I will get faster at updating again one day, I promise. probably around the time the baby starts school :)
Chapter Eighteen:
How Do You Know When There's An Elephant In The Room?
(The Footprints In The Flour)
Rachel wasn't entirely sure where they'd left things between them on Friday afternoon, broken but comfortable perhaps. Too close to be friends but not close enough to be more. Certainly they were in a grey area but for once she hadn't had time to dwell on it because her Dads had surprised her with a weekend trip to Chicago.
It wasn't unusual. They had family in Illinois and her Daddy travelled to Chicago often for conferences but it was the first time they'd taken her all year. She was excited; with the holidays approaching it would be a good excuse for a shopping spree in the big city and they were going to take in a show on the Saturday night if they could get tickets and just the whole idea of a weekend away with her parents undivided attention was wonderful.
And it was good, she really did enjoy herself. After a night in an up-market hotel – in which she was allowed her own room for the first time instead of having to share a family room with her parents – on Saturday morning they hit the shops and her Dad let her go a little wild with his credit card.
She bought enough new clothes between half a dozen stores to replace a third of her wardrobe, as well as stacks of sheet music for songs she wanted to persuade Mr Schuester to try in Glee. And a new bedazzler gun to use on her school stationary. She was a having the greatest time, in fact, until they walked past a particular store front and something came over her.
The feeling that she was passing something important tugged her back until she was looking through the plate glass window at a . . . a crib.
It was a very nice crib of glazed pine with frilly white lace finishings standing alone in the center of the display. There was a mobile of brightly coloured teddy-bears dangling above. Any baby would be lucky to sleep in it. Although, she noted, only those babies who's parents could afford the $800 price tag would ever have the chance to. That seemed a little extravagant for a baby bed, but what did Rachel know. Would Quinn need a crib? Or would the baby not stay with her for long enough? It had been a few weeks since Mrs. Schuester's name had come up so was that still happening? And if it was, did Finn know yet?
"Baby Girl?"
"Coming, Daddy."
Leaving the nursery display and all thoughts of babies where she'd found them, she caught up with her Dads.
At least she tried to but, for reasons she really couldn't explain, the feeling that something was amiss remained a vague presence at the back of her mind.
It next reared its head when they were eating lunch only a table away from the restrooms in a crowded restaurant. It wasn't a prime seating area but they'd been lucky to get a table at all without reservations and the food was good enough that the constant traffic of people heading to and from the restrooms didn't subtract from the dining experience.
Until, that is, Rachel noticed them.
Pregnant women were everywhere! At least one in five of the women that passed their table seemed to be with child, mostly modest but obvious bumps that suggested they were about half way to full term, much further along than Quinn was if she was any judge.
She tried to ignore them and enjoy her meal but as the seemingly endless stream continued she became distracted, picking at her food as she imagined how Quinn would look in the various stages passing before her. Would she glow as much as that lady? Or would her ankles get as fat as that lady? Would she carry her passenger with as much grace as the lady passing now? Or would she be as heavy-footed and uncomfortable as the lady that passed a few minutes later?
"Everything okay with your food, Rach?"
"What? Oh, oh yes, thank you, Dad. I was just thinking." She dug back in before either of them could ask what about.
The show they saw that evening at the Chicago Theatre was at least a thorough distraction. She'd seen an amateur performance of Fiddler on the Roof a few years ago at the Lima Playhouse but it was nothing compared to the magic that was happening before her very eyes tonight.
It was only after the show – and a late dinner which thankfully only yielded one or two pregnant women in the same restaurant – and when she retired to her room, that the unsettling feelings of the day came back upon her.
As she settled into the strange but crisp and comfortable bed she did her best to analyse her sudden fixation with pregnancy. It wasn't like she hadn't thought about Quinn's situation in detail before. She was – or had been – her morning sickness cure and Rachel had thoroughly researched her pregnancy guide before typing up a final version and giving it to Quinn for reference, but this didn't feel like that.
Before it had been purely objective; in the beginning she had just seen it was a way to get close to the girl and when they had grown closer she'd just wanted to help as much as she could.
Now . . .
She lay quietly in the dark for a long time, just mulling it over, and then slowly raised her hand from beneath the covers and held it over her face. She couldn't see it, except for a slightly pale line that was her pinky finger illuminated by the digital display of her travel alarm clock, but she didn't need to be able to see it to know what she was looking at.
The hand that had been pressed to Quinn's stomach the day before. The hand that had felt the difference in Quinn's body before the other girl had even known it was there. The hand, the first hand ever, to feel the physical presence of the baby.
