Glee Fic: the city girl
So. Yeah. Exploding into rainbows, etc etc. This is for lenina20, who is ridiculously lovely and sweet and I adore to bits.
the city girl
glee ; jesse/rachel (finn/rachel) ; 4,618 words, PG
there comes a point when one plane ticket isn’t enough. the truth is they never planned an end. general spoilers.
-
Summer starts and she can still taste New York. “It’s strange,” she tells Kurt. “But I don’t think I’m -”
He’s amused. “Back?”
They sit in his room. When she doesn’t answer, Kurt stands and pulls a few things off of his desk. Rachel’s gaze is fixed against his window, watching, maybe waiting for something to happen right in front of her.
“Do you not want it?” he asks, and he takes the Playbill from her hands, gently pressing it into his own. He smoothes the pages back. “I mean, it’s New York,” he says and then grins. “It’s like the perfect love song, right?”
Rachel laughs. She bites her lip. They stare at each other as if they’re sharing some great, heavy secret. Downstairs, Finn and his parents are setting up dinner and for a moment Rachel feels like she can appreciate how quiet everything wants to be.
But she’s serious. “This will be my last summer here.”
Jesse is gone after Nationals. They shared a small conversation, and Rachel remembers saying things like I understand and we’ll see each other as if this second moment, still unconvincing, was just one more roadblock in their entire story. She misses him. Everybody knows she misses him. But Jesse stayed behind in the city and she walked him right back into being another elephant in the room.
She’s still back from New York, and her room, her own room seems so much smaller and even out of reach. There are now pictures of friends, of her Glee club friends, tucked into the frame of her mirror. She doesn’t touch them and the new makeup on her vanity is a gift from Kurt and Mercedes as a sort of congratulations for everything.
Her phone rings somewhere behind her and she turns, reaching for it. She answers on the third ring, her mouth cocked into amusement.
“Shelby says hello.”
Jesse’s voice is loud and present. She looks around the room and stiffens, half-expecting him to be behind her here.
“Saw your performance,” he says. “Said it was your best, blah blah blah - honestly? I still don’t understand why she doesn’t say it to your face instead of my face even though my face is ridiculously handsome. And dashing.” She bites back a scoff. “I met a girl who called me a Disney prince,” he says too.
“I don’t - I don’t know what to say to that,” she tells him slowly. She blinks. “I mean, admittedly, I was expecting a more tradition, pointed approach to our second first conversation.”
He chuckles. “I’m not trying to be callous, you know.”
“Sore subject.”
They don’t talk about Nationals. They don’t talk about Finn kissing her on stage, in the middle of the madness and the mix of anxiety and loss that it gives her. It’s not his fault, it’s not hers, and it’s as simple as growing up and growing up in the strangest of moments. It’s better not to talk about.
She knows that they’re not ready for a lot of things. She listens to Jesse open a door. The sound of a faucet turning on kind of startles her, in an odd way. It’s weird to think of him, talk to him, and then have to picture it all the same.
“I’m thinking about directing.”
Her eyes are wide.
“Or writing,” he interjects. She imagines him sitting there, wherever there is - a lonely apartment? He’s more than a lonely apartment. She thinks SoHo and a loft, and him overlooking too much of the city. They might have talked about it, but there is no invitation. No, no not yet.
Her lips purse and she settles on her bed. “I think,” she says carefully. “You’ll be the best at whatever it is that you decide to do. I think you might try patience, which, well, I struggle with all the time - but patience is good. Practice it like -” she bites her lip, blushing. “I can hear you smiling.”
“I’m not.”
They’re quiet. Or rather, she’s quiet, awkwardly digging her fingers into her blankets. She falls back and her legs swing over the side of her bed. She bites her lip and closes her eyes.
“Are you happy?”
Her mouth twitches. “What?”
“You heard me,” he says. He sighs dramatically. She listens to a door open and close. There are keys. “Are you happy?” he asks.
She bites her lip. “Right now,” she says. It matters.
They say that the summer is easiest when it’s about falling in love, or being in love, or holding herself to extreme sensibilities of how she loves. She loves Finn. She loves dramatic gestures and however sweet, if not sweeping the gesture was of kissing her on stage at Nationals, in front everyone, was, she understands that she has changed faster than everyone else again.
But she and Finn spend most nights sitting on the back of his pickup, studying the sky and talking about the following year as if it’s going to be the very last time they’ll see everybody they know.
“The world’s going to end in 2012,” he informs her. “Puck printed out all this stuff and we spent the day reading it - Kurt told us we were crazy. But shit, what if the Mayans are right?”
She rolls her eyes, amused. “They’re not around anymore, you know.”
He laughs. Her legs swing off the back, her dress pressing into her legs. She studies the sky curiously, watching how it opens and the stars, those stupid stars seem so far away all of the sudden. She thinks of cities and buildings, and tries to paint the scene in front of her. But all she sees is the small, sleepy town of Lima and tries not to become that girl.
“You’re a million miles away,” Finn says. In New York, he doesn’t say. In fact, everybody seems to be really avoiding a mention of the city.
Her fingers brush against her legs. Her phone is on her bag. It’s too hot tonight and her fingers move from her legs to her neck, rubbing away the heat that flushes into her skin.
“I’m still talking to Jesse.”
Finn stills. “What?”
