A/N: This is the last chapter, and there's no smut, so feel free to skip.

"Dad! Dad! It snowed last night! Did you see?"

Sam cringed at his coffee. "Yeah, I saw, pumpkin. I've got some—"

"Can we go right after breakfast?" Matilda asked as she got a bowl and spoon out of the dishwasher for her cereal.

"Listen, pumpkin, it looks like sledding is gonna have to wait till tomorrow." He didn't have the heart to add that the forecast was calling for warm enough temperatures later on that the snow might be melted by tomorrow.

"But you promised that if there was enough snow on the weekend..." The little girl looked at Quinn. "Mom, he promised!"

Quinn pushed her chair back from the table and patted her lap for Matilda to sit on, but the girl shook her head. Quinn said, "I know, sweetheart, and your dad would never make a promise he didn't intend to keep. But he has to work today, he didn't know it when he promised you about sledding, and work is important. It's how we pay for our house and—"

"And our cars and our clothes and our food," Matilda finished for her. "But how come dad has to work all the time?"

"It's not all the time," Quinn said.

But Matilda was right that Sam had been "working late" a lot lately. Lying to Quinn, missing out on stuff with his family—it was killing him. But not seeing Blaine killed him more.

This morning, though, was actually work. He had to go out to the Smythes' house to look into some concerns they were having with the work he did on their kitchen in December. He had really hoped he was done with those people; they had been such pains in his ass—constantly changing their minds about what they wanted done, blaming him when their crazy ideas were completely unworkable. He was so dreading having to listen politely to their "concerns," and it pissed him off no end that he had to disappoint his kids to do it.

It turned out that the Smythes only had one concern, and despite what Mr. Smythe had insinuated, it had nothing at all to do with the quality of Sam's work or the work of any of his guys. The problem was that there wasn't enough storage space. Sam, of course, had explained to them exactly how much storage space there would be, given the dimensions of the room and all the features they wanted to have put in. And every time they changed what they wanted, he had explained how that would affect the amount of storage space. But silly him, he had neglected to specifically explain that going out and buying all-new Le Creuset cookware—and not being willing to get rid of their old cookware because they were sentimentally attached to it or something—might have an impact.

Instead of suggesting that Mr. Smythe shove his four-hundred-dollar French ovens up his ass, Sam mentioned some ideas for projects he could write up estimates for. He emphasized the "writing up estimates" part so Mr. Smythe wouldn't try to claim that the extra work should somehow be included with what had already been paid for.

Looking through his calendar, Sam was saying, "It looks like we're booked up solid through..." The phone dropped from his hand and all he could think as a teenage boy in pajamas strolled into the kitchen was, NO.

Mr. Smythe turned to see what he was looking at. "Oh, about time you woke up. This is the kitchen guy I told you was coming over. Sam Evans, this is my son, Sebastian. He's home from school for the weekend."

"Nice to meet you," Sam forced himself to say. Was he sweating? He felt like he was sweating. And dizzy. Definitely dizzy.

"Oh, but we've met, Mr. Evans." Shit, the smirk on that kid's face. "Don't you remember?"

"Uh...oh, sure. You're Blaine's friend, right?"

"I'd kind of like to be more than Blaine's friend, if you know what I mean. But just between you and me, I think he's seeing someone else."

"That's too bad," Sam said.

"All right, Sebastian, Mr. Evans didn't come here to hear about your relationship problems."

"I don't think it's going to be a problem for much longer," Sebastian said. And he winked at Sam, the little bastard winked right at him. "By the way, do you have a business card, Mr. Evans? My friend Nick's parents are thinking of having some work done to their place, I'd love to refer them to you."

"No. I don't," Sam said. His business card had his home phone number on it, which was what he assumed Sebastian wanted it for.

"Oh, well, I still have the one you gave me," Mr. Smythe said, pulling out his wallet. He shuffled through the many cards inside saying, "I don't know why I always keep these things after I've got the numbers in my phone." He found the one he was looking for and handed it to his son.