Quinn's baby.
Quinn's baby girl.
She stared blindly at her hand, smiling stupidly for no good reason – as in there was a reason, just not a good one – before letting her hand crash back down on the bed and pulling the spare pillow over her face to groan in to.
Oh Barbra, she'd only gone and bonded with Quinn's baby!
She intercepted the first doctors bill by chance.
Collecting the stack from the mailbox as she always did on Monday mornings and carrying them into the house to place beside her Daddy's plate at the breakfast table. It was only because it happened to be on top of the pile that she noticed it was for her and was able to snatch it away and hide it inside her cardigan.
She felt a jolt of icy fear at the close call and had to sit on the bottom stair for a few minutes until the threat of a panic attack had faded.
When she finally entered the kitchen and delivered the mail, her Mom's curious eyes were looking her up and down before she could even take her seat.
"Where's your uniform, Quinnie?"
Oh, right, in her alarm over the doctor's letter she'd forgotten to be prepared for this. She had thought about making something up about how it was no longer compulsory to wear their uniforms all day. She could work in something about the wear and tear being too costly or Principal Figgins deciding it wasn't acceptable dress code, but it would take next to no time for that lie to catch up with her. So she had opted for the truth.
Sort of.
"I decided to sit the rest of the year out. It was becoming a little demanding. I need my grades to be perfect if I'm to get into all of the AP classes I want next year and . . ."
"If it's a time issue you should have given up that music club, not Cheerios," her Mom's voice was sharp, making Quinn sit up even straighter. "What were you thinking?"
"Mom, Glee is an hour a day at most, and a few competitions a year. Cheerios is a like a full time occupation and you know it only gets worse when the competition season starts. Coach Sylvester has us touring the state every weekend going to this Cheer Fling and that Spirit Festival. Not to mention after school practices triple in the months running up to Nationals!"
"It sounds like Quinn knows what's she's doing, Judy." Her Daddy leaned over to pat her shoulder, "You're a good girl, honey, for putting your school work first. But if its really getting to be that much for you, perhaps you should quit this Glee club too."
"No! I mean, I need at least one extra curricular to put on my college applications for this year and, besides, singing has proven therapeutic qualities that enhance mental stimulation."
"But, Quinnie, you're the Captain, why would you want to walk away from that?"
She didn't, she hadn't, she hated that she'd been forced to give it up! But she kept her face impassive and shrugged slightly.
"I intend to try out again next year. And I'll make Captain again."
And she would, as soon as this baby business was over she'd get back on top. She had too.
After only a few bites of toast she left the table with the excuse that she had to get to school early to turn in her uniforms – which wasn't really an excuse because she really did have to do that – but it wasn't why she was so eager to leave. That had more to do with the envelope burning a hole through her cardigan pocket.
"Oh, before you go." She turned dutifully back to her mom as she settled her plate in the sink. "The tickets to the Chastity Ball arrived. They're on the counter there."
Glancing at the two tickets propped up against the wall she smiled before she could remember that she was a total hypocrite. She'd been really looking forward to attending the dance with her Daddy and now . . .
He was grinning affectionately at her and so she forced herself to keep her own smile.
"That's nice. I can't wait to go." After a moments hesitation she rushed back and kissed him on the cheek. It may have come from guilt on her part but he just laughed and hugged her waist for a second. "I'll see you after school. Bye."
She waited until she was in the school parking lot twenty minutes later – it had taken her a while to find decent spot now she no longer had her own designated Cheerios parking space – before ripping open the envelope.
What? How the . . .? No way! How on Earth . . .?
She'd known the sonogram would be expensive but nowhere near this expensive. There was no way she was going to find this kind of money before the payment date.
She was so fucking screwed!
Rachel had been fully on board with the idea of a bake sale. Making money so that Artie could ride with them to Sectionals was all a part of what made Glee club special, something worth belonging too. She couldn't understand why everyone else was so down on the idea. Hadn't they all had fun doing the car wash together? Even if the end result had been anything but fun.
Not that she actually knew how to make cupcakes but she could throw together a decent batch of cookies given enough alone time in the kitchen and someone to clear up after her.
So she'd been a little disappointed when Artie had said he'd be happy to have his Dad drive him and thereby ending the bonding experience before it could even begin.
Maybe it was just as well. Developing strong ties to another human being was dangerous, leading to all kinds of problems like sleep deprivation, loss of appetite, panic attacks. . . social anxiety she added, as her palms started to sweat when she realized her path to the door was going to cross Quinn's. Rachel hovered by her chair to avoid it.