She shrugs. “I’m still talking to Jesse,” she says. She does not tell him that he’s moved to New York, or that they are getting back into the swing of things - it’s not a relationship, it’s not a friendship, but there are things that Rachel knows how to understand and accept without questioning. She respects the name of both relationships.
“We’re just talking,” she adds too. “But I just wanted to tell you. I think that I should tell you these things too.”
“Thanks.” Finn frowns. “I mean, I don’t like it - I don’t like him.”
“I know.”
“But you do.” Finn jumps off the truck and turns to her, stepping between her legs. He studies her. “He’s important to you,” he says. He looks at her and seems to expect an argument, a fight for it, but her mouth stays relaxed and her gaze drifts back to the road in front of them.
Finn’s hands feel too big on her arms. She tries not to think back.
(They make it work for them: Finn is too fast and too slow and Rachel, an older Rachel, is a much bigger, cautious dreamer - the back of her throat hurts, it aches, and if you’re watching, as most people are now, you can catch her hands as they clench or how she sort of looks so far away. But everybody knows where she is and nobody tells her not to go. There are no cravings anymore. This is how things start to change.)
Jesse comes to Lima sometime in July. To see her, he says even though she knows that some of his friends are back and he’s still very much that Jesse with those friends. Her dads are off for a weekend and Finn, Finn and Rachel, are sort of on a sensible break. They talk more. It isn’t easy but there is a kind of honesty that Rachel has with Finn that she keeps close to herself for the memory.
“So it’s writing,” Jesse declares, walking into her bedroom. She is sitting on her chair at the vanity, her knees drawn to her chest as she studies him. “I am a classical man,” he says, “a Renaissance man,” he says too, “so I’ve finally decided to do it my damn self. It feels good to be an anticipated tastemaker.”
“Your ego’s back,” she says.
He grins and pulls her into a hug, twisting her into a lazy sort of dance which ends with him dipping her.
“Admit it,” he tells her. “You’ve missed it.”
She laughs as he erupts - he erupts into an entire story of woe and benefactors, of his parents being his parents and ultimately funding him so that he can pay them back and then pay them back for college too. But she catches something in his eyes, a different kind of weight where he seems bigger and brighter and completely unassuming with how much life he suddenly has.
He waves his hands - this is something new - when he tells her about others reaction to his master plan. She manages to sit back on her bed and watches as he paces around in her room.
“You’re happy,” she says.
He stops, wide-eyed. “What?”
Her legs drop and she stands. She feels it. She feels like she’s all nerves and excitement, eager to hear more about him. Her toes curl into the carpet and she rocks back onto her heels.
“You’re happy,” she says again. Her hair brushes into her eyes. “It’s nice,” she says. “I like seeing you happy.”
Rachel’s voice is warm and full and she even smiles shyly at him. He’s staring at her though, his mouth opening a little like she’s said the entirely wrong thing to him. But then he flushes and turns his head, grinning a little and then shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I am.”
She changes the subject. “How are your friends?” she asks again, and doesn’t touch the fact that her mother may be in town as well, even though Jesse has mention the fact to her once or twice and even casually. It is the only time that he looks at her and she can read him completely.
“The same,” he says. He waves a hand and then reaches for her. His hands curl around her arms and he swings her into another dance. “Lawyers, doctors, aspirations to write the next Great American novel, oh my.” He studies her, and then says: “But it was nice to see everybody, even though there were no great surprises - I honestly thought there was going to be, like, a five to one ratio of nose jobs in our group. Good to know that we’re not entirely that shallow.”
Rachel is amused. “I didn’t say anything.”
They start to sway. Jesse hums and she shakes her head, her arms curling around his neck. Her fingers brush against his hair.
“What about you?”
She blinks. “Me?”
He chuckles and she drops her head against his shoulder. She doesn’t want to look at him. He’ll read: stories about Finn, stories about her other friends, about her fathers and her anxieties and what exactly it was that she brought home with her from New York and what she left behind. There is a part of her that understands that he’ll be the one that gets it and that scares her, more than the idea that she love and loss and go through the motions like a complete pro just before she touches eighteen.
Instead she concentrates on the sensations of his hand, they move and fit against her hip, then her back, then there is one hand that slides against the plane of her shoulder. His fingers wiggle and graze her skin and she bites back a little, knowing sigh.
“Maybe I’ll come visit you,” she says.
Her voice is muffled. She listens to him laugh. He sounds surprised and pulls her closer, tighter against his chest.
“I’d like that,” he tells her.
They sit outside on her porch later. It’s dark and her neighborhood is too calm with lights and still cars. Her knees press into his leg and his hand somehow has dropped into her lap. There is pitcher of ice water on the steps next to them but it seems too odd and too late to have anyway.
Jesse watches her and she has to look away, her fingers pressing into his hands. They rub lightly over his palm and she looks out into the street.
“It’s so quiet here,” she confesses, and it feels like a confession. He laughs and she smiles a little, relaxing as he leans closer to her. “I told Finn we were talking too,” she adds. “I know - I mean, I guess he doesn’t get it. And I don’t want him to but I want to be honest.”
He snorts. “How did that go over?”
She rolls her eyes. She looks at him, shaking her head. When he shrugs, he smirks. She doesn’t get the competition.
“The two of you,” she says.