"Thanks, dad."

"Yes. Thank you," Sam added. Since supposedly the act was to help out Sam's business.

Sebastian went to the fridge, took out a bottle of water, and left, smiling to himself the whole time.

Sam got out of the house as soon as he could without letting on to Sebastian's dad that something was really, really wrong. That is, he didn't think he let on. He kind of had other stuff on his mind.

As soon as he got out to his car he called Blaine. And got his voice mail and hung up because he had no idea what to tell him and if the shit was going to hit the fan, leaving incriminating voice mails didn't seem like a good idea. He called three more times on his drive home; the last time he finally left a brief, non-incriminating message. As casually as he could he said, "Hi, Blaine. This is Mr. Evans. Could you call me back when you get a chance please?" He decided not to say that it was important or tell Blaine to call as soon as possible, because he couldn't imagine him not calling back as soon as he possibly could no matter what.

Quinn was waiting for him at the kitchen table, her eyes already red and puffy. Sam wasn't surprised, although he had been hoping the little prick wouldn't call right away.

He sat down across from her, not sure what to say, looking down at a jelly stain one of the girls had left on the table.

"Is it true?" she asked finally.

"Um. What did he tell you exactly?"

"Oh, no!" Quinn snapped. "You're not going to get away with admitting to just what that kid already knows about. You're going to tell me everything."

"No, I just...thought he might have made up some stuff," Sam said lamely. "That kid doesn't like me."

"Tell me everything," Quinn repeated.

"I..." He had known the whole time he was with Blaine, in the back of his head at least, that it might come to this. And yet he was totally unprepared. He didn't even know if he was going to try to lie or just...just confess and beg for forgiveness or...There had to be other options, but he didn't know what they were. He didn't think changing the subject and hoping Quinn would forget about the whole thing would work.

Okay. He would lie. Sebastian couldn't prove anything, and Blaine would never tell. Quinn would believe him, she'd have to. He'd never given her a reason not to trust him. Before this, that is, but technically she didn't know about it yet, so...

He looked right in her eyes, with that air of confidence she had taught him to project, and said, "I don't know what that kid thinks happened, but..."

She waited. She waited, it felt like forever, for him to finish. And when he didn't, she prompted, "But?"

And he couldn't do it. He couldn't lie to her anymore. He cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes and admitted, "I slept with Blaine."

Quinn was silent. Sam couldn't look at her, and he was pretty sure she wasn't looking at him either. He saw nothing but blackness, and he heard nothing but the muffled sounds of Johnny Test coming from the next room.

"Quinn, I'm so—"

"I didn't really believe it, you know. That boy who called me was so insistent that it was true, but I thought he was a liar."

"I'm so sorry, Quinn."

She scoffed. "You'll understand if I don't believe that now either."

"I'm really—"

"Save it," she snapped. "I want specifics. Spare me your euphemisms like you slept with him."

"Do you really want to do this, honey? Does it really make it easier if I say I had sex with him?"

"Easier's not the point, and had sex still isn't specific."

Sam sighed. Quinn wanted to do this like a lawyer, apparently. "Intercourse. I penetrated him anally and we copulated until ejaculation. Is that specific enough?"

She fixed him with a steely gaze. "Did you use a condom?"

"No."

"So you've potentially exposed me to sexually transmitted diseases?"

"He was a virgin, Quinn!"

Quinn was quiet for a few moments, but she didn't avert her gaze. Sam did. Sam covered his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he finally looked at his wife again she asked softly, "Is that supposed to make this better somehow? Is it better that you corrupted an innocent child?"

Of course it didn't. Blaine's innocence was such a huge turn-on for Sam, but he knew it made his own actions all the worse. "It means I didn't expose you to any diseases," he said. That, at least, was sort of a mitigating factor. Right?

"When?" Quinn asked.

"You mean the first..." Quinn's eyes got huge, and...oh, shit.