How could she get attached to a bump? Barely a bump at that! Only a couple of weeks ago she had counted the baby very firmly in the con column, because Quinn being pregnant only added to the long list of things against them. Now they weren't even together but after just one touch of that bump, no the . . . bumplet, she had . . . she was . . .
She'd spent most of Sunday afternoon at her Grandmother's house watching her knit – because she was always knitting when she wasn't trolling the internet – wondering how hard it was to make booties and daydreaming about strolling around Babies "R" Us with Quinn whilst enjoying unlimited access to her Dad's credit card. To flesh out her fantasy she had managed to compile quite an extensive list of the items an expectant mother might need and—
Because she'd been hovering, Quinn strolled out of the Choir room unimpeded, hand in hand with Finn.
—it was a list she really didn't want or need in her head.
He had to be kidding! Everyone had just found out she was pregnant and she'd just been publicly kicked off of the Cheerios and now Mr Schuester expected her to spend three hours a day in a wheelchair? Was he trying to completely destroy her?
She finally kind of understood what Rachel meant now when she said he was hell-bent on trying to sabotage the diva's life.
And talking of Rachel, Quinn was pretty sure she was being ignored. True, things had been left up in the air on Friday but she thought they'd at least parted on good terms. Maybe Rachel was just being super conscientious about them not being seen together in school, except . . . she'd caught a few looks in Glee, both this morning and this afternoon that suggested there was more to it.
What had she done wrong now? Other than everything obviously.
She left a note in her locker after school that said,
Are we not talking now? I'll be on Facebook tonight. x
She partly regretted it as soon as she'd slipped it in, because did it sound needy? She didn't want to come across that way. She knew they were over, she'd come to terms with it being the right thing, but . . . she couldn't help it, she missed her.
She wholly regretted it later that night when despite spending hours checking back on Facebook every twenty minutes (or more sometimes) Rachel didn't show.
As a matter of survival she'd convinced herself that Rachel just hadn't visited her locker after Glee and so hadn't gotten her note. That theory went out the window when she opened her own locker the following morning and found a folded piece of paper waiting for her.
Sorry. We are talking. I just have some things on my mind. I need a few days. xx
What things? Was Rachel okay? Had something happened that she didn't know about?
Great, now she wasn't just lonely she was concerned too, making her want to speak to Rachel more than ever. But she could only assume from the note that Rachel didn't want to speak to her for a few days.
Why, though?
It had taken every ounce of willpower she had not to log on to Facebook the night before. It was only knowing that she'd probably start rambling about baby names and Lamaze classes that had stopped her.
She still couldn't understand this bizarre turn around but she knew it was better to keep her distance until the sudden crazy urge to start nesting had left her. If she got too close to Quinn Fabray right now there was a good chance she'd drop down on one knee and ask a question that would just embarrass them both.
So that's why she headed to the Home Ec. room at lunch – after washing the mushroom Stroganoff off of her face and changing into a new sweater. Upside: it hadn't left her freezing and the school meals were never piping hot enough to burn. Downside: getting a mushroom in the eye. – with her Tupperware boxes of ingredients. She was going to keep herself occupied and keep out of the way of Quinn by baking some of her cookies to sell at the bake sale that had now been given the green light.
That plan backfired the second she walked into the room.
"What are you doing here?"
Quinn looked up startled, a cute smudge of flour on her cheek, but smiled when she her. "Printing counterfeit money out of dough; why what does it look like?"
"Not that."
"Someone has to make the cupcakes and no one else volunteered so . . ." She shrugged.
"Well, I'm going to make cookies, so you can go now."
Quinn arched an eyebrow, "Excuse me?"
Rachel tried to keep her knees steady. "I just meant . . . never mind, I'll come back later."
She turned back to the door.
"Rachel, what's going on?"
"You know what's going on," she said quietly.
"Not really, no. What do you need a few days for?"
"I . . ." she began, and then stopped, because she couldn't tell. "You're right, I'm being silly. We can share the workspace."
There were seven or eight benches so she wasn't sure why she chose to unload her ingredients right next to Quinn, but she did and it made Quinn smile so maybe that was reason enough in the short term.
"So how was your weekend?" she asked, hoping to keep the conversation nice and casual while she laid out her tubs.
"Uneventful. Finn took me to the movies Saturday to see . . ." Rachel really hadn't meant to make that irritable little huff but Quinn changed the subject mid-sentence anyway. "Santana and Brittany came over Sunday afternoon to hang out."
She glanced over out of the corner of her eye. "To hang out?"