“I’m just saying. Your zombie boyfriend and I have a past history. I’m sure he still wants to shove a fist in my face which, by the way, I’m not above slamming my fist back in his face.”
Rachel smacks his arm. “You make my head hurt.”
He laughs and launches back into talking about himself, which, of course, amuses her. But she likes listening. She likes listening to how he paints the city for her, his parents - which she’s still dying to meet - and the color and sounds of his day-to-day routine now that he’s a writer.
“Maybe we’ll write a song together,” he says, and Rachel looks at him in surprise, flushing when he leans over to kiss her cheek. They’re sticky from the heat so when he lingers, he always lingers, the sensation of his mouth never really goes away.
She says nothing.
When he leaves again, she buys him a notebook, one of those sharp, small reporter’s notebooks that fits in his bag and that she sneaks in when he’s not looking. There’s no gold star, not yet, but she writes him a small note and says something to the effect of I believe in you only because she knows it’s different coming from someone that just cares. If he reads it though, she doesn’t know. Remember, this is Jesse.
This is still Lima and sometimes she is still that girl. It is the hottest day of the summer when Finn kisses her, really kisses her, and they tell each other that it’ll always be special one way or another. This is the best their relationship has ever been: it’s an end but it is real and there are no eggs or slushies or first loves that stand in between the two of them.
They stand at his truck, of course, outside her house, of course, and Rachel swears, swears that she sees her dad stalking the front door, waiting for her even as one of the lights upstairs goes on. It doesn’t matter because Finn takes her hand and she lets him, turning slightly so she can manage some kind of goodnight for now.
“It’s going to be different for you,” he tells her. His hands frame her face and she smiles sadly. “And that’s good, you know? It’s going to be different for you and I just - I want you to know that I’m glad I met you.”
She laughs and her eyes are wet and she’s not crying, not yet because it’s different when she’s moving on and it’s really moving on.
“I’m glad I met you too,” she says.
When he smiles, she knows that it’s going to be fine, that there are things that are always going to be here and that reach forward, going forward is nothing to feel guilty about. She leans in and kisses his cheek.
Her dads know it best. She’s just early.
Rachel goes back to New York, just before school starts, for a week and just when Mr. Schuester returns to Lima for Glee club and the school. She hears about all of this when Kurt calls her.
“How is it?” he asks excitedly, and on the other line, she listens to Mercedes and Blaine feed him questions to ask her. “Is St. James picking you up? Where are you staying? Finn says to tell you that he’s -”
“I’m fine,” she says with a laugh. She reaches the baggage claim. Her dress swings against her legs and she rocks on her feet, waiting with the rest of the passengers from her flight for their bags. It’s still too hot in New York, she thinks. “I’m taking a cab to his place,” she says, “and I’ll see Jesse later - he has some kind of meeting.”
He snorts. “What happened to romance?”
“It’s Jesse,” she says dryly.
He laughs and launches into a list of things he wants her to do, to bring back for him, and - secretly - tells her to keep an eye out for an apartment if she’s going to be looking for roommates when the time is right. There’s something else there, something warmer, something makes Rachel feel inexplicably shy. She still doesn’t know what to do with friends.
“And make sure,” he says, “that he takes you out for something entirely too expensive. For me, at the very least - call it karma.”
“I’ll make sure to tell him.”
Rachel spots her bag and fixes her purse, moving to grab her things as she talks to Kurt about the lack of plans that she has.
“It’s about seeing the city as it is,” she gushes, and it’s that same change, walking out and seeing the buildings, the cars, hearing the sounds of horns and people. Her mouth is twitching. “I just need to see it as it.”
“Uh-huh. Take lots of pictures,” Kurt tells her.
“And what if I don’t come back?” she says, voice warm, and it can’t be true, of course. It’s impossible; Rachel has made promises she intends to keep with finishing school, Glee club, and saying proper goodbyes to everybody she cares about. She is that girl and she intends to stay that way.
“End of an era,” Kurt says. They both laugh.
Don’t ask her how she has a key. She is sure that Jesse “accidentally” left it on her desk before he left and when they were arguing, or trying to argue, about why Wicked won’t work for film. The doorman knew her name too and smiles too wide as he greets her by her first name.
There are butterflies in her stomach when she lets herself into his place. Her eyes adjust to the darkness and she fumbles for a light on the side of the door, kicking her suitcase to the side. When the door shuts, she folds her arms over her chest and takes a deep breath.
“It’s just an apartment,” she says out loud, and moves deeper into his place. There are roses on the kitchen counter, light by the wide, open window that stretches against the small living area. He said studio, she remembers and yet, it’s very him, very clean, and the only mess is by the piano, an array of papers and books that cover that corner.
She feels out of place. She waits for that big moment too - it would be very Jesse, if something were to stumble out and scare her. She half-expects him to forget too. But that’s just nerves, she reassures herself, and she walks to the piano. She doesn’t sit.
Behind her though, there is the sound of keys in the lock. She turns. Her hands slide into her jacket and her purse is still around her shoulder. When he walks into the room, he grins tiredly.
“Hey you.”
She smiles a little. “Hi.”
They stare at each other. He looks at her and it’s like he doesn’t quite believe that she’s here, at least not it. But she keeps her promises, she wants to tell him and forces herself to let that go, digging into her purse.