"Oh my God!" Quinn said, choking on her own words. "Oh my God, I can't believe..." She stood suddenly, knocking over the chair she'd been sitting in. "I'm so stupid."

"Honey, no..."

"Don't you dare call me honey!" she yelled at him. "Here I was thinking this was a horrible, inexcusable, incomprehensible thing that happened once. But you've actually been carrying on a full-blown affair. With a sixteen-year-old boy."

Sam didn't correct her on Blaine's age. If Blaine were eighteen he would have, but as it was it seemed pointless.

Quinn covered her mouth with her hand. "He's not even the first, is he? How many others have there been?"

"No! He is the first. The only, I mean. The only. I promise."

Quinn laughed, as if she found his statement the most absurd thing she'd ever heard. "I'm sure you'll understand if your promise doesn't mean that much to me right now."

Sam's phone rang. He didn't have a special ringtone for Blaine—Blaine had never called him before—but he was almost certain that's who it was, returning his call. He wasn't going to answer, but Quinn asked, "Is that him?"

He took it out and looked. "Yeah."

Quinn took it from him. "Hello?" she answered, managing to sound eerily normal. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Evans isn't available at the moment. Can I take a message?...No, you're sure?...All right, then. Good-bye." She hung up, took a deep breath, and whipped the phone at the wall behind Sam. He heard it whiz right past his ear a split-second before it crashed and shattered.

Willa toddled into the kitchen still in her fuzzy lilac pajamas and looked wide-eyed at the cell phone pieces on the floor. "Uh-oh!" she said.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh!"

Sam picked Willa up into his lap and sniffed. "Someone smells poopy," he observed.

"Uh-oh!" Willa said again.

"That word just has so many uses," Sam said. He stood up, holding her. "Let's get you cleaned up, pumpkin."

He looked at Quinn in case she wanted to say anything before he left the room. Quinn wasn't looking at him, though, she was making a call on her intact phone. Sam could hear her as he walked through the dining room. "Can you come over and take the girls? It's sort of an emergency...It's...Can you just trust me that I need you to come and I'll tell you why later?...No, I absolutely can not call the babysitter!..."

Sam returned to the kitchen a few minutes with Willa, who was in a fresh diaper and a brown and pink onesie-jumper combo that he knew was one of Quinn's favorite outfits for her. Not that he thought she was mad at the baby, obviously, but he didn't know what else to do...

Quinn was typing on her laptop and didn't look up when he walked in. She said, "Rachel is on her way over, and I don't want to talk to you or look at you until she gets here."

"Let's go see what Tillie's up to," Sam said as he retreated to the living room with Willa.

Matilda was restarting the episode of Johnny Test she'd just finished watching. "Dad! You're home!"

"I am."

"We can go sledding now!"

"I wish we could, honey." He really, really wished he could just take the girls sledding and pretend everything was fine. "Something came up and Aunt Rachel's on her way over."

"She can come too!"

"Not today, pumpkin. Sorry." Tomorrow, maybe. If your mother doesn't kill me.

Matilda crossed her arms over her chest. "You promised, dad! And you always tell me that dads always keep their promises!"

"We try," Sam said. He held Willa tightly to his chest until she squirmed loose and looked at his face.

"Dada cwy," she said worriedly.

Matilda dropped her pissed-off pose and asked quietly, "Why are you crying, dad?"

Sam wiped his eyes off and tried to pull himself together. "Because I'm sorry. I'm sad that I broke my promise."

"It's okay, dad!" Matilda told him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You couldn't help it, it's okay! We'll go sledding tomorrow! Okay, dad?"

"Thanks, Tillie." Sam took a deep breath and assured her, "I'm okay."

Matilda took him by the hand and led him to the couch. "Let's watch violent cartoons until Aunt Rachel gets here," she suggested. Sam sat down with Willa on his lap and Matilda curled up next to him while he selected an episode of Ben 10, one of the many shows Rachel never let the girls watch when she was around, even when she wasn't officially in charge of them. Quinn didn't much care for Ben 10 either, and Sam tried not to think about how Matilda might never get to watch it anymore if...