"The regular kind of hanging out, not our . . . the other kind."
"No. I mean I assumed that. I just meant you spent time socially with Santana. Does this mean you two are friends again?" Somehow she felt more jealous of that than of Finn.
"We never stopped being friends, but Cheerios made us rivals too, which you should get seeing as you're just as competitive as Santana and I."
"I would never use the secret of someone's sexuality as a means to further my own achievements."
"Maybe not, but you'd happily throw any of us under a bus if you thought we might take a solo from you."
"That's not true!" When Quinn eyed her dubiously she added, "I wouldn't throw you under a bus."
Quinn smiled and she returned it until she felt herself getting dreamy over the look in her eyes and quickly turned away. Needing a little distance, she walked to the next bench to get the mixing bowl and measuring cups from underneath.
"Anyway," Quinn continued, "Santana doesn't actually care if I like girls. She just has a problem with my taste in girls."
"Meaning me?"
Quinn just shrugged at the redundant question. At least Rachel hoped it was redundant. Were there other girls she didn't know about?
She brought her foraged utensils back to the bench and set them out as she hesitantly asked, "So . . . you've talked to her about us?"
"Of course not!" Quinn sounded terrified at the very idea. "She can't ever know any of this is real. No one can."
"But won't it be difficult to keep from her if you two are best friends again?"
"Why would it be? We're not together any more and she never needs to find out that we ever were."
She didn't care that her huffy noise carried over this time and even if it hadn't the violent way she was measuring out her flour told the tale all on its own. She was sulking and she knew it and Quinn knew it but she couldn't stop. She dumped the flour in the mixing bowl so viciously it caused a mushroom cloud to rise up.
"Isn't that the reason why we broke up in the first place? So I could avoid the stress of situations exactly like that?"
"One of the reasons," Rachel corrected darkly. "But I didn't expect you to enjoy your new found freedom so much." Sugar grains sprinkled in every direction as she spooned it aggressively into a measuring cup.
"Hey, careful, this is perfectly measured," Quinn warned, shielding her own mixing bowl from the flying sweetness. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I don't like the fact that you want to be friends with her after everything she's done to you and, more importantly, me recently. Not when you won't even entertain the idea of being friends with me and I haven't done anything wrong."
"You can't decide who I'm friends with, Rachel."
"I know that! I don't get a say in anything. You're just living your life, having fun and friends and babies and I'm just making cookies!" Rachel squeezed the open carton of milk she was about to pour too hard and it squirted up and out, over her hand and wrist and all over half of the bench.
Quinn jumped back from the mess, taking her bowl with her. "Okay, what is going on with you?"
"Nothing, I'm fine." She poured what was left in the carton into her mixing bowl with a shaking hand and went to get a stack of blue paper towels.
"You are not fine." She took half of the towels from Rachel and started to clean up the bench. "Now talk to me."
"I simply had a stressful weekend. I'm sorry for taking it out on you. Lets talk about something else."
"Okay, what did you do this weekend?"
"I was requesting more of a change of subject than that, Quinn."
"Too bad. So what did you do?"
She sighed, "My parents took me to Chicago."
"For . . . electro-shock therapy? Dinner with a serial killer? To watch puppies being kicked? I mean it must have been something like that to put you in this mood."
She sighed again but gave her a little smile for her effort which Quinn returned. "We have family there and my Dads took me shopping and we ate in some really nice restaurants and saw Fiddler on the Roof Saturday night."
"Sounds awful." Quinn's deadpan expression was perfect and it garnered a little giggle from Rachel. "I saw 'Revenge of the Really Fake Gross Zombie's' on Saturday night." Rachel frowned and Quinn shrugged. "I don't know what it was really called, but that was awful. If Finn ever tells you he can get you guys into an R-rated movie? Don't get excited. They only don't card on the really bad ones. He loved it obviously," she added with a roll of her eyes.
Well, if nothing else it had taken her mind off of her own problems because, "Why would Finn be taking me to see a movie?"
"Oh. Right. Yeah. He won't be." She chuckled, "Think yourself lucky."
"That's me; lucky."
She hadn't meant to sound despondent again but Quinn picked up on it immediately. They were so in tune now. It was such a waste of awesome potential.
"So come on. What was so bad about shopping, eating good food and watching a show. Sounds like the perfect weekend to me. Apart from the watching a show part," she added, grinning.
"Quinn, Fiddler on the Roof happens to be one of the . . ."
"Gnome, stop avoiding and tell me what's upset you! If I have to go and kick Chicago's ass I at least want to know why."