Her fingers close around a small packet and her mouth quirks when she finds what she’s looking for, peeling off a small sticker before walking to him. He doesn’t see it until she leans in and sticks the small gold star against the collar of his shirt. Her lips press against his jaw.
“Show me what you have,” she says.
It turns out that he has quite a bit of what he’s written done, and it’s good, it’s really good, something that she is neither surprised nor disappointed about. They sit on the piano bench, side by side as her fingers move against the keys and he recounts the last couple of days for her: yes, Shelby’s here and she’s helping him and no, no she doesn’t have to see her if she doesn’t want to. He’s just happy she’s here.
They don’t talk about Nationals, or getting to Nationals, and Rachel likes the way her skirt flutters over the piano bench and how somehow his knee’s come to rest against her leg too.
“I’m serious about this,” Jesse tells her. He swallows hard and her hands still over the keys. When she looks up, he nudges her arm. “About writing, about - I think of all the things I love about music, about the stage and you know, I figure why the hell not.”
“I’m happy for you.”
This feels grown-up. It’s funny and it makes her relax, a little more than she expects to. She feels it in the way she sits and leans with him, against him. She can’t even put together the right way to say it to him too. She manages to smile and shrug, if only to offer a way to keep the moment lighter.
She starts to hum and he just comes out and says it.
“You and Hudson, huh?” He shrugs. “I’m not sorry, but I’ll be polite.”
She laughs. “Kurt,” they say together, and she brushes her hair out of her eyes. “You know what they say about closure,” she adds.
“And us?”
Rachel blushes and he leans forward, into her, his mouth pressing against her shoulder. She sighs a little and her fingers flex over the keys as she starts to play a little. She doesn’t tell him things like how she had to argue with her dads to come here to visit for him, or how, how deep inside there’s this guilt about not wanting to be home anymore, that she wants to everything here. Then again, she thinks. Home hasn’t been home for a while.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” she warns, but cannot keep a straight face. She feels him grin against her shoulder. “But I think you’ve ruined me for anyone else, really. So I’m trying to work with that.”
He laughs. “And how’s that going?”
I’m here, she almost says. There is a part of her that knows how that sounds, small and scared and all full of nerves. But when he looks up, shifts up, her mouth curls slowly and he’s smiling down at her that she almost tells him right then now - it’s always been you, it will always be you, but we have a lot of work to do and that’s the best part.
“I’m keeping up,” she says finally. She smiles and her forehead presses against him. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t expect you to lavish me with gifts and praises and lots of roses, bushes and bushes of roses.”
“Got it,” he says.
“I don’t like diamonds either,” she adds. “I prefer a good record. I’d ask you to write me a song but that’s kind of thing that you should surprise a girl with and you’re busy and I want you to focus on this. So maybe a pretty bracelet - or dinner, yes, nobody’s cooked me a romantic dinner before. I could go for that.”
“I’m terrible with cooking.” He sighs loudly and she laughs. “I burn things,” he adds. “It’s why my mother worries.”
“Clearly,” she says.
He laughs and pulls away, just slightly, as she stretches back and drops her head against his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She thinks things like how she’s supposed to call Kurt tomorrow and her dads, and maybe even causally check on how Shelby is - even though she isn’t ready for that much just yet.
But then his fingers are in her hair and he singing a little, something from Funny Girl where the recognition is just enough. She relaxes but then she’s completely serious too.
“We’ll work on everything,” she tells him.
They write a song. Rather Jesse starts a song, Rachel finishes it, and they both agree to make it as a pivotal moment in his piece, just where the certainty of his character finally comes into play and it’s that kind of song, the kind of song that mothers sing to their daughters, that boyfriends, husbands, wives - they all play it to that one person, the person that gets it all.
“I called you my muse,” he confesses to her. They have takeout, even though she’s offered to cook and he’s insisting that she’s the guest and he’s not going to start charging rent until she moves for school next summer as if they’ve already talked about it and it’s a sure thing.
“You’re sweet,” she teases. He sits on the counter and she walks between his legs. Her elbows press over his knees. She’s wearing one of his shirts because it’s two hot and she has her first wine stain of the city on her dress, weeks, months later and when it matters.
Jesse smirks.
“Are you trying to woo me, Jesse St. James?”
She’s half-serious but it doesn’t show. If he knows, he doesn’t give it away either. She thinks about all the things that they have to talk about, outside of eggs and mothers and half-rushed apologies. They’re alone and it’s supposed to be the time where these things count.
“Slowly,” he admits.
She can feel the reflection of the city behind her. It’s romantic and soft and Jesse’s hand slips through her hair. Rachel starts to think about beginnings and it feels good.
Jesse kisses her that night, after she makes him swear that there’s going to be no funny business only so that she can listen to his laugh. And when he does, he does, they topple into his bed and sheets and his hand reaches to wrap around her thigh as she spills over him. The pressure of her fingers settles into his chest and when he leans forward, she’s dipping down to catch his mouth with her own. She kisses him slowly, her lips opening as he sighs and her hips roll into his - it’s not about sex, not yet, not now, and there’s something so certain about this entire moment that she starts to get it.
“Say it,” she tells him. He laughs into her mouth and then turns them. She falls into the bed, half-giggling when her leg hooks at his hip. “Say it,” she says again. Her heart is racing.