Quinn wouldn't try to keep the girls from him entirely, would she? No, she knew that wouldn't be in their best interest, which she would care about more than punishing him. Right? No matter how mad she was?

From the kitchen he heard his mangled cell phone make a choked and pathetic attempt at ringing. He wondered if it was Blaine again. Probably not—Blaine probably wouldn't try again so soon after getting Quinn the first time. It did make him worry about how Blaine was doing right now though. Was he freaking out about Sam's message and about Quinn answering his phone? God, he hoped not. Because there really was nothing he could do to comfort him right now.

There was another garbled ring, followed by an ear-piercing metallic screech. Sam hurriedly set Willa on the floor and ran to the kitchen to find Quinn standing in front of the sink, watching something in the garbage disposal. He pulled her out of the way just before a large hunk of something flew out. Shielding his eyes with his arm, he lunged forward and turned the disposal off. "What happened!?" he asked.

"Your phone was annoying me," Quinn answered. "I thought I told you I didn't want to look at you." Sam didn't answer, and he didn't leave because...what if she decided to put his laptop in the microwave or something? After a several-minute, silent standoff, Quinn left the kitchen wordlessly. As soon as she was out of sight Sam ran to the circuit breaker in the basement and cut the power to the kitchen. He came back upstairs and dug what was left of his phone out of the disposal, but he didn't turn the kitchen power back on, just in case.

XOXOXO

Blaine checked his phone in the locker room after fencing practice. A message from Mr. Evans! Oh! He hoped Mr. Evans wasn't in Westerville wanting to see him! That is, he hoped Mr. Evans wanted to see him and would be in Westerville soon, Blaine just hoped he hadn't accidentally kept him waiting by not answering his phone right away. Or worse, what if he had decided not to wait but to drive home instead?

He stepped out into the hallway and called back right away, obviously. Actually he felt a little weird about it: he had never called Mr. Evans before. It seemed too forward or something, and he wasn't sure if he had permission to do so. But this time his daddy had told him to call, so at least that part wasn't in question.

But then when Mr. Evans answered...well, Mr. Evans didn't answer. Mrs. Evans did. And there was something very weird in the way she said "Hello?" Or maybe not, maybe he was just imagining it because he was surprised to hear her and because...well, the guilt about what he was doing with her husband.

"Um, could I speak to Mr. Evans, please?"

"No, I'm sorry, Mr. Evans isn't available at the moment. Can I take a message?"

Take a message? Why would she even pick up his phone if he wasn't available, why wouldn't she just let it go to voice mail? And what kind of message could he possibly leave with the wife of the man he was in love with? "Uh, no, thank you."

"No, you're sure?"

"Yes, thank you, ma'am."

"All right, then. Good-bye." She hung up before he could return the good-bye.

He went back to the locker room and got in the shower, feeling very unsettled. He couldn't call back again now, obviously, but what if Mr. Evans didn't know he had tried? Hopefully he would notice Blaine's number in his history, but then he might be mad that he hadn't left a voice mail. And just the fact that Mrs. Evans had answered at all nagged at him a little bit. His own parents never answered each others' phones, and he couldn't think of any other couples that answered each others' either. Not that he knew that many adult couples, so...it probably wasn't actually weird.

He tried not to, like, obsess about it, about whether Mr. Evans was getting unhappy with him for not calling back yet, about what Mrs. Evans might think if he tried again too soon. It was hard not to obsess, though, and his thoughts kept returning to the idea that he'd feel so much calmer if Mr. Evans could pull him into his lap and hold him.

As soon as he was showered and dressed he went straight to the library. He was in no mood to work on his history project, but in case Mr. Evans did want to see him still (and, God, he hoped Mr. Evans did want to see him still!) he should really get as much work done now as he could.

