting it go. You rip from verse to bridge to chorus in a fury of fiery emotions.

He's lost in the wilderness

He's lost in bitterness

He's lost, lost somewhere in this

In loneliness

When the music comes to a close, you finally realize that there are tears running down your face. You replace the microphone and scurry off the stage. You pass the VIP area and duck into the bathroom. You knew you were a mess, but crying during karaoke night is a new low.

You try to erase the effects of the tears as you look at yourself over the sink. The door opens and you dry your face. Santana steps in, looking you over.

"What's up Q?" she asks quietly, leaning on the counter next to you. She's playing with her nails as she looks at you.

You shake your head, "Just…everything. Singing that song always make me emotional. I shouldn't have done it when we're all here having a good time."

"It's cool," Santana steps up to you and envelopes you in a hug. "Rachel and I know you're going through some hard stuff. She's probably on her way in here right now because she started bawling before you did."

"Really?" you ask and pull away.

She nods and carefully wipes away a stray tear. "If you tell anyone I'll deny it but I got a little misty too."

You smile and pull her into another hug as the bathroom door opens again. This time Rachel walks in and waits for you embrace to end before stepping up to you two. Her head is slightly bowed and she's slowly twirling a bracelet across her wrist. You know she's been crying because you've seen it enough times to know. She quietly murmurs, "That was beautiful Quinn."

"I really didn't mean to make you guys cry," you tell them and pull Rachel to you. Her arms encircle your waist as she leans into you.

"I didn't cry," Santana states and looks to herself in the mirror.

You let out a knowing smirk and give Rachel a gentle squeeze. "C'mon let's go have fun. I'm only here for another day and I want a night to remember."

"That is my girl," Santana grins. She grabs your hand and pulls you, and by proxy, Rachel out the door.

There's another round of shots on your table when you get back so David and Andrew join you in a toast. "To James Brown," Santana offers.

"To New York City," you add.

"To friends," Rachel smiles at you. You smile back. You don't really hear Andrew and David's toasts because your eyes are locked with hers.

Finally Santana hitting her shot glass against yours jerks you out of her trance and you down the liquid fire along with everyone else.

Someone picks up the microphone and a woman starts singing a very good cover of "Born This Way". Large groups of people start dancing around the floor next to the stage.

"This is my jam!" Santana calls and grabs your hand, pulling you down the VIP stairs to the dance floor. You manage to grab Rachel's hand and drag her with you.

In the mess of gyrating bodies, you feel a radiant heat coming off of Rachel because she's so close to you. You feel your knees start to tremble so you quickly look away. Santana and Andrew dancing behind her catch your eyes. He's pressed to her back and she's swaying to the music, her eyes closed. Your stomach clenches because you wish she wouldn't dance with other guys, but you feel for her. You've been in New York for almost two days and you've only seen Brittany probably a grand total of an hour and you're staying with her. You're sure that Santana is pretending that Andrew is Brittany. You just want to make sure she doesn't pretend too far.

When you turn back to Rachel, you see that she's dancing with David. He has her hips under his hands and he's wearing a cocky smirk. She's looking up at him with a sweet, almost seductive smile and you want to vomit.

Your escape from the sights propels you all the way back to the VIP section where another round of shots are sitting. You don't know who keeps sending them, but you order a vodka and RedBull before taking three of the shots in front of you. You internally berate yourself for allowing yourself to feel. To be close to her and to pretend that maybe you could be more. For wanting desperately to move to New York to be near her because someday she may fall in love with you. For almost talking yourself into moving here. You feel like an idiot. A huge oblivious idiot.

You grit your teeth as your eyes seek them out from your perch above the dancing mass. You finish off the rest of the shots when you see her kissing him.