So he’s the one that gives it to her: “Welcome to New York.”
the city girl
glee ; jesse/rachel (finn/rachel) ; 4,618 words, PG
there comes a point when one plane ticket isn’t enough. the truth is they never planned an end. general spoilers.
-
Summer starts and she can still taste New York. “It’s strange,” she tells Kurt. “But I don’t think I’m -”
He’s amused. “Back?”
They sit in his room. When she doesn’t answer, Kurt stands and pulls a few things off of his desk. Rachel’s gaze is fixed against his window, watching, maybe waiting for something to happen right in front of her.
“Do you not want it?” he asks, and he takes the Playbill from her hands, gently pressing it into his own. He smoothes the pages back. “I mean, it’s New York,” he says and then grins. “It’s like the perfect love song, right?”
Rachel laughs. She bites her lip. They stare at each other as if they’re sharing some great, heavy secret. Downstairs, Finn and his parents are setting up dinner and for a moment Rachel feels like she can appreciate how quiet everything wants to be.
But she’s serious. “This will be my last summer here.”
Jesse is gone after Nationals. They shared a small conversation, and Rachel remembers saying things like I understand and we’ll see each other as if this second moment, still unconvincing, was just one more roadblock in their entire story. She misses him. Everybody knows she misses him. But Jesse stayed behind in the city and she walked him right back into being another elephant in the room.
She’s still back from New York, and her room, her own room seems so much smaller and even out of reach. There are now pictures of friends, of her Glee club friends, tucked into the frame of her mirror. She doesn’t touch them and the new makeup on her vanity is a gift from Kurt and Mercedes as a sort of congratulations for everything.
Her phone rings somewhere behind her and she turns, reaching for it. She answers on the third ring, her mouth cocked into amusement.
“Shelby says hello.”
Jesse’s voice is loud and present. She looks around the room and stiffens, half-expecting him to be behind her here.
“Saw your performance,” he says. “Said it was your best, blah blah blah - honestly? I still don’t understand why she doesn’t say it to your face instead of my face even though my face is ridiculously handsome. And dashing.” She bites back a scoff. “I met a girl who called me a Disney prince,” he says too.
“I don’t - I don’t know what to say to that,” she tells him slowly. She blinks. “I mean, admittedly, I was expecting a more tradition, pointed approach to our second first conversation.”
He chuckles. “I’m not trying to be callous, you know.”
“Sore subject.”
They don’t talk about Nationals. They don’t talk about Finn kissing her on stage, in the middle of the madness and the mix of anxiety and loss that it gives her. It’s not his fault, it’s not hers, and it’s as simple as growing up and growing up in the strangest of moments. It’s better not to talk about.
She knows that they’re not ready for a lot of things. She listens to Jesse open a door. The sound of a faucet turning on kind of startles her, in an odd way. It’s weird to think of him, talk to him, and then have to picture it all the same.
“I’m thinking about directing.”
Her eyes are wide.
“Or writing,” he interjects. She imagines him sitting there, wherever there is - a lonely apartment? He’s more than a lonely apartment. She thinks SoHo and a loft, and him overlooking too much of the city. They might have talked about it, but there is no invitation. No, no not yet.
Her lips purse and she settles on her bed. “I think,” she says carefully. “You’ll be the best at whatever it is that you decide to do. I think you might try patience, which, well, I struggle with all the time - but patience is good. Practice it like -” she bites her lip, blushing. “I can hear you smiling.”
“I’m not.”
They’re quiet. Or rather, she’s quiet, awkwardly digging her fingers into her blankets. She falls back and her legs swing over the side of her bed. She bites her lip and closes her eyes.
“Are you happy?”
Her mouth twitches. “What?”
“You heard me,” he says. He sighs dramatically. She listens to a door open and close. There are keys. “Are you happy?” he asks.
She bites her lip. “Right now,” she says. It matters.
They say that the summer is easiest when it’s about falling in love, or being in love, or holding herself to extreme sensibilities of how she loves. She loves Finn. She loves dramatic gestures and however sweet, if not sweeping the gesture was of kissing her on stage at Nationals, in front everyone, was, she understands that she has changed faster than everyone else again.
But she and Finn spend most nights sitting on the back of his pickup, studying the sky and talking about the following year as if it’s going to be the very last time they’ll see everybody they know.
“The world’s going to end in 2012,” he informs her. “Puck printed out all this stuff and we spent the day reading it - Kurt told us we were crazy. But shit, what if the Mayans are right?”
She rolls her eyes, amused. “They’re not around anymore, you know.”
He laughs. Her legs swing off the back, her dress pressing into her legs. She studies the sky curiously, watching how it opens and the stars, those stupid stars seem so far away all of the sudden. She thinks of cities and buildings, and tries to paint the scene in front of her. But all she sees is the small, sleepy town of Lima and tries not to become that girl.
“You’re a million miles away,” Finn says. In New York, he doesn’t say. In fact, everybody seems to be really avoiding a mention of the city.
Her fingers brush against her legs. Her phone is on her bag. It’s too hot tonight and her fingers move from her legs to her neck, rubbing away the heat that flushes into her skin.
“I’m still talking to Jesse.”
Finn stills. “What?”