His heart jumped a little when his text alert went off, but it wasn't from Mr. Evans. It was from...Jesus Christ, it was Sebastian. Sebastian had been pretty much leaving him alone ever since Mr. Evans slammed him against the wall (one of Blaine's favorite masturbatory images), so why did he have to bother him now? He almost didn't even read the text, but in the end he was too curious not to. It said, "Sorry things didn't work out between you and your statutory rapist of a boyfriend. Feel free to use me for rebound sex."

What the...!? Oh, God...what...!? He had to talk to Mr. Evans right away, he couldn't wait. He dialed, got nothing, and hung up. Dialed again. Got nothing again. Hung up again. Reread Sebastian's text. That asshole was obviously just fucking with him. He didn't know anything. How could he? But he needed to speak to Mr. Evans, to let himself be reassured. He called again, and this time left a voice mail when he got no answer. Knowing there was a greater than zero percent chance that Mrs. Evans would hear the message, he tried to be careful in what he said and how he said it. "Hi, Mr. Evans, it's...I..." He decided it might be better not to mention that Mr. Evans had called him first. "I kind of need to...I mean there's something I'd like to, uh, ask you about a...um, babysitting issue. Please call me, Mr. Evans, please. As soon as you can."

XOXOXO

When Rachel got to the house to watch the girls, Quinn told Sam to get in her car. He tried to ask where they were going but all she would say was "Somewhere to talk." Once she started driving, Sam began to suspect she didn't know where they were going either. She drove without saying anything until eventually parking on the street near a small playground. She turned off the ignition and removed her seat belt but didn't open the door. "I should have listened to Rachel," she said. She didn't sound angry at the moment, she sounded sad.

"When she told you not to marry me?"

"When she told me not to date you because you were gay. She saw it right away. I don't know how I missed it all these years."

"Quinn, wait a second. Are you saying you think I don't really love you, that you think I never loved you and all this time I was just using you as a...a..."

"A beard, I think the term is. And yes, I'm saying that conclusion seems inescapable."

"No!" Sam twisted in his seat so he could look in her eyes...could, that is, if she were willing to meet his, which she wasn't. "No! I did love you and I do love you and I'm not gay."

"Oh, please, Sam!" Quinn turned to look out her window, but not before Sam could see her tears. "Isn't it time for you to be honest with me finally?"

"I've always been honest with you, honey. Except this one time. It seems like you think the only thing different about this one time is that you found out, but—"

"You're right, that's exactly what I think. I'd be a fool to think anything else."

"No. This is the only time there was anything for you to find out about."

Quinn kept looking out her window, not saying anything. Sam wished she would look at him, at least. He couldn't...he kind of got how she would be less inclined to trust him now, but he really couldn't believe she might think he'd been lying to her about everything all this time.

Eventually she spoke again. "Even if you're telling the truth about this being the first time..."

"Only time," Sam insisted.

"And I'm not saying I believe that it is, but even if it is the first time, it still means you've been living a lie this whole time."

"I haven't. Quinn, I'm not gay. I'm attracted to women. To you. I love you."

She turned to look at him, finally. She studied his face. "You have always seemed to be attracted to women," she admitted. "I've seen where your eyes wander when we're at the beach. Even Rachel only thought you were gay before we actually started dating. And then she started telling me about how you were always flirting with my sorority sisters."

"They flirted with me," Sam said automatically. They'd had this playful argument many times before.

"I know that," Quinn said, allowing a hint of a smile to flash across her face for a split-second. She let out a sigh. "So you're really not gay?"

"I'm really not gay."

Quinn lunged forward and punched his shoulder hard. "It's so much worse if you're really not gay!"

"Quinn..." Sam tried, holding his aching shoulder.

"If you were gay at least I could see how the stress of living a lie could finally get to you. But, no, you're saying that's not the case, you still love me, you still find me attractive...that is what you're saying, right?"

"Yes."