Her heart fluttered, eroding some of her will to be strong. She grabbed the electric mixer and bent her head over the bowl, hoping the device would drown out most of her words.
"I spent most of the weekend counting pregnant women."
"What?"
"They were everywhere! Baby-filled bellies coming at me from all sides. It was too much!"
"What? Why?"
Rachel looked pointedly down at Quinn's abdomen.
She covered it with her hand. "Don't."
"See, that's the problem!"
"What is? I don't understand." When she didn't answer, Quinn reached over and snatched the mixer from her, splattering Rachel with sludgy cookie dough before she could turn it off. "Rachel, how did seeing a few pregnant women turn you into . . . this?"
Rachel refused to open her mouth. How could she tell Quinn the truth? And even if she did it wouldn't change anything.
"Okay, if you want to do it the hard way . . ."
Her eyes went wide as Quinn picked one of her eggs up between finger and thumb and showed it to her before raising it to head height – Rachel's head height! "Just remember sweetie, your stubbornness is the the reason why you have egg on your face."
"Quinn, no! Think of the baby chicken!"
Quinn passed the egg from hand to hand as Rachel tried to snatch it away but always kept it in the air. "Are you going to tell me everything?"
"No! Okay, okay!" She batted desperately at the egg some more, trying to get it away from her. "I want to be your birthing partner and learn how to knit booties!"
"You what? Are you crazy? Take it back!" Quinn insisted with a laugh, "and tell me the real reason."
"I will not and that is! I want to scour the globe for piccalilli flavor ice-cream at three am and sing show tunes to your tummy!"
They wrestled for the egg above their heads.
"Gnome, I'm warning you!"
"I'll never back down!"
SPLAT
Quinn froze.
"Oh Barbra!"
"I can't believe you just did that!" Bits of shell fell from Quinn's forehead as yellow and white embryonic fluid dripped from her eyebrows to her cheeks. "I hope the baby chick haunts you forever!"
"Ha! The yokes on you because baby chicks always haunt their last resting place – your face!" Rachel cackled and pointed triumphantly and then took a quick, strategic step back.
It wasn't far enough to stop the sudden handful of powdery cake mix from hitting her full on and she spluttered as it went in her mouth and up her nose.
"Are you trying to choke me?"
"Yes!" Quinn threw another handful. "And I can't believe you just made that pun."
Still spluttering, or spluttering all over again, she was quick to retaliate and Quinn gasped as she was hit in the kisser with a thick glob of sticky cookie dough. She licked it from her lips even as she showered Rachel with what was left in her bowl.
"Take that!"
"Take this!" Rachel up-ended her bag of sugar on Quinn's head, most of it stuck to the egg still dripping down her face, crystallising her forehead and cheeks.
"You bi . . ." She was laughing too hard to finish the insult, saving her energy for scooping a handful of cookie dough from Rachel's bowl and smearing it all down one side of her face. "Ha!"
"You'll pay for that, Quinn Fabray!" She grabbed the nearly full pack of butter and held it high.
Quinn caught her by the arms before she could smoosh it into her hair and, giggling too hard to help herself, she fell against Quinn as she tried to catch her breath.
Impossible when Quinn's eyes were warm and playful and right there and Rachel started to forget herself.
"Uh, what's going on?"
Letting go of her arms Quinn stepped back, switching her attention to the voice at the door. "We're baking," she explained with a giggle she couldn't contain.
"I can see that."
Rachel turned on her toes with a bright smile. "Would you like some cookie dough, Finn? I think there's still a little left in the bowl." She looked down at her flour-dusted sweater. With the reindeer on the front it made her look like a poorly frosted Christmas cake but at least it was the perfect excuse to extract herself from this awkwardness. "I need to go and change into my gym clothes."
"Don't you usually have a spare outfit here?" Finn asked as she neared him.
She thumbed the pattern in the centre of her chest. "This is it. The first fell to a mushroom stroganoff half an hour ago. Quinn is being nothing if not thorough today."
Quinn's voice carried into the corridor as Rachel slipped outside. "Hey, if she didn't keep cornering me I wouldn't have to resort to slapping her in the face with cookie dough. She's relentless, Finn! You're just lucky it's not you she likes."
Relentless, really? The comment pulled a trigger within her, but not in a bad way necessarily. More like in a slightly evil way. If Quinn wanted to keep up the pretence that Rachel was after her still then she was happy to oblige. She'd show her relentless! Scooping some sweet dough from her cheek and sucking it slowly from her finger she walked away with a plan in her heart and a devilish grin on her lips.