She shrugs. “I’m still talking to Jesse,” she says. She does not tell him that he’s moved to New York, or that they are getting back into the swing of things - it’s not a relationship, it’s not a friendship, but there are things that Rachel knows how to understand and accept without questioning. She respects the name of both relationships.
“We’re just talking,” she adds too. “But I just wanted to tell you. I think that I should tell you these things too.”
“Thanks.” Finn frowns. “I mean, I don’t like it - I don’t like him.”
“I know.”
“But you do.” Finn jumps off the truck and turns to her, stepping between her legs. He studies her. “He’s important to you,” he says. He looks at her and seems to expect an argument, a fight for it, but her mouth stays relaxed and her gaze drifts back to the road in front of them.
Finn’s hands feel too big on her arms. She tries not to think back.
(They make it work for them: Finn is too fast and too slow and Rachel, an older Rachel, is a much bigger, cautious dreamer - the back of her throat hurts, it aches, and if you’re watching, as most people are now, you can catch her hands as they clench or how she sort of looks so far away. But everybody knows where she is and nobody tells her not to go. There are no cravings anymore. This is how things start to change.)
Jesse comes to Lima sometime in July. To see her, he says even though she knows that some of his friends are back and he’s still very much that Jesse with those friends. Her dads are off for a weekend and Finn, Finn and Rachel, are sort of on a sensible break. They talk more. It isn’t easy but there is a kind of honesty that Rachel has with Finn that she keeps close to herself for the memory.
“So it’s writing,” Jesse declares, walking into her bedroom. She is sitting on her chair at the vanity, her knees drawn to her chest as she studies him. “I am a classical man,” he says, “a Renaissance man,” he says too, “so I’ve finally decided to do it my damn self. It feels good to be an anticipated tastemaker.”
“Your ego’s back,” she says.
He grins and pulls her into a hug, twisting her into a lazy sort of dance which ends with him dipping her.
“Admit it,” he tells her. “You’ve missed it.”
She laughs as he erupts - he erupts into an entire story of woe and benefactors, of his parents being his parents and ultimately funding him so that he can pay them back and then pay them back for college too. But she catches something in his eyes, a different kind of weight where he seems bigger and brighter and completely unassuming with how much life he suddenly has.
He waves his hands - this is something new - when he tells her about others reaction to his master plan. She manages to sit back on her bed and watches as he paces around in her room.
“You’re happy,” she says.
He stops, wide-eyed. “What?”
Her legs drop and she stands. She feels it. She feels like she’s all nerves and excitement, eager to hear more about him. Her toes curl into the carpet and she rocks back onto her heels.
“You’re happy,” she says again. Her hair brushes into her eyes. “It’s nice,” she says. “I like seeing you happy.”
Rachel’s voice is warm and full and she even smiles shyly at him. He’s staring at her though, his mouth opening a little like she’s said the entirely wrong thing to him. But then he flushes and turns his head, grinning a little and then shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I am.”
She changes the subject. “How are your friends?” she asks again, and doesn’t touch the fact that her mother may be in town as well, even though Jesse has mention the fact to her once or twice and even casually. It is the only time that he looks at her and she can read him completely.
“The same,” he says. He waves a hand and then reaches for her. His hands curl around her arms and he swings her into another dance. “Lawyers, doctors, aspirations to write the next Great American novel, oh my.” He studies her, and then says: “But it was nice to see everybody, even though there were no great surprises - I honestly thought there was going to be, like, a five to one ratio of nose jobs in our group. Good to know that we’re not entirely that shallow.”
Rachel is amused. “I didn’t say anything.”
They start to sway. Jesse hums and she shakes her head, her arms curling around his neck. Her fingers brush against his hair.
“What about you?”
She blinks. “Me?”
He chuckles and she drops her head against his shoulder. She doesn’t want to look at him. He’ll read: stories about Finn, stories about her other friends, about her fathers and her anxieties and what exactly it was that she brought home with her from New York and what she left behind. There is a part of her that understands that he’ll be the one that gets it and that scares her, more than the idea that she love and loss and go through the motions like a complete pro just before she touches eighteen.
Instead she concentrates on the sensations of his hand, they move and fit against her hip, then her back, then there is one hand that slides against the plane of her shoulder. His fingers wiggle and graze her skin and she bites back a little, knowing sigh.
“Maybe I’ll come visit you,” she says.
Her voice is muffled. She listens to him laugh. He sounds surprised and pulls her closer, tighter against his chest.
“I’d like that,” he tells her.
They sit outside on her porch later. It’s dark and her neighborhood is too calm with lights and still cars. Her knees press into his leg and his hand somehow has dropped into her lap. There is pitcher of ice water on the steps next to them but it seems too odd and too late to have anyway.
Jesse watches her and she has to look away, her fingers pressing into his hands. They rub lightly over his palm and she looks out into the street.
“It’s so quiet here,” she confesses, and it feels like a confession. He laughs and she smiles a little, relaxing as he leans closer to her. “I told Finn we were talking too,” she adds. “I know - I mean, I guess he doesn’t get it. And I don’t want him to but I want to be honest.”
He snorts. “How did that go over?”
She rolls her eyes. She looks at him, shaking her head. When he shrugs, he smirks. She doesn’t get the competition.
“The two of you,” she says.