"So then how the hell did this happen? I want you to be honest with me, because I really want to understand."

"I don't know," Sam said. It wasn't as if he'd never asked himself the exact same question. And he just kept coming back to Blaine, and how beautiful his eyes were when he called him daddy, and he knew he couldn't even try to explain that to Quinn. He ran his hand through his hair and said, "I don't know. I never wanted to fall in—"

Quinn cut him off: "Don't you dare tell me you're in love with that boy."

"Um, okay." He was pretty sure she had just told him to be honest, but, okay, he could see how she might think of honesty as a relative concept in this situation.

"You are not in love with a sixteen-year-old boy."

"Seventeen."

"Fine, seventeen. You realize it's just as illegal either way, don't you?"

"Actually Blaine looked it up. The age of consent in Ohio is sixteen."

Quinn stared at him for a minute before she started laughing. "Really?"

"Not that it matters, like you said, whether he's sixteen or seventeen, but..."

"So you're not just getting your sexual needs met by underage boys now, but your legal ones too? Sure, you might have a wife who's a lawyer...Though I can see why you might not have wanted to come to me for legal advice on that particular question. But did your counsel happen to mention to you the provisions under section 2907 of the Ohio Revised Code for sexual activity between a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old and an adult who's in a position of authority over him or her? Position of authority such as, oh, I don't know, the child's employer?"

Shit. "Is that what you were doing in the kitchen? Reading the criminal code?" Quinn wasn't a criminal lawyer, she did wills and estate stuff, so the criminal code section number wasn't the kind of thing she'd know off the top of her head. "Am I going to need a lawyer?"

Quinn let out a deep breath. "Probably not a criminal lawyer," she said, "unless Blaine or his parents decide to go that route. I don't have any particular desire to see my children's father in prison."

"Thank you," Sam said softly. Then, "What about a...a divorce lawyer?"

Quinn was playing with a strand of hair that had escaped from its ponytail. She twisted furiously while staring at a spot on the dashboard. "Do you swear that Blaine is the only one? That it never happened before and will never happen again?" she asked, not moving her eyes from the dashboard until she finished the question. "Tell me the truth now, because if I find out later that you didn't, then everything I'm about to say is off."

Sam kept her gaze and said, "I swear. I swear, Quinn."

"Then...then you don't need a divorce lawyer yet. I'm willing to try to work through this. Maybe we won't be able to, but I don't want to tear apart the girls' family unless I know we tried everything."

"Thank you," Sam said, releasing a small gasp and a few tears he'd been holding in. Throughout their conversation his biggest fear had been trying to explain to the girls somehow why he wouldn't be living with them anymore, and how would they take it, not seeing them all the time, and how would he take not seeing them? And he was enormously relieved to have that worst-case scenario off the table, for now at least. For now and for as long as he had any control over what happened. "I'll do whatever you want."

Quinn handed him her phone. "I want to hear you break it off with him."

Sam looked at the phone but didn't take it. "You want me to...what?"

"Don't tell me you thought we could work through this while you keep seeing him!"

"No, I...No, of course not. I just...I haven't thought of how to tell him yet, and...and why do you want to hear it?"

"Why do I want to hear it? Are you serious? So I'll know you're really doing it, obviously. So I'll know you're making a clean break and not implying that it's temporary or that you might change your mind later."

Sam held out his hand and accepted the phone, preparing to break the heart of the boy he loved. He scrolled through Quinn's contacts for the number.

Just before he called Quinn said, "Wait. I need your word that this will be the last contact you have with him. Ever."

Sam nodded mutely.

"All right, go ahead. Put it on speaker."

Blaine's phone rang, and he experienced half a second of intense relief before he noticed that the caller ID didn't say Mr. Evans, it said Mrs. Evans. He briefly considered not answering, but not knowing what was going on was killing him. "Hello?" he asked tentatively.

"Blaine, it's Mr. Evans."

"Oh my God, daddy, I'm so glad you called! I tried to call you earlier but your wife answered and I didn't want you to think I was ignoring you and I've been so worried—"

"Blaine, you have to stop talking, sweetheart." Sam covered his eyes, not wanting to see how Quinn was reacting to hearing him call Blaine sweetheart. Just like he hadn't been able to look when Blaine called him daddy, though with any luck Quinn hadn't noticed that, given how fast Blaine was talking. "Just...let me talk, Blaine. You're not going to like this, let me just get it over quickly."

"No! Daddy, please, no! I don't know what Sebastian has done—"

"Blaine! I told you to stop talking, now, didn't I?"

"Yes, but...but if you're about to tell me that you don't wanna be my daddy anymore, then I don't have to do what you say."

"Blaine Devon Anderson! Stop talking this instant." He stole a glance at Quinn. She looked ill; she was holding her hand over her mouth as if she were afraid she might actually throw up. Deciding that his sternest tone was the only thing that stood a chance of working, he said, "You are not to call me that again, and you are not to speak at all unless I say you can. If you understand, say 'I understand.'"

"I understand," Blaine said meekly.

"Good." Sam bit off the word boy at the end of the phrase. "Good. I can tell you've guessed why I'm calling, but I want to be very clear. We...we can't see each other anymore, Blaine. Not ever."

"Why?" Blaine asked in the smallest, saddest voice Sam had ever heard.

"I didn't say you could talk, Blaine," Sam reminded him. "But I think you know the reason. Because it's wrong. Because you're in high school and I'm an adult with a wife and two children. I love my wife and I can't keep doing this to her."

Blaine curled up in a ball on his bed. "And you don't love me?"

"I love my wife. My wife and my family."

Blaine was holding back his sobs, but just barely. He whispered, "That's not what I asked."

Sam did, he did love Blaine. So much. But no good could come of telling him that now. "No. I'm sorry, Blaine, but I...I don't love you."

Blaine let the phone fall next to him on the mattress as he sobbed freely.

"Blaine? Blaine, are you all right?"

Blaine was only vaguely aware that Mr. Evans was still talking. He didn't love him and didn't want to see him again, ever. What else could there possibly be to say?

"You're a...you're a good kid, Blaine, and this isn't your fault, it's my fault. I'm the one to blame here, not you, and I just want you to know that you'll find someone your own age who you can be happy with." Sam listened and still heard nothing but sobs. "You can talk now, Blaine, if you want." But he didn't talk, and he sounded like he was hyperventilating. "Blaine, just take a deep breath..." Quinn caught his eye and gave him a wrap-it-up signal. "Okay, well, I'm going to hang up now. Good-bye and...and I wish you well." He hung up and slammed his head back against the head rest.

"That was hard for you," Quinn said.

"Yeah. Well, you heard him."

"I heard way more than I wanted to about the nature of your relationship."

Sam cringed. "Well, you see the thing is—"

"Don't," Quinn said, holding her hand up to stop him. "I don't want to know."

"Yeah, that's probably best."

"Anyway, my point is that I know it was hard for you, but I'm sure you'll understand why I'm not inclined to be sympathetic right now."

Sam nodded. "I get it. Can we just go home?"

"You can go home. I can't be around you anymore right now."

"Where are you gonna go after you drop me off?"

"You didn't hear what I said. I can't be around you right now. You need to get out of my car now. If you want to go home you need to walk." She unlocked the car doors and looked at his meaningfully.

"Oh!" The idea of the five-or-so-mile walk didn't bother him much—it wasn't even all that cold—but he did worry about something. "But you're still willing to try to work through this, right?"

"Yes, Sam," she said with more than a hint of exasperation. "But you didn't think it would be instant, did you? Or that it would be easy for me?"

"No, of course not."

"Good. Then get out of my car and I'll see you at home some time tonight."

Sam got out of the car and said, "I love you." Quinn leaned across the seat, closed his door, and drove off.

Fin.