“I’m just saying. Your zombie boyfriend and I have a past history. I’m sure he still wants to shove a fist in my face which, by the way, I’m not above slamming my fist back in his face.”
Rachel smacks his arm. “You make my head hurt.”
He laughs and launches back into talking about himself, which, of course, amuses her. But she likes listening. She likes listening to how he paints the city for her, his parents - which she’s still dying to meet - and the color and sounds of his day-to-day routine now that he’s a writer.
“Maybe we’ll write a song together,” he says, and Rachel looks at him in surprise, flushing when he leans over to kiss her cheek. They’re sticky from the heat so when he lingers, he always lingers, the sensation of his mouth never really goes away.
She says nothing.
When he leaves again, she buys him a notebook, one of those sharp, small reporter’s notebooks that fits in his bag and that she sneaks in when he’s not looking. There’s no gold star, not yet, but she writes him a small note and says something to the effect of I believe in you only because she knows it’s different coming from someone that just cares. If he reads it though, she doesn’t know. Remember, this is Jesse.
This is still Lima and sometimes she is still that girl. It is the hottest day of the summer when Finn kisses her, really kisses her, and they tell each other that it’ll always be special one way or another. This is the best their relationship has ever been: it’s an end but it is real and there are no eggs or slushies or first loves that stand in between the two of them.
They stand at his truck, of course, outside her house, of course, and Rachel swears, swears that she sees her dad stalking the front door, waiting for her even as one of the lights upstairs goes on. It doesn’t matter because Finn takes her hand and she lets him, turning slightly so she can manage some kind of goodnight for now.
“It’s going to be different for you,” he tells her. His hands frame her face and she smiles sadly. “And that’s good, you know? It’s going to be different for you and I just - I want you to know that I’m glad I met you.”
She laughs and her eyes are wet and she’s not crying, not yet because it’s different when she’s moving on and it’s really moving on.
“I’m glad I met you too,” she says.
When he smiles, she knows that it’s going to be fine, that there are things that are always going to be here and that reach forward, going forward is nothing to feel guilty about. She leans in and kisses his cheek.
Her dads know it best. She’s just early.
Rachel goes back to New York, just before school starts, for a week and just when Mr. Schuester returns to Lima for Glee club and the school. She hears about all of this when Kurt calls her.
“How is it?” he asks excitedly, and on the other line, she listens to Mercedes and Blaine feed him questions to ask her. “Is St. James picking you up? Where are you staying? Finn says to tell you that he’s -”
“I’m fine,” she says with a laugh. She reaches the baggage claim. Her dress swings against her legs and she rocks on her feet, waiting with the rest of the passengers from her flight for their bags. It’s still too hot in New York, she thinks. “I’m taking a cab to his place,” she says, “and I’ll see Jesse later - he has some kind of meeting.”
He snorts. “What happened to romance?”
“It’s Jesse,” she says dryly.
He laughs and launches into a list of things he wants her to do, to bring back for him, and - secretly - tells her to keep an eye out for an apartment if she’s going to be looking for roommates when the time is right. There’s something else there, something warmer, something makes Rachel feel inexplicably shy. She still doesn’t know what to do with friends.
“And make sure,” he says, “that he takes you out for something entirely too expensive. For me, at the very least - call it karma.”
“I’ll make sure to tell him.”
Rachel spots her bag and fixes her purse, moving to grab her things as she talks to Kurt about the lack of plans that she has.
“It’s about seeing the city as it is,” she gushes, and it’s that same change, walking out and seeing the buildings, the cars, hearing the sounds of horns and people. Her mouth is twitching. “I just need to see it as it.”
“Uh-huh. Take lots of pictures,” Kurt tells her.
“And what if I don’t come back?” she says, voice warm, and it can’t be true, of course. It’s impossible; Rachel has made promises she intends to keep with finishing school, Glee club, and saying proper goodbyes to everybody she cares about. She is that girl and she intends to stay that way.
“End of an era,” Kurt says. They both laugh.
Don’t ask her how she has a key. She is sure that Jesse “accidentally” left it on her desk before he left and when they were arguing, or trying to argue, about why Wicked won’t work for film. The doorman knew her name too and smiles too wide as he greets her by her first name.
There are butterflies in her stomach when she lets herself into his place. Her eyes adjust to the darkness and she fumbles for a light on the side of the door, kicking her suitcase to the side. When the door shuts, she folds her arms over her chest and takes a deep breath.
“It’s just an apartment,” she says out loud, and moves deeper into his place. There are roses on the kitchen counter, light by the wide, open window that stretches against the small living area. He said studio, she remembers and yet, it’s very him, very clean, and the only mess is by the piano, an array of papers and books that cover that corner.
She feels out of place. She waits for that big moment too - it would be very Jesse, if something were to stumble out and scare her. She half-expects him to forget too. But that’s just nerves, she reassures herself, and she walks to the piano. She doesn’t sit.
Behind her though, there is the sound of keys in the lock. She turns. Her hands slide into her jacket and her purse is still around her shoulder. When he walks into the room, he grins tiredly.
“Hey you.”
She smiles a little. “Hi.”
They stare at each other. He looks at her and it’s like he doesn’t quite believe that she’s here, at least not it. But she keeps her promises, she wants to tell him and forces herself to let that go, digging into her purse.
Her fingers close around a small packet and her mouth quirks when she finds what she’s looking for, peeling off a small sticker before walking to him. He doesn’t see it until she leans in and sticks the small gold star against the collar of his shirt. Her lips press against his jaw.
“Show me what you have,” she says.
It turns out that he has quite a bit of what he’s written done, and it’s good, it’s really good, something that she is neither surprised nor disappointed about. They sit on the piano bench, side by side as her fingers move against the keys and he recounts the last couple of days for her: yes, Shelby’s here and she’s helping him and no, no she doesn’t have to see her if she doesn’t want to. He’s just happy she’s here.
They don’t talk about Nationals, or getting to Nationals, and Rachel likes the way her skirt flutters over the piano bench and how somehow his knee’s come to rest against her leg too.
“I’m serious about this,” Jesse tells her. He swallows hard and her hands still over the keys. When she looks up, he nudges her arm. “About writing, about - I think of all the things I love about music, about the stage and you know, I figure why the hell not.”
“I’m happy for you.”
This feels grown-up. It’s funny and it makes her relax, a little more than she expects to. She feels it in the way she sits and leans with him, against him. She can’t even put together the right way to say it to him too. She manages to smile and shrug, if only to offer a way to keep the moment lighter.
She starts to hum and he just comes out and says it.
“You and Hudson, huh?” He shrugs. “I’m not sorry, but I’ll be polite.”
She laughs. “Kurt,” they say together, and she brushes her hair out of her eyes. “You know what they say about closure,” she adds.
“And us?”
Rachel blushes and he leans forward, into her, his mouth pressing against her shoulder. She sighs a little and her fingers flex over the keys as she starts to play a little. She doesn’t tell him things like how she had to argue with her dads to come here to visit for him, or how, how deep inside there’s this guilt about not wanting to be home anymore, that she wants to everything here. Then again, she thinks. Home hasn’t been home for a while.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” she warns, but cannot keep a straight face. She feels him grin against her shoulder. “But I think you’ve ruined me for anyone else, really. So I’m trying to work with that.”
He laughs. “And how’s that going?”
I’m here, she almost says. There is a part of her that knows how that sounds, small and scared and all full of nerves. But when he looks up, shifts up, her mouth curls slowly and he’s smiling down at her that she almost tells him right then now - it’s always been you, it will always be you, but we have a lot of work to do and that’s the best part.
“I’m keeping up,” she says finally. She smiles and her forehead presses against him. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t expect you to lavish me with gifts and praises and lots of roses, bushes and bushes of roses.”
“Got it,” he says.
“I don’t like diamonds either,” she adds. “I prefer a good record. I’d ask you to write me a song but that’s kind of thing that you should surprise a girl with and you’re busy and I want you to focus on this. So maybe a pretty bracelet - or dinner, yes, nobody’s cooked me a romantic dinner before. I could go for that.”
“I’m terrible with cooking.” He sighs loudly and she laughs. “I burn things,” he adds. “It’s why my mother worries.”
“Clearly,” she says.
He laughs and pulls away, just slightly, as she stretches back and drops her head against his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She thinks things like how she’s supposed to call Kurt tomorrow and her dads, and maybe even causally check on how Shelby is - even though she isn’t ready for that much just yet.
But then his fingers are in her hair and he singing a little, something from Funny Girl where the recognition is just enough. She relaxes but then she’s completely serious too.
“We’ll work on everything,” she tells him.
They write a song. Rather Jesse starts a song, Rachel finishes it, and they both agree to make it as a pivotal moment in his piece, just where the certainty of his character finally comes into play and it’s that kind of song, the kind of song that mothers sing to their daughters, that boyfriends, husbands, wives - they all play it to that one person, the person that gets it all.
“I called you my muse,” he confesses to her. They have takeout, even though she’s offered to cook and he’s insisting that she’s the guest and he’s not going to start charging rent until she moves for school next summer as if they’ve already talked about it and it’s a sure thing.
“You’re sweet,” she teases. He sits on the counter and she walks between his legs. Her elbows press over his knees. She’s wearing one of his shirts because it’s two hot and she has her first wine stain of the city on her dress, weeks, months later and when it matters.
Jesse smirks.
“Are you trying to woo me, Jesse St. James?”
She’s half-serious but it doesn’t show. If he knows, he doesn’t give it away either. She thinks about all the things that they have to talk about, outside of eggs and mothers and half-rushed apologies. They’re alone and it’s supposed to be the time where these things count.
“Slowly,” he admits.
She can feel the reflection of the city behind her. It’s romantic and soft and Jesse’s hand slips through her hair. Rachel starts to think about beginnings and it feels good.
Jesse kisses her that night, after she makes him swear that there’s going to be no funny business only so that she can listen to his laugh. And when he does, he does, they topple into his bed and sheets and his hand reaches to wrap around her thigh as she spills over him. The pressure of her fingers settles into his chest and when he leans forward, she’s dipping down to catch his mouth with her own. She kisses him slowly, her lips opening as he sighs and her hips roll into his - it’s not about sex, not yet, not now, and there’s something so certain about this entire moment that she starts to get it.
“Say it,” she tells him. He laughs into her mouth and then turns them. She falls into the bed, half-giggling when her leg hooks at his hip. “Say it,” she says again. Her heart is racing.
So he’s the one that gives it to her: “Welcome to New York.”